-when his anger is taken out on the wrong place in the wrong time- angst
You heard the door slam before you saw him.
Heavy, rushed steps. Keys tossed onto the console. His bag hitting the floor with a thud that echoed down the hallway.
He didn’t even say hello.
You were already in the kitchen, apron still on, a dish towel over your shoulder and his favorite food still hot on the stove. You had candles lit — just two, small ones, nothing dramatic. You just… wanted to make him smile. You missed his smile.
So when he walked in, stiff-shouldered and scowling, you tried anyway.
“Hey, baby,” you said, gentle, trying to meet him where he was. “Rough day?”
He didn’t answer.
You took a step closer, hands still in the dish towel. “I made—”
“Why is it so fucking dark in here?” he snapped, voice sharp like glass. “I can’t even see anything—can you turn a goddamn light on for once?”
You froze, blinking.
“I— I just thought the candles would be—”
He scoffed, brushing past you, hand running through his hair, exasperated. “Jesus. I come home to this after the shit I’ve been through?”
You swallowed hard. “I didn’t know it would be this bad. I thought maybe—maybe it’d help. I made your favorite.”
You lifted the dish — still warm, perfectly plated, just the way he liked it. Your hands were trembling.
And maybe it was the wrong moment, or maybe he didn’t mean it at all, but he looked at it — looked at you — and said,
“I don’t need you hovering over me. I need space. Just—fuck. Stop trying so hard.”
Silence.
Your fingers shook.
Something in your chest cracked. Not loud — soft. Like the quiet break of something that had been held together too long.
“I was just trying to make you happy,” you whispered.
The dish clattered — not shattered, just dropped onto the counter as your hands fell away. Your breath hitched. The tears came faster than you could stop them.
And then he reached for you.
“Shit—wait, wait—baby, I didn’t mean—”
You flinched.
Like he’d slapped you. Like his voice alone had scorched the space between you.
his eyes widened. His hand froze midair.
You were already turning away — stumbling, shoulder brushing his as you ran past, up the stairs, into the bedroom, the soft sound of a door clicking shut behind you like a final period at the end of a sentence you didn’t want to write.
Downstairs, he stood in the kitchen. Staring at the plate you made. The food untouched. The candles still flickering softly. Pushing back the hair out his eyes
❥ pairing: sugar daddy/ceo!sylus qin x assistant!reader
❥ summary: “She has spent three years loving a man she cannot have. He has spent three years wanting a woman he won’t allow himself to reach for — until the day he decides, quietly and without hesitation, to reach anyway. What neither of them realises is that they’ve been finding each other all along. She just doesn’t know he’s the one on the other side of the screen yet.”
❥ genre: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)
❥ word count: 50K+??? (I am insane and not normal about sylus <3)
❥ status: COMPLETED - 1st of April
❥ warnings/tags: sugar daddy!sylus, alternative universe, ceo!sylus, yearning/longing, sylus is 39 in this, assistant!reader, sugar baby!reader, power imbalance, eventual boss/employee relationship, idiots in love, mild hurt/comfort, emotional/sensitive!reader, very long fic, banter, sylus the rage baiter. mutual masturbation, sexting, size difference. reader is shorter than sylus. reader is always audhd coded in my writing but anyone can read it. sylus is soft for reader, flirting/teasing, inexperienced/virgin!reader. dry humping, grinding, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, just in overall soft!sylus. sub!reader, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, size kink, full on daddy kink… I mean… it’s a sugar daddy au. so… <3, oral fixation, breeding kink, praise kink, pet names (kitten. sweetie. sweetheart etc.), multiple sex positions, pleasure dom!sylus, aftercare. mc loves the color pink a lot.
⟶ a/n: HIIIIII here I am with a new fic. as of the moment I am writing this it's still a wip. this fic is probably gonna be over 60k words. either way I still wanted to share the post on tumblr already. I always wanted to write a sugar daddy au BUT didn't find inspiration until RECENTLY. so in the lads server I'm in they are currently doing a 'kink bingo'. it's a little event that writers can participate and write a story around a certain trope. I went with sugar daddy 🤭💖 I said I wasn't gonna write for a while but what can I say… sylus brainrot. he's literally my muse. EITHER way. I hope you enjoy this story. 🥺💖 for anyone wondering… this is how I imagine sylus his build. either way I never know how to write fic in a short format so enjoy another lengthy fic from me again! also because I don’t wanna post it in parts you’ll have a sneakpeek on tumblr but to read the story in its full length you’ll have to head to ao3. thank you and I hope y'all love it as much as I loved writing it! 💘 title inspired by the song 'provider' by sleep token. (I don't normally listen to that type of music but my bestie leah recommended me this song for the fic) 💕💕💕
ps: for anyone wondering… this is how I imagine sylus his build. (without the blood and scratches) 🤭😋🤤🥵🥴🫠😵💫
this goes without saying, but if you don’t like it don’t read it <3
AO3 • masterlist • extra part of the story here
New York City does not care about your feelings.
This is something you’ve made your peace with over the years — the way it moves around you without slowing down, all noise and glass and cold wind off the Hudson in the early mornings when you’re walking the four blocks from the subway to Linkon Tower, coffee cup in hand, trying to remember if you forwarded that document last night or only dreamed that you did. The city asks nothing of you emotionally. It simply expects you to keep moving.
You are, in this way, well-suited to New York.
What you are less well-suited to — what you have been quietly, privately, catastrophically less well-suited to for approximately three years now — is being in love with your boss.
The elevator opens on the fifty-third floor.
You are fine.
“Good morning.”
His voice reaches you before you’ve fully stepped through the glass doors of the executive suite — low and unhurried, carrying the particular warmth he reserves for very few people, and you are, for reasons that keep you awake sometimes, one of them. Sylus is already at his desk, as he always is, as he has always been every single morning in the three years you’ve worked for him, because the man apparently does not sleep like a normal person. The Manhattan skyline stretches silver and pale behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the early light, he looks almost painterly — silver hair, dark suit, those red eyes lifting from the document in his hand to find you the moment you walk in, the way they always do, like he has a sense for you specifically.
Like he was waiting.
“Good morning,” you say, and you are very proud of how normal your voice sounds.
“How was the commute?” He asks it with genuine interest, setting his document down, which is one of the things that got you in trouble in the first place. The way he actually listens. The way Sylus, who runs a multi-billion dollar enterprise from this office and commands rooms full of people who are intimidated just by his posture, always has time to ask how your commute was.
“Cold,” you say, unwinding your scarf. “The L train decided this morning was a good time to have an existential crisis.”
“The L train always does that.” He tilts his head slightly. “You should have taken the car.”
“I’m not taking your car to work, Sylus.”
“You could.”
“I know I could. I’m choosing not to.” You drop your bag at your desk and pull out your tablet, already scrolling to his schedule. “It makes me feel like a kept woman.”
The silence that follows is approximately one beat too long.
You look up. Sylus is watching you with an expression you can’t fully decode — something that passed through his eyes too quickly, smoothed back over by the composed, unreadable surface he wears most of the time. The corner of his mouth curves.
“Heaven forbid,” he says mildly, and goes back to his document.
You turn back to your tablet and breathe.
Three years, you remind yourself. You have survived three years of this. You will survive today.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
Here is what three years has taught you about Sylus:
He takes his coffee black, no sugar, too hot for comfort, and he drinks it while standing at the window with Manhattan spread out below him like something he’s quietly fond of. He is pathologically early to everything and has zero patience for people who aren’t, with the single exception of you — for you, he simply comes to find you, appearing at your workspace door with that unhurried patience, as though waiting for you specifically is a different category than waiting in general.
He reads physical documents even though everything could be digital because he thinks better with paper in his hands. He keeps the office two degrees warmer than the building standard because he noticed, in your first winter working for him, that you were always cold. He has never once mentioned this to you directly. You figured it out yourself, six months in, when you checked the building’s climate control records out of sheer curiosity, and you had to sit with that knowledge quietly for a long time afterward.
He is privately, genuinely funny — not the performative wit he turns on in meetings, but something dryer and warmer that surfaces only in the quiet moments, usually aimed at you. He reads in at least four languages. He grew up far from here, far from any of this, and there are moments when something in his expression goes distant and careful and you sense the geography of everything he’s built between himself and whatever came before.
He has never raised his voice at you. Not once. In three years of high-pressure deadlines and impossible situations and the particular chaos that seems to follow a man of his ambition, he has never directed anything at you that wasn’t measured, and considered, and — underneath its careful composure — surprisingly kind.
He is also tall — unreasonably, almost absurdly tall, the kind of tall that means the rest of the world simply exists lower than him — broad-shouldered, white-haired, and red-eyed, and standing next to him, which requires you to tilt your head back at an angle you’ve gotten quietly used to, makes you feel both very small and, inexplicably, very safe.
This is the problem.
This is the entire problem.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
“You have the Meridian Capital call at nine,” you say, following him into his office with your tablet. This is another part of the choreography — the morning briefing, where you trail after him and he listens without looking at you directly, which you have learned means he’s paying the most attention. “Board review at eleven. You have a lunch block—”
“Clear it.”
You glance up. “You specifically asked for that block last week.”
“I know what I asked for last week.” He settles into his chair, leaning back in that easy way of his, long legs stretched under the desk. Even seated, the man is an unfair amount of presence. “Book somewhere for lunch instead. Somewhere quiet — not the Meridian district, I’ll have been on a call with those people for an hour and I’ll want a change of air.” His eyes come to you, and they’re soft in the way they sometimes are when it’s just the two of you and the morning is still early. “Somewhere you’d like. You choose.”
You pause. “You want me to choose.”
“Is that not what I said?”
“You’re very particular about restaurants, Sylus.”
“I’m particular in general,” he concedes. “But I trust your taste.” A brief pause. The softness in his expression doesn’t waver. “Lunch for two, somewhere you’d like. That’s all.”
You look at him for a moment too long — which you do sometimes, which you’ve been doing for three years, and he always holds the look, always lets you, like he has nothing to hide and all the time in the world, which is terrifying because it makes you feel seen — and then you nod and look back at your tablet.
“I’ll find somewhere,” you say.
“I know you will.” He picks up his pen. “You always do.”
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
The Meridian call runs long, as you predicted, and you have reorganized two schedules and soothed one very anxious junior analyst by the time it wraps. Sylus emerges from his office at eleven-oh-three, jacket on, expression still and composed from the professional armor he wears in those spaces, and crosses directly to your desk.
He sets a cup of tea down at your elbow.
Your tea — your specific order, the one you’d mentioned offhandedly to him eight months ago and apparently never needed to mention again — brewed at the temperature you like, with the little paper sleeve because the cup gets hot.
“Your eleven o’clock moved to eleven-fifteen,” you tell him, not trusting yourself to acknowledge the tea directly, “which means you have twelve minutes, and also I found a restaurant — it’s on the Upper West Side, French-American, supposed to be very quiet on weekdays—”
“Perfect.” He’s reading something on his phone, already walking, and he pauses at the edge of your workspace and glances back.
“You barely ate this morning.”
You blink. “I ate some cereal. How could you possibly—”
“You have the look,” he says, simply, like this is a perfectly reasonable thing to say. “The one that means you ate something that technically qualified as food and decided it counted.” The faintest curve of his mouth. “It doesn’t count.”
“It absolutely—”
“Book a table for twelve-thirty.” He’s already moving again, unhurried, like the conversation is entirely settled. “I’m not signing a single thing until I know you’ve had a real meal.”
Then he’s gone, moving down the hallway toward the boardroom, and you’re left staring at the empty doorway with your mouth still open and the faint, traitorous warmth of being known so precisely by someone spreading all the way up to your ears.
You close your mouth.
You book the table and then pick up your tea.
It is perfect.
You are in so much trouble.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
The restaurant he lets you choose is a small place tucked between a bookshop and a dry cleaner on West 74th — French in its bones but soft around the edges, the kind of room that smells like butter and old wood and feels completely removed from the city outside. You’re not sure how it stays so quiet in Manhattan. Maybe it exists slightly outside of time.
Sylus ducks slightly to come through the door.
He does this — accommodates the world’s architectures with a patient, practiced ease, as though he accepted a long time ago that most spaces weren’t built for him and has made his peace with it. You notice this more than you should. You notice the way he instinctively adjusts when he’s close to you too — angles himself, shortens his step, never makes you feel like the difference in your heights is anything other than simply the way things are.
The host seats you at a corner table. The light is golden and low.
“This is nice,” Sylus says, and he means it. You’ve gotten good at knowing when he means things.
“I thought you’d like it.” You unfold your menu. “It feels like somewhere you’d eat if you didn’t have to perform anything.”
He goes still for just a moment. Then, quietly: “That’s a very accurate read.”
“Three years,” you say simply.
Something in his expression moves — warm and careful at once, like he’s handling something he doesn’t want to drop. He looks at you across the small table, and in the golden light of this room outside of time he looks different than he does in the office. Younger, almost. Softer. Like the thing he usually holds back with both hands is closer to the surface.
“You’re distracted this week,” he says eventually. Not an accusation — an observation, offered gently, the way he offers you most things. “You hide it well. But I know your face.”
Your heart catches.
I know your face. Said like it’s simply a fact, something true and uncontested, filed away somewhere in him.
“I found something,” you say, because you can never not tell him things, in the end. He does something to your defenses — doesn’t dismantle them, exactly, just makes you feel like they’re not necessary with him, which might be worse. “An apartment. A loft.” You look at your water glass. “I’ve been dreaming about my own place for years. You know how New York is — I’ve been in the same sublet since I moved here, and it’s fine, it’s always been fine, but it’s not mine. Nothing in it is mine.” You smile, self-deprecating. “I walked past a listing last weekend. A loft in the West Village — high ceilings, big windows, exposed brick. There’s a little terrace that looks out over the rooftops and I just — I stood on the sidewalk and looked at it for a long time.”
Sylus is watching you with his full attention — the specific quality of stillness he gets when you’re saying something he wants to remember. His hands are folded on the table. He’s not eating. He’s just listening.
“It needs renovation,” you continue, quieter now. “A lot of it, still. Which is part of why the price is—” You exhale. “The price is a lot. More than a lot. My savings are good, I’ve been careful, but between the listing and the renovation costs it’s just—” You shake your head. “It’s not realistic right now.”
A long pause.
“Tell me about it,” Sylus says.
You blink. “I just—”
“Not the numbers.” His voice is gentle. “The place. Tell me about the loft.”
Oh.
Oh.
You look at him. He looks back, patient and entirely serious, and something in your chest aches in a way you don’t have good language for.
And so you tell him — the arched windows and the way the afternoon light would fall across the floors, the exposed brick that runs the whole length of the far wall, the little wrought-iron terrace barely big enough for two chairs and a plant but somehow perfect, the ceiling height, the bones of it. The way you’d stood on that sidewalk and seen, with a clarity that surprised you, exactly what it could become. What it could be. You tell him all of it, more than you meant to, more than is probably professional over a two-person lunch that you’re already trying not to read too much into.
Sylus listens to every word.
When you finish, he’s quiet for a moment. There’s something in his expression that’s gone a little careful.
“What’s the address?” he says.
You study him. “Why?”
“Because you’ve just described the place you want most in the world,” he says, very simply, “and I’m interested in things that matter to you.”
The ache in your chest deepens. You look at him for a long moment — this man who runs a company from the fifty-third floor of a Midtown tower, who is a decade older than you and a foot taller than you and should by any reasonable accounting be the most intimidating person in your life, and who instead feels, in moments like this, like the safest one.
You give him the address.
You don’t know what he’ll do with it.
You just know, the way you know most things about Sylus, that he’ll do something.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
The afternoon passes the way good afternoons in the office do — with a steady rhythm of tasks and small exchanges, the comfortable back-and-forth that you’ve built between you over three years like a language that only the two of you speak fluently. He stops by your desk at three to ask if you want anything from the coffee cart downstairs, which he would never do for anyone else, and brings you back a hot chocolate without commenting on it. You catch him at five-forty-five standing in the doorway of his office watching you finish up for the day with an expression you aren’t supposed to have seen — unguarded, quiet, something in it that sits low and warm in your stomach for the whole subway ride home.
It doesn’t mean what you want it to mean, you tell yourself, earbuds in, Manhattan rushing past outside the windows.
He’s just kind. He’s kind to you because you work for him and you’ve earned it and that’s all it is.
Forty-three blocks uptown, Sylus stands at his office window with your address on a notepad in his hand and thinks, for a very long time.
caleb and nonMC!reader in an loveless arranged marriage, where he's secretly in hopeless love with her
warnings. angst fest, eventual fluff, failing marriages, misunderstandings, suggestive content, jealousy, stalking/following, caleb getting rejected, reader in denial, feelings are hard
preview. "Why wouldn't I be romantic? I'm your husband." He's been doing that lately--dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they're nothing. Somehow always when you're least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he's either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he's doing. You're willing to bet on the latter.
wc. 7.4k
Your husband does not love you. He doesn’t love anyone except for one, and it is not you.
You used to like romance. You’d fantasize about who your beloved forever would be in your room, kicking your feet childishly at the thought of someone loving you so purely. So innocently. You wondered what kind of person they’d be, what kinds of foods they’d like, what their family is like. You wondered which holiday would be their favorite, whether they’d want children, whether they’d have a time-consuming job. But really, none of it mattered, because you only wanted someone by your side.
So when you were told you’d be put into an arranged marriage, you tried to be hopeful. An embarrassing, pathetic hope that maybe this man could love you the way men love in books and movies if you tried hard enough.
Caleb Xia is not a loving person. You realized this the moment he stepped into the room with cold, lifeless eyes that seemed to stare straight through you as if the wall was worth more than your presence. He’d smiled, but it felt stiff. Awkward. But you’re sure yours was the same.
Still, his eyes were beautiful. Your hope flickered like a small stubborn flame in your chest that you wanted to guard against the blizzard. The marriage was simple. You showed up to the courthouse in a knee-length white dress, constantly adjusting at the pearls around your neck anxiously while he signed the papers. Once he was done, he’d simply slid it over to you, evidently avoiding your eyes.
“Are you sure?” you’d asked meekly, as if speaking any louder than a whisper would shatter your heart. You weren’t sure if you were asking him or yourself. Not that it mattered, much.
He spared you a soft smile. Pity, maybe, with how his eyes remained empty, but you took it anyway.
A starved man does not beg for more. The flame remained.
The only reason he married you was because MC had gotten married to another childhood friend of theirs. When he mentioned it, you thought nothing of it at first. But when the only photo he’d put up throughout your entire house was one of him and her as children, while your awkwardly situated courthouse picture sat beside it, you knew. He didn’t stop to stare at your photo, ever. Not any of the photos. Only hers.
The final blow to the puny flame remaining in your heart was when you’d finally initiated physical contact. To perform the marital duty, he’d hovered above you in just his pants while you stared up at him in your thin pajamas that did little to hide what was beneath it. There was no setting the mood. The air was cold, the room dull because only your half had any semblance of effort that had gone into decorating it. When he kissed you, it felt more like his lips were simply touching yours gently. Almost tapping it.
It felt like nothing.
This was not romantic at all.
“Are you okay? Is this okay?” he asked, pulling back with a furrow in his brows—probably because you were lying lifelessly while holding your breath. You wondered how he could ask something so softly when his eyes remained so muted. Maybe not softly. Maybe just quiet.
“It’s okay.” You wanted to curl up and go to sleep, but he was the only semblance of warmth in the freezing room.
But when his hand slid up your shirt, resting atop of your stomach, you stopped breathing again. He stopped as well. Your gazes met silently, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. A dull, slow stop. And then suddenly, he was off you, clambering to pull his shirt back on as you sat up in confusion, eyes wide.
“I can’t,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”
The flame went out.
Were you really so distasteful? So disgusting that he didn’t want to lay his hands on his own wife? Or was it that you were just too different from her? Should you be offended? Are you even offended? Relieved? Hurt?
Does it even matter?
Once you were sure he’s gone, you cried yourself to sleep.
The next few years are a blur that you wish had somehow gone even faster. The days are a bore. He’s away for weeks—maybe even months—at a time. In those periods of time, the house feels like a maze not meant for only one person. At the same time, maybe it’s better he’s away.
Caleb Xia is not a mean person. On paper, he’s a decent husband. He cleans, cooks, and never complains if you ask him to do something. He smiles, nods, and goes on his way. Yet, it feels more like a vaguely close roommate than a husband. The two of you eat in silence, watch TV in silence, and even go to bed in different rooms. You suppose you can’t complain—it’s not like you put in much effort to get to know him well anyway.
The only thing he does that even comes close to romance is bringing you flowers. You’d told him once that you wished the house had space for a garden to plant them, and he’d brought you a bouquet later that week. Since then, he brings them every few weeks routinely. They appear in the vase beside the couch as if they’ve just magically appeared.
They’re pretty, you think.
Resentment builds, slowly but surely, probably on both ends as in most marriages. This kind of life is killing you inside. This lonely, aimless life in a house that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, in a bed that feels too large.
“I want to work,” you say one day, picking at your food blankly. “I have an interview tomorrow, so I won’t be here for most of the day from now on if I get it.”
A fork clatters from across the table. “What? Why?”
You don’t necessarily have to work given Caleb’s plentiful paycheck, but you want to anyway because you can’t stand being in that gigantic house all by yourself. But of course, how could you tell this to the man in front of you? The man you don’t even know the favorite color of?
“It’s a regular office job.”
“I didn’t ask what it was,” he blurts, eyes narrowing in concern. “I’m asking why? Do I not give you enough money? You know you have access to everything on the card, right?”
You shrug. “It’s not about the money…I just think I need something to do throughout the day.”
“What about picking up another hobby?”
“I’ve exhausted most of them.”
“Then traveling?”
“By myself?” you frown. “It’s not like you’re ever here.”
You’re not sure why the words slip through your teeth, but they do, and the disdain is apparent. He seems surprised at first, blinking, before his shoulder slump again and the corners of his lips twitch downward. For some reason, it makes you feel—good? Alive, more so. So you keep talking. “You’re always working. You even missed my friend’s wedding after I told her we’d be there.”
He shoots back immediately, brows tight. “That was a special case—it was an emergency.”
“That’s fine,” you chew slowly on your food. “But I don’t want to wait around all day for you to get back.”
“You shouldn’t work if you don’t have to. I make more than enough.”
“Again, not the point.”
His lips tighten, pursing. “What will your family think if they hear that I’m making you work after I told them that I’d take care of you?”
You snort. “Is this what you call ‘taking care of’?”
Immediately, you can tell that you’ve struck a nerve. And for some reason, it feels good again. Like you’re alive, again. Maybe you just like pissing him off. His expression shifts momentarily to something you can’t recognize before it settles disapprovingly and silence befalls the both of you. You like when he doesn’t have that stupid smile he always has. The fake, lifeless smile he’d given you when you first met. You’d rather he just be upset, just like this. He looks like he wants to say something, but then shuts his mouth, swallowing the lump in his throat.
His phone rings, slicing the tension in the air like a knife. Caleb glances at the caller ID for a split second before he’s already on his feet, pacing to the sink to put his plates away in a hurry. “I’m sorry, I need to take this. Let me know how the interview goes..”
You stare at your plate, listening to his feet pad around in a hurry. “Is it MC?”
He whips his head around. “What?”
You stand from your seat to dump your food into the sink, ignoring the slight clench in your chest. He’s always been this way. Jumping at any opportunity to be useful to her, while he leaves everyone else in the dust. “Nevermind. Go.”
Once you hear the front door shut, you slump into the couch face first, hoping it swallows you whole before he comes back. This has to be some sort of humiliation ritual. Perhaps you committed a grave sin in your past life, because you’re not sure what you could’ve possibly done to warrant such a feeling. The sunset seeps through the window planes and hits half of your face, bathing you in a warmth that had been missing from the rest of the house. The heat makes you sleepy, and you soon find your eyelids drooping shut, gazing lazily at a photo of the two of you on the coffee table. You don’t remember when it was taken, but in it, you genuinely look like you’re almost enjoying yourself. You can’t tell with him, though. You can never really tell.
“Stupid Xia,” you mutter as you fall deep into slumber.
When you awake again, the sun has fully set. There’s a blanket draped over you and when you blink away the blots in your vision, you’re met face to face with a fresh vase of flowers on the coffee table. They smell nice.
Damn it.
Sometimes, you wish he was just an asshole.
You learn about him through the photo albums he has stashed away in the attic. It’s not like you were looking for them. You’d only been cleaning when they managed to topple right into your hands, and since he always says whatever’s his is yours, you figure you might as well satisfy your curiosity. There’s less than you expected, unfortunately. Most photos are taken by him, but there’s a few in between where he’s the subject. Him at his birthday party, his graduation ceremony, him packing for college, and the day he left for the DAA.
