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@treasure444
Masterlists
Click on the link below the photo to get to that particular masterlist. I will be updating these as I go.
Thank you to the talented @saradika-graphics for some of the masterlist headers! Check them out, they're very talented!
I can't wait to start writing more!
ACOTAR Masterlist
Call Of Duty Masterlist
Love and Deepspace Masterlist
Kinktober Masterlist
You deserve a life that doesn’t constantly feel like something you have to recover from.
simon ‘ghost’ riley who never bothered learning how to flirt properly so is just horribly blunt with you all the time.
“tits look good in yer top love.” uttered with a straight face over his coffee mug in the morning. “makes me want to fuck ‘em.”
bend over in front of him to pick something up? he's groaning and tipping his head back, palming himself through his jeans with a, “fuckin’ christ love, look at you. perfect fuckin’ arse. c'mere, don't walk away when I'm picturin’ you face first on the carpet.”
it's worse if he's had a few drinks. he can't help but tell the lads how his “missus ‘as the prettiest cunt I've ever fuckin’ seen.” before abruptly leaving so he can go home and see it for himself.
and when he does get home with whiskey on his breath and smoke laced through his clothes? he just pulls you to the edge of the sofa; your pajama bottoms and underwear gone before you can blink. “there she is.” he mutters, spreading you open with two fingers and dropping a kiss on your clit. “there's my pretty little thing.”
As the year is ending soon... this is your friendly reminder that you didn’t waste your year. any moments of happiness or comfort, any small accomplishments, they all matter. this has been a really hard year, and simply surviving is something to be proud of. 🤎
Azriel: Tears
plussizebooktok!reader and bikertattooartist!azriel are back!
i love them
Listen, in theory it was a good idea.
Your followers loved when Azriel made an appearance on your page. And with the new trend to Sabrina’s “Tears”? They would die.
But apparently so would you.
“I swear to God, Azriel.” You held a finger up and looked away as he stood in front of you.
“I’m doing what you asked!” He laughed, throwing his hands out.
And in his defense, he was. You had picked his outfit (black tight t-shirt, black jeans and his black riding gloves), and he let you put body oil on his tattoos to make them really pop on camera.
However, it was making you a lot more flushed than you thought. You thought since you’ve been with him for four years at this point, and have seen him look hot and sexy millions of times that you wouldn't be affected.
He wasn’t faring much better either.
You were wearing a dress that accentuated every dip and curve you had. It was a blue and white floral pattern that showed off your collarbones with the straps around your biceps. And there was a thigh slit. Hair prettily curled and painted lips.
Truthfully, in his opinion, you were being unfair looking like that.
“Baby, you keep looking at me like that and I'm going to have a hard on in the video.” He said dryly, eyeing you up and down.
You sighed, shimmying your shoulders. “Okay okay let’s do this.” You started filming again.
He came towards you and put his hand on the frame behind you as he leaned down. Instantly you started giggling and swooning against the door frame. “I hate you.” Your cheeks were bright red.
He let out a full on laugh. His shoulders shook as he watched you with so much love in his eyes. “C’mon Y/N.” He said in his stupidly sexy deep voice. “Pull out those booktok acting chops.”
You held a finger up and looked away, blowing out calming breaths. “Azriel. Stop.” But you were laughing. Swooning, blushing laughter.
“What does it say about us that four years together and we still act like it’s our first date?” You put your hands on your hips and leaned against the doorframe, looking at him.
Truthfully, it was good for his ego that no matter what his pretty girlfriend always reacted this way to him.
“It says we are very much in love.” He lowered his head, which practically made you moan at how…hot he looked. He towered over you, his nose gently touching yours as he leaned his head down. “You gonna hit record?” He asked his lips caressing yours.
You did.
The music played as he picked you up and slammed you against the wall, lips passionately colliding. Your thigh successfully hiding his hard on by wrapping around his hips, your hands cupping his face as one of his wrapped around your waist to your lower back to support you against his hips.
And of course, the two of you got quite carried away as always.
But then that night you edited the video and posted it:
Video Description:
“Offering to do anything, I'm like..”
You walked into the camera lens reading a book and wearing simple sweats, you leaned against the doorframe
“‘Oh my God’”
Azriel comes into frame, you both are in the clothes from earlier to add to the illusion, you drop the book and grab his face, kissing him passionately while he grips your thigh and your waist.
“I get wet at the thought of you.”
Cut to you looking shocked in your sweats and touching your lips looking around.
Within minutes the comments were thirsting over you and Azriel. Mostly Azriel but you had a few in there that were loving the dress on you.
By morning? It has over 100K views and reposts.
cw: chubby!fem!Reader; anxiety; hyper–independence; fluff (Hi, I need this:))
Simon knows that you’ve been running on fumes lately—and he hates whenever you try to wave off or diminish your strained mental health.
Each “I’m fine,” or “Other people have it worse,” makes him angrier—not at you, but at the people who made you think exhaustion is the price of being strong.
Sure. Pot, meet kettle—but you were the one who taught Simon to rest, to stop treating stillness like weakness, so he can’t understand why you won’t extend yourself the same mercy.
He lets you be—for now. You’re already stretched taut, and he won’t risk snapping the thread.
Until one morning.
You’ve gone quiet on him again; have been for a few days. Just functioning in your misery. Living in your own head. Survival mode. Anxious. Stressed. Agitated.
And Simon understands, truly, but he’s selfish when it comes to you—and he’s determined to help. Especially when you have a mental breakdown after finding out your favourite jam has gone bad and your box of peppermint tea is empty.
He watches you toss the empty box and ruined jam into the trash with unnecessary force, grinding your teeth and huffing like a bull. It feels like a nature documentary—some rare, furious creature losing its last bit of sanity.
When you march back into the master bedroom, not even grumbling obscenities under your breath, he knows you’re about to try and hide your breakdown, because you hate crying in front of people. Even him.
Simon gives you a minute or two. Takes one last sip of tea. Then he sets the mug down and follows—leisurely.
He finds you sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on the floor like it personally offended you. The kind of silence that hums, thick and shaky, and hangs between you.
You flinch when the mattress dips beside you. He doesn’t say anything yet; he just sits there, elbows on his knees, studying your hands clutched in your lap. He can practically hear the war inside your head—don’t cry, don’t make a scene, don’t be weak.
He sighs through his nose. “Yer allowed to fall apart over jam, love.”
Your laugh comes out half-scoff, half-sob. “It’s not about the jam, Si.”
“Didn’t think it was.” He leans back on his palms, voice low, steady, that military calm he saves just for you. “You’ve been pushin’ too hard, love. Y’do this thing—wearin’ yerself down, then act bloody surprised when ya can’t breathe.”
You mutter something about being fine again, eyes glassy, throat tight.
Simon huffs a quiet, humorless chuckle, “You’ve said that so many times, it’s lost all meaning.”
He reaches over, rough fingers brushing your jaw until you meet his gaze. No mask, no distance—just the man who’s seen worse than most and still can’t stand to watch you flinch from yourself.
“Lemme help, aye?” he asks softly, as softly as a man like him can. “Y’don’t have to fight the whole bloody world alone.”
You blink, finally letting a tear slip free, and he catches it with his thumb before it can fall. He doesn’t say I told you so, though you know he’s thinking it. He just gathers you into his strong arms, slow and sure, until you melt into the warmth of him.
Your breath stutters against his chest, and his hand moves up and down, rubbing your back soothingly, patient as the tide.
For once, you finally let him hold you through this—no apologies, no pretending needed.
A little reminder:
When you close your eyes, nothing exists. When you open them, everything that exists is through you. It's your consciousness. You are everything and already have everything you want.
I hope you know how powerful you are.
Your reality has no choice but to unfold for you exactly as you accept it.
💖
caleb fucking you raw
ever since the words, “can we try without one this time?”, slipped from your mouth after caleb reached for his nightstand to grab a condom, he hasn’t looked back. the mere thought of being able to stuff you full of his cock, while feeling every inch of your sensitive walls nearly had him cumming right then and there.
he’s so much more desperate than before, deliciously dragging his cock against your walls, fucking you harder as he grips your hips so tight, no doubt they’ll be a little sore by the morning. whispering sweet nothings that you can barely decipher. just so eager to chase that release. praying to the gods that you’ll let him breed you… you will, right?
caleb’s a mess, pussy drunk. reveling in the way your walls flutter around him, sucking him in. mouth falling open as he listens to the even louder, lewd sounds coming from your cunt. his gaze travels to where the two of you meet, slick connecting you both every time he nearly pulls out, leaving his fat tip inside you before slamming back in. knocking your body upwards at the force as a sinful moan spills out of you.
“so close.. let me cum inside, please. fuck- can i?” he pants, stuttering when your gummy walls squeeze around him, so tight, creaming all over his cock.
he’s been waiting so long for this moment, hasn’t he? always having to hold himself back whenever he finds himself putting on the flimsy piece of rubber, worried he’ll step over the line if he asks to fuck you without one. mind crowded with scenes of his warm cum leaking from your cunt, as he makes do with his own hand stroking his length. wishing his seed filled you up instead of going to waste, spilling all over his hand and abdomen.
you nod urgently, a string of “pleasepleaseplease” leaving your lips before morphing into one long whine that spurs caleb on just enough to bring him over the edge. he falls apart with one hard thrust, as deep as he’ll go, shooting his cum inside, painting your walls white. filling you to the brim, mixing his arousal with yours as you cream all over him.
he doesn’t even want to pull out, begging you to stay buried just a little longer. keeping you stuffed until he can’t resist rutting into you again.
kissing practice gone wrong 🍎🍏
MORE THAN FRIENDS — CALEB XIA
pairing — daa pilot!caleb x hunter!reader
summary — seeing caleb's bloodied face on the morning news wasn't how you planned to find out your childhood friend nearly died. and it hurt even more that he didn't tell you himself. when gideon invites you to caleb's celebration, you can't say no—but seeing him again means you're both forced to decide if you're going to keep pretending this is just friendship, or admit you've been lying to yourselves all along.
word count — 12.1 k
genre/tags — childhood friends to lovers (or worse), mutual pining, unresolved tension, we don't talk about our feelings core, slow burn, hurt/comfort, fluff and angst, yearning, jealous!caleb, dry humping because we need, flying together
warnings — 18+ ONLY. contains explicit sexual content, alcohol use, reference to dangerous missions and mentions of blood
author's note — hello lovelies ! i think i'm quite obsessed with aviation lately so of courrseeee i had to write yet another caleb story where we go flying with him (and fight because what am i if not obsessed with toxic couples). hope you enjoy ! <3
masterlist + support my writing + ao3
He always called.
Always.
After a childish fight with Gideon. When he spotted a pretty nebula on a night flight. When he couldnt sleep and just wanted to hear your voice. The same way you always called him—for everything and nothing, because that's what you did, that's who you were to each other.
But then why were you finding out about that Caleb nearly died from the morning news?
Your spoon froze halfway to your mouth as his face filled the television screen, that stupidly handsome, achingly familiar face now streaked with dirt and blood. A thin line of crimson ran from his temple down to his jaw.
The footage showed him emerging from his fighter jet, flight suit torn and stained, one arm wrapped around a wounded pilot that could barely walk.
The headline scrolled across the bottom: DAA pilot leads daring rescue mission in Deepspace Tunnel attack.
A rescue mission. Some pilot got lost in the shallow parts of the Deepspace Tunnels when Wanderers attacked. Caleb had been first on scene, first to respond, first to risk everything to bring someone home.
Your breakfast sat forgotten as you watched him drag the injured pilot toward the medical team on television. Even bloodied and exhausted, he wore that faint smile on his lips—the same one that always played on his lips when you were kids, when he patched up your scraped knees and talked you through nightmares. Always calm. Always bright.
But the wrongness of it all settled heavy in your chest.
You'd been sitting here, eating yogurt with fruits and already dreading the stack of paperwork waiting for you at the Hunter's Association later, living your normal, ordinary, boring Tuesday morning—while he was out there, staring down death in the void. And you'd only found out because you happened to turn on the news.
The footage replayed. You watched it again and again, caught in some masochistic loop you couldn't break. Caleb's hands steady on his teammate, that tired but genuine smile you knew so well on his lips, while the blood on his temple caught the harsh lights from the rescue team, and something twisted in your chest—sharp and bitter, like swallowing glass.
He didn't tell you. Hadn't called.
The news moved on to other stories, other tragedies. But you stayed frozen at your kitchen table, staring at the empty screen.
When had everything changed? When had you stopped telling each other everything? You used to be his first person he'd call when something happened. And he was yours. But now you'd learn about important things the same way as everyone else in the city.
Like some stranger.
Your phone buzzed against the table.
Gideon: caleb's probably gonna kill me for this but there's a celebration thing for him soon. for the rescue. you heard about it right? it's all over the news
Gideon: he wants to be all humble about it but i know he'd love if you were there
Gideon: should i pick you up from the train station? make it a surprise?
You stared down at the messages.
Humble. Is that it? Was Caleb being humble, or was he just... not telling you? There was a difference, wasn't there? A big fucking difference between modesty and deliberately keeping you in the dark.
You could picture it—Caleb brushing off congratulations, downplaying what he'd done like he always did. "Just doing my job," he'd say with that slight shrug, the one that made people love him even more. But this wasn't about false modesty. This was about you finding out from the morning news that the person you cared about most had nearly died.
And wasn't that rich? Caleb, who worried about everything when it came to you. Caleb, who called if you were five minutes late from work because "what if something happened?" Caleb, who made you text him when you got home safe, even from a short walk to the corner store. Caleb, who once drove three hours in the middle of the night because you'd mentioned feeling sick in a text and he "wanted to make sure you were okay."
That same Caleb could apparently face down Wanderers in the depths of space, bleed from his fucking temple, risk his life pulling someone else to safety—and not think you deserved to know about it. Not think you'd want to worry about him the same way he always worried about you.
It stung. How many times had he made you promise to tell him everything? Every mission briefing, every late night at the office, every time you so much as stubbed your toe. But when it came to him nearly dying? Radio silence.
Like your worry didn't matter. Like you didn't matter enough to include in the aftermath of something that could have killed him.
Your fingers hovered over your phone. Part of you wanted to type back immediately—yes, pick me up, I'll be there. But another part, the part that was still stinging from being left out, wanted to ask why Caleb hadn't invited you himself. Why it took Gideon texting behind his back for you to even know there was something to celebrate.
Your fingers moved before you could overthink it.
You: when's the celebration?
Gideon: friday night. 7pm at the airbase on skyhaven
Gideon: should i pick you up?
You stared at the messages, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Friday night. Less than seventy-two hours to decide if you were going to show up and pretend everything was fine, or stay home and let the silence stretch between you and Caleb until it became something you couldn't cross.
You: yeah. can you pick me up at 6?
Gideon: sure thing! he's gonna be so happy to see you
You shoved your phone into your bag and grabbed your hunter's jacket from the back of the chair.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The train to Skyhaven felt longer than usual, every kilometer stretching endlessly as you stared out the window at the clouds below. Your stomach twisted with nerves you couldn't quite name—part anticipation, maybe longing, mostly dread.
When the train finally pulled into the station, you spotted Gideon right away. He was leaning against a pillar, scrolling through his phone, dark hair falling messily across his forehead. The moment he saw you, his face lit up.
"Holy shit, did you grow again?" he called out, pushing off the pillar with that bright grin of his.
"I'm the same height I've been for the past five years."
"Nah, definitely taller." He pulled you in one of those crushing hugs that reminded you why you'd always thought of him as more of a big brother than Caleb's best friend. "It's good to see you again. It's been way too long."
You melted into the hug, breathing in the familiar scent of DAA pilots, who always smelled a bit like fuel and whatever surprisingly fancy soap they used at the dorms.
