Getting Stuck In The Traffic Jam With Him (LaDS x Reader ficlets)
Sylus · Xavier · Rafayel · Zayne · Caleb
Synopsis: A traffic jam traps you for hours with no escape in sight. But stuck in a car together, time stops being something to waste and becomes something worth savoring.
Pairings: Sylus x Reader, Xavier x Reader, Rafayel x Reader, Zayne x Reader, Caleb x Reader (separately)
Word Count: ~7800 total (about 1500 words per guy)
Warnings: Fluff. Teasing. Kisses.
A/N: Funny story. I actually did get stuck in traffic for more than four hours because of a huge accident. Later on I got lost and had to stop in the middle of nowhere. So… plenty of time to think. My mind naturally went to the guys, and I ended up writing the base drafts for all of them in my car—on my phone and in my notebook. Each scenario is tailored to their personalities (I hope).
Enjoy! :)
Sylus
The brake lights ahead stretch endlessly through the rain, an unmoving line of red that disappears into the gray distance. Sylus sits in the driver’s seat with his usual composed patience, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other draped casually over the gear shift. He doesn’t seem bothered by the standstill. If anything, he looks almost content.
You, on the other hand, are drumming your fingers against your thigh, checking the time on your phone for what must be the tenth time in as many minutes.
“You’re wasting energy, kitten,” Sylus says, voice low and smooth, cutting through the white noise of rain and idling engines.
You glance at him. “By checking the time?”
“By letting this frustrate you.” His crimson eyes flick toward you, assessing.
“The world will move when it chooses. We, however—” His hand reaches across to still your restless fingers, long and deliberate. “We don’t have to wait for anything.”
The way he says it makes heat creep up your neck. “Sylus.”
“Mm?” He doesn’t let go of your hand, thumb tracing a slow circle against your palm. “Would you prefer to sit here tense for the next few hours? Or would you like me to help you relax?”
You’re about to respond when he reaches forward, tapping the car’s console. Classical music filters through the speakers. Something orchestral, strings building in a slow, sweeping crescendo.
“Better,” Sylus murmurs, settling back into his seat. He’s still holding your hand, thumb continuing its pattern. “Though I’m open to requests. What would you like to hear?”
“This is fine,” you manage, though your pulse has picked up for reasons that have nothing to do with traffic.
“Is it?” His tone suggests he knows exactly what effect he’s having. “You still seem wound tight, sweetie.”
“Because we’re stuck.”
“We’re stationary,” he corrects. “‘Stuck’ implies helplessness. We’re simply… pausing. And pauses can be productive.” His eyes return to you, intent and knowing. “Tell me—what were you rushing toward so urgently?”
The question catches you off guard. “Home, I guess. Dinner. My mission report.”
“Mm. And home will still be there in three hours.” Sylus releases your hand, only to reach up and brush his fingers along your shoulder, finding tension you didn’t realize you were carrying. “The report can wait. But this—” His touch is firm, purposeful, easing the knot beneath your collarbone. “This is more pressing, wouldn’t you agree?”
You exhale despite yourself, tension bleeding out under his practiced touch. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“I’m observant.” His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers working gently at the base of your skull. “I notice when you’re carrying stress you don’t need to. I notice when you forget to breathe properly. And I notice—” His voice drops lower, more intimate. “When you stop fighting the moment and start surrendering to it.”
The rain drums steadily against the windshield, creating a curtain between you and the outside world. The music swells and softens, violin and cello weaving together in something that sounds both melancholy and warm.
“Do you hear that?” he asks quietly.
You pause, listening. “The music?”
“The rain. The violins. Your breathing.” His thumb traces along your hairline. “Everything has rhythm. Even stillness has its own cadence.” He pauses, considering. “Most people spend their lives rushing from one thing to the next, never pausing long enough to simply exist in a moment.”
“Is this your version of meditation?”
“This is my version of not wasting an opportunity.” His hand moves from your neck to cup your jaw, turning your face toward his. “Several hours with you, no obligations, no interruptions. The universe has given us a gift, sweetie. It would be rude to squander it.”
Your breath catches at the intensity in his gaze. Patient but purposeful, like he’s been planning this from the moment the traffic stopped.
“What did you have in mind?” you whisper.
“Several things.” His thumb brushes across your cheekbone with gentleness. “Starting with getting you to stop worrying about things you can’t control.” Sylus leans in slightly, not quite kissing you but close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath. “And ending with making sure you remember this traffic jam fondly.”
You raise an eyebrow, fighting a smile. “That’s ambitious.”
“I prefer thorough.” His lips curve into that knowing smile, unbothered by your teasing. “And I have the time. And the patience.” His hand slides from your face to rest on your thigh, warm and grounding. “The question is…do you trust me to use both wisely?”
The way he’s looking at you makes it hard to think clearly. The music, the rain, the heat of his palm through your pants—it’s all conspiring to pull you out of frustration and into something else entirely.
“I trust you,” you say quietly.
“Good.” His voice drops, smooth and unhurried. “Then answer me this. When did you last allow yourself to simply feel, instead of bracing for what’s ahead?”
You open your mouth, then close it. You can’t actually remember.
