simple dreams

Just a girl with time to spare and words to say. Archiveofourown: @simpledreams

[simpledreame]

‧₊˚☁️˚₊‧ simpledreams masterlist ‧₊˚☁️˚₊‧

disclaimer: many of my fics are intended for mature audiences (18+)

love and deepspace ‧ ⭑‧₊˚✩⋆⭒ ☾ the way i love you → when your protocore syndrome turns terminal, you decide to break up with him to spare him the pain of seeing you fade. how does he react when you do?

[simpledreame]

Xavier X Reader - Five Hundred Years of Goodnight Preview ⁺˚*༓☾

Sypnosis: When your protocore syndrome turns terminal, you decide to break up with him to spare him the pain of seeing you fade. How does he react when you do?

───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

Preview....

The sky above Philos was dying.

From the highest balcony of the royal palace, Xavier watched crimson fractures spread across the heavens like cracks in glass. They stretched from horizon to horizon, pulsing with unstable light.

Every year, they grew larger. Every year, the planet’s heart weakened.

Below him, the capital continued as though nothing was wrong. The streets were crowded. The markets were full. Children chased one another through the plazas.

Life continued. It always did. That’s the cruel thing about dying worlds. They looked alive right until the very end.

A cold wind stirred Xavier’s silver hair. He leaned against the balcony railing and looked upward.

When he was younger, he used to spend hours studying the stars. Back then, he thought the universe was beautiful. Now he knew better.

The universe was indifferent. Planets died. People suffered. And stars kept burning anyway.

"Your Highness."

The voice behind him pulled him from his thoughts. A servant bowed deeply.

"The council is waiting."

Of course they were.

Xavier sighed. The title Crown Prince had never felt heavier than it did lately. With one last glance at the fractured sky, he turned away and entered the palace.

The council chamber was already full when he arrived. Ministers sat around a massive circular table. Holographic projections floated above its surface.

Reports. Population forecasts. Energy calculations. Predictions for the future of Philos.

Xavier hated all of it.

Most days he spent these meetings trying not to fall asleep. Today was no different.

He dropped into his chair and rested his cheek against his hand. Several ministers looked offended. Xavier ignored them.

If they were lucky, he thought, he might fall asleep before they reached the sacrifice reports.

Unfortunately, luck never liked him very much.

“The Core continues to destabilize.”

A holographic image rose above the table.

The Core. The heart of Philos. The thing responsible for keeping the planet a life. The thing that demanded sacrifice after sacrifice.

Xavier stared at it blankly. For years he’d listen to the same discussions. For centuries he listened but ignored.

Listened to the same arguments. The same excuses. Every solution led to the same place.

Someone had to suffer. Someone had to die. And everyone called it necessary.

“The synchronization process has identified a compatible vessel.”

Xavier barely looked up.

Another sacrifice. Another name. Another tragedy.

The council continued speaking. Then a photograph appeared above the table. And Xavier stopped breathing.

The room disappeared. The voices disappeared. The projections disappeared. Everything vanished except the image floating above the table.

You.

For several seconds, he genuinely believes there had been some mistake. Some misunderstanding.

Because he knew you. Not well. Not yet. But enough.

Enough to recognize your smile. Enough to know the way your eyes brightened whenever you talked about something you loved. Enough to know exactly who you are.

The council continued speaking. Xavier heard none of it. His gaze remained fixed on your photograph.

"...Exceptional compatibility..."

"...Ideal resonance..."

"...Planetary survival..."

Finally, one sentence broke through.

“The Core has chosen her.”

Xavier slowly looked up. The room fell silent. Every council member suddenly seemed uncomfortable.

Because for the first time all afternoon, the Crown Prince was fully awake.

“The Core didn’t choose her.”

His voice was quiet. The silence deepened.

One minster cleared his throat.

“Your Highness—”

“You did.”

Nobody answered. Because everyone knew he was right.

The Core didn’t make decisions. People did. People took the innocent lives and decided those lives were worth less than everyone else’s. People built systems that demanded sacrifice. Then hid behind words like destiny.

The meeting ended shortly afterward. Nothing productive happened after that. Because Xavier spent the rest of it staring at your photograph.

And for the first time in years, he was afraid.

[simpledreame]

Rafayel X Reader - The Color He Left Behind Part 3/3 . ݁₊𓆉. ݁𓇼˖ . ݁

Sypnosis: When your protocore syndrome turns terminal, you decide to break up with him to spare him the pain of seeing you fade. How does he react when you do?

───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

Rafayel never left. Not that day. Not the next. Not the day after that.

The clinic staff stopped questioning it almost immediately. By the end of the week, everyone simply accepted his presence.

The beautiful artist sleeping in uncomfortable chairs. The man who appeared beside your bed every morning before sunrise. The man who looked at you as though you were the only thing holding the world together.

Maybe you were.

The first morning you woke to find him there, you almost cried.

Again. Lately that seemed to happen often.

You heard the rustle of paper. The faint scrape of a chair. A coffee cup being set down.

Small sounds. Ordinary sounds. The kind you’d once taken for granted.

"Cora."

His voice was still rough from sleep.

A smile tugged at her lips.

"Good morning."

Silence.

Then—

"That's cheating."

You blinked.

"What is?"

"You smiled before I said anything ridiculous."

The laugh escaped before you could stop it.

Immediately, you heard movement. Fast movement.

The sound of someone abandoning a chair. Then warmth.

Rafayel sat beside your bed. Close enough that you could feel him. Close enough to reach.

You lifted your hand instinctively. Searching.

Without hesitation, he took it. The gesture hurt more than it should have. Because he'd started doing that now.

Whenever you reached for something. Whenever you stood. Whenever you walked. Whenever you needed him.

He was there. Always there.

As though trying to compensate for every moment he'd missed. As though trying to love you enough to make up for losing time.

Neither of you said it. Both knew it was impossible.

Still—

He tried.

Every day.

Every minute.

Every second.

And you loved him for it.

That afternoon, they sat beside the ocean. The clinic overlooked a narrow stretch of beach. Far quieter than Linkon's shoreline. Far less crowded.

The waves sounded different here. Slower. Gentler. Older somehow.

Rafayel sat beside you on a blanket. One hand firmly intertwined with yours. As though afraid you might vanish.

You suspected he was.

The wind tangled through his hair. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then—

"What color is it today?"

The question emerged softly.

You smiled.

"You know that's not fair."

"It absolutely is."

"You ask every day."

"And?"

A pause.

"I like your answers."

Your chest tightened. Because you understood now. Understood what those questions had really been.

Months ago.

Back when he was losing his sight. Back before you made your decision.

Rafayel squeezed your hand gently.

"The ocean is blue."

His voice softened.

"The sky is blue."

Another squeeze.

"The flowers outside the clinic are yellow."

You laughed.

"You don't need me anymore."

Immediately, the grip around your fingers tightened. Not painfully. Desperately.

The laughter died.

Silence stretched between them. Heavy. Dangerous.

Finally, Rafayel spoke. Very quietly.

"I always need you."

The words shattered you. Because there it was.

The truth. No jokes. No deflection. No performance.

Just love. Pure and terrible.

The kind that survived thirty thousand years. The kind that survived death. The kind that survived everything except time.

You turned your face toward the sound of his voice.

Unable to see him.

Yet somehow seeing him perfectly.

And for the first time since he arrived—

You let yourself cry.

That night, neither of you slept. The clinic room remained dark. Quiet. The ocean whispered beyond the windows.

Rafayel sat beside your bed. One hand still holding yours. As though letting go might break something.

Eventually, you whispered—

"What happened to the ring?"

The silence that followed was immediate.

Then—

A shaky laugh.

"Of all the questions."

A smile touched her lips.

"I was curious."

"You rejected me before I got the chance."

"Technically."

"Technically?"

"Technically."

Rafayel groaned dramatically. The sound made you laugh.

God. You loved him. You loved him so much it hurt.

The room fell quiet again. Then you heard the faint sound of metal.

Something being opened. Something familiar.

A ring box.

Your breath caught.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then Rafayel's voice emerged from the darkness.

Soft. Broken. Hopeful.

"I carried it with me."

The confession hurt. Not because of the ring. Because of everything it represented.

The life you both never got. The future waiting inside a painting called Eventually.

The mornings. The coffee. The growing old together.

All of it.

Gone.

For a while, only the ocean answered.

Then Rafayel whispered—

"I would've asked."

Your throat tightened.

"I know."

Silence.

A wave crashed against the shore.

Another.

Then Another.

Finally—

"When?"

His voice cracked.

Just once.

"When would you have said yes?"

The question nearly destroyed your. Because the answer was simple. Immediate. Honest.

You turned toward him. Toward the man you loved in every lifetime. The man you would love in every lifetime after this.

And quietly said—

"The first time."

The silence that followed was heartbreaking.

Because somewhere beside you—

Rafayel started crying.

And this time neither of you pretended not to hear it.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

Three days later, you collapsed. Not dramatically. Not all at once.

That would have been easier.

Instead, it happened in pieces. The way endings often did.

First came the exhaustion. Then the fevers. Then the coughing.

Longer now. Harder. Each one leaving you weaker than before.

Rafayel noticed everything.

Every pause between breaths. Every tremor in your hands. Every smile that took a little more effort than the day before.

He stopped pretending not to. So did you.

One evening, you sat together beside the ocean. The sun was beginning to set.

Rafayel knew because he described it.

Orange. Gold. Pink.

The colors you had once described for him. Now he returned the favor. As though somehow that made things fair.

Neither of you mentioned that you spent most of the afternoon asleep. Neither mentioned that you struggled to walk back to the clinic. Neither mentioned the blood.

Love made cowards of you both.

"Cora."

"Hm?"

"The sky is pink."

A smile touched your lips.

"You're terrible at this."

Rafayel looked offended.

"I am an artist."

"You said that last time."

"And I remain correct."

The laugh that escaped from you dissolved into a cough. Immediately his arm tightened around your shoulders.

The coughing worsened. And worsened. And worsened. Until you couldn't breathe. The world tilted.

Your consciousness—what little remained of it—disappeared into darkness.

Somewhere far away you heard him say your name.

Once. Then again. Then again.

Fear entered his voice. Real fear. The kind you’d spent months trying to protect him from.

When the coughing finally stopped, you felt his hands shaking.

"Cora."

The whisper broke.

You hated that. More than the pain. More than the illness. You hated being the reason his voice sounded like that.

Slowly, you reached for him. Immediately he caught your hand. Holding it against his cheek. As though reassuring himself you were still here.

Still warm. Still alive. For now.

And both of you knew exactly what those words meant.

That night, Zayne arrived. The clinic staff called him two hours earlier.

Neither you nor Rafayel were surprised.

Zayne stood beside the hospital bed. Reading charts. Reviewing scans. Performing examinations that no longer mattered.

The silence told them everything.

Eventually, he set the chart aside.

The room felt impossibly quiet. Outside, waves crashed against the shore. Inside, nobody moved.

Rafayel sat beside the bed. One hand wrapped around you. The other clenched tightly enough to hurt.

Finally—

"How long?"

The question emerged before you could stop him.

Zayne didn't answer immediately. That was answer enough.

Rafayel looked away. Immediately. As though he couldn't bear to watch the words arrive.

The physician's voice remained gentle.

"Days."

The room stopped breathing. Days. Not months. Not weeks. Days.

You closed your eyes.

Across from you, Rafayel went completely still. Not angry. Not grieving. Not yet. Just still. The way the ocean became still before a storm.

For a long moment nobody spoke.

Then Zayne quietly left the room. Closing the door behind him. Giving the two of you privacy. Giving you goodbye.

The silence stretched.

Eventually, you felt movement beside you. Then warmth.

Rafayel climbing carefully onto the bed beside you. Ignoring every hospital rule ever written.

You almost laughed. Almost.

His arms wrapped around you immediately. Protective. Desperate. Familiar.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Then you felt his forehead rest against yours.

And finally—

Finally—

Rafayel broke.  A single tear landing against your skin. Then another. Thirty thousand years. Countless lifetimes. Countless losses. And somehow this one still hurt exactly the same.

"Cora."

His voice shattered.

The sound nearly destroyed you.

Because you knew.

He was already mourning you.

And you were still here.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

The sea was quiet that morning. Not calm. Just quiet.

As though it understood. As though even the waves knew some moments deserved silence.

Rafayel carried you to the beach before sunrise.

You had become so light.

The realization terrified him.

Not because of your weight. Because of what it meant.

Every day there seemed to be less of you. Less strength. Less breath. Less time.

Yet somehow—

The moment you settled against him, you still felt exactly like home.

The sky slowly brightened above the horizon. Colors bleeding into one another.

Blue. Gold. Pink.

The colors you would never see again. The colors you had given back to him.

Rafayel hated them. And loved them. All at once.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The ocean filled the silence. The steady rhythm of waves. The heartbeat of the world.

Eventually, you smiled faintly.

"What color is the sky?"

The question nearly broke him.

Still.

He answered anyway. Because you deserved to know. Because you had spent months doing the same for him.

"It's gold."

His voice softened.

"And pink."

A pause.

"The clouds look like they're on fire."

A weak laugh escaped from you..

"Dramatic."

"You loved my descriptions."

"I tolerated them."

"Liar."

The smile lingered. Small. Beautiful. Fading.

Rafayel memorized it. Every second. Every breath. Every heartbeat.

Because suddenly memory felt terrifyingly important.

Eventually, you shifted slightly against him. The movement exhausted you. He could tell.

You rested your head against his shoulder. Listening to the ocean. Listening to him breathe. Listening to the world continue. For a long time, neither of you said anything.

Then—

"Raf?"

The nickname emerged quietly. His chest tightened immediately.

"Yeah?"

A pause. Long. Painfully long.

Then—

"I'm tired."

The words shattered him. Because he understood.

Not exhausted. Not sleepy. Tired. The kind of tired that reached all the way into the soul.

His arms tightened around you. Instinctively. Desperately. As though he could somehow keep you here through force alone.

"You can sleep."

The lie tasted bitter.

Both of you knew it.

You smiled.

The expression trembled.

"I know."

Tears burned behind his eyes. The ocean blurred. The sky blurred. Everything blurred.

Except you. Always you.

For a while, only silence remained.

Then you whispered—

"Tell me something."

His voice cracked immediately.

"Anything."

A small smile.

"Tell me about Eventually."

The painting.

Of course.

The word alone nearly undid him.

Rafayel swallowed hard.

Then looked toward the horizon. Toward the future you both never got.

And began speaking.

"There was a kitchen."

His voice trembled.

"But you always complained about it."

A faint laugh escaped you.

"There was nothing wrong with the kitchen."

"There absolutely was."

Another shaky breath.

"The cabinets were ugly."

"You painted those cabinets."

"I regretted it immediately."

The smile returned. For both of you.

Fragile. Broken. Real.

Rafayel continued.

"There was coffee."

"You don't drink coffee."

"I was pretending to be mature."

"You were forty."

"I was pretending very hard."

The laughter dissolved into tears.

Somewhere along the way, neither of you could tell the difference anymore.

His voice softened.

"There was sunlight."

A pause.

"And you."

Another.

"And me."

The tears finally escaped.

Rafayel didn't bother hiding them. Not anymore.

"There were mornings."

His voice shattered.

"There were years."

Another breath.

"There was a life."

The words broke apart completely.

Because suddenly he could see it. Every detail. Every ordinary moment.

The future he'd painted. The future he'd loved. The future you’d never have.

Beside him, you reached up slowly. Searching.

Immediately, he caught your hand. Pressing it against his cheek. Holding it there.

As though letting go would destroy him. Maybe it would.

You smiled. Softly.

The same smile he'd fallen in love with.

Every lifetime. Every version. Every time.

"I'm sorry."

The whisper nearly killed him.

Immediately, he shook his head.

"No."

His answer came broken. Desperate. Certain.

"No."

Your thumb brushed against his skin. A tiny movement. A goodbye.

The tears wouldn't stop. Neither would the ocean. Neither would his heart.

Then you spoke one final time. So quietly he almost missed it.

"Thank you for finding me."

The words stole the air from his lungs.

Because after everything—

That was what mattered to you.

Not the illness. Not the sacrifice. Not death.

Just that he came. Just that he found you. Like he always had.

Rafayel pressed his forehead against you. His entire body shaking. And whispered the only truth he had left.

"There was never a version of this world where I wouldn't."

A tear slipped down your cheek.

Then another.

Then none.

The silence that followed felt different.

The ocean still moved.

The wind still blew.

The world still turned.

But something had changed.

Something enormous.

Something irreversible.

Slowly—

Terribly—

Your fingers loosened around his.

Your breathing slowed.

Then slowed again.

Rafayel froze.

No.

No.

No.

His heart hammered.

His hands trembled.

"Cora."

The name broke apart.

No response.

The fear arrived all at once.

Violent.

Absolute.

"Cora."

Nothing.

The ocean roared.

The sky brightened.

The sun rose.

And you slipped quietly away in his arms.

For a long time, Rafayel didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

Didn't understand.

He simply held you.

As though warmth might return.

As though time might reverse.

As though love might somehow be enough.

The sea stretched endlessly before them.

Blue.

The exact shade you had once described.

The exact shade you had given back to him.

And beneath the morning sky, with the world painted in colors that belonged to you—

Rafayel finally broke.

The sound echoed across the empty shoreline.

Raw.

Heartbroken.

The grief of a man who had spent thirty thousand years finding the same soul.

Only to lose you again.

And again.

And again.

The sea remembered.

It always had.

And that morning—

So would he.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

For three days, Rafayel refused to leave you. The clinic staff stopped trying to convince him. Even Zayne eventually gave up.

Because there was no argument powerful enough to separate a man from the person he'd spent thirty thousand years finding.

So they let him stay. The room remained quiet. Peaceful.

Sunlight drifted through the windows. The ocean whispered beyond the cliffs.

And every morning, Rafayel woke expecting to hear your voice. Every morning, reality arrived again.

Cruel. Unchanged.

On the fourth day, Zayne entered the room carrying funeral paperwork.

Rafayel hated him for it.

Not because of what he was doing. Because it was necessary. Necessary meant real. Real meant permanent.

And Rafayel wasn't ready for permanent.

Not yet. Maybe not ever.

For a long time, neither man spoke.

Then quietly—

"She hated lilies."

Zayne blinked. The comment seemed to come from nowhere.

Rafayel continued staring toward the ocean.

"People always brought lilies."

A pause.

"She complained every time."

The physician swallowed.

Then nodded.

"We'll make sure there aren't any."

Silence returned.

And somehow that hurt more than if either of them had cried.

The funeral took place six days later. Rain threatened all morning. But never arrived.

The sky remained gray. Heavy. Waiting.

Much like everyone else.

The service was small.

You never liked attention.

So the people who came were the people who mattered.

Jenna. Tara. Zayne. Thomas. A handful of Hunters. A handful of friends.

People whose lives had been permanently altered by knowing you.

Rafayel stood near the back.

Motionless. Silent. Beautiful. Completely broken.

The black suit hung loosely from his frame.

He hadn't been sleeping. Or eating. Or doing much of anything.

Several people approached him.

Offering condolences. Offering sympathy. Offering words.

Rafayel remembered none of them.

Because his attention remained fixed on a single object.

The photograph beside your memorial. You were laughing. Of course you were.

Head tilted back. Eyes bright. Alive.

The sight felt like a knife. Not because it hurt. Because it was accurate.

That was how you should've existed.

Laughing. Moving. Living.

Not reduced to flowers and photographs.

The ceremony passed in fragments.

Voices. Memories. Stories.

People spoke about courage. About sacrifice. About kindness.

Rafayel hated every word.

Not because they were wrong. Because they sounded final. And he couldn't bear final.

Then it was his turn.

Someone gently guided him toward the podium.

The room fell silent.

Waiting.

Rafayel looked out at the crowd. Then at your photograph. Then back again.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Finally—

"She stole my eyes."

The room froze.

Thomas immediately covered his face.

Jenna started crying.

And somehow—

Somehow—

The corner of Rafayel's mouth twitched. Because you would've laughed.

Eventually, his smile faded. His gaze returned to the photograph. His voice softened.

"I spent a very long time looking for her."

The words settled heavily across the room.

No one understood the full truth. Only him. Only the sea. Only the stars.

Rafayel swallowed.

Then continued.

"Every time I found her..."

A pause.

"I thought I got lucky."

The silence deepened.

His eyes never left the photograph.

"I never realized she was the one doing all the work."

A laugh escaped him. Broken. Quiet. Heartbreaking.