It’s odd. You forget he was a normal teenager at one point, and not a high ranking colonel.
The pictures are through his eyes. Before you can stop, you find yourself becoming engrossed in lacing the photos together into some semblance of a story in your head. You see his childhood home and the model planes he enjoys building. His outings with MC and his grandmother. His last minute halloween costumes. Him and his friends carrying out a prank on someone. His studies. His likes. His dislikes.
Caleb Xia is a charming person. If you hadn’t met the way you did, you think you might’ve liked him a little more.
When you ask him a question regarding one of the photos at dinner, he nearly chokes on his food. You quirk a brow in response. “Was I not supposed to see them?”
“No, it’s fine if you look…” he mumbles, taking a sip of water to gather himself. You squint—are his ears pink? You didn’t know he was capable of doing something kinda adorable. “It’s just a little embarrassing.”
“Like the picture of your airplane swim trunks from when you were a kid–”
He coughs again, and you snicker.
You think he’s tolerable—just a bit.
Weeks pass. Life gets a little easier with your job and more to do—it might even be a bit fun. With your new friends at your workplace and a new sense of accomplishment, the less you stress about your loveless marriage and the more you appreciate what you have. Your interactions with Caleb become less forced. Not because you’ve somehow managed to miraculously understand how his brain functions, but because you put less weight on what you say. It’s hard to see someone as intimidating when you’ve seen a photo of them in a stupid halloween costume. He seems to notice the change too.
[Caleb Xia]: I got us fried chicken for dinner. Don’t be too late so it doesn’t get cold :)
Your mouth waters. It’s nice, almost. Emphasis on the almost.
Outside, the evening chill hits your cheeks, sharp enough to wake you up and wrap your jacket tighter around yourself. The street is busy but not crowded, as the sun has just set. A couple laughs too loudly across the road. Somewhere, a bus exhales.
You start down your usual route.
At first, it’s nothing. Just footsteps. Not out of place. People exist. People walk. People go home.
But something’s off. Your gut insists on it, and it’s hard to ignore.
You slow slightly, just enough to be subtle. The footsteps slow too.
Your fingers tighten around your bag.
Coincidence, surely.
You don’t turn around, yet. Turning means you have to see something and acknowledge that it’s real. Instead, you adjust your pace again. Faster this time.
The footsteps quicken, dropping your heart to your stomach.
Your eyes dart around you anxiously. It’s dark. Streetlamps are guiding your path home, and though the neighborhood is nice, it’s empty. Well, except for you and the footsteps that seemingly sound like they’re getting ever so closer every few seconds. You throat feels dry.
Phone. You need to tell someone. Even if you’re wrong—even if it’s just a hunch.
[You]: Still there?
[Caleb Xia]: Yea. why?
[You]: I think there’s someone following me
Your message sends, and for a moment air doesn’t enter your lungs.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
[Caleb Xia]: I’m coming.
You don’t know how he’s going to find you, but you don’t bother questioning it at the moment. You swallow, and your throat is dry enough that it hurts. The streetlamps cast long shadows across the pavement, and it’s hard to discern whether something is just a shadow or something else in the dark.
You don’t turn around.
Your legs carry you as fast as you can go without breaking into a sprint, and your grip tightens around your phone until your fingers ache. Hurry, you think. Hurry up, Caleb.
A car passes.
He’s closer now, whoever it is.
Your breath catches. Your shoulders tense, every instinct screaming at you to run, but your legs feel like they’ve forgotten how.
Suddenly, a car turns the corner too fast, tires kissing the curb before readjusting and you nearly jump out of your own skin. The tint on the car makes it too difficult to see inside, not that you’d be able to see much regardless due to the dark. It slows to a stop as it sees you, and you think if this isn’t who you’re expecting, it might actually be the end for you.
The passenger door swings open.
“Get in.”
Relief floods your body when you hear his voice and you stumble to clamber in.
Relief?
This is Caleb Xia you’re talking about. Now that you think about it, you’re unsure why he was the first you contacted instead of the police. Your fingers had tapped on his profile faster than you could think. Was it just because he was at the top of your contacts? Was it because he was near? It must be, right? It had been instinctual. Your body had reacted—and it had somehow worked out.
Regardless, you can’t possibly deny how relieved you feel right now.
You wonder if this is how MC always feels. It must be nice to know that someone so reliable is always at her beck and call, right? To come running at just a few words—maybe she wouldn’t have had to walk home in the first place. Maybe he would’ve driven her. You feel sick. This isn’t what you should be thinking about right now. Right now, you need to report it to the police and take a much needed nap.
A part of you is envious of her.
“You should’ve called me earlier.”
The chicken doesn’t look as appetizing anymore even despite it sitting before you in all its crispy fried glory. The growling in your stomach from earlier is replaced by a slight pain, and it’s difficult to tell if you’ve only lost your appetite or if it’s a different kind of anxiousness. He watches you from across the table with a perplexed frown while you pick at the chicken aimlessly, nodding blankly.
“I’ll report it first thing in the morning,” Caleb sighs. “I should pick you up from work from now own. Or I’ll call you a taxi if I can’t.”
You nod again.
“Are you okay?”
Ah, he’s asking that again. You hate when he does.
You tilt your head. “I’m just sort of in shock, I think.”
“I know, but you should eat at least a bit. Here.” He holds a piece of chicken on a fork to your face and you scrunch your nose. He smirks. “Here comes the airplane?”
“I might vomit all over you.” A half lie.
He replies instantly. “Then I’ll clean it. Eat.”
For a reason that you just attribute to exhaustion, you don’t bother arguing. Instead, you pop it into your mouth, cheeks dusting pink at the intimacy of the act. He hums in approval and you try your best not to choke. Why was he feeding you—a grown woman? And why were you letting him?
How bizarre. This whole day is bizarre.
At least you’re home—thanks to him.
“Thank you,” you mumble softly. “For getting there so fast.”
He looks almost offended, shaking his head. “Don’t thank me, it was a given. I’m just happy you thought to call me. I was worried you wouldn’t.”
Why did you call him? Well, you suppose he is your husband at the end of the day. One who has eyes for another, but your husband nonetheless. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He stops for a moment, as if in thought, and then smiles sheepishly. Not the annoying fake smile he puts on for show, but one that’s riddled with guilt. Shame. You want to know why. “Just assumed you wouldn’t.”
Strangely, the words make your chest tight.
Your eyes meet his usual striking violets, shoulders slumping as you look away once the eye contact feels too intense. “I’m glad I did.”
You barely catch the tips of his ears turning pink.
Caleb keeps his word for the months following the event. You never have reason to pass by that street again on foot, and although you continue to insist it’s not necessary, having him as your private driver of sorts does feel kind of nice. You think eventually, you’ve come to call him more than a stranger. He’s easier to talk to. Funnier than you thought, actually, when he’s not being annoying to tease you.
You’d never tell him that though, of course.
You blink warily, rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand when a ray of sunlight escapes through the shades of your bedroom and hit your face. However, it’s not what awakes you. Rather, it’s the insistent buzzing of your phone on your bedside table, which you barely manage to snatch without falling off the edge of the bed.
[Caleb (husband)]: morning sleepinghead, you awake?
[Caleb (husband)]: Come eat breakfast :> made apple juice too
[Caleb (husband)]: I better hear you shuffling around in your room in the next few minutes or i’ll have to come drag you out.. :)
Caleb Xia, you find, nags a lot.
“Sleep well?” he chuckles when you finally emerge, still half-awake despite being fully dressed. You scratch the back of your neck, yawning as you perch yourself on one of the chairs at the counter where he’s standing with an apron tied neatly behind him. If you were just a tad bit more awake, you’d have a field day making a snide comment about it.
“Mm.”
He laughs again, gently. Did he always sound so soft?
“You can always quit your job, y’know,” he shrugs, placing a plate of breakfast foods in front of you. It smells immaculate, as usual. “Offer’s always on the table.”
You shove a forkful of eggs into your mouth, squinting at him. “Why do you wanth me shoo be unemployed sho bad? My parentsh don’t care.”
“It’s not about your family…It just doesn’t seem necessary.”
“I like working. Just not waking up so early.”
“I only want you to avoid overextending yourself if you don’t have to,” he pops a tomato into his own mouth. “I make enough for you to get whatever you want, don’t I?”
“But I want my own money, too.”
“My money is your money. This is the least I can do.”
“Careful,” you snort. “You sound dangerously close to being romantic.”
He tilts his head. “Why wouldn’t I be romantic? I’m your husband.”
This time, you really choke on your food, coughing as he quickly hands you the apple juice. He’s been doing that lately—dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they’re nothing. Somehow always when you’re least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he’s either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he’s doing.
You’re willing to bet on the latter.
Caleb Xia, as you figure out in the time you spend with him in his car on the way to work, has terrible taste in films.
“That movie is awful. There’s no way that’s your favorite.”
He gasps dramatically and you don’t bother suppressing the urge to roll your eyes. “Hey, don’t judge before you try it.”
“I’d like it if I never had to try it, actually.”
The smile adorning your lips falls in an instant the car slows to a stop. You find yourself growing disappointed when you arrive at your workplace, because it means you’ll have to leave him. You want to scold yourself for thinking such preposterous thoughts. What are you? A teenager who’s hanging out with a boy for the first time?
You’re married, for god’s sake.
Then again, so what if his company isn’t so bad? What if you think he’s a bit more to you than tolerable? Isn’t that allowed? He’s your husband, after all. If it doesn’t feel so bad, maybe you could let yourself reprise and enjoy it while it lasts.
“Ah, right, I should tell you—I’ll be leaving this weekend for work.”
Ah, nevermind. Reality has a way of slapping you across the face when you least expect it.
“How long?”
“A few weeks at best,” he pauses, voice quieter. “Months, if I’m unlucky.”
You really despise the subtle aching in your chest.
You hate how easily it slips in. How, for a second, it makes the flame that’s gone out years ago flicker, as if these moments could mean more than they do. They don’t. You know they don’t. They aren’t yours to keep. None of it is.
The warmth, the ease, the way he looks at you like this—like you’re something he actually cares about—it’s all fake. Stolen. You’re just standing in the space where someone else is supposed to be.
You press your lips together, forcing the feeling down before it can spread any further. Get a grip.
His palm pats the top of your head, making your cheeks heat against your will. With a grin, he nods. But it’s stiff. The slight crinkle between his brows. Upset. Upset? “I’ll see you tonight.”
It’s like he knows what you’re thinking before you know yourself.
“Who said I want to?”
“You wound me.”
As soon as you enter the building, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket.
[Caleb (husband)]: I know you’re at work, but…
[Caleb (husband)]: Movie night tn ?? i can make us popcorn :D
[Caleb (husband)]: And yes we’re watching my fav so you can stop calling it bad :>
[Caleb (husband)]: Last hurrah before i leave
This is dangerous, you think. Really, really dangerous.
You seriously hope you don’t fall for him, if it isn’t too late already.
A few hours later, the living room is dimly lit with soft lights, the low hum of something playing in the background as Caleb sets everything up. The bowl of popcorn ends up a little too full, a few pieces spilling onto the counter as he carries it over, muttering something under his breath as he munches on the ones that are about to spill over. You sink into the couch, watching him move around the room—adjusting the volume and flipping through options he’s already decided on.
It’s strange, how easy it feels. How normal.
You don’t realize you’re staring until he glances over.
So you look away quickly, fixing your gaze on the screen. But a few seconds pass, and you can feel his attention still lingering.
You pretend not to notice.
What are you doing? What are either of you doing?
You don’t say anything, swallowing the question down into the pit in your stomach.
The movie stars a side character with a passionate devotion to his family, who reminds you of Caleb. Oddly enough, the resemblance is almost uncanny. You kind of want to root for him but also want him to lose terribly. You huff quietly. “He’s so intense.”
Caleb glances over, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “What? You wouldn’t want someone like that?”
You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I mean… he’s a bit much.”
A pause.
“…but it comes from a good place. I like him.”
He stills.
You pick at a piece of popcorn, rolling it between your fingers. “He reminds me of you a little.”
“Yeah?”
You shrug, still not quite looking at him. “Yeah.” A small breath escapes you before you can stop it. “MC is really lucky to have you.”
He goes quiet. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you.
“…Lucky,” he repeats, almost to himself.
You hesitate, then ruin it by saying more. "I mean, you're always there for her, you know? If she calls, you come running. Everyone wants someone like that."
It was supposed to come off lightheartedly, but it only digs the hole deeper.
Something in his expression shifts. His smile fades, his face losing its usual ease as it drops to something you’ve never seen on him before. It contorts in phases. Surprise, and then confusion, and finally into one you prefer the least.
Panic. Something is wrong.
You wish you’d just shut up. The long pause makes you wish you were just a fly on the wall right now.
“Is this why?” he blinks, and his eyes glisten with something you haven’t seen from him. Void of the usual emptiness but replaced with something fuller. Heavier. “Is this why you hate me so much? Because of MC?”
Huh?
“Fuck,” one hand pulls at the roots of his hair, his top teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he attempts to hide his face from you. “I’m a moron. I should’ve known.”
What? Despite your hands growing clammy, you feel cold. Like the blood is draining from your face.
“You must hate me so much.”
When did you ever hate him? You’ve loathed him, certainly, when he’d disappear for weeks on end leaving you all alone in this cold, lifeless house. You’ve wanted to punch your balled up fists into his chest, knowing that it wouldn’t phase him in the slightest simply to alleviate some of your own anger. You’ve wanted to run away a multitude of times. But hate? Have you ever hated Caleb? Can you hate Caleb?
“Caleb.”
“This is my fault. I should’ve been more aware. It’s so obvious now, I feel like an idiot.”
“Caleb.”
“I thought you just hated me because this isn’t a marriage you wanted,” his voice cracks, and he’s burying his face into his palms. “I thought staying away from you was what you wanted. Shit, I’m so stupid.”
“Caleb,” you say, more firmly this time, and he finally looks at you. There’s a watery film over his usually lifeless eyes, glistening against the light of the TV screen, and it makes the pit in your stomach grow deeper. You don’t like seeing him like this. You thought you would, but you don’t.
His voice is a mere whisper now. He looks like he wants to vomit out a million words at once, but there’s three specific ones that linger on his tongue. Is this what they call a woman's intuition? You’re not sure how, but in the moment, it feels like you’re in his head. For the first time in the 4 years you’ve been wed to Caleb Xia, you feel like you can understand him.
A victory that doesn’t feel like one at all.
“Listen to me,” he grabs your hands in his, holding them in front of his chest. “I don’t love her—not as a woman. I haven’t in a long time. She and Zayne are like my family, and I’d be a terrible person not to be happy for them. I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear to you. I’m so sorry.”
Your heart doesn’t seem to be beating anymore.
The air is too thick. Like liquid entering your lungs.
Caleb opens his mouth and then shuts it again, his words stuck in the back of his throat. You’re not sure if you want to hear what he wants to say. The words hold too much value, too many years of hurt, and you don’t know how you’ll react. You don’t want to acknowledge any of this as real, because if it is, what was all of this for? What were the years you spent holed up in your room meant to achieve? Were you just being a fool? And in that case, would you even want to know?
No. You don’t.
So instead, you kiss him.
A wordless, messy kiss. Though he’s taken aback at first, he’s quick to slot his mouth against yours eagerly, hands flying to your waist to pull you closer as if a man starved. It’s desperate. Different from the kiss you shared with him at the courthouse, or for transactional purposes. His mouth feels hot against yours, and when his tongue swipes against your lip, you let him in.
You climb onto his lap, straddling him as he presses you flush against him. The movie is long forgotten. His hair weeds through the crevices between your fingers and he deepens the kiss as if he’s trying to physically become one with you. His heart hammers against your own like a timer, warning you of what this could mean, but you don’t care.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he mumbles against you, and then you’re suddenly being lifted up to your room with his hands supporting your thighs around his waist. But even those few seconds aren’t worth staying apart for, because he’s kissing your neck, mouthing at spots that have you pursing your lips to avoid making any embarrassing sounds. He lets you down gently onto the middle of your bed and follows suit, pushing you onto your back.
You’re here again.
He’s looming over you, face flushed in a deep red this time. He’ll ask if you’re okay. If this is okay. And then he’ll take off his shirt and his hand will slide up yours. It’ll be better this time, because it’s not out of some twisted sense of duty. Desire pulses at your core, but you can’t help but shake off this curdling feeling in your chest, as if you want to hurl. You wait for what you expect, eyes never leaving his.
Instead, he breathes sharply. “I love you.”
The world stops.
“You don’t have to say anything back that I don’t deserve. I just want you to know,” he whispers.
Can anyone love someone like you—much less, your husband? You start breathing again because you have to, staring up at him as if he’s gone insane. In fact, you think you’ve gone insane. Kissing him, lying beneath him, enjoying his presence, looking forward to his breakfasts, letting him drop you off at work, feeling disappointed that he’s leaving—you’ve most definitely died and come back as another person, because this is not you.
This is Caleb Xia. He is an unloving person. He cannot love. But what happens if he does? With tears stinging at his eyes, watching you with a mix of pure adoration and sorrow, he’s telling you he loves you. Love is a strong word, isn’t it? But he means it. He loves you. Caleb loves you. You want to call him a liar, but he’s not.
You want to cry into his chest and run away at the same time.
The flame flickers, and you panic. Not because you despise him, or because his confession is one you don’t want to accept, but because this flame is not one you welcome with open arms anymore. It’s too easy to hurt. Too easy to shrink, yet somehow impossible to destroy.
“I can’t,” you croak. “Not right now.”
Even Caleb can’t mask the hurt that deepens his frown, as if you’ve torn his heart straight from his chest. For a man with so much power, he’s never looked more powerless than he does now.
It feels too vulnerable. Open. As if you’re naked and he’s fully clothed, when it’s infact the exact opposite. You don’t want to open up to him again. You don’t want him to snuff out that small flame you have that never seems to go out no matter how much you douse it in water. Or maybe you do?
He forces a crooked smile, strained against his very will and nods before leaving the room. As the door slips shut, he doesn’t turn to look at you. “Sleep tight.”
You don’t get much sleep that night at all.
Morning comes anyway.
And then another.
And another.
His absence returns, but this time because you’re the one avoiding him. You leave earlier than usual, linger longer at work, find excuses in the smallest things—emails, errands, anything that keeps you just a little out of sync with him. When you do cross paths, it’s brief. Polite. A short good morning or a quick goodnight. It’s easier that way.
You tell yourself this is what you wanted—to put distance back where it belongs. Whatever that night was, whatever flame flickered between you, it will fade. It must fade.
He isn’t yours. Even if he says he is, there’s too much pain--too many years of resentment built up that you don’t know what to do with.
You catch yourself thinking about it at mundane times—standing in line, walking home, staring at your coworkers chatting amongst themselves. The apartment feels different already, like it’s preparing to be emptier. As cold as it was a few months ago, when he was still Caleb Xia, and not just Caleb.
You take the time away from him to reset. To think, but not too much. You find yourself flipping through his photo albums again, smiling when you flip to a particularly embarrassing one. You hear him shuffling outside your room, probably packing for his business trip. You’re aware of what he risks everytime he disappears for weeks at a time—not only his life, but the lives of his men—and you don’t know how he bears to leave home everytime he does.
But he always comes back. He has to.
You suppose it’s for the best for now. And when he returns, things will return to normal. The house won’t be as awkward as it is. The two of you will slip into your usual routine of a loveless marriage, and you’ll find other avenues in life to derive joy from. So will he.
The front door shuts faster than you anticipated.
He’s gone.
This is fine.
This is what you wanted.
The house is empty again. You pace to the living room, and surprisingly, a fresh bouquet of flowers is propped inside their usual vase. You lift the vase into your hands, letting the scent of the flowers waft into your nose. They smell good. New. Sort of like the detergent he uses when doing the laundry.
You set the vase back down, nails pressing faint crescents into your skin.
His face when you last saw him keeps flickering in your mind. So much hurt. Raw with fear.
“I love you.”
You want to tell him he doesn’t. You want to remind yourself that this is your husband. Your heartless, cunning husband who kills people for a living—who doesn’t care about anyone but his family.
But you’re his family, aren’t you?
You can still smell his cologne in the air.
You must’ve missed it from the glint of the sunlight in the glass coffee table—there’s a small shimmer of something sitting beside the vase. With a quirked brow, you pick it up. He usually never leaves trash lying around.
You nearly drop it.
His wedding band.
Your breath stutters, sharp and uneven, like your lungs have forgotten how to work. Your heart pounds as you realize that you're shaking, eyes wide as saucers as you stare at the object in your hands.
No.
He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t just leave it.
The ring sits in your palm like a brick that weighs your entire body down. This isn’t something you can pretend will reset when he comes back.
This means no more quiet dinners. No more stupid arguments over movies he insists are good. No more messages waiting for you when you’re at work. No more him, standing at the counter every morning with a pan in his hand. No more him.
And worst of all, no more chance to fix it. To tell him your side of the story.
Your body moves before your mind catches up.
You wrench the front door open, not bothering to lock it behind you as your feet hit the pavement with just your socks. The air burns your throat as you run, lungs screaming, heart still pounding like it’s trying to break through your ribcage.
He can’t leave.
The stinging beneath your feet go unregistered as you clutch the ring so tightly that it feels like it might dig into your flesh.
Just forward, you hiss to yourself. Faster. You turn corner after corner, your body begging you to stop overexerting yourself, but you can’t bother to care. You don’t even register where you’re going, but you need to go somewhere. It feels like ages and seconds at the same time, as you beg nobody in particular for one more chance.
A chance for what, you're not sure.
Reconciliation? Love? Understanding?
Is any of that possible? And if not, why are you running like your very life depends on it?
The ring digs further into your skin, and you realize it doesn't matter as long as you find who it belongs to. Him. Caleb. The reason and bane of your existence, and apparently what has you running across the entire town in hopes of bringing him back.
Finally, you slam into something solid.
The impact knocks the breath out of you, your grip loosening as the ring nearly slips from your fingers. A hand catches your arms before you can stumble back too far, steadying you with a familiar scent that somehow lets you breathe again.
“Hey—watch it—oh.”
You freeze in place, breath hitching as you look up. Standing right in front of you, he appears slightly disheveled, one hand still gripping your arm while the other awkwardly balances a paper bag of groceries. Caleb blinks, his eyes immediately scanning over your frame before landing on your feet. “Why are you here? Are you okay? And where are your shoes, it’s dangerou—”
“Don’t go, Caleb,” you sniffle, tears already stinging at your eyes as your body finally has a chance to rest, though it doesn’t feel much better. “Please don’t go.”
He stares at you as if you've grown a third eye, nearly dropping his bag of groceries at your pleas. Even the tips of his ears turn red, flustered. "What are you--"
“Why did you leave the ring? Did you lie?” About loving me?
His expression falls, attention honing in on the ring gripped in your fist. Something seems to click in his head, and immediately, he shakes his head. “No, of course not, I was going to leave a note. I just went out to get groceries before I left—”
“So you were going to leave the ring?”
“Well, yes, but can we–”
“Do you not like me anymore?” you blurt, finger bunching at the fabric of his sleeve. “Is it because I ignored you for a week?”
He almost looks offended. “Of course I still like you.”
“Then why?”
His voice softens, as if speaking too loud will scare you away. Hesitantly, he sheepishly releases your arms. Instead, he slowly takes your hand in his, lips pursing as he sighs. His palm feels rough with calluses from the work he does, but light as feathers against your skin. His touch is gentle, as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. “I figured there was no reason for me to tie you to me anymore. I won’t force you to be with someone you can’t even stand to be around. Someone you hate. It’d be selfish.”
Your words tumble out before you can process them. “I don’t hate you.”
Finally, with your hand in his, the world feels okay again. This feeling tells you you’re screwed, but you don’t care.
“I’ve been mad at you, and I don’t know what to do with your feelings because they make no sense, but I don’t hate you,” you mutter. “You’re just too confusing.”
“...Confusing?”
“I just—I don’t know what to do, Caleb,” you wipe vigorously at your eyes with your free hand, head falling to avoid looking him at him. “I don’t know what to think about you. How to feel about you.”
His eyes ease, and you feel him squeeze your fingers. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No.”
“Do you love me?”
“I don’t know.”
Caleb has always been better at reading you than yourself. A flash of hurt ripples across his face, but his eyes maintain its soft glimmer—because he knows. Even if you say you don’t know, he knows. He also knows that you’re afraid of those words, and he doesn’t blame you for it.
So instead, he asks something else. “What am I to you?”
You want to call him a million things. The man who left you by yourself, the man who refused to touch you for so many years, the man who’d chosen to sleep in the guest bedroom just to avoid taking up space in yours. He’s felt awful, inconsiderate, and cold. But he’s also the man who’s gotten you flowers, the man who’d break four speeding laws to make you feel safe, the man who makes sure you’re never hungry, the man who folds your laundry neatly and organizes it color-coded in your closet. The man who you wish you could slap across the face and hold close to you at the same time. The man who’s made you feel alone yet so cared for all at once.
