summary: the lads make john a hinge profile against his will, and to everyoneâs surprise, he matches with you within ninety seconds
cw: mdni, fem!reader, age gap (30/43), idk how hinge actually works tbh, john price the feminist, alcohol, insecurities, fluff, smut, oral f rec, piv (14.4k)
John has been irritable for months and it's getting worse.
He knows it the way you know a tooth is starting to rot from the inside, tongue prodding at it every hour.Â
On Wednesday, he reamed Johnny out for being three minutes late to the briefing. It was the kind of reaming that had everyone's eyes turned down into their coffees and files while Johnny stood in front at attention, toes squared, ears hot.
John went on and on, red-faced, telling him that his 'admin's a disgrace', and that he'd better 'get a fuckin' grip before you're explaining your timings to your old CO'.
Somewhere in the middle of it â around âdisgraceâ â John heard himself.
He finished the dress-down anyway. Ending on a firm threat of a year-long inventory assignment.
It was rough enough to watch that when the room cleared out, Simon hung back. He stayed in his seat, leaning back with his arms folded, eyes following John as he aggressively organized his paperwork at the front of the room,squaring stacks that were already square.
"You need somethin', Riley?" John asked, never looking up.
Simon's mouth was twisted beneath his balaclava as he weighed his options. He wasn't especially eager to be John's second victim of the day, but it'd been miserable for weeks with no stop in sight. In the end, he decided to be straightâ
"Y'need'a get laid, boss."
John's hands immediately froze.
That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule â insubordinate, out of line â and then couldn't quite find his footing in it because the truth was a trapdoor just under him.
His eyes flicked up and across the room, ears warming up just like Johnny's had an hour ago.
"Bloody ornery, you are," Simon went on. "'ave been."
Simon wasn't wrong, John knew that.
The work winds them all too tight â adrenaline that can't be spent, images that don't erase, choices made under duress that keep them questioning at three in the morning. And everyone's got a valve that lets the steam out. Johnny shouts his out at the football. Kyle has somewhere to be lately that he's cagey about, and Simon has whatever Simon has, no one asks.
And John drives home, shuts the door, and the house is quiet, his walls holding all the built-up pressure.
Ten months since his usual I'm-Home-Hookup found herself a steady bloke and stopped answering his calls. He'd told himself the whole time it was casual right up until it ended, when he learned it had actually been load-bearing.
And was that affecting his mood? Maybe.
His eyes narrowed on Simon and his jaw ticked at the hinge. He threw his chin toward the open door.
"Fuck off out've my briefin' room, Lieutenant."
Simon's chair scraped across the linoleum when he stood, sighing through the cloth over his face.
"I jus' thinkâ"
"OUT."
The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.
Then he squared the stacks again.
ââ
Johnny never volunteers to bring the beer, yet here he is at half seven with a box of glass bottles rattling on his shoulder, grinning under the porch light. Behind him, the headcount runs long by one. Three men when John only agreed to two. Kyle with a canvas bag full of crisps. Simon at the back, hands sunk in his pockets.
"Thought it was just you and Garrick?"
"Aye, well." Johnny shoulders past him into the hall, close enough that their shirts drag. "Simon heard there was football."
"Simon doesn't care about football," John retorts as the rest of them push their way inside.
"I care 'bout football," Simon lies through a simper no one can see, wiping his boots on the mat.
Unfortunately for John, his team is undoubtedly adept at what they've trained in and he doesnât always catch when thereâs fuckery afoot.
Under his nose, in his very own home, Johnny distracts him with talk about the match while Kyle lifts his phone from the side table just beside his elbow. Simon waits an appropriate amount of time before slipping away to the kitchen to guess the passcode, which he manages in one go.
"Gonna have to talk to him 'bout thatâŠ" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.
"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used tâsee thaâ one bird⊠wot was her nameâŠ?"
"Leah," Kyle answers flatly. "Laura?" he second-guesses as he thumbs in the passcode again to approve the install: Hinge Dating App. "M'not lookin' at his texts, mate. Be lucky he doesn't RTU us just for this. Plus, I think he said she started seeing someâ"
"ây'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't haveâŠ"
Simon and Kyle glance up from where they've leaned against the counter and freeze when John appears in the doorway, face screwed with suspicion. His eyes flick between the phone in Kyle's grasp and the faces lit behind it.