"She always found me first."

The tears finally came. Slowly. Without resistance. Without shame.

For the first time since your death, he let them.

The room remained silent. Nobody looked away.

Because grief that large deserved witnesses.

Eventually, Rafayel looked toward the ocean visible beyond the windows.

Toward the horizon. Toward forever. And whispered—

"Thank you."

The words weren't for the audience. Or the service. Or even the memory.

They were for you. For every lifetime. For every beginning. For every goodbye.

*Thank you.*

Then he stepped away from the podium.

And the room cried for him.

After the funeral, life became very quiet.

That was the worst part. Not the grief. The silence.

No messages. No teasing. No arguments. No one stealing the blankets. No one criticizing his breakfast. No one describing colors.

The world simply continued. Indifferent. Cruel. Ordinary.

Rafayel returned to the studio.

The ocean remained outside the windows.

Blue. Always blue.

He hated it.

For weeks, he sat before a blank canvas.

Unable to paint. Unable to think. Unable to do anything except listen.

Because sometimes— Usually just before sunset—

He swore he could hear you.

Not a ghost. Not a memory. Just habit.

His mind expecting your footsteps.

Expecting your laughter. Expecting your voice calling his name from somewhere behind him. Every time he turned around—

Nothing.

The emptiness never got easier.

One evening, he found one of your hair ties beneath the couch. The discovery destroyed him. Not because it was important.

Because it wasn't. It was ordinary. Meaningless. The kind of thing people throw away every day.

Rafayel sat on the floor holding it for nearly an hour. Crying harder than he had at the funeral.

Because grief wasn't triggered by important things.

It was triggered by coffee mugs. Hair ties. Half-finished grocery lists. The shape of a pillow. The absence of a voice.

And for the first time since losing you—

Rafayel understood something terrible.

The hardest part wasn't watching you die.

The hardest part was learning how to live after you did.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

Ten years passed. Then twenty. Then thirty.

At first, Rafayel waited. The way he always had.

Patiently. Confidently. Certain that fate would eventually correct itself.

It always did. That was the curse. And the blessing.

No matter how many times he lost you—

You returned. A different face. A different life. A different name.

But your returned. You always returned. So he waited.

The first year. Then the second. Then the fifth.

Every time he passed a stranger with familiar laughter, his heart stopped. Every time he saw someone with the same smile, he looked twice. Every time the ocean whispered your name, he listened.

Nothing. No pull. No resonance. No sign.

Nothing.

For the first time in thirty thousand years—

Silence.

And slowly, a terrible realization began to grow.

You weren’t coming back. Not this time. Not ever.

The thought haunted him. Then consumed him. Because immortals understood things humans didn't.

Souls left traces. Echoes. Patterns.

The universe remembered.

But your soul had vanished completely. As though something had broken. As though fate itself had finally grown tired.

On the anniversary of your death, a century later-- Rafayel returned to the beach.

Alone.

The town had changed. The clinic was gone. The shoreline had shifted.

But the sea remained. Cruel. Endless.

Remembering nothing. Or perhaps remembering too much.

Rafayel stood where he had held you.

The wind pulled at his coat. The sun rose slowly over the water.

Beautiful. Always beautiful.

He laughed softly.

"You would have liked this one."

The waves answered.

He closed his eyes.

For a moment, he imagined your voice.

Calling him dramatic. Telling him not to be sad. Telling him to live.

But when he opened his eyes, there was only the sunrise.

Sharp. Clear. Perfect.

A gift he had never wanted at the cost he had never agreed to pay.

Rafayel reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring he had bought long before the breakup.

The one he had never given you. The one meant for an ordinary future.

For gray hair. For morning tea. For growing old.

He held it tightly until it hurt.

Then he sank to his knees in the wet sand.

And for the first time in centuries, Rafayel prayed.

Not to the sea. Not to fate. Not to any god.

To you.

"If there is anything left of you," he whispered, voice breaking, "come back."

The tide touched his knees.

"Please."

The sun rose higher. The world brightened.

Rafayel stayed there until the water soaked through his clothes and the morning crowds began to gather in the distance.

The sea did not answer.

But then, the universe did.

The wind stopped. The tide froze around Rafael's knees.

Even the sunrise seemed to hold its breath.

For one impossible moment, the whole world became silent.

Then the water before him darkened.

Not with storm clouds. Not with shadow.

With depth.

The kind of depth that belonged to places older than memory.

Older than Linkon. Older than every lifetime had had spent chasing you.

Rafayel lifted his head.

A voice rose from everywhere and nowhere.

Not human. Not cruel. Not kind.

Simply vast.

You ask for what has already been spent.

Rafayel's fingers closed around the ring.

His voice was hoarse.

"I don't care."

Her soul was given away. Her life was finished. Her thread was cut.

"Then tie it again."

The sea trembled.

All things returned require payment.

Rafayel laughed softly.

It was a broken sound.

A tired one.

After thirty thousand years, he had nothing left to fear from bargains.

"Take it."

The silence deepened.

You have not heard the price.

"I said take it."

The water rose higher around him.

Cold. Ancient. Familiar.

The call of home. The depths that had once known him. The waters that had held his name long before the world called him Rafayel.

For a heartbeat, he felt Lemuria again.

Not as memory.

As invitation.

The place he had lost. The place he could still return to someday. The place beneath the waves where time moved differently, where grief might finally quiet, where his beginning waited for him in blue darkness.

Then the voice spoke again.

Your immortality.

Rafayel stilled.

Your return to the waters.

The tide climbed to his chest.

Your way home.

For the first time, he did not answer immediately.

The sea called to him.

Not loudly. Tenderly.

Like a mother calling a lost child home.

Lemuria. Home.

He saw it in his mind.

The drowned halls. The glowing currents. The ancient songs. The world beneath the waves that had been his before love remade him into something lonelier.

If he accepted, he would become mortal.

Completely.

No endless cycles. No ancient endurance. No guarantee that he would find you again in another life. No return to the waters when this human body failed. No home beneath the sea.

Only one lifetime. One fragile, breakable, ordinary lifetime.

With you.

Rafayel looked at the ring in his palm.

The one meant for gray hair. Morning tea. Wrinkled hands.

Arguments over breakfast.

A future so small compared to eternity. And so much more precious.

His smile trembled.

"You really don't know me at all."

The universe waited.

Rafayel lifted his gaze to the horizon.

"If I can have one life with her where she remembers me..."

His voice broke.

"Take every eternity I have left."

The sea surged.

Pain tore through him.

Not sharp. Not brief. It was ancient pain. A severing.

Something endless being cut down into something mortal.

The water pulled at him, not to welcome him, but to say farewell.

Rafayel gasped, clutching his chest as the old immortality unraveled inside him thread by thread.

The songs beneath the sea faded. The path home closed.

The water that had always known him no longer recognized him as its own.

For the first time in thirty thousand years, Rafayel felt time settle into his bones.

Heavy. Finite. Human.

The universe spoke once more.

Then live.

The tide fell. The wind returned. The sun broke over the horizon.

And then behind him-

A voice.

Soft.

Unsteady.

Impossible.

"Rafayel…"

Rafayel stopped breathing.

Slowly, painfully, he turned.

You stood several feet away from him, barefoot in the wet sand, wearing a simple white dress that fluttered around your knees.

Older than the girl he had buried. Not by much.

A different body. A new life.

But your eyes.

Your eyes held every memory.

Linkon. The breakup. The clinic. The beach. The final sunrise.

Thirty thousand years of losing each other.

All of it.

You remembered. Your lips trembled.

"I found you this time."

The ring slipped from Rafayel's hand and fell into the sand.

For once, he had no clever words.

No dramatic complaint. No beautiful lie to hide behind.

Only tears. Only disbelief. Only love.

He stumbled forward.

You met him halfway.

The moment his arms closed around you, Rafayel broke.

Not quietly. Not gracefully.

He held you so tightly you could barely breathe, his face buried against your neck, his entire body shaking as if every lifetime of grief had finally found somewhere to go.

"You're real," he whispered.

You cried into his shoulder.

"I'm real."

"You remember?"

"Everything."

His knees almost gave out.

You held him.

For once, you were the one keeping him standing.

Then you felt it.

Something different. Something missing.

The impossible depth that had always lived beneath his skin was gone. The endless tide. The ancient pull of the sea. The immortal sorrow.

All of it had quieted.

You pulled back slowly.

"Rafayel..."

He smiled before you could ask.

A fragile, guilty thing.

"What did you do?"

His silence answered first.

Your face changed.

"No."

He touched your cheek.

"You came back."

"What did you give up?"

He looked toward the water.

For the first time, there was no recognition in the waves.

No call. No home. Only sea.

Beautiful. Distant. Closed to him forever.

His voice softened.

"Nothing I needed more than you."

Your hands trembled against his chest.

"You gave up your immortality."

Rafayel smiled faintly.

"I've had immortality. It was very overrated."

"You can't go back."

His smile faltered. Only for a second.

Then he looked at you. Really looked.

"With you standing here?"

He brushed a tear from your face.

"Why would I?"

You sobbed.

Not because he regretted it. Because he didn't. Because after thirty thousand years of losing everything for love, he had done it again.

Only this time, the sacrifice had bought both of you something neither of you had ever been allowed.

An ending that was not a goodbye.

Rafayel picked up the ring from the sand.

His hand shook.

"I bought this before you left."

You stared at it.

The ordinary future. The one fate had stolen. The one the universe had returned at a cost.

His voice was raw.

"I don't know how much time I have now."

Your breath caught.

He laughed weakly.

"Which is a very offensive thing to realize, by the way. Mortality feels terribly inconvenient."

"Rafayel."

"But if I get to spend whatever time I have with you..."

He lowered himself onto one knee in the wet sand.

No immortal prince. No ancient god of the sea. No tragic figure cursed by time.

Just Rafayel.

Mortal. Shaking. Yours.

"Then I want all of it."

Your tears fell faster.

"Stay with me," he whispered. "Not for eternity. Not for thirty thousand years. Just this life."

You looked at him.

At the man who had given up forever for you. At the man who had once traded immortality for love, then did it again without hesitation. At the man who could no longer return to the waters because he had chosen your hand instead.

You sank to your knees before him and held his face.

"Yes."

His breath broke.

"Yes?"

You smiled through your tears.

"Yes. This life. All of it."

Rafayel laughed.

A shattered, beautiful sound.

Then he slipped the ring onto your finger. This time, fate did not interrupt. The sea rolled gently around you both.

Not calling him home. Not claiming him. Only witnessing.

The sun rose higher.

Warm. Human. Temporary.

And for the first time in thirty thousand years, Rafayel did not mourn the loss of eternity.

Because eternity had never given him what this single mortal life now promised.

Morning tea. Gray hair. Wrinkled hands. Ordinary arguments. A shared bed. A home that did not exist beneath the sea, but wherever you were.

He kissed you as the tide pulled back.

And somewhere beyond the edge of the world, the universe closed the bargain.

No more endless cycles. No more reincarnation without memory. No more returning to the waters.

Only one life.

Fragile.

Brief.

Beloved.

And finally-

yours.

[simpledreame]

Rafayel X Reader - The Color He Left Behind Part 2/3 . ݁₊𓆉. ݁𓇼˖ . ݁

Sypnosis: When your protocore syndrome turns terminal, you decide to break up with him to spare him the pain of seeing you fade. How does he react when you do?

───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

The fight happened four days later. Not because either of you wanted it. Because some truths eventually become too large to avoid.

The rain had returned.

Linkon seemed perpetually trapped beneath gray skies lately.

You arrived at Rafayel's studio just before sunset.

Your headache had been building all day. Your vision blurred at the edges. Every step felt heavier than the last.

You should have gone home. Instead, you came here.

Because despite everything— This was still where home felt like.

The studio was empty. At first.

Then you heard movement near the windows.

Rafayel stood beside a canvas.

One hand resting against the edge of the easel. The other clenched tightly at his side.

You immediately knew something was wrong.

Not because of his expression. Because he wasn't pretending.

No smile. No greeting. No dramatic complaint about your timing.

Just silence.

The sight frightened you.

"Raf?"

He didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he turned toward you. Slowly.

His gaze took a moment to find yours. The hesitation lasted less than a second. It still felt like a knife.

Your chest tightened.

Rafayel noticed. A shadow crossed his face. Gone almost instantly.

Then he held up a folder.

Hospital paperwork.

Your blood turned cold. The world stopped.

"Where did you get that?"

The question came out far too quickly.

Rafayel laughed once.

A terrible sound.

Not amused. Not even angry. Just tired.

"So there is something."

You couldn't breathe.

The folder remained in his hand. Unopened.

Your knees nearly gave out.

He hadn't read it. He didn't know. Not yet.

The realization should have relieved you. Instead, it made everything worse.

Because now you understood. This wasn't about the paperwork.

It was about you. About the lies. About the distance growing between you every day.

Rafayel's voice was frighteningly calm.

"You left it in the passenger seat."

Your stomach dropped. You remembered.

The appointment. The drive. The headache afterward.

You must have forgotten it.

A mistake. A tiny mistake. One that suddenly felt enormous.

"You don't trust me."

The words hit harder than any accusation. Because he weren't angry. He was hurt.

You stared at him. Unable to answer.

Rafayel lowered the folder.

His smile appeared. Small. Crooked. Broken.

"I kept telling myself there was a reason."

Your heart cracked.

"I know you."

A pause.

"You don't leave people."

Another.

"You don't shut people out."

His voice softened. Dangerously.

"You don't look at someone like they're disappearing unless something is wrong."

Your eyes filled.

Rafayel looked away.

The sight of your tears seemed to wound him.

"You know what the worst part is?"

You shook your head.

His laugh sounded hollow.

"I thought I was being selfish."

The confession startled you.

"What?"

"I thought I was making this about me."

He gestured helplessly.

"The blindness."

The word settled heavily between you.

For the first time, neither of you looked away.

Rafayel's smile faded completely.

"I thought maybe you were scared."

A pause.

"Maybe you didn't want this."

He touched the corner of his eye.

The movement was small. Devastating.

"Maybe you looked at me and saw a burden."

The hurt that flashed across his face nearly destroyed you.

Because he actually believed it.

Not fully. Not rationally. But enough. Enough to let the fear live inside him.

You crossed the room immediately.

"No."

The answer came sharp. Immediate. Honest.

Rafayel froze.

You rarely sounded that certain anymore. The force of it surprised both of you.

"No."

Your voice trembled.

"You could never be a burden."

Silence.

Something changed in his expression.

Hope. Tiny. Fragile. Dangerous.

It appeared before he could stop it. And seeing it almost broke you.

Because you couldn't give him what he wanted.

Couldn't give him the truth. Couldn't give him forever. Couldn't even give him next month.

Rafayel stared at you.

Searching. Waiting. The hope slowly faded.

Not because he stopped believing you. Because he realized that wasn't the answer.

There was still something else. Something bigger. Something neither of you were naming.

The room felt unbearably quiet.

Finally, he asked the question that truly terrified you.

"What are you preparing for?"

Your heartbeat stopped.

There it was. The edge.

One more step and everything would collapse.

You looked at him.

At the man who had loved you through lifetimes. At the man losing his sight. At the man who would choose you every single time.

And suddenly you understood something terrible.

If you stayed here much longer— You were going to tell him.

The realization settled like ice in your veins.

Because if you told him— You wouldn't leave.

And if you didn't leave— You would watch him lose everything.

You forced yourself to step back.

The movement was small. It felt catastrophic.

Rafayel's face changed immediately.

The hope disappeared.

Something inside him seemed to go still.

Not broken. Worse. Resigned.

The expression of someone who had watched fate approach before. Someone who recognized its footsteps.

Your voice barely worked.

"I'm sorry."

His eyes closed. Just for a moment.

When they opened again, the grief was impossible to miss.

Not because of the words. Because of what they meant. You weren't answering the question. And that was answer enough.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

Rain struck the windows. The ocean roared somewhere beyond the darkness.

Eventually, Rafayel laughed.

Softly.

Almost to himself.

"There you are."

Your chest hurt.

Because he wasn't talking about the apology.

He was talking about the goodbye hidden inside it.

And for the first time—

He truly understood it was coming.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

After the fight, Rafayel stopped asking questions. That frightened you more than anything.

No more gentle probing. No more attempts to understand. No more searching for explanations.

Just acceptance.

The kind that comes after hope has exhausted itself.

Three days later, you found him sitting alone in the studio.

The ocean beyond the windows glowed silver beneath the moon.

A small velvet box rested in his hands.

Your breath caught immediately.

He looked up. And for a brief moment, genuine surprise crossed his face.

"Cora."

You stared at the box. Then at him. Then back again.

Rafayel followed your gaze. Slowly.

His expression softened. A strange smile touched his mouth.

Embarrassed. Fond. Heartbroken.

"Ah."

The sound escaped him quietly. You already knew.

Even before he opened it. Even before you saw the ring.

You knew.

Because suddenly everything made sense.

The painting. Eventually. The groceries. The photographs. The way he'd been memorizing every second. The way he'd been holding on.

Your vision blurred.

Rafayel looked down at the ring. Turning it carefully between his fingers.

"I bought it months ago."

Your heart stopped.

He laughed softly.

"I know."

A pause.

"Ridiculous."

You couldn't speak.

He continued staring at the ring.

Not wearing it. Not offering it. Just holding it.

Like a future. Like a dream. Like something already lost.

"I was waiting."

The words nearly killed you.

Because you knew exactly what he'd been waiting for.

Not the perfect moment. Not certainty. Not permission.

A future.

One he still believed existed back then.

His smile trembled. Just slightly.

"I kept changing my mind."

You swallowed hard.

Rafayel looked toward the ocean.

Toward darkness. Toward everything slipping away.

"Sometimes I'd think tomorrow."

A pause.

"Then next month."

Another.

"Then after your next mission."

His voice softened.

"As if there would always be another chance."

The room blurred completely.

Because neither of you believed that anymore.

And for the first time—

You realized Rafayel didn't either.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

It rained the day you left him. Of course it did.

Rafayel had always claimed the weather was dramatic because it spent too much time around him.

You almost laughed when you thought of it. Almost.

The studio door closed quietly behind you. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The ocean beyond the windows had disappeared beneath rain and darkness. Only scattered lights remained.

Blurry. Distant. Like stars drowning underwater.

Rafayel stood near the easel.

One hand resting against the edge for balance.

The sight nearly broke you.

His vision had worsened again. You could tell. You always could.

But he wasn't looking at the canvas. He was looking at you.

As though nothing else in the world mattered. Maybe nothing did.

"You came."

The smile he gave you was gentle. Almost relieved. Your chest tightened.

Because somewhere inside him, he had still been hoping. Hoping this wasn't goodbye. Hoping he had misunderstood. Hoping you would stay.

You hated yourself for what came next.

"Rafayel..."

The hope vanished immediately. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough. Enough for you to see it leave. Enough for him to know.

A long silence followed.

Then Rafayel laughed softly.

The sound was devastating. Because it wasn't bitter. It wasn't angry. It was acceptance. It was exhaustion.

"Ah."

Only that.

Ah.

As if the blade had finally arrived. As if he'd spent weeks watching it descend and now it had reached his heart.

The rain struck harder against the glass.

You couldn't breathe.

Rafayel looked toward the ocean. Or perhaps toward the memory of it.

When he spoke again, his voice was quiet.

"So this is really it."

Not a question. A statement.

You nodded.

The movement felt like treason.

For a long time, he said nothing. Then slowly— Carefully—

He walked toward you.

You watched every step.

The slight hesitation. The way his gaze struggled briefly in the dim light. The way he pretended it didn't.

Your heart shattered.

Because even now— Even now—

You wanted to tell him.

Everything. The illness. The surgery. The countdown. Every terrible truth.

Rafayel stopped in front of you.  Close enough to touch. Close enough to stay.

His eyes searched your face. Looking for something. Anything.

One final reason. One final lie. One final miracle.

He found none.

A faint smile appeared.

"You know what's funny?"

Your throat tightened.

Rafayel looked down.

Then back at you.

"I spent weeks trying to figure out what I did wrong."

The confession hit like a physical blow.

His smile remained.

"I replayed every conversation."

A pause.

"Every argument."

Another.

"Every moment."

Your eyes burned.

Rafayel laughed quietly.

"I even blamed the blindness."

The word landed heavily between you.

"I thought maybe you looked at me and realized I wasn't worth the trouble."

"No."

The answer escaped instantly. Sharp. Honest.

Your voice cracked.

"No."