You like him, you think. In some strange way that’s never been covered in the romantic films you used to clutch onto like a life line, you like him. The ‘L’ word teeters on the tip of your tongue like a marble rolling around to decide what these emotions settling in your heart really are, but it doesn’t really matter. All you know is that you need him. You want him. You want him to hold your face and kiss you tenderly, like he did that night. You want him to do it again and again until you can’t breathe, and all you can feel is him. You want to eat dinner with him every night and wake up in the morning to his stupid apron. You want to go grocery shopping with him. You want to fall asleep watching a movie in his arms.
“What am I to you?”
Tears fall down your cheeks in fat globs and you try your hardest not to let your voice crack. “My husband.”
His eyes widen for a moment, and then his lips split into a wide grin that resembles the lovesick expression of a teenage boy who’s holding hands for the first time. Caleb drops his grocery bag to his feet and reaches either hands to the sides of your face, cradling you gingerly as he guides you closer. Before you’re even registering it, he brushes a strand of hair out of your forehead and presses a soft but firm kiss to your temple, where you can feel him smile against your skin.
“Who am I to say no my wife?”
Your marriage is a messy, complicated jumble of emotions. The confusion. The fear. The warmth. It’s not perfect. It never will be. And despite it all, you don’t want it any other way, because Caleb Xia is a loving person.
taglist. @inzanekillian @someonestopsoren @sweetieelilii @3rdslide2heaven @gabburabbu @moltensceptergambit @cherrysherryblossom @younbeanz @txtworlddom @glitterykingdomheart @applebrat9 @ephemeraleb @cherrybomb5000 @chartreuxxlikesboba @corvusmemoriae @toorulee @ilovecoffe8 @cordidy @younghideoutberserker @yesbiaswrecked @madnesslusy @bypanana @noosummert @littleappleorchard @anyeeyna @xie-hua (I apologize if I didn't add you! I always struggle with tagging on tumblr lol!)
being married to your childhood sweetheart should be the pinnacle of happiness in your life… but when he returns from the war, he is no longer the man you once knew—changed, distant, a stranger with familiar face. will you attain your true love in this lifetime?
genre/warnings:
18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—angst, childhood friends to lovers, arranged marriage, jealousy, fluff, explicit smut, hurt/comfort, lady!reader and lord!zayne, based on zayne' card entwined kites
notes:
the allure of lord zayne... yeah, that, prince rafayel and some angsty dose is the plot <3 tagging @hachisenshi @cherrywinetuscany @rjreins @redrookrising as per request
Lady of Anlan.
For years, that title was not something you covet. When you were first promised to Zayne, he had neither titles or rank—just a humble son of a small lord with a big heart and shy smile.
But you fell in love with him with such ease, as he did too for you.
And yet, that honorable title fell into your hands the moment you married him, now better known as the Lord of Anlan—
A man who is not the gentle boy you once knew. He was now cold, detached, and unwilling to spare you even a trace of the warmth he once showed so freely.
It was such a stark contrast that you were left reeling. Six months into your marriage, reality bore little resemblance to the life you had once imagined.
You had once thought your home with Zayne would be warm with laughter, shared meals, and soft conversations lingering late into the night—a place that breathed with comfort simply because the two of you were in it together.
Instead, the halls of the grand mansion granted by the emperor were cold—spacious, immaculate, and lonely.
“My lady, here.”
The voice startled you out of your daydream, snapping you back to focus as your handmaiden, Yvonne, wrapped the shawl around you.
Oh, right. Today you were accompanying your lord husband for his audience with the emperor.
. . .
The journey to the palace was smooth. You sat demurely within your palanquin, lulled by the steady rhythm of the horses’ steps. Now and then, Zayne’s voice carried through the air as he issued clipped commands to his troops.
And before you knew it, your entourage had arrived at the royal palace. The palanquin doors swung open, and the first thing you saw was your husband’s stoic expression.
“My lady,” he muttered, grayish hazel eyes stern, offering his hand to you to assist you out.
Your heart pricked at the sight before you. Zayne had always been steadfast—but before all this, he was never rigidly formal with you like this.
“One day… I will become the greatest general in the land. Will you wait for me until then?”
The memory rose then: a younger Zayne, red-faced, thrusting a jasmine flower into your hands as he stumbled through his confession. It made your chest ache even more.
The things he saw in the wars turned him into this version before you, you believed. Maybe, to him now, the tenderness you once shared during your childhood no longer held any meaning at all.
You took his hand.
“Thank you, my lord,” you replied with equal stiffness, gripping his hand. You didn’t dare look at him while he led you forward.
Yet you still took comfort in one thing—his hold over your hand never wavered, not even as the two of you came to stand before the emperor himself. It was only when he had to let go of you that he did.
“What a pleasing sight it is to see you, Lord of Anlan!”
The emperor was headstrong yet a jolly individual. From his elevated dais, he greeted the two of you with open warmth. Zayne answered with a restrained bow, and you quickly followed his lead.
The emperor’s attention then shifted to you. “And I trust the Lady of Anlan has been well?”
“I am well, Your Majesty,” you replied, fixing a polite smile in place. “Thank you.”
However, you had a feeling that the emperor didn’t actually care about you at all, as the way his sharp gaze lingered on you sent an uncomfortable chill down your spine each time.
He soon turned his attention back to Zayne, and the two spoke at length about matters concerning the fief. Then—
“Is something troubling you, Your Majesty?” Zayne asked, putting on a mask of a concerned subject.
“Oh, yes—yes,” the emperor said with a faux chuckle. “There is something that has been bothering me...”
“And what might that be?”
“Well, the princess royal is still in search of a husband. It’s giving me a headache as she insists on someone just like you… It’s such a pity you turned down my proposal back then, Lord of Anlan...”
You could feel his hot stare on you, and he continued, “Had you accepted the princess’ hand, you would be part of the royal family by now.”
You clenched your fists. It was not the first time this had been mentioned, and each time it was brought up, it always left a bitter taste in your mouth. Zayne had indeed refused a royal marriage decree and chosen you instead—but did he somehow regret that choice that it left him cold and distant to you all this time?
If so… why hadn’t he broken off his betrothal with you back then?
. . .
By the emperor’s command, both you and Zayne were to remain in Yunshao for a time—residing within the imperial palace itself.
The two of you were showed to your temporary chambers, and the moment you stepped inside, you let out a sigh. Behind you, Zayne paused, noticing your weariness.
“Are you tired?” he asked.
You opened your mouth to answer, but the words halted. And in that hesitation, something in your expression must have betrayed you.
“You look unwell,” he observed, tone thoughtful. “If the travel has strained you, I will have the physician summoned.”
“That isn’t necessary,” you replied quickly. “I am fine.”
The silence stretched. He was watching you—not coldly, not warmly either, simply assessing. Then, as if deciding something, he spoke again.
“I will be entertaining the princess royal shortly,” Zayne said, his voice returning to that familiar, careful neutrality. “Her Highness has arranged for it. It would be improper to refuse.”
The princess, again. The woman who had once sought him as a husband never seemed to miss an opportunity to summon him whenever he was within palace walls. Lowering your gaze, you were silently irked.
“Do you… have to go?” You asked before you could stop yourself.
“Yes.”
A default, logical answer. You had expected this but somehow your heart still hurt regardless.
“I see,” you murmured, the words felt hollow even to your own ears.
Zayne didn't linger. As he turned and walked toward the door, his steps were quiet.
And the space between you suddenly felt wider than the vast halls outside your door.
The palace was a world of its own—lavish courtyards, lotus ponds glimmering beneath carved bridges. Servants moved like shadows, each bowing, each whispering, each watching.
Yet none of those gazes ever lingered on you for long.
You were the Lady of Anlan, yes—but not a lady of imperial blood. In a place where lineage was currency, you were a mere general’s wife. Polite smiles were given, greetings exchanged, but you passed through the palace halls like a quiet breeze.
Zayne, meanwhile, was constantly summoned—councils, briefings, private audiences. You saw him only at night, and even then not much that could be talked about.
And so, you learned to occupy yourself quietly. Reading beneath shaded pavilions. Feeding the koi in still waters. Watching the sky shift from pale gold to indigo behind tiled rooftops.
It was during one such day that the palace stirred with unusual excitement—an envoy had arrived from Zhaole.
It was Zhaole’s prince himself who had come to negotiate trade routes. You paid it little mind at first as foreign politics had nothing to do with you... until you were summoned to attend the audience.
You stood at your designated place within the grand hall, slightly behind and to the right of Zayne, when the doors opened.
“His Highness, Prince Rafayel of Zhaole, has arrived!”
Silk banners bearing unfamiliar insignias unfurled as the entourage entered. At its center walked a man whose presence seemed to bend the air around him.
Prince Rafayel was clad in white robes embroidered with cerulean and gold-threaded waves, the fabric flowing like water with every step. His long purple hair and porcelain-like skin were striking. Exceptionally refined and handsome. There was something artful about him, like a masterpiece aware of its own beauty.
His eyes swept across the hall lazily at first—measuring ministers, skimming over the servants—
And then they stopped. On you.
For a fleeting second, you wondered if you were mistaken. But no—his gaze sharpened, as though he had found something unexpectedly intriguing among a sea of expected faces.
And a second later, he smiled—at you, before he resumed his walk.
The prince came to a halt before the dais and offered a bow for the emperor.
“I bring greetings from Zhaole,” he said smoothly, his voice clear as a plucked string. “I am Rafayel. I trust Yunshao’s hospitality will not disappoint.”
The emperor responded with booming warmth, welcoming him to the court. Formalities were exchanged. Polite laughter followed.
But you would never expect what would he do next.
As the formal greetings concluded, Rafayel’s gaze suddenly shifted towards where you stood beside Zayne.
“My apologies,” Rafayel said lightly, tilting his head with deliberate curiosity. “I do not believe I have been introduced to the lady standing beside the esteemed Lord of Anlan.”
The hall grew quieter. You felt Zayne’s posture stiffen imperceptibly, and you—caught beneath the weight of the prince’s attention—found yourself momentarily at a loss.
The emperor chuckled. “Ah... that is the Lady of Anlan.”
Rafayel stepped forward, not too close to breach decorum, but close enough for both your and your husband’s discomfort.
Up close, his smile softened, eyes gleaming faintly.
“Oh, Lady of Anlan...” he repeated, as though tasting the title. Then, inclining his head toward you in a gesture that was respectful, yet strangely personal, he said, “It is a pleasure, madam.”
And that was how you went from being overlooked to the subject of every whisper within the imperial palace.
“Hey… did you see what happened earlier?”
That evening, the palace held a banquet in honor of Zhaole’s prince.
The grand hall was transformed beneath the glow of lanterns. Music drifted softly through the air, accompanied by the quiet murmur of noble voices and the occasional ripple of laughter.
“The imperial prince of Zhaole— he specifically greeted the Lady of Anlan!”
And yet, Zayne wasn’t amused in the slightest.
It was one thing for his wife to become the subject of palace whispers—that alone was enough to draw attention he did not welcome. But it was another thing entirely to realize that his wife had caught the interest of a royal prince.
Zayne didn’t show it openly. His expression remained as composed as ever, but throughout the night, the faint crease between his brows lingered longer than usual, and his gaze would settle on you often.
It was most probably nothing, he told himself. A passing curiosity. A prince’s fleeting amusement in a foreign court.
Across the hall, you stood beneath the lanternlight—radiant without trying. You, his childhood sweetheart, had always been a dear to him.
After he was done conversing with an official, he made his way towards you.
“My lady,” he greeted quietly. You jolted at the sound of his voice, turning to face him.
“My lord,” you replied.
Once, you had called his name freely, whenever you wanted. You would tug at his sleeve, demanded his attention, laughed without restraint. Zayne didn’t like this formality between you, honestly.
“Take a respite if you are tired,” he said then, mostly out of concern. “You have always disliked attending banquets.”
You let out a quiet sigh. “And you have always endured these far better than I ever could.”
When had your relationship become this strained? There had been no single argument that shattered everything. No cruel words spoken in anger that could not be taken back.
Only distance. Distance that crept in so quietly neither of you had noticed until it was already too late.
Zayne inhaled slowly. He didn’t want to say it, but he couldn’t remain silent either— and so he did:
“…Don’t get too close to the Prince of Zhaole.”
You frowned faintly, seemingly not taking his words well. “What are you implying?”
“I am saying,” he began slowly, “that you should not allow his attention to draw you in.”
However, contrary to your usually docile demeanor, your expression hardened immediately.
“I’m not so naive.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
For a moment, you simply stared at him. And then, you pulled back slightly, your chin lifting. “You speak as though I’m incapable of judging character for myself.”
That was not what Zayne was getting at at all, but you were already irate. “I don’t—”
“You entertain the princess, a woman who tried to make you her husband,” you went on, eyes sharp. “So tell me, why is it acceptable for you… but not me?”
Zayne held your gaze. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The music swelled faintly around you, but the air around you felt cold.
There was a lot he wanted to say. That you were not meant for another man’s curiosity. That you are reserved for him only. That to him, you were precious more than anything.
But he knew better than to say it aloud, because you already looked at him with resentment.
“Take care of yourself.” He finally left you with those parting words.
He had never been a man of excessive affection or one to indulge in sweet words. Love, he believed, was best proven through stability, protection—through ensuring that you would never lack comfort nor security.
“Lord Zayne!”
But to give you everything, he was bound to give himself to his duties first.
Zayne held back a sigh and turned towards the voice—the princess royal, a vivacious woman trying to attract his attention, and forced a straight face.
“Your Highness,” he greeted evenly.
His fingers tightened around the stem of his cup, the cool porcelain grounding him.
. . .
While the banquet was lively, the laughter felt distant, the lanternlight a little too bright against your tired eyes. After the argument with your husband, you were honestly considering to retire for the night.
Your chest still felt tight.
It felt like an ache you could not soothe, because you honestly had enough of everything in this marriage. You wanted a husband who was present, not just dutiful— and Zayne wasn’t really fulfilling what you really desired.
You exhaled quietly, intent on leaving the grand hall behind. However—
“My lady.”
You were stopped in your tracks. The velvety voice came from your right. You turned.
Prince Rafayel stood nearby, dressed in darker robes of burgundy, the candlelight catching in the gold embroidery. Up close, his gaze was as intent as it had been earlier—unabashed in its attention.
He inclined his head politely, lips curved in a bright smile. “I trust the palace has been treating you well.”
You lowered your gaze in courtesy, once again bewildered by his presence before you. “His Majesty’s hospitality is generous. I lack for nothing.”
“Is that so?” he questioned lightly, “Is it just my imagination then... that you don’t seem particularly fond of it?”
The comment caught you off guard. You looked up at him, startled. His expression softened, as though aware he had stepped too close to something unheard of.
“Forgive me,” he said, lowering his tone. “It’s merely an observation. I suppose when one’s husband appears to be too close to a certain princess, you’re bound not to enjoy the evening.”
His gaze flickered across the hall, and you instinctively followed his line of sight only to see your husband with the no-nonsense princess, ever composed and attentive. You looked away.
“They say the Lord of Anlan is unmatched in the battlefield,” Rafayel began idly. “That he drove back the pirates without mercy and won the Emperor’s favor through sheer merit alone.”
“Yes,” you said softly. “He did.”
Rafayel glanced back at you, studying your expression.
“They also say,” he continued, “that he governs Anlan with fairness. That the people trust him. That he is a man who does not bend easily, nor does he offer himself cheaply to gain favor.”
Everything he said was true. Zayne was always steadfast. Honorable. Respectful. He had always been that way—even as a boy.
“Yes,” you admitted quietly, a smile slowly forming in your lips. “He is.”
Rafayel watched you for a moment longer, as though weighing something. Then, he reached for a nearby tray and lifted a cup of sweetened wine, offering it towards you.
“While all of them might be true, even the greatest man does not stand alone. Behind him is a woman just as remarkable. You must not diminish yourself beside him, my lady.”
Your breath stilled. An imperial prince was telling you that you were worth more than what you thought you were.
“You may not be a princess,” Rafayel continued, his voice warm but certain, “but you are in no way lesser. Everyone here knows it to be true—or at least, I do.”
Your cheeks flushed from the heat and flattery. “Your Highness... Thank you for your kind words.”
Prince Rafayel’s gaze held yours with quiet sincerity, still smiling. Your fingers closed around the cup before you could think better of it.
“And right now, you are far too lovely to spend the evening looking as though the world has wronged you.”
You let out a small breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and raised the cup to your lips.
The wine was sweet. Warmer than you expected, and the slight bitterness loosening something tight within you.
“Yes, just like that... chin up, my lady. The lanterns favor you better that way.”
You hadn’t realized how much you needed it.
Rafayel said nothing more, merely gesturing lightly when another tray passed. And when your cup emptied, another found its place in your hand.
And then another.
The warmth spread slowly through your limbs, softening the sharp edges of the evening. The distant laughter no longer felt so piercing. The ache in your chest dulled, and replaced by a fleeing sensation and your own laughter.
You drank, and drank... perhaps more than you should have.
But for the first time that night—
It became easier not to look across the hall.
At some point, Zayne realized he had not seen you in a while.
The moment he found a lull in his conversation with the princess, he excused himself at the first opportunity. His eyes swept the grand hall, but you were nowhere among them.
A faint unease settled into his chest, until he passed by his personal guard—
“My lord,” he bowed slightly.
“Did you see the lady?”
“I believe the Prince of Zhaole was seen escorting Her Ladyship out to the western terrace.”
Zayne’s eyes hardened. He immediately made his way towards the said terrace. He found you at last—
And Prince Rafayel stood beside you, too close for his liking.
“My lady, are you sure you’re fine?”
And you—
“Am fine! I’m fine!”
Your hand rested against the stone railing, posture swaying, your cheeks flushed and gaze watery. Flash of anger immediately filled Zayne’s sense at the sight.
Rafayel noticed him first and he turned to him courteously.
“Lord of Anlan,” the prince greeted smoothly, his expression calm. “I was merely keeping your lady company. It seemed the evening had become tiring for her.”
Zayne moved past the prince, taking big strides without acknowledging him.
“…My lord husband?” you murmured, voice soft when your eyes finally landed on him. Zayne immediately reached for you.
“Y/N,” he whispered in your ear, trying to ground you. But you staggered and crashed into his chest. His jaw tightened as he pulled you into his embrace.
That accursed prince had seen you like this.
“I shall take my wife back,” he said through gritted teeth.
Rafayel inclined his head with easy grace, putting on an easy smile. “Of course.”
Zayne put his arm around your shoulder, steadying you. You leaned into him instinctively as he led you through the quiet corridors, away from the prying eyes.
By the time you reached your chambers, your steps had grown even more unsteady. He guided you inside carefully, dismissing the servants with a glance before they could speak.
Your husband sat you gently on the edge of the bed, meanwhile you were still trying to get your bearings, blinking slowly.
“Are you alright? Do you feel dizzy?” Zayne asked, unable to conceal the worry in his voice. His hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing lightly against your warm skin, frowning deep. “I’ll get you some water.”
Your gaze followed his every movement as he crossed the room and poured water into a cup. He knelt before you again once he was done, holding the cup carefully toward your lips.
“Drink,” he coaxed gently.
You stared at cup of water. Then at his hand. Then at him.
Then, with clumsy defiance, you pushed the cup away. Splash!
Water sloshed over the rim, spilling onto his robe and the floor below. Zayne froze.
However, not caring about it at the slightest, you raised your hand abruptly, your finger pointing at him—
“You terrible, detestable, wicked—”
You might be slurring, but your eyes burned with clarity as you spew profanities at him:
“—husband!”
The last word left your lips and you slumped. Throughout the years you had been with him, Zayne had never seen you so openly wounded like this. He stared at you, at a loss of words.
You swayed where you sat, your arm falling limply back to your side.
“Yvonne said I’m pretty,” Your nose scrunched faintly as you sniffled. “My maids said I’m pretty too...”
Zayne tried to reach for you again, but you refuted his touch.
“And Prince Rafayel—” you continued, sounding borderline delirious, “He said I’m no less than a princess... So why—”
Your lashes were wet, tears blurring your vision, and your lips trembled as you glanced up at him:
“—am I not enough for you?”
The question pierced him cleanly. Zayne felt something twist inside his chest at the sight of you. He knew that with everything that had happened, you were bound to resent him. But he had loved you... still loved you even at right this moment.
He closed the distance between you then, gently and firmly taking your face in his hands before you could turn away again.
“Enough?” His voice dropped, dangerously close to breaking. His hazel eyes searched yours as if trying to carve the truth directly into your heart. “You are... You are more than enough.”
His thumb brushed away the tear that fell down your cheek. Something flickered across his expression— the hurt, but when his eyes shifted to your lips, it was replaced by something far more possessive.
“And you— must only look... at me.”
And then, Zayne crashed his lips into yours with fervor. One hand on your waist, he pulled you flush against him. The taste of salt lingered between you, your tears mingling with the heat of his mouth.
“Mmm...” You gasped into the kiss, fingers instinctively clutching at his robe—still damp from the water you had spilled.
He softened only slightly then, angling his head, kissing you slower but deeper. His thumb traced along your jaw, coaxing you to respond, to open for him. And when your lips parted for him, he groaned, before inserting his tongue to tangle with yours.
Each kiss lingered, pressed harder—until you melted into breathless sighs against his mouth.
When Zayne finally pulled back, his grayish hazel gaze held yours with such intensity that made it impossible to look away.
“You are more than enough,” he repeated, voice hoarse. “You undo me.”
His hand slid to your cheek again, gentler now, almost reverent.
“And if I have failed to show you that, then that’s my failing.”
You were half-conscious and all thoughts emptied from your head, spellbound by the restrained desire in your husband’s look.
His thumb traced your lower lip, swollen from his kisses. “Don’t measure yourself against another man’s gaze.”
He would show you how you meant to him, he vowed.
“For mine has never left you.”
. . .
Six months into marriage, and you had learnt that your husband wasn’t as gentle as he looked in marital bed.
With practiced fingers, he worked fast on the laces of your robes as he guided you to the said bed. He kissed the path from your lips to your throat, nipping at your skin— and at the same time, he palmed your breasts, his thumb brushing over your nipples in slow, deliberate circles until it tightened beneath his touch, sending a sharp, aching warmth through you.
“Zayne...” you gasped, arching to his touch.
“Tell me what you want, wife,” he growled against your ear, flicking your nipple in the process, making you squirm. “Tell me.”
Words failed you as his kisses grazed your collarbone, leaving love bites there. He followed the path from your shoulder— and you were in for a ride when he took your erect nipple into his mouth, sucking hard.
A cry slipped from your lips, your nails digging into his hair. The sensation was overwhelming—heat pooling low in your belly, your breath coming in uneven gasps as your husband shamelessly suckling you.
“Ahh, mmrgh…”
He held you firmly, feeling every tremor running through your body. But suddenly, he lifted his head, lips glistening and eyes dark with lust, gazing straight at you. “I want to hear you first.”
“I...” your breath hitched, swallowing the shame. “I want your... mouth.”
“Beg.”
You fingers curling weakly against the sheets. “Your mouth, please—” you breathed out, heat blazing on face, “all over me.”
His lips quirked into a satisfied smile. “As you wish, my lady.”
And with that, Zayne moved to the other breast, giving it the same devoted attention, his sinful tongue swirling before he bit down gently on the flesh.
“Mmngh!” you moaned, head falling to the pillows. His mouth was relentless, and true to his word to fulfill your desire, your husband made sure you were sated with his mouth first.
He rained hot, open-mouthed kisses throughout your chest and abdomen next, and stopped just below your navel, dark eyes clouded with predatory haze.
The thought that he very much could get you swollen with his child after this night was through made himself hard. If his seed were to take hold within you tonight— even Prince Rafayel would know better.
His hand tightened at your waist, his lips pressing into the softness of your folds—and a second later, lapping at it like a man in throes of hunger. You gasped, grasping his hair, as he devoured you down there.
And in no time at all, your lord husband made you come on his tongue.
“Ah—aaah...” Your thighs trembled around him as pleasure washed through you.
He is cruel... You were hazy with drunken lust and tears, but you no longer cared enough to resist.
“Stop…” you whimpered. “Just… make love to me already…”
Your husband’s stern, hazel eyes turned to you, slightly widened at your bold plea. “Is that truly what my lady wishes?”
You glared at him. “Yes.”
And he honored your wish without hesitation. Zayne rose, shedding his garments with swift movements. His magnificent length sprang free, thick and hard, his hand closing around it as he stroked himself slowly—his eyes never leaving yours.
Your lord husband is very, very tantalizing, indeed...