His initial thought is that the phone's got a nice, durable case, proper practical. His second thought is to start patting down his pockets with his free hand â which all turn up empty.
The room's gone still, a collective held breath to see which way the tension'll break.
"That's my phone."
"It is," Kyle agrees carefully.
Johnny appears at John's shoulder, squeezing past into the kitchen. "Cap, before you startâ"
"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.
"Doesn't matter when, sir. We justâ"
"It matters to me." John puts his empty beer bottle on the table and uses both hands now to pat down his pockets a second time, not quite believing his own team got the drop on him. "Professionally speakin',â he mumbles.Â
"Wot really needs addressin' is your passcode," Simon grumbles. "0-0-0-6?"
"Christ," Johnny snickers.
John chooses to ignore them and holds his hand out, palm up. But Kyle doesn't fork it over. Instead, he looks back at the screen and watches the progress ring around the icon close in on itself.
"What're we doin' right now?" John presses, stepping closer.
"Jus' take a seat, boss," Simon suggests, gesturing to the kitchen table just as Johnny yanks a chair out, beaming something mischievous.
John looks at the chair, then looks at Johnny.
"Think I'll stand."
"Suit yourself," Johnny spins the chair around and drops into it, arms folding over the back.
Kyle checks the screen one more time before turning it around. A new little white icon sits on John's home screen, Kyle points at it. John squints to read the little letters beneath it.
"What's Hinge?"
"It's a dating app," Kyle answers and places the phone on the table.
A dating appâŠ.
Grown adults sorting through each other like they're shopping. Swipe, tap, Add to Cart. He's heard the lads chat about it for years â the 'ghosting', the games â and always thought: thank god that's not me.
Under the simmering contempt, the idea of typing hello to a stranger who might simply never reply (left on read, whatever ungodly hour of the soul that phrase was invented in) shoots something cold through him.
There's a beat of hesitation before his eyes snap to Simon, the scowl on his face carrying the weight of Wednesday's interaction.
"This is you, then?"
"Team effort," Simon corrects without a flicker of shame.
"It's no' the dodgy kind of app, it's for relationships," Johnny explains. "Says so in their slogan: 'designed to be deleted'. You make a profile, upload a few pics, answer someâ"
"I know how online dating works, MacTavish."
Johnny squints. "Do ye, though?"
"You've been rank for months, sir." Kyle tells it plainly. "Whole teams sayin' it."
John feels like heâs been put on a rinse cycle in the wash. His nostrils flare as he snuffs his irritation back down his chest lest he prove them right in his own kitchen.Â
"So that's what all this is? A Friday night welfare check?"
"It's no' a welfare check," Johnny defends poorly, voice cracking at a pitch too high.
"It's a bit of a welfare check," Kyle shrugs.
"Right." John reaches for his phone. "Well, thanks for the concern, lads. Truly. Warms the heart."
Kyle slides it just out of reach. "Just give it a shot, sir," he implores. "Try it for the weekend. If you still hate it, I'll delete it and we'll never bring it up again."
John's chin tucks to his chest and he glowers at him from under his deeply furrowed brow. "You'll delete it now," he orders, except these men have never listened to him off the field.
"I could," he agrees, wrestling a smirk. "And you can keep spending your Friday nights with us."
It's meant as a joke. It doesn't land as one.
Because John looks around at the three of them and knows in a few hours their engines will fade down the street and that hulking quiet will pour back in, the one he keeps calling peace.Â
So⊠he pulls out a chair.
Simon pushes off the counter and Johnny's grin pulls wider.
"Go on," John surrenders, falling into the seat with a sigh. He does not look at any of their faces because whatever's on themâs going to make him cross.Â
Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at Johnâs arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.
The basics go quick â name, age, pronouns. Kyle finds his rhythm working through the questions.
"Drinks? Socially. Smokes�" Kyle seesaws his head a bit. "We'll say no."
"I smoke cigars," John protests.
"That's a personality trait, not a habit." Kyle scrolls. "Height?"
"Six-two," Johnny says immediately.