For the first time all night, something real crossed his face. Relief. Brief. Painful.

Because he believed you.

That wasn't the problem. It never had been.

Rafayel closed his eyes. Just for a second.

Then nodded.

"I know."

The room fell silent.

Rain. Ocean. Heartbeat. Grief.

Everything mixed together until you couldn't separate them anymore.

When Rafayel opened his eyes again, they were bright. Dangerously bright.

But he was still smiling. Still trying. Still making this easier for you. As if your pain mattered more than his own.

"Did you ever see it?"

Your breath caught.

"What?"

"The painting."

Confusion flickered across your face.

Rafayel smiled faintly.

"Not the canvas."

A pause.

"The future."

The words nearly destroyed you.

Because you knew exactly which future he meant.

Eventually. Coffee cups. Morning sunlight. Gray hair. Growing old together.

Your vision blurred. You couldn't answer.

Rafayel laughed softly. The sound cracked halfway through.

"I did."

Your heart stopped.

His gaze drifted toward the rain-streaked windows. Toward a life neither of you would have.

"I saw it every day."

A pause.

"I was stupid enough to think maybe this time we'd get to keep it."

Silence.

The confession settled between you. Heavy. Merciless. True.

Your chest hurt so badly you thought it might split open.

Because he wasn't mourning eternity. He wasn't mourning immortality. He wasn't mourning fate.

He was mourning breakfast. Ordinary mornings. Shared apartments. Arguments over groceries. A life. The simple human life he'd never been allowed to keep.

And you were taking it away.

Tears slipped down your cheeks.

Rafayel immediately reached for you. Instinct. Always instinct.

His thumb brushed away the tears before they could fall.

The gesture was heartbreakingly familiar.

"There you are."

The words nearly undid you.

Because he looked relieved. Relieved to see something honest. Relieved to see the mask finally crack.

His own smile trembled. For the first time, you thought he might cry.

Instead, he took a slow breath. And stepped back.

The loss of his warmth was immediate. Terrible. Final.

"You should go."

Your head snapped up.

Rafayel smiled. Beautiful. Ruined.

"If you stay much longer..."

His voice faltered.

"...I won't let you."

The confession shattered the room.

Because finally— Finally—

There it was.

The truth.

Not anger. Not resentment. Not misunderstanding.

Love.

Pure and selfish and desperate.

The kind that wanted to keep you. The kind that would beg if it thought begging would work. The kind that knew it wouldn't.

Your entire body shook.

Rafayel looked away first.

A final act of mercy.

Because if he kept looking at you— Neither of you would survive this.

You turned toward the door. One step. Then another.

Every movement felt impossible.

Behind you, silence.

No footsteps. No pleading. No dramatic last attempt.

That wasn't who he was. Not when it mattered.

Your hand found the doorknob.

Then—

"Wait."

You froze. Immediately.

The word sounded broken.

You turned.

Rafayel stood exactly where you'd left him. Rain-shadowed. Heartbroken. Beautiful.

His smile had vanished completely. Only honesty remained. Raw. Terrifying.

"Did I make you happy?"

The question destroyed you. Not because you didn't know the answer.

Because after everything— That was what he wanted to know.

Not why. Not where you were going. Not who you were leaving him for.

Just that. Had he made you happy?

A sob caught in your throat. You nodded immediately.

"Yes."

The answer came out shattered. But honest. Completely honest.

Rafayel closed his eyes. Relief washed across his face. So profound it looked painful.

When he smiled again, it was smaller. Softer. Almost peaceful.

"Okay."

Your heart broke. Because that was enough for him.

Just knowing. Just hearing it once.

Rafayel looked at you for a very long time. Memorizing. Always memorizing.

Then quietly said—

"Then I'll keep that."

And this time—

You left.

The door closed behind you. The sound echoed through the studio.

For several seconds, Rafayel didn't move. Didn't breathe. Didn't blink.

Then slowly—

As though his body had finally remembered how grief worked—

He sank into the chair beside the unfinished painting. The one called Eventually.

Rain battered the windows.

The ocean roared beyond the darkness.

And for the first time in thirty thousand years—

Rafayel allowed himself to hope that he had been wrong.

That tomorrow, somehow, you would come back.

He didn't know yet that tomorrow would be far crueler than goodbye.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

The first message arrived the next morning. You were awake when it came.

Not because you wanted to be. Because sleep had become difficult lately.

Pain had a way of stealing it.

Your phone lit up on the nightstand.

Rafayel.

Your heart immediately betrayed you. For one terrible second, you considered not opening it.

You opened it anyway. A photograph filled the screen.

A piece of toast. Burnt beyond recognition.

The caption read:

"I attempted breakfast. The breakfast disagreed."

A second message appeared.

"I suspect sabotage."

You stared at the screen until your vision blurred. Then slowly locked the phone.

You didn't answer.

Hours later, another message arrived.

This one was a photograph of the ocean. Slightly crooked. The horizon tilted.

His eyesight was getting worse.

You could see it in every image now. Beautiful. Heartbreaking.

The caption read:

"The sea is being dramatic today. I blame the weather."

You laughed despite yourself. Then cried immediately afterward. Still, you didn't answer.

That night, another message appeared. This time it was only text.

"You know, most people break up and immediately regret it. I assume you're currently suffering."

You covered your mouth to stop the sound that escaped. Because you could hear him saying it.

Could hear the familiar teasing. The familiar warmth. The desperate attempt to make this easier.

You never replied. And still—

The messages kept coming.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

The donor appeared two days after Thomas finally wore him down. Rafayel almost refused.

Not because he feared the surgery. Because it felt wrong.

Some instinct deep inside him resisted it. A strange unease he couldn't explain.

For weeks, he'd accepted the blindness with a kind of reluctant resignation.

The world was fading. So be it. There were worse things to lose.

He'd already lost you.

What was darkness compared to that?

Then Thomas placed the file in front of him.

A compatible donor. A chance to restore his sight. A chance to paint again. A chance to stop squinting at sunsets and pretending he could still see their colors.

Most importantly—

A chance to find you.

That last thought changed everything.

Rafayel stared at the paperwork for a long time.

The donor's identity remained confidential. Only medical details filled the pages. Anonymous. Approved. Compatible. Available immediately.

Strange.

The timing felt strange. Almost impossibly lucky.

For a brief moment, he wondered who they were.

What kind of person agreed to something like this. Whether they loved the ocean. Whether they liked coffee. Whether they knew how much they were giving away.

The thought lingered longer than it should have. Then Thomas sighed dramatically from across the room.

"If you reject this, I am legally obligated to throw you into the operating room myself."

Rafayel smiled faintly. The first real smile Thomas had seen in weeks.

"You aren't legally obligated to do that."

"Emotionally obligated."

"That's not a law."

"It should be."

Despite himself, Rafayel laughed.

The sound felt rusty. Unused. But real.

His gaze returned to the file.

To the opportunity sitting in front of him. To the future. To you.

Because suddenly he could picture it. Getting his sight back. Standing outside your apartment. Seeing your face clearly again. Watching you roll your eyes when he inevitably said something ridiculous. Hearing her laugh.

The image hurt.

But it also gave him something he'd been missing.

Hope.

Slowly, he picked up the pen.

Thomas immediately sat forward. Suspicious. Like a man watching a wild animal approach a trap.

Rafayel signed.

The ink dried almost instantly. Decision made. No taking it back.

For a moment, he stared at his signature. Then quietly said,

"When I find her..."

Thomas looked away. Immediately.

Rafayel never noticed. His smile softened. Small. Certain. Heartbreakingly certain.

"I'll thank whoever did this."

Outside, beyond the hospital windows, the ocean stretched toward the horizon.

Endless.

Blue.

Waiting.

And somewhere in the same city, you were preparing to give him the one thing he never would have accepted if he'd known the truth.

His final chance to see the world.

And Rafayel, for the first time in months, believed luck had finally chosen his side.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

The surgery was scheduled for dawn. You didn't sleep.

The hospital room remained quiet. Dark. Temporary. Much like everything else.

Rain tapped softly against the window. Beyond the glass, Linkon City glowed beneath the night.

Beautiful. Distant. A world you were already leaving behind.

Your phone rested in your lap. The voice message remained open.

You’d listened to it six times. Maybe seven.

You lost count somewhere between "I miss you" and "I hope you're okay."

Now you simply stared at the screen. At his name. At the photograph attached to his contact. At the future that no longer belonged to you.

A soft knock interrupted the silence. Zayne entered.

His expression immediately told you everything. It was time.

Neither of you spoke.

What was there left to say?

The paperwork had been signed weeks ago. The compatibility confirmed. The surgery approved.

Every choice had already been made.

Zayne stood beside the bed.

For a long moment, he simply looked at you. Not as a physician. Not as a colleague. As someone about to lose a friend.

"You can still change your mind."

The words were quiet. Tired. Hopeful.

You smiled. A sad smile. The kind people wore when they had already said goodbye.

"If it were you..."

Your voice trembled.

Just once.

"...would you?"

Silence.

Zayne looked away. That answer was enough.

No. He wouldn't. Neither would you.

Slowly, you stood.

Your legs felt strangely unsteady. Not from fear. From exhaustion. Months of it. Years, perhaps.

The hallway beyond the room stretched endlessly. White walls. Bright lights. Footsteps echoing somewhere in the distance.

The journey toward the operating room felt impossibly short.

At the door, you stopped. Only once. Only briefly.

Then you handed your phone to Zayne.

His brow furrowed.

"Cora?"

You looked down at the screen. At Rafayel's name. At the voice message. At the life you wished you could have stayed for.

"If he asks..."

Your throat tightened. The words nearly failed.

"Don't tell him I was brave."

Zayne stared at you. Pain flashing briefly across his face.

You smiled softly. Because bravery had never been the truth. Not really.

"I was terrified."

Then you walked into the operating room.

And the door closed behind you.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

Rafayel received surgery immediately. It was too quick. Too convenient.

But he didn't question further.

Not when it took him a step closer to finding you again.

They wheeled him into the operation room in the morning. Within two hours, the job was done. The surgery was completed. 

Rafayel had received your eyes, unbeknowst to him.

When he finally opened his eyes, the world was blue.

Not darkness. Not shadow.

Blue.

For a moment, he simply stared. The hospital curtain shifted gently beside the window.

Blue.

The sky beyond the glass stretched endlessly above the ocean.

Blue.

The color hit him like a physical blow.

His breath caught. Then broke. A laugh escaped him.

Small. Disbelieving. Because he had forgotten.

Forgotten how vivid the world could be. Forgotten how sunlight looked reflected against water. Forgotten how many shades of blue existed.

His vision blurred immediately. Not from the surgery.

From relief. For the first time in months, he could see. Really see.

The door opened. Thomas stepped inside.

The moment he spotted Rafayel sitting upright, he froze. Then laughed. A sound halfway between joy and exhaustion.

"There he is."

Rafayel smiled.

The expression felt strange. Unused. Like something he'd misplaced.

Thomas crossed the room. Stopping beside the bed.  For several seconds neither of them spoke.

Then—

"What color is the curtain?"

Thomas blinked.

"What?"

"The curtain."

Rafayel pointed.

His smile widened.

"What color is it?"

Thomas stared. Then slowly realized. And suddenly his own eyes were shining.

"Blue."

Rafayel laughed. The sound filled the room.

Warm. Bright. Alive. The way it hadn't been in months.

"Good."

His voice cracked. Just slightly.

"I thought so."

For a while, neither man spoke.

The ocean stretched beyond the window. The sunlight spilled across the floor.

Everything felt possible again. And for the first time since the breakup—

Hope returned. Dangerous. Beautiful. Hope.

Rafayel leaned back against the pillows.

Already planning. Already calculating.

A train station. An apartment. A café. The harbor.

He would start there. Then expand.

If you weren't in Linkon, he'd leave Linkon. If you left the country, he'd follow. If you disappeared entirely—

Well.

He'd done that before. Thousands of times.

One lifetime couldn't possibly be harder than thirty thousand years.

Thomas watched the expression on his face. And knew immediately.

"You're thinking about her."

Rafayel looked offended.

"I'm always thinking about her."

"Fair."

A pause.

Then—

"When you're discharged?"

The answer came instantly.

No hesitation. No uncertainty. No fear.

"I'm finding Cora."

The words settled confidently between them. As though it were the simplest thing in the world.

Thomas forced a smile. A difficult thing lately.

"Yeah."

Rafayel turned back toward the ocean. Toward the future. Toward the woman he intended to bring home.

His hand drifted toward the bedside table. Toward the small velvet ring box resting there.

The ring remained exactly where he'd left it. Waiting. Just like him.

His thumb brushed across the lid.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"This time."

Thomas felt his stomach drop.

Rafayel never noticed.

"This time I'll do it right."

The room fell silent.

Outside, waves rolled endlessly toward shore. Inside, sunlight painted gold across the hospital floor.

And for the first time in months—

Rafayel was happy.

Not because he had his sight back. Because he believed fate had finally given him another chance.

He didn't know that every color he could see belonged to you.

He didn't know you spent your final months making sure he would never lose the ocean.

He didn't know you were already slipping away.

All he knew was this:

He could see again.

And he was going to find you.

No matter how long it took.

Even if he had to search the entire world.

After all—

Finding you had always been the easiest promise he'd ever kept.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

Rafayel was discharged two days later.

The doctors recommended rest. Observation. Recovery. A list of instructions he had absolutely no intention of following.

By noon, he was standing outside your apartment. Ring box in one pocket. Hope in the other.

The elevator ride felt endless.

His heart pounded harder with every floor.

Ridiculous. After everything you both have survived together, he was nervous about knocking on a door.

Thomas would never let him live it down. The thought almost made him smile.

Almost.

When he reached your floor, he stopped. Straightened his jacket. Ran a hand through his hair. Then knocked.

Once. Twice. Silence.

His smile faltered slightly. Maybe you were out.

The thought seemed reasonable enough. He knocked again.

Still nothing.

The hallway remained quiet.

A strange feeling settled beneath his ribs. Not fear. Not yet. Something colder.

Rafayel pulled out his phone. Called immediately. The call went straight to voicemail.

His stomach tightened.

Again. Voicemail.

Again. Voicemail.

The unease deepened. Slowly. Relentlessly. Like water rising.

After several minutes, he finally used the spare key you'd forgotten he'd copied months ago.

The lock clicked. The door opened. And the world stopped.

The apartment was empty. Not abandoned. Not messy. Empty.

Painfully. Deliberately. Empty.

The bookshelf beside the couch was gone. The photographs were gone. The blankets folded away. The plants missing from the windowsill. No coffee mug in the sink. No jackets hanging by the door. No evidence that anyone had lived there recently.

Only silence.

Rafayel stood frozen in the doorway. Unable to move. Unable to breathe.

The apartment smelled wrong.

Not like you. Like dust. Like absence.

A horrible feeling crawled up his spine.

Slowly, he walked inside.

Every room. Every corner. Every drawer.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

His pulse quickened.

The bedroom was worse. The closet stood open. Half empty. The bedside table cleared. The framed photograph you'd once kept there gone.

The sight hit him harder than the breakup ever had. Because breakups left traces. This felt like erasure. Like someone preparing to disappear.

"No."

The word escaped automatically. A useless protest.

Rafayel turned in a slow circle. Searching for something. Anything.

Proof. An explanation. A mistake.

Instead, his gaze landed on a single object resting atop the kitchen counter.

A key. Your apartment key. Carefully placed. Intentionally left behind. As though you’d known you weren’t coming back.

The sight made his knees weaken.

For a moment, he couldn't understand why. Then he did. And suddenly the room felt far too small.

Far too quiet. Far too final.

"No."

The word came again. Broken this time.

His hand closed around the key. Cold metal. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And somehow it felt heavier than anything he'd ever held.

Because it wasn't a key.

It was a goodbye.

One you’d never managed to say out loud.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

The next three days disappeared.

Rafayel searched everywhere.

The harbor. The café with terrible coffee. The bookstore you liked near the Association. The waterfront. The train station.

Everywhere.

Every place that mattered. Every place that didn't.

Nothing.

No one had seen you. Or if they had, they hadn't seen you recently.

The answers remained the same. Too careful. Too rehearsed. Too empty.

The dread continued growing.

By the fourth day, he stopped sleeping.

Thomas noticed immediately. So did everyone else.

Rafayel didn't care.

Because something was wrong. Terribly wrong. He could feel it.

The same way sailors felt storms before they arrived. The same way the sea sensed tides. The same way his soul always recognized yours.

Something was wrong. And every hour that passed made it worse.

Finally, he found himself standing outside Akso Hospital again.

The sight made his stomach turn. Not because he feared hospitals. Because he feared answers.

Zayne was exactly where he'd expected. Working. As always.

The physician looked exhausted. More exhausted than usual.

Rafayel hated what that meant. Neither man spoke at first.

Then—

"Where is she?"

The question hung between them. Heavy. Sharp. Dangerous.

Zayne looked away.

Immediately.

Rafayel's heart stopped. Because suddenly he knew. Not the details. Not yet. But enough. Enough to be terrified.

His voice dropped.

Barely above a whisper.

"Zayne."

The physician closed his eyes.

Just for a second.

When he opened them again, the pity there nearly destroyed Rafayel.

Because pity meant loss.

Pity meant grief.

Pity meant he was already too late.

And suddenly—

For the first time since receiving his sight—

Rafayel wished he couldn't see at all.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

Rain tapped softly against the hospital windows.

The same rain. The same city. The same world. Yet somehow everything felt different.

Rafayel stood motionless.

Zayne sat behind his desk. Exhaustion carved deep shadows beneath his eyes.

The physician looked like a man who had been carrying too much for too long.

Rafayel hated him for it. Because if Zayne looked this tired—

Then he already knew. He'd known the entire time.

"Where is she?"

The question came again. Hoarse. Desperate.

Zayne closed his eyes.

*Not now*, Rafayel thought.

*Don't do that. Don't look away. Don't give me that look. Anything but that look.*

Because pity meant grief. And grief meant loss.

When Zayne finally spoke, his voice sounded older somehow.

"Cora isn't in Linkon anymore."

The answer should have relieved him. Instead it made everything worse.

Because it wasn't an answer. It was avoidance. And Zayne never avoided anything.

Rafayel's pulse quickened.

"Where?"

Silence. A terrible silence.

Then—

"She didn't want you to know."

Something shattered. Not loudly. Not visibly.

But Rafayel felt it. Felt something crack deep inside his chest.

His smile appeared. Automatic. Dangerous.

The kind he wore when he was closest to falling apart.

"Then tell me anyway."

Zayne didn't move. Didn't answer. Didn't even look surprised.

As though he'd expected this conversation for months.

Perhaps he had.

The room suddenly felt too small.

Rafayel took a step forward. Then another. Until he stood directly in front of the desk.

"Zayne."

The physician finally met his gaze. And the grief there nearly stopped his heart. Because grief meant finality. Grief meant there was no solution.

No treatment. No miracle. No rescue. Only aftermath.

The realization hit him all at once.

The headaches. The exhaustion. The disappearing acts. The tears. The breakup. The empty apartment. The anonymous donor.

His stomach dropped. Cold terror flooded through him.

"No."

The word escaped immediately. Instinctively.

"No."

Zayne's jaw tightened. Rafayel stared at him.

Unable to breathe. Unable to think. Unable to stop understanding.

"No."

The room blurred. His vision remained perfect. The world did not.

A file appeared on the desk. One he'd seen before. Only now he noticed the name.

Cora.

The sight made him feel sick.

His hands shook as he opened it.

Page after page. Medical reports. Scans. Treatment notes. Failed treatment notes.

Words he didn't want to read. Words he couldn't stop reading.

Advanced Protocore Syndrome. Progressive deterioration. Terminal prognosis. No viable recovery.

The letters swam. The paper trembled. A laugh escaped him.

Broken. Unrecognizable.

"No."

Because it wasn't possible. Because you were stubborn. Because you survived everything. Because you always came back. Because you were supposed to come back.

His gaze dropped lower. Further into the file. And then he saw it.

The donor authorization.

His breath stopped.

For a moment, the world ceased to exist.

Only the page remained.

Donor: Cora.

Recipient: Rafayel.

His hands began shaking so violently the paper slipped from his grasp.

The pages scattered across the floor.

Neither man moved. Neither man cared.

Rafayel stared.

At your signature. At the date. At the approval. At the choice you made.

Alone.

The room spun.

Suddenly he remembered everything.

Every conversation. Every sunset. Every question.

What color is the ocean today? What color is the sky? What color do you miss most?

