lie to me
snowcrow x reader
chapter two — keep dreaming
“Men like Sylus, they see something they want and they take it. They don't care about consequences. About who gets hurt. They don't think about the effects of their actions. They just take, and take, and take.” “And you're so different?”
synopsis: what should have been a one-night escape turns into a pull you can’t ignore, no matter how hard zayne tries to stop you.
wc: 3.2k | ao3
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taglist: @nerokun19 @sylusinmyheart @nanaminsmuse @valiantchaosvalkyrie (ily)
You wake up to the smell of coffee.
For a moment, you're disoriented—your neck aches, you're still in last night's clothes, and there's a blanket over you that definitely wasn't there when you passed out on the couch.
Then it all comes flooding back: the club. Tara. The truth serum.
Sylus.
You push the memories away with a groan, eyelids heavy, head pounding like a drum as sunlight stabs through the blinds. Your body protests every movement, but you eventually drag yourself upright, spotting a note on the coffee table in Zayne's precise handwriting:
Early surgery. Coffee's ready. There's ibuprofen next to the pot. Drink water. Text me when you're awake.
You shuffle to the kitchen, pour yourself a mug of coffee, and down the ibuprofen with a full glass of water. Your phone shows three missed texts from Zayne, all sent between 6 and 7 AM:
Zayne: Hydrate. Actual water, not just coffee. I'll know if you don't.
Zayne: And don't spend all day on the couch. At least stretch. Your body will thank you.
Zayne: We should talk when I get home. About last night.
That last one makes your heart drop.
You're still staring at it when a new message appears:
Unknown Number: Morning, sweetie. How's the hangover treating you?
Unknown Number: I imagine by now you've been given strict instructions to stay away from me and my club.
Unknown Number: Are you going to listen?
Unknown Number: Please say no.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard. You should block the number. Should delete the messages.
You haven’t been warned, not yet. But you already know what’s coming. Know you should be good and do exactly what Zayne would want, because he's never steered you wrong before.
Instead, you save the contact.
Sylus.
You reply before you can overthink it:
You: how did you even get my number?
Sylus: I said I'd find you, didn't I?
He did. Right before he left.
You thought it was just a line. A smooth exit. You didn't think he actually meant—
Sylus: Did you really think I was going to let you disappear?
Sylus: Your friend was generous enough to assist me. The excitable one.
Damn you, Tara.
You: i’m going to murder her
Sylus: Please don’t. I like her.
Sylus: Now answer the question.
Sylus: Am I alone in this?
You reread those five words once. Twice. The same ones he asked last night before everything got interrupted. The ones you never got to answer because someone pulled him away.
You: you know you're not
Sylus: I know what I saw last night. What I felt.
Sylus: But I want to hear you say it.
You could tease him, could make him work for it. But something about the way he’s honest with you makes you want to give that back to him.
Besides, there's no point in playing coy through text when your body already gave you away last night.
You: i can still feel your hands on me.
You: does that count?
His response comes quickly.
Sylus: That's an answer worth waiting for.
Sylus: Now tell me when I can put them on you again.
You stare at the message, heart racing. Before you can respond, your phone buzzes with another text from Zayne:
Zayne: Did you take the ibuprofen?
You: yes, sir
Zayne: I’m serious. Did you eat anything?
You: not yet
Zayne: There are eggs in the fridge. Make yourself something. You need protein.
Zayne: Text me a photo when you've eaten.
You roll your eyes, but feel something warm in your chest anyway. He’s bossy and overprotective sometimes, but he cares. He always cares.
You crack two eggs into the pan, watching them sizzle. Your mind keeps drifting back to last night—to the club, to the heat of the dance floor, to hands on your waist and breath on your neck. You shake your head, using all of your energy to focus on the simple task in front of you.
The eggs are perfectly scrambled—the way Zayne taught you. You plate them, snap a photo, and send it.
Within seconds, he sends back a single thumbs-up emoji and:
Zayne: Good. I'll be home around 7. We'll talk then.
The “we'll talk then” sits heavy in your stomach. You push the eggs around your plate, your appetite suddenly gone. You manage a few bites before giving up.