“Exactly.” Sylus leans closer, his other hand coming up to frame your face with careful reverence. “So here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to stop checking the time. Stop worrying about dinner, or home, or whatever else is making you tap your fingers like that.” His thumb traces your lower lip. “And you’re going to let me remind you what it feels like to be entirely present.”
“Sylus—”
“Shhh.” It’s not a command, just a gentle redirection. “No thinking. Not right now. Just feeling.”
Then his mouth finds yours, and the world narrows to exactly this. The deliberate press of his lips, the controlled strength in how he holds you, the way he kisses like he has all the time in the universe and intends to use every second.
The kiss starts slow, almost exploratory, his tongue tracing your lower lip before deepening with unhurried intensity. You can taste him, feel the way his breathing stays measured even as yours stutters.
When you make a soft sound against his mouth, his hand tightens on your thigh, thumb gently pressing in. Sylus pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes heavy-lidded and knowing.
“Better?” His voice is rougher now, that careful control fraying slightly at the edges.
“Much,” you breathe.
“Tell me, kitten,” Sylus murmurs, his eyes intent on yours. “Do you want me to continue?”
“Yes,” you breathe, certain despite the tremor in your voice.
His smile curves, low and warm. “Good. Because we’re nowhere near done.”
He kisses you again, deeper this time, one hand tangled in your hair while the other slides higher on your leg. The classical music swells around you, rain creating a rhythm against glass, and somewhere in the distance cars honk, but none of it matters.
All that matters is Sylus’s mouth on yours, the way he’s slowly, methodically unraveling every bit of tension you were carrying, replacing it with heat and want and the certain knowledge that he’s doing exactly what he said he would. Making you forget there was ever anything to worry about.
When he finally pulls back, forehead resting against yours, his breathing is less controlled than before. His thumb traces patterns on your jaw as he studies your face with clear satisfaction.
“See?” he murmurs, voice low and intimate. “The world’s still turning. Traffic’s still stopped. But suddenly—” His lips brush your temple. “The hours don’t feel wasted at all.”
You can’t argue. With his hand warm on your thigh and the taste of him still on your lips, surrounded by music and rain and the solid certainty of his presence, you think maybe being stuck isn’t such a terrible thing after all.
The rain continues outside, but inside the car, in Sylus’s arms with his heartbeat steady beneath your palm, the traffic jam feels less like a frustration and more like a gift. Stolen time in a world that usually moves too fast.
Sylus shifts slightly, pulling you even closer so your back is against his chest, arms wrapped securely around you. Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he starts humming—low and off-key, the melody wandering somewhere it probably shouldn’t.
You can’t help but smile. “Getting better.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest into your back, warm and genuinely delighted. “Liar,” he murmurs into your hair, but he sounds pleased. “But I appreciate the encouragement.”
He kisses your temple, your cheek, your neck. When he finally kisses your lips, you feel him smiling. He pulls you close again, drawing circles onto your arms and your back.
“I could stay like this forever, fully content,” Sylus says quietly, and there’s something raw in his voice. Something honest beneath the smooth assurance. “Rain falling. Music playing. You, here with me.” His hand tightens slightly. “This is better than wherever we were rushing to.”
And wrapped in his arms with rain softly drumming against the windows and his terrible humming somehow perfect, you never want this moment to end.
— ⋆ — ⋆ — ⋆ — ⋆ —
Xavier
Red taillights blur through the drizzle, the line of cars unmoving. You drum your fingers on the steering wheel, glancing at the time for what feels like the hundredth time.
Xavier, in the passenger seat, doesn’t even look up from the phone he’s holding. “Staring at the clock won’t help.”
You shoot him a look. “And what do you suggest?”
He sets the phone down, finally turning toward you with that unreadable calm. “Something better than this.” His head tilts slightly. “Something that makes you forget we’re stuck.”
“Such as?”
“Mm.” He glances out at the unmoving traffic. “We could play a game.”
“A game.”
“Color counting.” He says it so casually. “Pick a color. Count the cars. First to twenty wins.”
“Xavier, that’s what kids play on road trips.”
“It works though. There’s historical precedent—color recognition games were used in early pilot training. Helped with quick visual processing under stress.” He’s already scanning the highway. “I read about it last week in a book on cognitive training methods.”
You blink. “You read about traffic games?”
“I read about a lot of things. The author had interesting ideas about pattern recognition in confined spaces.” He pauses. “Two people, limited area, building tension through competition. This is surprisingly applicable.”
“What kind of book is this?”
“Educational.” But there’s something in his eyes now. “Very educational.”
You can’t tell if he’s serious, but the alternative is staring at brake lights for the next hours. “Fine. What does the winner get?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” That slight curve of his mouth. “Makes it more interesting.”
You look at Xavier again, getting lost in his eyes. “Alright. Blue.”
“Good choice.” He’s already scanning the traffic. “I’ll take silver.”
“That’s cheating. Everything’s silver.”
“Not cheating. Strategy.” But there’s amusement in his voice now. “You picked blue.”
For about ten minutes, you both actually play. Xavier announces his count with the same calm he uses for everything else, like this is perfectly normal.
“Seven.”
“I have three.”
“Mm. Blue’s rare.” He pauses. “Like in that book. Scarcity increases value. It makes the anticipation sharper.”
You glance at him. “What exactly happens in this book?”
“Pattern recognition.” His tone is completely innocent. “Tension building. The usual.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Eight.”