Every answer. Every smile. Every goodbye hidden inside ordinary moments.

A horrible sound escaped him.

Half sob. Half laugh. Entirely broken.

"You knew."

His voice cracked.

Not directed at Zayne.

At you. At the ghost you had left behind.

"You knew."

The tears came without warning.

Hot. Relentless. Unstoppable.

Rafayel pressed a hand over his mouth. As if he could hold himself together.

He couldn't. Not anymore. Because suddenly he understood the cruelest part.

You hadn't spent your final months preparing to die. You had spent them preparing him to live. And you had done it alone.

The realization shattered whatever remained of him.

For a long time, the room was silent. Only rain. Only grief.

Only the sound of a man realizing that every beautiful thing he could see belonged to the woman he loved.

Then, finally—

Rafayel looked up.

His eyes were red. Devastated. Determined.

"Where is she?"

This time, it wasn't a question. It was a promise.

Because no matter how late he was.

No matter how little time remained.

No matter what waited at the end of the search.

He was going to find you.

Just like he always had.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

The clinic sat at the edge of the sea. Small. White. Forgettable.

The kind of place people came when they wanted peace. Or privacy. Or somewhere quiet enough to disappear.

Rafayel hated it on sight.

The drive had taken nearly six hours. Six hours of rain. Six hours of panic. Six hours of imagining every possible outcome and finding every single one unacceptable.

The entire way there, one thought repeated endlessly.

Please. Please. Please.

He wasn't even sure who he was pleading with anymore.

Fate. The sea. The universe.

Anyone listening.

For once, just once—

Let him be in time.

The tires crunched against gravel as the car came to a stop. Before the engine fully died, Rafayel was already moving.

The front doors burst open. A nurse startled. Someone called after him.

He didn't hear a word. Only one thing mattered.

"Cora."

The name echoed through the hallway.

No answer.

His heartbeat thundered.

"Cora."

Still nothing.

The corridor stretched endlessly ahead. White walls. Soft lighting. The scent of antiseptic. The sound of distant waves.

Every step felt too slow. Every second felt stolen.

Finally, a nurse stepped into his path.

"Sir—"

"Where is she?"

The question cracked apart.

The woman froze. Recognition flashed across her face. That was all the answer he needed.

His stomach dropped. Because she knew exactly who he was.

The nurse looked away. Immediately. A terrible sign.

"Room twelve."

The words barely left her mouth before he was running.

The hallway blurred. His chest burned. His lungs screamed.

None of it mattered.

Room twelve.

Room twelve.

Room twelve.

At the end of the corridor, a single door stood slightly open.

Light spilled through the gap. Warm. Soft. Terrifying.

Rafayel stopped.

For one brief moment. One impossible moment. Because suddenly he was afraid. Not of what he would find. Of what he wouldn't.

His hand trembled as it touched the door.

Then slowly—

He pushed it open. And the world stopped.

You sat beside the window.

The ocean stretched beyond the glass. Silver beneath the late afternoon sky.

For one impossible second, relief flooded through him.

You were alive. Alive.

The word echoed through every part of him.

Then you spoke.

"Who's there?"

The relief shattered. Completely.

Rafayel froze. The room tilted beneath him.

Cora sat perfectly still. Facing the window. Not the door. Not him.

The window.

Waiting. Listening. His heartbeat stopped.

No.

No.

No.

The realization crashed through him all at once. The careful way your hands rested in your lap. The unfocused gaze. The slight turn of your head toward sound rather than movement.

No.

His throat closed. Because suddenly the donor file wasn't paper anymore. It was real.

Terribly. Horribly. Real.

Cora frowned slightly. Confusion crossing your face.

Then— Slowly—

Recognition.

Not from sight. From silence. From presence. From knowing him too well.

Your breath caught.

"Rafayel?"

The sound of his name nearly brought him to his knees.

For a moment, neither moved. Neither breathed.

The ocean rolled endlessly beyond the glass. Inside the room, the universe cracked apart.

Rafayel stared. Because you couldn't see him. You couldn't see him. After thirty thousand years of searching for you. After finally getting his vision back. After seeing the ocean again.

The first thing he wanted was you. And you couldn't see him.

A broken sound escaped his throat. Half laugh. Half sob.

Entirely grief.

Your eyes immediately filled with tears. Though you couldn't see them fall.

"No."

The whisper trembled. Not fear. Not anger. Heartbreak.

"You weren't supposed to find me."

Rafayel laughed once. A horrible sound.

Because even now— Even now—

You were worried about him.

"There she is."

His voice shattered. The tears came immediately. Unstoppable.

He crossed the room in three steps. Then dropped to his knees beside your chair.

Not because he meant to. Because his legs stopped working.

His hands found yours instantly. Cold. Fragile. Familiar.

You inhaled sharply.

As though finally allowing yourself to believe he was real.

"Raf..."

The nickname broke apart. So did he.

Because suddenly he understood everything.

The sunsets. The colors. The questions. The promises.

Every beautiful thing he'd seen since the surgery. Every single one had cost you this.

His forehead dropped against your joined hands. His shoulders shook.

The grief was too large. Too overwhelming. Too much.

"You gave me your eyes."

The room fell silent. Only the waves answered. Only the sea.

You closed your eyes.

A useless habit now. A heartbreaking one.

"I'm sorry."

Immediately, Rafayel shook his head. Violently.

"No."

The answer came sharp. Desperate. Broken.

"No."

His fingers tightened around yours. As if you might disappear. As if he could somehow hold you here.

"You don't get to apologize."

His voice cracked.

"You don't get to say sorry for this."

The tears wouldn't stop. Neither of yours would. Because suddenly the cruelty of it all stood between them.

He could see. You couldn't. And every color in your world now gone.

Every ocean. Every sunset. Every painting. Every beautiful thing.

You had given them all away.

For him.

And for the first time since learning the truth—

Rafayel hated being able to see.

Part 3

[simpledreame]

Rafayel X Reader - The Color He Left Behind Part 1/3 . ݁₊𓆉. ݁𓇼˖ . ݁

Sypnosis: When your protocore syndrome turns terminal, you decide to break up with him to spare him the pain of seeing you fade. How does he react when you do?

───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

Rafayel always said the sea remembered.

Not in the way humans remembered. Not as dates, names, or stories carefully preserved inside books.

The sea remembered the way scars remembered.

Quietly. Permanently.

It carried every shipwreck, every prayer whispered into the dark, every promise spoken by trembling mouths beneath moonlit skies. It swallowed them whole and kept them long after the people who made them were gone.

Nothing was ever truly lost beneath the waves.

At least, that was what he told you.

Years ago, you had stood beside him on a deserted shoreline, the evening wind pulling at his coat as the tide curled around his bare feet.

His violet hair had been a tangled mess, and he hadn't seemed remotely concerned.

You remembered laughing.

"You make everything sound tragic."

Rafayel turned immediately, looking scandalized.

"Excuse me?"

"You do."

"I am an artist."

As though that explained everything.

"It explains nothing."

"It explains everything."

He pointed toward the horizon.

"Beauty and tragedy have always traveled together."

"That's incredibly dramatic."

"It is also correct."

You rolled your eyes.

He looked unbearably pleased with himself. Then, after a moment, his expression softened.

The teasing slipped away. Only for a second. Just long enough for something older to surface. Something infinitely sadder.

"Besides," he murmured, staring out at the sea, "some things deserve to be remembered."

At the time, you hadn't understood. Not really. How could you?

You remembered only this life.

Linkon City. The Hunter's Association. Wanderers. Missions.

Late-night convenience store dinners.

The infuriatingly beautiful artist who inserted himself into your life and somehow became part of it.

But Rafayel remembered everything. Thirty thousand years of everything.

He remembered kingdoms that no longer existed. Stars that had died before modern civilization was born. Lives you had forgotten before they even ended.

He remembered every version of you. Every laugh. Every promise. Every goodbye.

You had forgotten all of them.

He never had.

And perhaps that was why the truth terrified you so much.

Because when someone has spent thirty thousand years losing you, how do you ask them to survive it one more time?

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

The diagnosis arrived on a Tuesday.

It was raining. Not enough to be called a storm. Just enough to blur the city beyond the hospital windows and turn Linkon into a watercolor painting left out in the rain.

You sat across from Zayne in silence.

The examination room smelled faintly of antiseptic and coffee. A familiar smell.

You had spent enough time in hospitals over the years to recognize it instantly.

Zayne was speaking. You knew he was.

His voice was calm. Measured. Professional.

But somewhere between the words "advanced" and "degeneration," the world seemed to drift further away.

Advanced Protocore Syndrome. Accelerated systemic deterioration. No viable treatment. No documented recovery.

You understood every term. That almost made it worse.

Finally, the room fell silent. Rain tapped softly against the glass.

You stared at the report in your hands.

The black text looked strangely ordinary. Like it belonged to someone else.

"So that's it?"

Your own voice sounded distant.

Zayne didn't answer immediately. A muscle moved in his jaw.

That alone told you everything.

You lowered your gaze. A laugh escaped you.

Small. Disbelieving.

"I'm dying."

The words hung between you.

Zayne closed his eyes briefly.

When he opened them again, the physician was gone.

Only Zayne remained.

And somehow that hurt more.

Outside the hospital, life continued.

A nurse hurried down the hallway. Someone laughed near the elevators. A child complained loudly about the weather.

The world kept moving. As if it hadn't just ended.

Your phone vibrated.

Instinctively, you reached for it.

Rafayel.

A new message. Of course it was.

A photo loaded slowly on the screen.

His breakfast. Burnt beyond recognition.

The caption read:

"This egg sacrificed itself for art."

You stared at it.

Then another message appeared.

"Actually, no. Art would have had standards."

Your vision blurred. For a terrible second, you thought you might cry.

Instead, you laughed. A real laugh. One that hurt.

Your thumb hovered over his contact. You imagined calling him. You imagined the silence on the other end.

The disbelief. The panic.

The way he would tear apart every hospital in Linkon looking for an answer. The way he would refuse to accept there wasn't one.

You imagined him spending whatever remained of your life trying to save you. And failing.

Again.

Slowly, you locked your phone.

No.

You couldn't do that to him.

Not this time.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

For a week, you pretended your life had not been divided into before and after.

Before the diagnosis. After the diagnosis.

Before, there had been a future. After, there was only time.

You continued going to work. You attended meetings. You filed reports. You hunted Wanderers.

You smiled when Tara complained about paperwork and laughed when Jenna threatened to quit for the fifth time that month.

No one noticed anything was wrong. Or maybe they did. Maybe they simply chose not to say it.

Either way, nobody stopped you.

The blood came three days later.

A small stain in a handkerchief after a coughing fit. Not enough to frighten anyone. Enough to frighten you.

You folded the cloth carefully and threw it away before anyone could see.

Then you went back to work.

Because what else was there to do?

Dying, you discovered, was surprisingly ordinary.

No dramatic music. No warning bells.

Just appointments. Medication. Fatigue.

And the constant awareness that every mundane moment had become finite.

The realization followed you everywhere.

Into grocery stores. Onto trains. Into cafés. Into conversations.

Especially into conversations with Rafayel.

Because suddenly every interaction carried unbearable weight.

Every laugh. Every argument. Every ridiculous text message. Every glance.

You began counting them.

Without meaning to.

One more lunch. One more phone call. One more afternoon. One less future.

And God, you hated yourself for it.

Because Rafayel noticed things.

Not always immediately.

But eventually.

He always did.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

Three days after your diagnosis, Rafayel appeared outside your apartment carrying takeout and an expression of deep personal betrayal.

The moment you opened the door, he pointed accusingly at you.

"You ignored me."

You blinked.

"I replied yesterday."

"You reacted with a thumbs-up."

"You sent me a picture of burnt toast."

"It was not toast."

"It was charcoal."

"It was breakfast."

You stepped aside, allowing him inside.

Rafayel swept past you dramatically.

"Your inability to appreciate art continues to wound me."

"You called it a culinary tragedy."

"That was artistic honesty."

You laughed despite yourself.

Immediately, his face brightened.

There it was. That look.

Like making you laugh had been the entire purpose of his day.

The realization hurt more than it should have. Lately, everything did.

Rafayel stopped halfway to the kitchen.

The smile remained. But something shifted in his eyes.

A tiny pause. A flicker of concern.

"You look tired."

Your stomach tightened.

"I'm fine."

His eyebrow rose.

"What?"

"Nothing."

That meant everything.

Rafayel set the food down. Slowly. Studying you.

You resisted the urge to look away.

After a moment, he sighed dramatically.

"I am surrounded by liars."

"I'm not lying."

"Cora."

The use of your name immediately weakened your argument.

"You haven't been sleeping."

"I have."

"You haven't been eating."

"I have."

"You've been disappearing."

"Work."

"You're exhausted."

You crossed your arms.

"So are you."

The words escaped before you could stop them.

Silence.

For the first time, Rafayel looked genuinely surprised. Then something flashed across his face. Gone so quickly you almost thought you imagined it.

Fear.

His smile returned immediately. Too immediately.

You studied him carefully.

Something had been bothering you for weeks.

At first, you'd dismissed it.

Rafayel was dramatic by nature. Distracted. Chaotic.

Entirely capable of walking into furniture because he was busy composing a speech about how misunderstood he was.

But lately...

Lately it felt different.

The sunglasses. The constant blinking. The way he tilted his head when trying to focus. The way he'd started bringing paintings closer to inspect them. The way he'd asked strange questions.

"Take off your glasses."

Rafayel blinked..

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

You pointed toward him.

"Take off your glasses."

Rafayel froze. Not dramatically. Not obviously. Just enough. A single heartbeat.

Then he laughed. Far too casually.

"What a strange request."

"Take them off."

"No."

"Why?"

"Because I am mysterious."

"You never wear sunglasses indoors."

"I absolutely do."

"You walked into a lamp yesterday."

His mouth fell open.

"Thomas told you?"

You stared.

Rafayel pointed toward an imaginary Thomas.

"Traitor."

Despite yourself, you smiled.

The relief on his face was immediate. As if he'd been grateful for the distraction.

Your chest tightened.

Because now that you were looking for it— You saw it.

The way he angled his head slightly when focusing on distant objects. The way he lingered a second too long before recognizing things. The way he kept blinking. As though trying to sharpen the world.

You remembered something he'd said weeks ago.

The blue is wrong.

At the time, you'd thought he was being an artist. Now you weren't so sure.

Rafayel caught you staring. His smile softened.

"What?"

Your throat tightened.

Nothing. Everything.

You wanted to ask. You wanted to demand answers.

Instead, you heard yourself say,

"Nothing."

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Rafayel laughed quietly. A strange sound. Gentle. Almost sad.

"There it is."

"What?"

"The face you make when you're worried."

You looked away immediately.

His expression softened further.

Neither of you realized the irony.

Both of you were terrified.

Both of you were hiding it.

And both of you thought the other hadn't noticed.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

After that day, neither of you mentioned the diagnosis. Neither of you mentioned the blindness.

The subjects existed between you anyway.

Silent. Unavoidable. Like cracks spreading beneath ice.

You started noticing things everywhere.

The way Rafayel kept every light in the studio turned on. The way he moved paintings closer before examining them. The way he pretended to be distracted whenever he couldn't immediately recognize a face across the room.

And Rafayel noticed things too.

The way you pressed your fingers against your temple when headaches struck. The way your smile arrived a fraction of a second too late. The way your hands occasionally trembled when you thought nobody was looking.

You both became experts at pretending.

The problem was that neither of you believed the other anymore.

One evening, you found yourself curled on the daybed in his studio while rain battered the windows.

Rafayel sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through sketches. Or pretending to.

He'd been staring at the same page for almost ten minutes.

"You've looked at that sketch five times."

His mouth curved.

"Six."

"You weren't counting."

"I always count."

You smiled faintly.

That answer felt very Rafayel.

The smile lingered on his face. For a moment.

Then faded.

"You've been disappearing again."

Your stomach tightened.

There it was.

The conversation both of you had been avoiding.

You stared at the rain beyond the glass.

"Work."

"No."

The answer came quietly. Certain. Not angry. Worse.

You looked at him.

Rafayel wasn't smiling anymore.

The sight unsettled you.

He hid behind humor so often that seeing the absence of it felt like standing before an uncovered wound.

"I know when you're lying."

Your pulse quickened.

"Then why ask?"

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Silence followed.

Rafayel stared at you.

Not offended. Just sad.

That somehow hurt more.

Finally, he looked away.

"You know..."

His voice softened.

"When I was younger, I thought loving someone meant protecting them from everything."

Your chest tightened.

Rain rattled against the windows.

Neither of you moved.

Rafayel continued staring at the sketches scattered across the floor.

"I thought if I worried enough, planned enough, stayed close enough..."

A faint smile.

"...nothing bad could happen."

You swallowed.

Because suddenly this wasn't about now.

It was about every lifetime before this one. Every version of you he'd failed to save.

His fingers tightened around a charcoal pencil.

"But eventually you realize there are things people carry alone."

The words settled heavily between you.

You looked away first.

Because if you kept looking at him, you might tell him everything.

And if you told him everything—

You wouldn't be strong enough to leave.

Across the room, Rafayel watched your profile.

And realized exactly the same thing.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

The kiss happened on a night neither of you intended to remember. Which was precisely why neither of you ever forgot it.

A storm had rolled in from the coast. The ocean beyond the studio windows had disappeared into darkness.

Even the lighthouse was gone.

Just rain. Just thunder. Just the sound of waves breaking somewhere beyond sight.

You sat on the floor beside the daybed.

Rafayel sat opposite you.

Neither of you were doing anything. Not painting. Not talking. Just existing in the same space.

As if proximity alone could quiet whatever fear had taken root between you.

It couldn't. You knew that.

So did he.

Eventually, Rafayel broke the silence.

"Do you ever think about growing old?"

The question caught you off guard.

You blinked.

"What?"

"Growing old."

A pause.

"Wrinkles."

Another.

"Terrible posture."

You laughed despite yourself.

His mouth curved immediately.

"There she is."

The relief in his voice nearly broke your heart.

You looked away.

"You'd hate wrinkles."

"I would."

"No hesitation."

"Absolutely none."

You laughed again.

Rafayel leaned back against the couch.

Looking toward the storm-dark windows.

"Though I suppose I'd tolerate them if they were artistic."

"That's not how aging works."

"You don't know."

"I do."

"You don't."

The argument was ridiculous. Comfortably ridiculous.

The kind of argument couples had when they assumed there would always be another conversation tomorrow.

Your chest tightened. Because suddenly you realized—

There might not be.

Rafayel continued talking.

"I think I'd be unbearable."

"You already are."

"Rude."

"I mean it affectionately."

"That's somehow worse."

A smile tugged at his mouth.

Then slowly— Gradually—

It faded.

His gaze remained fixed on the rain.

When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

"I think I'd like it."

You froze.

Something about the way he said it made your heart hurt.

The softness. The honesty. The complete lack of performance.

Rafayel looked toward the ocean. Toward a future neither of you would have.

"I think I'd like waking up next to the same person for fifty years."

Your breath caught.

He laughed softly. Embarrassed now.

As though he'd revealed too much.

"How horrifyingly domestic."

You couldn't speak. Because suddenly you understood.

For thirty thousand years, Rafayel had lost kingdoms. Lost worlds. Lost entire civilizations.

But what he wanted wasn't eternity.

It was breakfast. Morning sunlight. Growing old beside someone he loved.

Something ordinary. Something fate had never allowed him to keep.

The realization shattered you. Because you knew you were about to take that dream away.

Rafayel finally looked at you. His expression softened immediately.

"Cora?"

Your vision blurred.

He stood. Crossed the room. Knelt in front of you.

Concern replacing every trace of humor.

"Hey."

Your throat closed. You couldn't do this.

Couldn't keep lying. Couldn't keep pretending. Couldn't keep looking at him while knowing what was coming.

Rafayel's hand lifted. Carefully brushing a tear from your cheek.

The gesture was so gentle you nearly fell apart.

His eyes searched yours. Looked for answers. And found none.

Then something inside him seemed to break.

Not loudly. Not visibly. Just enough.

Enough that you saw it. Enough that he stopped asking questions.

Instead, he leaned forward.

And kissed you. Softly.

Like a prayer. Like a goodbye. Like a man trying to memorize something before losing it.

You kissed him back immediately. Desperately.

Because suddenly neither of you could afford restraint.

The storm raged outside. Thunder shook the windows. But neither of you heard it.

There was only warmth.

