If You Leave, I’ll Shatter
♡ ft. Love and Deepspace men x reader ♡ cw: angst, emotional breakdowns, fighting, hurt/comfort, possessiveness, late-night visits, desperate confessions, soft touches, and some really unhinged men trying to apologize with their whole chests ♡ a/n: six different ways they fall apart when you walk away—and six very different ways they beg you not to. some soft, some rough, some a little dangerous. but all of them? absolutely ruined over you.
XAVIER – The Gentle Rage
It started right after the mission.
Xavier had taken the hit. Again.
You were seconds away from closing the gap on the Wanderer when he stepped between you and its claws—no warning, just his body blocking yours, blade flashing, light Evol bursting like a flare.
The fight ended fast. He was bleeding. You were shaking.
And when you got back to base, you snapped.
“You can’t keep doing this!”
You shoved his chest, hard. He didn’t budge.
“Do you think I’m weak? That I can’t handle it? I had it under control, Xavier—”
“You would’ve gotten hurt.”
His voice was calm. Flat. That same infuriating stillness he always wore like armor.
“And what about you?” You were yelling now, pacing. “You nearly passed out from blood loss last time! You don’t get to decide what I can handle. You don’t get to throw yourself in front of me like—like you don’t matter!”
He didn’t look angry. Just tired.
“I’m trying to keep you safe.”
“No, you’re trying to die for me.”
Silence.
It hung between you like smoke, suffocating and thick.
You left before you started crying.
You didn’t mean to go far—just needed air. Noise. Distance. But the longer you walked, the more everything blurred. Your head was spinning, vision tight at the edges. The adrenaline crash hit hard, and with it came the flood of everything you’d been holding back for weeks: exhaustion, fear, and the growing ache in your chest you didn’t know how to name.
You ended up at your apartment, barely able to breathe.
And then—
The door opened.
No knock. No warning. Just the low creak of your lock and the soft sound of rain behind him.
Xavier stood in the doorway, silver hair soaked, sweater clinging to his frame.
“You didn’t answer your comm.”
His voice was quiet. Almost gentle. But his jaw was clenched, his eyes too sharp.
You didn’t speak. Just stared at him, sitting there with your knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped tight like you were trying to keep yourself from falling apart.
“Why’d you run?”
You laughed, bitter. “Because you don’t listen. Because you’re always so damn calm. Because I hate how you—”
Your voice cracked. You turned away.
He walked to you without a word, kneeling beside the couch, close but not touching.
“You were scared,” he said softly. “So was I.”
That made your throat close.
“You don’t act like it,” you whispered.
“Because I can’t. If I let myself feel it, I won’t be able to fight.”
Finally—finally—his voice broke.
“But you don’t see how scared I am when you go quiet. When you bleed. When you don’t get up.”
You looked at him—and his expression wasn’t neutral now.
It was wrecked.
“Let me take care of you,” he said. “Not as a soldier. Not as a shield. Just… me.”
He reached for you slowly, like you might vanish.
And when your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him down, he let you.
He kissed you like he didn’t think he deserved to. Like he needed you to say it without saying it. His hands stayed careful on your hips, his lips moving over yours in soft, aching pulses.
“I’m here,” he murmured, forehead resting against yours. “Even if you don’t want me to be… I’m here.”
ZAYNE – The Controlled Burn
It happened after another long shift.
You’d waited for him—again.
Sat in the hospital café for nearly four hours while he scrubbed in for a surprise emergency surgery. He didn’t text. Didn’t call. And when he finally walked in, late and exhausted, the first thing he did was ask if you’d eaten without him.
Like nothing was wrong.
“You said you’d be done by eight.”
“The patient was hemorrhaging. I stayed.”
“You always stay.”
He didn’t answer. Just started pulling off his gloves, tossing them into the bin like this was just another routine.
“Zayne. I waited for you.”
“You didn’t have to.”
That broke something in you.
“I’m not one of your interns. You don’t get to dismiss me when I inconvenience you.”
His expression didn’t change.
“You’re being dramatic.”
You stared at him like he’d slapped you.
“I’m being dramatic?” you echoed, voice shaking. “You stood me up. Again. You shut me out. Again. You act like I don’t matter unless I’m bleeding in front of you.”
He finally looked up then—really looked.
But he didn’t apologize.
“I can’t afford to get distracted.”
“I’m not a distraction, Zayne. I’m—”
“You’re what makes it harder to breathe when I already spend my days holding hearts in my hands.”