You spot two blue cars. “Five.”
“Getting closer. Still losing though.” There’s that hint of amusement again. “The author would say this is the critical phase. When one person realizes they can’t win through conventional means.”
“Xavier—”
“This is boring,” he says abruptly.
“You suggested it.”
“I know. Thought it would be better.” He finally looks at you directly. “I’d rather do something else.”
“Like what?”
“Leave the car.”
Before you can ask what he means, he’s already reaching for the emergency blanket and snack bag. “Come on.”
“Xavier—”
“Trust me.”
You follow him to a pull-off area elevated from the highway—grass, open field, view of autumn stretching into the distance. The traffic below looks small and far away.
Xavier spreads the blanket efficiently. “Better out here.”
“We were in the middle of your game.”
“The game was stupid.” He settles on the blanket. “This is better.”
The bluntness of it makes you laugh. “You gave up your lead.”
“I don’t care.” He looks up at you, completely unbothered. “Sitting here with you is better than winning.”
The simple honesty catches in your chest. You sit beside him, and he pulls out the chip bag, examining it briefly before offering you one.
When you take it, he steals it back and eats it himself.
“Xavier!”
“I had to check if they were good.” No shame whatsoever. “They are. Here.”
He hands you the bag properly this time, and you can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.
For a while you both just exist there, eating chips, watching clouds drift overhead, the traffic noise fading to white noise. It’s peaceful in a way that surprises you.
“Still counting,” Xavier says eventually.
“What?”
He gestures vaguely at the highway. “Silver cars. Six more passed. I would’ve won by now.”
“You’re still playing?”
“Just observing.” He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter though. I like this better.”
His hand finds yours on the blanket, fingers lacing together with easy certainty. The touch is warm, grounding, deliberate.
“This was the plan from the start,” he says quietly.
“The color game was fake?”
“The color game was boring after two minutes.” He’s looking at you now with that focused intensity. “I needed an excuse to get you out here. It worked.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” His thumb traces slow circles on your hand. “But we’re here. And you’re not checking the time anymore.”
Xavier is right. You’d completely forgotten about the traffic, the delay, everything except the warmth of his hand and the way he’s looking at you.
“Better?” he asks, and there’s something softer in his voice now.
“Much.”
“Good.” He tugs you closer, gentle but deliberate, until you’re leaning against his side. His arm comes around your shoulders, solid and warm. “Stay like this for a while.”
It’s not a question. Xavier rarely asks. He just does, with that quiet confidence that somehow never feels pushy. You settle against him, and he makes a small satisfied sound.
“Comfortable?”
“Very.”
“Mm.” He’s quiet for a long moment, just holding you. Then, he says, “I’ve thought about this. Being stuck somewhere with you. Making the most of it.”
“You’ve thought about being stuck?”
“About having time.” His fingers trace patterns on your shoulder. “No missions. No rush. Just this.”
The vulnerability in his voice surprises you. Xavier’s usually so composed, so hard to read. But right now there’s something raw beneath the calm.
“I like the quiet with you,” he continues. “It makes everything else feel less loud. It’s precious.”
You tilt your head to look at him, and he’s already watching you with that familiar focus.
“What?” you whisper.
“You’re beautiful.” His voice doesn’t waver. “And sexy.” A deliberate pause. “I’ve been thinking that since we got stuck. Since before that, actually. I think it a lot.”
Your breath catches at the bluntness of it. “Xavier—”
His eyes flick down to your mouth, lingering just long enough to make your pulse stumble. His thumb brushes across your lower lip, deliberate, testing.
“That book I mentioned,” he says quietly, thumb tracing your jaw. “Had a chapter about moments like this. When anticipation becomes unbearable.”
Your breath catches. “What… what happens next?”
His gaze drops to your mouth again. “The author wasn’t thorough enough.” He leans in slowly. “I’ll show you instead.”
Then he kisses you. No calculation, no strategy, just direct and intense and wanting. His hand slides into your hair, and he deepens the kiss immediately, no hesitation.
When you gasp, he makes a low sound of satisfaction and pulls you closer. The kiss turns hungrier, more urgent, like all that careful composure was just surface-level.
“Better than I imagined,” Xavier murmurs against your mouth. “I thought about this too.”
“You thought about kissing me while waiting for the traffic to flow again?”
“All the time.” His lips move to your jaw. “It’s distracting. Hard to focus when you’re around.”
His hands explore your body with thorough attention. Learning, testing, memorizing what makes you react. When you arch into him, he makes that sound again, pleased and wanting.
“This wasn’t the plan,” Xavier admits when you break for air. His breathing is uneven, control fractured. “The plan was just the blanket. The view. Maybe hold your hand.”
“What happened?”
“You.” So direct, so honest. “Always you. I can’t think straight when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want me.” His hand cups your face with careful reverence. “It makes me forget everything else.”
You pull him back down for another kiss, and this time there’s no pretense of restraint. He responds immediately, desperately, like he’s been holding back and finally can’t anymore.
When you finally break apart, he arranges you against his chest with easy efficiency, arms secure around you.
“New plan,” Xavier says quietly. “We stay here. We don’t move. We wait out the traffic like this.”
“That’s your plan?”
“It's the best one I’ve got.” His voice is softer now. “Several hours stuck with you in my arms? Not stuck. Lucky.”