He moved over you, settling his hips between your thighs. One hand wrapped around himself as he dragged his length slowly through your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal. He pressed against your entrance, the tip nudging there before he stilled, dark eyes once again confirming yours.
“Are you ready to take me, wife?”
You wrapped your legs around his torso, pulling him closer. “Please, Zayne— now.”
And with that, he pushed himself into you. You writhed, broken gasps spilling out of you—the way he stretched you was perfect, sinking into you slowly, making you feel every inch of himself.
Zayne grounded you by resting his forehead against yours, groaning into your mouth like a beast in heat. “Perfect,” he choked out.
When he began to move, you lost all your wits altogether. His thrusts were slow at first, each one reaching inside you impossibly deep— “Ah, ah...!”
But the rhythm did not stay gentle for long. It grew steadier, more insistent and faster. The lewd sound of skin slapping resounded in the room, your breathless moans mingled with his harsh grunts.
“Look at me,” Zayne commanded, voice rough. His hand came to your chin, turning your face toward him. “Look at your husband.”
You forced your eyes open, meeting his captivating gaze. In that fleeting instant, you thought you saw everything reflected there—lust, the aching need to be closer than flesh could allow, love.
He adjusted his angle, and suddenly struck that one spot that made you cry out. “T-there!”
A low growl rumbled from his chest as he aimed for that spot again, and again, relentless in his pursuit. Your vision blurred, your cries filling the room, clutching his shoulder helplessly as his unforgiving fingers found your clit—circling and rubbing it, driving you closer and closer to the brink.
And a second later, pleasure crashed through you without mercy. Your walls clenched around his girth, and the feeling of how you pulsed around him pulled a rough sound from his throat, making him lose his control at last.
He thrusted deep one last time, burying himself to the hilt as ropes of his cum filling your womb— sowing a part of himself in you.
The first thing you noticed when your eyes fluttered open was the warmth.
Soft, steady warmth wrapped around you, and golden sunlight filtered through the window, spilling across the bed in beams. For a moment, you simply lay there, suspended between sleep and waking, your body heavy.
Then you became aware of something else. An arm draped securely around your waist—
Your breath caught as the memories of the night before flickered faintly at the edges of your mind.
Last night, you and Zayne were...
You unwittingly let out a gasp, and your voice woke your husband.
Behind you, Zayne stirred. His hold tightened instinctively for a second, as though even half-asleep he refused to let you slip away. A low murmur brushed against your ear—
“…You’re awake.”
His thick voice sent a faint shiver down your spine. You slowly turned in his arms.
You were greeted with his beautiful face. The familiar line of his jaw. The faint crease between his brows as sleep gradually left him. The dark grayish hazel of his eyes as they focused fully on you.
It had been so long since he was in your bed. Long enough that waking up like this—tangled together, bare beneath the sheets, his warmth still wrapped around you—felt almost unreal.
Your lips parted, but no words came. Instead, your eyes grew glassy, emotion rising too quickly for you to contain. The sight of him made your chest ache.
“Y/N?” he asked quietly, catching your forlorn expression. A realization dawned on him—
His arm loosened at once, withdrawing from your waist as though your skin burned him. He shifted back, putting a small distance between your bodies.
“I won’t touch you again,” he said, voice steady, the spark in his eyes dimmed. “If last night was… a mistake in your eyes, then it will not happen again. I give you my word.”
Your eyes widened in surprise. After enduring days and nights of feeling unwanted, to experiencing the most exalting night in your life— only for him to spew this nonsense—
“You stupid, stupid lord!”
Before he could react, you seized the nearest bolster and smacked it against him. Zayne blinked, completely caught off guard as you struck him again.
He instinctively grabbed the sheets to cover himself, trying to shield his face from your assault. “Wife—”
“How dare you—!” you snapped, hitting him again. “You have ignored me for literal months, always busy with that damn princess, and then bedded me— only to say that?!”
Another blow landed against his shoulder.
For a man who commanded armies and terrified courtiers with a glance, Zayne looked utterly defenseless as you continued your attack, his hair disheveled, sheets barely clutched around his waist.
“You’re awful!” you continued, your voice trembling now for an entirely different reason. “I thought—”
Your arm faltered mid-swing, your grip on the bolster loosened. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore,” you choked out, the first of your tears falling.
The way you teared up made Zayne’s expression change instantly. He moved before you could turn away, his hands found your wrists, drawing you closer despite the awkward tangle of sheets between you.
“How could I not want you?” His thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching the tear there. “Marrying you… has been my goal from the very beginning.”
Your breath hitched. The memory of that spring replayed in your mind’s eye once again: “One day… I will become the greatest general in the land. Will you wait for me until then?”
Zayne’s jaw tightened in regret as he pulled you into his embrace.
“But apparently it was just the start, not the end. After our wedding, I thought that my duty next is to ensure you never have to want for anything. That if I build enough stability… enough wealth, then you would never feel lacking. And in doing so, I neglect something far more important.”
His other hand rose to cradle your cheek fully now. You found his steadfast gaze.
“You.”
Zayne leaned his forehead lightly against yours.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and this time there was no pride left in his voice. “I should have treated you better. I should have been beside you more. Not just as your husband in name—but in truth.”
“You’re so silly.” You stared at him through your tears, poking his chest. “All this time… you thought I only needed wealth? Security?” Your fingers curled slightly in the fabric of the sheets between you. “I was right here, and yet you strayed so far away.”
If being silly was what would get you with him, then so be it. Zayne’s eyes softened in a way few people would ever be allowed to see.
“The girl who chased fireflies with me in the jasmine fields…” he smiled despite himself, picturing the little you who were always full of laughter for him. “When I asked her to wait for me, I also vowed that I would never let her experience any hardships in life once she came to be with me...”
You shook your head immediately, your hand sliding higher, resting over his heart firmly.
“I wanted to marry Zayne,” you said, looking at him with a frown. “Not the Lord of Anlan.”
Something in his expression broke then—not painfully, but like frost melting beneath the first warmth of spring.
His forehead rested against yours once more, his eyes closing as though savoring the closeness he had denied himself for far too long. His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, and in that touch was his love for you.
“And you did,” he whispered. “You married a man who has loved you long before he ever became anything else.”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I can’t prolong my stay within the imperial palace any further. My wife wishes to return home, and I don’t have it in me to deny her.”
Zayne’s voice was calm and unwavering as he stood before the throne, posture straight and expression composed, facing the ruler of the land himself.
“As for the princess… I am certain a worthy match will present himself in due time. So I humbly ask that Your Majesty refrain from summoning me again for this matter.”
The emperor scoffed, seeing the two of you off with thinly veiled exasperation, but this time, Zayne didn’t bend, nor did he seem troubled by the emperor’s displeasure.
He had chosen you, and from now on, he would continue to do so.
. . .
Preparations for your departure followed swiftly. Your servants and handmaidens moved with practiced efficiency, gathering belongings and readying the palanquin. Yet their eyes lingered, subtle curiosity passing between them as they noticed the unmistakable change.
“Have you seen them?”
“His Lordship hasn’t left her side once.”
“I’ve never seen him look at her like that before…”
Their voices carried in hushed murmurs, behind sleeves and lowered gazes, and you pretended not to hear, only greeted them with the brightest of smiles.
When the time came to board the palanquin, Zayne turned to you and offered his hand openly, a faint, reserved smile resting upon his lips—one meant only for you.
The servants fell into stunned silence as you placed your hand in his, in awe at the picturesque sight of their dashing lord and beautiful lady. It was a simple gesture, one they had witnessed countless times before.
But this time, there was clearly something different in the air.
He helped you into the palanquin carefully, his hold steady—as though you were something precious. And this time, he didn’t ride the horse, but went inside along with you.
“…I think they’ve reconciled, at last,” one handmaiden murmured softly.
“It’s about time,” the lord’s personal guard sighed.
A heartfelt smile appeared on Yvonne’s face. “Ohh, I’m glad!”
And truly, they all were.
They had always admired him—their stern, unyielding lord, a man of discipline and honor.
And they cherished you—the general’s lady, whose kindness had touched every corner of Anlan.
To see the two of you now, no longer separated by silence but standing side by side as husband and wife… It felt like watching the very first blossom of spring unfurl after winter.
And as the palanquin began to move—carrying you home, Zayne looked at you with the tenderest of smiles, never once letting go of your hand.
tags: angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of feeling like a burden, feeling weak, not being enough, overprotectiveness, arguments
[XAVIER, ZAYNE, RAFAYEL, SYLUS, CALEB]
XAVIER
The fight wasn't even supposed to happen.
You'd come back from a solo patrol, all scratched up but alive. Wanderers had appeared faster than the mission intel had let in on, and you'd pushed through alone because backup was twenty minutes out and you weren't about to let civilians get caught in the crossfire. Standard hunter protocol.
Xavier was waiting at your apartment door when you limped in. Still in his uniform, hair a mess like he'd run straight from the association the second he heard the report. His eyes, usually soft with a trace of amusement, were sharp.
"You're hurt again," he says, voice steady. His gaze drags over the blood on your sleeve, the bruise blooming across your cheek.
"I'm fine." You try to brush past him. "Just need a shower and some sleep."
He catches your wrist. Gentle but firm enough you can't pull away. "You could've waited."
"I didn't have time to wait. People were going to die, Xavier."
His jaw tightens. "And you almost did."
You yank your arm free. "But I didn't. That's the job. That's my job."
Something flickers in his expression, something raw, something he’s been carrying for a long time. He steps closer, voice dropping low. "You need to stop being so reckless. Charging in like that... it's stupid. You're going to get yourself killed one day, and I-" He cuts off, exhales hard through his nose. "I can't keep watching you throw yourself away."
The words land like a slap.
He knows. He knows how much weight those words carry to you. How many nights you've spent curled against him whispering about the fear that you're not good enough, not smart enough, not strong enough, not careful enough. That every time you come home bleeding it's proof you're still failing the people who count on you. That deep down you worry you're just a liability dressed up as a hero.
And he just called it stupid.
Your throat closes. Eyes burn. You stare at him, waiting for him to take it back, the soft apology he always gives when he realizes he's gone too far.
It doesn't come.
Instead he just stands there, breathing uneven, looking like he wants to reach for you again but doesn't trust his own hands.
You turn away. "Get out."
He doesn't move at first.
"Get. Out."
The door shuts behind him quieter than it should. Like even the hinges are trying not to make it worse.
You don't cry until you're in the shower. Hot water mixes with salt and you press your forehead to the tile, replaying it on loop.
Stupid.
He didn't mean it. You know he didn't. Xavier never means the sharp things that slip out when he's scared. But knowing doesn't stop it from carving deeper.
You avoid him for three days.
Missions. Paperwork. Extra patrols. Anything that keeps you out of the apartment, out of association’s common areas, out of range of those blue eyes that always find you too easily.
He texts once.
I'm sorry. Please talk to me.
You read it. Delete it. Turn your phone face down.
On day four he shows up at your door again. Leaning against the frame like he's been waiting hours. Eyes shadowed. Uniform rumpled. He looks like he hasn't slept.
You freeze in the hallway, grocery bag in hand.
He straightens slowly. "I know you don't want to see me."
You don't answer. Just stare at the floor between you.
He takes one step closer, stops when you flinch. "I was wrong," he says quietly. "What I said... it was cruel. I was angry and terrified and I took it out on you. I shouldn't have."
Still nothing from you.
His voice cracks the smallest amount. "You aren't stupid. You're the bravest person I know. You run into danger so other people don't have to, and I-“ He swallows. "I hate it. I hate that I can't protect you from everything. I hate that every time you leave I wonder if this is the time you don't come back. But that's my fear, it’s not your fault. And I never should have made you feel like your courage is anything less than... everything that it is."
He sounds wrecked. Like saying it hurts more than the silence ever could.
You finally look up. His eyes are red rimmed. Hair falling into his face. He looks smaller than you've ever seen him.
"I didn't mean it," he whispers. "Not even a little. I was lashing out because I can't lose you. Not again." He stops. Shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
You don't move.
He doesn't push. Hands loose at his sides, itching to touch you but he waits.
Minutes pass. Rain starts tapping the hallway window.
Finally you speak. Voice small. "It hurt."
"I know."
"More than you know."
His shoulders drop.
You step forward. Just one step. Close enough to smell the faint scent of cedar and fresh air that always clings to him.
He doesn't reach for you. Lets you decide.
You do.
Your forehead bumps his chest. His arms come around you instantly, careful, trembling. Like he's scared you'll vanish if he holds too tight.
"I'm sorry," he breathes into your hair. Over and over. "I'm sorry. I love you. I'm sorry."
You don't say it's okay yet. Not quite.
But you don't pull away either.
He stays like that for a long time. Rain outside. Heartbeats loud in the quiet. Him murmuring apologies against your temple until the words blur into soft nonsense.
When you finally let him inside, he doesn't try to kiss you. Doesn't push for more.
He just sits on your couch, pulls you into his lap, and holds you like you're the only thing keeping him from falling apart.
And maybe you are.
He spends the rest of the night proving, with quiet words, gentle touches, and the way he refuses to let go even when you pretend to sleep, that he will never let those words live between you again.
ZAYNE
It starts over something small. Or at least, it feels small until it isn't.
You've been pushing yourself lately, extra missions, ignoring the twinges in your chest, the way your evol resonance is getting weaker. Zayne's noticed. Of course he has. He's your doctor. Your primary physician. The one who knows every scar on your heart, literal and otherwise.
He's been gentle about it at first. Texts reminding you to rest. Quiet suggestions during check ups. But tonight, after you collapse into his apartment post mission, dizzy, short of breath, lying about how bad it was, he cracks.
"You're not invincible," he says, voice clipped as he checks your pulse. His fingers are cool against your wrist. "You keep ignoring the signs, and one day your heart won't forgive you."
You roll your eyes from the couch. "It's fine, Zayne. I handled it."
"You didn't." He sets his glasses down harder than necessary. "Your vitals are erratic. Again. Because you refuse to listen."
Irritation flares. You're tired. Sore. The last thing you need is another lecture. "I'm a hunter. This is what I do. You can't wrap me in bubble wrap forever."
His eyes narrow, that rare flash of real anger. "And I can't keep fixing you forever either. Do you even think about what this does to the people around you? To me?"
You sit up too fast. The room spins a little. "What, like I'm some burden you have to carry? I didn't ask for this heart. Or for you to play savior every time."
He freezes. Then, in a voice so low it's almost a whisper: "Maybe if you weren't so hell bent on destroying yourself, you wouldn't be a burden at all. You're not just risking your life, you're making everyone else's harder. Including mine. Sometimes I wonder if you even care about the guilt you leave behind."
The words hang in the air. Sharp and unforgiving.
You've confessed it to him in the dark, tears soaking his shirt,
“I feel like I'm always making you suffer because of me. Like I'm not enough to stand on my own.”
And he just... threw it back in your face.
Your chest tightens, not from your condition, but from the way everything inside you crumples.
Zayne's expression shifts the second it leaves his mouth. Regret floods his eyes. He reaches for you. "I didn't-"
"Don't." You stand, grabbing your coat. Voice steady even as it breaks inside. "Don't touch me."
He doesn't follow when you leave. Just stands there in the doorway, watching you go with that unreadable face he wears like armor.
You don't go home. You crash at a hotel. Turn off your phone. Cry until there's nothing left.
The next morning, you march into Akso Hospital. Request a transfer of primary physician. The admin looks confused
"Dr. Li is one of our best, are you sure?" but you nod. Firm on your decision.
Dr. Greyson gets your file.
You avoid the cardiology wing for a week. Take the long way to appointments. Duck into stairwells if you spot that familiar figure.
But hospitals are small. You cross paths eventually.
The first time is in the hallway near radiology. He rounds the corner, charts in hand. Freezes when he sees you.
You look through him. Keep walking. His footsteps falter behind you, but he doesn't call out.
Second time’s in the cafeteria. You're grabbing coffee. He's at a table, alone, staring at his untouched lunch. Your eyes meet across the room.
He stands. Mouths your name.
You turn away. Leave the line. Dump the cup in the trash on your way out.
Then, the elevator. Just the two of you. He steps in after you, presses his floor. The air thickens.
"I-" he starts.
The doors open. You bolt without a glance.
He doesn't try again that day.
He’s unraveling in his office.
Zayne doesn't break easy. He's built his life on control; schedules, scalpels, steady hands. But alone, door locked, he crumbles.
Paces the small space. Sits at his desk. Stands again. Checks his phone for the hundredth time, no messages. Your contact photo stares back: you laughing in his arms, snow in your hair from that trip to Chansia.
He slams the phone down. So hard the screen cracks.
Regret coils in his gut. He replays the argument on loop, your face when he said it, the way you recoiled like he'd struck you. Worse than any physical blow.
He skips meals. Works doubles to fill the void. Snaps at nurses over nothing. Greyson mentions your transfer in passing and Zayne just nods. Excuses himself. Locks the office door and presses his palms to his eyes until the burning stops.
Nights are worse. His apartment echoes without you. He lies awake, staring at the ceiling, imagining every scenario where he loses you for good. Your heart failing because he wasn't there. You moving on with someone who doesn't carry this baggage. Or worse, you hating him enough to never look back.
He drowns in his self pity. Whispers apologies to empty rooms.
Two weeks in, he can't take it.
He gives you space, or tries. But seeing you in the hospital chips away at him.
A sigh. "Physically? She’s fine. Emotionally? She asked not to discuss you."
Zayne nods. Walks away. Punches the wall in the stairwell hard enough to bruise his knuckles.
That night, he breaks. Shows up at your apartment, looking a mess.
You open the door. See him. Start to close it.
His hand catches the frame. Gentle. Pleading. "Please. Five minutes."
You let him in. Not because you want to. Because he looks like a ghost, pale, hollow eyed, like he hasn't slept since that night.
He doesn't sit. Stands in your entryway. "I was wrong," he says immediately. Voice raw. "What I said... it was unforgivable. I was angry. At myself, mostly. For not being able to protect you. For watching you suffer and feeling helpless. But I took it out on you. On the one thing I know hurts you most."
You cross your arms. Stare at the floor. "You knew. You knew how much I hate feeling like a burden. Like I'm just... broken."
He flinches. "I know. And I used it like a weapon. Because in that moment, I wanted you to hurt like I was hurting. It was selfish and cruel. I regret it every second since."
Silence stretches between you. The snowfall outside clings to the windows.
"Why should I believe you?" Your voice is small, unsteady.
He steps closer. Like he’s approaching something fragile. "Because without you, I'm the one who's broken. These weeks... they've been hell. Seeing you in the halls, knowing I've lost the right to even ask how you are. Knowing I drove you to someone else for care because I couldn't be trusted with your heart anymore."
His voice breaks on that last word. Heart. Yours, his.
"I don't deserve forgiveness," he continues. "Not yet. But I'll earn it. However long it takes. I’ll give you as much space as you need. But please... don't shut me out forever."
You look up then. See the tears he doesn't bother hiding. The way his hands tremble at his sides.
It's not okay.
But you nod. Once. "Start by leaving. I need time."
He does. No argument. Just a quiet "I love you" on his way out.
The next day, flowers arrive at your door. Jasmines. Note in his handwriting: I'm sorry. Take all the time you need.
Then chocolates. The ones from that shop you mentioned once.
Then a book, the one you'd been eyeing.
Small things. Consistent.
You ignore him at the hospital still. But the edge softens. A nod in the hall one day. A brief "Good morning" the next.
He clings to them like lifelines.
A month later, you request the transfer back. Greyson's good, but he's not Zayne. No one knows your history like he does.
The first appointment is professional. But when it's over, he lingers. "Thank you," he says softly. "For trusting me again."
You meet his eyes. "Don't make me regret it."
"I won't."
Outside the exam room, he exhales. Leans against the wall. Smiles for the first time in weeks.
It's slow after that. Dinners. Walks. Him opening up about his own fears, the nightmares where he loses you, the weight of his oath clashing with his love.
One night, curled on his couch, you whisper: "I forgive you."
He pulls you close. Buries his face in your hair. "Thank you," he breathes. Over and over.
He never lets those words, or any like them, cross his mind again. Not even in anger.
RAFAYEL
You’re both still damp when you stumble back to his studio.
You’d followed him on one of his saviour plots again, not because he asked, but because you couldn’t let him go alone. Not after the way his eyes had darkened when he talked about the latest lead on the people who’d hunted his kind. You’d fought beside him, bled beside him, watched him lose himself in spirits of his past while facing humans who keep his people as decor.
You thought it meant something. That standing in the cold current together, watching him free someone from captivity, meant you were finally crossing the invisible line he always drew between you.
Apparently not.
He’s quiet the whole walk back. The kind of quiet that makes the air feel thick.
You try to break it when you step inside, peel off your soaked jacket, kick off boots, reach for the towel he tosses you without looking.
“Rafayel? You okay?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands by the tall windows, staring out at the black ocean like it owes him something. Water drips from his hair onto the floorboards in slow plinks.
Then, finally: “You shouldn’t have come.”
You freeze mid reach for the towel. “What?”
“You heard me.” His voice is soft. The dangerous kind of soft he gets right before he says something that cuts. “You never should have followed me down there tonight.”
Anger flares fast. “I wasn’t going to let you go alone. You could’ve died.”
He laughs, short, bitter, nothing like his usual teasing lilt. “Died? Please. I’ve been dealing with this for longer than you’ve been breathing.”
You step closer. “That’s not the point-”
“The point,” he cuts in, finally turning to face you, “is that you keep throwing yourself into my wars like it makes you part of them. Like it makes you understand.”
Your stomach drops. “I’m trying to understand. I’ve been trying since-”
“Since when?” He tilts his head, eyes glittering under the low studio lights. Condescending. Almost pitying. “Since you conveniently forgot the first time we met?”
The room tilts.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“You think charging into something you don’t understand fixes that?” he continues, voice silky and cruel. “You think bleeding a little makes up for years I carried alone? You’ll never truly understand, will you? Not really. You’re human. You get to forget. I don’t.”
The exact fears you’ve had ever since you’ve gotten closer, that no matter how much you love him, there will always be a chasm. That you’re inadequate because you can’t carry the same weight he does.
And he just… confirmed it. In the most condescending tone he’s ever used with you.
Your throat closes. Eyes burn. You stare at him, waiting for the flinch. The immediate regret. The way he usually backpedals when he sees your face crumple.
It doesn’t come.
Instead he just watches you with that same detached, almost academic curiosity. Like he’s studying how deep the wound goes.
You don’t scream. Don’t cry.
You just turn. Grab your wet jacket. Head for the door.
“Running away already?” he calls after you. Still soft and sharp, all the same.
You don’t answer.
The door closes behind you with a click that sounds final.
You don’t go back to Mo Art studio for days.
You stay at your apartment. Take extra commissions that keep you busy. Avoid every beach, every gallery showing his work, every place that reminds you of him.
He doesn’t text at first. Then one message days later:
Come back.
You delete it.
Days pass and a painting is delivered to your door. A small canvas. Just your silhouette against a stormy sea, the same view from the island where you first kissed after he saved you from drowning. There’s no note, just the painting.
You hang it facing the wall.
Then, he shows up outside your building. Doesn’t come inside. Just stands under the streetlamp in the rain, hair plastered to his forehead, coat dripping, looking like something the tide dragged in.
You watch from the window for ten minutes. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t wave. Just waits.
You close the curtains.
Inside, he’s losing his mind.
Rafayel has always been trying to get your attention, theatrical sighs, exaggerated pouts, the whole artist temperament. But this is different.
He paints obsessively. Canvases everywhere. All of them you, angry, sad, laughing, sleeping. Some half finished, some torn. He can’t get the eyes right. Keeps scrubbing them out until the canvas rips.
He talks to the empty studio. “Stupid. So stupid. Why did I say that?”
He knows why. Fear. The same fear that’s lived in him since the day you walked back into his life as an adult. The terror that you’ll leave again, not because you want to, but because you’ll realize you were never meant to stay. That the gap is too wide.
He drinks too much wine. Smashes a bottle against the wall when the silence gets too loud. Cuts his hand. Doesn’t bother bandaging it. Just lets it drip onto the floor like paint.
Nights are the worst. He curls on the couch where you usually fall asleep against him, hugging the pillow that still smells faintly of your shampoo. Whispers apologies into it like it can carry them to you.
He doesn’t sleep.
On day ten, he can’t take it anymore.
He doesn’t knock this time. He uses the spare key you gave him months ago.
You’re on the couch when the door opens. You don’t move, silently staring at him.
He looks wrecked. Eyes bloodshot. Shirt untucked. Bandage on his hand soaked through.
He doesn’t step farther than the entryway. Like he’s afraid crossing the threshold will make you run again.