A shower. You need a shower.
You stand under the spray for longer than necessary, letting the hot water beat against your shoulders, trying to wash away the previous night. But it clings to you—the memory of dancing, of being pressed against someone who looked at you like you were the only person in the room. The way his hands felt. The way your body responded.
The realization hits you with startling clarity: you want to go back. You want to see him again, want to feel that alive again, consequences be damned. You've spent so long being careful, being good, staying within the clean lines Zayne has drawn for you. And last night—last night you felt like yourself for the first time in years.
The question isn't whether you're willing to risk it. The question is how long you'll be able to resist before you stop caring about the risk at all.
You get out of the shower, wrap yourself in a towel, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. There's a faint mark on your neck, just beneath the curve of your jaw. It's not dramatic, not deep or obvious. Just a hint of pressure left behind, something you’d have to be looking for to notice. A shadow of a bruise shaped by lips and teeth and want.
Your fingers drift to it before you can stop yourself.
The touch sends a flash of sensation through you: the memory of his mouth on your skin, the scrape of teeth, the way you'd tilted your head back to give him better access without even thinking about it.
Shit.
You press your fingers against the mark, watching your skin change color under the pressure before releasing it.
You shouldn't like this. Shouldn't like having evidence of last night marked on your skin. Shouldn’t like knowing that every time you look in the mirror today, you'll see it. Remember who gave it to you.
You shouldn’t. But every part of your body hums at the thought of belonging to someone like him.
Your phone buzzes from where you left it on the bathroom counter.
Sylus: Tell me. Are you going to let your doctor talk you out of seeing me again?
The mention of Zayne sends guilt spiking through you. You glance at the time. 8:46 AM. He'll be in surgery for hours. Won't be home until tonight.
When you'll have to explain last night. When he'll probably lecture you about being safe. About making smart choices. About staying away from men who run clubs in the N109 Zone and get under your skin in all the right ways.
You: i don't know yet
Sylus: That's not a no.
You: it's not a yes.
Sylus: I can work with that. For now.
You set your phone down, needing a second to step back. You should be worried about tonight's conversation with Zayne. Should be thinking about how to explain the club, the dancing, the way you came home at 3 AM smelling like smoke and vodka and another man’s cologne.
Yet all you can think about is the weight of Sylus's hands on your waist. The confidence in his voice. The way he looked at you like you were something worth having.
You get dressed, pull your hair back, try to have a normal day. Try to be the person Zayne expects you to be. But when you catch your reflection in the mirror, you can still see it. The mark on your neck. The flush in your cheeks. The girl looking back at you who's starting to realize she wants things she's not supposed to want.
And, for the first time, you don't want to look away.
You hear the familiar jingle of his keys outside the door at 6:57 PM.
You've been sitting on the couch pretending to read the same page of your book for the last twenty minutes, hyper-aware of every passing second. You spent most of the day recovering: sleeping off the hangover, responding to Sylus’s texts, trying not to think about the conversation you have been dreading all day.
The door opens, and Zayne steps through, still in his dress shirt and slacks, tie loosened. He looks exhausted—surgery days always drain him. But he’s carrying two bags of takeout, and you recognize the logo immediately.
Your favorite Thai place. The one across town that’s become his quiet way of apologizing.
“I brought dinner,” he says simply, setting the bags on the counter. “Red curry, pad see ew. Extra vegetables.”
It’s just takeout. Just broccoli and carrots. But your heart aches anyway, knowing he’ll spend half the night picking around every last vegetable without a single complaint.
“You didn't have to—”
“I wanted to.” He starts unpacking the containers. “Long day?”
“I survived. Barely.” You close your book, setting it aside. “How was surgery?”
“Successful. Complicated, but successful.” He pulls out plates, serves the food your usual way—extra peanuts on the side with lime wedges. “Come eat. You must be hungry.”
You are. You move to the table, and the normalcy of it makes your chest tight. This is what you do—you eat dinner together, talk about your days, exist in this careful, comfortable routine you’ve built over the years.
Except tonight feels different. Weighted.
You both eat in silence for a few minutes. He’s tired—you can see it in the set of his shoulders, the way he moves more slowly than usual. But he’s here, with your favorite food, making sure you eat.