For a moment, it felt like old times—like that weekend you'd visited them during pilot training, when the three of you snuck off to watch the sunset from the riverbank, feet dangling over the edge, passing around lukewarm cider in the fading light and laughing until your sides ached. Back when everything was simple, before everything got complicated, before Caleb started keeping secrets.
"You look good," Gideon said, stepping back to get a proper look at you. "Tired, but good. Work keeping you busy?"
"When isn't it?" You tugged at your simple outfit. "Is this okay for tonight? I wasn't sure what to wear to a celebration at an airbase."
"You look perfect." His expression softened. "He's going to lose his mind when he sees you."
You hesitated, the words sticking in your throat. "He didn't… he didn't tell me."
Gideon's face changed immediately. He'd always been able to read you too well. "Ah. Yeah, he didn't want to bother you. You know how he gets—worries about you so much he forgets his own mind."
"Still, it's…"
"Hey." He grabbed your shoulders gently, making you look at him. "Listen to me. You're the most important person in his life. That idiot's been sulking for weeks because he misses you. He's overprotective to a fault, but he really cares about you, okay?"
Something in his voice made the tight feeling in your chest ease up a little. Gideon had never been one to sugarcoat things, especially not when it came to Caleb.
"He really is an idiot."
"The biggest." Gideon's grin returned as he slung an arm around your shoulders, steering you toward the exit. "Come on, let's go surprise our hero."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Walking into the DAA airbase felt like stepping back in time. Nothing had changed—same oil stained floors, same pilot portraits lining the walls, same faint smell of fuel and metal that somehow seep into every corner of the airbase.
You'd walked these halls countless times growing up, trailing behind Caleb and Gideon when they were still cadets, sneaking into places you definitely weren't supposed to be. It felt a bit like home in a strange way.
"Is that—oh my God, it is!"
You turned to see Lieutenant Chen from the communications department, weighed down by so many insignia it was a wonder her uniform held together.
"We had no idea you were coming!"
"Surprise," you said awkradly, suddenly aware of all the eyes turning your way.
"Caleb's gonna absolutely lose it." Chen smiled. "He never shuts up about you. We've been wondering when you'd visit again."
More faces you recognized started appearing as you walked down the hall. Captain Morrison from tactical planning, who remembered you from the academy's family days. Sergeant Liu, who'd once caught you and Caleb trying to sneak into the flight simulators and had pretended not to see you.
But also not familiar faces smiled when they saw you. It was almost a little unsettling how everyone here knew who you were, even if you didn't know them.
"The famous childhood friend," someone said with a smile.
"She's prettier than in the photos," another voice added.
Gideon squeezed your shoulder. "Told you he talks about you. Pretty sure half this place knows your name."
It should have made you happy. Should have been sweet, knowing that even when he was here, surrounded by his colleagues and his other life, you were still on his mind. That he spoke about you enough that people recognized you on sight, that your name was familiar in rooms you'd never entered.
But instead, it just made the confusion worse. Because how could you be important enough to mention in casual conversation, important enough for wallet photos and desktop frames, but not important enough pick up the phone when he almost died?
"Where is he?" you asked.
"Probably in the dorms, working off his nervous energy," Gideon replied. "You know how he gets before big events."
You followed him through the dorms, past rows of identical doors until Gideon stopped at one marked with a familiar call sign.
"Here we go," he whispered, pressing a finger to his lips. "Let me just—"
But before he could knock, you heard grunting sounds from inside. Your mind immediately went somewhere it shouldn't, and heat flooded your face. Was he—?
You were about to grab Gideon's arm when he pushed the door open. And to your relief, it wasn't what you'd thought.
Caleb was hanging upside down from the top bunk, feet hooked over the bed frame as he did hanging sit-ups. His shirt had slipped down, revealing his abs as they contracted with each rep. Sweat gleamed on his skin, and his dark hair hung in damp strands toward the floor.
"Caleb," Gideon called out.
Caleb crunched up—or down, given his position—his hands behind his head, and the moment his eyes met yours, his face went completely scarlet.
"What—how—"
His concentration faltered, and suddenly he was falling, tumbling off the bunk in a tangle of limbs and hitting the floor with a loud thud.
"Caleb!" You rushed forward, dropping to your knees beside him. "Are you okay? Did you hit your head?"
He lay there on his back for a moment, staring up at you in complete shock, legs still tangled with the bed frame.
"What? Why are you here?”
He slowly pushed himself up to sitting, his eyes never leaving your face like he couldn't quite believe you were real.
"That's one way to greet me. Should I be worried you don't want me here?"
Without hesitation, he reached for you, hands finding your waist and pulling you closer until you were almost in his lap on the narrow floor between the bunks.
"Silly girl. Of course I want you here." One arm wrapped around your back while the other cradled your head, pulling you close against his neck. "How did you—when did you—"
"Gideon," you said. "He helped with the surprise."
Caleb's eyes flicked to Gideon, who stood in the doorway with a crooked smile, before returning to you. He was still warm from his workout, smelling faintly of soap and sweat and something else you could never name—but always recognized.
Just him. Just home.
"I've missed you so much," he whispered against your ear, arms tightening around you.
"I missed you too." Your fingers found the soft fabric of his shirt, then brushed against the apple pendant he wore—always wore. "I saw what happened on the news. I was so scared, and then so proud, and I just... I needed to see you."
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, those violet ones you knew so well catching the light filtering between the beds. His face was so close, breath warm against your lips. It would only take a breath to close the distance.
"I'm so glad you're here."
And somehow that stung. It always did—this easy intimacy, this magnetic pull that made the rest of the world fade away. He could hold you like you were the most precious thing in his world, speak to you in that voice reserved only for you—and then turn around and shut you out completely when it actually mattered.
Gideon cleared his throat. "Alright, you two. As sweet as this is, maybe Caleb should find a real shirt before someone walks by and gets the wrong idea."
Caleb glanced down at himself, seeming to remember his state of undress, and his cheeks flushed red again as he quickly tugged his sleeveless shirt down.
"We've got a few hours before the party starts," he said, standing and pulling you up with him. His hands lingered on yours, fingers intertwined. "Want to go flying? We could catch the sunset if we leave now."
"Am I even allowed to do that? This is a military base..."
Caleb grinned, that boyish smile you always loved so much. "With me? Absolutely. Perks of being the hero of the week." His expression went soft. "Besides, I've been wanting to show you something."
You hesitated. But there was something hopeful in his eyes, almost vulnerable, that pulled at something inside you. You remembered how he'd looked on the news earlier this week—bloodied, exhausted, but alive. How your heart had stopped thinking you might lose him.
You agreed before you could overthink it.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Twenty minutes later, after Caleb's quick shower, you found yourself in the pilots' prep room staring at the flight suit he'd laid out for you. The suit was thick and technical, covered in zippers and patches you didn't know how or where to put on.
"It might be a little big," Caleb said, emerging from the locker area in his own suit, hair still damp, clinging in soft curls at his temples. "But it'll keep you safe up there."
You held up the suit, then hesitated. "Okay, so... how exactly does this work?"
"Here, let me help." He stepped in front of you, close enough that you could see the water droplets still clinging to his neck and count his eyelashes if you wanted to. "Arms first."
You slipped your arms through, his fingers guiding the fabric over your shoulders, adjusting the fit with light touches.
"Now the belt." His hands moved to your waist, threading the utility belt through the loops. You had to remind yourself how to breathe as he worked, standing so close that you felt his breath on you lips.
You really hadn't thought this through. Flying apparently involved a lot more... proximity than you'd expected. Maybe you should've said no.
"Almost done," he said, like he could read every thought on your face. When the belt was secure, he paused, hands still resting on your hips. His eyes traced over you—down to where the suit hugged your waist, then slowly back up to meet your gaze. Something shifted in his expression, and his grip on your hips tightened slightly.
Your knees went weak. Just from the way he was looking at you—like he was memorizing every detail, like you were something he wanted to unwrap slowly and take his time with. Heat pooled low in your stomach.
You hated how he always had this effect on you. How he could make you forget everything—your hurt, your anger, the fact that he'd kept you in the dark—with nothing but a look.
You tilted your head slightly. "Caleb?"
"Sorry." He blinked, shaking his head like he was coming back to himself. "Just need to..." He reached for the front zipper, his knuckles brushing your chest as he slowly, carefully pulled it up. Each inch seemed to take forever, and you hated how much you wanted it to last even longer.
"There," he whispered, hands smoothing over your shoulders. "Perfect fit. How does it feel?"
You looked down at yourself, aware of how close you were standing, of how his flight suit clung perfectly to his broad shoulders where yours hung loose.
"Good," you managed. "Feels good."
His hand came up to adjust your collar that was already perfectly straight, fingers brushing the heated skin of your neck.
"Is this standard procedure for all your passengers?"
"Only the special ones." His eyes dropped to your lips and stayed there, like he was considering something stupid. Something stupid you'd wanted him to consider.
"Caleb," you breathed, not even sure what you were asking for. Maybe for him to close the distance. Maybe for him to step away before you did something stupid.
His thumb traced along your jaw, so light you might have imagined it. "Yeah?"
Voices echoed from the hallway, breaking whatever spell had settled over the room. He stepped back immediately, hands dropping to his sides, but his eyes stayed locked on yours.
"Ready to fly?"
You nodded, not trusting your voice. With your lips still warm from the way he'd been staring at them, flying was definitely the last thing on your mind right now.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You really should have said no. Because what the hell were you thinking, getting into a fighter jet? You stared at all the bewildering array of screens and buttons, not understanding a single thing.
Damn Caleb and his stupidly pretty eyes of his. You could never say no to him.
He leaned over your shoulder from behind, reaching around to point at different instruments. His helmet brushed yours as he talked, voice coming through the headset.
"Okay, so this is your primary flight display," he said, finger tracing across a screen. "Shows altitude, airspeed, heading. And this controls your oxygen flow—"
"Caleb," you cut him off with a nervous laugh, "why are you telling me all this? I'm not flying this thing."
"What if I have a heart attack up there? You'd have to take over."
"Please don't joke about that. I can barely parallel park, and you want me to land a fighter jet?"
"It's easier than it looks." He reached across to flip a switch, his arm brushing against yours. "Besides, you've got good instincts. I've seen how you think under pressure."
"Quick thinking and flying are completely different things.”
"Are they?" His laugh rumbled over the comms as he flipped a few more switches. "Both need you to stay calm, think fast..."
Suddenly, the engines roared to life, vibrations running through your entire body. Your stomach dropped as the reality hit—you were actually doing this.
"Don't worry. I have every intention of staying alive," he added, his hand coming up to steady your helmet. "Besides, I can't leave you alone up here. How else would I get to see how cute you look when you're terrified?"
"I'm not terrified."
"Sure you're not." He glanced down at where your knuckles were white from gripping the seatbelt. A smug smile spread across his face. You wanted to punch him. "That's why you're holding on like the plane's about to fall apart."
"I hate you."
He ignored your comment. His hands moved to your harness next, checking each strap. You felt his fingers brush against your shoulders and chest as he tightened the restraints.
"Snug enough?" he asked, giving the straps a tug.
"I think I'm more secure than the aircraft itself," you replied, testing how much you could move. Which was basically not at all.
"Good. Ready to fly?"
"Absolutely not."
"Too late now." He moved to settle into the pilot's seat in front of you. "Don't worry, I'll take good care of you up there."
"Just promise me," you called over the growing engine noise, "if you do have some kind of medical emergency, can you at least wait until we're back on the ground?"
His laugh crackled through the comms. "Deal." More switches flipped and the engines roared louder. "Now hold on and visor down."
You found the mechanism on your helmet, and the tinted shield clicked into place, casting everything in a greenish hue.
"Tower, this is Apple-7 requesting clearance for takeoff," his voice came through the comm system, suddenly serious and stern.
"Apple-7, you are cleared for runway 2-7. Wind at 2-1-0 degrees, 8 knots."
"Copy that, tower. Apple-7 rolling."
And then the jet lurched forward.
Oh shit.
This was really happening. You were actually doing this, and you were a complete idiot for agreeing to it. What kind of sane person just casually gets into a fighter jet? Normal people took trains. Normal people stayed on the ground where they belonged.
The engines roared even louder, and suddenly you were moving. Fast. Really, really fast. The runway blurred past in streaks of white and gray, and you gripped your harness so hard you thought you might break your knuckles. Pretty sure you were about to meet your end just because you couldn't resist some pretty violet eyes.
"Oh god, oh god, oh god," you said, probably straight into the comms that anyone could hear, but you were past caring.
"You okay back there?"
"No. Definitely not. Why did I say yes to this?"
The nose tilted up, and suddenly you were pressed back into your seat like a giant, invisible hand was shoving you down. The force was insane—your whole body felt heavy, pinned against the seat as the jet climbed. Your stomach dropped straight through the floor while the rest of you felt like it weighed a thousand pounds.
You squeezed your eyes shut as the ground disappeared beneath you, that weightless feeling making you want to throw up.
Why the hell had you said yes this time?
Caleb had asked before. Multiple times, actually. "Come flying with me," he'd say, eyes bright with the adrenaline that always courses through pilots after a flight. "I want to show you what it's like up there." And you'd always brushed him off with some excuse—too busy, too tired, maybe next time.
Flying seemed like his thing, not yours. You were perfectly happy with your feet on solid ground, thank you very much.
You'd never really thought about why you kept saying no. It just seemed... unnecessary. Dangerous. Something that belonged to the part of his life that didn't include you—the military side, the pilot side, the side that took him away from home for weeks at a time.
But now, strapped into a fighter jet and climbing toward the clouds at a speed that defied all logic, you couldn't figure out what had changed. What had made you finally say yes when he'd asked with that hopeful look in his eyes? Was it the way he'd seemed so excited to share this with you? The fact that he'd almost died and you'd realized how much you'd been holding back? Or were you just losing your mind?
Probably the last one.
"Breathe." Caleb's voice. "I've got you."
"This was such a terrible idea," you managed, eyes still clamped shut. "I'm going to die because I can't say no to you."
"You're not going to die. I'm a pretty good pilot."
"That's exactly what someone says right before they crash."
He laughed. "Open your eyes."
"Not happening."
"Come on. Trust me."
"I trusted you enough to get in this death trap. That's all the trust you're getting today."
"Hey." His voice went gentle. "Remember when we were kids and you'd get scared during thunderstorms? I'd always stay with you until they passed."
"That's not the same."
"I'm still here. Still got you." A pause. "Open your eyes for me."
Damn him. Damn him and that stupid, soft voice of his and the way he could make you feel safe even when you were hurtling through the air in a metal coffin.
You cracked one eye open, then both, and your breath caught in your throat at what you saw.
A dreamlike landscape stretched out below you. Fields and forests and winding roads, all bathed in golden evening light. In the distance, the sun was sinking towards the horizon, painting the sky in watercolours of pink and orange, bleeding together like spilled paint.
And there was Skyhaven, floating in the distance like something from a fairy tale. Its artificial island hung suspended in the twilight, lights already twinkling as evening settled in. From up here, you could see everything, the tall buildings, the landing platforms and the anti-gravity trains that looked like silver threads connecting it to the mainland.
You flew over the DAA airbase, which looked suddenly tiny and orderly from this height. You could make out the runways in perfect geometric patterns, hangars lined up like building blocks, the control tower standing watch over it all.
"Holy shit," you breathed.
"Language, pipsqueak."
"Holy shit, Caleb. This is..."
"Pretty amazing, right?"
You stared out at the endless sky, at clouds that looked like cotton from up here, at how perfect and small everything looked below. Your death grip on the seat loosened a little.
"Yeah," you whispered. "It's beautiful."
"Want to see more? We've still got time before we need to head back."
Caleb steered the jet gently to the left, and a few seconds later, you were flying over mountains that looked like the spines of a sleeping dragon, their snow laced peaks catching the last of the sun.
"Those are the Taishan Mountains," he said. "See that lake down there?"