Only him. Only the impossible wish that time would stop moving.

Eventually, Rafayel rested his forehead against yours. Breathing unevenly.

His eyes closed. As though seeing you had become too painful.

"Stay tonight."

The words were barely audible.

Not a demand. Not a request. A confession.

You felt your heart crack.

Because he wasn't asking for one night. He was asking for something neither of you could have.

Stay. Stay alive. Stay here. Stay with me.

You closed your eyes.

And whispered the only answer you could give.

"...Okay."

For that night, it was enough.

So you stayed.

You let him pull you down onto the wide daybed, limbs tangling slowly, deliberately.

Skin against skin. His bare chest pressed to yours, heart hammering so hard you could feel it against your breasts.

His hands roamed with aching reverence — sliding down your back, gripping your hips, tracing every curve like he was trying to memorize the way you felt before the world took you from him.

There was no frantic hunger this time. Only devastating tenderness.

He moved inside you like he was afraid you might disappear mid-breath.

Deep, slow, unhurried strokes that made your breath hitch and your nails dig into his shoulders.

Every thrust carried a silent prayer.

Every gasp was soaked in grief.

You clung to him desperately, legs wrapped around his waist, bodies slick with sweat and unshed tears.

He buried his face in your neck, lips brushing your pulse as he whispered your name like a broken litany — soft, ruined.

Neither of you spoke of tomorrow.

You simply made love like it was the last time it would ever feel this good. 

Like you could pour every unsaid “I love you,” every “don’t leave me,” every “I’m sorry” into the slide of skin and the taste of salt on each other’s tongues.

When you came, it wasn’t loud or shattering. It was quiet. Devastating. A trembling wave that pulled a broken sound from your throat as you clenched around him.

Rafayel followed moments later, pressing as deep as he could, hips stuttering while he held you so tightly it almost hurt.

Afterward, he didn’t pull out.

He stayed buried inside you, arms locked around your body, face hidden against your neck as the rain battered the windows.

Your fingers threaded through his violet hair, stroking gently while silent tears slipped down your temples.

You stayed like that for hours — connected, warm, aching — pretending the world outside didn’t exist.

Pretending this single night could be enough to last him a lifetime.

Even as both of you knew it wouldn’t be.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

After that night, everything became softer. Which somehow made it worse.

You and Rafayel stopped pretending quite as much.

Not because either of you had become honest. Because both of you had grown tired.

Tired of circling the truth. Tired of pretending not to notice. Tired of acting as though something wasn't slipping through your fingers.

So instead, you settled into a strange kind of peace. A fragile one.

The sort that only exists when two people are standing at the edge of a cliff and neither wants to be the first to acknowledge it.

Rafayel started showing up more often. Sometimes without warning. Sometimes without an excuse.

Once, he arrived carrying three bags of groceries.

You stared.

"Why?"

He looked offended.

"People need food."

"You've never bought groceries voluntarily in your life."

"That is slander."

"You ordered takeout twice yesterday."

"Which required tremendous effort."

You laughed.

He smiled.

The smile lingered longer than usual. As though he was trying to memorize the sound.

Later, while unpacking vegetables he absolutely did not know how to cook, Rafayel picked up a potato and frowned.

"What is this?"

You stared.

"A potato."

"It looks unfinished."

"That's because it's a potato."

He looked genuinely suspicious.

You laughed so hard you had to sit down.

And for a few precious seconds, everything felt normal.

Just two people arguing over vegetables.

Not death. Not blindness. Not endings.

Just a potato.

The memory would haunt him later.

Because those were always the moments that survived.

Not the dramatic ones.

The ordinary ones.

The ones nobody realizes they're losing.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

Rafayel's eyesight worsened quickly. Too quickly.

You noticed before anyone else did.

Because you watched him. Always.

One afternoon, the two of you were walking along the harbor when he suddenly stopped.

The ocean stretched before you. Blue beneath a clear sky. Beautiful.

Rafayel stared at it for several seconds.

Then quietly asked,

"What color is the water today?"

Your heart stopped.

He said it casually.

As though asking about the weather. As though he hadn't just shattered something inside you.

You looked at him.

His gaze remained fixed on the sea.

Waiting. Patient. Terrified.

Your throat tightened.

"It's blue."

A faint smile touched his lips.

"What kind?"

The question nearly destroyed you.

Because Rafayel loved color. He lived inside it. Built entire worlds from it.

And now he was asking you to describe it for him.

You swallowed.

"The kind you always paint."

A pause.

"The kind that looks brighter near the horizon."

His smile softened.

"There it is."

You looked away immediately.

Because your eyes had filled with tears.

The sea blurred. The sky blurred. Everything blurred.

Except him.

You heard him exhale quietly.

A sound halfway between relief and grief. As though he was storing the description somewhere safe.

For later. For the days when he could no longer see it himself.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

The waves crashed against the pier. Gulls cried overhead.

Life continued. Cruelly. Ordinarily.

Beside you, Rafayel finally laughed. A small sound.

"Good."

You blinked.

"What?"

He smiled faintly.

"I was afraid I was remembering it wrong."

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

The first time you asked Zayne about donor compatibility, he stared at you for nearly thirty seconds. Long enough to make you regret the question.

Almost.

"No."

You blinked.

"I didn't even—"

"No."

His voice remained calm. Steady. Dangerously calm.

"You were going to ask if ocular tissue donation would remain viable under your condition."

Silence.

You hated when he did that. You hated how well he knew you.

Slowly, you lowered your gaze.

The medical file remained open between you. Rafayel's records sat on top.

You couldn't stop looking at his name.

Zayne followed your gaze. His expression hardened immediately.

"No."

The word arrived sharper this time.

You flinched. Not because he was angry. Because he was scared.

You couldn't remember the last time you'd seen Zayne scared.

"He doesn't know."

You swallowed.

"No."

"And if he did?"

You looked away.

Because there was no answer. There never had been.

Zayne stood. Moving toward the window.

The city stretched below. Bright. Alive. Temporary.

When he finally spoke again, his voice had softened.

"Cora."

You closed your eyes.

Because you already knew what he was going to say.

"Don't do this."

The plea hurt more than anger would have.

You stared at Rafayel's file.

At the medical notes. At the prognosis. At the steady decline documented in black and white.

Colors fading. Visual distortion. Progressive degeneration.

You imagined him standing before an empty canvas.

Unable to see the ocean. Unable to paint the sky. Unable to see your face.

And suddenly the decision felt impossible not to make.

Your voice trembled.

Just once.

"I don't have much time left."

Zayne looked away.

That silence confirmed everything.

You swallowed hard.

"And he does."

The room grew very quiet.

Outside, a siren echoed through Linkon. Inside, neither of you moved.

Finally, Zayne closed his eyes. The fight leaving him all at once.

Because he knew.

Just as you did. Just as Rafayel would.

Nothing was going to change your mind.

Not now. Not after you'd already decided.

When Zayne spoke again, his voice sounded older somehow. More tired.

"If he finds out..."

Your chest tightened.

"He won't."

Zayne stared at you for a very long moment.

Then quietly said,

"That's not what I'm worried about."

For the first time since your diagnosis, fear truly settled inside you.

Because you knew exactly what he meant.

Rafayel would find out.

Maybe not today.

Maybe not tomorrow.

But eventually.

He always found you.

And when he learned the truth—

You weren't sure whether your heart would still be around to break.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

The painting appeared two weeks later.

Rafayel refused to let you see it while he worked. Which immediately made you suspicious.

"You've painted me hundreds of times."

"Exactly."

"That doesn't explain anything."

"It explains everything."

You crossed your arms.

Rafayel looked delighted.

"You make that face whenever you're losing an argument."

"I'm not losing."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You absolutely are."

Eventually he relented. Mostly because you threatened to uncover the canvas yourself.

The reveal happened just before sunset. The studio glowed gold. The sea beyond the windows burned orange.

Rafayel stood beside the painting. Suddenly nervous.

The sight alone alarmed you.

Rafayel wasn't nervous about anything. Except you.

Slowly, he pulled away the cloth.

Your breath caught.

The painting wasn't dramatic.

There were no stars. No kingdoms. No myths. No ancient memories.

Just a kitchen. Morning sunlight. A cluttered table. Two cups of coffee. One abandoned newspaper. A paint-smudged hand reaching across the table.

Yours.

Rafayel stood beside you in the painting.

Older. Not much. Just enough.

Laugh lines. Softer features. Gray beginning to touch his hair. The two of you looked utterly ordinary.

The sight hit harder than any grand declaration ever could.

You stared. Unable to speak.

Rafayel looked away. Suddenly embarrassed.

"It needs work."

Your eyes burned.

Because it didn't. Because that wasn't what hurt.

What hurt was understanding exactly what he'd painted.

Not a fantasy. Not immortality. Not forever.

Just breakfast. An ordinary Tuesday. A future.

The future he wanted. The future you were about to take from him.

"What do you call it?"

The question came out barely above a whisper.

Rafayel smiled faintly.

Still looking at the canvas. Not at you. As though he couldn't.

Finally, he answered.

"Eventually."

And just like that—

You knew you were going to break his heart.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

After the painting, everything changed.

Not visibly. Not immediately.

But the illusion became harder to maintain.

Because now there was proof. Proof of what Rafayel wanted. Proof of what he was dreaming about when he thought you weren't looking.

A future.

Not immortality. Not destiny. Not thirty thousand years.

Just a future.

You found yourself thinking about the painting constantly.

The coffee cups. The sunlight. The gray in his hair.

The ridiculous little domestic details he'd added without realizing it.

A half-finished grocery list. A chipped mug. A paint stain on the table.

Things that only existed when people expected to stay.

You started crying in strange places after that.

In elevators. In taxis. While brushing your teeth.

Not because you were dying. Because you weren't going to grow old with him.

The grief felt different.

Sharper.

More human.

For the first time, you stopped mourning your own future.

And started mourning his.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

The day Rafayel admitted how bad his eyesight had become was the day you finalized the paperwork.

Neither of you knew what the other was doing.

That somehow made it worse.

You were leaving Akso Hospital when your phone buzzed.

A message from Rafayel.

"Come to the studio."

No emoji. No dramatic commentary. No complaints.

Your pulse immediately quickened.

You arrived twenty minutes later.

The studio was dark. Far darker than usual.

For a moment, panic surged through you.

Then you spotted him.

Standing beside the windows. Looking out at the ocean. Or trying to.

He didn't turn when you entered.

"Cora."

Something about his voice made your stomach drop.

You crossed the room slowly.

"What happened?"

Silence.

Then—

"What color is the sunset?"

Your heart stopped.

Outside, the horizon blazed gold. Orange. Pink. The ocean reflecting every shade.

Beautiful. Unbearably beautiful.

Rafayel never looked away from the glass.

"What color is it?"

The question came again. Quieter this time.

You swallowed.

"It's gold."

A pause.

"With pink near the clouds."

His jaw tightened. Ever so slightly.

You had never seen him look defeated before.

Not truly.

Now you understood why. Because there was nothing to fight.

No enemy. No rival. No monster.

Just darkness. Slowly arriving. One color at a time.

Rafayel laughed. A small sound.

"You know..."

His gaze remained fixed on the horizon.

"I used to think blindness would terrify me."

Your chest tightened.

"But it doesn't."

You looked at him.

He smiled faintly.

"I've lived long enough to lose worse things."

The words landed like a knife.

Because suddenly you knew.

He wasn't talking about his eyesight. He never had been.

You stepped closer.

Close enough to feel the warmth of him. Close enough to hear the slight unevenness in his breathing.

Rafayel finally turned toward you.

For a moment, his gaze struggled to find yours. Just for a moment.

Then it settled. And your heart broke.

Because he noticed you noticing. Of course he did.

His smile softened.

"There it is."

"What?"

"The face."

You blinked.

"What face?"

"The one where you look like you're about to cry."

Your vision blurred immediately.

Rafayel sighed.

Gentle. Fond. Heartbroken.

Then he reached up and brushed a tear from your cheek.

"I hate that face."

Your throat closed.

Because you knew exactly what he meant.

He hated being the reason for it.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

The closer you came to leaving, the stranger Rafayel became.

Not dramatic. Not possessive. Not angry.

If anything, he became gentler. And that frightened you most.

He started keeping things. Things he'd never cared about before.

Movie ticket stubs. Receipts. Photographs. Napkins with your handwriting on them.

You noticed one afternoon while searching for a sketchbook.

A box sat hidden inside a cabinet.

Curiosity got the better of you.

Inside were dozens of small objects.

Meaningless things. Or at least they should have been.

A café receipt. A broken hair tie. A note you'd left months ago reminding him to eat lunch. An expired train ticket.

You stared.

Unable to breathe.

Behind you, a voice said—

"I can explain."

You nearly jumped.

Rafayel stood in the doorway. Looking entirely unapologetic.

You held up the receipt.

"What is this?"

He considered it.

"Evidence."

"Of what?"

"Your existence."

The answer came so naturally it hurt.

You stared at him. Speechless.

Rafayel smiled. A little sheepishly this time.

"I forget things."

You blinked.

"No, you don't."

His smile faltered. Just slightly.

Then he looked away.

Toward the ocean. Toward memories. Toward thirty thousand years.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.

"I forget what your voice sounded like after you're gone."

Your heart shattered.

The room fell silent.

Rafayel picked up the train ticket from your hand. Studied it.

Not because he could see it well anymore. Because he remembered the day.

"You bought coffee."

You swallowed.

"You complained about the coffee."

"It was terrible."

"You drank all of it."

"I was being polite."

You laughed through tears.

Rafayel smiled.

But the sadness never left his eyes.

"You'd be surprised what survives."

The words felt older than this life.

Older than Linkon. Older than both of you.

You looked at the box again. At the collection. The evidence. The memories. The desperate attempt to preserve pieces of you.

And suddenly you understood something terrifying.

Rafayel had been preparing for loss long before he knew he was losing his sight.

Long before this life.

Long before you.

Because somewhere deep inside him—

A part of him had never stopped waiting for goodbye.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

The approval arrived two days later.

Perfect compatibility. Successful donor eligibility. Proceed with scheduling.

You stared at the email for nearly an hour.

Unable to move. Unable to breathe.

Because now it was real.

No longer a possibility. No longer a thought. A decision.

You closed your eyes.

And immediately saw the painting.

Eventually. Morning sunlight. Coffee cups. Wrinkles. A future.

Then another image surfaced.

Rafayel standing before the ocean. Asking you what color it was.

The answer came easier than it should have.

Maybe because you'd already chosen. Maybe because you loved him. Maybe because those were the same thing.

Your phone rang. The screen lit up.

Rafayel.

For one impossible second, you considered answering. Telling him everything. Running to him. Letting him decide.

Then you remembered exactly what would happen.

He would choose you. Every time. Without hesitation.

Even if it cost him the world. Especially if it cost him the world.

That was the problem.

You couldn't let him.

The call stopped.

A moment later, a text arrived.

You didn't answer.

Another followed.

Still nothing.

Then—

A photo.

The ocean. Blurry. Slightly crooked. The horizon tilted.

A picture taken by someone whose eyesight was failing.

Beneath it was a message.

"I think it's blue today."

Your vision completely blurred.

And for the first time since your diagnosis—

You cried hard enough that it hurt.

‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ‧̍̊˙·𓆝.°｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞

Rafayel realized you were leaving on a Thursday.

Not because you told him. Because things started disappearing. Small things at first.

The books from your apartment shelves. The extra coat hanging beside the door. The plants you'd spent months keeping alive despite insisting you hated gardening.

Most people wouldn't have noticed.

Rafayel noticed everything. Especially when it came to you.

The realization settled quietly inside him.

Not as shock. Not even as fear. Just certainty.

The same certainty that had followed him through countless lifetimes. The certainty that precedes loss.

He didn't confront you immediately. Instead, he watched. And what he saw only confirmed it.

You started giving things away. Returning borrowed items. Canceling subscriptions. Closing accounts. Leaving spaces cleaner than necessary.

Like someone preparing for an absence. Like someone trying to leave behind as little trace as possible.

The thought made him sick.

Because it wasn't just leaving. It was disappearing.

And there was a difference. A terrible difference.

One evening, he stood outside your apartment door for nearly ten minutes before knocking.

When you opened it, he smiled immediately.

Beautiful. Effortless.

The same smile he always wore.

Only you knew him well enough to recognize how hard he was holding it together.

"Cora."

You swallowed.

"Raf."

"I brought dinner."

Of course he had.

You stepped aside. He walked inside.

And instantly noticed the empty shelf.

The one beside the couch. The one that had held framed photographs.

The silence stretched.

You saw his gaze linger.

Saw him understand. Saw him choose not to mention it.

Instead, he set the food on the table. Started unpacking containers. Acting normal.

You hated him for that. You hated how kind he was being.

How patient. How willing to wait for you to tell him the truth. The truth you weren't going to tell.

"You don't have to keep doing this."

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Rafayel paused. Only briefly.

Then continued arranging takeout containers.

"What?"

"This."

You gestured helplessly.

"Dinner. Showing up. Pretending everything is normal."

Finally, he looked at you.

And for the first time in weeks, there was no humor in his eyes.

No teasing. No performance. Just exhaustion.

"Normal."

The word sounded strange coming from him. Like a language he'd forgotten.

You looked away.

Immediately.

Coward.

Because you already knew where this conversation was headed.

Rafayel watched you for a long moment.

Then quietly asked,

"When?"

Your heart stopped.

The room seemed to tilt beneath you.

"When what?"

His smile returned.

Small. Broken.

The kind of smile people wear when they're trying not to bleed.

"When are you leaving?"

The question shattered the room.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The city lights flickered beyond the windows. Traffic hummed below. Somewhere far away, a siren echoed through Linkon.

The world continued. Cruelly. Ordinarily.

You couldn't breathe.

Rafayel laughed softly.

Not because anything was funny.

Because disappointment hurt less when disguised.

"I thought so."

Your chest caved inward.

"Rafayel—"

"No."

His voice remained gentle. That somehow made it hurt.

"I don't need details."

You stared at him.

Unable to speak. Unable to look away.

Rafayel leaned back against the counter.

Studying you. Memorizing you.

Again.

Always memorizing. Because memory was all he ever got to keep.

"Do you know what the funny part is?"

A pause.

"I've spent most of my life waiting for you."

Your breath caught.

His gaze drifted toward the darkened window. Toward the city. Toward another lifetime.

Another goodbye.

"And somehow..."

A sad smile.

"...I still never see it coming."

The confession landed between you.

Raw. Honest. Devastating.

You wanted to tell him. Everything.

The diagnosis. The hospital. The donor approval. The surgery. The fear. The countdown.

All of it.

Your lips parted. The words rose. Then died.

Because if you told him—

He would stay. He would fight. He would choose you.

And that was exactly why you couldn't.

Rafayel saw the struggle on your face. His expression softened immediately.

The hurt remained. But the disappointment vanished.

Replaced by something infinitely worse.

Understanding.

Slowly, he crossed the room.

One step. Then another. Until he stood directly in front of you.

Close enough to touch. Close enough to stay.

He reached up.

Brushed his fingers against your cheek.

Gentle. Tender.

Like someone saying goodbye without using the words.

His voice dropped to barely a whisper.

"You're scared."

Not a question.

A truth.

Your eyes filled immediately.

Rafayel smiled sadly.

"There you are."

The tears fell.

You hated yourself for it.

Because he looked relieved. Relieved to finally see something honest.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Rafayel rested his forehead against yours. His eyes closed.

You felt his breath tremble. Just once.

The only evidence he was breaking too.

When he finally spoke, the words nearly destroyed you.

"You don't have to stay."

Your breath caught.

"What?"

He opened his eyes.

The ocean lived inside them.

Ancient. Endless. Heartbroken.

"You don't have to stay because of me."

The room blurred.

Because he had misunderstood. Or perhaps understood perfectly.

He thought you were leaving for yourself. For your future. For a life somewhere else.

Not because there wasn't going to be a future at all.

The realization made your chest ache.

Rafayel smiled faintly. Trying. Still trying to make this easier.

"If wherever you're going..."

His voice faltered.

Then steadied.

"...I hope it gives you everything I couldn't."

You broke.

Not completely. Not yet. But enough.

Enough that Rafayel wrapped his arms around you immediately.

No hesitation. No questions. Just comfort.

As though your pain mattered more than his. As though it always would.

You buried your face against his chest.

And for one impossible moment—

You almost told him.

Almost.

But not quite.

Because love, sometimes, looked horrifyingly similar to cruelty.

And neither of you had learned the difference yet.