The traffic below hasn’t moved. But wrapped in Xavier’s embrace, listening to his heartbeat steady and strong, you think maybe he’s right.
Sometimes the best plan is the simplest one.
He shifts slightly, reaching into his jacket pocket. “Hold still.”
“What—”
He pulls out a camera. Old-fashioned, the kind with actual film. “I found it last month in an antique shop near the bookstore we’ve been to. I figured it might be useful.”
“You want to take a picture? Now?”
“Yes, I want to remember this.” He adjusts the angle, checking the light with practiced ease. “The traffic. The field. You.” He looks at you through the viewfinder, and something softens in his expression. “Perfect.”
The shutter clicks, capturing the moment. Cozy blanket, autumn field, two people who turned a traffic jam into something worth remembering.
“For the record,” Xavier says, tucking the camera away carefully, “this is going on the wall.”
— ⋆ — ⋆ — ⋆ — ⋆ —
Rafayel
Rafayel sighs like a man wronged by fate itself, head tipped back against the seat. “Cutie, this is an outrage. Hours of my life—wasted between a dented minivan and a delivery truck with peeling paint. I could have painted three masterpieces by now. Perhaps four.”
You glance at him, amused despite the situation. “It’s just traffic.”
“Just traffic,” he echoes, scandalized. His eyes snap to yours, gleaming with mock indignation. “I refuse to believe you’d accept such mediocrity. The sea could rise and part for us, and still, we’d be shackled here like prisoners of asphalt.”
You laugh, the sound breaking through the monotony of idling engines. “You could try napping.”
“Napping?” He places a hand over his chest, aghast. “When I could be spending every second with you? Never.” He sits up suddenly, eyes bright with an idea. “Wait. I have a better solution.”
Before you can ask what he means, he’s already rummaging through the back seat, emerging triumphant with a sketchbook you didn’t even know he’d brought.
“There,” he announces, flipping it open with a flourish. “If I’m going to be trapped, I might as well create something beautiful from it.”
“You’re going to draw? Now?”
“Not just draw.” He’s already got a pencil in hand, studying you with that focused intensity that always makes you self-conscious. “I’m going to capture this moment. The light through the rain, the way your hair looks, that expression you make when you think I’m being too dramatic.”
“I’m driving,” you point out. “Or trying to.”
“Cutie, we haven’t moved in ten minutes.” His pencil is already moving across the page with quick, confident strokes. “Besides, you’re stuck looking forward. Perfect. Hold that pose.”
“Rafayel, this is—”
“Art,” he interrupts, completely serious now. “Every moment with you is art. Even stuck in traffic. Especially stuck in traffic.” His eyes flick between you and the page, that little crease appearing between his brows that means he’s fully absorbed. “The way the gray light catches your profile… the patience in your expression even though I know you’re frustrated… it’s perfect.”
You try not to move, hyperaware of his gaze tracking every detail. After a few minutes, curiosity gets the better of you. “Can I see?”
“Nuh-uh. It’s not finished.” But there’s a softness in his voice now, the theatrics giving way to something more genuine. “Though I have to say, you’re an excellent model. Very patient. Much better than that time I tried to sketch the seagulls at the beach.”
“What happened with the seagulls?”
“They stole my sandwich and left evidence on my canvas.” He says it so seriously that you can’t help but laugh. “They have it out for me specifically. There’s a conspiracy.”
“A seagull conspiracy.” You giggle.
Rafayel pouts and looks away for a moment, his messy hair falling across his cheek. When he faces you again, he has that rebellious look in his eyes that always makes you smile. “Mock me all you want, but you weren’t there. You didn’t see the organizational structure. The coordination.” He’s grinning now, pencil still moving. “They had a leader. I could tell by the way he stood. Very authoritative. Probably a military background.”
You’re laughing helplessly now, and his expression softens further as he watches you.
“There,” Rafayel murmurs, pencil slowing. “That’s what I was waiting for. That smile.” He sets the sketchbook aside carefully. “I could capture a thousand smiles and never tire of it.”
The mood shifts, his playfulness giving way to something more intense. He reaches across to brush a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering at your temple.
“You know what’s strange?” he says quietly. “I spend my life trying to capture beauty, trying to freeze perfect moments on canvas. But with you…” He traces his thumb along your cheekbone. “I don’t want to freeze anything. I want to be in it. Every second. Even the ones stuck in traffic.”
Your breath catches at the honesty in his voice. “Rafayel—”
“I mean it.” His hand slides to cup your jaw, turning your face toward his. “Do you know how rare that is? To find someone who makes you want to stop observing and just feel?”
The vulnerability in his eyes catches you off guard. This is the Rafayel most people don’t see. The one beneath the drama and theatrics, who feels everything so deeply he has to perform just to contain it.
“I’ve been waiting my whole life for you,” he continues, voice dropping lower. “All those years, all those paintings, searching for something I couldn’t express. And then you appeared, and suddenly everything made sense.”
“That’s…” You struggle to find words. “That’s really intense, Rafayel.”
“I’m an intense person.” But he’s smiling now, thumb stroking along your jaw. “Surely you’ve noticed by now. I don’t do anything halfway. Especially not loving you.”