You followed his direction and spotted it—a perfect mirror of water nestled between the hills, reflecting the sunset like liquid fire.
"It looks incredible," you breathed, pressing your face closer to the canopy. "I had no idea it looked like this from up here."
He guided the jet in circles around the lake, giving you the full view. "This is my favorite part of flying. Seeing the world like this." His voice went softer. "I've wanted to show you this for so long."
Mountains rolled beneath you in waves of green and amber, dotted with tiny villages that clung to the slopes. A river wound through the valley below, silver in the twilight.
"There—see that waterfall?" Caleb pointed toward a white ribbon of water cascading down the mountainside, each level catching the dying light before disappearing into the mist below. "And that one over there—" He tilted the jet slightly to one side so you could see another cascade, this one wider, spreading like a bridal veil across dark stone.
"They're amazing, Caleb," you said, watching the water dance in the fading light.
"I knew you'd love them. I've been wanting to bring you up here since I first flew this route. Every time I pass over, I think about how much you'd love seeing this." A pause. "When things calm down, when we're not so busy with work... I want to take you hiking up there. Show you those falls up close."
You smiled. "I'd like that."
The jet drifted through wisps of cloud that parted softly around the canopy, and for a moment, you felt weightless, suspended between earth and sky, while the world below seemed to stretch endlessly.
A flock of birds flew far below, tiny dots moving across the green landscape. Everything looked so peaceful from up here, so perfectly arranged, like someone had painted the world and hung it beneath the clouds just for pilots to see.
"You really love this." It wasn't a question. "Flying, I mean. I finally get it."
"Took you long enough."
"I always knew you loved it. I just... never understood the why until now."
"And now?"
You gazed out at the endless sky, at how calm everything looked from up here. "Now I think I might love it too."
"Good," he said, and you could hear him grinning. "So... want to test some speed?"
"What kind of speed?"
"Nothing crazy. Just a little taste of what she can really do."
"I don't know, Caleb. This is perfect as it is—"
"Hold on tight."
"Wait, what—"
The world exploded into motion.
The jet shot forward like a bullet fired from a gun, the landscape below blurring into streaks of color. Your body slammed back into the seat with crushing force—you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only grip your harness as everything became pure speed and sound and the absolute certainty that you were about to die.
"Caleb!"
"Just breathe!" His voice came through the comms, way too calm for someone currently trying to kill you both. "Let it happen!"
Within seconds, the fear melted away, replaced by an electric thrill that surged through you. You were flying—really flying—slicing through the sky like something loosed from gravity itself.
"Oh my God!" you shouted, but now you were laughing. "This is insane!"
"Amazing, right?"
"Don't you dare slow down!"
His delighted laugh filled your headset. "I knew you'd love it."
Clouds blurred past in a rush of speed so unreal it stole your breath, and for the first time in months, maybe years, you felt impossibly alive. You never wanted it to stop.
"Hey," Caleb said after a while of flying, way too casual. "You do remember how to pull up, right?"
"What? Why would I need to—"
"Just in case."
A soft click echoed through the comms.
The nose dipped.
Your stomach dropped as realization hit.
"Caleb?"
The aircraft kept descending, the horizon tilting dangerously.
"Caleb!"
Without thinking, your hands flew to the controls, yanking back on the stick. The jet responded immediately, nose lifting as you overcompensated. Your stomach lurched violently with the sudden change in altitude before finally finding level flight again.
"Take over!" you screamed, heart pounding against your ribs. "What the hell are you doing?!"
His laughter crackled through the headset. "Relax. I've got backup controls the whole time. You were never actually in danger." He paused, clearly grinning. "God, I wish I could see your face right now. I bet your face is all scrunched up."
"I'm having a heart attack!"
"You're doing fine. Keep your hands on the controls. I'm handling everything else. Feel how responsive she is?"
Despite yourself, you were starting to enjoy it. Every tiny movement you made with the stick and the whole aircraft would shift—left, right, up, down—and you finally understood what Caleb meant about dancing with the sky. In a way, it felt like dancing, but with gravity and wind and thousands of pounds of metal that somehow felt weightless under your command.
"This is terrifying."
"This is flying. And you're a natural."
And the longer you held the controls, the more confident you became. It was almost intoxicating, having this much power literally at your fingertips.
"This is actually incredible," you breathed, making a gentle turn.
"See? Told you."
Then you spotted the throttle. Your hand moved before you could think, pushing it forward. The jet surged ahead, speed shooting pure electricity through your veins.
"Oh, this feels amazing!" You pushed it further.
The world blurred below as you picked up speed. You felt powerful. Alive. Like you could conquer the entire sky.
"Okay, that's... probably fast enough," Caleb said.
But you were drunk on it now. You pushed the throttle more.
"Seriously, maybe we should slow down—"
"Just a little more!"
"No, no, no. Fun's over." You felt him take back control, gradually bringing the aircraft down to a safer speed. "You're absolutely insane. Remind me to never let you near a motorcycle."
"That was the best thing I've ever done," you laughed, breathless and light headed. "Can we do it again?"
"Absolutely not. I love you, but—"
He stopped, and your heart skipped a beat.
Did he just…?
He did.
And he said it so natural, so easy, so seamlessly woven into the fabric of who he was that he'd forgotten it was supposed to be a secret.
But you knew what would come next. You'd been there before, knew every version of his backtracking, his deflection, of his careful rewording that would drain all the meaning from what he'd just said until it became something safe and meaningless.
It had been this way since you were teenagers, the pattern so familiar you could predict his next words before he said them. In a way, you'd gotten used to it. But knowing it was coming didn't make it hurt any less. If anything, the predictability made it worse.
Silence stretched.
"I mean—" he started, voice tight. "What I meant was—"
Suddenly, Gideon's voice crackled through the comm system.
"Apple-7, this is base. You two lovebirds need to head back. Party started early—apparently someone couldn't wait to celebrate our hero."
"Copy that, base," Caleb responded after a pause, his voice controlled again. "Apple-7 returning to base."
As he banked towards home, all the playful energy drained away. Something heavier settled between you, the weight of words said and unsaid, of feelings that existed in the space between friendship and whatever this was.
"ETA fifteen minutes," he added quietly. But you weren't listening anymore.
When Caleb brought the jet down onto the runway at the airbase, you felt sick. Whether from the flight or his confession, you couldn't tell.
"You hungry?" His voice came through the headset as you taxied toward the hangar. "Martinez has been going on about the catering all week. I bet they've prepared lots of food."
You stared at the back of his head, feeling your frustration rise like a tide. You hated how he always backed off so quickly whenever things got too real, like he'd burned himself on the truth. Always leaving you to wonder if you'd imagined the weight in his voice, if those three words had meant anything at all or if he'd said them to anyone who'd listen.
"Yeah. I'm starving."
You could feel him wince at your tone.
"Wait until you try the barbecue," he continued anyway, forcing cheerfulness into his voice. "Base cook actually knows what he's doing for once."
The canopy opened with a soft hiss. Back to reality, where Caleb would pretend his heart hadn't been in his throat when he'd said those words, and you'd pretend you weren't exhausted from constantly dancing around whatever this was between you.
He'd said he loved you. Actually said it. And now he was talking about barbecue like it never happened, like you were just friends and always be just friends, like you were supposed to smile and nod and pretend your chest wasn't caving in from the weight of loving someone who could say everything and nothing in the same breath.
Before you could argue with him or he could apologize or you could both just sit in the wreckage of another almost moment, Gideon appeared beside the aircraft.
"There you are!" He grabbed both your arms before you'd even fully climbed out. "Come on, they're waiting for the guest of honor."
"Wait, we should change—" you started, but Gideon was already dragging you toward the main hangar where music and laughter spilled into the evening air.
Caleb unzipped his flight suit as you walked, letting it hang around his waist and tying the sleeves around his hips. Sweat darkened the fabric of his shirt, outlining the muscles in his chest and shoulders in a way that really didn't help your current frustration with him.
You did the same, unzipping your own suit and tying it around your waist. Not exactly the prettiest outfit for a celebration—but thankfully, no one else seemed to care about fancy clothes either. At least now you could breathe in the warm evening air.
You'd never seen the hangar look anything like this. String lights crisscrossed the ceiling, tables lined the walls loaded with food, and what looked like half the airbase was crowded inside with drinks, laughing and talking.
A cheer went up the second people spotted Caleb. Suddenly you were swept into congratulations and backslapping. Someone pressed a beer into your hand while others recounted the heroic rescue you'd only heard about on the news.
"Speech! Speech!" someone shouted, and the entire crowd picked up the chant.
Caleb got pushed towards the center of the crowed, looking genuinely uncomfortable. He held up his hands for quiet.
"I, uh..." He stopped, running a hand through his hair. "I'm really not good at this."
Everyone laughed affectionately.
So humble. Of course everyone loved him.
You watched him fumble through his discomfort. Even now, with everyone celebrating him, he looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. The same way he'd rather deflect than deal with what had just happened between you up there.
"Look," he continued, finding his voice, "what happened out there wasn't heroic. I was just doing my job. Any of you would've done the same thing."
More affectionate protests from the crowd. Someone yelled, "That's our Caleb!"
"It was a team effort. We all did what we were trained for." He paused, scanning the crowd until his eyes found yours. "But what really drives us, what makes us willing to risk everything, is knowing we have something worth coming home to."
Beside you, Gideon nudged your ribs, grinning like he'd won a bet. But instead of something warm, all you felt was irritation.
Of course. Of course he'd say something like that—something that could mean everything or nothing, something that let him dance around the truth while giving himself an out if anyone pressed him on it. Something worth coming home to. It could mean you, it could mean his whole found family here, or it could mean his favorite mechanic for all the specificity he was giving.
You took a long pull of your beer, jaw tight, as the crowd cheered his carefully noncommittal words.
When he finished his speech, you turned away before his gaze could find yours and headed for the bar. Maybe it was frustration, maybe adrenaline crash, or maybe you just needed something to numb whatever game you and Caleb kept playing with each other's hearts.
You stopped counting drinks after the third one. You'd come here to celebrate him, to be proud of him, but all you could think about was how stupid you'd been to hope for something real.
Luckily, Gideon was just as drunk as you and completely oblivious to your mood.
"Another round!"
He appeared beside you with two fresh beers and a grin that said he was already several drinks ahead of you. His cheeks were flushed, eyes bright.
You took the beer and clinked it against his, laughing at something funny he'd said that you were already forgetting.
"Maybe you should slow down a little."
A hand suddenly reached for your beer.
Caleb.
You pulled it away from his grasp, giving him a look that could've cut glass. "We're here to celebrate, right? Isn't that what you said? Something to come home to and all that?"
His eyes narrowed at your tone, violet turning darker, but before he could respond, Gideon threw an arm around both your shoulders.
"Exactly! Tonight we celebrate our hero!" he slurred, pulling you both closer. "And his beautiful—"
"Friend," you cut in flatly, taking another drink. You stared straight at Caleb as you said it, watching the word land heavy.
The music shifted to something upbeat, and Gideon dragged you towards the dance floor before either of you could say anything else.
He spun you around, both of you laughing as you nearly collided into other people. The alcohol had loosened you up, and for the first time all night, you actually felt carefree.
"You're awful at this," you laughed as Gideon stepped on your foot again.
"Hey, I'm a pilot, not a dancer," he protested, catching you when you stumbled slightly and keeping a steady hand on your waist.
Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Caleb still at the bar, those violet eyes locked on Gideon's hand at your waist. His knuckles were white around his beer bottle.
You knew this wasn't fair. It wasn't like you—getting drunk, making a scene, using poor Gideon in whatever messed up thing you and Caleb had going on. But you were so tired of it all. Tired of the mixed signals, the distance, the way he could say he loved you at ten thousand feet then stand in front of everyone and talk about you like you were just another face in the crowd.
You were done being careful. Done protecting his feelings while he stepped all over yours. When Gideon's hand moved to guide you through another spin, you didn't pull away. Instead, you leaned closer, letting your arms wrap around his neck as he swayed with you. You rested your head on his shoulder, eyes closing, knowing exactly who was watching.
If Caleb wanted to keep you at arm's length, he could watch someone else hold you close.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Hours slipped by in a haze of music, laughter, and terrible dance moves. Considerably, the crowd had thinned out, leaving only a few dedicated party people and those too drunk to find way back to their quarters. You fell squarely into the second category.
"Alright," Caleb's voice cut through your alcohol fueled fun as he appeared beside you and Gideon at the bar sometime deep into the night—or possibly early morning. "I think it's time to call it a night."
"What? No!" You swayed as you turned to face him. "Party's just getting started. Right, Gideon?"
But when you looked around, Gideon had somehow vanished. When you turned back to Caleb, you understood why.
He was angry.
"Come on. You've had enough."
"I'm fine," you insisted, though the way the room tilted when you moved suggested otherwise. "We're celebrating! You said it yourself—something to come home to, right? Well, your precious something is celebrating."
A muscle jumped in his jaw and then he was moving. He scooped you up and threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing.
"Caleb! Put me down! What are you doing?"
"You think I'll let you do whatever you want?"
You kept protesting as he carried you across the hanger, but his grip was iron. Other drunk stragglers whistled and made comments as you passed, which only made your face burn hotter.
He finally stopped at his room in the dormitory and fumbled with his keycard while still holding you. Once inside, he set you down and locked the door behind you both.
You stumbled as your feet hit the floor, the room spinning enough to make you grab his desk for support.
"What the hell, Caleb?"
He was standing between you and the door, arms crossed, looking more serious than you'd ever seen him.
"What was your mission tonight? Were you trying to irritate me?"
You leaned back against his desk, crossing your arms to match his stance. The alcohol was still making your head swim, but his tone was sobering you up fast.
"Don't be so dramatic. It's a party. You're the hero, saved lives and all that, remember?"
"Is that why you were all over Gideon?"
A bitter laugh slipped out. "Like you care."
"I don't care?"
"No, you don't!" You pushed off from the desk, anger making you bold. "You don't get to care! Not when you do this—say things like that, tell me you love me, act all possessive, then pull away like it never happened!" Your voice got louder, years of frustration finally breaking free. "It's fucking exhausting, Caleb! I never know what you actually feel because you won't just—"
"Isn't it obvious?"
"No! It's not obvious! Nothing about you is obvious!" You gestured wildly, the alcohol making you unsteady. "You're like a puzzle with half the pieces missing, and I'm tired of trying to figure you out."
He stepped closer. "You want to know what I feel?"
"Yes," you breathed, suddenly aware of how small his room was, how close he was getting.
Another step. "You want me to be obvious? Aggressive? Want me to press you against this desk and make it impossible to misunderstand how I feel?"
Your back hit the desk as he kept coming. "Caleb," you whispered, but it sounded more like a plea than a warning.
He braced his hands on either side of you, palms flat against the desk, caging you in. His body was close enough that you could feel his heat, could count the golden flecks in his eyes.
"Tell me what you want from me." His voice barely a whisper, his face inches from yours. "You want me to kiss you? Touch you?" He tilted his head. "...Fuck you?"
"I'm not playing this game again—"
His hand left the desk to find your waist, fingers spreading across the strip of skin where your shirt had ridden up above your tied flight suit. Your words died as his touch sent heat shooting through you.
"What game?" He leaned closer and placed his other hand on your waist too, his hands warm against your skin. "The one where you pretend you don't want me?"
"I'm not—" you started, but your breath hitched when his hand came up to cup your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone.
"Or this one where you act like I'm always the one holding back when you do the exact same thing?" His words ghosted across your lips as his hands slowly moved upward, thumbs brushing under the hem of your shirt. "Because that's what this feels like. Like you want me to make the first move so you can blame me if it all goes wrong, have an easy way out—"
"Don't."
Your heart pounded so hard you were sure he could feel it through your chest. He was close enough now that the slightest movement would bring your lips together.
"Tell me to stop. Tell me this isn't what you want, and I'll walk away."