"He's six-foot," Simon corrects.
"Aye, and on the app he's six-two."
Kyle selects 6'. "Occupation?"
That one hangs in the air a bit longer than the rest, and John doesn't quite know why. His hands turn palm-up on the table with the question.
"Consultant," Simon offers.
"Civil servant," Kyle tries.
"Military," John answers irritably off the edge of a scoff.
Three sets of eyes come up off the phone â Johnny's eyebrows go high, Kyle's mouth opens to argue, Simon tilts his head just enough, as if to say: if you say so.
"It's not a state secret that I serve," John says, eyebrows pulling close with confusion.
Kyle types it despite whatever he's got hanging on the tip of his tongue. And in the little silence afterward, the obvious question finally comes to mind.
"What've you lot got on yours, then?"
The simple question sends a tidal wave of overlapping chatter and excuses over the table.
"Ah, wellâ" Johnny starts.
"I actuallyâ" Kyle says, at the same time.
"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.
"âsee, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bioâ"
"âdon't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara areâ well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, soâ"
"Been usin' Feeld," Simon finishes.
When the wave recedes, the full picture comes into view: Johnny reinvents himself on a cycle, Kyle has Amara, mentioned now for the first time ever. And Simonâ
"What's Feeld?" John asks.
"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. âAbsolutely not. We'll talk about that another time."
"It's not for you," Simon adds.
"Right," he mumbles, taking a pull of his beer, settling back against the chair. He inhales and looks off at the window. "M'glad it's amateurs running my love life."
"Enthusiasts," Johnny corrects.
The rest goes quicker.
"What kind of connection?" Kyle reads. "Options are: Long-term. Short-term. Short-term, open to long. Long-term, open to short."
"Short, open to long," John answers without hesitation.
Johnny opens his mouth but Simon glares at him just as quickly through his ragged eyeholes, and he closes it without a word.
His profile photos have to come off the lads' phones since John's camera roll offers nothing but screenshots of maps, car parts, and three random pictures of the K9, Xena, from another unit on base (heâs been trying to snatch her for his own team for months).
He watches the photos of himself go by and it's a strange census, seeing a year of himself entirely through other people's eyes. Makes him queasy, so he takes another bitter gulp to wash the feeling out.Â
There's a short argument about the proper order the pictures should be presented, Johnny wins.
After, Kyle starts explaining what a good prompt does, how to choose one. He hardly gets any words out before John's holding his hand out the same way he did half an hour ago.
"I'll do these myself."
This time, Kyle hands the phone over.
The lads drift to the far end of the table to finally give John the space they've neglected to all night.Â
Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match theyâve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop heâs been meaning to stop by.
John sits with his reading glasses on, typing slowly, brows low in concentration.
When he finally sets the phone down, all three of them quickly move behind him.
"So, their profile comes up on screen," Kyle reaches over to demonstrate. "Have a look, read the bio. If you wanna chat to her, tap the heart. If you don't, hit the X, and you'll never see her again. Simple."
The first woman is on a beach holding a cocktail the size of a fishbowl. X.
"Okaay," Kyle drawls, mouth pulling straight. "Sure. Was there a reason, orâŠ"
"No."
The next woman is at a festival covered in glitter and feathers. X.
So is the one after. X.
A woman in her work scrubs. X.
A woman holding a child. X.
A woman in a bikini on a lake (his eyes linger). X.
It's not that they're not lovely. Some of them probably are. But every picture is a performance â arms out, teeth out, look how much fun I am. Advertisements.
"The fish," Johnny mourns as another goes down, a woman on a small boat holding a big trout up. "Cap, she was fishin'. You love fishin'!"
"Wasn't her fish," he grumbles under his breath.
"Whose fish d'you reckon, then?"
"Bloke she cropped out," Simon says, and John tips the neck of his beer toward him.
"Give me criteria," Kyle pleads, both hands on the back of John's chair, gripping with restraint. "I can work with criteria."
"He's calibratin'," Simon says. "Let 'im work it out."
Simon's giving him too much credit. He's not calibrating. He's not reading these women, he's not even really looking at them. Each X is just the whole premise being declined, proof accumulating that he was right about the app all along, and if the profiles run out, well, he tried. Right? The lads witnessed it. He can get back to his peace with a clearâ
His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.