Part 2

[simpledreame]

Zayne X Reader - The Winter He Kept His Promise ⊹⋆ ❅ ⋆⁺

Sypnosis: When your protocore syndrome turns terminal, you decide to break up with him to spare him the pain of seeing you fade. How does he react when you do?

───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

The snow had been falling since morning.

By evening, Linkon City had gone quiet beneath it—streets softened, rooftops blurred white, the distant lights of passing cars fading behind a veil of frost. From the window of Zayne’s apartment, the city looked almost peaceful.

Almost.

You sat curled beneath a blanket on his couch, one hand pressed lightly over your chest.

The Aether Core had been restless all day.

Not painful enough to make you call him. Not dangerous enough to justify another emergency visit. Just present—an insistent heat beneath your ribs, pulsing out of rhythm with your heartbeat.

You told yourself it was fine.

Zayne would know it wasn’t.

The lock clicked.

You lowered your hand too late.

He stepped inside, removing his gloves with the same quiet precision he brought into operating rooms. Snow clung to the shoulders of his coat and melted in tiny silver beads along the dark fabric. His gaze found you immediately.

He did not ask if you were all right.

That was how you knew you weren’t.

Zayne set his bag down, crossed the room, and sat beside you. His fingers closed gently around your wrist. Cool skin. Steady pressure. A familiar silence.

You watched his eyes instead of his face.

They gave him away more often than he realized.

“Your pulse is irregular,” he said.

You tried to smile. “You just got home.”

“And you’re avoiding the question I haven’t asked yet.”

“It was only a patrol.”

His thumb shifted against your pulse point. Once. Twice. Counting.

“A patrol that required resonance.”

You looked away.

The apartment was warm, but you suddenly felt cold.

Zayne released your wrist only to reach for the medical scanner on the side table. He kept one in every room now. Neither of you mentioned it. Neither of you had to.

The blue light passed over your chest.

For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the device and the snow tapping softly against the window.

Then his jaw tightened.

Just a little.

Anyone else would have missed it.

You didn’t.

“It’s progressing,” you said.

He turned the scanner off. “You need rest.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“It was the answer I can give tonight.”

You hated that.

You hated the careful way he chose his words now, as if honesty had become something sharp enough to injure you. You hated the extra medications lined beside your side of the bed. The spare injectors hidden in drawers. The way his hand sometimes hovered near your back when you stood too quickly.

Most of all, you hated that he never complained.

Not once.

Zayne folded the blanket more securely around your shoulders. “Have you eaten?”

You laughed softly. “That’s your solution?”

“No. That’s my question.”

“I had half a protein bar.”

His gaze lowered.

You sighed. “Fine. A quarter.”

He stood. “Stay here.”

“Zayne.”

He paused.

You wanted to tell him not to look so tired. You wanted to tell him that the shadows beneath his eyes hurt worse than the Core. You wanted to apologize for every scan, every failed treatment, every night he spent pretending he was only reviewing data when you knew he was trying to bargain with the impossible.

Instead, you said, “Can you play something first?”

He was silent for a moment.

Then he turned toward the piano.

The melody began softly.

It was one you knew from childhood, from white hospital walls and winter afternoons when the world had seemed much larger than your fear. Back then, Zayne had been a quiet boy with solemn eyes and hands too careful for his age. He had not known how to comfort you with words.

So he had learned music instead.

You rose from the couch before he could stop you.

His fingers stilled at once.

“You shouldn’t—”

“I know.”

You offered your hand.

Zayne looked at it for a long second, then took it.

The dance was barely a dance. Just a slow sway in the dim light of his apartment, his hand careful at your waist, yours curled against his shoulder. He held you as if you were both precious and breakable, as if one wrong movement might take you from him sooner than fate already intended.

You rested your cheek against his chest.

His heartbeat was steady.

You closed your eyes and borrowed its rhythm.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

That was when the pain came.

It began as a spark beneath your ribs, then widened fast—white-hot, sudden, merciless. Your breath caught. Your fingers tightened in his sweater.

Zayne reacted before your knees gave out.

He lowered you to the floor with controlled urgency, one arm behind your back, the other already reaching for the injector he kept in his pocket.

Always prepared.

Always waiting for disaster.

“Breathe with me,” he said, voice low. “In.”

You tried.

The breath broke apart.

His fingers found the side of your neck. “Again.”

The injector hissed.

Cold relief spread slowly through your veins, dulling the burn by degrees. You leaned into him, shaking, ashamed of the tears slipping down your face.

Zayne did not tell you not to cry.

He only held you closer.

Minutes passed.

The scanner lay beside his knee, its display casting pale light across his face. You saw the numbers reflected in his eyes.

He saw too much.

That was the cruelest part.

“Every episode lasts longer,” you whispered.

His hand stilled against your back.

“Yes.”

The truth landed between you.

No softening. No comfort.

Just yes.

You almost wished he had lied.

Zayne lowered his forehead to your hair. “No missions for the rest of the week.”

“You can’t order that.”

“I can recommend it as your physician.”

“And as my boyfriend?”

His answer came quieter.

“As someone who wants more time.”

Your throat tightened.

Outside, snow continued falling over the city, covering everything in white.

But nothing about this felt clean.

Nothing about this felt gentle.

⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖ ⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖

The winter festival opened three nights later.

You had expected Zayne to cancel.

Instead, he came home early.

No emergency surgery. No unexpected consultations. No hospital calls interrupting dinner. He appeared in the doorway holding your coat, expression calm, scarf looped neatly around his neck.

“You cleared your schedule,” you said.

“I adjusted it.”

“That sounds suspiciously like cleared.”

“It sounds like you should put on your coat.”

You smiled despite yourself.

For one evening, you let yourself pretend.

The plaza glowed with warm lights strung between buildings. Children ran across fresh snow with paper lanterns clutched in their mittened hands. Vendors called out from beneath striped awnings, steam rising from cups of hot tea and roasted chestnuts.

Zayne walked beside you, gloved hand around yours.

He bought you chestnuts even after you insisted you weren’t hungry. He removed the shell from each one before passing it to you. When the wind picked up, he unwound his scarf and wrapped it around your neck without asking.

“Now you’ll be cold,” you said.

“I’m used to it.”

“That doesn’t mean I like it.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Noted.”

At a small jewelry stall near the fountain, you stopped in front of a display of winter charms. Most were simple—stars, moons, tiny crystal birds—but one caught your eye.

A snowflake.

Delicate silver, with a pale blue stone at the center.

Zayne noticed.

He always did.

You moved on before he could offer to buy it.

Ten minutes later, while you were pretending to study lanterns, he fastened the charm around your neck.

You touched it, startled. “Zayne.”

“It suits you.”

“You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

You turned toward him, laughter caught somewhere fragile behind your ribs.

The fireworks began above the plaza.

Gold burst across the sky. Then crimson. Then blue.

For one brief, impossible moment, the world was only light.

Zayne looked at you instead of the fireworks.

You rose onto your toes and kissed him.

He responded gently at first, one hand at your cheek, his thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. But there was something restrained in the way he held you, something almost painful, as if tenderness required more discipline than distance.

When you pulled back, his gaze lowered to the charm at your throat.

“I should have given you more,” he said.

“You’ve given me enough.”

“No.”

The word was quiet.

Absolute.

Before you could answer, the Core flared.

Your vision blurred.

The plaza tilted.

Zayne caught you against him, shielding you from the crowd with his body. His coat came around your shoulders. His voice stayed calm as he guided you to a bench beneath a bare winter tree.

“Look at me.”

You tried.

The fireworks shattered overhead, bright and indifferent.

“Stay with my voice,” he said.

Your hand clutched his sleeve. “I ruined the night.”

“No.”

His tone sharpened.

Not anger.

Fear, forced into shape.

“You are not an inconvenience.”

The scanner trembled once in his hand.

Only once.

Then he was steady again.

Injection. Pulse check. Breathing count. His coat wrapped around you. His hand warming yours between both of his.

You leaned against him, exhausted.

“I wanted one normal night,” you whispered.

Zayne looked toward the crowd. Toward the lights. Toward all the living people who did not understand that joy could become grief in the space of a heartbeat.

Then he said, “So did I.”

That hurt more than comfort would have.

⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖ ⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖

The diagnosis came on a Thursday.

You remembered that because it was such an ordinary day.

No storm. No emergency sirens. No dramatic collapse.

Just cold blue scans projected across a private room at Akso Hospital, showing the truth in clean medical detail.

Zayne stood very still. Too still.

You sat on the examination bed, fingers curled beneath the edge of your sleeve. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and winter air. Somewhere beyond the walls, a monitor beeped for another patient. Life continued in adjacent rooms.

Not here.

Here, time had narrowed to the space between Zayne’s silence and whatever sentence would end it.

Finally, he turned.

“The Core has entered terminal progression.”

You heard the words.

They did not feel real.

“How long?”

His eyes held yours. He had always respected you enough not to lie.

“With full palliative support, likely three months. Possibly less if resonance continues.”

Three months.

A season.

Snow to spring.

Maybe not even that.

You nodded once.

Zayne’s hand tightened around the tablet.

There were no tears. No collapse. No dramatic denial.

That was what made it unbearable.

He looked like a man performing surgery on himself without anesthesia.

“I’ll revise your medication schedule,” he said. “No more fieldwork. We’ll monitor cardiac load daily. I have several treatment models left to test.”

“Zayne.”

“I’ll contact Dr. Noah about the latest Protocore stabilization trial.”

“Zayne.”

“There may be an off-label combination we haven’t—”

“Zayne.”

He stopped.

The tablet lowered slightly.

You had never seen him look so lost while standing perfectly still.

“There has to be a point where you stop being my doctor,” you whispered.

His expression changed.

Barely.

But enough.

“No.”

“Zayne—”

“No.”

The second time, the word broke.

He turned away from you, one hand braced against the counter. His shoulders rose once with a breath he could not steady.

Then he regained control.

Of course he did.

When he faced you again, his voice was calm.

“I can be afraid later.”

Your tears fell then.

He crossed the room and pulled you into his arms.

You pressed your face against his chest, gripping his coat with both hands. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear.

Too steady. Too cruelly alive.

“I don’t want you to watch me disappear,” you said.

His arms tightened.

“You don’t get to decide what I can bear.”

“I’m trying to spare you.”

“You are trying to leave first.”

The words struck deep because they were true.

You closed your eyes.

Zayne rested his chin against your hair.

For a while, he said nothing.

Then, very softly, he added, “I have been trying to save you since we were children. Don’t ask me to become someone who stops at the end.”

⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖ ⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖

That night, neither of you slept.

At least, you pretended not to.

The apartment was quiet except for the distant hum of traffic beyond the windows and the soft ticking of the clock in the living room.

You lay beneath the blankets staring at the ceiling, listening to the space beside you.

Zayne's breathing remained steady for nearly an hour.

Then it stopped. Not completely. Just enough.

The subtle shift of someone who wasn't sleeping at all.

You kept your eyes closed as he carefully disentangled himself from your arms. The mattress dipped beneath his weight before slowly rising again. A moment later, the bedroom door clicked softly shut.

Silence followed.

Then came the faint glow of light from beneath the study door.

You waited.

Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

Eventually, you pushed yourself upright.

The Core pulsed weakly beneath your ribs, but the pain was manageable tonight. Your bare feet met the floor, and you quietly crossed the apartment.

The study door was slightly open.

Just enough for you to see inside.

Blue holographic screens filled the room.

Your scans.

Your heart.

The Aether Core.

Hundreds of projections floated through the darkness like ghosts.

Treatment models. Genetic analyses. Resonance simulations. Failed outcomes. Failed outcomes. Failed outcomes.

The word appeared so many times it blurred together.

Zayne sat at the center of it all.

Still wearing the same clothes from the hospital.

His tie loosened.

Sleeves rolled to his forearms.

A mug of coffee sat untouched beside him, long since gone cold.

A simulation finished running.

The screen flashed red.

* * * Treatment Failure. * * *

His jaw tightened.

He entered new variables.

Started again.

You watched the timer count down.

Twenty seconds. Thirty. Forty.

The result appeared.

* * * Treatment Failure. * * *

Zayne stared at it.

Motionless.

Then he closed the window and opened another.

A different theory. A different approach. A different impossible hope.

You had never seen him like this before.

Not exhausted. Not frustrated. Not defeated.

Desperate.

The realization settled heavily inside your chest.

He wasn't trying because he believed he could save you.

He was trying because he didn't know how to stop.

Another simulation ended. Another failure.

For the first time all night, Zayne leaned back in his chair.

One hand rose to cover his mouth.

His eyes closed.

Only for a second.

A single second.

But it was enough.

You saw it then.

The crack.

The one he never allowed anyone else to see.

Not Dr. Zayne Li. Not the renowned cardiac surgeon. Not the brilliant researcher.

Just a man terrified of losing the person he loved.

A notification chimed softly.

His eyes opened immediately.

Another model. Another possibility. Another excuse to keep fighting.

You looked toward the desk.

Beside the scattered research files sat a small velvet box.

Your breath caught.

You recognized it.

Or rather, you recognized what it probably contained.

Zayne had always been terrible at hiding surprises from you.

A memory surfaced.

The snowflake charm from the festival. The way his gaze had lingered on jewelry displays. The strange look in his eyes whenever conversations drifted toward the future.

A future that no longer existed.

Slowly, you looked back at him.

At the man who hadn't slept.

Who hadn't accepted the diagnosis. Who would spend every remaining day trying to bargain with fate if given the chance.

And suddenly, your own pain felt secondary.

Because this was what dying would do to him.

Not your death itself.

The waiting. The hoping. The watching.

The slow destruction of a man who had dedicated his entire life to saving people and would blame himself when he couldn't save the one person who mattered most.

Your eyes burned.

You stepped back before he could notice you.

The floorboards creaked softly beneath your feet.

For one terrible moment, you thought he had heard.

But Zayne remained focused on the screens.

Still searching. Still fighting. Still refusing to surrender.

You returned to bed alone.

The blankets still carried his scent.

You curled onto your side and stared into the darkness.

A single tear slipped down your cheek.

By the time dawn arrived, you had made your decision.

Not because you loved him less.

Because you loved him too much.

⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖ ⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖

The breakup happened without shouting.

That made it worse.

Zayne was reviewing your medication schedule at the dining table when you came out of the bedroom wearing your hunter jacket.

He looked up immediately.

“No.”

You swallowed. “You don’t know what I’m going to say.”

“I know that jacket.”

Of course he did.

You stood near the doorway, fingers trembling at your sides.

“I’m going back to my apartment.”

His gaze stayed on you.

“I need space.”

“No, you don’t.”

The quiet certainty in his voice nearly broke you.

“You need to make a decision painful enough to feel merciful.”

Your breath caught.

Zayne rose slowly.

“I can’t stay here and watch what this is doing to you,” you said. “You’re not sleeping. You’re barely eating. You spend every night trying to solve something that’s killing me anyway.”

His expression remained controlled, but his eyes darkened.

“So your solution is to make sure I lose you sooner.”

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“I did not ask to be protected from loving you.”

The room went silent.

You looked away first.

“If I stay,” you whispered, “you’ll turn my death into another failure.”

Zayne said nothing.

That was how you knew the words had landed.

You forced yourself to continue.

“I want you to remember me as someone alive. Not as charts. Not as symptoms. Not as a body you couldn’t save.”

He crossed the space between you.

Slowly. Carefully.

As if approaching a wound.

When he reached you, he lifted a hand to your face, then stopped just before touching you.

Waiting.

Still giving you the choice.

That ruined you more than if he had begged.

You leaned into his palm. His skin was cool.

Your tears were warm against it.

“I would remember everything,” he said. “That is the problem.”

You closed your eyes.

“I love you,” you whispered.

His thumb brushed beneath your eye.

“I know.”

You let out a broken laugh. “That’s all?”

Zayne’s mouth tightened with something almost like pain.

“If I say more, you’ll stay.”

You opened your eyes.

For one breath, neither of you moved.

Then you kissed him.

It was slow and devastatingly gentle. His hand slid into your hair, his other arm circling your waist with careful strength. He kissed you like he was memorizing temperature, pressure, breath. Like grief had already begun and he was storing proof that you had once been warm.

When you pulled away, he did not follow.

That was his last act of mercy.

You stepped back.

Opened the door.

Snow waited beyond it.

Behind you, Zayne said your name once.

Not loudly. Not desperately.

Just your name.

You almost turned around.

You didn’t.

⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖ ⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖

You made it as far as the park.

It was the same park from your childhood, though everything seemed smaller now—the paths, the benches, the trees bent beneath snow. You remembered running there once after being discharged from the hospital, your hand in Zayne’s, both of you too young to understand why adults looked so relieved when children laughed.

Halfway across the bridge, your strength failed.

The flare hit harder than before.

You gripped the railing, choking on a breath that tasted metallic. Pain tore through your chest. Your knees struck the snow.

Then Zayne was there.

No coat. No gloves. Hair damp with falling snow.

He dropped beside you and caught your shoulders before you collapsed fully.

“You’re freezing,” you gasped.

“You left without your emergency kit.”

“That’s what you’re upset about?”

His hands moved with practiced urgency. Scanner. Injector. Pulse. Breathing.

“No,” he said.

The injection burned cold.

You leaned forward, coughing against your sleeve.

Blood spotted the snow.

Zayne went completely still.

Only for a heartbeat.

Then he wiped your mouth with his handkerchief, folded it, and tucked the stained side away where you wouldn’t have to see it.

That small kindness broke something in you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

His voice was even.

“Don’t apologize for being in pain.”

“I hurt you.”

“Yes.”

The honesty startled you.

He looked at you then, snow collecting on his lashes, his face pale from cold and fear.

“But leaving hurts more.”

You sobbed once.

Zayne gathered you against him, one arm around your back, his hand cradling your head to his shoulder.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted.

His cheek rested against your hair.

“Neither do I.”

“You always know what to do.”

“No,” he said quietly. “I know what to do when there is a procedure. A treatment. A wound I can close.” His hand tightened at your back. “There is no training for this.”

The snow fell around you both.

For a while, neither of you moved.

Then he stood and lifted you into his arms.

You were too tired to protest.

“Where are we going?” you asked.

“Home.”

You closed your eyes.

This time, you did not ask whose.

⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖ ⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖

The final days were quiet.

No more missions. No more pretending.

Zayne moved his schedule around you with ruthless efficiency. Consultations became remote unless urgent. Surgeries were delegated when possible. His colleagues stopped asking questions after the second day.

He kept careful records.

Medication times. Pain levels. Sleep hours. Appetite. Breathing changes.

But he kept them in another room.

Never beside your bed. Beside your bed, he was only Zayne.

He read to you when your eyes grew too tired. Played piano when the pain medication made the room feel distant. Made tea you could barely drink. Warmed his hands before touching your face, even though you told him you liked the cold.

In those quiet evenings, when the pain was manageable and the light was low, you pulled him into bed with trembling hands.

The intimacy was slower now.

Weighted with finality.

Zayne moved over you like a man saying goodbye with his body.

He kissed down your throat, your breasts, the hollow beneath your ribs where death was growing.

He entered you carefully, eyes locked on yours.

Each deep thrust was like a silent vow.

Your legs wrapped weakly around his waist as he rocked into you, slow and gentle, his cool skin a stark contrast to the feverish heat of the Core beneath yours.

You clung to him, nails digging into his back, whispering his name like a prayer while tears slipped down your temples.

He buried his face in your neck as he came, hips stuttering, a low broken sound escaping him that carried both ecstasy and grief.

He stayed inside you long after, holding you.

He knew each shared breath was numbered.

On the second day, you woke to find him asleep in the chair beside you, still holding your hand.

His glasses had slipped slightly.

A medical journal lay open on his lap.

You watched him for a long time.

He looked younger in sleep. And unbearably tired.

You squeezed his hand.

His eyes opened at once.

“Pain?” he asked.

You smiled faintly. “No. Just checking if you were real.”

Something moved across his face. Too quick to name.

He lifted your hand and pressed his lips to your knuckles.

“I’m here.”

On the third day, you asked him to play the childhood song again.

He did.

The notes trembled only once.

On the fourth night, the snow returned.

You lay against him in bed, wrapped in one of his sweaters, your head resting over his heart. The room was dim except for the city lights beyond the window and the soft glow of the monitor nearby.

You had asked him to turn the sound off.

He had.

You did not want your last night measured in beeps.

“Zayne?”

“I’m here.”

“I’m scared.”

His breath paused. Then his arms tightened around you.

“I know.”