“So,” you say finally, once the silence has grown too heavy. “Exciting day at the hospital?”
“The usual.” He takes a sip of water. “Yours?”
“Extremely successful day of doing absolutely nothing.” You spear a piece of broccoli. “I did stretch, by the way. And, yes, I’ll admit it. You were right. It helped.”
The corner of his mouth twitches in an almost-smile. “I'm always right about these things.”
“Don't get cocky.”
“I'm a doctor. It comes with the territory.” He's studying you now, that assessing look in his eyes. “You seem...energized. Usually takes you longer to bounce back after a late night.”
Because I've been texting someone who makes me feel alive. Because I can't stop thinking about how free I felt last night. Because for once I feel like something other than your responsibility.
“Just got lucky, I guess.” You shrug, aiming for casual.
More silence follows. You push noodles around your plate.
“Zayne—”
“About last night—”
You both speak at the same time.
“You first,” he says.
You take a breath. “I wanted to say thank you. For the coffee. And the ibuprofen. And the blanket that mysteriously appeared in the middle of the night. And not being mad about me coming home so late.”
“I wasn't mad.” He sets his fork down carefully. “You're young. You're going to go to clubs. I was concerned, maybe. But not mad.”
The rationality of it throws you for a loop. You'd been braced for a stern talking to, already conjuring up a list of bratty comebacks in your mind.
“That's it? No lecture about responsibility or safety or—”
“Do you need a lecture?” He glances over with one eyebrow raised. “Did something happen that I should be concerned about?”
“No. Nothing bad. Just normal club stuff. Dancing, drinking.” You're testing him, waiting for his reaction.
He’s quiet for a long moment, studying his plate. “Did you have fun? Really?”
The question surprises you. “Yes. I did.”
“Good. That’s—good.” But he doesn't sound like it’s good. You can see it in his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. “And Tara? She stayed with you?”
“Most of the night. She ditched me for a bit to dance with someone, but I was fine.” You watch his face carefully. “I wasn't alone the whole time, anyway. The owner came over and introduced himself.”
Zayne goes very still. The kind of still that reminds you he's a surgeon—steady hands, controlled breathing, not a movement wasted.
“The owner.”
“Yeah. Sylus. He was—” You search for the right word. “Interesting. Nice, actually. We ended up talking for a while.”
When Zayne looks up, his expression is perfectly controlled. Which is how you know he's not calm at all.
“Sylus.” He says the name like he's tasted something bitter.
Your blood goes cold. There’s no way he means that Sylus. What business could a clean-cut cardiologist possibly have with a rogue nightclub owner, anyway?
“You know him?” you ask carefully.
“I know of him.” He picks up his fork again, but doesn't eat. “What did he want with you?”
“Want? Nothing. We just talked.” Lie. You're getting defensive now, and you're not sure why. “He noticed I hadn’t taken the truth serum and was curious why—”
“Truth serum.” His voice goes flat. “He gave you truth serum?”
“It's the whole concept of the club. Everyone takes it. Voluntarily. It's supposed to be fun—”
“Did you take it?”
“No. I told him I wasn't interested.”
“Good.” The tension in his shoulders eases by the smallest fraction. “Don't. Ever.”
“Zayne—”
“I mean it. Promise me you won't take anything Sylus gives you.”
You blink at the intensity in his voice. “Why? What's wrong with—”
“Promise me.”
“Okay, okay. I promise.” You take a bite of the noodles, chewing slowly. “But why do you care so much? It's just some club gimmick—”
“Because you don’t know what’s actually in it. Because Sylus isn’t someone you should trust. Because—” He stops himself with a clenched jaw.
“Because what?”
He's quiet for a long moment, and you think he might actually give you a compelling reason.
He doesn’t.
“Just trust me on this. Please.”
This is the reaction you'd expected earlier. But it’s not about you going to a club, not about staying out late or coming home tipsy. It’s about Sylus.
“How do you know him?” you ask carefully. “You said you know 'of' him. What does that mean?”
“Our paths have crossed.” His tone makes it clear that's all you're getting. “What else did he say to you?”