It came out before he could stop it.
And you… couldn’t stay.
You turned and walked out—jaw clenched, heart pounding, trying not to cry in the middle of a sterile white hallway.
You didn’t answer your phone.
Didn’t text him back.
Just went home, climbed into bed, and stared at the ceiling for hours.
The fight played on a loop in your head.
Not because of what he said—but because of what he meant. Because maybe you really were too much for him. Maybe loving you was one complication he didn’t want on his operating table.
Your body ached. Your throat burned.
So when your door clicked open around 2:00 AM—your lock overridden, silently—you already knew who it was.
You didn’t move.
Zayne stood in the doorway in scrubs, coat still on, blood on the collar from a patient—not his.
He set something on your nightstand. It was a paper bag. Warm.
Your favorite soup.
“I should’ve called,” he said quietly.
You said nothing.
“I get scared,” he continued. “Not of failure. Not of surgery. But of you walking away from me and never looking back.”
You finally turned your head. His eyes were unreadable, but his hands were shaking.
“You treat me like I’m a scalpel,” you said. “Precise. Replaceable.”
“That’s not what you are,” he replied instantly. “You’re the reason my hands shake when you’re not around. And I don’t know how to handle that.”
He stepped closer.
“Let me fix this.”
“You can’t stitch this shut like one of your patients.”
“No,” he said. “But I can hold you until it stops hurting.”
And he did.
His hands were cold. His movements were careful. He didn’t kiss you right away. Just slid into bed behind you, pulled you against his chest, and held you like a man trying not to break apart.
RAFAYEL – The Meltdown in Paint and Flesh
It started in his studio.
He'd gone quiet for two days.
Paints left open. Brushes stiff. The canvas untouched since the last time you sat for him—when he told you to hold still and you laughed, and then kissed him with pigment on your fingers.
But this time, when you asked what was wrong, he wouldn’t look at you.
“Nothing, sweetheart. Go home. I’m busy.”
You didn't go home.
You followed him outside, to the dock near Whitesand Bay where the sky was bleeding into dusk, and you asked him again.
“Rafayel. Just tell me what’s going on.”
He exhaled a laugh. But it wasn’t funny. It was bitter.
“You want the truth? The truth is I can’t paint without you. I can't sleep without you. I can’t even fucking think unless I know you're coming back.”
That should’ve felt like a confession.
It felt like a blame.
You stepped back.
“I'm not your cure, Rafayel.”
“No,” he snapped. “You're the thing making me sick.”
You flinched.
“Then I guess I’ll give you some space.”
And you left.
You didn’t get far.
The second the door to your apartment shut behind you, it all started to unravel—anger giving way to something worse: the ache that bloomed beneath your ribs, tight and restless, like your body hadn’t caught up to the fact that you were alone now.
You tried to ignore it.
Changed your clothes. Splashed cold water on your face. Lit a candle, even though you never do.
But Rafayel was everywhere.
In the scent of ocean salt that clung to your jacket. In the flecks of dried paint on your wrist. In the echo of his voice still lodged in your skull, saying things he didn’t mean—saying them like they were the only way he knew how to bleed.
You curled up on the couch, arms around your knees, telling yourself he wouldn’t come after you.
He never chased.
Until—
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Your front door shook with the force of it.
You opened it mid-breath.
And there he was.
Wind-tossed, soaked from the sea air, shirt unbuttoned like he’d torn it open on the run. His hair was wild, his pupils blown wide, and his chest was rising too fast—like he hadn’t stopped running since you left.
“You left me,” he said, voice low and shredded.
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Every nerve in your body was on fire.
He stepped forward. No hesitation. Just heat and momentum and desperation.
“I know what I said,” he murmured. “I know how I said it. But I didn’t mean a single fucking word, and I can’t fix it if you’re not here—”
He stopped.
Hands reached for your face like a starving man reaching for light.
“You think I know how to be gentle with love? I don’t. I only know how to need.”
Your throat clenched. Your hands curled into his shirt without thinking.
“Then say it,” you whispered.
“You’re the only thing I’ve ever made that mattered,” he breathed. “The only color I ever see anymore. If you leave—I’ll forget how to breathe, not just paint.”
And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t soft.
It was teeth. Tongue. Desperation.
His fingers dug into your waist, like he needed to feel you to know you were real. You gasped into his mouth, and he chased the sound—growled into it, even—like it cracked something loose inside him.
You weren’t thinking anymore.
You were burning.