“Not of dying,” you whispered. “Of what happens to you after.”

He was silent for a long time.

Then he said, “I will wake up. I will go to work. I will be useful.”

“That isn’t the same as living.”

“No.”

Your tears slipped silently onto his sweater.

“Promise me you’ll try.”

His hand moved slowly over your hair.

You felt his lips press to your forehead.

“I don’t know how to promise that honestly.”

That was so painfully him that you almost smiled.

“Then promise badly.”

A quiet breath left him.

Almost a laugh. Almost a sob.

“I promise,” he said, voice low, “that I will continue. And when I cannot do it for myself, I will do it because you asked me to.”

You nodded weakly.

“That counts.”

Your body felt lighter now. Not better. Just farther away.

The Core, once a burning star beneath your ribs, had quieted to a fading ember. For the first time in months, there was no pain. Only exhaustion. Only warmth. Only Zayne’s arms around you and the sound of snow against the glass.

“I love you,” you whispered.

His hand covered yours.

“I love you too.”

You waited for more.

A speech. A confession.

Something grand enough to hold back the dark.

But Zayne only pressed his forehead to yours and stayed there, breathing with you, matching each inhale as if he could guide you safely through the last thing he could not save you from.

Your eyes fluttered closed.

His heartbeat remained steady beneath your ear.

You followed it as long as you could.

Then, gently, you stopped.

⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖ ⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖

Zayne knew before the monitor did.

He felt the moment your hand changed in his.

The slight release. The absence of effort.

For several seconds, he did nothing. He simply held you.

Then his fingers moved to your wrist. No pulse.

To your throat. Nothing.

He listened for your breath though he already knew there would be none.

The monitor remained silent, obedient to your last request.

Zayne lowered his head.

His face pressed into your hair.

No sound came at first.

Grief moved through him too deeply for sound.

When it finally broke free, it was quiet.

A breath that failed.

A shudder he could not control.

He held you until dawn painted the snow blue.

Only when the room had filled with morning light did he reach for the phone.

His voice, when he spoke, was calm.

Precise.

Professional.

After the call ended, he sat beside you again.

He took the snowflake charm from your bedside table and fastened it gently around your neck.

His hands did not shake.

Not until afterward.

⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖ ⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖

The funeral was small.

That was what you would have wanted.

Hunters came in dark uniforms. Doctors from Akso stood together beneath black umbrellas. Snow fell lightly over the cemetery overlooking Linkon City, softening the edges of grief without lessening it.

Zayne stood at the front.

Black coat.

Pale face.

Empty hands.

When it was his turn to speak, he looked at the casket for a long moment.

Then he said, “She saved more lives than she ever counted. Mine included.”

Nothing more.

No one moved.

The silence carried what he could not.

After the others left, Zayne remained.

Snow gathered on his shoulders. The city stretched beyond the hill, bright and distant and impossibly alive.

He knelt beside your grave and placed a small velvet box on the fresh snow.

Inside was a silver ring shaped like winter.

A snowflake band.

A blue stone at its center.

He had bought it months ago.

Before the scans. Before the Prognosis. Before he has run out of reasons to believe.

Zayne stayed there until his fingers went numb.

Before leaving, he brushed snow from your name with the same careful touch he had once used to check your pulse.

Then he stood.

The grave beside yours was still empty.

For now.

He looked at the falling snow and drew one measured breath.

Then another.

Then another.

Because he had promised badly. And because you had loved him enough to ask.

The first winter passed in silence.

Not because the world had stopped.

Because Zayne had.

The morning after the funeral, he returned to Akso Hospital.

His colleagues expected him to take leave.

He didn't.

The operating room remained one of the few places where grief couldn't follow him. Patients still needed surgeons. Wanderer attacks still left casualties. Hearts still failed. Lives still hung suspended between certainty and loss.

There was work to do.

So Zayne worked.

His hands remained steady. His diagnoses remained precise. His surgical outcomes remained among the best in Linkon.

Only those closest to him noticed the difference.

The way he lingered longer over terminal cases. The way he stayed later after shifts ended. The way he spent entire nights alone in research labs illuminated only by holographic scans.

No one spoke about it. No one needed to.

Everyone knew whose absence occupied every corner of his life.

At home, your presence remained everywhere.

A sweater folded neatly over the back of a chair. A favorite mug resting in the cabinet exactly where you had left it. A snowflake charm hanging beside the piano.

Sometimes he found himself turning toward the kitchen after a difficult day, already prepared to tell you about a surgery before remembering there was no one there to listen.

Those moments never became easier.

Only quieter.

⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖ ⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖

Every morning before work, Zayne visited your grave. Every evening, he returned.

Rain. Snow. Wind.

It didn't matter.

Fresh flowers appeared before your headstone year-round.

When winter storms buried the cemetery beneath heavy snow, he arrived early to clear the path himself.

At first, he spoke often.

Updates about his patients.

New research developments.

Small details from ordinary days.

Eventually, the conversations became shorter.

Not because he missed you less.

Because he no longer needed words to feel your presence.

Some days he simply sat beside you.

Watching the snow fall.

Remembering.

Waiting.

⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖ ⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖

Three years after your death, the first major breakthrough occurred.

Then another.

Then another.

What had begun as grief became purpose. What had begun as mourning became obsession.

Every failed treatment. Every unsuccessful trial. Every dead end.

Zayne documented them all.

He refused to allow your suffering to become meaningless.

The research consumed decades.

By then, your name had become known throughout Evol medicine.

Young hunters learned about your case during training.

Researchers studied the progression of the condition that had taken your life.

Patients who would once have been given terminal prognoses began surviving.

Not because of luck.

Because one man refused to accept the answer fate had given him.

⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖ ⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖

Thirty-one years later, the cure was finalized.

Zayne stared at the results in silence.

No celebration. No victory speech. No dramatic moment.

Just a small office overlooking Linkon City.

A lifetime of work condensed into a few simple words displayed on a monitor.

Treatment Successful.

For a long time, he simply sat there.

Then he reached into his desk drawer.

Inside was a photograph.

The edges had worn soft with age.

You were laughing.

Looking somewhere beyond the camera.

Alive. Healthy. Beautiful.

The way he preferred to remember you.

Zayne traced the corner of the photograph with his thumb.

"You were supposed to be here for this."

The office remained silent.

Still.

For the first time in decades, he allowed himself to cry.

⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖ ⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖

The cure saved thousands.

Then tens of thousands.

Then more.

Many of those survivors eventually sought out your grave.

Hunters.

Doctors.

Families.

People whose lives existed only because your story had inspired the research that saved them.

One winter afternoon, a young hunter placed white roses beside your headstone.

Zayne sat quietly on the nearby bench.

The woman remained there for several moments before speaking.

"Thank you."

Snow drifted softly around them.

"I wouldn't be alive without you."

Her voice trembled.

"Neither would a lot of us."

She turned toward him.

"Dr. Li... she would be proud."

For a moment, Zayne said nothing.

Then a faint smile touched his lips.

Rare.

Small.

Real.

"I hope so."

⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖ ⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖

Zayne never married. Never dated. Never tried to replace what had been lost.

Not because he spent his life trapped in grief.

Because there had never been anything missing to replace.

He had loved once.

Completely.

That had been enough.

At ninety-two years old, Dr. Zayne Li finally grew tired.

The apartment had changed over the decades.

New furniture. New technology.

Different city lights beyond the windows.

Yet some things remained untouched.

The piano. The snowflake charm. The photograph beside his bed. The silver ring hanging from a chain around his neck.

Outside, snow fell quietly across Linkon City.

Inside, Zayne rested against the pillows and watched it through the glass.

For the first time in many years, he felt no urgency.

No unfinished research. No patients waiting. No promises left unfulfilled.

The cure existed. The work was done. The people he had failed to save now had hope.

Including the countless versions of you he imagined across endless timelines.

His eyes drifted closed.

A soft smile touched his face.

And sometime before dawn, Dr. Zayne Li slipped peacefully into sleep.

⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖ ⊹ ࣪˖ ┈┈ ˖ ࣪⊹ ┈┈⊹ ࣪˖

When he opened his eyes again, the snow was falling.

Endless white stretched across the horizon beneath a pale golden sky.

There was no pain.

No hospitals. No monitors. No Aether Core.

Only silence.

And you.

You stood several steps away, exactly as he remembered.

Young. Healthy. Smiling.

For the first time in nearly seventy years, Zayne forgot how to breathe.

"Zayne."

His name sounded like home.

You held out your hand.

He crossed the distance immediately.

No hesitation. No restraint. No fear.

His arms wrapped around you as if the decades between you had never existed.

As if every lonely winter had been a single moment.

You buried your face against his shoulder.

"I missed you."

His eyes closed.

For the first time since losing you, the ache inside his chest disappeared.

Not faded. Not dulled. Gone.

"I kept my promise," he whispered.

"I know."

His forehead rested against yours.

The snow drifted around you both.

Soft. Endless. Peaceful.

And at long last, neither of you had to say goodbye again.

[simpledreame]

Caleb x Reader - Beyond the Last Sunrise ☀︎ ⋆⁺. ☼ .₊

Sypnosis: When your protocore syndrome turns terminal, you decide to break up with him to spare him the pain of seeing you fade. How does he react when you do?

───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

Caleb stood at the edge of Skyhaven's observation deck, hands braced against the railing as the Deepspace Tunnel shimmered in the distance. 

From here, it almost looked peaceful.

A river of light suspended in the endless dark. Beautiful enough to fool anyone who had never seen what waited inside it. Beautiful enough to hide the way it swallowed ships, soldiers, memories-- people.

Caleb knew better.

The Tunnel had taken almost everything from him once. His parents. His childhood. Years of his life. The certainty that home would still be waiting when he returned.

And yet, none of that had frightened him as much as this.

You were slipping away from him.

Not all at once. That would have been easier to fight. Easier to name. But no, you were leaving him in pieces.

A missed dinner. A message left unread. A hand pulled away before he could lace his fingers through yours. A kiss turned aside at the last second. A door locked between you while he stood outside of it, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt.

On paper, he was still Colonel Caleb of the Farspace Fleet. Steady. Controlled. Untouchable.

But inside, beneath the uniform, rank, and practiced confidence, something had begun to fracture.

Because you were his pipsqueak.

The girl who had survived the Chronorift Catastrophe beside him. The girl who had once stolen apples from Gran’s kitchen and blamed him with a smile too sweet to argue with. The girl who had waited for him when everyone else believed he was dead. The woman who had become his reason for clawing his way back through the impossible.

And now, you could barely look at him.

He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening as the cold light of the Tunnel reflected in his eyes.

He had survived the void once. He wasn’t sure he could survive losing you.

Not like this. Not while you were still close enough to touch. Not while you were choosing to let go.

.・✫・゜・。..・✫・゜・。.・✫・゜・。..・✫・゜・。

Three months before the first real argument, you learned the truth.

It happened after a suppression mission near the N109 Zone. The operation should have been routine. High-risk, yes, but nothing you had not handled before.

Except your body betrayed you halfway through.

Your resonance surged too hard, too fast. The Aether core fused to your heart pulsed with a violent heat beneath your ribs, and suddenly the world tilted. Your knees hit concrete. For one terrifying second, you could not breathe.

When you woke, the ceiling above you was white.

Akso Hospital.

Zayne stood beside your bed, his expression calm in the way it always was when he was trying not to frighten you. But the air around him had gone unnaturally cold, his Ice Evol quietly lowering the temperature to ease the strain on your heart.

That was the first sign.

Zayne only used his Evol that gently when the truth was too cruel to say quickly.

You looked at him. He looked back.

And in that silence, something inside you already knew.

“The Protocore Syndrome has entered advanced degeneration,” Zayne said.

Each word landed cleanly. Precisely. Mercilessly.

“Irreversible scarring across the heart tissue. Increasing fluid accumulation. Unpredictable arrhythmias. Your Aether core is breaking down faster than anticipated due to repeated resonance exposure.”

Your fingers curled into the bedsheet.

“How long?”

Zayne’s silence answered before he did.

“At best?” he said quietly. “A year.”

The room seemed to disappear around you.

A year. Not a lifetime.

Not enough time to grow old beside Caleb. Not enough time to make up for all the years stolen by the Catastrophe and the Tunnel. Not enough time to stop waking in his arms and start believing you would always have mornings together.

A year.

“Possibly less,” Zayne added, voice lower now, “if you continue high-intensity missions.”

You laughed once. It came out broken.

“So I stop being a Hunter?”

Zayne did not answer.

Because both of you knew the answer.

You had been made into a weapon long before you understood the cost. The Aether core in your chest was not a miracle. It was a debt. And now, after years of borrowing time, the universe had finally come to collect.

You thought of Caleb first.

Not yourself.

Caleb, who had already lost too much. Caleb, who had come back from presumed death carrying scars he never fully showed you. Caleb, who still reached for you in his sleep as though some part of him feared he would wake and find you gone.

You could not do that to him. You could not let his life become hospital rooms, medication schedules, failing breaths, and the slow horror of watching your body give up. You loved him too much.

So you made the decision before you were strong enough to survive it.

You would push him away. You would make him angry. You would make him tired. You would make him believe love had become too heavy.

And when the end came, he would be somewhere far above Linkon, charting stars, alive and whole and untouched by the final shape of your suffering.

At least, that was what you told yourself.

The first fracture came on a humid evening after a brutal solo mission near the No-Hunt Zone.

By the time you reached the apartment, your whole body ached. Your chest burned with small, warning flutters. Beneath your jacket, the hidden monitor Zayne had given you vibrated twice against your skin.

Too fast. Too unstable. Too much.

You pressed a hand briefly over your heart before unlocking the door.

Warmth greeted you first.

Then the scent of spices.

Caleb stood at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair slightly mussed, humming under his breath like he had not spent the last several hours worrying.

He turned the second you entered.

“There you are.”

His smile softened the tired lines of his face. He crossed the room before you could step away and pulled you into his arms.

For one unbearable second, you let yourself melt.

He smelled like home. Like clean cotton, engine oil, and the faint spice from Gran’s seasoning blend.

His lips brushed the top of your head.

“You were gone longer than expected,” he murmured. “Rough resonance?”

Your throat tightened.

He noticed everything. He always had.

“I’m fine,” you said.

Caleb leaned back just enough to look at you.

His eyes moved over your face, careful and searching.

“You’re pale.”

“I said I’m fine.”

A flicker of hurt passed through his expression, gone almost immediately.

He recovered with a grin.

“Fine, then you can be fine while eating. I made your favorite noodles. Extra spicy. Pickled vegetables. Gran’s seasoning.”

He took your gear before you could protest and set it down with easy familiarity. Then he pulled out a chair at the dining table.

“Sit, pipsqueak.”

The nickname almost undid you.

You stared at the chair. At the meal. At the man who had built a life around loving you with such casual devotion that he did not even realize it could destroy him.

You stepped back.

Caleb’s hand paused on the chair.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you said.

The words came out too sharp.

His smile faded.

“Doing what?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely between you, because if you named it, you might break. “Us. The apartment. Waiting for each other between missions like everything is normal.”

Caleb stared at you.

“Where is this coming from?”

You forced yourself to look away.

“UNICORNS is ramping up operations. Your Fleet responsibilities keep pulling you into longer Skyhaven deployments. Our lives are going in different directions.”

“Our lives have always gone in different directions,” he said carefully. “We still found our way back.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

*Before my heart started dying.*

You swallowed.

“Before I realized how much I was relying on you.”

Something shifted in his face. Confusion first. Then pain.

“You say that like loving me is a weakness.”

You hated yourself. You hated that his voice had gone quiet. You hated that the lie had to be cruel enough to work.

“Maybe it is.”

Caleb went still.

The silence that followed was worse than shouting.

You could hear the soft simmer of the stove. The distant traffic below. Your own heart stumbling unevenly beneath your ribs.

Caleb’s jaw flexed once.

“Say that again.”

You couldn’t.

He took one step toward you.

“Pips.”

Your eyes burned.

“I need space.”

“Then take space. But don’t stand there and tell me I’m something holding you back.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“I can’t!”

Your voice cracked.

Caleb flinched.

Not because you yelled.

Because you sounded like you were hurting.

He reached for you. Instinctively. Gently.

The way he always had.

You pulled away before his fingers could touch your wrist.

That hurt him more than the words.

You saw it happen. Saw the exact second his heart absorbed the rejection and tried to make sense of it.

“I need to focus on being a Hunter,” you said, forcing the words out. “Without you watching me like I’m something fragile.”

His expression hardened—not with anger, but fear wearing armor.

“If your resonance is off, tell me. If something happened on mission, tell me. But don’t punish me for caring.”

“I’m not punishing you.”

“You won’t let me touch you.”

Your breath caught.

Caleb’s voice dropped.

“You come home shaking and tell me you’re fine. You stop eating and tell me you’re not hungry. You disappear into missions and come back looking like you barely made it, and when I ask, you act like I’m the problem.”

You had to leave. If you stayed, you would tell him everything.

So you turned and walked to the bedroom.

“Don’t,” Caleb said.

You locked the door behind you.

For a long time, he said nothing.

Then his voice came through the wood.

Low. Careful. Heartbroken.

“Pipsqueak.”

You covered your mouth.

“Open the door.”

You slid down against it, silent tears spilling down your cheeks.

“We don’t solve things by locking each other out,” he said. “Yell at me if you need to. Tell me I’m suffocating you. Tell me you hate me if that makes it easier. But don’t go quiet.”

Your hand pressed against your chest. The monitor vibrated again.

Caleb stayed outside that door for hours.

He did not sleep.

Neither did you.

By morning, the noodles had gone cold.

.・✫・゜・。..・✫・゜・。.・✫・゜・。..・✫・゜・。

Two weeks later, you disappeared for ten days.

Caleb discovered it when your Hunter’s Watch went dark during a scheduled check-in.

At first, he told himself not to panic.

You were angry. You needed space. You had said so.

Then six hours passed. Then twelve. Then the silence began to feel familiar in the worst possible way.

Like the Tunnel. Like the years when everyone told you he was gone. Like grief preparing itself before the body had proof.

Caleb pulled patrol logs. Called in quiet favors. Checked safe houses. Flew low-altitude routes on off-duty hours until exhaustion blurred the skyline.

He went to Gran’s old house on the fourth day.

The porch was dusty. The garden overgrown. He left three apples by the door anyway.

It was stupid. Childish.

A habit from a life that no longer existed.

But if you came there, you would know he had looked.

On the tenth day, he returned to the apartment and found your tactical vest moved from where he had left it.

A half-empty glass of water sat on the counter.

Relief hit him so hard he had to grip the doorway.

Then came anger. Then fear. Then the unbearable tenderness of knowing you were alive and still choosing not to come to him.

He found you in the bedroom, changing out of your mission gear.

You froze.

His eyes swept over you.

Too pale. Too thin. A bruise near the inside of your elbow.

You yanked your sleeve down.

Caleb saw.

Of course he saw.

“You were gone for ten days,” he said.

You turned away.

“I needed to be unreachable.”

His laugh was short and hollow.

“Unreachable?”

“Caleb—”

“I checked every district I could reach. I flew routes myself. I went to Gran’s.” His voice tightened. “I left apples on the porch like an idiot because I thought maybe, if you were hurt, if you were scared, you’d go somewhere that still felt like home.”

Your heart twisted so violently you almost reached for him.

Almost.

Instead, you made yourself cruel.

“I didn’t ask you to search.”

Caleb’s face changed.

Just slightly.

But you saw the wound land.

“No,” he said quietly. “You didn’t.”

You swallowed the sob rising in your throat.

“I need to know I’m strong enough on my own.”

“You are.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you.”

“That’s the problem.”

He stared at you.

You forced yourself to continue.

“You keep seeing the girl from Gran’s orchard. The girl who needed you after the Catastrophe. I’m not her anymore.”

Caleb stepped closer, anger finally breaking through.

“You think I love you because you needed me?”

You said nothing.

His eyes shone, but his voice stayed steady.

“I love you because you’re impossible. Because you steal my jackets and deny it while wearing them. Because you fight like the universe personally offended you. Because you pretend you don’t cry during old movies. Because you waited for me when no one else did.”

Your lips trembled.

“I never asked you to come back for me.”

“No,” he said. “You just gave me a reason to.”

That almost broke you.

So you looked him in the eye and whispered the sharpest lie you had left.

“Maybe I’m tired of being your reason.”

For one second, Caleb looked like you had struck him.

Then all expression left his face.

He nodded once. Not because he believed you. Because he did not know how else to survive the moment.