The words hang in the rain-soaked air between you, weighted with meaning. Before you can respond, he leans in, not quite kissing you but close enough that you can feel his breath.
“Tell me something,” he murmurs. “If we could stay in this moment forever—rain falling, world paused, just the two of us in our own bubble—would you?”
“I don’t know if I’d want any moment to last forever,” you admit. “Even perfect ones.”
“Wise answer.” His smile turns slightly sad. “The Lemurians have a saying: ‘The most beautiful shells are the ones the tide takes back.’ The impermanence is what makes it precious.” He touches his forehead to yours. “But I’d still savor every second. The way the tide savors the shore before it has to let go.”
There’s something achingly bittersweet in how he says it, like he’s talking about more than just traffic jams. Like he knows something about goodbyes that you don’t.
“Hey.” You cup his face, making him look at you. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Yeah, I know.” But his grip on you tightens slightly. “It’s just… sometimes when I’m with you, I feel like I’m living in one of my paintings. Too perfect to be real. And I keep waiting for—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Never mind. I’m being maudlin.”
“No, tell me.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then admits: “I keep waiting to wake up and find out you were a dream. That all of this was something I painted in my sleep.” His thumb brushes across your lower lip. “But then you do something completely unpredictable, something I never could have imagined, and I remember—you’re real. You’re here. And somehow, I found you, and you chose me.”
The raw honesty in his voice makes your chest tight. You close the distance and kiss him, trying to convey everything you can’t put into words.
He responds immediately, hand sliding into your hair as he deepens the kiss with that mix of reverence and hunger that’s purely Rafayel. When you finally break apart, he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth seeing.
“See?” he whispers, slightly breathless. “Completely unpredictable. I was going to give you a speech about how you’re more beautiful than any sunset I’ve ever painted, but you kissed me first and now I’ve forgotten all my lines.”
You laugh against his mouth. “Make up new ones.”
“New ones.” His lips curve against yours. “Alright. You taste like rain and possibility. You make me forget that my soul has lived through lifetimes before this one. You’re the first painting I’ve ever wanted to step inside of instead of just observe.” He kisses you between each declaration, slow and thorough. “How’s that?”
“Perfect,” you murmur.
“Mm. I thought so.” He pulls you closer despite the cramped space, nuzzling into your neck. “Though I should warn you—I have about a thousand more where those came from. We have more hours to fill, after all.”
“I think I can handle that.”
“Can you?” His voice drops lower, more intimate. “Because once I start, I might not stop. I could spend the rest of this traffic jam listing every reason I adore you. Every detail I’ve memorized. Every moment I’ve savored.”
“Rafayel—”
“The way you bite your lip when you’re concentrating,” he continues, pressing kisses along your jaw. “The sound you make when you’re really laughing, not just being polite. How your eyes light up when you talk about things you love. The way you look at me like I’m not strange or too much or—”
You cut him off with another kiss, deeper this time, and feel him smile against your mouth.
“Point taken,” he murmurs when you finally break apart. “Less talking. More this.”
He kisses you again, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to paint the moment into his memory. The rain continues its steady percussion against the windows, and somewhere in the distance car horns honk, but none of it matters.
All that matters is Rafayel’s arms around you, the taste of rain on his lips, and the way he holds you like you’re something precious he’s terrified of losing but determined to cherish while he can.
When he finally pulls back, he keeps you close, forehead resting against yours.
“You know,” he says quietly, “I think I was wrong earlier. About the masterpieces I could have painted.” His hand comes up to trace your face with infinite gentleness. “This—right here, right now—this is the masterpiece. And I didn’t even need a canvas.”
The traffic still hasn’t moved. But wrapped in Rafayel’s arms, surrounded by rain and declarations and the kind of love that feels both ancient and impossibly new, you think maybe being stuck is exactly where you’re meant to be.
— ⋆ — ⋆ — ⋆ — ⋆ — ⋆ — ⋆ — Zayne
Zayne doesn’t complain. Of course he doesn’t. He sits in the driver’s seat with the same composure he brings to everything else, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other tapping a deliberate rhythm against his thigh. His profile is calm, unreadable, except for the faint crease between his brows.
“You’re doing it again,” you say.
His tapping stops. “Doing what?”
“That thing where you’re mentally problem-solving something that can’t be solved.”
His lips twitch almost imperceptibly. “I prefer to think of it as contingency planning.”
“For traffic?”
“There are always alternatives.” But even as he says it, his gaze sweeps the gridlocked highway with obvious resignation. “Though I’ll admit the current options are… limited.”
You can’t help but smile at his careful phrasing. “You mean we’re stuck.”
“I mean,” he says with that particular brand of Zayne precision, “that forward progress has temporarily ceased.” He glances at you. “Does it bother you?”
“Not really. It’s just… a long time to sit.”
“Mm.” He’s quiet for a moment, then reaches across the console. His hand finds yours with practiced ease, fingers lacing together. “Then we should make productive use of the time.”
“Productive how?”
“I haven’t determined that yet.” His thumb begins tracing slow circles against your palm—clinical precision applied to comfort. “But remaining tense for hours would be inadvisable. Prolonged muscle tension can lead to—”
“Zayne.”
“Yes?”
“Are you about to give me a medical lecture about traffic jam ergonomics?”
That almost-smile again. “Would you prefer I didn’t?”