And he was already unmaking you with every second you let him touch you.
SYLUS – The Controlled Collapse
The fight didn’t explode.
It simmered.
You’d been watching him for weeks—staying out late, coming back with blood on his cuffs, whispering orders into encrypted comms like you wouldn’t hear.
You knew what Onychinus did. What he did.
You just didn’t think he’d start shutting you out.
“You told me there were no more secrets,” you said, arms crossed. Voice low. Calm. Deadly.
He didn’t look up from the data pad.
“I said no more secrets that would hurt you.”
“You don’t get to decide what hurts me, Sylus.”
That got his attention.
His red eyes lifted, slow. Calculating. Cold.
“You’re angry.”
“I’m furious.”
“Good,” he murmured, setting the pad down. “I’d rather have your fury than your silence.”
You stepped back. He took a step forward. You held your ground.
“You can’t keep shutting me out.”
“And you can’t keep pretending you’re untouched by the world I built.”
That stung more than it should have.
“So that’s what I am to you now?” you whispered. “A liability? An attachment?”
He said nothing.
Which was worse.
So you left. Jaw clenched. Hands shaking. You didn’t slam the door, didn’t scream—because you knew that silence would drive him mad.
You thought he wouldn’t follow.
He always acted like he didn’t need to.
But two hours later, you’re pacing in your apartment, heart hammering, brain spiraling. You can still feel the heat of his gaze, still hear the unspoken stay beneath the silence.
And then—
The lights go out.
Power. Gone.
You freeze.
A soft knock echoes from the door.
Not pounding. Not frantic.
A warning.
And then his voice. Calm. Dangerous.
“Unlock the door.”
Your fingers hesitate.
“Sylus—”
“Now.”
You obey.
When the door opens, he’s there. Shirt half undone. Rain clinging to him. Eyes glowing.
“You walked out,” he says.
“Because you didn’t stop me.”
“No,” he corrects. “Because I needed you to walk. So you’d understand what it feels like when someone takes control away from you.”
He steps inside, shuts the door behind him.
“You want honesty? Here it is.”
He gets closer. You don’t step back.
“I’ve killed for less than what you make me feel.”
Your breath catches.
“So if you’re going to leave,” he whispers, “do it now. Before I ruin you for anyone else.”
You don’t move.
And that’s all he needs.
His mouth crashes into yours—bruising, possessive, hot. One hand in your hair, the other grabbing your waist like he owns every part of you.
Because he does.
Because he always has.
CALEB – The Soft Obsession Cracks
You didn’t mean to fight.
It started with a joke.
One too many playful jabs about how distant he’d been—how the mission came first, how he always walked out before sunrise now, like he didn’t want to be there when you woke up.
You didn’t expect his expression to drop like that.
Didn’t expect him to say:
“You don’t know what I’m dealing with. What I’ve done.”
“Then let me in,” you said, softer now. “Caleb, you don’t have to keep carrying it alone—”
“I do.”
He backed away from you like he was afraid of what would happen if he stayed close.
“I lost you once,” he said. “And I came back wrong. I don’t get to want things anymore.”
That’s what undid you.
Because how could he stand there, staring at you like you were already gone?
“You’re not broken,” you said, barely holding it together. “But if you keep pushing me away like this—I will leave. And not because I want to. Because you’re forcing me to.”
You waited.
He didn’t move.
So you left.
The silence in your apartment was unbearable.
Too quiet. Too heavy.
Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, the tears hit harder than expected, and no matter how many times you told yourself you did the right thing, all you could think about was the way he looked at you. Like he already thought he’d lost you. Like this was inevitable.
You’d just started to calm down when the knock came.
Not pounding. Not rushed.
Just... deliberate.
You opened the door.
And Caleb was standing there, drenched from the rain, still wearing his Farspace coat, soaked through at the collar, eyes wild—like he’d run the whole way.
“Don’t do that,” he said. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“I needed space.”
“No, you needed me.” He stepped inside without asking, voice ragged. “I felt it. That spiral. The second you left, it was like someone tore the gravity out of me.”
You shook your head. “You said you didn’t get to want things anymore.”
“I lied.”
He was in front of you before you could breathe—hands on your face, trembling.
“I want you,” he whispered. “Every damn version of you. Even when you’re mad. Even when you hate me. Even when you run.”
“Then prove it.”
And he did.
He kissed you like it was a confession. Like he was begging you not to leave again. Like he needed to memorize the shape of your mouth before it disappeared.