.・✫・゜・。..・✫・゜・。.・✫・゜・。..・✫・゜・。

Months passed like that.

One disappearance became three weeks. Three weeks became a month. A month became six.

Every time Caleb found out, he searched. Every time you came back, he was waiting. And every time he reached for you, you gave him another reason to let go.

Your careers were diverging. Your resonance required focus. The Association needed independent operators. Classified missions prohibited personal communication. Personal attachments clouded judgment.

You said the words until they tasted like ash.

Caleb listened until the light in his eyes began to dim.

But he never stopped noticing.

He noticed the way you stopped drinking coffee because it worsened your palpitations. He noticed how you held your breath when climbing stairs. He noticed the faint antiseptic smell that clung to your skin after your “solo missions.” He noticed the medication bottle half-hidden beneath your sink.

When he asked, you lied. When he pushed, you snapped. When he softened, you nearly confessed.

The worst night came during month eleven.

A meteor shower burned above Linkon, streaking silver across the sky. Years ago, Caleb had taken you to the rooftop to watch the same shower. Back then, you had been wrapped in his jacket, laughing because he kept insisting the stars looked better from Skyhaven.

That night, he found you on the roof alone.

You were leaning against the railing, one hand pressed to your chest.

He saw it.

You dropped your hand too late.

“Don’t,” you said before he could speak.

Caleb stopped a few feet away.

Rain dampened his hair. His uniform jacket was open at the throat, like he had left in a hurry.

“You were gone almost two months.”

Your chest tightened.

“I had an assignment.”

“Don’t.”

The word cracked through the air.

You turned.

Caleb’s eyes were red.

Not from anger. From exhaustion. From nights spent awake. From loving someone who kept vanishing and coming back thinner each time.

“I searched until I ran out of places that made sense,” he said. “I checked caches. Safe houses. Old routes. I went to Gran’s garden so many times the neighbors probably think I’ve lost my mind.”

“Caleb—”

“I kept thinking this would be the time you didn’t come back.”

Your resolve shook.

His voice dropped.

“Do you know what that does to me?”

You looked away.

The meteor shower reflected in the wet rooftop beneath your feet.

“I never asked you to wait.”

“No,” he said. “You just keep leaving me with no choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

“You’re my choice.”

Tears burned your eyes.

You hated him for saying it so simply. You hated him for making love sound like something that could survive anything.

Because your body could not.

“I can’t promise stability,” you said softly. “My body, my career, my future—everything is unpredictable. It’s kinder to end this now.”

“Kinder?”

His laugh broke.

“You think this is kind?”

You forced yourself to face him.

“It’s over, Caleb.”

He stared at you.

The words hung between you, terrible and final.

“You don’t mean that,” he said.

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

You hated that he knew. You hated that he could still see you through every wall you built.

So you gave him one last lie.

“I don’t love you the way I used to.”

Caleb went silent. The whole city seemed to go silent with him.

Then he stepped back.

Just one step.

But it felt like the world splitting open.

“If that’s true,” he said, voice barely audible, “then look me in the eye and say it again.”

You looked at him.

At the boy who had shared apples with you under Gran’s table. At the man who had crossed death to come home.

At the only person you had ever loved enough to destroy yourself for. Your mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

Caleb’s eyes softened in agony.

“That’s what I thought.”

You turned away before he could see you cry.

.・✫・゜・。..・✫・゜・。.・✫・゜・。..・✫・゜・。

Late in month twelve, Caleb learned the truth.

It happened in a dim briefing room aboard Skyhaven during a joint Farspace Fleet and Akso Hospital coordination meeting.

He should have been focused on protocore anomaly data. Deepspace fluctuations. Navigation risks. Case studies involving hunters exposed to experimental Aether cores after the Catastrophe.

Instead, his mind kept drifting back to you.

To your pale face under meteor light. To your hand pressed against your chest. To the bruise you had hidden beneath your sleeve. To the way you had failed to say you did not love him.

The holographic display flickered.

One anonymized medical profile caught his attention.

Symptom escalation: fatigue, arrhythmia, respiratory difficulty.

Repeated private consultations. Unstable resonance response. Treatment refusals.

The timeline was too familiar.

Caleb’s fingers stilled above the console.

No.

He opened the file.

The ID was restricted.

He overrode it.

His clearance accepted the request.

The screen refreshed.

Your name appeared.

For a moment, Caleb did not move.

He read the diagnosis once.

Then again.

Then a third time, slower, because his mind refused to understand what his eyes were seeing.

* * * Advanced Protocore Syndrome. Aether core degeneration. Critical-stage cardiac failure. Terminal prognosis. Estimated survival: one year from confirmed advancement. Palliative care recommended. * * *

The room blurred.

Someone was speaking beside him.

A commander, maybe.

Zayne’s notes followed beneath the diagnosis.

Patient refused aggressive intervention. Patient requested confidentiality. Patient expressed concern regarding emotional burden on close contact: Colonel Caleb.

Caleb stopped breathing.

Everything inside him rearranged itself around one terrible truth.

You were not leaving him.

You were dying.

Every argument came back at once. Every slammed door. Every disappearance. Every cruel word spoken with trembling lips. Every time you pulled away before he could touch you. Every lie.

Not rejection. Protection.

A sacrifice he had never asked for.

A sound left him.

Not quite a breath. Not quite pain.

He stood.

The chair scraped sharply against the floor.

“Colonel?” someone asked.

Caleb did not answer.

He walked out of the briefing room with the file still open in his hand.

By the time his shuttle landed in Linkon, rain was falling hard enough to blur the city lights.

He did not change out of his uniform. He did not call first. He went straight to the apartment and entered the old code.

Gran’s code.

The one neither of you had ever been able to change.

You were curled on the couch under a thin blanket, the room dim except for the soft glow of the city through the windows. A bottle of stabilizers sat on the table beside you.

Your breathing was shallow. Too shallow.

Caleb stood in the doorway, rain dripping from his hair and uniform, and looked at you.

Really looked.

The hollow beneath your cheekbones. The gray cast of your skin. The way your fingers trembled even at rest. The way the blanket rose and fell with each careful breath.

His face crumpled before he could stop it.

You opened your eyes.

“Caleb?”

His name left your mouth like a prayer and a wound.

He crossed the room slowly.

You saw the tablet in his hand.

Your expression changed.

Fear. Grief. Understanding.

“You knew,” he said.

His voice was destroyed.

You pushed yourself upright too quickly and winced, one hand flying to your chest.

Caleb was there instantly.

Even now. Even after everything.

His hands steadied your shoulders with unbearable gentleness.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

He laughed once, but there was no humor in it.

“Don’t what? Touch you? Help you? Love you?”

Your eyes filled.

“Caleb—”

“How long?”

You looked away.

His fingers tightened around the tablet.

“How long have you known?”

Silence.

Then, barely audible:

“A year.”

Caleb closed his eyes.

The pain that crossed his face was worse than anger.

Anger would have been easier.

This was grief arriving early.

“You carried this for a year,” he said. “Alone.”

“I had to.”

“No.”

His eyes opened.

Bright with tears.

Fierce with love.

“You chose to.”

Your breath hitched.

“I couldn’t make you watch me die.”

The sentence broke him.

For a second, Caleb looked like the boy from the Catastrophe again. Lost. Too young. Standing in the wreckage of a world that had taken everything without asking.

Then he knelt in front of you.

The tablet slid from his hand onto the floor.

He took your hands.

They were cold.

He held them anyway.

“You thought disappearing would hurt less?” he asked. “You thought making me believe I’d lost you while you were still alive would spare me?”

Tears slipped down your cheeks.

“I thought you’d move on.”

His expression twisted.

“From you?”

“You survived the Tunnel. You have the Fleet. You have the stars. You deserve more than hospital rooms and countdowns and—”

“You don’t get to decide what I deserve.”

His voice was quiet.

That made it worse.

“You don’t get to choose grief for me and call it mercy.”

You started crying then.

The kind of crying that came from the body before pride could stop it.

“I was scared,” you whispered. “I’m so scared, Caleb.”

His face broke completely.

He pulled you into his arms.

And this time, you did not pull away.

You collapsed against him, fingers clutching the damp fabric of his uniform as if you had been drowning for months and had finally allowed yourself to surface.

Caleb held you like something sacred.

Like something already slipping through his fingers.

“I know,” he whispered against your hair. “I know, pipsqueak.”

“I didn’t want you to remember me like this.”

“I remember everything.” His hand cradled the back of your head. “The orchard. The apples. The first time you kissed me and pretended it was an accident. The way you snore when you’re exhausted.”

A broken laugh escaped you through the tears.

“I do not snore.”

“You absolutely do.”

“Liar.”

“Always for you.”

You cried harder.

Caleb pressed his lips to your temple.

“All those nights,” he whispered. “I thought I had failed you. I thought I’d become someone you couldn’t love anymore.”

You shook your head desperately.

“No. Never. Caleb, never.”

“Then don’t leave me outside the door anymore.”

Your hands fisted in his jacket.

“I don’t know how to let you watch.”

His voice trembled.

“Then we learn.”

“I’m going to get worse.”

“I know.”

“I might not have much time.”

“I know.”

“You’ll hurt.”

“I'm already hurt.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

His eyes were wet.

Caleb, who smiled through danger. Caleb, who carried fear like a secret. Caleb, who had always made survival look easy because he knew you needed to believe in something.

He was crying because of you.

Because he loved you. Because you had tried to save him and had only taught him what losing you felt like in advance.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

He lifted your hands and pressed his mouth to your knuckles.

“Be sorry tomorrow.”

You blinked.

“What?”

His thumb brushed over your pulse.

“Tonight, just stay.”

So you did.

For the first time in a year, you stopped running.

.・✫・゜・。..・✫・゜・。.・✫・゜・。..・✫・゜・。

Caleb moved back in the next morning.

He did not ask permission.

He arrived with two bags, a stack of medical notes, and enough stubbornness to outlast the universe.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered from the couch.

He set the bags down.

“You’ve known that since we were kids.”

“I told you not to rearrange your life around me.”

He glanced at you.

“I ignored you.”

“You can’t just ignore me.”

“I can when you’re being dramatic.”

“I’m terminal.”

“You’re still dramatic.”

You stared at him.

Then, despite yourself, you laughed.

It was small.

Fragile.

But Caleb looked at you like you had handed him the sun.

The weeks that followed became a different kind of love.

Not easier. Never easier. But honest.

Some nights, when the pain was manageable and the fear became too heavy to speak around, the intimacy between you shifted from comfort to something deeper, more desperate.

Under the soft glow of the star projector in the bedroom, you kissed him first.

Slow at first, then with the grief of all the months you had denied yourself.

Your hands trembled as they slid beneath his shirt.

You traced the scars you knew by heart, mapping the body you had tried to spare from this ending.

Caleb never rushed you.

He undressed you with care.

His fingers lingering on every new hollow and bruise left by your illness.

When he laid you back against the pillows, his mouth followed the path of his hands.

He kissed the fragile skin over your ribs where the Aether core pulsed unevenly beneath.

“Still mine,”

Caleb whispered against your stomach, his voice cracking.

“Every part of you.”

He entered you slowly, cradling your hips as though you might shatter.

The first deep slide drew a broken moan from your throat.

The pleasure was laced with the ache in your chest.

Your heart stuttered in response.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer.

You needing to feel his weight, his warmth, his aliveness.

Caleb moved with aching tenderness.

Each thrust was measured, deep, and heartbreakingly deliberate.

His forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked to yours as tears slipped free.

“Look at me,” he breathed when your gaze drifted.

“Stay with me here.”

Your body was weaker now.

You responded with waves of heat that crested too quickly, it left you gasping and clinging to his shoulders.

He followed soon after, burying his face in your neck.

Caleb spilled inside you with a shuddering groan that sounded half like a sob.

Afterward, he stayed buried deep.

He held you through the aftershocks while his hand rested protectively over your failing heart.

The closeness was both salvation and torment.

It was the proof of life and a reminder of how little time remained to feel it.

“I hate it,” you confessed in the dark.

“What?”

“That you’re so good at this. At staying.”

Caleb’s silence lasted long enough for you to turn your head.

“I’m not good at it,” he said quietly. “I’m terrified every second.”

Your throat tightened.

“But I’d rather be terrified with you than safe without you.”

.・✫・゜・。..・✫・゜・。.・✫・゜・。..・✫・゜・。

The illness worsened faster after that.

There were fewer good mornings. More medication. More visits from Zayne, whose calm grew gentler each time. Your missions ended completely.

Caleb adjusted his Fleet schedule, refusing longer deployments, He only took assignments that allowed him to return before nightfall.

You argued with him constantly over it. But it didn't matter.

He stayed.

On good mornings, he cooked.

You only ate mild food now. He mourned the loss of your usual spice tolerance.

“Eat what you can,” he would say, sitting beside you. “Even if it’s just three bites.”

“What if I only manage two?”

“Then I’ll negotiate poorly and accept two.”

On bad days, he carried you from the bathroom to bed when your legs shook too hard to hold you.

The first time it happened, you cried from humiliation.

Caleb pretended not to notice.

He only tucked the blanket around you and said, “For the record, you’re still bossy when carried.”

You glared weakly.

He smiled.

You loved him so much it hurt worse than the illness.

Some nights, when the pain was manageable and the fear became too heavy to speak around, Caleb held you beneath the star projector in the bedroom.

The little lights moved slowly across the ceiling.

A poor imitation of the sky.

Still, it was enough.

Your head rested against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“I used to think that sound was annoying,” you murmured.

“My heartbeat?”

“You’d sleep so close. It was loud.”

His fingers stilled in your hair.

Then resumed.

“I can move.”

“No.”

Your hand tightened in his shirt.

“Stay.”

He kissed your forehead.

“Always.”

You both knew always had changed shape.

Neither of you said it.

.・✫・゜・。..・✫・゜・。.・✫・゜・。..・✫・゜・。

On one of the last nights you still had the strength for it, you initiated again.

Desperate, almost frantic.

Caleb let you straddle him, hands steadying your trembling thighs as you sank down onto him.

The stretch was familiar and devastating.

You rocked slowly, chasing connection rather than release, tears falling onto his chest with every grind.

He sat up to meet you, arms wrapped around your back, mouth on yours in messy, salty kisses.

When you came, it was with a quiet, shattered cry against his lips.

Your body clenched around him as if trying to keep him forever.

He followed with your name on his tongue and held you through the waves until exhaustion claimed you both.

.・✫・゜・。..・✫・゜・。.・✫・゜・。..・✫・゜・。

As time slipped away, Caleb kept loving you in the small ways.

The unbearable ways.

A blanket warmed before he laid it over you. A hand behind your back when coughing stole your breath. A joke murmured against your hair when your pain medication made you emotional.

“You’re staring again,” you whispered one afternoon.

Caleb sat beside the bed, your hand between both of his.

“I’m memorizing.”

Your eyes filled.

“That’s not fair.”

“I know.”

“You’re supposed to say something comforting.”

“I love you.”

A tear slipped down your temple.

“That’s worse.”

He leaned down and kissed it away.

“I know.”

.・✫・゜・。..・✫・゜・。.・✫・゜・。..・✫・゜・。

Near the end, dawn became your favorite time. The city was quieter then.

Caleb would open the curtains just enough for the first light to spill across the room. You liked the warmth of it on your face.

One morning, you woke before him.

His arm was around you, his body curved protectively around yours. Even asleep, he held on.

You watched him for a long time.

The man who had come back from the void. The boy who had once given you the bigger half of an apple and lied that he wasn’t hungry. The love you had tried and failed to save from pain.

“Caleb,” you whispered.

He woke instantly.

“I’m here.”

A faint smile touched your lips.

“You always say that so fast.”

“Because it’s always true.”

Your breathing was shallow. Each inhale took effort now.

Caleb noticed. Of course he noticed.

His hand found yours beneath the blanket.

“Should I call Zayne?”

You shook your head.

Fear flashed across his face.

“Pips—”

“Stay.”

The word ended the argument before it began.

Caleb gathered you carefully into his arms, sitting against the headboard with you held to his chest.

Just like you had asked. Just like he had promised.

The first light of dawn stretched across the bed.

You listened to his heartbeat.

Steady. Beloved. Still here.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

He pressed his face into your hair.

“Don’t.”

“For leaving before I was gone.”

His arms tightened.

A broken sound caught in his throat.

“You came back.”

“Only because you’re stubborn.”

“Only because you’re mine.”

Your eyes fluttered.

“Caleb?”

“I’m here.”

“I love you.”

His tears fell into your hair.

“I love you too.”

“Thank you for staying.”

His breath shattered.

“Thank you for letting me.”

You smiled faintly.

Then your body softened against him.

Caleb felt the change before the monitor gave its final quiet warning.

He froze.

“No.”

The word was barely human.

He pulled back just enough to see your face.

Peaceful.

Too still.

“No, no, no—pipsqueak, open your eyes.”

His hand cupped your cheek.

Warm still.

But fading.

“Please.”

The room filled with morning light.

Your heart did not answer.

For a long time, Caleb did not move.

Then the grief came.

Raw.

Violent.

Too large for his body.

He bent over you and screamed.

The sound tore through the apartment, through the walls, through every fragile piece of the life you had built together. He held you like he could anchor you there. Like if he loved you hard enough, death would have to give you back.

But the universe had never been fair.

Not to him.

Not to you.

Not to anyone who had survived enough to believe survival meant they were owed mercy.

.・✫・゜・。..・✫・゜・。.・✫・゜・。..・✫・゜・。

After the funeral, Caleb returned to Skyhaven.

He arranged a private farewell on the observation deck where you had once watched the Deepspace Tunnel together. No grand ceremony. No speeches from commanders who had not known how you laughed, how you fought, how you loved.

Just Zayne.

A few Hunters.

A small basket of apples from Gran’s garden.

And Caleb, standing beneath the endless dark with your Hunter’s Watch in his hand.

The Tunnel shimmered in the distance.

Beautiful. Cruel. Waiting.

That evening, Caleb sent one final message to the Fleet.

His resignation was brief. His final mission report was shorter.

Solo mapping route into uncharted Deepspace anomaly.

No return window. No rescue authorization.

He piloted the shuttle himself.

As Skyhaven disappeared behind him, Caleb looked once at the empty seat beside his.

For a moment, he imagined you there.

Boots tucked beneath you. Chin lifted. Pretending not to be scared. Calling him reckless while secretly smiling.

His hand tightened around the pendant resting against his chest—your final gift, pressed into his palm by Zayne after the service.

The anomaly opened ahead like a wound in the stars.

Alarms began to scream. Caleb silenced them.

The shuttle shook violently as protocore storms swallowed the hull. Reality bent around him, light fracturing into impossible colors.

For the first time since you left, Caleb smiled.

Not because the pain was gone. It would never be gone.

But because he was no longer afraid of the dark.

“I’m coming, pipsqueak,” he whispered.

The Tunnel consumed the shuttle.

The stars vanished.

And somewhere beyond the reach of maps, beyond catastrophe, beyond time, Caleb followed the only route he had ever trusted.

The one that led him back to you.

When Caleb finally stepped through, guided by the same unbreakable pull that had led him across lifetimes, there was no storm.

No alarms. No tearing metal. No darkness.

Only light.

Soft and endless, spilling across a sky untouched by war, untouched by grief, untouched by every cruel thing that had tried to separate you.

For one suspended heartbeat, Caleb stood still.

Then he saw you.

You were waiting beneath skies more beautiful than anything Skyhaven had ever charted, radiant and whole, free from the failing heart that had once bound you to pain. No monitor beneath your clothes. No tremor in your hands. No shallow breaths stolen between moments of courage.

Just you.

His pipsqueak.

His home.

You smiled at him with the same warmth he had fallen in love with.

“Caleb,” you whispered tearfully, reaching for his hand.

Caleb stared at you as if the universe had finally learned how to be kind.

Then he moved.

He took your hand without hesitation, pulling you close with a broken breath that sounded almost like a laugh. His arms wrapped around you, fierce and trembling, as if even eternity was not enough to convince him you would never vanish again.

You touched his face, tears slipping down your cheeks.

He smiled fondly at you and kissed them away.

“Here’s to forever, pips.”

The light enveloped you both.

And there, beyond catastrophe, beyond death, beyond the reach of the Deepspace Tunnel and every star Caleb had ever mapped, your story did not end.

Forged in loss, sealed in deepspace, and carried across lifetimes, it had simply begun anew.

Eternal.

Unbreakable.

Beneath skies where nothing could ever separate you again.