“I was wrong,” he says. Voice hoarse. “Everything I said… I didn’t mean any of it. I was terrified. You almost died down there. And I thought- if I pushed you away first, it wouldn’t hurt as much when you finally realized you can’t fix me. That you can’t carry what I carry.”
He swallows. “But you’ve never tried to fix me. You just… stay. Even when I make it impossible. Even when I throw every insecurity I know you have back in your face like it’s nothing.”
He takes one careful step closer. Stops when you tense.
“You do understand,” he whispers. “More than I deserve. You remembered how to find me. How to love me. That’s more than I ever thought I’d get.”
Silence.
Then, quieter: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll spend every day proving I didn’t mean it. That I want you here. That the gap doesn’t matter because you’re already on my side of it.”
He sinks to his knees. Right there in the entryway. Head bowed. Hands loose at his sides like he’s offering himself up for judgment.
“I’ll give you space if that’s what you need,” he murmurs. “But please… don’t forget me again. Not because of something I said when I was too scared to admit how much I need you.”
You don’t answer right away.
Minutes drag.
Then you stand, walk over and stop in front of him.
He doesn’t look up. You can see the faint tremble in him.
You reach down. Touch his hair, still damp. He leans into it like a man starved.
“I’m still angry,” you say softly.
He nods slightly.
“And it hurt. More than you know.”
The shame in his eyes is evident.
You sink to your knees too. Wrap your arms around him.
He breaks then. Arms crush around you. Face buried in your neck. Shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes against your skin.
You don’t promise it’s okay yet.
But you hold him tighter.
Later, when you’re tangled on the couch, he traces your face with careful fingers. “I’ll never say anything like that again. I swear to you.”
You believe him.
Because the way he looks at you now, like you’re the only shore he’ll ever run to, leaves no room for doubt.
SYLUS
You've been at his side for months now, navigating the N109 Zone, accompanying him on deals that skirt legality, quiet nights spent together where he lets the mask slip just enough for you to see the man beneath all of it. Sylus has always been careful with you. Even in anger, he reins it in, turns it to ice rather than fire.
But tonight, after a botched negotiation that nearly got you both killed, a setup from a rival faction, bullets flying, you acting reckless to protect him, the reins snap.
You're in his safe house, adrenaline still buzzing. He's pacing the length of the floor to ceiling windows, city lights casting harsh shadows across his face. Mephisto perches on the back of a chair, head tilted like he senses the storm.
"You shouldn't have jumped in like that," he says, voice low and edged. "I had it under control."
You scoff from the couch, pressing a cloth to the graze on your arm. "Under control? They had almost had you beat, Sylus. If I hadn't-"
"If you hadn't, nothing. I don't need you playing bodyguard." He stops pacing. Turns to you with eyes like shattered rubies. "You're in my world now. Act like it."
Irritation boils over. You're tired. Sore. And yeah, maybe a little scared at how close it was. "Your world? The one where you act like nothing touches you? Like you're above it all?"
He crosses his arms. "Careful, sweetie."
The nickname grates tonight. "No. You don’t want my help? Fine. But if you want people to think you're human, start acting like one. Stop treating everything like a game where you're the only player who matters."
The room goes deathly quiet.
His expression doesn't change at first. Just a subtle tightening around his eyes. A flicker of something raw, hurt, maybe, before it's gone.
You know that line cuts him. You've talked about it before, in more vulnerable moments: how he struggles with his own humanity after everything he's lost, everything he's built from the ruins. The way the world sees him as a monster, and sometimes he wonders if they're right. You've held him through those confessions, whispered that he's more than his this, more than the blood on his hands.
And now you’re using it against him.
He steps closer. Voice dangerously even. "Human? That's rich coming from you. You're barely cosplaying as one yourself, stumbling through my shadows like a lost child, pretending you belong. Pretending you're not exactly like me. Acting blind to who you are like I won’t have to bury one day because you can't keep up."
The words slice clean through.
Your breath catches. Eyes sting. You stare at him, waiting for the retraction.
It doesn't come.
Instead, he just holds your gaze. Unblinking. Like he's daring you to break first.
You don't. You stand. Grab your things and head straight for the door without a word.
He doesn't stop you. Doesn't even move.
The elevator dings. Doors close. And you're gone.
You avoid him for twelve days.
Back to Linkon. Association work. Anything that keeps you out of the N109 Zon. You block his number temporarily, not forever, just enough to breathe. Mephisto shows up on your balcony twice, cawing softly, but you shoo him away with a sad smile. "Not yet, buddy."
The twins text once.
Boss is in a mood. Everything okay?
You don't reply.
In the N109 Zone, Sylus fractures.
He doesn't rage at first. Just sits in his study, glass of whiskey untouched, staring at the city he rules like it's mocking him. Replays the argument on loop, your words first, that barb about his humanity that hit like a gut punch, then his retaliation. Sharper. Crueler.
He skips meetings. Snaps at Luke and Kieran over nothing,
"Get out. Now."
until they slink away exchanging worried glances. Mephisto brings him reports from your side of the city, but he waves them off. Doesn't want to know. Can't bear it.
Nights are endless. He lies in the bed you shared, sheets still faintly scented with you, and stares at the ceiling. Imagines every worst case: you deciding he's right, that you don't belong. You finding someone softer, safer. Or worse, you getting hurt in Linkon because he's not there to pull you back.
He drinks more. Eats less. Paces until the carpets wear thin. One night, he punches the heavy bag in his gym until his knuckles split, not healing them with evol, letting the pain ground him. Like his punishment.
Regret coils tighter. He knows he should give you space, you're not one to be crowded but every day without you feels like drowning in his own isolation. Everything he has means nothing without you there with him.
A week later, he cracks. Sends Mephisto with a small box: your favorite earrings, the ones you left behind.
You keep them. Don't wear them.
A few days later, a delivery. Rare protocore from the N109 Zone, the kind the association’s been looking for.
You set it on your desk. Stare at it for hours.
Eventually, he shows up himself.
Not at your door. Outside your building, leaning against his motorcycle in the storm. Eyes shadowed like he hasn't slept in weeks.
You spot him from the window and your heart clenches.
He doesn't look up. He waits. Hands in pockets. Shoulders hunched against the downpour.
You grab an umbrella and step out.
He straightens when he sees you. Doesn't move closer. Lets the rain soak him further.
"You look like hell," you say. Voice neutral.
He huffs a laugh, short and self deprecating. "Feel like it too."
Silence stretches. Rain patters on your umbrella.
"I was wrong," he says finally, his voice is low. "What I said... it was inexcusable. I was hurt, your words cut deeper than I let on and I lashed out. Hit where I knew it would wound you most. I shouldn’t have."
You say anything.
He runs a hand through wet hair. "You're not weak. Or lost. You're the strongest person I know, walking into my world without flinching, standing up to me when no one else would. And keeping up? Kitten, you set the pace. I wouldn't have survived that ambush without you. Wouldn't want to."
His voice cracks the smallest bit. "I gave you space because I know that's what you need. But these days... they've been empty. I built all that I have thinking it would be enough. It's not. Not without you."
You step closer. Umbrella covering you both now.
"Why should I come back?" Whispered.
"Because I need you." Simple. "You’re what keeps me tied to this world. I wouldn’t want to be human if it wasn’t for you."
He reaches out. Hesitates. Drops his hand.
"I'm sorry," he breathes. "For every word. For letting you walk away. For not chasing sooner."
You remain silent.
But you tilt the umbrella more over him. Let your free hand find his, it’s cold and trembling.
He exhales. Pulls you close slowly. Forehead to yours. Rain mixing with the salt on his cheeks.
"Missed you," he murmurs. "More than I thought possible."
You stay like that for a while. Rain slowing. Him holding you like you're the only anchor he has.
Later, inside your apartment, he doesn't push for more. Just sits with you on the couch, hand in yours, talking quietly about the days apart. His fears and yours.
Because without you, he's just a facade. And he hates how close he came to shattering it for good.
CALEB
You’d just come back from a solo mission, nothing catastrophic. A few bruises, singed sleeve, but you handled it.
Caleb was waiting at your apartment. Not unusual. He’s been doing it more lately, showing up unannounced with takeout, or coffee, or just himself. Always with that same easy smile. Always checking you over like you might vanish if he looks away too long.
Tonight, though, the smile is tighter. He’s already spotted the burn mark on your arm before you even close the door.
“You didn’t call,” he says.
“I didn’t need to.” You drop your gear bag. Head for the kitchen to grab water. “It was routine. I’m fine.”
He follows. Leans in the doorway. Arms crossed. “Routine still means wanderers. You could’ve at least texted when you were clear.”
You exhale through your nose. “Caleb, I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t need to check in every time I step outside.”
His jaw flexes. “I’m not asking you to check in like a child. I’m asking you to remember there are people who-” He stops. Starts again. “People who worry. People who’ve already lost too much.”
The undercurrent is there. Always is. The explosion. The time apart. The way he came back different, harder, carrying ghosts you can’t see but can feel. You’ve talked about it. You’ve held each other through the nightmares. You thought you were past the part where he treats you like fragile glass.
Apparently not.
“I know you worry,” you say, softer. Trying to deescalate. “But I’m not helpless. I’ve been doing this job for ages without-”
“Without me?” he finishes. Voice low. “Yeah. I know. And look how well that turned out.”
You freeze. Water bottle halfway to your mouth.
He keeps going. Like the dam broke and he can’t stop the flood. “You keep acting like you don’t need anyone. Like you can just charge ahead and handle everything alone. But you can’t. Not really. You never could. That’s why you always end up hurt. That’s why you always need someone to pull you out. And if you won’t let it be me-” His voice cracks, just once. “then fine. Keep pretending you’re invincible. Keep pretending you don’t need protecting. But don’t expect me to stand by and watch you break yourself again just to prove a point to me.”
He’s rejecting the one thing you’ve fought tooth and nail to build since Gran’s house burned down: your independence. Your ability to stand on your own. The quiet pride you carry that show you survived. You grew up. You don’t need saving anymore.
And in his eyes, in the heat of fear and frustration, that pride is delusional. Childish. Something you cling to because you can’t accept reality: that you’re still the little girl who needs him to keep her safe. That you’ll always be dependent. That without his protection, you’re just… waiting to fall apart again.
Your throat closes with something colder, something final.
You set the water bottle down.
“Don’t,” you say. Voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t talk to me like I’m still ten years old and hiding under the table during a storm.”
He flinches. Opens his mouth.
You shake your head. “I’m done being the person you have to save. If that’s all I am to you… then I don’t want to be here at all.”
You walk past him. Grab your keys. Coat. Phone.
He reaches for your wrist. Gentle and pleading. “Wait-”
You pull away.
The door closes behind you with a soft click.
You don’t go far. Just a friend’s place across the city. Crash on their couch. Turn your phone to Do Not Disturb.
You stay gone for days.
Caleb doesn’t bombard you. That’s not his way.
But he breaks in slow motion.
He sits in your empty apartment for hours. Doesn’t turn on the lights. Just stares at the spot on the couch where you usually curl against him.
He knows it’s not true. Knows you’ve pulled yourself out of worse than he has. Knows you’ve saved him more times than he’s saved you lately.
He doesn’t sleep.
The next day he flies back to base. Tries to bury himself in work. Fails. Snaps at subordinates over nothing. Gets sent home early.
He leaves a small paper bag in your apartment. Inside is a tiny plush airplane. The one he won for you at arcades when you were kids. Faded tag still reads “To my co pilot.”
You cry then. Quietly. Into the plush.
Nights get worse for him.
He stops going to the fleet. Stays in your room in his apartment instead. Sits on your bed. Holds your pillow like it’s you.
After a week he can’t wait anymore.
He waits outside your place. This time in the morning light. Clean uniform. Shaved. Eyes hollow but steady.
You step out for coffee and see him.
“I’m sorry,” he says. Voice rough from disuse. “I was wrong. Every word. You’re not weak. You’ve never been weak. You’ve carried more than anyone should have to, and you did it without me for years. I had no right to make you feel small just because I’m terrified of losing you again.”
You don’t speak.
He keeps going. “I don’t want you to need me. I want you to choose me. Even when you don’t need saving. Even when you’re stronger than I am. I want to stand beside you, not in front of you. And I failed at that. Badly.”
Silence.
Then, quieter: “I’ll give you more time if that’s what you need. I won’t push. But I need you to know, I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you tell me to leave for good.”
You look at him.
See the shadows under his eyes. The way his hands tremble just slightly. The way he’s holding himself like he might shatter if you walk away again.
You step forward.
Close enough that he can smell your shampoo. Close enough that he stops breathing.
“I’m still angry,” you say softly.
“I know.”
You reach up. Touch his cheek. He grabs your wrist and leans into your touch more.
“But I missed you,” you whisper.
His eyes close. A shaky exhale.
You step into him then. Let him wrap his arms around you. Careful. Reverent. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
He buries his face in your hair. “I’m sorry,” his voice is soft.
You hold him tighter.
Later, back in your apartment, he doesn’t try to fix everything in one night. Just sits with you. Talks. Listens. Lets you set boundaries.
No more showing up unannounced without asking.
No more assuming you need rescuing.
Just partnership.
He still worries. He always will.
But now he channels it differently; quiet support. Pride in your strength. Standing at your six instead of blocking your path.
And every time you come home safe from a mission, he greets you with that same easy smile, only now it’s softer. Grateful.
Because you chose to come back.
And he’ll spend the rest of his life making sure you never regret it.
FEATURING: caleb/xia yizhou x non!mc female reader
where you get injured during a paired hunter’s association mission with mc. when you realize she’s hurt too, you keep quiet about your own condition and turn all your strength towards getting her to safety, because caleb needs her alive. because she has always been caleb’s first priority. because caleb’s entire life has been tailored around keeping her safe.
because, maybe, in another life, caleb would have chosen you. but in this one, you already know better.
CONTENT: 5.3k words, ANGST (i am warning you), ALLLL hurt VERY LITTLE comfort (this is your second warning), toxic dependency and kind of a savior complex on reader’s end, slight gore and body horror, profanity, blood, injuries, arguments, childhood!bestfriend caleb and non!mc character study, literary themes, mc is your partner in the association
NOTE: this is based on jeff buckley’s heart-wrenching song: lover, you should have come over (go listen as you read 😚) . ALSO if you’ve read a tale of two cities by charles dickens, i was highly inspired by sydney carton and lucie manette when writing reader and caleb’s relationship — so NOTE that reader is the ultimate yearnmaxxer. she has a savior complex and depends on caleb like sydney is towards lucie so their relationship is NOT MEANT TO BE HEALTHY!!!!! plz heed that warning before reading!!!!
masterlist | part two | part three | ao3 | the official playlist.
IT’S NEVER OVER / ALL MY BLOOD FOR THE SWEETNESS OF HER LAUGHTER / IT’S NEVER OVER / SHE IS THE TEAR THAT HANGS INSIDE MY SOUL, FOREVER.
The poet writing out your life taught you very early on that you were never first when it comes to Caleb.
You can picture the way the elegist holds the pen, etching away and gradually crafting your star-crossed narrative: they’ve scrawled all the words with bloodied ink. Ripped the edges with laughter, left the paper to yellow with age. A Romanticist’s dark fantasy – a traditional ending that belonged in one of Shakespeare’s tragedies, a cruel fate subjected to you, a side character left to eventually rot away beneath the blinking moonlight.
Unfortunately, you love Caleb. Fortunately, you love Caleb. You love him because he’s Caleb. You hate him because he’s Caleb. You love him the way Sydney Carton loved Lucie Manette, when he clawed out his own pulsating heart from his dying ribs and willingly served it to her on a silver platter. All without asking for a single thing in return, because she saved him from a life of disgrace. He was already withering, and she rekindled him from ashes into a blazing heap of fire, and that salvation was more than enough to grant her his beautiful devotion.
You think that if Caleb asked for your heart, you’d plate it within seconds – savoring whatever he chose to grow in its place. You’d let him plant asiatic apples – his favorite – inside your ribcage, and let him caramelize them and feed them to you without a second thought. If you struggled to breathe and cough up the bloodied seeds, you think that’s even better. Because it’s Caleb, and you hate him, but worst of all, you love him. And they go hand in hand, your love and hatred, so much so that it hurts.
MC is a real sweetheart. A pretty thing who brought a noble reason for becoming a UNICORNS Hunter to the Association. You tried so hard to loathe her, you really did, but all your efforts came back futile. Because in reality, why would you hate MC? Because of Caleb? It’s not like she forces him to do anything – he willingly dotes on her. Sometimes she even gets upset because he gets a little too overbearing. Everything Caleb does for her is of his own accord. You are never the first person to be called when things go wrong. Never the first to be worried for. Not the first to be protected the second everything goes awry.
That place has always belonged to her, but Caleb granted her that place of his own free will. MC had never meant any malice towards you, because it was hardly her fault that Caleb chose her. Any hint of animosity was all but a carefully constructed illusion in your own head, because there was none. She had been nothing but kind to you. A real sweetheart.
The necklace around Caleb’s throat is proof of her place; a thin chain, dull silver, worn over by years of being grasped at without a second thought. The crystallized red apple and those dog tags that glint under the sunlight: a constant, unintentional reminder of her ownership and everything that you’re not. You’ve watched him reach for it whenever he’s anxious, fingers curled around it when orders from the Fleet are too heavy, and when his fear slips through the cracks of his carefully crafted composure.
Maybe that’s something you can hate her for, because that necklace serves as a painful admonition and a physical manifestation of all your hurt. You were there before that necklace. That damned necklace. Before any ranks. Before MC became your partner in the Association, another mocking reminder of where you stood within your twisted narrative. Before all your obligations grew teeth and knew how to bite, and sooner or later would swallow you whole.
You remember it now. The memory comes to you, unbidden and sharp and warm all at once, a wilted daffodil resting within the depths of your thoughts that refuses to leave.
It was summer that day, late summer. You remember the season because the apples were in full bloom and Caleb had been counting the days down until he could harvest the fruits that one of Josephine’s trees bore. He promised you that he’d make apple pie just like how she makes it, and you just giggled and told him not to set the fire alarm off again. He said that he never recalled doing such a thing.
The sky was blue, and the apples were a perfect shade of red, and you wished they would respectively stay blue and red forever. For those colors to never darken or fade, and hoping that one day, they would merge and settle under Caleb’s eyes. An almost impossible shade of ultraviolet that you constantly yearned for.
MC wasn’t there. You don’t remember why, and frankly, you don’t care. All that mattered, for once, was that day belonged entirely to you. Out of all the afternoons that you spent as a trio, it had only been the two of you that day. Yes, this was a summer memory that was only yours and his to keep, for you to fondly keep in a locket deep within your ribcage for all eternity.
That day, you were younger – too young to know how things would end – and sitting cross-legged on the dewy grass of his backyard, the blades damp against your palms. Caleb sits across from you, knees pulled up, and sleeves rolled to his elbows, eagerly waiting. The air smelled like sun-warmed leaves and fruits, like Caleb, and the poets were feeling creative, basking in the cooling wind the summer brought.
You had brought him a gift, you said, and he watched you with an expectant shade of curiosity as you reached into your pocket and pulled out two thin lengths of braided cord, a perfect mix of ivory and crimson. The bracelets were uneven, dyed by your shaky hands, and lightly fraying at the ends. You’d made them the night before, fingers clumsy and hands shaking as you followed the step-by-step tutorial playing on your phone. “Oh? What do you have for me here?”
“They’re matching bracelets. One for you, and one for me,” you mutter sheepishly, like explaining might’ve lessened the embarrassment tinting your cheeks. “I know they’re kind of stupid, but–”
Caleb leans forward at that. “Hey, they’re not stupid.”
You look up at him, surprised. “You promise?”
“Pinky promise,” he grins, and your throat tightens, his words like music to your ears, crescendoing into a harmonious choir the moment that Caleb willingly holds out his wrist for you. The way your heart thumped as your fingers brushed against his skin made you fear that he could hear its erratic beating, and the blood rushing in your eardrums. Maybe he didn’t. Or maybe he did, and chose not to say anything. He’s always been able to read you like an open book.
“There, done.” The bracelet rested just beneath the bone of his right wrist, the color vivid against his skin. When you finished, you leaned back to admire your work, pride blooming and heart full with his words, despite yourself. “Now, when you inevitably forget me in five years when you’re suuuper popular and cool at the DAA, you won’t be able to pretend like you didn’t know me.”
He laughs at that, bright and unguarded, and you wish that this day would never end. That Caleb and his bracelet and everything about him would just settle somewhere deep within your chest, finding shelter within the crevices of your ribcage. Or maybe you can find a home within his own body. You didn’t mind either outcome. “I don’t think that’s possible. Besides, you’re already way cooler than me.”
Then, without another word, he reaches for your hand. “Wait–”
Too late. He fumbles with the second bracelet, your matching half, and knots it around your wrist. It sits a little too tight, and you’re certain you’ll get rope burn once you begin to outgrow it, but you could hardly care less. He puts his palm against your own and intertwines your fingers against his, and your mind sings at the contact. “There. Now we’re even.”
You look down at your hand clasped against his own and mutter, “You’re never taking this off.”
He smiles, saluting you with his free hand, and your eyes soften. You’ve marked each other with these bracelets. His hand is so, so warm, and Caleb is still so beautiful, like how everything should be. “Copy that.”
That day was an anomaly.
You were matching bracelets with Caleb. Not him and MC. You and Caleb. He’d let you leave a permanent mark on him in a way that MC hadn’t, even though she ended up giving him that necklace years later. The sky shouldn’t have been such a beautiful shade of blue, and the apples shouldn’t have been so red, but they were. Caleb shouldn’t have been so boyishly pretty that day, looking over your visage so beautifully with those violet eyes, but he was. Everything was so perfectly aligned that day that you sometimes wondered if you had just imagined it all, as if he were but a mere phantasm in the breeze. A trick of the light to convince yourself that he was once yours.
Oh, but that moment was as real as it got. MC’s necklace may have come later, but those bracelets were yours first. Caleb was real, and that moment with him had been the one thing that you could call yours. Undeniably, indisputably yours.
But that was before the explosion.
Like everything that you once could call your own, Caleb kept true to his word and never took the bracelet off, until it had been cruelly ripped from your grasp by the laughing elegist and the hands of fate. The facts were clearly written: Caleb survived the tragedy, Josephine did not. Caleb was now the Colonel of the Farspace Fleet, and his right arm had been reinforced with a metallic prosthetic. His veins became wires tangled red, green, and blue, and the bracelet was lost with the debris.
His right arm was no longer yours. A part of Caleb’s heart was no longer yours.
The arm you had fastened the bracelet around could no longer feel. The hand you held that summer afternoon can no longer experience your warmth, now cold with the false promise of permanence. The arm that had worn your mark so easily until it hadn’t, under the blink of an eye. You never said it out loud, because acknowledging the thought felt monstrous, almost sacrilegious, but sometimes, you truly wondered if you cursed him.
Like the marks you leave on the things you loved most were meant to waste away with time, and eventually vanish.
The sky isn’t blue anymore. It’s a dull shade of grey today, actually. That summer day no longer smells sweet but more like something decaying. The apples are long gone and rotten right to the core, but Caleb’s eyes are still that haunting shade of amethyst and still everything you love.
Because some things, apparently, endure.
You’re partnered with MC on an Association mission today, but this particular mission has ties with Skyhaven. Skyhaven meant the Farspace Fleet. And of course, the Fleet meant seeing Caleb before the Association sent you to take care of the next bout of wanderers or whatever they were ready to throw at you today. It was rare for Linkon and Skyhaven’s affairs to intertwine, even though they ultimately shared similar end goals. At the end of the day, they were still interconnected pillars that wanted to get rid of wanderers. Hence why you were here.
You feel inside your pocket, making sure the box is intact. The mission briefing ran much longer than it should’ve, and people from the Fleet filed out in pairs and clusters, none of them sparing the members of the Hunters Association a second glance. Boots echo across the floors, and you linger inside the room, looking for the familiar set of violet eyes, a ghost of a smile forming on your face once they meet yours.
Caleb.
“Hey,” he says, and you know that if you were MC, that greeting would’ve been followed with his endearing nickname for her, ‘pips’. Unfortunately, you weren’t MC, and you weren’t his pipsqueak. What exactly were you to him? You didn’t know. You were just… you.
Was that enough for him?
“It’s rare seeing you in the Fleet. I wish you weren’t here at all, though. It gets real crazy here sometimes,” He ruffles your hair, and you couldn’t even return the action because of his big, stupid Colonel hat. “D’ya need something before the mission? My good luck charm, maybe?”
“Hmm, I dunno. Is your charm really all that good?” You smile up at him, his pretty eyes gazing into yours, and suddenly, the banter almost makes everything flicker with normalcy. Caleb was here again. You were here with him, and the stars are almost aligning, because the world, inexplicably, hasn’t taken everything from you yet. “I have a gift for you, actually.”