Huh.Â
There you are.
Up a trail somewhere, hills of green grass rolling behind you, hood half-blown off, one hand trying to catch it. You're laughing at whoever's taking the picture, smile wide.
John's not sure he's ever seen eyes twinkle before, but that must be what yours are doing, shimmering even under overcast.
You're very pretty.
For the first time, John taps the profile open.
30. Executive Assistant. 4 Miles Away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
Executive Assistant, so you likely work too much. That's familiar to him, something he understands inside-out.Â
There's a photo of you in office clothes at what looks like a retirement party, smile an edge more saccharine than the one on the hill.
Another of you criss-cross on the floor, a black and caramel cat stretched out and content in your lap, belly-up. Shirt low cut, cleavage to feast on. He is sixty percent gentleman about how long he looks at it.
And at the bottom:
The best way to ask me out is by: using words.
I recently discovered that: I'm better in person than I am on here.
John huffs an amusement through his nose. He spent more time on his profile than he thinks you spent on yours. Seems like you're tired of the same things he's already tired of, one night in.
Behind him, the lads have gone silent, holding their breath.
John taps the heart and his screen goes bright with a wash of confetti, both your photos ringed together:
IT'S A MATCH!
"Oh, shit, she already matched with you," Kyle cranes his neck closer to inspect.
"Gimme that." Johnny plucks the phone from John's hand. "No way," he scoffs. "Fuckin' fit. A bit young for you, Cap, aye?" He looks at John, then back at the screen like the two won't reconcile in his brain.
"Careful," John warns mildly.
Johnny hands the phone back, muttering something in Scots only Simon could translate.
John doesn't hear much of it anyway. He's already looking at your photo again.
Better in person.
Yeah. He'd bet you are.
"Right, sir," Kyle says. "Now we wait. Midday tomorrow the earliest. Message her any sooner and it reads keen."
"It'd be accurate," he deadpans.
"There's rules, Cap," Johnny says. "No messagin' straight away, no double-textin', keep a wee bit of mystery."
John turns in his chair with a scowl to look up at the three of them.
"So, you're tellin' me a woman says she's interested in you and you⊠make her wait?"
Silence.
"I mean, when you put it like thatâŠ"
"Yeah, s'a bit fuckin' rude, innit?" John derides, turning back around.
He's already typing, screen tipped away.
"Sir," Kyle pleads. "At least let us read it."
"This is a two person conversation, not a five piece."
He presses send and quickly pockets the phone.
ââ
Four miles away, a phone lights upâŠ
ââ
Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. Youâre finally on the couch. Shower taken, its heat still damp in your skin. A glass of off-dry riesling teeters precariously on the arm, cold from the fridge and sweating through its stemless glass.
Twix is a puddled tortoiseshell furnace against your thigh, one paw twitching through a dream, her purr winding down as she drops deeper. And on the telly, Last Christmas is on. You've seen it a dozen times, that's why you leave it â it's mindless.
The second glass goes down easier than the first, tart on your tongue, blooming warm in your belly and over your cheeks.
Somewhere in the lull, your thumb opens Hinge, a reflex to being bored. You don't really expect anything from it anymore.Â
A man holding a fish, sunglasses on. X.
A man whose photos are all group shots. X.
A man who is 6'2" and it's his entire personality. X.
Your thumb knows the rhythm without you.
The next profile slides into view and you pause, thumb hovering.
He's handsome in that sort of rugged, classic way. His beard is salted at the edges, lines beside his eyes creased deep, cheeks faintly rosy. He's mid-laugh at what looks like a Christmas party, red and green tinsel drooping off the beams behind him; head slightly tipped, one heavy hand flat on the table. He's not cackling, you can tell it's more reserved, but it's probably still more than he usually offers.
John. 43. Military. Four miles away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
The one thing you should know about me is: I'm gone a lot for work. But when I'm home, I'm home.
Most men bury the catch in the fine print, but he's leading with it.
You don't know yet whether that's honesty or efficiency. You suspect that with him they might be the same thing.