But you couldn't. Because despite all the frustration, despite all the hesitation and almost moments, this was exactly what you wanted. And he knew it.
When you stayed silent, he leaned in, lips finding your neck. His kiss was soft, almost careful, but it sent heat through your veins. His lips moved down your neck unhurried and slow, each touch a question you answered with a tilt of your head, giving him more access. Your hands found his shoulders, fingers gripping his shirt as he stepped closer and pressed you back against the wall.
"Who's holding back now?" he murmured against your throat.
Your answer got lost in a shaky breath as he continued his slow exploration, hands tightening on your waist. Everything felt electric, charged with years of want finally given permission to surface.
But even as he held you close, even as his lips traced every inch of your neck, he never quite crossed that final line. Never kissed your mouth the way you desperately wanted. Always hovering on the edge of something more, leaving you breathless and wanting. And you wouldn't close the gap either—too stubborn, too scared.
"Caleb," you whispered.
He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his own dark with want. "What now? Should I kiss you? Undress you? Want me to…"
His thigh nuded your legs apart, and then he pressed closer until there was nothing between you but heat and fabric. Your breath hitched, and your fingers clenched around his shoulders, nails digging in.
"Do you have any idea how much I think about this? About touching you you the way I really want to, without holding anything back? How much I need you?"
Your head tilted back, trying to find space to breathe, but he followed, lips grazing your throat. Each touch was torture, every kiss threatening to undo you completely. He moved slowly, mouth tracing down to your collarbone where he sucked gently, drawing a soft sound from you.
"You're so frustrating," you said, the words tumbling out. "You—God, Caleb, you always stop, you—"
"You think I want to stop?" His voice was raw. "You think I don't lie awake every night thinking about throwing away every reason I have for keeping my hands off you?" He sank his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, making you gasp. "I'm trying to do this right."
Your heart ached at his words, but the alcohol and years of longing made you bold. "I don't want right," you said. "I want you."
Something shifted in him then. His hands slid to your hips and pulled you in, pressing against you until you felt him, unmistakably hard, right where you wanted him. You moved without thinking, your body drawn to the pressure, to the spark it ignited.
He cursed, voice breaking as he buried his face in your neck and guided your movements with his hands. Each shift of your hips made the desk creak beneath you, the sound loud in the quiet room.
Your hands slid into his hair, tugging at it as you arched into him, heat building between you with each and every movement. His mouth traced lower, kissing along the edge of your top before his teeth caught your strap, pulling it down your shoulder. He kissed the newly bared skin like it was something sacred.
"Caleb," you gasped, voice catching as he thrust harder, growing more desperate.
Papers and pens slid off the desk, which was rattling loudly now, but neither of you cared. His hand left your hip to brace against the wall behind you, arm trembling with the effort of holding back, of keeping this from spiraling into something neither of you could take back.
You felt him shudder against you, his breath hot and ragged against your neck as he kissed every inch of skin. Hips pressed closer still, grinding against you in a way that made your head spin, and you couldn't help the soft moan that escaped your lips. It seemed to undo him completely—his grip tightening as he moved against you harder, the desk shaking.
"I can't think straight when you're like this," he whispered, his hand slipping under your top, palm warm against your lower back. "Do you have any idea what you do to me? How hard it is to be around you and not just—"
Your legs tightened around him, wanting nothing more than for him to stop thinking altogether, and he groaned, the sound vibrating through you.
You could feel exactly how much he wanted this—wanted you—but he still held back, his lips never claiming yours, only leaving marks along your throat and collarbone. It was maddening, this dance of almost, but the way he touched you like you were something precious made it impossible to pull away.
You could feel how close you both were getting—his breath heavy and uneven, body trembling against yours.
His hand slid down from your waist to find your thigh. He hooked his grip under your knee, lifting your leg until it rested over his shoulder. You gasped, fingers clawing at his hair as his hard length slid back and forth between your thighs with such maddening friction you were sure you'd come any moment.
"I'm trying," he breathed. "I'm trying so fucking hard not to lose it right now."
Your leg trembled, and he tightened his grip, holding you in place.
"I'm so close." Your lips hovered inches from his, your soft moans spilling into his open mouth. "Caleb, please." You didn't even know what you were begging for—just more, all of him, anything to ease the ache that had been building for so long.
His hand on the wall slid higher, fingers curling like he needed to hold onto something, and for a moment you thought he might finally give in. But—
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside, followed by muffled voices. Caleb froze, lips still close to yours, his whole body going tense. He lifted his head, eyes darting to the door. The voices got closer, then faded, but the thread between you had snapped.
His hand on the wall slid down slowly. He exhaled shakily and stepped back, leaving you cold and aching where his warmth had been. "You should sleep and get sober."
You felt dizzy from how quickly he could switch off, go from consuming you completely to treating you like a mistake that needed correcting.
"And pretend tomorrow that this never happened? You go back to being distant and I pretend I'm fine with it?"
"That's not—"
"It is." You leaned forward on the desk, straightening your top. "This is what you do, Caleb. You get close, make me think maybe this time is different, and then you pull away."
He ran a hand through his hair, looking frustrated. "I'm not pulling away. I'm right here."
"For how long? Until someone walks by in the hallway? Until you remember all the reasons why this is complicated? Until you decide I'm better off as just your friend?"
"You know that's not—"
"Don't. Just… don't. I can't keep doing this with you. I can't keep wondering if you actually want me or if you're just lonely, or caught up in the moment, or—"
"You think this is just loneliness?" His voice went sharp, almost angry. "You think what I feel for you is some momentary lapse in judgment?"
"I don't know what you feel, and that's the problem. You never tell me anything. Not when you nearly die, not what you're thinking, nothing. You just nearly fuck me and look at me like that and expect me to figure it out, but I can't read your mind, Caleb. And I'm tired of trying."
Everything went quiet.
"I'm scared," he said finally. "I'm scared of ruining what we have."
"And what exactly do we have? Because from where I'm standing, it feels like nothing."
He starred at you like you'd slapped him, and maybe you had. You watched his face crumple for just a second before he pulled himself together, but you'd already seen the hurt.
"Nothing," he repeated quietly, almost to himself. He took a step back, then another, putting space between you. "Right."
Nothing but breath.
Yours.
His.
Heavy, tangled, filling the silence.
You wanted to take it back, to explain that you didn't mean it like that, but your frustration and anger kept your mouth shut.
"Sleep it off," he said finally, voice flat as he headed for the door. "Take the bed. I'll find somewhere else."
"Caleb, wait—"
He stopped for just a moment, hand on the handle, and you thought maybe he'd turn around, maybe he'd finally fight for this, fight for you.
"Lock the door behind me."
And then he walked out.
You sat there staring at the empty space where he'd been, the ghost of his touch still burning on your skin and the taste of regret bitter in your mouth.
You could hear his footsteps in the hallway, getting fainter until there was nothing left but silence and the weight of words you couldn't take back.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Morning light streamed through the window, way too bright for your pounding head. You groaned and burried your face deeper into the pillow that smelled like Caleb—a painful reminder of where you were and what had happened.
A soft knock made you wince. "Come in," you mumbled, though speaking felt like sandpaper against your throat.
When you finally looked up, Caleb was standing by the bed with a glass of water and two aspirin. His expression was carefully blank, but the dark circles under his eyes told you he'd slept about as well as you had.
"Figured you'd need these," he said, setting them on the nightstand.
You slowly sat up, immediately regretting it as the room spun. "Thanks."
He sat down on the edge of the bed beside you while you swallowed the aspirin and drank half the water.
"I'm sorry," you started, finally meeting his eyes. "About last night. What I said."
"Which part?"
"All of it. I was really drunk."
"Yeah, you were."
"It wasn't fair of me."
He gave you a small, sad smile. After a moment, he pulled out his phone, scrolled through it, and set it on the nightstand. Soft music started playing, something gentle and slow.
"What are you doing?"
"What I wanted to do last night." He stood up from the bed and held out his hand. "Before you decided dancing with my best friend was more fun."
You looked at his outstretched hand, then back at his face. "Caleb, I'm still pretty drunk. Or hungover. I haven't brushed my teeth, I probably smell like tequila, and I look like I got hit by a truck—"
"You're beautiful."
Your heart did that tender flutter thing it always did when he spoke to you like that—gentle and sure, like you were something precious instead of the mess you felt like.
Here he was, bringing you water and aspirin with dark circles under his eyes, being impossibly kind when you'd spent last night deliberately trying to hurt him. You'd used his best friend, his trust, weaponized his feelings against him when all Caleb had ever done was love you too much for his own good.
Even when you were being a complete mess, even when you said cruel things you didn't mean—he was still here, still calling you beautiful when you looked like death, still wanting to dance with you in his tiny room. You felt like such an idiot.
He offered you his hand like a peace offering, like forgiveness you didn't deserve, and you wanted to cry from how much it hurt to want someone this badly.
After a moment's hesitation, you found yourself taking his hand anyway, because even if you didn't deserve his kindness, you were too selfish to turn it away.
He helped you up slowly, steadying you when you swayed. His other hand settled gently at your waist, and he started moving in tiny circles, barely dancing at all in the small space between his bed and the wall, just holding you while music played softly from his phone.
"You got what you wanted, by the way," he said quietly against your hair.
"What?"
"Making me jealous. If that was your plan." His voice had that old teasing note, but beneath it, something honest. "Watching you with Gideon last night... it worked."
"I didn't mean to—"
"Didn't you? Even a little?"
"You were jealous," you said, more to confirm it to yourself than to ask.
"Insanely jealous." His hand tightened at your waist. "But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't always jealous of every guy who even looks at you."
"You're an idiot," you whispered, but there was no heat in it.
"Probably."
He spun you gently, turning you so your back was against his chest. His hands settled on your waist, and you could feel his steady breathing against your shoulder. It made your head spin—whether from the hangover or his proximity, hard to tell.
"Easy," he murmured when you swayed, arms tightening to steady you. "I've got you."
You leaned back against him, letting his warmth sink through the thin shirt of his you were wearing.
"This is so stupid."
"Dancing with a hungover girl in my bedroom at eight in the morning? Yeah, probably."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know. But I don't care. I've wanted to hold you like this for so long that I'll take whatever version I can get. Even if you're mad at me and smell like Gideon's aftershave."
You stiffened. "I do not—"
"Relax," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. "You smell like you. Just... you and a bit of tequila."
"You're awful."
"I'm honest." He buried his face deeper into your shoulder, inhaling your scent. "And I'd rather have you here, mad at me and smelling of some other man than not have you at all."
It hurt how he said it.
Not because his words were cruel, but because of how tired he sounded. Like he'd already accepted that this was all he'd ever get. Like he was okay with loving you quietly, safely, even if it meant never really having you. Even if it meant watching you walk away with someone else someday.
And maybe that's exactly what you'd both been doing all along. Playing it safe. Because relationships were messy when hearts got involved, when people made themselves vulnerable. Love always ended in pain—that much you knew. Better to keep things the way they were, even if it hurt, than risk losing each other completely.
But God, you were so tired of being careful, tired of pretending that your heart didn't race every time he said your name, and of lying awake at night replaying every touch, every look, every almost moment where you'd felt the pull between you and chosen to step back instead of forward.
All those times in his kitchen when he'd stand just a little too close while making coffee. All those movie nights when you'd end up curled against his side, pretending it was just friendship. All those conversations that felt like confessions, where you'd catch him looking at you like you were something he wanted but couldn't have.
Not this time.
You turned in his arms, slowly, until you were facing him again. "Kiss me," you said, the words reckless and desperate and born from nothing but foolish hope.
"You're still drunk."
"I'm not that drunk."
"Didn't you say so yourself?"
"I lied."
"Pipsqueak."
"Don't deflect."
He let out a breath. "You're hurting. And confused. And you'll probably hate yourself for this when your head clears."
"Maybe." You reached up, fingers finding the soft cotton of his shirt. "But I'm asking anyway."
He went quiet, those violet eyes moving between yours and your lips. "I don't want to be something you regret."
"You won't be. Caleb, you could never be something I regret."
His breath caught, and for a moment, that careful control slipped. His hand came up to your face, thumb brushing your cheek.
"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured, leaning closer. Your heart hammered against your ribs as the space between you shrunk to nothing. His forehead touched yours, lips hovering close enough to feel the warmth of each word—
His phone rang. Sharp and loud.
"Fuck," he breathed, but he didn't pull away.
The phone kept ringing.
"Caleb," you whispered.
"I know." His thumb traced your cheek one more time before he reluctantly stepped back and reached for his phone. His face darkened when he saw the screen. "It's Commander Reeves. I have to—"
"Answer it," you said, though your heart was still racing.
He picked up with a clipped "Caleb," his voice immediately shifting into something professional and distant. You watched his expression grow more serious as he listened.
"How many?" A pause. "Yeah, I'm on my way." He hung up and looked at you. "Emergency at the base during training. I have to—"
"Go," you said quickly. "People need you."
He moved toward the door, then stopped. Without a word, he came back to you, his hands cupping your face with that careful tenderness that always undid you and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. It was chaste, safe, and full of everything he couldn't say and you wouldn't risk asking. It left an empty sort of sting in your chest, how much it meant and how little it changed anything.
Then he was gone, grabbing his jacket and rushing out to save someone else, leaving you alone with his goodbye that wasn't quite a goodbye, and a promise that wasn't quite a promise.
Only another almost to add to your collection.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
By the time Caleb finally made it back to his room, the sun was high and unforgiving.
He opened the door, expecting to find you still there—maybe asleep again, or pacing impatiently, ready to give him an earful for making you wait so long, telling him that you were hungry and bored and he'd smile and take you to eat with the other cadets right after he finally, finally kissed you.
But you weren't there.
The bed was empty and his shirt you'd borrowed was neatly folded at the foot of the bed. The only proof you'd been there was a note on his nightstand, scribbled on the back of his training plan:
thank you for everything. had to catch the 11:30 train back to linkon. talk soon — you
Caleb stared at the note for a long moment, then slowly crumpled it in his fist. Of course you'd run. Of course you'd slip out while he was dealing with the emergency, avoiding the conversation you'd both been dancing around for months and years. But he couldn't even be angry with you, because he understood.
This thing between you had crept up so slowly that neither of you had noticed when it stopped being just friendship. When his need to protect you had shifted from something innocent to something that kept him awake at night. When your easy comfort around him had developed this electric edge that made every touch feel like playing with fire.
He could trace it back if he really tried. Being fifteen and suddenly noticing how pretty you were, then feeling guilty about it because you were his childhood friend and that felt like a betrayal of something pure. He remembered you at seventeen, falling asleep on his shoulder during a late night study session, and the way his heart had started racing for reasons he couldn't name.
How you'd started looking at him differently after he'd enlisted, like you were seeing him as a man instead of the boy who'd grown up next to you.
But somewhere along the way, the easy intimacy of childhood had gotten complicated. Every conversation now carried the weight of things unsaid. Every touch too fleeting to truly satisfy. Every glance asked questions neither of you knew how to answer.
Now there was so much distance between who you'd been as kids and who you were now that neither of you knew how to bridge it. Too much history to pretend this was simple, but too much fear to admit it had never been simple at all.
He sank onto his bed and stared at the spot where he'd almost kissed you. You'd both wanted it—he could see it in the way your breath had hitched, in how you'd leaned into him. But wanting and having were different things when everything felt this fragile.
Because this wasn't just about attraction, this was about the person who knew all his secrets, who'd sat with him through his worst moments, who he trusted more than anyone. This was about risking the most important relationship in his life for something that might burn bright and beautiful—or destroy everything.
His phone buzzed. A text.
You: made it back safely. thanks for last night. and this morning
He stared at the message, knowing that beneath those polite lines was the same confusion he felt, the same want tangled up with the same fear.
He typed and deleted a dozen replies.
Caleb: why did you leave?