“I think I’ll survive without the details.”
“Noted.” But his hand tightens slightly on yours, and you realize that beneath the professional demeanor, he’s grounding himself as much as you.
You watch him for a moment, noticing the slight tension still in his shoulders despite his calm exterior. The crease between his brows is deeper than usual—he’s had a long week at the hospital, you know. Multiple surgeries, late nights.
Reaching into your bag, you pull out the small container you’d packed this morning.
“Here,” you say, offering it to him.
He looks at the container, then at you. “What’s this?”
“Macarons. From that bakery near the hospital.” You press it into his hand. “You’ve had a long week. Thought you might need them.”
Something softens in his expression—surprise, then unmistakable warmth. He holds the container carefully, as if it’s something precious. “You brought these for me?”
“I know you. Stress and sweets go together.” You smile. “Consider it preventive care.”
He opens the container with deliberate care, studying the pastel-colored macarons. Lavender, pale green, soft pink. For a moment he just looks at them, and you see his shoulders relax fractionally.
He selects the lavender one, holding it between his fingers with the same precision he’d use for surgical instruments. When he takes a careful bite, you watch something ease in his expression. Genuine contentment, rare and unguarded.
“This is…” He closes his eyes briefly. “Exactly what I needed.”
“I know.” You lean against his shoulder. “That’s why I brought them.”
His hand finds yours again, squeezing gently. When he looks at you, there’s something raw in his gaze. “I don’t deserve you.”
“You do. You just forget sometimes.”
He’s quiet for a moment, finishing the macaron with obvious appreciation. “Thank you. For paying attention. For…” He pauses, searching for words. “For knowing what I need before I do.”
“That’s what we do for each other.”
“Yes.” His voice is softer now. “It is.”
The rain picks up, drumming steadily against the windshield. Zayne watches it for a moment, then reaches forward to adjust the temperature.
“You’re cold,” he observes.
“I’m fine.”
“You tensed your shoulders when the last gust of wind hit.” He’s already removing his coat, draping it around you with efficient care. “Better?”
The coat smells like him. Clean, understated, oddly comforting. “Won’t you be cold now?”
“I’m adequately dressed for the temperature.” He settles back into his seat, and you notice he’s positioned himself so you can lean against him if you want. “Unlike someone who insisted a light sweater would be sufficient.”
“Are you saying ‘I told you so’?”
“I’m simply noting a pattern of optimistic weather assessment.” But there’s warmth in his hazelgreen eyes now, a softness that wasn’t there before. “Though I’ve learned to plan accordingly.”
“By bringing an extra jacket?”
“By bringing an extra jacket,” he confirms. “And keeping the car temperature three degrees higher than I’d prefer. And checking the forecast twice.” He pauses. “Repeatedly.”
You laugh despite yourself. “That’s very thorough.”
“I prefer ‘practical.’” His hand finds yours again. “Though I’ve been told my methods are occasionally excessive.”
“Who told you that?”
“You did. Last week. Regarding the emergency medical kit I keep in my desk.”
“The one with enough supplies to perform surgery?”
“Minor surgical procedures,” he corrects. “And only if absolutely necessary.” At your expression, he adds, “Which it never has been. Yet.”
“Zayne, you work in a hospital.”
“Preparedness is never wasted.” But you can see him fighting back a smile now. “Though I concede the likelihood of needing a full suturing kit in my office is… minimal.”
The conversation lapses into comfortable silence. Rain continues its steady rhythm, and you find yourself leaning more heavily against his side. He shifts to accommodate you without comment, arm coming around your shoulders with measured care.
“Comfortable?” His voice is quieter now.
“Very.”
“Good.” He’s silent for a moment, then: “I should mention that maintaining this position for extended periods may cause—”
“If you’re about to cite another medical journal, I’m moving back to my seat.”
“I was simply going to say it may cause me to become accustomed to this arrangement.” When you look up at him in surprise, there’s that hint of dry humor in his eyes. “Which would be… inconvenient. For professional reasons.”
“Professional reasons.”
“I have a reputation for objectivity to maintain.” But his arm tightens slightly around you. “Difficult to do when I’m thinking about how perfectly you fit here.”
Your breath catches at the unexpected admission. Zayne doesn’t usually voice things like this. He shows through actions, through careful attention to detail. Hearing it stated so plainly is almost startling.
“Zayne—”
His thumb brushes along your shoulder. “I don’t say it enough. How much these moments matter to me.” He’s quiet for a beat. “How much you matter.”
Before you can respond, he’s tilting your face up to his. The kiss is careful at first—measured, controlled, exactly what you’d expect. His hand cups your jaw with surgeon’s precision, thumb brushing your cheek as his lips move against yours with practiced certainty.
But when you sigh into the kiss, something changes. His breath hitches, and suddenly the careful control wavers. His hand slides from your jaw into your hair, and he deepens the kiss with an intensity that feels almost desperate.
It’s still Zayne—still controlled enough to be deliberate—but beneath it there’s raw need he rarely lets show. His other hand tightens at your waist, pulling you closer across the console despite the awkward angle. You can feel his breathing go uneven, feel the slight tremor in his fingers.
You make a soft sound, and his composure cracks further. He kisses you harder, deeper, his tongue sweeping against yours with more urgency than precision now. When you grip his shirt, he makes that low sound in his throat that you’ve heard before. Pure want, unfiltered by his usual restraint.