His second photo is of him on the tailgate of some enormous vehicle, fatigues taut over his thighs, thumbs hooked through his bulky khaki plate carrier, looking up from under the brim of his hat.
Two truths and a lie: I've never seen Star Wars. I have a lie-in every Sunday. I've had tea with a warlord.
The sky is pink with the morning in his third picture. He's thigh-deep in a lake, turned away from the camera entirely. (You're noticing it's a common theme that he does not look at the camera for any photo.) The sunlight catches the breadth of his back and shoulders, cotton molded around muscle.
Don't hate me if I: call instead of text. It's quicker.
You giggle just enough that Twix's ear rotates toward you in reproach.
It's kinda cute when older men put more effort into their profiles.
But the alarm is already going off somewhere in the back of your skull â too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife â it has never once failed to ring. But you're two glasses in, and the heart really costs nothing even if the conversation seems off.
You tap it, and put the phone facedown on your thigh.
On the telly, Emilia Clarke is busy falling for a man you happen to know has been dead the entire film. You mouth one of his lines along with him, not really invested, wine warm in your chest, Twix breathing slow against your leg.
Then your phone buzzes against you once, and you ignore it, because you have rules about lunging for male attention. But then it buzzes again, and, well, you just turn it over to have a look. Maybe it's your mum, you don't know!
HINGE: You and John matched!
HINGE: 1 New Message
You open it.
Evening. Not much good at using the app, but I really wanted to chat to you. How's your Friday night?
You hum to yourself curiously. Not an innuendo or emoji in sight.
i actually volunteer helping the elderly with technology, happy to walk you through it.
friday's been average. wine and a movie on the couch. how's yours?
You put the phone back down and focus on the film, but his reply comes within the minute.
Ouch. Friday's alright. The lads invited themselves round for the match. Still here, unfortunately.
you're messaging me with guests in the house? terrible host.
They invited themselves. Hosting rules don't apply.
What movie are you watching?
You glance at the telly where a dead man is mid-song and weigh lying about it.
You could be watching anything. You could pick something more interesting, something with a deep lesson, educational, historical, something niche to come off cool and worldly.
you're not allowed to judge me.
Judging is sort of my life's work, but I'll do my best.
You snort. Twix relocates to the far cushion in protest.
it's called 'last christmas'. i don't know why it's on in july, but i've probably seen it twelve times. it's good background noise.
The reply takes slightly longer this time. You picture him all big hands, small phone, and then stop picturing him, because that's how it starts.
Twelve times? Must be decent.
it's objectively not. the love interest is dead the entire film lol
Dead?
it's a twist. it's festive!
You and I have very different definitions for "festive". I've got a few questions. But I'll save them.
You smile.
so, your lake photo. did you catch anything that day?
Not a thing.
hours in freezing water for zero fish?!
The fish aren't the point.
do tell, what's the point?
The mist off the water. The quiet. The no one expecting anything from you.
It's the first real answer a man has given you on this app in, like, six months.Â
You feel oddly like you've been handed something and should keep your hands still so it doesn't spook.
that actually sounds really peaceful.
i've never been fishing, but i do love nature in the mornings. i have a trail by me that i like to trek early on weekends.
That the trail from your photo?
it is! my best friend actually made me go that day, i wasn't in the mood. complained the whole way.
Doesn't show.
Good photo of you.
Beautiful, actually.
You stare at the screen and feel warmth tickling your nape, sliding lower, molten and slow.Â
Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.
oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol
No it didn't.
â and he just takes the deflection off you, like being returned something you've dropped. You press the cool curve of the wine glass against your cheek and remind yourself, sternly, that this is a stranger on the internet.
well, for the record your photo's not bad either. handsome smile.
Somewhere past ten, you notice the conversation keeps not ending.Â
how long have you been on hinge?
It's my first night, actually.
first night???
Profile's about two hours old.
yikes, so i'm just the practice woman then, huh?
Practice implies I'm planning to do this again.
ââ
John's still at the kitchen table, reading glasses pushed up into his hair now, beer gone warm at his elbow. The lads have migrated to the living room doorway â close enough to monitor, far enough to pretend they aren't.
He knows they're watching, and he's been watched by better.