“Nothing much. Asked about why I wasn't drinking the serum.” You pause, debating how much you should share. You know you shouldn’t be pushing this, but you can’t seem to stop the words from coming out. “He asked if I’d come back.”
His jaw flexes. “And what did you tell him?”
“I said maybe.”
You do want to go back, because it was exciting. Because someone looked at you like you were interesting instead of fragile. Because for one night you weren't Dr. Zayne's patient or liability—you were just you.
“Why? Would that be so bad?”
“Yes.” The word comes out hard. “It would be ‘so bad.’”
You cross your arms, shifting in your chair to face him fully. “Because...?”
“Because that man—” He stops, visibly trying to control himself. “Because men like Sylus, they see something they want and they take it. They don't care about consequences. About who gets hurt. They don't think about the effects of their actions. They just take, and take, and take.”
“And you're so different?” Your words come out sharper than intended.
“Yes.” His eyes meet yours with a fire you’re not used to seeing. “I am. I think about the consequences of my actions. About who could get hurt. About whether acting on something would hurt someone. About whether it's worth destroying everything for one moment of—” He stops.
Your pulse quickens. “One moment of what, Zayne?”
“I have case files to review.” He stands abruptly, gathering his plate even though he's barely eaten half. “Thank you for eating with me.”
“Why won't you just talk to me?” The frustration cracks through your voice.
“Because some conversations don’t have good outcomes.” He sets his plate in the sink harder than he means to. “And I'm trying to protect us both from that.”
“I don't want protection.” You stand too, facing him across the table. “I want honesty.”
“Then you want something I can't give you tonight.” His voice is final. He turns away, already halfway to his office. “Goodnight.”
“It's barely eight o'clock.”
He stops in the doorway, but doesn't turn around. “Goodnight.”
He disappears into his office. The door closes behind him with a soft click, which might as well have been a slam.
You stand there in the kitchen, surrounded by the remains of your favorite takeout that you can't even taste anymore, watching him walk away. Again.
The injustice of it burns in your chest. He gets to ask questions, gets to warn you away from people, gets to almost say important things then retreat behind his walls. And you're just supposed to—what? Accept it? Be grateful he cares enough to worry?
Your phone vibrates in your pocket with new messages.
Sylus: Thinking about you.
Sylus: Specifically about the way your body fit so perfectly against mine when we danced.
Sylus: Tell me you're thinking about it too.
You glance at Zayne's closed office door. At the distance he just put between you. At all the things he won't say, won’t admit, won’t let himself feel.
Your fingers move across the screen, and there's something almost defiant in the way you type.
You: maybe.
Sylus: Maybe, she says. Like she didn't whimper so sweetly when I rolled my hips.
Sylus: Like she wasn’t holding onto my shoulders so tight I thought she'd leave marks.
Sylus: Like she wasn't five seconds away from letting me taste her right there on the dance floor.
You smile despite it all, because Sylus doesn't hide. Doesn't hold back. Says exactly what he means and doesn't apologize for it to anyone.
You: big talk from someone who had to leave before anything actually happened
You: all theory, no proof…
Sylus: You’re right. All theory.
Sylus: So let me gather some evidence. Tomorrow night.
You met him less than 24 hours ago. And now he’s asking to see you again like it’s inevitable. Like you’re already his to convince. No slow build, no hiding behind professionalism or boundaries or what’s appropriate. Just—I want you. Come see me. Let me prove it.
You: that sounds like a bad idea.
Sylus: Probably. The best things usually are.
Sylus: Come to the club. Let me show you I'm not all talk.
It should scare you. Should send you running.
Instead, it makes you feel alive.
You glance at Zayne’s door again. Still closed. Still locked. Still keeping you at arm's length while somehow expecting you to stay.
You: keep dreaming.
Sylus: Oh, I plan to. You left me with plenty to work with last night.
Sylus: You’ll come when you’re ready. I’ll be there when you do.
Sylus: Sweet dreams to you too, kitten. Of me, preferably.
You fall asleep smiling.
Not because it’s safe. Not because it’s smart.
But because maybe safe and smart were never what you needed in the first place.
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