Delete.
Caleb: please don't run from this. don't run from me
Delete.
Caleb: i wanted to kiss you
Delete.
Caleb: i think about kissing you all the time
Delete.
Caleb: i love you. i'm in love with you. i have been for years and i'm tired of pretending i'm not
Delete.
Caleb: i don't know when i fell for you, but i can't remember not being in love with you. and when i was on that deepspace tunnel rescue mission, all i could think about was that i can't die before i ever get to tell you how i feel
Delete.
Caleb: i'm sorry i didn't tell you what happened. i wanted to protect you, but lately i think i don't know how to take care of you anymore and all i do is screw things up
Delete.
In the end, he sent:
Caleb: glad you're safe
Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Then appeared again.
You: hope the emergency wasn't too bad. get some rest
And that was it. You were gone, back to Linkon, back to your life of hunting Wanderers and keeping the world safe. Back to pretending that whatever had almost happened between you was just leftover adrenaline and alcohol.
But Caleb knew better. The way you'd looked at him, the way you'd asked him to kiss you—that wasn't the tequila talking, that was twenty years of friendship finally admitting it wanted to be something more, that was all the careful space you'd both maintained finally crumbling under the weight of wanting someone you were too afraid to lose.
His fingers found the silver apple pendant resting against his chest, the one you'd given him with "When U Come Home" engraved on its surface. Such simple words that had carried him through countless flights, countless nights when the distance between you felt impossible to cross.
But as he held it now, all he could think about was the way you'd felt pressed against him. The warmth of your skin beneath his hands. The soft sound you'd made when he'd kissed your neck. The way you'd trembled against him like you wanted him just as desperately as he wanted you.
God, he wanted you. Had wanted you for so long that desire had become a constant ache in his chest, something he'd learned to carry like a pilot carries the weight of sky—always there, always pulling, always threatening to drag him down if he let himself think about it too much.
And he was so fucking tired of being afraid. Tired of measuring every touch, every word, every look for signs that he might be crossing some invisible line. Tired of pretending that loving you was something to be ashamed of instead of the most natural thing in the world.
You'd asked him to kiss you.
You'd said he could never be something you'd regret. And instead of believing you, instead of trusting what he'd seen in your eyes, he'd let fear make the choice for him again.
Afternoon light streamed through his window, warm and golden, the same light that was probably falling across your face right now as you sat in your apartment, maybe thinking about him the way he couldn't stop thinking about you. Maybe touching your lips and remembering how close he'd come to kissing them. Maybe wondering if he'd ever be brave enough to choose love over safety.
And as he sat there, all he could think about was the empty space where you should be—in his arms, in his bed, in his life without any barriers between you.
He was done being afraid of losing you. Never truly having you would destroy him far more quietly, far more completely.
Caleb stood, touched the apple pendant once more, and reached for his keys.
masterlist + support my writing + ao3
author's note — so you might be wondering why this story sounds so similar to my other caleb fic and to give you an answer it is because i'm quite uncreative and had exactly two things on my brain: flying with him and dry humping. excuse my complete lack of originality with this one lol.
anyway, thank you for taking the time to dive into this emotional mess with me. i'll maybe write a part two for this. if you enjoyed the story, comments and reblogs always make my day and mean the world to me. thank you again for being here <3
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© lostfracturess. do not repost, translate, or copy my work.
This… you have to read this!!!
This was AMAZING! I have 0 words to describe this… just do yourself a favor and go read it!
source
𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗴𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗶𝗻𝗸 - sylus qin oneshot
summary — After getting rejected by your college crush back in freshman year, you swore off dating—why bother when it clearly wasn’t meant for you? Years later, thanks to a well-meaning setup by your friends, you find yourself on a blind date… only to come face-to-face with him again. Totally not awkward—until he suggests something that makes it even worse. Or… maybe not?
pairings — excrush!sylus x fem!reader
content/tags— fluff, angst if you squint REALLY hard, blind dates, reader is traumatized, classic 10 dates trope, tara and her bf is their cupid, timeskips, kissing, SFW, second chance romance + more!
words— 10k
—
“One caramel macchiato!”
The barista calls out your name, drawing your attention from the glow of your laptop screen for the first time since you sat down. You rise, stretching slightly as you make your way to the counter. She greets you with a warm smile, and you return it with a quiet one of your own before taking your coffee and slipping back into your seat.
After a few moments, the front door swings open with a soft chime, letting in a brief gust of warm air and the unmistakable voice of your co-worker.
“Hey!” Tara calls out, already grinning as she spots you.
You lift your head from your coffee with the energy of a drained phone battery, offering her a weak wave. She's radiant, as usual—like someone who actually slept last night and didn’t just survive on caffeine and deadlines.
She slides into the seat across from you without waiting for an invitation, eyes practically sparkling. That look. You know that look. You brace yourself.
“So,” she begins, drawing the word out like a plot twist. “You remember Ethan from accounting? Super cute, like ‘bakes-his-own-bread’ cute? Well—”
You groan softly, slumping forward until your forehead nearly kisses the table.
“Tara, I’m running on four hours of sleep and two existential crises. Please don’t set me up with someone who makes sourdough starters for fun.”
She just laughs, undeterred. “That’s exactly why you need someone! Balance, babe.”
You sip your coffee like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the mortal world.
“I’ve been single for almost my whole life, and I’m planning to be until I reach 35,” you reply flatly, sipping your coffee like it’s a shield.
Tara’s smile falters into a small frown, her brows knitting together. “Thirty-five? That’s so… specific. Why 35?”
“Because by then I’ll either have my life together,” you say, waving vaguely at your open laptop, “or I’ll be so far gone into the abyss of burnout that no one will want to date me anyway.”
She gasps like you just said you don’t believe in love or oat milk.
“That is the most depressing thing I’ve heard all week. And I sat through a budget meeting yesterday.”
You lift a brow. “And yet, you’re still trying to play Cupid.”
“Exactly!” She sits up straighter, suddenly energized. “Which is why you need someone before you become a recluse who hisses at the sunlight and lives off instant noodles.”
You squint at her over your mug. “That sounds like a dream, actually.”
“Oh my god,” she mutters, but she’s laughing. “You are impossible.”
“And yet, you keep trying.”
“Because I believe in love. And also because you’re too pretty to be left to your own self-sabotaging devices.”
You groan again and slump further into your seat.
““It’s Evan’s request!” she pouts, her lower lip jutting out like a child denied dessert.
You groan instantly at the mention of her beloved boyfriend. Of course. Of course she’d do anything for him. Ride or die—for his romantic fantasies involving you and some stranger.
“Who is it this time?” you deadpan. “A cousin? Colleague?” You narrow your eyes. “And before you say it—I’ve had enough of his friends. They’re all terrible on their first dates.”
You sigh and rest your cheek in your palm, memories flashing like a highlight reel of awkward handshakes, painfully long silences, and one guy who brought his résumé to dinner “just in case.”
Tara winces a little but pushes on like the soldier of love she is. “It’s his old college coursemate!” she insists, leaning forward dramatically.
“That means nothing to me.”
“He’s actually nice!” she protests. “Evan swears he’s not like the others.”
“You said that about the one who only talked about cryptocurrency.”
“Okay, that was a dark time. But this guy’s different. He reads books! He collects vinyls!”
You arch a tired brow. “So he’s a passionate adult. The bar is so low, Tara.”
She grins, undeterred. “Just one date?”
“I have deadlines.” You look at the report you have to finish before your meeting tomorrow morning before your boss starts to passive-agressively call you out, again.
“It’s coffee.”
“I already have coffee.” You lift your mug in emphasis.
“It’s free coffee, and he might be hot.”
You hesitate.
She sees it.
Victory blooms on her face like sunshine after rain.
“Fine, this is the last time.” You mutter, in which Tara smiles. “Yay! I really think this time it’s gonna be the one for you! I’ve seen his face and Evan told me things about him. He’s also very…” She made the classic money gesture—rubbing her thumb against her fingers—while grinning. “Cha-ching.”
You groaned harder at that. Fine, one last try.
By the time you finally cave and go on the date—mostly out of guilt, slight curiosity, and Tara’s relentless texting—you’re already bracing for disappointment. But nothing could have prepared you for this.
Because sitting across the table, casually sipping his drink like he didn’t just shatter your soul five years ago, is none other than your college crush from freshman year. The same guy you’d nursed a hopeless, head-over-heels attraction for. The same one you’d confessed to in a moment of naive bravery—and the same one who turned you down with that polite, almost apologetic smile that still haunts your occasional 3 a.m. spiral.
You stare at him, and he looks up with a pleasant smile, clearly having no idea who you are.
And that’s the moment it hits you.
Maybe love really isn’t for you. Maybe the universe is playing a long, humiliating game of romantic dodgeball, and you just got hit square in the face—again.
You force a smile, heart sinking into your gut as you stir your drink just to have something to do with your hands.
“So…” he says, leaning in slightly, “have we met before? You look kind of familiar.”
You laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
“Sylus Qin.” He offers you a handshake, his voice calm, smooth—like it hasn't shattered your ego once before.
You blink at him. The name confirms it, not that you needed it. You would’ve recognized that voice anywhere. The same one that used to echo down lecture halls and occasionally star in your daydreams back when love felt like something soft and full of promise.
Your hand hovers for a second too long before you take his. His grip is firm, warm. Too familiar.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just looks at you like you’re a stranger with slightly interesting eyes.
“Right,” you say, clearing your throat and slipping your hand back like it burned. “Nice to meet you… again.”
A small crease forms between his brows. “Mind reminding me where we met, Miss?”
Your smile tightens. “Freshman year. Psych class. I was the idiot who met you at the campus entrance and confessed and gave you a letter?”
His face stills. Then slowly—too slowly—his eyes widen with dawning recognition. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” you say, sipping your drink and praying for the floor to open up beneath you. “That girl.”
He opens his mouth to say something—maybe an apology, maybe nothing—but you cut in before he can gather a sentence.
“But don’t worry,” you add lightly, voice wrapped in practiced indifference. “I’m not here for a second chance. I was tricked into this by a mutual friend. Apparently Evan thinks we’d be great together.”
Sylus leans back, still watching you. “So… this is a blind date?”
“Unfortunately.”
He hums, gaze flicking over you with a hint of something unreadable. “Guess he forgot to mention the history.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Guess he didn’t know anything. It was a one second thing anyway”
The silence stretches—but it’s not exactly awkward. Just loaded.
And part of you already knows: this night is not going to go the way you expected.
And suddenly, you become extra conscious of what you’re wearing.
The blouse you’d thrown on in a rush this morning suddenly feels too casual, too slouchy. Your jeans, just slightly faded at the knees. Your hair—was it frizzy? Was there coffee foam on your lip?
Of all the days to run on autopilot.
You shift in your seat, subtly tugging at your sleeves like that’ll magically sharpen your entire look. But it’s too late. He’s already seen you. Really seen you.
Sylus watches you with a calm expression, but there's something unreadable in his eyes now—like he's reassessing, recalibrating. You don’t know whether it’s a good thing or a bad thing. And you hate that it matters. But it does.
Because no matter how long it’s been, or how hard you tried to file him away as a “learning experience,” some tiny, ridiculous part of you still wants to be… enough.
Still wants to make him regret saying no back then.
You force yourself to sit up straighter, chin tilted, like you’re fine. Like your heart isn’t doing little nervous pirouettes.
“Anyway,” you say, breaking the silence with a half-laugh, “how ironic is this?”
He quirks a brow. “Ironic?”
“Fate clearly has a sense of humor.”
Sylus’s lips curl into a faint smile. “Maybe. Or maybe fate’s giving me a second chance to get it right.”
Your breath catches—just slightly. You tell yourself not to read into it.
But it’s too late for that, too.
“Uhm, moving on,” you say quickly, trying to shove the tension back into its box. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, eyes fixed on the condensation forming on your glass. “What do you do now?”
Sylus leans back slightly, giving you a moment of reprieve from his steady gaze.
“I’m a software engineer,” he says, casually swirling his drink. “I mostly do freelance contract work. Apps, platforms, tech solutions for startups—you know, the usual keyboard warrior stuff.”
You nod, impressed despite yourself. “So you’re the guy everyone calls when their website crashes at 2 a.m.”
He chuckles softly. “Something like that. Less dramatic, more debugging-induced migraines.”
His laugh still sounds like it did years ago—low, easy, the kind that used to make you turn your head without meaning to.
You resist the urge to sigh.
“And you?” he asks, leaning in a little. “What did you end up doing?”
You shrug. “Marketing. Mostly brand copy and strategy. I sit in a lot of Zoom meetings, say ‘circle back’ more than I’d like, and write things that sound exciting but mean almost nothing.”
He grins. “Ah, professional illusionist. Respect.”
You huff a laugh. “Exactly.”
For a moment, there’s quiet—not awkward, just… contemplative. A shared pause between two people who were once on completely different pages, now reading from the same one without meaning to.
And though you’re still wary, still guarded, there’s a small flicker of something unspoken between you. Maybe.
You push it aside. For now.
You clear your throat, trying to push through the lingering weirdness. “So… you’re still based around here?”
“Mhm,” Sylus nods, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Moved back about a year ago. Needed a change of scenery. Or maybe I was subconsciously following a ghost from freshman year.”
Your eyes widen slightly, and you stare at him over the rim of your glass.
“Relax,” he says with a lazy grin. “Joking.”
“Right,” you mutter, cheeks warming. “Obviously.”
He leans forward on his elbows, resting his chin lightly on one hand. “You always get this flustered, or is it just me?”
Your mouth opens, then closes. “I am not flustered.”
“You’re stirring an empty cup,” he points out, amusement glittering in his eyes.
You glance down—and sure enough, you’re absentmindedly swirling your straw in a drink that’s been gone for five minutes.
You set it down a little too quickly. “It’s a nervous habit.”
“Cute one,” he murmurs.
You glare. “Do you always do this?”
“Do what?”
“Tease people on blind dates?”
“Only the ones I rejected five years ago and then ran into completely by accident,” he says, smile widening. “It’s a rare demographic.”
You groan and drop your face into your hands for a second. “This is so weird.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But it’s not terrible.”
You peek at him between your fingers. “You think this is going well?”
“I mean, you’re adorable when you’re awkward,” he says without missing a beat. “And I don’t not want to be here.”
You blink. That’s… not what you expected.
Sylus shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Honestly? I think it’s kind of poetic. Terrible timing back then. Maybe this time the timing’s just… less terrible.”
You don’t know what to say to that. You’re still mentally stuck on “adorable.”
So instead, you reach for your glass again—forgetting it’s empty.
He laughs.
You roll your eyes. “I’m never hearing the end of this, am I?”
“Nope,” he says, lifting his drink in a small toast. “But I am buying your next one.”
And despite yourself, despite everything—your lips twitch into a smile.
“What about dinner?” he suggests, casually, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You stare at him. “We’re… dragging this date?”
Sylus lifts an eyebrow, amused. “Dragging? That’s a strong word. I was thinking about extending.”
You squint at him suspiciously. “You sure this isn’t a social experiment? See how long you can tolerate the girl who confessed to you in college?”
He grins. “You keep bringing that up like I’m not flattered.”
You scoff. “You rejected me.”
“Regretfully,” he says, placing a hand over his chest with exaggerated sincerity. “I was young. Emotionally unavailable. Spiritually lost.”
You deadpan. “You were nineteen and dating a girl who made jewelry out of spoons.”
“Ah, Simone,” he says with a nostalgic sigh. “She had a vision.”
“She made you wear a fork necklace for a month.”
He laughs, and you hate that it sounds so nice. Like warm sunlight through a café window. Dangerous. “You know a lot about me, huh?”
“Knew. I literally had a crush on you.”
You glance at your watch. You could go home. Eat leftovers. Watch a true crime doc you’ll forget by morning. Or…
You exhale. “Fine. Dinner.”