What he can't seem to manage is his fuckin' face â it keeps doing things beyond his control, and every time your reply comes he has to reel it back to neutral, and he can tell by the quality of the silence behind him that he's not reeling nearly fast enough.
"He's smilin' again," Johnny murmurs, elbowing Simon in the ribs.
"Shameless," John mumbles, without looking up. "All of you."
He's typing when the floor creaks jus to his left. When he glances up, Johnny has drifted to his shoulder under the pretense of collecting empties.
"Need another, Cap?"
"I need you three feet back, MacTavish," he replies, thumbs tapping away.
A minute later it's Kyle from the doorway, "If she asks about hobbies, don't lead with the cigars. They poll badly amongst females."
"'Females'?" John grimaces, face down, thumbs still at it. "Say it with me Garrick, 'women'."
Then Simon, who hasn't moved or spoken in twenty minutes, asks, "Wot's she sayin', then?"
John rolls his eyes and sets the phone face-down, pushing himself up out of the chair.
"Time to go, lads," he says with an obviously fake smile, gesturing his arm out towards his front door. "Goodnight."
"It's no' even eleven oclock!" Johnny complains.
"Then the night's still young. Go on, fuck off."
They go â bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as heâs still negotiating.
Then their engines fade down the street, and the quiet pours back in, right on schedule. Except tonight it arrives and there's a phone lit on his kitchen table with your name on it, and the quiet â for the first time in a long while â has to wait.
He locks up, kills the TV, then drops into his armchair with the phone already unlocked.
did the football finish? who won?
He glances at the dead telly. Hasn't a clue.Â
Couldn't tell you.
omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!
I got distracted.
by what? đ
I think you know by what.
Nothing comes back for a minute. He pictures you on your couch, that cat beside you, deciding what to do with it â and it occurs to him, mildly horrifying, that he's enjoying this. The wait. The little emoji with the halo, transparently unrepentant. He finds himself smiling at the ceiling like there's something written on it.
anyway!
Anyway.
He'll allow it: retreat granted. There's no rush.
The cat in your photo. Yours?
yes! thatâs twix. she's a menace.
Good name.
she prefers men that ignore her.
Then we'd get on fine. I'm very good at ignoring cats.
It goes on just like that: easy.
You ask if he's a morning person and learn he's up at five most days by choice; he learns you consider five the middle of the night.
He talks about the Brecon Beacons â the actual Beacons, the ones he loves, not the ones that nearly killed him at twenty-two. You tell him you've always wanted to go, and he catches himself already planning the route he'd take you. Then quickly chastises himself.Â
How's the average Friday held up?
certainly improved
Mine too.
He puts the phone on the arm of the chair and sits in his quiet house, and for once it doesnât feel so desolate.
ââ
The following morning he's up at five. He starts drinking his coffee at the counter, looking out the window over the sink, the sorbet summer sky bleeding morning.
He thinks of you before he can stop himself. Asleep, presumably, five being the middle of the night and all. Then he takes the coffee out to his back step for some fresh air.
He wonders if he was any good with the messaging last night. It's the longest he's ever sat with his phone in his hand, period. Let alone chatting with someone. There's no debrief for it, that's the trouble. No one to tell him whether âI got distracted.â read as charming or desperate.
He runs the entire two-hour exchange back over and over and finds no actionable errors, but remains unconvinced.
He goes for his run at six. The route climbs uphill around klick seven, and somewhere on the hill he thinks about your photo, your smile, your mouth. He wonders what you smell like, what you sound like when you're being sarcastic.Â
By noon he's under the Land Rover draining the old oil, and he catches himself pondering what you might do on a Saturday. Whether you slept in properly. Whether the cat allows it; he grew up with one himself and knows how demanding they can be when they're ready for a feeding.
He hasn't messaged yet and neither have you.
He couldn't say exactly why he's held off. Something the lads said about being keen, and rules, and mystery lodged somewhere he can't reach to dig it out. He's not normally a man that takes doctrine from Johnny MacTavish, and yet⊠here he is.Â
It's a stupid fuckin' rule.
The afternoon goes long and gets quiet in the old way.
The house at four o'clock has a particular acoustic he knows down to the plumbing, and today, for the first time, he notices himself noticing it. It never used to be so obvious. Years of Saturdays like this one and it took his phone going quiet for half a day to show him the loneliness so plainly.