“A gift? What’s the occasion?” He asks as you slowly reach into your pocket, fingers brushing the fabric and metal. It makes you hesitate, like you were sixteen all over again that summer day and were afraid of Caleb’s reaction towards your handmade, woven bracelets. The soft beam on his face this time around made it easier on your nerves, though. “My birthday’s stiiill pretty far away, you know.”
You exhale slowly, pulling out the box under his watchful gaze. “Something I made,” you murmur, “Again.”
The box opens, and your gift is finally on full display beneath the blinking fluorescent lights of the Fleet. There are two bracelets inside, woven crimson and ivory, just like before. Anyone could still tell that it’s handmade, but the handiwork is neater, and the thread is no longer fraying. You got rid of your matching half after the explosion, vowing to only wear it if Caleb had his part of the pair. The expression on his face is unreadable, and it makes your heart thump with apprehension all over again.
“I thought–” you continue, staring at the box instead of at him, “that maybe we don’t get to keep things forever, but we can try to, anyway.”
“You made another set, after I lost mine when…” He trails off, and you nod. It’s the closest thing you’ve gotten to talking about the explosion, and Caleb’s jaw tightens. You knew he was no longer sixteen, and you don’t even know if he’s still entirely Caleb, the same one who held your hand that late summer afternoon, but that mark you left on him was still yours. Even as the dog tags beneath his uniform serve as a painful reminder that he will never be truly yours entirely. “Put it on me, again. Just like old times.”
He wordlessly holds out his wrist for you – the left one this time – and he doesn’t miss your painful gaze towards his bionic arm. You fasten it around his left wrist, the only arm that can feel anything anymore, and the mark is seared once again, even though the sky is still gray and the apples are long spoiled.
Despite all that time, Caleb is still beautiful, and that has never changed.
Then, he reaches for you, taking your wrist and gently tying the second bracelet there. If you squint, you could probably still see the marks left behind by the previous one. His fingers brush against your skin in a way that makes your breath hitch, and his tongue is pressed lightly to his teeth, like he’s afraid of making the knot too tight like before. “Do you remember what you said that day? How you predicted that I’d forget you in five years when I’m ‘super popular and cool’ once I was at the DAA?”
You meekly nod as he finishes the knot. It’s a perfect one this time. Not too tight to give you any rope burns, and not too loose that it would fall off. “Well, I think my words still stand. I most certainly never forgot you, you’re still way cooler than me, and definitely way cooler than anyone there.”
With that, his eyes softly whisper against your own. You look at each other – really look at each other this time – and his damned violet eyes catch the light, familiar and unbearable and intoxicating, all at once. You think of all those blue summer skies and Josephine’s red apples and all the ways those colors can merge into something sadder, yet far more alluring. A mixture that rests under Caleb’s eyes.
Your foreheads are nearly touching, and his breath stutters as you take his mechanical hand into your own, caressing the metal that took away your mark and a part of Caleb’s humanity. He pulls you closer with his free hand – the one with your newly made mark – almost like he was luring you in with his Gravity EVOL. But Caleb didn’t need to utilize his EVOL to pull you in; he did it all naturally. Him and his stupid good luck charm.
“You come back to me,” he quietly whispers, his breath hot against your own. If you listened closely enough, you could hear his erratically beating heart. You weren’t Caleb’s pipsqueak, but you could do all of this to him. You had this effect on him. This moment was yours, and you were going to selfishly savor it. Replay this scene until it one day swallows you whole. “You promise.”
For a single moment, the world finally narrows to just the two of you. The Fleet and the Hunter’s Association were just background noise. His gaze flickers to your lips, then back to your eyes. You could feel the heat of your words just before you speak, just before he leans in and finally closes the gap. “I–”
“Caleb!”
MC’s voice cuts through the tension like a carefully positioned blade, and you immediately step back. Caleb withdraws his hand from the back of your neck like it stung, as if it never belonged there in the first place. The bracelet resting against your wrist feels hot to the touch. You wonder if it feels the same for Caleb, or if he’d eventually take it off sooner or later. MC’s looking at you expectantly, eyes bright and unaware of what just happened. “They’re calling us in. Are you ready?”
“Yeah,” you declare weakly, breath still stuck in your throat, something you’re unable to swallow. “I’m coming.”
The realization dawns on you faster than anything when MC offers you a big smile. You were right – from the very beginning, you didn’t hate MC. You never did. She’s kind, sweet, and constantly has your back during missions. No, you were angry at her presence. How it was practically impossible to hang out with just Caleb. It was always you, Caleb, and her. How the duo could never stay as a duo, no matter what. How your moments with Caleb can be so easily ripped from your grasp by MC because she was here first. Of course, it was always her first.
Caleb needs to keep her safe first. To protect her first. She was his priority first. This was the status quo, and you had no say in changing the rules that were already set in stone a long time ago. Still, as you catch a glimpse of Caleb’s wrist before you leave, you make a silent vow to yourself, to the crimson and ivory resting on your own wrist.
If you cursed Caleb with your first present, you silently pray that this time around, it will curse you instead of him.
The mission turned into a shitshow faster than you had initially anticipated.
You were so outnumbered from the very beginning that you wondered what the hell the Association was thinking when sending you two on this mission. Was this a fucking death trap specifically designed for you and MC? For everyone else dispatched here? There’s so much blood on the floor you could hardly distinguish your own from any wanderer that you had defeated.
Another wanderer goes down, collapsing onto the debris with a sound that rattles your bones and shoots directly to your ringing eardrums. Your sword is immediately knocked away from your hands by the next target, and it falls onto the ground with a deafening clatter. You need backup, and you need it now. You think about who to call – you would have called Xavier, but your Hunter’s watch is long broken, and he’s probably just as preoccupied as you two.
The entire situation was so pitiful that you could have laughed if it weren’t for how fucked over you both were.
You look towards MC, and your eyes widen as she stumbles, her breath staggering and legs shaking. You’re already moving, just before she hits the ground. “MC!”
“Hey, hey, stay with me–” you scream out, dropping to your knees beside her. You use all your strength and bring the two of you to a nearby tree, praying that all the shrubs and bushes cover you from the wanderer’s sight. She’s breathing, shallow but steady, eyes unfocused as she tries her hardest to meet your gaze. You prop her against the trunk and cup her face, trying to keep her awake. “Please, fuck–”
She’s injured, but she’s alive. Good. That’s good. You just need to keep her alive long enough to get to a safe zone, or until help comes. Something warm spreads beneath your hunter’s uniform when you shift your weight, but you ignore the excruciating agony in your abdomen and focus on MC. A stab wound in your core. You don’t even know where it came from, and the adrenaline had masked the pain until now. Still, you’ve felt worse. Way worse than this. Right now, you just need to keep her alive, because–
Because of Caleb. Because Caleb needs her alive.
“You come back to me,” His words briefly echo in your ears, and it makes your eyes sting with tears. You don’t know if you can. “You promise.”
You’ve never broken any promises when it comes to Caleb, and he’s never broken any, either. But, technically, this time around, you didn’t promise him anything because MC had interrupted you before you could utter any words out. So, you didn’t exactly owe him anything. Your life was second to hers right now.
Sorry, Caleb.
“We need to move,” you say, hauling her arm over your shoulder. This spot was not going to be safe for long, and you didn’t have your sword. If any wanderer spots you, that’d be the end of your narrative. And you can’t have it end yet, not when MC isn’t safe. “Can you stand?”
She groans, teetering between a fine line of consciousness and unconsciousness. “You’re – you’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine,” you say automatically, even though you’re surprised that she noticed the wet blood staining the abdomen of your uniform. MC is a real sweetheart. Always thinking about other people when she’s equally as fucked over as you. That’s why you never truly hated her. How could you have the heart to do so?
She blinks up at you, trying to focus. “No, you’re not. I can see right through you.”
“We don’t have time for this,” you grit your teeth and force yourself upright despite your core screaming out in a horrid bout of pain. You bite your lip so hard that it draws blood, bringing MC up with you and ignoring her protests. You remember during the mission briefing that a safe zone was about… half a mile up north. Every staggering step sends a sharp reminder throughout your body, but you stubbornly don’t slow. “Caleb needs you out.”
MC shakes her head weakly. “What about you?”
You don’t answer, and she continues, a huff of air almost sounding like a laugh. “He loves you, you know.”
Her words make you freeze, and you turn to look at her. “Cares about you… a lot. Don’t just think about me.”
It’s hard not to, you want to say, but the words never leave your tongue. If Caleb had to choose, in a life-or-death situation, whether to save me or you, I think we all know the answer to that a little too well.
You make it to a clearing in the forest, and her grip on you suddenly tightens, enough to make you stop in your tracks, despite yourself. “Stop,” she says, practically pleading, panic creeping into her voice. “You can’t keep going like this.”
“Oh,” she looks down, really takes a second to see your condition, and her expression crumples, muttering out your name in concern. “You’re hurt. You’re really hurt.”
“I said I’m fine,” you repeat, but your voice cracks, and your composure is breaking.
She tries to pull away from you. “Put me down, this isn’t worth it–”
“No,” you say sharply. “If we wait–”
“You could pass out,” she says, tears welling in her eyes and fingers digging into your sleeve. “You’re not okay, please, you don’t have to do this–”
You don’t say what you’re thinking, but your answer is already written all over your face. You do have to do this, actually. This was never a question. The bracelet on your wrist feels even warmer than before. MC reaches for you, fumbling with her gear with her remaining strength. Her Hunter’s watch and her gun. The watch’s screen was still lit, and her gun had a few rounds inside.
“Here, use my watch. I can’t… hold on for much longer,” her eyes are glazing over, on the brink of passing out, and you place her gun in your holster and the watch around your wrist, trying to keep the both of you upright. “Call for help, but promise that you… think about yourself, too.”
You swallow the lump in your throat and meekly nod, taking her watch. Don’t say I promise to her, because you’re certain that you’ll break it. And you don’t make promises that you can’t keep. “Yeah. Sure.”
She smiles at that and goes limp in your arms. You suck in a breath, eyes flitting all over the screen as you thought about who to call. You try Xavier’s line and give up after a few rings. You just hope that he’s alright. Finally, your finger hovers over Caleb’s line. You know damn well that he’d respond, especially since this was MC’s watch, and not yours. The speaker rings once before the line opens. “Caleb, I need evac. Now.”
“Status.” His voice comes back sharp and controlled, and you realize that this wasn’t Caleb right now, but Colonel Caleb.
“MC’s down, and–” I took a hit, and I’m bleeding out too. You’re unable to force those words out in between your labored breaths. “–she took a hit from a wanderer, and… I’m trying to take us to the nearby safe zone. I’m five minutes out.”
The world tilts as you haul MC’s weight higher against your shoulder. Your vision blurs at the edges, but you lock your jaw and keep moving. “What the hell happened?”
“It’s a shitshow out here, Caleb. I don’t have my sword, and she took a hit when I wasn’t looking–”
“When you weren’t looking?” His voice cuts through the line, tone hardening. “You’re supposed to cover for her.”
“I was,” you snap, the words tearing out of you like the flesh from your abdomen when the wanderer had stabbed you. “I was there, Caleb, I tried–”
“Then why the hell is she bleeding out?”
This was exactly what you expected. Maybe you shouldn’t have called him at all. His words hit harder than any wound you’ve sustained, and you stagger, barely managing to keep your footing – barely managing to keep MC upright with you. The pain is blooming, sharp and practically blinding, white-hot and so fucking unforgiving, and for a moment, you nearly cry out.
But you don’t. You tighten your grip on her instead.
“Damn it. The safe zone near you – I’m about ten minutes away from it. Can you make it there?”
You can hear it even through the static. The fear in his voice was raw, frantic, and all-consuming. The fear of losing MC eclipses everything else, swallowing whole whatever concern might have been meant for you. If MC was right – and Caleb really did love you – then his love was not enough to overcome the instinct carved into him long before you ever even entered his life.
Because she was here first. And you were not. And that’s just the way things were.
The thought makes something hysterical bubble in your chest. You laugh, or at least try to, but it breaks apart into an ugly cough, and more crimson stains your uniform.
“Yeah,” you manage out. “I think.”
You don’t know how you conjured up the strength to make it to the evac zone, but you do. The world narrows after your call began with Caleb, and the lights blur together into a pale white smear. Her weight grows heavier in your arms as she stirs, like she knew something was wrong with your staggering footsteps.
“You come back to me,”
“Promise that you… think about yourself, too.”
I’m sorry. To both of you.
Everyone finally notices you and MC, and your senses finally dull as your fingers slip from MC’s sleeve, letting someone else take her. Throughout all the clamor, someone begins assisting you, but you can’t feel anything. Trembling, your hand falls against your wrist, and the bracelet is still there. You think of Caleb’s left wrist and how it matched your own, and how that was the greatest salvation you could’ve asked for. You think about his right arm and how he never got to wear that first bracelet again after it got destroyed in the explosion. You wonder, briefly, if he’ll notice that this time, he’s going to be the one without the matching pair.
Caleb never once asks if you were alright.
His voice is still coming through MC’s watch – urgent and relieved that your location says that you’ve made it to the evac zone. Even though someone took her away already, you hear him telling her to hold on, and that he’s just a few minutes away with his plane. You smile faintly at that. Of course he is. He always makes it in time for her.
The poets and elegists from every era are calling out to you as they draft the final line of your narrative, and their hymns and elegies are beautiful. Your vision finally gives in, and the sky above is still a flat, unremarkable gray, nothing like that impossibly blue summer afternoon all those years ago. You suppose that’s fitting. Things were never meant to stay beautiful forever. The apples are no longer red. They’ve rotted a long time ago. Maybe Caleb’s eyes are no longer that same shade of ultraviolet, too. You wish you looked a little longer into his eyes, one last time, just to make sure.
The poet writing out your life taught you very early on that you were never first when it comes to Caleb. Maybe, in another life, Caleb would have chosen you over her. But this was not that life.
And even then, you think, loving him – loving him in the way you did – was still worth it.
Even now.
Especially now.
I FEEL TOO YOUNG TO HOLD ON / AND MUCH TOO OLD TO BREAK FREE AND RUN / TOO DEAF, DUMB AND BLIND TO SEE THE DAMAGE I’VE DONE / SWEET LOVER, YOU SHOULD’VE COME OVER.
next | the finale.
end note: i’ve seen a lot of caleb x non!mc reader fics that try and vilify mc or caleb and i just wanna emphasize how that was NEVER my intention with this fic! i tried my best to portray caleb’s turmoil over his entire existence revolving around protecting mc and the way he tries to make room for the reader, too — even though in the end, his innate instinct to save mc was what got the reader killed. his irrational fear of losing mc after years of protecting her was the reason why he overlooked the reader’s condition, but i promiseee that he mostly didn’t do it on purpose (even tho ik he was a bit of a dick in the ending its ok the reader’s ghost haunts him after she dies). his love for non!mc IS requited, but unfortunately was overshadowed by his devotion to mc, which was what ultimately doomed her in the end. so plz lmk ur thoughts on this!! 😵💫😵💫
@kamieow 2026. reblogs are greatly appreciated ─ thank you so much for reading! <3
SUMMARY: You have shared too much with Caleb— your childhood in middle school, your restless teenage years in high school, and the sleepless nights that came with training at the DAA. Through every phase of your life, you’ve loved him. Quietly. Desperately. While he loved someone else.
So you learned to endure it.
You swallowed your feelings and tucked them away in secret letters never meant to be read—letters inked with heartbreak, feverish longing, and fantasies too raw to speak aloud. From crooked handwriting to elegant script, each page was a confession of the love you hated to carry, the ache you never outgrew. And when Caleb vanished from your life after graduation without a word, you buried those letters in a box, and the box deep within yourself.
Years later, fate intervenes.
Caleb returns—broader, bolder, devastatingly handsome. And strangely focused on you. His touches linger too long, his eyes see too much, and his smile says he knows exactly what you’ve been hiding. He looks at you like you’re the one he’s been waiting for—and you can’t tell if it terrifies you or tempts you more.
You try to pull away. You’ve spent too many years surviving without him to fall now.
But Caleb doesn’t let go.
Because now that he’s seen the truth—every broken sentence, every filthy fantasy, every whispered ‘I love you’ you never dared say out loud—he’s not just here to catch up.
He’s here to chase you down.
And he won’t stop until you’re his.
WORD COUNT: 11.1k
NOTES: Takes place after the Main story supposedly ends. This happens far in the future. Caleb is older here, 28–29 maybe. Reader is NOT mc, keep that in mind. In this scenario mc is with another LI.
You used to love love.
Not just the idea of it—but the ache of it. The promise of it. The giddy, schoolgirl butterflies and the midnight hopes whispered into your pillow. Love was the secret language of your world, threaded through songs you hummed under your breath, the romance novels dog-eared to your favorite passages, the ink-stained pages of letters never sent.
You believed in love the way children believe in magic.
But you grew up.
And love? It grew fangs.
Now, you love to hate it.
You hate how it made a fool of you. How it made you wait and yearn and burn in silence, hoping he’d look your way and see you. Not as a friend, not as a childhood companion, but as someone worth reaching for. Worth choosing. But he didn’t. He never did. Caleb’s heart was always spoken for.
So you buried your own.
You’ve become good at pretending. You laugh at romance now, scoff at declarations, dismiss affection with a curl of your lip and a joke that lands just bitter enough to be believable. You’re not heartless—you’re just tired. Of hoping. Of hurting. Of wanting things that were never yours to begin with.
You fill your time with things that don’t require soft emotions. You keep your hands busy and your mind busier. You hum lullabies to yourself when the silence grows too sharp. You sleep with the light on sometimes—not out of fear, but because the darkness reminds you too much of waiting for someone who never came back.
And still…
Despite it all…
Sometimes, on quiet nights when your guard slips, you wonder what it would be like to be loved out loud.
To be wanted so much it’s terrifying. To be chosen first.
You don’t dare admit it aloud. You barely let yourself think it.
Because if love ever finds you again…
You’re not sure if you’ll run away from it—
Or straight into its arms.
You hear his voice before you see him.
Low. Smooth. A little deeper than you remember. It cuts through the background noise like gravity pulling everything toward it—pulling you toward it. You freeze mid-step, your spine going taut like a wire drawn too tight. You know that voice. You’ve heard it in dreams. In memories. In the echo of unsent letters you’ll never admit you still read.
You turn slowly.
And there he is.
Caleb.
Older. Sharper. Beautiful in a way that feels almost unfair. His body is broader now, sculpted with strength and silent discipline. His jaw is dusted with scruff. His posture, relaxed but alert. And those eyes—still storm-silver and searing, but steadier somehow. Knowing.
He sees you.
Really sees you.
And for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you standing there like a collision waiting to happen.
A beat passes.
“...It’s been a while,” he says, and God—he smiles.
That same crooked, devastating smile that used to undo you in a single heartbeat. But there’s something different now. Less boyish charm, more… reverence. Like he’s looking at a relic he thought lost forever and can’t quite believe is real.
You swallow, throat tight. “Yeah. A while.”
There’s so much you could say. So much you want to say. About the years. The distance. The versions of yourself that broke and rebuilt in his absence. But your mouth is dry and your thoughts scatter like startled birds.
Caleb steps forward—close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint scent of metal and pine and something unmistakably him.
He looks you up and down slowly, like he’s taking inventory of everything time tried to steal.
“You look…” His gaze softens. “You look like trouble.”
You scoff—too sharp, too fast, your defense mechanisms kicking in like old habits. “And you still talk like you’re trying to land a date in a bar.”
His grin flashes wider. “Would it work if I was?”
God, he’s flirting.
Like you weren’t just background noise to him once. Like you didn’t spend years trying to scrape his ghost off your ribs.
You narrow your eyes. “Why are you here, Caleb?”
He leans in, the air between you charged, crackling. His voice drops—lower, rougher.
“Because I missed you.”
You blink. That wasn’t the answer you expected. Not from him. Not with that look in his eyes—part hungry, part haunted, all real.
And just like that, the careful walls you’ve built start to shake.
You hear the door creak open behind you before the sound of his footsteps catches up.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Caleb says, his voice deeper, richer than you remember. “You look... different.”
You don’t turn around immediately. The skyline looks safer than his face.
“Yeah, well. Years pass. People change.”
“Some people stay exactly the same,” he murmurs. “You still lean to the left when you’re uncomfortable.”
You whip around, heart doing a traitorous little jump when your gaze lands on him.
God. He’s unfair. Broader shoulders, sharper jaw, that golden tan that makes his white shirt look criminally good on him. His smile has mellowed into something more potent—less boyish charm, more devastating man.
You cross your arms. “You’re observant now. That’s new.”
He chuckles. “I’ve always been observant. You were just too busy avoiding my eyes to notice.”
Touché.
He walks closer—too close—and you catch a whiff of his cologne, spicy and dark, like danger disguised as comfort. His gaze drops to your lips for half a second too long before returning to your eyes with a glint that spells trouble.
“How long has it been?” he asks softly.
“Since you ditched our entire friend group without a word? Or since I gave up hoping for a message you never sent?”
His jaw tenses. “I deserved that.”
“You did.”
There’s a beat of silence between you, thick with all the things you’re too proud to say and all the things he suddenly looks desperate to.
You retreat into the safety of the couch, motioning for him to sit across—but no, of course not. Caleb drops beside you, hip pressed against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“What about Emcee?” you ask, biting the inside of your cheek. “You two live happily ever after or what?”
His brow furrows. “Emcee? God, no. That was over before it ever started.”
Your heart skips. “Oh.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I’m not.” Lie. “Just surprised.”
“Good,” he says, leaning in, his voice a husky whisper. “Because I didn’t come here to talk about her. I came here for you.”
Your breath catches. You laugh, shaky and forced. “Wow, Caleb. You’ve upgraded your flirting. What happened to your legendary cheesy pickup lines?”
He grins. “I could still use one, if you’re nostalgic. But I figured you’ve grown out of tolerating my bullshit.”
“Smart of you.”
And yet, the way his knee brushes yours every few seconds isn’t helping. Neither is the way his hand hovers just a little too close to your thigh when he reaches for his coffee.
You’re not sure what’s worse—that he’s this charming now, or that it’s working.
Later that night, after he leaves with a promise to “see you soon” and a gaze that lingers like heat, you retreat into your sanctuary.
Your room. Your old dresser. The box tucked under the drawer like a dirty little secret.
The letters.
Every one of them stained with years of aching want and unspeakable need. A catalogue of your descent into hopeless longing, from childish hope to fevered fantasy. The kind of thing no one should ever read.
Especially not Caleb.
But fate, of course, doesn’t care what you want.
The first time he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, it's under the guise of helping you with groceries.
“I’m perfectly capable,” you snap, snatching the bag from his hands.
Caleb just laughs, leaning in. “I know. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to help.”
His knuckles graze yours. You pretend not to notice. He pretends not to notice you pretending. Bastard.
—
The second time, you’re at your favorite café, the one with the uneven chairs and the cinnamon drinks he used to gag over. You’d brought him there as a joke, once. Now he takes you there seriously.
He’s seated too close, his thigh pressed against yours like a quiet claim.
“So,” he says, turning his head toward you. “No boyfriend? Fiancé? Star-crossed lover waiting in the wings?”
“None of your business.”
“That’s a no, then,” he says smugly, sipping his drink.
You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “Why are you asking?”
“Just making sure I’m not stepping on any toes,” he murmurs, then adds, “when I kiss you.”
Your heart slams into your ribs. You scoff, rolling your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “You’re not kissing me.”
“Not today, maybe,” he says easily. “But eventually.”
You hate how warm your cheeks get. You hate him a little more for noticing.
—
The third time is worse.
You’ve both had a bit too much wine. Not drunk, but soft around the edges. He’s on your couch, lounging like he belongs there, like the time between now and then never happened.
He watches you over the rim of his glass. “Why do you keep flinching when I touch you?”
“I don’t flinch.”
“You do. Like you’re scared I’m not real.”
You take a sip of your wine and stare straight ahead. “I’m just trying to figure out what you want.”
His voice goes quiet. “You.”
The word hits you like a punch.
“You wanted Emcee for years.”
“I was stupid for years.”
You meet his eyes. They’re clearer than they’ve ever been—focused, almost painfully sincere.
“That’s convenient,” you say coldly.
He sets his glass down, leans in. “No. It’s fate finally letting me try again.”
His hand reaches up, brushes your cheek with maddening tenderness. He’s so close you can feel the heat of his breath.
You freeze. The ache in your chest roars to life again. This is everything you ever wanted—but you don’t trust it. Not yet.
You turn your head. Just barely.
Caleb’s jaw clenches, his hand falling away.
He sits back without a word.
—
The fourth time, it’s raining.
He brings you a coffee, his hair damp, his hoodie soaked at the shoulders.