He blinks. “That easy?” You didn’t reply when you stood up and he immediately followed you out.
The restaurant Sylus brings you to is tucked away on a quieter street—a cozy, dimly lit place with mismatched chairs and old jazz humming from a record player in the corner. Not fancy, but warm. Intentional.
“This feels… not like a first date spot,” you say as he pulls out a chair for you.
“That’s because it isn’t,” he replies, sliding into the seat across from you. “It’s a make-up-for-my-past-mistakes spot.”
You squint at him as you open the menu. “Do you have a designated restaurant for your emotional failures?”
“Only the meaningful ones.”
You snort. “So you bring a lot of people here.”
He winks. “Just you, actually.”
Your cheeks flush again—great—and you pretend to focus very hard on the pasta section. He watches you, though, openly and without shame, chin resting on his hand like he’s perfectly content just sitting across from you.
The waiter comes, and you place your orders. After he walks off, the silence between you settles again—but this time, it’s quieter. Softer.
“So…” you say, twirling the condensation on your glass, “you really didn’t remember me when you saw me at first?”
Sylus winces. “I remembered your face. Just… didn’t connect it right away.” You gave him a knowing look, in which he sighs.
"Fine, I knew it was you ever since I entered that cafe."
“Hm.”
“But when you brought up the confession and letter?” He taps the table lightly. “It all came back like it was yesterday. I even remember the pen color—dark green ink, right?”
Your eyes widen. “Okay, weird.”
“You wrote in cursive,” he continues, grinning. “All neat and swirly. I thought it was sweet.”
“And you read it after rejecting me?,” you asked him, stabbing a breadstick like it personally offended you.
He chuckles. “Hey, in my defense—I was an idiot. The kind who didn’t know what he wanted until years later.”
“Yeah, well,” you say, biting into the breadstick, “welcome to the club.”
Your food arrives midway through him telling a story about a client who paid him in garden vegetables. You’re genuinely laughing now—soft and a little surprised, like you forgot what it felt like to enjoy someone’s company this way.
Over dinner, the teasing doesn’t stop, but it shifts—less sharp, more playful. He leans in sometimes when you speak, nods like what you're saying matters. And every so often, he looks at you like maybe this was never just a coincidence.
When dessert comes, he casually pushes the plate of tiramisu toward you with a fork already ready.
“I didn’t order dessert,” you protest.
“You did,” he says, “you just didn’t know it yet.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Yet, here you are.”
You roll your eyes, but you do take a bite.
It’s unfairly good.
“...Damn it.”
“Exactly.” He smiles, slow and warm. “So... what do you say we drag this date a little longer?”
You stare at him, fork paused halfway to your mouth.
Then it hits you.
You can’t.
Not like this. Not with someone who clearly rejected you once, and maybe—just maybe—is only entertaining this out of guilt or curiosity. The warmth in his eyes, the way he leans in, the softness in his smile... it all feels too good, too dangerous.
And you've read some post on tiktok saying if a man rejected you once they shouldn't be in your life ever again. Even though you never really follow social media's advices, you're still unsure.
Because you remember exactly what it felt like to have hope, only to have it shut down with a kind smile and a polite “I’m sorry.”
And no matter how nice dinner is, no matter how different he seems now—you’re still you. And he’s still Sylus Qin.
The boy who took your letter and probably never really read the insides rather than a glance, and threw it out (That is what your dramatic heart convinced you happened)
You put the fork down slowly, like it's suddenly too heavy. “I can’t do this,” you murmur, your voice quieter than you mean it to be.
Sylus straightens slightly. “What?”
“This.” You gesture vaguely between you two. “Dinner. The... date. Whatever this is.”
His brows draw together. “Did I say something wrong?”
You shake your head, looking down at the half-eaten tiramisu like it holds answers. “No. You were—you are fine. And that’s the problem.”
He blinks, clearly confused. “You lost me.”
You take a slow breath. “You don’t remember how that felt, do you? Being rejected by someone you genuinely liked—someone who barely noticed you until years later. Someone who now decides, over pasta and charming smiles, that maybe you're worth a shot.”
Sylus is quiet for a moment, no longer smiling.
“You think that’s why I’m here?” he asks, voice low.
You shrug, arms folding tightly across your chest. “I don’t know why you’re here. And that’s the part I don’t think I can handle.”
There’s a pause between you—long and sharp.
“I didn’t come here to mess with you,” he says, tone more serious now. “I didn’t remember right away, but once I did, I chose to stay. I’m not trying to make up for the past. I just... thought this could be something new.”
You look up at him, uncertain.
“I get it,” he adds gently. “If you don’t want to keep going, I won’t push. But I’m not that guy from freshman year anymore. And maybe you’re not that girl either.”
You hesitate, heart torn between a self-defense mechanism you’ve polished to perfection—and the stupid, stubborn flicker of curiosity he somehow reignited.
You glance down again, then quietly push the dessert plate back to him.
“I think I’m still her...and uhm, I need a little space,” you say.
He nods slowly. “Okay.”
The server returns with the check, and Sylus pays without question waving in dismissal at your attempt to sneak in your card as well. You both rise, the air between you heavier now, but honest.
He walks you to the door, hands in his pockets. “For what it’s worth,” he says softly, “I’m glad I saw you again.”
You manage a small nod, already halfway out the door, already fighting the part of you that wants to turn back.
Maybe later.
Maybe next time.
Maybe.
One month later
The coffee shop’s the same.
Same mellow jazz humming from the speakers. Same barista who still gives you a warm smile and extra whipped cream when she thinks you look tired. Same seat by the window, where your laptop sits untouched, your fingers curled around a lukewarm mug of cappuccino.
But you’re not the same.
Not entirely.
Because ever since that dinner—since him—you haven’t quite been able to return to your emotional baseline. There’s a small ache under your ribs when you let your guard down. A lingering sense of something unfinished.
Tara drops into the seat across from you, smoothie in one hand, far too much energy in the other.
“You’re avoiding the question again,” she says, poking your arm with her straw.
You don’t look up. “What question?”
“The Sylus Question."
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
You sigh. “There’s nothing to say.”
Tara leans in, unconvinced. “You were gone for almost three hours. You came back looking like you’d seen a ghost and then refused to talk about it. Something happened.”
You stay quiet, eyes fixed on the steam curling from your drink. And for a while, she just watches you—not pressing, for once.
Then quietly, you say, “I never told you about him, did I?”
She blinks. “Told me what?”
“Sylus wasn’t just some random guy Evan picked out of a lineup. I knew him. From college.”
Her brows lift. “Wait—what?”
You nod slowly, not quite meeting her eyes. “Freshman year. I had the biggest crush on him. We had psych class together. I wrote him this ridiculous handwritten confession letter like I was living in some second-rate teen drama.”
Tara’s jaw drops. “You wrote him a letter?”
“In green ink,” you mutter. “Cursive. I poured my heart out. He was nice about it. Rejected me politely. But still... it stuck with me.”
“Oh my God,” she breathes. “And you, out of all people just proceed with the date?”
You finally look up, your expression tight. “Because the moment he sat down and saw him smile like he didn’t even recognize me, it all came rushing back. I felt stupid. Like I was nineteen again, waiting for a reply that never came.”
Tara leans back slowly, eyes softer now. “You never said any of that.”
“I didn’t want to make it a thing,” you murmur. “You were so excited to help me. And I thought I could handle it. I didn’t know it would be him! But after the date... I don’t know. He was kind. Charming. All the things I used to like about him. And somehow that made it worse.”
She studies you for a long moment. “You didn’t ask Evan for his number?”
You shake your head. “Didn’t want to. Didn’t dare to. Because what if he was only being nice to be nice? What if he was curious? Or worse—what if it meant nothing at all to him and I just end up falling again?”
Tara exhales slowly. “Evan said Sylus asked about you. He didn’t push. Just wondered if you were okay.”
Your heart gives a quiet, reluctant thud.
“I think you’re still thinking about someone you saw once a month ago,” she says gently. “That kinda says everything.”
You fall silent, eyes drifting to the window where the light hits just right, shadowing the table in soft gold. You remember his smile. The way he looked at you—not like he was sorry, but like he wanted to know you again. For real this time.
“Do you think…” you start, then pause, swallowing. “Do you think I messed it up?”
Tara doesn’t even hesitate. She reaches for her phone and gives you a raised eyebrow. “Should I text Evan?”
You stare at the screen.
Maybe you should.
You stare at Tara’s phone like it’s a bomb she’s about to detonate.
“What would you even say?” you ask, cautiously.
Tara shrugs, already typing. “Something neutral. Friendly. Non-dramatic. ‘Hey, can you send Sylus’s number to [Name]? She forgot to get it that night.’”
“I didn’t forget.”
She glances up, grinning. “Exactly. That’s why it’ll sound innocent.”
You hesitate. Your fingers tighten around your cup.
Tara pauses, thumbs hovering. “Do you want me to hit send?”
There’s a pause. A long, uncertain one. But your silence is a maybe, and she knows you well enough to hear it.
Send.
“Done,” she says brightly, locking her phone like she didn’t just possibly alter the trajectory of your emotional well-being.
You groan and sink further into your seat. “You’re evil.”
“I’m efficient,” she corrects. “Also, you’re welcome.”
You don’t respond. Your mind’s already spinning—what you’ll say, how it’ll sound, what he’ll think. If he’ll even reply.
You don’t have to wait long.
Tara’s phone buzzes. She unlocks it, reads the message, then slides the phone across the table to you.
Evan: Yeah, sure. He’s actually been meaning to reach out, but didn’t want to push. Here’s his number. Hope she’s doing okay.
You stare at the number for a few seconds, your heart weirdly loud in your chest.
“He was going to reach out,” Tara says softly. “He was waiting for you.”
You don’t say anything. You just copy the number into your own phone. Your thumb hovers over the message screen for way too long. You delete three different drafts before settling on the simplest version possible.
You: Hey. It’s me. From that very extended blind date. Mind if we talk?
You hit send before you can overthink it.
Then you both wait.
A few agonizing minutes pass. You sip your now-cold coffee. Tara picks at her muffin like she’s trying not to stare too obviously. You check your phone again. Nothing.
And then—finally—your screen lights up.
Sylus: Hey. Wow. Hi.
Sylus: I was hoping you’d text. Where should we start—apologies or second chances?
Your breath catches, somewhere between a laugh and a nervous sigh. You glance up at Tara, eyes wide.
She grins. “Well?”
You look back down at the screen, smile tugging at your lips before you can stop it.
You: Maybe… coffee. One cup. No letters. No expectations.
Sylus: One cup. No letters. Just you. When?
And this time, you don’t hesitate.
You: Tomorrow? Same café, 4pm?
Sent.
You stare at the message, heart tapping against your ribs like it’s trying to make a run for it. Across from you, Tara’s holding her breath with a weirdly intense look.
“I asked him,” you murmur.
Tara’s hands shoot up in silent victory. “Yes. Finally.” Then her voice drops, more sincere. “You okay?”
You nod—small, uncertain. “I don’t know what I want from this.”
“Then start with what you don’t want,” she offers. “You don’t want it to end with silence. Again.”
Your phone buzzes.
Sylus: I’ll be there. And I promise not to pretend we’re strangers this time.
Your lips twitch. You hate how fast your fingers move when you type back.
You: Good. Because I’m done pretending too.
—
You sat at the coffee table, waiting—nervously fiddling with the rim of your cup as your eyes flicked toward the door every few seconds. The café felt louder than usual, or maybe it was just your thoughts making too much noise.
What were you even doing here?
A month had passed. You should’ve let it go. But something about the way he’d looked at you that night—surprised, yes, but not indifferent—kept looping in your head like an unfinished sentence.
Your fingers stilled.
The door chimed.
You didn’t turn right away, but you felt it—the shift. The quiet recognition, the way the barista paused mid-sentence to smile, how a familiar set of footsteps approached the table.
“Hey,” Sylus said.
You looked up.
He hadn’t changed, but something in his posture was different. Softer, maybe. Less guarded.
“Hey,” you replied, quieter than intended.
He glanced at the cup in front of you. “Did you order for me again?”
You smirked. “Habit.”
“Dangerous. I could’ve turned into someone who drinks oat milk lavender lattes.”
“Then we’d have a real problem.”
That made him laugh. And you hated how nice it still sounded.
He slid into the seat across from you, exhaling slowly like even he wasn’t sure what came next.
You both sat there for a moment, letting the silence settle—not awkward, not entirely comfortable either. Just real.
“So,” he started, eyes meeting yours, “are we pretending this is just coffee?”
You paused, then shook your head. “No pretending this time.”
His gaze lingered. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking about you.”
You blinked. “Why?”
He smiled faintly. “Because maybe I was wrong about a lot of things back then. But mostly... because I don’t want to be wrong about you again.”
“What do you mean?” you ask, trying to keep your tone even, but you can already feel your chest tightening.
Sylus gives a small, breathy laugh and looks down at his hands. “I mean I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. Since that night.”
Your eyebrows lift, skeptical. “We barely talked.”
“That’s the thing,” he says, meeting your gaze. “Even when you weren’t saying much, I could feel it. That weight between us. Like there was more. Like you knew something I didn’t.”
You don’t respond. You’re not sure if you can. Because part of you wants to believe he means this, and another part still remembers the awkwardness of freshman year—of your letter, of his rejection, of everything that made you feel small.
Sylus seems to sense it.
“I know I didn’t handle things well back then,” he says. “And I don’t expect us to magically reset, or rewind. I just… wanted a chance. A real one this time. No setups, no pressure, no expectations.”
A beat.
You bite the inside of your cheek. “You know this is kind of insane, right?”
He smiles softly. “The best things usually are.”
You stare at him—at his hopeful expression, at the way he’s sitting there with nothing but his words and his coffee and maybe.
You look away, jaw tightening. “If we hadn’t gone on that blind date, none of this would’ve happened.”
There's a pause. You expect him to deny it, to give some sweet romantic line about fate. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he says quietly, “You’re right.”
You glance back at him, surprised by the honesty.
“If we didn’t go on that blind date,” he continues, “we probably would’ve gone on living like strangers who once shared a college campus and a forgotten letter. But we did go. And I saw you again. And it... shifted something.”
You scoff under your breath. “You’re making it sound like a movie.”
“Yeah, well.” He gives a soft laugh. “I didn’t expect it either. I thought you’d be another awkward coffee and polite goodbye. But then you walked in and looked at me like you already knew who I was—and I couldn’t stop wondering why.”
You stay silent, the edge in your expression softening, but only slightly.
“You’re still mad,” he notes gently.
“I’m still trying to understand what this is,” you reply. “If it’s just guilt. Nostalgia. Or something you’ll forget in a week.”
Sylus leans back, eyes steady on yours.
“I don’t know what it is yet either,” he says honestly. “But I’d like to find out.”
You cross your arms, narrowing your eyes slightly. “And how exactly are you going to find out? Expect me to write you a letter again?”
Sylus smiles—not smug, not overly confident. Just steady.
“While it doesn’t sound so bad to receive one from you again, I have another idea,” he says. “But how about this: ten dates.”
You blink. “What?”
“Ten dates,” he repeats. “Maybe romantic, but not dramatic. Just… ten chances. To talk. To laugh. To see if this—whatever this is—is real.”
You stare at him, incredulous. “That sounds like a really desperate Netflix series.”
“Yeah, well, desperate is fair,” he replies with a half-shrug. “You’re kind of terrifying.”
That almost makes you laugh, but you suppress it. “Why ten?”
“Because I’m stubborn,” he says, leaning forward just a little. “And because if I can’t convince you by the tenth, I’ll back off for good.”
You look down at your cup, pretending to think, though your heart is already pacing.
“This is ridiculous,” you mutter.
“Maybe,” he agrees. “But so is the fact that I still remember what you wore when you gave me that letter.”
Your head snaps up, and he grins—caught you off guard again.
