The concept of saving up a ton of money to buy Sylus a really expensive present. Like I’m talking saving up all year to drop like $18,000 on a custom designed watch or something priced absolutely crazy to a normal human.
You give it to him, all giddy and wide eyed as he opens it. Watch him study it, pick it up and admire every little detail about it. Telling you how much he loves it, going on and on about how sweet and thoughtful you are. Until…
“I saved up all year to have it made for you!”
You saved up? You spent your money? Your money?
Sylus tries to hide his expression, immediately horrified by the idea that you spent your hard earned money on him. Someone who has more money than he’ll ever know what to do with. Who practically begs you to be self indulgent on his card… “Sy… do you not like it?”
“I love it, very much. It just may be one of my most prized possessions now.” And he means, truly he does.
But mentally he’s planning on wiring you $100,000.
Zayne frowns at you, gaze flicking between your face and the photo album you're holding, currently open to a page of him as a baby.
"I believe I was an average size at this age." He notes, flipping to the next page. Sure enough, there's another picture of his chubby cheeked toddler face smiling toothily at the camera. Immediately, you coo.
"You were such a fat baby! I could just eat you up." As if to satisfy said urge, you squeeze his hand tightly, eagerly flipping to the next page.
This photo is one of his earliest, only a few months old in his crib. He can admit that he does look quite chubby in this one. Apparently, he was a large baby. You make an odd noise, practically squealing as you suddenly grab his face, squeezing his no-longer-chubby cheeks.
"Look how cute you were! I hope our babies are this cute." You sigh, pulling away from him to once again admire the photos.
Zayne however, is thinking at a mile a minute.
You had said "our" babies. Did you want children with him? Of course, he knew the two of you were in a moderately serious relationship and having children was likely going to be a topic of conversation eventually but still...
"I hope they look like you." He murmurs, leaning closer to smell your sweet perfume. You smile softly, mirroring his actions to rest closer to him.
"For the sake of their cheeks, that would probably be best."
you invited sylus as a plus one to your friend’s wedding, and sylus, finding it as an opportunity to be presented as your arm candy, accepted it without further hesitation.
the wedding was beautiful. sylus hands you a handkerchief while you teared up witnessing your friend recite her vows, feeling emotional as you can hear the raw emotion of love seep into her words.
you loved love, and you loved seeing your friends experience love with their partners, you knew they deserved.
the reception came, it was no less beautiful than the wedding, and sylus could already see the way your gaze fixates on the decor, how your eyes linger on the color palettes and tableware.
he didn’t need his aether core to know that you were already imagining your own wedding.
in the middle of the reception, you stood up as the women in the venue gathered in the middle, the bride turning her back on the crowd as the gentleman watched from the sidelines.
it was time for the infamous bouquet toss.
sylus stands to the side, a relaxed smile on his face as he watches you stand by the side, not really drawing much attention to yourself.
you were giggling with the other guests and bridesmaids, pointing playfully at each other, as if predicting who was most likely to get the bouquet.
a countdown was held. the bride tossed it behind her shoulder, you and the crowd jumped to reach out for the bouquet.
only for the bouquet to awkwardly dangle on the chandelier as it got stuck.
sylus sees as you immediately step to the side, letting the guests jump and grab at the bouquet that was hanging by the ribbon.
you met sylus’ eye, and smiled.
you gave him a shrug; you were not about to fight over a bouquet. your pride wouldn’t let you.
sylus, however had another idea.
he places the wine glass he sported on the table behind him before he casually walks to where you stood.
a yelp escapes your lips. you find your butt resting on sylus’s shoulder as he hoists you up, giving you a needed height boost.
the women were left shocked as he walked towards the chandelier, you immediately got the hint as you reached for the dangling bouquet with no difficulty.
he smirks, setting you down, planting a kiss on your temple before he steps back to where the other men watched with their jaws dropped. you couldn’t help the flustered giggle that leaves your lips as the women swarm over you, slapping your arm playfully while they whisper about your boyfriend.
turns out, you weren’t the only one imagining a wedding in your head. truthfully, sylus was already planning to propose whether or not you won the bouquet toss.
though, getting the blessing of tradition was definitely a welcomed plus.
inspired by that one tiktok i saw that went exactly like this <3 (just the reception bit)
sylus who thinks you're really cute when you're sleepy enough to make you act a bit dazed and out of it!! his teasing voice and soft touches and the adoration and love in his eyes as he gazes down at you..,mgggdfggh
"Aw, baby," he coos as you climb into bed beside him, just barely having dragged yourself through your nighttime routine. You barely even notice his tone of voice, just nuzzling into his warm palm when he cups your face. "Are you sleepy? Hmmm?"
You nod, and he hums, softly stroking your cheek with his thumb. He studies your features for a few moments, watching as you start to doze off against his hand like a cat.
You fight off the urge to sleep in order to look up at him with half-open eyes and mumble something unintelligible, causing a smirk to grow on his face as he huffs out a laugh. "What was that, sweetie?"
You try to repeat yourself, but all that comes out of your lips is gibberish. Sylus chuckles, not bothering to ask a second time. He just threads his free hand beneath your (his) shirt to gently run his nails up and down your back. You sigh, melting at his touch and slumping forward.
"Mmm, come closer," he murmurs, and you obey, nuzzling into his chest. "Thaaat's it. Let me hold you."