“You didn’t have to walk in this weather,” you mutter, taking the drink anyway.
“I wanted to.” His smile is lazy, but his eyes are sharp. “You’re still not letting me in.”
“Would you trust someone who vanished for years without a word?”
His smile falters. Then, to your surprise, he nods. “I wouldn’t. But I’d want them to fight for the chance to be trusted again.”
He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a familiar-looking charm—a bent paper star you made him in high school.
That might be the worst thing he’s ever said. Because it means he felt something. Because it means you weren’t the only one suffering in silence.
Because it means he’s telling the truth.
You excuse yourself before your throat gives way to the sobs you refuse to let him see.
He doesn’t follow.
But he waits.
He always waits now.
And that’s more dangerous than any of his old pickup lines.
You agree to go with him to the observatory.
Big mistake.
It’s late, the sky smeared with stars and promises, the air just crisp enough that Caleb offers you his jacket before you can even pretend to be cold.
You don’t take it.
So, naturally, he just drapes it over your shoulders anyway, like you’re his.
“It looks better on you,” he says, voice quiet as your fingers clutch at the sleeves that still smell like him.
“Don’t start,” you murmur, but there’s no real bite to it.
“Start what?” His smirk is all mischief. “Being nice? Can’t help it. You bring it out of me.”
You roll your eyes and turn your gaze to the sky, but he keeps watching you like you’re the constellation he’s been chasing all his life.
“I used to come here when I missed you,” you admit without thinking, and immediately wish you hadn’t.
The silence that follows is so sharp it could cut glass.
“When you missed me?” His voice is different now—serious. Dangerous. “How often did that happen?”
You laugh, tight and brittle. “Only every time I breathed.”
His head tilts slightly, like he’s not sure he heard you right.
Then: “Say that again.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll use it against me.”
He steps closer, slow and purposeful, until your back meets the cold railing. His hands cage you in, one on either side of your body, his expression unreadable but intense.
“Do you really think I’d take something that precious and weaponize it?”
“I don’t know what you’d do anymore.”
“Then let me show you,” he says, and for a terrifying second, you think he’s going to kiss you.
But he doesn’t.
His lips hover just beside your ear, the warmth of his breath teasing your neck.
“I dreamt of you too, you know. Every damn night.”
Your knees nearly buckle, but pride is a stronger drug than longing.
“Then why didn’t you do anything?” you whisper.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes burning. “Because I was stupid. And I thought you didn’t feel the same.”
You snort. “Well. You were wrong.”
“I know,” he growls. “I know that now. And you’re still keeping me at arm’s length.”
“Damn right I am.”
His smile is tight, hungry. “Fine. You want to make me work for it? I’ll work.”
“I want to be chased, Caleb. Not collected.”
He steps back, hands raised in mock surrender, but his grin is pure trouble.
“Then run, sweetheart. I’ll catch up.”
You hate him for knowing exactly how to undo you.
And maybe you hate yourself more for wanting to be caught.
It’s late. The kind of late where even the shadows seem to sleep.
The old piano room is still your secret solace—dusty, dim, filled with forgotten echoes and dreams you never dared to say out loud. The acoustics are perfect. No one ever comes in here anymore.
Except for one person.
You don't hear him at first. You’re too wrapped up in the song, the way your voice trembles on the high notes, the keys trembling beneath your fingertips. It’s the kind of melody you never intended anyone to hear. Especially not him.
I didn't opt in to be your odd man out
I founded the club she's heard great things about
I left all I knew, you left me at the house by the Heath
Your voice breaks. You close your eyes, breathe, keep going anyway.
I stopped CPR, after all it's no use
The spirit was gone, we would never come to
And I'm pissed off you let me give you all that youth for free
Silence. One, two, three beats of it. Then—
“You always did sound beautiful when you were sad.”
You jump.
Caleb leans against the doorway like he owns the place. Like he owns the air in your lungs. Like he owns you.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he adds, smile lazy, eyes sharp. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”
You blink. “You heard that?”
“I always do.”
Of course he did.
You feel your cheeks burn as he strolls in, gaze never leaving yours. “That song… it’s new?”
You clear your throat, try for nonchalance. “Just something I was playing around with.”
He hums. “Right. Totally not about anyone in particular.”
You bristle. “Did I say that?”
“Nope. But you don’t have to. You forget—I know your voice. I know when it’s for fun. And when it’s ripping you open.”
You glance away, fingers tapping nervously on the ivory keys. “You're being dramatic.”
He kneels beside the bench. Just like that, he’s too close again. Always too close.
“You used to do this all the time,” he murmurs. “Sneak away to sing where no one could find you. You didn’t know I followed.”
Your heart stutters. “You never said anything.”
“Why would I ruin it?” His gaze darkens. “Hearing you like that—it was the only time I ever got to feel like you needed something.”
“I didn’t sing those songs for you,” you lie.
Caleb tilts his head, eyes locked on yours. “Then why are your cheeks red?”
You shove away from the piano, muttering, “You're insufferable.”
He follows, not missing a beat. “You’re blushing, songbird.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
You stop. He almost slams into you.
You glare up at him. “You think you’re so clever.”
He leans in, smirking. “No. I think I’ve waited too long to be this close to you, and now that I’m here, I’m not backing off.”
The worst part? Your hands are trembling. Your knees are weak. And still, somehow, you want more.
But pride wraps around your tongue like a noose.
“You heard the song,” you say, voice low. “That’s enough.”
His eyes flick down to your lips. Then back up. He’s not smiling anymore.
“No,” Caleb whispers. “It’s not.”
You should have locked the damn drawer.
You don’t even know what made you check—but something prickled at the back of your neck the moment you stepped into your apartment. Like something sacred had been disturbed. And when you see the box in Caleb’s hands, your heart stops cold.
No. No.
His head lifts as the door shuts behind you.
And your world implodes.
He’s seated on your couch like he’s carved from stone, the soft golden lamp beside him casting long shadows across the muscles in his jaw and the heartbreak in his eyes.
He’s holding your soul in his hands.
The letters—dozens of them, hundreds, years of ink and agony and lust and grief—you recognize the crooked childhood handwriting, the shaky, angry teenage confessions, the flowing script of your adult longing. Pages of you. Laid bare.
Your breath catches. Your throat closes.
“I—That’s not—You weren’t supposed to—” Your voice cracks. Your knees are trembling.
Caleb stands, the box still in his grip. He looks wrecked.
“I read every single one,” he says softly.
“Put them away,” you whisper, voice hollow. “Please, just… put them away.”
“I can’t.”
You turn to bolt, pure instinct.
And that’s when gravity betrays you.
A weight presses against your body—not crushing, but firm, immovable, inescapable. His Evol.
Your hands fly to the walls, to the floor, anywhere to push back, but you’re floating. Held in place. Suspended in the moment you never wanted him to witness.
“Caleb—!”
“I need you to hear me,” he says, moving closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal.
Your back hits the wall.
He stops just inches from you, eyes devouring every inch of your face. His expression is ravenous, pained, like he’s starving and terrified that the meal in front of him will vanish if he breathes too hard.
“I didn’t know,” he says, his voice ragged. “I never knew.”
You shake your head. “You weren’t supposed to.”
His hand lifts. Hovers near your cheek. “I’ve been walking around blind, thinking I lost you back then. But you never stopped… You loved me. You loved me so much it hurt.”
Tears gather hot and fast in your eyes. “Caleb—don’t—”
“And I was in love with you,” he breathes. “All this time I thought I was chasing someone else, but it was you. It was always you.”
You look away. “You didn’t want me. You wanted her. You chose her.”
“I didn’t choose anyone,” he growls. “I was a coward. I ran. I shut you out and let you carry all that alone. I thought I was protecting you.”
“You weren’t,” you whisper. “You were destroying me.”
The look in his eyes breaks something in you.
“I memorized your words,” he says quietly, his forehead leaning gently against yours. “Every line. Every wish. Every desperate, filthy, aching thing you wanted to say. I felt all of it. Like I was there with you, through every goddamn year I missed.”
You tremble, caught in his pull, aching with the need to believe—but terrified to let yourself fall.
“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you whisper.
“I’m not asking you to,” he murmurs. “Not yet.”
His fingers trail lightly over your waist, your hip, anchoring you. The Gravity around you loosens just enough for your feet to touch the floor again, but you don’t move.
His mouth brushes against your temple.
“I just want to earn you. All of you. Like I should’ve from the start.”
You don’t kiss him.
But you don’t pull away either.
You can’t.
Because suddenly, you're not cold anymore.
You’re burning.
He stays.
Even when you tell him to leave—quietly, then louder, then with trembling fingers pressed to his chest like a warning—Caleb stays.
“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, not meeting his eyes.
“I should’ve been here years ago,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get it? I’m not leaving again.”
You shove him.
He barely budges.
You shove him again.
This time, his hands catch your wrists mid-motion, fast, firm—calm.
You freeze. His skin is warm against yours, calloused where it should be gentle, familiar where it should feel foreign. Your pulse spikes in your throat.
“Let me go,” you say, breathless.
“No.”
Your breath hitches.
“No?” you echo.
His voice drops. “Not until you stop pretending you don’t want me to stay.”
You glare up at him, furious. “You think a few words and a couple of pretty promises erase everything?”
“No,” he says again. “But I’ll keep proving myself until they do.”
You twist out of his grip—nearly—before he suddenly pulls you in.
And for one terrible, brilliant second, your bodies align like they’ve been waiting for this moment your whole lives.
His eyes search yours.
And then, Caleb whispers, “Tell me to stop.”
You open your mouth.
But nothing comes out.
So he kisses you.
Not a soft, hesitant brush of lips.
It’s a claiming.
It’s all the years you spent alone, writing down your agony like confessions to a God who never answered. It’s every fantasy you denied yourself, every moment you watched him look at someone else and wished it were you. It's him—finally, truly, desperately—here.
Your fingers fist in his shirt like you’re angry, like you’re clinging to something you swore you’d never need again.
And when you break apart, gasping, forehead pressed to his, you say—
“I hate you.”
He smiles, soft and ruined. “I know.”
“I hate how much I wanted that.”
“I hope you did.”
“I’m still not making this easy.”
Caleb’s lips trail down your jaw, his voice a low rasp. “You’ve never made anything easy, sweetheart. That’s why you’re worth everything.”
And still—
Still, your heart trembles with the weight of old wounds, and you pull back just enough to see the truth in his eyes.
“You’ll have to fight for this,” you warn him.
His hand finds the back of your neck, possessive and reverent. “Then prepare to be relentlessly pursued.”
You never agreed to date him.
But apparently, Caleb’s taking “relentless pursuit” as a blood oath.
He shows up at your place the next morning with coffee—your actual order, down to the way you like the foam. He doesn’t say how he remembers. You don’t ask.
That night, he texts you at 2am.
Bastard: Thinking about that song you sang. Thinking about your lips too, but that’s not important (it is).
You throw your phone across the bed.
The next day, he’s waiting outside your building. Leaning against his hoverbike, all long legs and low-lidded eyes and that grin. You think he’s here for some kind of mission.
Nope.
Just here to take you to lunch.
“Don’t say this is a date,” you grumble.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, offering his hand. “But hold on tight anyway.”
You hate how your fingers slide into his like they belong there.
—
Caleb doesn’t just flirt. He weaponizes charm like he trained for it.
He gives you compliments with the kind of intensity that makes it hard to breathe.
“I love your voice. Especially when you don’t realize you’re humming.”
“You roll your eyes the same way you used to when I beat you in training. It’s kind of adorable.”
“You don’t have to pretend around me. I know what you sound like when you're honest. I miss that sound.”
He touches you too often. Hand brushing your lower back when he walks past. Fingers grazing yours when he hands you something. Sitting just a little too close on your couch, his thigh pressed against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You hold strong—for a while.
Until he stays over one night, after watching some late-night sci-fi re-run and falling asleep on your couch like a smug golden retriever with abs.
You try to nudge him awake.
You fail.
Hard.
He catches your wrist in his sleep, pulls you down half-on top of him, murmurs your name like it’s a secret prayer, and buries his face in your neck.
You don’t sleep.
Your body is screaming.
But your heart?
It’s terrified.
—
When morning comes, you wake to him cooking in your kitchen like he belongs there, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair a mess, singing your song under his breath.
You freeze in the doorway.
He sees you.
And smiles.
Like you’re not the one who spent ten years hiding a love that almost broke you. Like he’s not here to crack it wide open.
“Morning, sweetheart,” Caleb says softly. “Stay.”
You almost do.
But you don’t.
Not yet.
You think you're doing a good job keeping him at bay.
You’re not.
Because Caleb is everywhere now.
He’s in your kitchen again, humming off-key as he steals bites from your cooking. He’s draped across your couch like it’s his favorite place in the world. He’s in the way he looks at you like you invented gravity, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.
You keep your walls up.
But he keeps coming.
Like he knows you’re lying every time you act unaffected.
—
One night, after a long mission and even longer silence, he shows up unannounced. Eyes shadowed. Mouth grim. Shoulders tense with something unspoken.
You open the door.
He doesn’t say a word—just walks past you, breath ragged.
You follow him into your living room. “Caleb?”
“I thought I lost you again,” he says, voice low.
Your stomach drops. “What?”
He turns to face you, and it’s like the air shifts. Thickens.
“I heard your name over the comms. Brief moment of static. No confirmation you made it out. Just radio silence.”
You cross your arms. “I made it out fine.”
“I didn’t know that,” he snaps. “And for a second, I thought—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight.
You exhale. “I’m used to people not checking in.”
“I’m not people.”
He stalks closer.
You step back.
He follows.
“I don’t care how many times you push me away. You don’t get to disappear on me.”
“And what am I supposed to do?” you throw back. “Pretend like none of this hurts? Like I didn’t bleed for you in silence for years while you played hero somewhere else?”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Your voice cracks. “Because I can’t let myself fall again, Caleb. Not if you're just gonna walk away when it gets hard.”
He grabs your wrist.
Not rough. Just certain.
“Look at me.”
You don’t.
So he tips your chin up with two fingers.
His eyes are burning.
“I am not going anywhere. I don't care how long it takes. You can scream, you can run, you can tell me you hate me. I’ll still be right here.”
“Why?” you whisper, eyes glossy. “Why now?”
“Because I’ve loved you longer than I even understood what that meant,” he breathes. “And I’m done pretending I don’t want every single part of you.”
His other hand slides to your waist, slow and reverent.
Your breath hitches.
You can feel his heartbeat through your palm. Fast. Desperate.
The heat between you is unbearable.
One tilt of your head and you’d be kissing him again.
You want to.
God, you ache to.
But instead, you whisper, “This changes nothing.”
He leans in, nose brushing yours.
“Wrong,” Caleb whispers, his voice rough with restraint. “It changes everything.”
But he doesn’t kiss you.
Not this time.
He lets you go.
And it’s infuriating—because now you want him even more.
The first thing you notice is the light—soft gold spilling through your curtains, catching on floating dust motes, warming the edges of the sheets tangled around your legs.
The second thing you notice is the heat.
Not the weather. Not the blanket.
Him.
Your breath stills.
Because Caleb’s wrapped around you like he owns you.
Which—he doesn’t.
He shouldn’t.
And yet here you are, cocooned in his arms, his entire body molded to yours like you were sculpted to fit him. Your head is pillowed on his chest, right over the steady, heavy thump of his heart. One of his hands is buried in your hair, fingers gently tangled, the other gripping your waist in a possessive clutch that hasn’t loosened even in sleep.
You remember falling asleep with your back to him.
You do not remember signing up for this full-body cuddle trap.
Then there's his thigh—wedged between your legs like it lives there.
Your cheeks burn.
“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “Time to get out before you completely lose your mind.”
You try to slip away quietly.
You wiggle.
No movement.
You nudge his hand.
His grip tightens.
You try prying his fingers from your waist. It’s like wrestling a bear. A warm, unfairly smug bear.
You let out a frustrated sigh and attempt to roll away—but the second you shift, Caleb lets out a low, sleepy groan. His body shifts with yours, tightening the hold, his thigh sliding higher. His lips brush your neck, parting slightly—
And then he nibbles.
You whimper.
It betrays you instantly.
That quiet little sound. The one that escapes before you can swallow it.
Caleb hums. The vibrations rumble through his chest, into your cheek.
And then—
“Mm... morning,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and delicious.
You go still.
“Caleb,” you say, your voice a warning.
His lips find your pulse point. “You smell good,” he slurs, still half-asleep, tone thick with something dangerous.
His thigh rocks just slightly forward. Pressure, heat.
You squeak.
His arms tighten like steel bands.
He’s caging you in.
“C-Caleb, get off—this is—this is not appropriate!”
Another sleepy groan. His lips ghost along your jaw. “You’re so warm.”
Your brain short-circuits.
“You’re dreaming,” you say, trying desperately to breathe like a normal person. “This is a dream. You’re dreaming. Let me go.”
He chuckles—chuckles. A deep, lazy sound against your neck. “If I’m dreaming, I’m never waking up.”
Then his hips shift. Just barely.
But enough.
“Caleb!”
His eyes snap open.
You expect guilt.
What you get is heat.
Raw, focused, and dangerous.
He blinks once. Then twice. Then—
His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back. His nose brushes yours.
“I was trying to be good,” Caleb murmurs. “You have no idea how hard it’s been.”
You do, actually.
Because it’s been hell for you, too.
You’re seconds from giving in—completely, helplessly—when you shove at his chest with both hands and scramble out from beneath him.
Caleb just smirks from the bed, messy-haired and golden in the morning light. “What? You gonna pretend you didn’t enjoy that?”
You throw a pillow at his face.
“Out,” you snap.
He catches it effortlessly. “No breakfast first?”
You march to the door.
“Fine, fine. But next time?” He swings his legs over the edge and stands, gaze searing into yours. “You’ll beg me to stay.”
You slam the door in his face.
It doesn’t stop your knees from buckling.
It happens fast.
Too fast for logic. Too fast for the walls you’ve spent years constructing around your traitorous heart.
One moment you’re arguing—again. Another stupid quip from him, another reckless flirtation that turns your blood to fire. You’re trying to hold on to the last shred of distance between you, snapping something half-hearted and defensive—
And then Caleb moves.
He grabs your wrists, spinning you with dizzying ease, and slams them gently but firmly against the wall. Your back hits the cold surface. His body follows.
You gasp.
His eyes meet yours.
They are ravenous.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Caleb says, voice low, feral, shaking with restraint. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t want to devour you.”
Your breath catches.
And then he kisses you.
Hard.
Not sweet. Not tentative.
Possessive.
Like he’s claiming what was always his.
Your body jerks with the force of it, your wrists still caged in his hands above your head. You try to twist free—not to escape, but because it’s too much, all-consuming, desperate.
He doesn’t let you go.
He presses closer instead, chasing your mouth with his own, drinking in every gasp, every shuddering moan you try to swallow.
You break away for air—just for a second—and he follows, mouth trailing your jaw, nipping your throat, sucking a mark into the skin just below your ear.
“Caleb—” you manage, but it comes out a whimper.
His pelvis grinds into yours, deliberate and aching. The friction draws a strangled sound from your throat.
“Oh god—”
“That’s it,” he groans against your skin. “That sound. I’ve imagined it every night. Every. Damn. Night.”
His hands leave your wrists—only to slide down your arms, your sides, until they’re clutching your hips like he might fall apart if he lets go. He lifts you onto the wall, thigh pressing between your legs, grinding again.
Your fingers tangle in his shirt, yanking him closer even as your brain screams to stop this.
But your body?
Your body is already his.
“Tell me to stop,” Caleb breathes, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving.
You don’t.
You can’t.
There’s no pretending anymore. No wall to hide behind.
Because the truth is—he touches you like a man starved, but worships you like you're divine.
His lips return to yours, slower this time but no less intense, and it feels like every missed moment, every unsent letter, every buried ache is burning through the kiss.
His self-control shatters.
And you let it.
Because there’s no going back now.
There’s a moment—barely a breath—after that kiss.
His forehead presses to yours, both of you trembling, not just from adrenaline but from something deeper. Something that feels like standing on the edge of a cliff after running your whole life just to avoid the fall.
He whispers your name like a secret, like a vow. It breaks you a little, how he says it. Like he’s tasting the weight of it for the first time.
Then he moves.
Your legs wrap around his waist without thought—instinct meeting inevitability. You're holding on to the only thing in the room that feels real. He lifts you as if he was made to, the heat between you palpable, a pulse that beats beneath your skin, echoing every missed chance and quiet longing.
The kiss deepens. Desperate, molten, tasting of years swallowed down and swallowed whole. His hands are everywhere—anchoring, memorizing, shaking just slightly from how hard he’s holding back.
He carries you through the house like a man possessed. Not with lust, but with ache. The bedroom door shuts with a thud behind you, and suddenly the air is full of promises, unspoken but heavy. When your back meets the mattress, he follows—solid and unyielding. Not crushing, but overwhelming in the way only someone you've loved for too long can be.
His weight is warmth, his gaze all hunger and reverence. His hands slide beneath your clothes, not to strip, but to feel. His palm over your heart. His fingers brushing your ribs like counting the years apart. Every touch says: I missed this. I missed you.
“You still gonna pretend you don’t want this?” he murmurs, his voice low, scraping over the tenderest parts of you.
You try to breathe out a laugh, but it catches on something in your throat—emotion, maybe. Want, definitely.
His mouth presses to your skin in a trail that’s less possession and more devotion. His touch follows, mapping you slowly, like he's rediscovering a land he once called home. You feel yourself arch into him, answer him without words, because words were never big enough for this.
He whispers things you’ll remember later—soft confessions and raw need laced with regret for every year wasted. You shiver when his breath touches your skin, when his fingers slide across bare inches you didn't mean to offer but couldn't deny.
And then... silence. Not because the moment ends. But because it begins.
Everything else fades.
There are no sharp lines, only sensation—heat and trembling limbs, quiet gasps, and the way your fingers fist into his shirt like you’ll fall apart without him there to catch you.
You lose time in the haze of it. In the rhythm of closeness, of skin against skin, of hearts beating so loud they drown out thought. You feel unraveled. Revered. Completely undone. Not by action, but by intent.
After, when the quiet stretches between you and your breath finally slows, he doesn’t let go. He stays draped over you, face buried in the crook of your neck like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he opens his eyes.
“This isn’t over,” he says. His voice is hoarse, a whisper etched with everything he’s never said aloud. “I’m not letting you go. Not this time.”
And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.
Not because of what just happened.
But because of everything that didn’t need to.
You lost track of how long ago the sun set.
The air is heavy with heat and sweat, your skin slick against the sheets. You’re boneless, trembling, lips swollen from kisses too deep, too desperate. Every nerve is raw. Every breath you take shudders.
And Caleb?
Caleb is still going.
He hovers above you, eyes dark with something starved—like he’s been waiting his whole life for this and now that he has you, he doesn’t know how to stop. His hands roam as if relearning the shape of you again and again, like the memory alone will never be enough.
“We’re not done,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your damp forehead. “Not yet.”
You try to protest, but all that leaves you is a soft, aching sound.
He smiles—soft, wicked, reverent.
And leans in to kiss you like it’s the first time all over again.
You're floating.
Barely conscious, held together by the fragile thread of Caleb’s body wrapped around yours, his breath a soft rhythm against your neck.
Your limbs are jelly. Your thighs ache. Your lips are kiss-bitten and bruised, and you're so sensitive that every inch of you shivers when he so much as adjusts beside you.
And yet—even now, even after hours—he won’t stop touching.
Not in the same feral, frantic way as before. No. Now it’s worship.
He kisses the curve of your shoulder, the back of your neck, your spine. His fingertips trace lazy, possessive patterns into your hips. He murmurs things—some unintelligible, some far too intimate.
“You’re perfect,” he whispers against your skin.
“I missed you.”
“I’ll never let you go again.”
You’re too tired to reply. Your voice is hoarse from screaming, from moaning his name over and over, but your heart responds like a bell rung too hard. It throbs.
Eventually, he gets up—only to return with a warm towel, water, a fresh shirt. He tends to you with gentle hands, murmuring apologies each time you flinch from how sensitive you are, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temple, your knuckles.
When he finally slides into the shower with you, your body instinctively leans into his. The water is hot, soothing, washing away the sweat, the stickiness, the evidence of your complete and total unraveling.
But not the ache. Not the possessiveness.
He sits on the tiled bench and pulls you into his lap, your legs straddling him, head tucked under his chin. You’re exhausted, wrecked—and he’s still hard beneath you.
You give him a look that’s half horror, half disbelief.
He smirks, eyes dark and gleaming. “I told you, I’m not finished.”
“Caleb—”
“I owe you,” he says, voice dipping low. “For every year I didn’t touch you. For every time you cried over me in silence. For every word in those letters I should’ve read sooner.”