You sigh, long and tired. “Fine. But don’t expect me to be charming.”
He raises a brow. “So… that’s a yes?”
You pick up your drink and sip slowly. “It’s a maybe. A probationary date system. Conditional.”
Sylus holds up both hands in surrender. “I’ll take it.”
—
The rain drums lightly against the windows as you sit across from Sylus, sipping a warm chai latte in one of your favorite hideaway spots—a quiet bookstore café tucked behind a florist and barely staffed. You picked it on purpose. Familiar. Safe. Low stakes.
He’s dressed in a dark sweater and jeans, damp at the shoulders from the rain, hair slightly tousled like he ran a hand through it too many times on the way in. You hate that he still looks so... annoyingly good.
“You chose the most intimidating first date spot,” he comments, glancing around at the towering bookshelves and soft jazz playing overhead. “Is this a test?”
You raise a brow. “You said you wanted ten dates. I’m making sure you work for them.”
He chuckles. “So... trial by literature.”
“I heard you read a lot.” You reply as you look at him with a smile, in which he echoes.
“Making some research on me, huh?” He grins.
“Evan.”
“Oh, that guy. Was he giving you some biodata check before going on that blind date?”
“Just simple things like what you like, the fact that you collect vinyls amongst other things. Not too much to be considered as a Sylus Genius.” You say while sipping on your drink.
He clicked his tongue, “Then it is my duty to make you one, the only one, perhaps.”
You felt your cheeks grow warmer, what a stupid reason to be blushing, but still, he laughs.
“I like that expression,” He stares at you, eyes soft and bright. Something rare to see from someone like him, yet here you are eliciting it effortlessly.
You're flipping through a poetry book when Sylus suddenly sets his phone down between you both, screen facing up.
It’s a playlist. Titled: “For Date One, if she lets me.”
You raise a brow. “Really?”
“I made it last night,” he says, sheepish. “In case conversation got awkward.”
“It already is awkward.”
“Exactly. I planned ahead.”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the small grin tugging at your lips. You tap the first track. Soft acoustic guitar filters through the speakers—he must’ve connected it to the café’s Bluetooth. You recognize the song. Something nostalgic, early 2000s indie, a little cheesy, a little perfect.
“You’re lucky I like this band,” you murmur.
“I know.” He rests his chin on his hand, watching you a little too closely. “I remembered.”
That makes you pause. You look at him, unsure how he means it—remembered like he Googled your old Spotify profile or remembered as in… back then.
Your stomach knots.
“What else do you remember?” you ask quietly, not fully meaning to say it aloud.
He doesn’t look away. “You always carried two pens to class. A black one for notes. A blue one for thoughts.”
Your breath catches.
He keeps going. “You always tied your hair up during exams, even if you didn’t need to. Said it helped you think.”
You don’t respond.
“And you once cried in the back row after a presentation because someone laughed at your voice when you read your script.” He pauses. “I wanted to punch them.”
You blink hard, your throat suddenly tight.
“I wasn’t brave then,” he adds softly. “I should’ve said something. But I never forgot.”
You look away, blinking at the shelves, pretending to read the book in your hands. His words sit between you now, heavy but warm. Sincere.
After a long pause, you whisper, “Ten dates might not be enough.”
Sylus smiles—just barely. “That wasn’t me winning you over, was it?”
You shake your head, voice barely audible. “That was you... remembering me.”
He changes his seat from across you to beside you, before plugging one earphone in your ear while the other in his. “Decided not to let the whole cafe hear your little playlist?”
“Yeah, it’s special for you.”
—
On date two, you’re still not sure how he roped you into this.
“This is a terrible idea,” you say flatly, standing in the vegetable aisle with a shopping basket in hand while Sylus debates between two kinds of veggies like it’s a life-or-death decision.
He looks at you over his shoulder. “You said you wanted something low-key. What’s lower key than cooking?”
“You didn’t say I’d be cooking with you.”
“Technically, I said we would cook. Together.” He turns back to the mushrooms. “Also, you’re stalling.”
“I just don’t trust you to know the difference between coriander and parsley.”
“That’s fair,” he mutters, tossing the better-looking pack into the basket. “I Googled that this morning.”
You try not to smile, but it slips through anyway. He notices. You pretend not to see that he noticed.
His apartment is neat. Not obsessively clean, but clearly lived in. A jacket draped over a chair. A vinyl player in the corner. A pair of reading glasses on the coffee table you didn’t know he wore.
“You can put your stuff anywhere,” he says, motioning to the couch. “Shoes off if you want. I have house socks.”
You glance at him. “House socks?”
“Yeah, you know. Guest socks. Clean, fluffy, magical.”
“…You’re a menace.”
“You’ll thank me in five minutes.”
You do. They’re ridiculously soft.
Cooking is chaotic. He chops vegetables like he’s in a rush to win a knife skills competition. You end up laughing when he puts the pasta in before the water boils and looks genuinely shocked when you scold him.
At one point, you’re both standing shoulder to shoulder at the stove, close enough to feel the heat of his arm. He smells like citrus and something woodsy. Not cologne—like fabric softener and something more subtle.
You steal glances.
He catches one.
“What?”
You shrug. “Nothing.”
“You were looking.”
“Maybe.”
“You were definitely looking.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re cute when you’re trying to pretend this isn’t fun.”
You look up at him. “This doesn’t mean I like you.”
“I know.” He says it gently. “But it means you’re here.”
Dinner is good. Surprisingly so. You eat on the couch, plates balanced on your laps, a dumb movie playing in the background that neither of you really watches.
Halfway through, you notice him watching you again.
“What now?”
He shrugs. “Nothing. You just… look comfortable.”
You pause. It feels like a compliment, but it sinks a little deeper than that.
“Do you want dessert?” he asks quickly, maybe sensing the shift.
You nod. “Only if it’s something you didn’t burn.”
He laughs. “Rude. I bought ice cream. Zero effort involved.”
He disappears into the kitchen. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself lean back into the couch, socks on your feet, a full plate on your lap—and a feeling creeping in that maybe, just maybe, letting go of the past isn’t the same as forgetting it.
It might even be… the start of something new.
—
It’s date seven.
The previous dates were all quiet and cozy, except for date five, where the both of you went to the amusement park. You've learnt that he hates rollercoasters due to their "anti-climatic" push when the controller decided to prolong the time at the top.
But for date seven?
You hadn’t expected a literal night market.
When Sylus texted you the location, you assumed it was a café or some quiet restaurant again — something low-key, in line with your still-fragile dynamic.
Instead, you’re standing in the middle of a lively crowd, colorful lanterns strung overhead and the scent of grilled meat, fried snacks, and sugary things thick in the air.
“Too much?” he asks, appearing beside you with two skewers in hand. One of them is unrecognizable and probably a challenge.
You take the safer one.
“I thought you were the introvert.”
“I am,” he says with a smirk. “But I figured if I keep taking you to quiet places, you’ll keep overthinking.”
You raise an eyebrow. “And now I’m supposed to... not overthink while holding a fishball skewer?”
“Exactly. It’s very grounding.”
You roll your eyes, but you don’t hand it back.
The night air is warm, heavy with humidity and noise, but there’s something oddly comforting about being one small story in a sea of strangers. It makes things easier. Lighter.
Sylus walks beside you, not saying much, just letting the sights and sounds fill in the space between. Sometimes, his hand brushes yours — never on purpose, but never fully accidental either.
You pass a booth with handmade rings, mismatched and colorful.
He pauses. “Pick one.”
You blink at him. “Why?”
“Date seven deserves a souvenir.”
You glance at the table, then back at him. “If I pick one, are you going to analyze what it means?”
“Undoubtedly.”
You sigh, but eventually point to a silver one with a tiny moon charm.
“Cute,” he says, paying for it without asking.
He slides it onto your finger — careful, slow — and it makes you shiver, just a little.
“You good?” he asks, eyes glancing up at you from beneath his lashes.
“I’m not used to this,” you admit, voice barely audible above the crowd.
“To what?”
“To being… wanted. Again. Still.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then says, “You’ve always been wanted. I was just too late to realize it.”
You don’t respond. Just stare at the ring, then at the ground, then at him. Your heart’s too loud again. Too full of things you swore you’d buried.
Later, after sharing a cup of mango ice and pointing out constellations you can’t actually name, you find yourselves leaning against a closed-up stall. The market’s winding down. The crowd’s thinning.
He nudges your shoulder gently. “Date seven complete.”
You glance at him. “Three more, huh?”
He nods. “Unless you cancel the package early.”
You smile, just slightly. “What’s the return policy?”
“No refunds,” he says, voice low. “But… you could renew.”
You look away too quickly.
And he doesn’t press.
Just stands there beside you, hands in his pockets, like someone who’s willing to wait — even if he doesn’t say it out loud.
The night breeze makes you shiver as you’re wearing nothing more than a thin blouse — a poor choice, you realize now, when the heat of the crowd starts to fade and the open air settles in.
Sylus notices immediately. He doesn’t say anything at first, just glances at you, then shrugs off his jacket.
“Here,” he says, holding it out.
You hesitate.
“I’m fine,” you mumble, though your arms betray you by hugging yourself tighter.
“You always say that,” he replies gently, stepping closer. “Let me do one nice thing without making it weird.”
You sigh, but don’t fight it when he drapes the jacket around your shoulders. It’s warm. Smells faintly like him — like cologne and comfort and something you wish you didn’t miss.
You clutch it closer anyway.
He doesn’t comment. Just gives you a small smile and walks beside you again, closer this time, like maybe his presence alone could shield you from the rest of the chill.
And for a second, just a second, you stop resisting how easy it is to lean a little closer.
And as if he’s trying to push his luck, he slowly takes your hand, and interlocks your fingers together, before bringing it in his pockets.
You glance at your hands together before looking up at him, while he looks up front, like whatever he did is natural and was clearly bound to happen for him.
“Seriously?”
He looks at you, “helping you warm up.” He smiles.
—
Date nine.
You hadn’t planned on letting Sylus into your apartment yet.
It’s too personal, too you — a space you’ve protected the way you’ve guarded your heart: meticulously. No loose ends, no open doors.
But it’s raining, and he showed up early with two bags of groceries and a sheepish grin.
“You said you missed home-cooked food,” he says, already toeing off his shoes. “I make a decent curry. Or edible. Let’s start there.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “That was weeks ago.”
He shrugs. “I remember things.”
You don’t have the energy to argue. Not when he’s already heading toward your kitchen like he’s been here before — like this isn’t some emotional line being crossed.
The apartment smells like garlic and coconut milk within the hour. Rain taps against your windows. Soft music hums from your phone speaker, something low and jazzy that fills the silence without drowning it.
You lean on the counter as he stirs the pot, sleeves rolled up, focused.
He looks… settled here. Like he belongs in your kitchen. Like the space didn’t mind opening up to him.
It makes something ache in your chest.
“You cook often?” you ask.
“Sometimes. It’s... therapeutic. And cheaper than emotional damage.”
You snort. “You’re not wrong.”
There’s a pause. Comfortable.
Then you ask, “Why are you really doing this? The ten dates, I mean.”
He doesn’t look up at first. Just stirs slowly. Thoughtfully.
“Because I wanted to show you I could mean something to you,” he says quietly. “Without rushing. Without trying to fix what I broke before. Just… be there this time.”
You blink.
The honesty, the simplicity of it — it lands heavier than you expect.
“I don’t need fixing,” you murmur.
“I know.” He finally looks at you. “But you deserve someone who knows that.”
Dinner is warm. Slightly too spicy. You both laugh over it. You tease him for almost setting your pan on fire and he teases you for owning only two forks.
When he leaves later — umbrella in hand, jacket still with you — there’s a folded napkin left under your mug.
On it, in scribbled black ink: “You feel like home. Date Ten’s going to be dangerous.”
You stare at the note long after the door closes behind him.
And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel afraid of what’s next.
—
At least that’s what you thought you felt.
It has been two weeks, 14 days.
You hadn’t meant to pull away.
Work just... got in the way.
One last-minute project turned into two. A client call stretched past midnight. You started checking your phone less, replying slower. Not intentionally — just the kind of slow fade that happens when real life creeps in.
Sylus doesn’t push. He sends a meme here and there, a good morning text you forget to answer until lunch. A voice note one evening — gentle, teasing — asking if you’re still alive and if he should send a search party or just a very persistent delivery driver with bubble tea.
You laugh, but don’t reply right away.
When you finally do, it’s short. Something like, “Just swamped. Talk soon?”
He leaves it at that. No guilt. No pressure. But still — it lingers.
You miss him.
Worse, you realize it on a Tuesday night, forehead pressed against your desk, your laptop glowing 2:47 a.m. back at you, and all you can think about isn’t the project due at 8 a.m.
It’s that you haven’t seen Sylus in almost two weeks.
And you don’t know what Date Ten is supposed to be anymore.
That was until you heard your front doorbell ring.
You blink, groggy. It’s late. Not a normal time for someone to suddenly show up, but close enough that your heart stutters as you push up from your desk.
Padding to the door in mismatched socks and a hoodie you barely remember putting on, you glance through the peephole.
It’s Sylus.
Holding a paper bag, umbrella folded under his arm, hair damp like he walked the last few steps in the rain.
You hesitate for half a second before opening the door.
“Hi,” he says, voice soft. “I come bearing caffeine and snacks.”
You stare at him.
“I... you didn’t text,” you manage, your voice scratchy with fatigue and something that feels suspiciously like guilt.
“You weren’t replying,” he says simply, not accusing. Just... explaining. “And I figured if I waited for a calendar opening, I’d see you in October.”
That earns a weak laugh from you.
“I didn’t mean to ignore you,” you mumble, stepping aside to let him in. “Work’s been—”
“—hell. I know.” He toes off his shoes and heads to your kitchen like it’s routine now. “I figured you wouldn’t feed yourself properly either.”
You blink at the bag he sets down. Soup. Tea. A small pastry you once said you liked.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” he says again, but there’s no heat in it.
Just the same gentle, unshakeable Sylus from Date One through Nine. The same one who gave you space, and now—unexpectedly—shows up without asking for anything back.
You exhale slowly, walls slowly lowering.
“I forgot what day it was,” you say.
He smiles faintly. “It’s not Date Ten. Yet. This is just... a bonus round.”
You sit down at the counter. He pours you tea without asking. You watch him, warmth curling up beneath your ribs.
“You didn’t give up.”
“Nope,” he says. “I said ten dates. I’m not going anywhere until you get all ten.”
You look at him. Tired, but soft. Edges worn down by the weeks, but still holding space for him.
You reach for the tea. “Okay,” you murmur. “Let’s call this one... nine and a half.”
Sylus grins. “Nine-point-five. I’ll take it.”
You nurse the cup of tea slowly, letting the heat seep into your fingers. The apartment is dim except for your desk lamp, casting a soft glow across the space. Rain continues tapping against the window, steady and hushed.
Sylus sits on the other side of the counter, watching you — not in a way that makes you self-conscious, but like he’s trying to memorize the moment.
“Your eyes get glassy when you’re running on four hours of sleep,” he says gently.
You raise a brow. “You make that sound factual.”
“Maybe it is,” he says, and he’s not joking.
There’s something weighted in the silence that follows, but not heavy. Just... full. Brimming with all the things neither of you have dared to say out loud since that blind date started everything again.
You look down at your tea. “I didn’t mean to pull away.”
“I know,” he says. “And I didn’t show up to make you feel bad.”
“Then why did you show up?”
He pauses. And then—
“Because I missed you,” he says, quiet but certain. “And I wanted you to remember what it feels like to be taken care of, even when your world’s on fire.”
You stare at him.
It hits in a strange place — the truth of it, the care, the timing. The softness in his voice that reaches you deeper than any grand gesture ever could.
And maybe it’s the hour. Maybe it’s your exhaustion. Or maybe it’s the way he hasn’t stopped looking at you like you’re something fragile but worth holding onto.