“You have no idea,” Zayne murmurs against your mouth, voice rougher than you’ve ever heard it, “how difficult it is to maintain control around you.”
His forehead drops to rest against yours, breathing uneven. You can feel his pulse racing where your hand rests against his neck—so at odds with his usual composure that it’s almost shocking.
“I don’t want you to,” you whisper.
His eyes darken. “That’s… inadvisable.”
“Since when do you make inadvisable choices?”
“Since you.” He says it so simply, so honestly, that your heart clenches. “You make me want to forget every rule I’ve ever followed.”
He kisses you again. Less controlled this time, more raw. His mouth moves against yours with barely contained intensity, and you can feel the war between his natural restraint and the desire threatening to overwhelm it.
When he finally pulls back, his breathing is roughened, that careful facade thoroughly cracked. His hand stays at your face, thumb stroking your cheek like he’s anchoring himself.
“We’ll move again eventually,” he says softly. His voice has steadied, but there’s still heat threading through it. “Until then…” He adjusts so you’re more comfortable against him, arms secure around you. “I don’t mind being stuck here. Not with you.”
The rain continues its steady rhythm outside. Inside the car, wrapped in Zayne’s coat and his arms, listening to his heartbeat gradually slow back to its normal steady pace, you think maybe being stuck isn’t such a bad thing after all.
“For the record,” he murmurs after a while, his hand tracing gentle patterns along your arm, “this is significantly better than any alternative route I could have planned.”
You laugh softly. “That might be one of the most romantic things you’ve said recently.”
“I doubt that.” His voice is quieter now, more tender. “But I’ll try to do better.”
He’s silent for a moment, and when he speaks again, there’s something unguarded in his tone. “I spend most of my life calculating outcomes, weighing options, trying to control variables I can’t always control.” His hand finds yours, fingers lacing together. “But with you… I don’t want to calculate. I just want to be here. Like this.”
He tilts your face up to his, and the look in his eyes is so openly affectionate it makes your breath catch.
“You make everything else quiet,” he says softly. “Even my own thoughts. Especially those.” He brushes his thumb across your cheek. “That’s rare for me. Precious.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead. Gentle, lingering, full of unspoken feeling.
“So if we’re stuck here for four more hours,” he murmurs against your skin, “I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be. Or anyone else I’d rather be stuck with.”
And somehow, wrapped in his arms with rain falling around you and his heartbeat steady beneath your palm, that simple honesty feels more romantic than any flowery declaration could ever be.
— ⋆ — ⋆ — ⋆ — ⋆ —
Caleb
“Two hours.” Caleb leans his head dramatically against the window, sighing like a man unjustly imprisoned. “Two hours and we’ve moved, what? Two inches?”
“Maybe three,” you say dryly, nudging the wheel as the line of cars creeps forward by a fraction.
“Tragedy,” he mutters. His hand starts tapping against his knee in an impatient rhythm. Then against the dashboard. Then against your arm. “This is cruel and unusual punishment.”
“You could try relaxing,” you suggest. “Read something. Play a game on your phone.”
He sits up straight, eyes narrowing with mock offense. “Relax? When I could be building jets, or cooking, or literally doing anything that isn’t staring at the same brake lights?” He gestures emphatically at the car ahead. “Nah. We need a plan. Multiple plans. Backup plans for the backup plans.”
You can’t help but smile. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“Okay, so.” He twists in his seat to face you fully, energy crackling off him. “First idea: twenty questions. But the extreme version. I ask you something, you answer, then you ask me, and we have to be brutally honest. No cop-outs.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Exactly. Keeps things interesting.” His grin is infectious. “Ooor—wait, better idea. We rate every car that passes. Like, that truck? Three out of ten. Boring. Practical. Probably has an ‘I Love My Golden Retriever’ bumper sticker.”
You laugh. “Caleb—”
“Or we could make up backstories for all the other drivers. See that guy?” He points to a car three lanes over. “Definitely going to his ex’s wedding. Look at that grip on the steering wheel. That’s stress.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m entertaining,” he corrects. “Big difference. C’mon, pipsqueak, work with me here. We’ve got hours to kill.”
Despite yourself, you play along for a while. Caleb commits fully to every idea—rating cars with increasingly absurd criteria (“Does it look like it could survive an apocalypse? No? Two out of ten”), inventing elaborate stories about strangers (“That woman’s definitely a spy. See how she checked her mirrors? Professional.”), asking you rapid-fire questions that veer from silly to surprisingly thoughtful.
Then, just as suddenly, he perks up with another burst of inspiration. “Or—hear me out—we build a trebuchet.”
You blink. “A what?”
“A trebuchet. Catapult the car right over the traffic jam. Boom. Problem solved. We’d land… probably fine.” His eyes are gleaming with the possibilities. “I could sketch the design on a napkin right now.”
“Caleb—”
“What? Don’t tell me you’re not at least a little curious.” His grin widens. “I’ve always wanted to try it.”
You laugh, and he grins like he’s achieved his goal. But as the laughter fades, you notice the way his leg won’t stop bouncing. How his fingers drum against his thigh even while he’s smiling. How his grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore.
“Caleb.”