He guides you to lie down with him, and you follow pliantly, already halfway to dreamland.
you introduce a gold star system to sylus. needless to say, things get chaotic very quickly!
sylus didn't notice anything different until there was a solid collection of gold stars on his fridge.
he thought it was amusing. was this some kind of reward system? you hadn't said anything on the matter, and as long as the stars kept growing, he would let you do as you wished.
he started keeping track of it. anytime he complimented you, or gave you a new gun, or took over a chore, there it was. a new gold star to his ever growing stack.
he was proud. even though it went unspoken between you both, he was clearly doing something good.
but then, disaster struck.
suddenly, one star was gone. then two, then three, until a good chunk was missing.
and all sylus could do was panic.
had he done something wrong? were you upset with him? did he do something you didn't like without knowing?
he had to investigate.
he was extra careful with you the following days, quiet where he would usually tease, gentle where he would usually let his strength get the best of him.
and oh, were you laughing about it when you were out of his sight.
when no new gold stars were added to his list, he was getting desperate. buying everything he laid his eyes on that reminded him of you, presenting you with bouquet after bouquet when you came home from work, cleaning the base from floor to ceiling..
and still, there was no new stars.
he caved, finally. pulled you into a tight hug and buried his face into your neck, as if that would grant him your mercy.
"i'm sorry," he breathed, rubbing his cheek against you, "i'll make it up to you. do you want a new gun? a car? do you want to go on a date? i'll do anything, just-"
"just what, sy?" keeping your composure had never been harder than when he looked at you, red eyes wide.
".. just give me my gold stars back."
and he sounded so sad, so scared that he had lost your favor, that you couldn't help but burst out laughing, kissing his cheek.
"alright, i'll give them back." when he still didn't look happy, you squeezed his cheeks gently, "i'll even give you ten more, since you've been such a good boy."
the twins couldn't help noticing how bright their boss was that day.
(and frankly, sylus, the twins and mephisto were more well behaved when you started offering prizes along with your gold stars.)
xavier loves when you get longer nails so you can scratch his head when he rests it in your lap, and if you stop for even a second he'll whine and peak open his eyes up at you like a disappointed cat until you keep going
sylus runs warm, and most of the time you end up not even covered by his plush duvet, but by him. His arms snug around your waist and his head on your chest the perfect blanket as you fall asleep.
zayne has this cute way of teasing you by stealing your candy on occasion. He'll kiss your cheek then your lips, lulling you into a false sense of affection then will slip the candy right out of your mouth with that slight smile on his face.
caleb puts you an air jail when you're being petty and giving him the silent treatment, and only lets you down if you agree to give him a kiss and tell him why "his pipsqueek is being so moody."
rafayel insists on applying your lipgloss/lipstick for you. He always steals your lip gloss before you can put it on yourself, insisting that his artist's eye can do it better. He'll gently tilt your chin up with two fingers, carefully applying it while studying your face with far more concentration than the task requires. Once he's finished, he'll lean back with a satisfied smile and hum, "Perfect."
♡ princessxmin please do not alter, copy or translate my work !
Sylus isn’t the guy who waits for your birthday to drop something huge on you.
He’ll just… do it. Random Tuesday in March, you wake up to him already dressed, leaning in the bedroom doorway with that lazy half-smirk, tossing a set of keys onto the bed like it’s nothing.
“Get up. Yours now.”
You stare at the key; matte black, sleek logo you recognize instantly. Your brain short-circuits for a solid five seconds.
“…Sylus, what the fuck is this?”
He shrugs. “Your new car, sweetie. Parked downstairs. Figured the matte red would look good with your new gear.”
You’re still blinking at the keys. “You bought me a sports car. On a random day. Because…?”
“Because I saw it and thought you’d look hot driving it.” He says it like that’s the only explanation required. No card, no ribbon, no celebratory card. Just him, already walking toward the kitchen like he didn’t just change your entire driveway situation.
Birthdays and holidays are different with him.
Those are quieter. More private.
On your actual birthday he doesn’t do grand gestures or flashy jewelry. He waits until the apartment is dark, everyone else long gone, and then he sits you down on the couch with nothing but a small velvet box in his palm.
Inside is something small and personal. A tiny silver heart shaped locket with a picture of the two of you in it. It’s the kind where you aren’t posing, not deliberately trying to look good for the camera. It’s a small intimate moment shared between the two of you and even in the picture, his full attention is on you. He’s had it cleaned, strung on a thin chain he picked himself.
No speech. Just him fastening it around your neck with careful fingers, lips brushing the nape before he pulls back to look at you.
“Been carrying that around for a while,” he mutters. “Figured it was time you had it.”
You’re crying before you even realize it. He doesn’t make a big deal, just pulls you into his lap, lets you hide your face in his neck while he strokes your hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Valentine’s, Christmas, anniversaries, he keeps it the same. Thoughtful, quiet, stupidly intimate things that mean something only to the two of you: a leather-bound sketchbook filled with his own rough drawings of places you’ve been together, a single pressed flower from the field where you first kissed, a custom knife engraved with the date he decided you were never getting away from him.
No billboards. No parades. No “world’s best girlfriend” mugs.
Just him, quietly proving every day that you’re the only thing he’s ever really wanted to keep.
And then on some random Thursday in July he’ll walk in, drop a set of matte-black keys on the counter while you’re eating cereal, and go “bought you a bike. It’s downstairs. Don’t scratch it.”
You stare at him over the bowl.
He just kisses the top of your head and steals a spoonful of your cereal like he didn’t just casually drop five figures on a whim.
That’s Sylus.
Big gifts whenever the hell he feels like it.
The ones that actually hurt to give, those are saved for the days that matter.
❥ 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.