But when you set your cup down, and say, “Come here,” your voice is steady.
He doesn’t question it. Just moves.
You meet him halfway around the counter. The rain hums in the background, steady and soft. He’s close now — warm, still damp at the edges from the walk over.
You look up at him. “This... doesn’t make us even,” you murmur.
“I’m not trying to settle a score.”
You hesitate. Then, finally—finally—you step into him.
And when you kiss him, it’s slow. Not rushed or desperate. Just a quiet press of lips in the middle of a rainy midnight, in an apartment that suddenly doesn’t feel so tired anymore.
His hand finds the side of your face, thumb grazing your cheek. Yours curls into the front of his jacket like you need to hold onto something steady.
It’s not a first kiss full of fireworks or dramatic music.
It’s soft.
Earned.
Real.
And when you pull back, neither of you says anything right away. He just presses his forehead to yours and exhales the smallest, happiest breath.
You smile.
“Ten’s going to be dangerous,” you whisper.
He grins. “Then it’s a good thing I’ve got nine and a half reasons to survive it.”
—
You wake up to sunlight sneaking through the curtains and the unmistakable scent of coffee.
For a moment, you think maybe you dreamed it all — the rain, the tea, the kiss.
But then you hear gentle clinking in the kitchen.
You push yourself up from the couch, blanket slipping off your shoulders, and find Sylus standing by your stove like he’s been there a hundred times. One of your mugs in hand. His hair still slightly messy from sleep.
He glances over when he hears you. “Morning.”
His voice is quiet. Familiar. Safe.
“You stayed,” you say, more like a thought than a question.
He tilts his head. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”
You shrug. “I don’t know. I kissed you and then fell asleep in the middle of your jacket, so I wasn’t really thinking straight.”
Sylus chuckles, crossing the room to hand you a fresh cup of coffee.
You take it with a small, grateful hum and sip. It’s perfect. Just how you like it.
He nods toward the table where he’s already laid out toast and eggs — simple but warm. Intentional.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” you say.
“I know,” he replies. “But I wanted the first morning after our nine-and-a-halfth date to start right.”
You pause. The phrase makes your chest tighten — not in a painful way. Just full. Softened.
“You’re very good at this, you know,” you murmur.
“What? Being your emergency food delivery guy?”
You give him a look, and he smirks, stepping closer until your hip’s pressed lightly against the counter and he’s standing in front of you.
“No,” you say. “At... making it feel easy.”
He shrugs, but there’s something fond in his eyes. “It is easy. When it’s you.”
That line shouldn’t make your heart skip, but it does. And before you can overthink it — again — he leans down and brushes a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then finally your lips. This one slower, softer than the night before.
“Let me stay a little longer,” he murmurs when you part.
You nod, not trusting your voice.
Because for once, you don’t feel the need to run ahead or fall behind. You just want this moment.
His.
A few hours later, Sylus left, and date ten starts.
You’re already suspicious when Sylus tells you not to wear anything too fancy, and even more so when he insists on picking you up himself.
“I swear, if this is a paintball arena—” “It’s not,” he laughs, hand warm around yours as he leads you down a quiet path.
It isn’t until you recognize the stone archway ahead that your heart stumbles. Your old campus.
You blink. “You didn’t.” He raises a brow. “Didn’t what?” “This is where I met you.” “It’s where I saw you,” he corrects gently. “You met me after tripping over your own feet trying to sit in the last row.”
You gasp in mock outrage. “That’s not—okay, that is accurate.”
He grins, tugging you toward one of the empty benches just outside the old lecture hall. The sun’s low, sky blushing gold and soft blue.
“There’s a picnic,” he says, motioning to the small setup — nothing over the top. A blanket, some pastries, cold brew in glass bottles, and a small stack of your favorite snacks.
You sit beside him, heart full and quiet.
“You remembered this place,” you murmur, looking out over the familiar quad where your lives once barely brushed each other’s.
“I remembered you in this place,” he says. “That matters more.”
You glance at him. His expression is soft, unreadable in the best way — like he’s still amazed you’re here.
“You know,” you say after a while, voice quieter, “if we didn’t go on that blind date... we might not have ever come back to this.”
He hums, thoughtful. “Maybe. But I think something else would’ve pulled us together eventually.”
You raise a brow. “That’s bold.” “That’s fate,” he says simply. “Stubborn. Annoying. Kind of like you, actually.”
You nudge him, trying not to laugh. “You just ruined the moment.”
He shrugs. “Guess I’ll have to fix it.”
And he kisses you.
Not a hesitant first. Not a sudden second. But a tenth-date kind of kiss — full of memory, promise, and quiet affection that doesn’t need to prove itself anymore.
When you pull away, you press your forehead to his.
“This is my favorite date,” you whisper.
“Mine too,” he replies. “But... I want to show you something.”
His voice has shifted — softer now, more careful.
You watch as Sylus reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a timeworn envelope. Cream-colored. Slightly bent at the corners. A familiar messy swirl of ink where your handwriting signed his name.
Your breath leaves you. “Is that—?”
He nods slowly. “Your letter. From freshman year.”
Your world tilts a little. “I—I thought I threw it away after… after you said no.”
He looks at the envelope like it’s fragile. Like it’s sacred. “You gave it to me after that group project, remember? You said I could read it or pretend it never existed. I was too much of a coward to say anything back then.”
“You folded it and put it in your backpack,” you murmur. “Didn’t even open it in front of me.”
“I read it that night,” he admits. “Twice.”
Your eyes sting.
“I was young. Stupid. Scared. You wrote something so sincere, and I didn’t know how to be what you deserved. So I told myself it was easier to say nothing than to mess anything up.”
You’re silent. The weight of years pressing in on you. On both of you.
He carefully opens the envelope, pulling out the folded pages inside. The paper’s softened over time, but your words are still there — full of nerves, and longing, and a kind of bravery you barely recognize anymore.
He starts to read it aloud. Not theatrically. Not to embarrass you. But like it matters. Like it’s still beating.
To. Sylus Qin.
This might be stupid, in fact, this may be the dumbest thing you’ve ever encountered in your life. But if I don’t write this down, I might have even more sleepless nights overthinking all these thoughts in my head.
I like you. I really do. Ever since the first day of psych class. It felt like love at first sight but I don’t want to be dramatic with this, I can’t help it. The way you can answer every question the Prof gave us, or when you seemed to laugh so freely at your friend’s awful jokes (I sometimes overheard you guys, he was being pretty loud), Or maybe when you held the door open for everyone that one rainy morning even though you were soaked.
It’s okay if you don’t feel the same. I just needed you to know. Because I want to be brave, and this letter is the only way I know how.
You cringe at the words your past self wrote to him, burying your face in your hands with a soft groan. “Why did I have to say all that when I still got upset that you rejected me?”
Sylus chuckles, folding the letter back with surprising care before slipping it into his pocket again. “Because it was honest. And brave. And a little dramatic,” he adds, smirking.
You glare at him through your fingers. “I was nineteen.”
“And very articulate for someone confessing their heart and soul,” he teases. “Honestly, I think that’s when I started falling for you — I just didn’t know what to do with it back then.”
You lower your hands slowly, blinking. “Falling?”
“Don’t make me repeat it,” he says, leaning in just a little. “My pride’s already hanging by a thread.”
Your lips twitch despite yourself. “That’s what you get for carrying emotional artifacts in your coat pocket.”
He grins. “That letter’s my proof that you liked me first.”
You laugh, swatting his shoulder lightly. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe,” he shrugs. “But I’m here. And if you’re still mad about nineteen-year-old me being a dumbass... I can make it up to you.”
“Oh?” you raise a brow, suddenly wary. “How?”
He lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to the back of yours. “Ten more dates. Starting with breakfast tomorrow. I’ll even bring coffee and not screw up the order.”
You hesitate — heart twisting, tugged between the embarrassment of the past and the fragile wonder of now.
But then you smile, small and real.
“Only if I don’t have to write any more letters.”
Sylus leans in, nose nearly brushing yours. “No more letters. Just us.”
—
One Year Later
“You shrunk my sweater!” you shout from the bedroom, holding up the tiny, once-cozy piece of clothing like it's been murdered.
Sylus appears in the doorway, toothbrush in hand. “It said warm wash!”
You point an accusatory finger. “It said hand wash only, you chaos gremlin!”
He squints. “Are you sure?”
You shove the tag in his face. “Does this look unsure to you?”
He pauses, leans in, reads the tag, then slowly backs away like it might bite. “Okay. So I may have misread.”
“You may have committed a war crime.”
He raises a brow. “It’s just a sweater.”
“It was my comfort sweater. My post-long-day, rainy-night, sad-girl-hours sweater!”
Sylus tries not to smile. “Sad-girl-hours?”
You glare. “Don’t mock me in my time of grief.”
He disappears for a moment and returns with a hoodie — his hoodie. He tosses it at you.
You catch it and blink. “What’s this?”
“Official replacement,” he says with a shrug. “It’s softer. Smells better. Probably has my good boyfriend energy woven into the threads.”
You squint at him. “Bribery.”
“Compromise,” he says, smug. “Also, you look cuter in my clothes anyway.”
You roll your eyes and pull the hoodie on. It is soft. And warm. And kind of smells like him and cinnamon.
“…You’re lucky I’m forgiving,” you mumble.
“And you’re lucky I’m good at laundry 87% of the time.”
You shake your head, already smiling. “That 13% is dangerous.”
“I live on the edge,” he smirks, walking away.
You sigh dramatically, flopping onto the bed in your oversized hoodie.
“Next time,” you call out, “I’m making you sort socks for a week.”
“Babe!” he yells and comes back at you making you look up at him. “What now?”
He went to sit beside you on the bed, before suddenly crashing on top of you with all his weight. You let out an exaggerated oof as he smothered you like a human blanket.
“My hourly kiss,” he mumbled against your cheek, already pressing a noisy one there.
You squirm under him, half-laughing, half-annoyed. “You’re so heavy, Sylus—get off before my ribs turn into dust!”
“Nope,” he says, settling in even more like a cat refusing to move. “This is rent. You wore my hoodie. Now you pay in affection.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you mutter, but your arms are already wrapping around him out of habit.
He lifts his head just enough to look down at you, his grin softening into something gentler. “You love it.”
You wrinkle your nose, but your heart betrays you. “I do.”
He leans down, brushing his nose against yours. “Good. Now hurry and give me my kiss.”
You roll your eyes but oblige, lips brushing his in something far sweeter than the bickering that led to it.
And somehow, even after a year and countless ridiculous arguments, it still makes your heart race like it’s the first.
“Mmh..” He smiles into the kiss, like he always does.
You try to pull away, but his grip on you tightens and the kiss turns into something more rougher, more passionate.
“Not done,” Sylus murmurs, his voice low against your lips.
The next kiss catches you off guard—no longer playful, but deeper, rougher. Like he’s been waiting for this exact moment all day. His hand slides to the back of your neck, tilting your face toward him, anchoring you to the moment.
It makes your breath hitch, makes your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid to let go.
It’s still Sylus—still familiar, still home—but there’s something new in the way he kisses you now. Like all the quiet moments, the bickering, the small touches and soft laughs have been building to this. Like he’s telling you something he hasn’t yet found the words for.
When you finally pull back, your lips are tingling and your heart is racing far too fast.
He’s staring at you like you hung the stars.
You swallow. “What was that for?”
He doesn’t smile—just brushes your hair behind your ear and says, “Felt like a good time to remind you.”
You blink. “Remind me of what?”
He leans in, voice barely above a whisper. “That I’m in love with you. And I mean it every hour, not just the one with the kiss.”
Your chest tightens in the best way. You can’t quite speak, but your hand finds his, and that’s enough for now.
“I love you, baby.” He smiles.
And when you reply, he hugs you, wrapping your body in the warmth only he could provide for you. You sigh in his arms in content.
You’re happy, both of you are.
And you couldn't ask for more.
fin.
a/n: hmmm i didn’t expect it to be this long :\ but i hope you guys love this as much as i do! reblogs are very appreciated! do let me know what you guys think? 💭
Ahhhhh this was perfect!! Absolutely perfect!!
HOTTIE, HOTTIE! — LADS!MEN
[♕]: including — fem!reader, suggestive, mentions of previous intercourse, Xavier being freaked out. [౨ৎ] synopsis: attractive things the lads!men do!
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SYLUS.
ꕤ that smirk he does brow + his eyebrows? omfg; its an understatement saying that sylus is hot. It's completely another thing to talk about level of hot he is, especially when he gives you that panty dropping smirk usually followed by a teasing remark. "Don't get all shy now, you started this with me. I'm simply ending it, sweetie."
ꕤ how he cleans his gun; if you had a dollar for every time you practically drooled over Sylus just idly sitting in a chair, the first two buttons of his shirt undone, eyes lazily focused, hands methodically working the oiled cloth over sleek metal—you’d be rich. He barely glances up, but when he catches you staring he smirks faintly, murmuring, “See something you like kitten?”
ZAYNE.
ꕤ how he adjusts his watch/cufflinks; there’s something almost hypnotic about Zayne’s movements—the way his long fingers fasten a cufflink, the faint tug at his lip as he smooths his sleeve, then the soft click of his watch clasp settling into place. Never rushing, just purposeful. And you'd be lying like hell if you said it didn't make you wanna pounce on him.
ꕤ when he randomly flirts back with you; it’ll be random too, slipping out so effortlessly it leaves you blinking in surprise. You could've been making a joke about how he's so easily flustered and how adorable it is when you tease him while scrolling on your phone, and as he's passing by he'll briefly whisper in your ear: "I could say the same thing about how loud you screamed my name last night, whilst begging me for more."
CALEB.
ꕤ how he practically checks you out while your talking to him; somehow he does it discreetly enough to where it's not too obvious and can play it off by sweetly calling you pretty. While in his head this man is thinking about how pretty you'd look bent over the couch.
ꕤ drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting gently on your thigh; sometimes you wished you had a camera for how good Caleb looked in natural lighting (truthfully, any lighting). His side profile—strong jawline softened by the warm glow of the sun filtering through the windshield, the way thumb would softly rub circles into your skin? It takes almost everything in you not to guide his hand between your legs.
XAVIER.
ꕤ rubs his hands over your thighs when you sit on him; sometimes it isn’t even meant to be anything more—Xavier’s always been a little touch‑starved, a little grabby when you’re curled against his chest. He goes loose and quiet with you there, fingertips tracing lazy lines over your skin like it’s second nature.
But then there are moments where the air shifts—when his palms glide back and forth at just the right angle, thumbs straying low enough between your thighs to make your breath catch. The room feels heavier, your pulse quickening under his touch as his lips brush feather‑light against your ear, his voice a low, husky murmur:
"You’re so soft, star… feel so good under my hands."
ꕤ rests his chin on your shoulder from behind; Xavier hardly ever announce himself, just slides up behind you and folds himself into your space, arms circling your waist. The smell of soap and light cologne filling your nose as he presses a kiss to your neck, the sensation sending a buzz down your spine.
The weight of his chin on your shoulder, that low hum in his throat as he breathes you in. "Missed you, angel. Can I have a kiss?"
RAFAYEL.
ꕤ checks you out over the rim of a glass; dark eyes watching you while he takes a sip, the corner of his mouth curving like he knows exactly what’s running through your head.
ꕤ runs a hand through his hair tiredly when he’s stuck in thought; sometimes it’s absent, almost unconscious—long fingers dragging through soft strands of purple hair. A faint furrow in his brow, lips pressed together as if working through something he won’t voice just yet. It's insane how effortlessly pretty Raf is, but god forbid you voice your thoughts cuz now he's turning to you a growing smile on his face ready to tease you for that dazed lovesick expression you have plastered on your face.
® princessxmin all rights reserved. please to not alter, copy or translate my work !
This is just so cute!!!
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