“Mm?” He’s looking out the window, jaw tight.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Great. Living the dream.” But his voice has gone flat, the performative energy draining away. He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I just—I can’t sit still like this. It’s driving me crazy.”
“I noticed.”
He shoots you a look, caught between sheepish and defiant. “Sorry, pipsqueak. I know I’m being annoying.”
“You’re not annoying.” You reach over to still his restless hand with yours. “You’re just… you.”
Something in his expression softens at that. His fingers lace with yours, grip tight. “Yeah, well. ‘Me’ isn’t great at the whole ‘patience’ thing.” He laughs, but it sounds strained. “Sitting here with nothing to do, nowhere to go… makes my brain go places I don’t want it to.”
There it is. That crack in the armor. You squeeze his hand. “What kind of places?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, thumb rubbing restless circles against your palm. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it.
“Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing enough,” he admits. “If I’m enough. For you. For everything.” His jaw clenches. “And when everything stops like this, when I can’t just keep moving forward and fixing things and being useful, it all catches up. All the stuff I usually outrun.”
Your chest aches at the honesty in his voice. “Caleb—”
“I know, I know.” He tries for a smile that doesn’t quite land. “It’s stupid. I’m exaggerating. Classic me, huh?”
“It’s not stupid.” You turn in your seat as much as the seatbelt allows, using your free hand to cup his face and make him look at you. “And you are enough. More than enough. You know that, right?”
He leans into your touch like he’s been waiting for it, eyes closing briefly. “With you, I can believe it,” he murmurs. Then, even quieter, he adds, “You make the noise stop.”
The vulnerability in those words hits harder than any of his teasing. You lean across the console and kiss him. Soft and deliberate, trying to convey everything you can’t quite put into words.
He responds immediately, hand coming up to cradle the back of your head as he deepens the kiss with sudden intensity. Like he’s been holding back and finally can’t anymore. When you pull away, he’s smiling again, but it’s different now. Softer. More real.
“Okay,” Caleb says, voice still rough. “New plan. Forget the games. Forget the distraction tactics.” His hand slides to your waist, pulling you as close as the cramped car allows. “Just… stay right here. With me. That’s all I need.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you promise.
“Good.” He nuzzles into your neck, arms wrapping securely around you. “Because I suck at letting go once I’ve got something worth holding onto.”
You sit like that for a while—tangled together despite the awkward angle, his heartbeat steady against you, the restless energy finally settling into something more grounded. He presses occasional kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw, interspersed with quiet observations that make you laugh.
“Y’know what’s funny?” he murmurs against your skin.
“What?”
“An hour ago, I would’ve paid money to get out of this traffic. Now?” His arms tighten around you. “I’m kinda hoping it lasts a little longer.”
“Caleb, that’s so—”
“Sappy? Yeah, I know. Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.” But you can hear the smile in his voice. “The reputation of being hopelessly gone for you, apparently.”
Your laugh is muffled against his shoulder. “I think that reputation’s pretty well established.”
“Mm. Good.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, purple eyes warm and unguarded in a way they rarely are. “Hey. Thanks for putting up with me. The restless energy, the deflection tactics, all of it.”
“I’m not ‘putting up with’ anything.” You brush your thumb across his cheek. “This is just who you are. And I happen to like who you are.”
Something in his expression cracks open at that. He kisses you again. Slower this time, sweeter, like he’s trying to memorize the moment. When he pulls back, he’s grinning that familiar troublemaker grin, but there’s a softness underneath it now.
“Alrighty, pipsqueak,” he says, some of his usual energy returning but tempered with something steadier. “You win this round. We’ll sit here, stuck in traffic, and I’ll try not to lose my mind.”
“I’ll help,” you promise.
His grin turns playful. “Oh, you’ll help alright. Just not in the way you’re thinking.” Before you can ask what he means, he’s pulling you across the console into his lap, laughing at your startled yelp. “There. Much better. Now we’re both comfortable.”
“Caleb, this is—”
“Practical,” he interrupts, arms wrapping securely around your waist. “See? Problem solved. You’re comfortable, I’m comfortable, and the traffic hasn’t moved an inch.” He nuzzles into your neck, voice muffled but content. “Besides, if I’m gonna be stuck for hours, might as well make the most of it.”
You can feel his heartbeat steady and strong against your back, feel the way he relaxes with you in his arms. The restless energy hasn’t disappeared entirely—it never does with Caleb—but it’s channeled now, focused on keeping you close.
“You’re ridiculous,” you say, but there’s no heat in it.
“And you love me anyway,” he counters, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “Lucky for both of us.”
He’s quiet for a moment, just holding you, before he adds softly: “After all, what makes me the happiest is being able to make you happy.” He pauses. “Even if that just means sitting in traffic and refusing to let go.”
The traffic still hasn’t budged. But wrapped in Caleb’s arms—restless, teasing, vulnerable, and completely yours—you think maybe being stuck isn’t such a terrible thing after all. — ⋆ — ⋆ — ⋆ — ⋆ — A/N: Thank you so much for reading! :) This was my little “stuck in traffic” experiment, written to see how differently each of the guys might handle being trapped with you for hours. I have other fics waiting to be posted and more drafts and ideas I’m working on. My creative energy doesn’t seem to stop lately, so stay tuned. :)
Reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. They really fuel my writing. :)