Your breath hitches.
And then his lips descend again—slow, tender, reverent. As if he’s trying to memorize this version of you, water-slicked and trembling in his arms, yours at last.
Back in bed, you collapse into his chest, body boneless, heart hammering.
And just when you think he’s finally done—
He shifts again.
Rolls you beneath him.
“You’re not going to let me sleep?” you rasp.
His fingers trail down your body, between your thighs, making you jolt.
“No,” he breathes against your ear. “You’re not sleeping until I’ve claimed every inch of you. Until you can’t think of anything but me.”
You should tell him to stop.
You don’t.
Because the truth is: every part of you belongs to him already.
And now?
He’s going to make sure you never forget it.
The morning after feels… dangerous.
Not because you’re in any real peril—but because it’s blissfully quiet, and the man who wrecked you within an inch of your life is humming softly in your kitchen, shirtless, wearing nothing but sweatpants slung far too low on his hips, looking like the devil himself in domestic drag.
You barely make it through the doorway, each step a careful negotiation with gravity and sore muscles. Your thighs ache. Your back aches. Everything aches. But the moment Caleb glances over his shoulder and smirks at your limp?
Oh, you want to punch him.
Or kiss him.
Or both.
“You’re up,” he says, voice as smug as the day is long.
“I tried to stay asleep,” you deadpan. “But someone kept me up all night.”
He chuckles—low and wicked—and sets a mug of coffee on the counter for you.
“Consider it payback.”
You squint at him. “For what?”
His eyes drop to your hips, the curve of your throat, the faint marks blooming on your skin like war medals.
“For every letter you wrote and never gave me.”
Your stomach drops.
The mug clatters slightly when you set it down too fast.
You’d almost forgotten. Almost managed to push aside the mortifying knowledge that he read everything.
And yet, here he is—utterly unbothered, possibly turned on, casually flipping pancakes like he didn’t spend the night wrecking you with the very fantasies you'd penned in lonely bedrooms and late-night heartbreak.
“You read them all,” you say, not quite a question.
He looks at you over his shoulder. “Memorized. Studied. Jerk—”
“Do not finish that sentence, Caleb.”
He only grins wider.
You try to be casual, sip your coffee, lean against the wall like you’re not reliving every desperate, depraved word he’s now got locked and loaded in that beautiful head of his. But he’s already watching you too closely. Reading you like one of those letters.
“There's one you missed,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.
He freezes.
Slowly, slowly, he turns. “Where?”
You bite your lip.
“The drawer by my bed. Bottom one.”
He’s gone before you even blink.
Your heart is pounding.
By the time you stumble after him, he’s already sitting on the bed, letter in hand. It’s the last one. The one you wrote when you thought you’d never see him again. It was raw, feral—filled with longing so thick it could drown you.
He reads it silently. His jaw tightens. His Adam’s apple bobs hard.
When he finishes, he just looks at you.
You’re not sure what you expect.
But you do not expect him to throw the letter down and stand up like that.
“I’m going to ruin you again,” he says, voice low. “And this time, it won’t stop until you beg me to believe you’re mine.”
Your knees buckle.
But he’s already crossing the room.
Already crowding you against the wall, hands gripping your thighs, lifting you effortlessly until your back hits wood and your legs wrap around him like muscle memory.
“Caleb—” you gasp, but he silences you with a kiss that’s pure possession.
“No more running. No more letters.” He grinds against you, voice rasping. “You want to scream my name? Do it now. Right here. Where I can answer every word.”
And you do.
God help you, you do.
—
You don't know how you made it through round... whatever number that was. Your body's a puddle, your skin still humming, but Caleb is finally calm. Sated, for now. The hunger in his eyes has simmered down into something deeper—something dangerous in its quiet intensity.
He’s seated now, bare chest gleaming faintly in the afternoon light, legs spread with an unmistakable air of ownership. You’re half-draped across his torso, wearing one of his shirts that swallows you whole. He holds you with one arm looped securely around your waist, the other hand delicately unfolding that last letter. The most intimate one. The one you never meant anyone—especially him—to see.
You try not to squirm as he reads it again, slowly, as if committing every line to memory.
You can feel his eyes on the page—but his attention is on you.
“You wrote this two years ago,” he says softly, thumb brushing idle circles against your inner thigh. “I was at the edge of the solar belt. Couldn’t sleep that night. I felt… off. Like I was missing something.”
You glance down, ashamed. “Don’t romanticize it.”
“I’m not,” he replies simply. “I’m aligning timelines.”
Your heart stutters. His hand stills.
“Do you want me to stop reading?” he asks, genuine this time.
You consider it. Swallow. Then shake your head.
He nods, kisses your temple.
Another beat of silence. The room smells of skin and paper and sunlight.
Then, quietly, with a low chuckle, he murmurs:
“I should have known,” he mutters, “you liked being chased. You always did, even as a kid. Remember all those games of tag?”
You remember.
And you remember how he’d always let you win—just enough—before pulling you back into his arms with that sly smile of his, the one that made your heart race and your stomach flip.
You squirm, face heating. “That’s different.”
“It was always you,” he says softly. “Even when I didn’t know what I was looking for. I’d follow you through fields, parks, school halls. You’d run, I’d chase. Every time.”
His voice dips, husky but no longer carnal. “You were never hiding from me. You were waiting for me to catch up.”
Your throat tightens.
“And I did.” He sets the letter aside. “Finally.”
The intensity softens into something almost unbearably tender. His fingers curl beneath your chin and tilt your face up.
“No more letters,” he murmurs. “If there’s something you want… tell me. If you need something… I’ll listen. If you feel too much—good. So do I.”
You try to look away, but he won’t let you.
“You’ve already stripped yourself bare,” he whispers, brushing your hair back. “Now let me carry the weight.”
And just like that, your defenses crumble—slowly, quietly, like a dam leaking at the seams.
You rest your forehead against his. His lips ghost over yours. There’s no urgency. No fire.
Just heat. Banked and waiting.
And when he pulls you closer, tucks you against his chest, and lets out a slow breath—you swear you can feel his heartbeat echo your own.
The world outside is quiet, but inside your home, chaos reigns.
“Hey! Give that back!” you shout, laughing breathlessly as you chase after Caleb, who’s casually sauntering around your kitchen—your kitchen—holding your favorite coffee mug high above his head like a trophy.
Bastard.
“This?” Caleb grins, the morning light making his messy hair look unfairly golden, like he just strolled out of a dream. “You mean our mug now. Community property.”
“That’s not how this works!” You make a wild grab for it, but he just shifts it higher, smirking like he’s enjoying this a little too much.
Maybe it’s the fact that he’s only in a loose pair of joggers, the drawstring barely tied, his chest bare and warm and still a little damp from his earlier shower. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you—like you’re the only thing in the world worth teasing, worth chasing. Whatever it is, your heart flutters violently in your chest.
“Caleb, I swear—” you lunge for him again.
He catches you effortlessly, laughing as he spins you around until your back is pressed against his chest, trapping you in his arms. The mug dangles in front of you tauntingly. His scent envelops you—fresh soap, coffee, and something that’s just him.
“Say please,” he whispers into your ear, his breath warm, sending a shiver racing down your spine.
You wriggle in his arms, only managing to grind yourself back against his hips in the most scandalous way. Caleb’s arms tighten, his low groan rumbling against your back.
You freeze, heat flooding your cheeks. Damn him.
Caleb chuckles, feeling the way you stiffen. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re playing with fire this early in the morning.”
“You started it,” you mutter, glaring over your shoulder.
He grins lazily, shameless. “I’ll finish it, too.”
Before you can retort, he finally, finally relinquishes the mug, setting it gently on the counter. You think you’re safe—until he sweeps you off your feet in one effortless move, carrying you bridal style toward the couch.
“Caleb! Put me down!” you yelp, pounding your fists against his chest, but he’s unbothered, humming a tune under his breath like this is the most normal thing in the world.
“Shhh. We’re doing Sunday properly,” he says, plopping down onto the couch and settling you firmly on his lap, caging you in with his arms. “Coffee. Couch. Cuddles. Mandatory.”
You open your mouth to protest, but his hand cups the back of your head, gently guiding you to rest against his shoulder. His touch is slow, deliberate, almost reverent.
You can feel the tension humming between you—thick, electric—but somehow, it doesn’t feel urgent. It feels… safe. Warm. Like you could fall asleep right here and Caleb would keep the whole world away from you.
You sigh, feeling your body relax against him despite yourself.
“This isn’t fair,” you grumble.
“What’s not fair?” he asks, voice low and teasing as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“You being so… so…” You gesture vaguely, words failing you. How do you describe this? Caleb being infuriating and sweet and annoyingly perfect, all wrapped up in one stupidly handsome package?
“So what?” he presses, feigning innocence. His hand strokes lazily up and down your spine, his touch feather-light.
You groan into his chest. “Everything.”
He laughs—really laughs—and the sound rumbles deep in his chest, vibrating against you. You can’t help the small smile that creeps across your face. You hate how easy it is to be soft with him. How easy it is to fall harder when you promised yourself you’d be careful.
“You’re stuck with me now, sweetheart,” Caleb says, dropping his forehead against yours, his eyes shining with something raw and unspoken. “Might as well get used to it.”
Your heart thuds painfully against your ribs, and for once, you don’t have a snarky reply. Just this—this impossible, chaotic, beautiful morning. His arms around you. His laugh in your ears. His heartbeat steady beneath your hand.
Maybe you are stuck with him.
Maybe you want to be.
And when Caleb presses a soft, lingering kiss to your lips—tender, warm, unbearably sweet—you know you’re completely, hopelessly, irreversibly his.
And judging by the way he smiles against your mouth, he's known it all along.
Your lunch is burning.
You know it is—because you can smell the faint scent of charred vegetables—and yet, you can’t do anything about it.
Because Caleb.
Because Caleb, who has one arm lazily wrapped around your waist, caging you against the counter, a spatula abandoned nearby. Because Caleb, who keeps murmuring absolutely mortifying things against your ear in that deep, smug voice of his, his lips brushing your skin with every word.
Because Caleb, who somehow—somehow—has memorized every single humiliating word you ever wrote to him.
You try not to die of embarrassment right there.
“You know,” Caleb drawls, his voice a slow purr against your ear, “you were really dramatic back in middle school. I believe it went something like—” he clears his throat exaggeratedly, clearly having way too much fun, “‘Dear Caleb, I hate you so much I hope you trip and fall into a mud puddle in front of the entire school. Maybe then you’ll stop being so full of yourself.’”
You groan, shoving your sleeves over your face, mortified. “Stopppp.” You’re basically trying to melt into the counter at this point.
But Caleb’s laughing, warm and delighted, peeling your sleeves down to expose your burning face. He lives for this now, clearly. Every time you squirm, he looks like he’s won the lottery.
“And then—then,” he continues gleefully, ignoring your protests, “in high school, when I got a little popular… You wrote, ‘Congratulations, Prince Charming. Maybe one day you’ll notice the loyal commoner you left in the dust. But no worries. I’m totally fine. Totally. Absolutely fine. Not like I ever cared anyway.’”
He recites it with dramatic flair, clutching his chest like a wounded lover. You are dying inside.
“Oh my God, Caleb,” you hiss, trying to hide your face again. “Shut up! I was, like, fifteen! I didn’t know anything about anything!”
He laughs again, low and fond, his chest vibrating against your back. “You knew enough to break my heart, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and you feel the serious undercurrent beneath all the teasing—the raw affection.
You twist in his grip, attempting to shove him away, but he just effortlessly manhandles you into his lap instead. One strong arm loops around your waist, the other sneaks into your hair, stroking it slowly, tangling his fingers through the strands.
You pout at him, cheeks still on fire. “You’re so annoying.”
His grin softens into something devastatingly tender. His eyes burn bright and molten as he stares at you, like you’re the only thing in the entire world.
“Not done yet,” he murmurs.
Your stomach drops.
You already know what's coming. The worst part.
Caleb leans down, nuzzles against your temple, and in a low, sinful voice, whispers, “And then there were the ones where you couldn’t stop thinking about me at night.”
You jerk, mortified, but he tightens his hold on you, trapping you snug against him. His lips graze your ear.
“You had so many thoughts about me,” he says, voice dropping impossibly lower. “About what you wanted me to do to you. About what you wanted to do to me.” He chuckles darkly when you squeak and try to wriggle away.
“I can quote those too, if you want,” he teases mercilessly. “Maybe I should start with the one where you described me tying you up with my DAA-issued tactical belt—”
“CALEB!!” you shriek, smacking his chest as he throws his head back laughing.
You bury your face in his shoulder, absolutely vibrating with secondhand embarrassment, whimpering, “I’m going to die. I’m actually going to die.”
“No, you’re not,” he says, pressing kisses to your hairline, your forehead, your temple, over and over again until your trembling subsides into quiet giggles. His arms are warm and unrelenting around you.
You risk peeking up at him—and freeze.
He’s staring down at you with a look so filled with adoration it physically steals the air from your lungs. His hand cups your jaw so gently it makes your heart ache.
“You’re my life,” Caleb says, voice rough with feeling. “You’ve always been my life. You just didn’t know it yet.”
You blink up at him, stunned, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest.
Slowly, shyly, you rest your forehead against his, your hands sliding up to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palms.
Caleb exhales shakily, as if the moment is too big even for him.
The smell of burnt food lingers, the sun pours golden light across the kitchen, and you sit there, tangled up in him, the most chaotic, beautiful, utterly yours thing you’ve ever had.
“Guess I’m stuck with you, huh?” you whisper, a teasing glint in your eye.
Caleb’s smile turns crooked, boyish.
“Forever, sweetheart,” he murmurs.
And then he kisses you, slow and deep and soft, like a promise he’s waited a lifetime to keep.
—
Later that night, you're curled up on the couch together, tangled in a heap of limbs and fluffy throw blankets, a low movie playing in the background.
You’re half-dozing, feeling deliciously warm and safe against Caleb’s chest, his heartbeat lulling you into a haze. His hand strokes lazily through your hair, fingertips dragging slow, lazy patterns against your scalp.
You’re just about to slip under completely when—
"Sweetheart?" Caleb’s voice, deceptively casual.
You hum in response, not even bothering to open your eyes.
"What's this? Another letter?"
You tense immediately.
No.
No no no.
Your eyes snap open in horror just in time to see Caleb, that absolute devil, pulling out one of the more battered, worn pieces of paper from somewhere.
You gasp, trying to grab for it, but he holds it way above your head, smirking like the cat who caught the canary.
"Caleb!" you shriek, flailing. "Put it away! You can't—!"
He just laughs and pins you down easily with one hand on your waist, straddling your thighs to trap you in place.
“I think the people deserve to hear this one,” he teases, that wicked glint in his eye. “Specifically, me.”
He clears his throat dramatically while you writhe helplessly beneath him.
"‘It’s not fair,’" Caleb reads aloud, smirking as he drags his gaze down your squirming body. "‘It’s not fair how he fills out his uniform. How his gloves tighten around his fingers. How I can’t stop thinking about what those hands would feel like on my skin. How I dream about him tying my wrists, whispering filthy promises against my neck—’"
"CALEB!!" you wail, smacking your hands against his chest in a feeble attempt to stop him. Your face is boiling hot.
But Caleb, the menace, the absolute menace, just grins wider, loving every second of your humiliation.
"And it goes on," he says gleefully, ignoring your mortified whimper. "‘How I'd let him do anything to me. How I'd beg him to lose control. How much I crave him, every breath, every heartbeat, like I'm dying of thirst in a desert and he's the only water I'll ever want.’"
Your soul tries to physically leave your body.
You slap your hands over your face, wishing for death.
"Please," you moan into your palms, "Caleb, please stop—"
But he just chuckles darkly, leaning down until his nose brushes yours, his voice dropping to a sinful murmur.
“You really should have mailed this one, sweetheart,” he says, eyes smoldering. "Would’ve saved us a lot of time."
You whimper, still hiding your face. He peels your hands away from your burning cheeks gently but firmly, making you meet his gaze.
Caleb’s smile turns unbearably tender as he cradles your flushed face between his palms, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones.
"I memorized every word," he says softly. "Every single one. They're engraved into me now. Just like you."
Your heart stutters painfully in your chest.
You can't look away from him—those devastating sunset eyes drinking you in like you hung the stars.
He dips his head lower, kissing the corner of your mouth, slow and reverent.
“You’re mine,” Caleb murmurs, voice rough with possessiveness and love. “You always were.”
You melt completely, boneless in his hold, helpless against him—as you’ve always been.
"Caleb..." you whisper, voice trembling.
He smiles that slow, infuriating, dangerous smile—and promptly starts tickling you, laughing when you shriek and try to wriggle free, your earlier mortification forgotten in a burst of chaotic laughter and flailing limbs.
You scream his name, half furious, half in love.
Caleb just laughs like it’s the happiest sound in the world.
It’s late.
Not the deep velvet of midnight, but that quiet hour when the world seems suspended in hush. The city hums softly beyond the windows, and the room is awash in the muted amber of a bedside lamp. You're tangled together beneath the sheets—not in passion this time, but in something far more dangerous.
Vulnerability.
Caleb lies on his side, propped up on one elbow, watching you with that look again—the one that's too tender, too knowing. His fingers trail lazily across your arm, like he can’t stop touching you even now. Like he’s making sure you’re still here.
“I should’ve reached out sooner,” he says.
You stay quiet. Not because you're angry. Because you're afraid of what might come next.
“I didn’t date her,” he adds, so casually it nearly slips by.
You blink.
“What?”
“She wasn’t mine,” he says. “Never was. I thought…” He hesitates. “I thought she might be the only person who could understand what I was becoming. The training. The pressure. But it was never romantic. Not even close.”
Your throat feels tight. You shift, pulling the blanket up like armor.
“Then why didn’t you call? Or message? Or—anything, Caleb? You just vanished.”
He exhales, slow and jagged.
“I was afraid,” he admits.
You glance up, surprised.
He stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched. “Not of the missions. Not of the fleet. I was afraid that if I talked to you, really talked to you, I’d drop everything just to be near you. I was already teetering. One video call and I would’ve been done for.”
Your heart twists painfully.
“You idiot,” you whisper. “I would’ve taken you. In any form.”
“I didn’t want you to take less of me.” He looks at you then, eyes bare, voice rough. “I wanted to be worthy of what you wrote in those letters. Of the way you looked at me when we were kids.”
You want to scream. Or cry. Or maybe just bury your face in his chest until the years melt away.
“You were worthy, Caleb. You just… didn’t believe it.”
A silence settles. Not heavy. Just real.
He pulls you closer. One hand cradling your head to his chest, the other tangled in your fingers beneath the sheets. You listen to his heartbeat again.
Stronger now.
Steady.
“For the record,” he murmurs, “when I read the one about the lake—when we were sixteen—I nearly lost it. I remember that night. I didn’t know what to do with the way I felt back then.”
You squeeze his hand. “You pushed me into the water.”
“You screamed my name so loud, half the neighborhood heard.”
You smile despite yourself.
Then softer, quieter:
“I used to dream about that moment, you know? If you ever found the letters. If you ever came back.”
“And now that I have?”
Your smile fades. You tilt your head up and find him waiting. Bare. Present.
“I don’t want dreams anymore,” you whisper.
“Good,” Caleb says, leaning down until his lips barely brush yours. “Because I’m not leaving this time. And I don’t need letters. I have you.”
And when he kisses you, it’s not a claim.
It’s a promise.
The shuttle touches down with a soft hiss, and before the hatch even fully opens, you're hit with the scent of your hometown—familiar, grounding, sweetened by nostalgia. The air is different here. Softer. Like time slows down just enough to let you breathe.
Caleb steps out behind you, his duffel slung lazily over one shoulder. His eyes sweep over the old landing port, the cracked pavement, the overgrown grass curling at the edges of fences long forgotten. He doesn't say anything for a moment.
Then, quietly: “It’s smaller than I remember.”
You huff a laugh. “Because we’re bigger now.”
He looks at you—really looks. “You are.”
There’s a weight to those words you don’t touch yet. Not here. Not now.
The town unfolds before you like a photograph—faded but warm. You walk the familiar streets side by side, shoulders brushing, passing your old school, the corner store where you used to pool pocket change for sweets, the park where you’d play tag until dusk.
“I remember this tree,” Caleb murmurs, stopping beneath the one with the warped trunk. “You used to climb it like a gremlin.”
“You fell out of it once,” you remind him. “Cried for hours.”
He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “And you didn’t leave my side.”
A beat of silence.
“You always stayed,” he says.
You glance at him, the late afternoon sun haloing his profile. “You just didn’t always notice.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, his hand brushes yours. Then lingers. Then takes it fully.
You don’t let go.
The path takes you past your childhood home. Your heart kicks up. The windows are still the same. The porch swing still crooked. You half expect to hear your mother calling you in for dinner. Caleb pauses beside you.
“I remember sneaking out through your window,” he says with a crooked grin. “You made me carry that squeaky chair so we wouldn’t get caught.”
“You always stepped on the wrong floorboard anyway,” you mutter. “We always got caught.”
“Worth it,” he murmurs. “Every single time.”
You don’t speak again until you're standing at the edge of the lake—the one you wrote about. The one where you screamed his name across the water. It looks just like it did then.
The sun dips low, painting the surface gold.
You watch the light scatter across the waves, lost in thought.
“I didn’t know you loved me then,” he says, voice quiet. “But I felt it. In every laugh. Every fight. Every stupid dare. I felt it. I just didn’t have the words.”
Your throat tightens.
“I didn’t either,” you say. “So I wrote them instead.”
He turns to you slowly. “No more letters,” he whispers.
Then, gently, reverently, Caleb cups your face.
You close your eyes.
The kiss is soft this time. Not a promise or a possession. Just a memory, coming full circle.
Just two people who finally stopped running.
NOTES: guys I'm so embarrassed, I can't believe I posted the unedited version!!! I didn't like how instead of talking through their issues these two went to bang instead, AHHH this is so embarrassing!!!
you're upset over sylus missing your date night, but he's more than happy to make it up to you..
tonight was supposed to be perfect.
tonight, you were supposed to go out, have dinner with the man you loved, and forget all about the terrible week you had.
"i'm really sorry, sweetie," to his credit, sylus sounded truly apologetic, "but this deal needs to be made by tonight. can we reschedule?"
you looked at your reflection in the mirror, your perfectly done hair, your shiny makeup, the red dress he had bought you specifically for date nights like these.
"of course," you willed your voice not to break, even as your throat closed up, even as your nose became runny. "i hope it goes well."
"i'll treat you another night, i swear." a man's tense voice on the other end was heard, and he let out a sigh. "i love you."
"love you too." no matter how much you wished it to be some sick joke, the line went dead. you found yourself staring at your phone, turning it on and off, as if that would bring him back.
as if he would magically appear at your side.
the tears started flowing before you could stop them, and an ugly sob escaped your chest. you could care less that your makeup was ruined by now, or your hair messy from the way you had ran your fingers through it.
kicking your heels off, you fell to the couch, clutching a pillow to your chest. you knew he couldn't control it. he was a busy man, this was something that you had known from the start.
but tonight was supposed to be your night, and you really needed him. it felt childish, and wrong, but he was supposed to wash all your worries away. he was supposed to make you laugh, sweep you off your feet..
you were crying harder at your own train of thought, and that was how you fell asleep, longing and aching for him to come home.
when the morning came, you expected to wake up in the same position. instead, there was a noticeable warmth at your side, a steady breath against your neck, and a comfortable weight across your waist.
shifting around, you found sylus, fast asleep at your side. a look at your surroundings revealed you were in your bed, and a glance down showed you were now in your pajamas, not the expensive dress from last night.
before you could stop yourself, you were crying again, and the realization you had no makeup on made you cry harder.
you tried not to wake him, but sylus stirred at your movements. upon seeing you in tears, he moved into action immediately, drawing you close and kissing all over your face. "shh, it's okay sweetie, i'm here." his voice was a balm to your frayed nerves, and you sobbed into his chest.
"you- you're home.." it was all you could really say in your anxiety, sniffling and sobbing as you looked up at him. "when did you..?"
"late last night." he gently wiped your tears, an apologetic look on his face. "i am so, so sorry, my love," he pressed a kiss to your lips, his grip on you tightening, "i tried to find every work around i could, but it seemed nobody can do anything without my help."
"it's okay," you sniffled, even though it felt like the opposite, "i know your work is important.."
"nothing is more important to me than you, sweetie." he sighed, tilting your head up towards him. "i promise, these next few days, i'm all yours. nobody's going to interrupt us."
"nobody..?"
"nobody." he smiled at you, rubbing your cheek with his thumb, "so be greedy with me, kitten. i'll take you on as many dates as you want, so don't hold back." he pressed himself against you, warm and comforting and home, "i love you so much."