By the evening he's got Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table, eating it straight from the carton, chopsticks shoveling fried noodles down his gullet while he does the crossword from the morning paper in his head.
That's when his phone lights up for the first time all day, buzzing three times in succession â he absolutely hates how quickly it's in his hand.
spent six hours wedding dress shopping with my best friend. i need a glass of wine and a lie down.
thought of you on the tube home
He reads the second message again.
Thought of you.Â
Heâd been drafting the same admission since noon and something in his chest going catastrophically hot.
are you still up? i know sundown is bedtime for your generation.
And there's the sarcasm.Â
Outside the window, the sun is â he checks â still up. Barely. He's got that going for him, at least.
Just in time. Was about to take my dentures out.
Thought about you as well.
He types the second line fast before he can be a coward about it. If you can say it, he can say it. Fair's fair.
I do have a question now though. It's not your wedding we're shopping for, is it? That'd be proper inconvenient for me.
lol no! maid of honor. today was purely supervisory.
don't really see myself getting married anyway.
the dresses were stunning though!
Heâs picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale â the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction.Â
Nothing wrong with that.
Successful trip then? Or is there another six hours coming?
successful! she found it. there were tears and champagne.
what about you, how was your saturday?
Heâs had a day spent purposefully not doing the one thing he wanted to do.
Quiet. Nothing worth typing.
hm. sounds like you should ring me thenâŠ
He looks at that one for a moment and blinks, the inside of his cheek finds itself between his teeth.
For all their blabbering, the lads did not warn him about this bit. Not that he can't speak on the phone, he prefers it. You're essentially quoting his profile back at him. But he's been thinking about something since roughly the fourth time you crossed his mind today, and a phone call isn't the ask he's been building up to.
Could do.
Truthfully, though. I was just working up the courage to ask you for a drink.
Courage. He's used that word in citations, for men who ran toward gunfire, heroes. Now heâs using it to describe the act of asking a woman on a date, and the genuinely undignified part is that it's regrettably accurate.
Your reply takes a minute. He watches the dots start and stop, and start again. God, he's been shot at with less suspense.
Then your message comes through and it's just a number. Ten digits. It buzzes in his hand once more.
for logistics.
He stares at it for a beat and then he's up out of his seat. Takeaway abandoned, at the fridge with his phone still in one hand, snapping the cap off a beer on the lip of the counter, and then he's out the back door into the garden where the evening's gone navy and the airâs still warm from the day.
He saves your number first. Then he stands there a moment, beer sweating in one hand, thumb over the call button in the other.
ââ
Youâve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.
Unknown Number. Local.
âJohn?â
âEveninâ.â
Fuck.Â
His voice lands an octave lower than you were braced for. A honeyed gravel that seeps into your ear and slides thick over your spine, pooling somewhere behind your ribs.
You set the bottle down before you drop it.
âSo you actually do ring,â you manage.
âSaid so on the profile, I think.â
âI half thought it was a bit.â
âI donât really do bits.â
âNo,â you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: âYouâre a very serious man.â
The laugh that comes down the line is quiet â more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like youâve caught him somewhere he doesnât usually go.
âThat meant to be me?â
âItâs uncanny, I know.â
The line goes quiet a moment â the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it â and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. Heâs outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.
âAm I interruptinâ the wine?â
âThe wine and I are happy to share the time.â
âGood.â There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. âI have a beer out here. Seemed only fair weâre both suffering the same.â
âAre we having our drink right now? Is this it?â
âNo,â he says immediately, unamused even â which is very amusing for you. âThis one doesnât count.â
The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.
âNo?â you tease.
âI had imagined Iâd see your face.â
âBeen imagining, have you?â
You are very glad he cannot see your face right now. Cheeks warm and strained, you press the cool of the wine glass briefly against them in turns
âNothinâ mucky if thatâs what youâre gettinâ at.â
âMm, no, 'course not. Youâve been a proper gentleman. Havenât even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.â
âI could workshop somethinâ for you if youâd like.â
âNo thanks,â you giggle into your glass. âIt was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasnât a riddles-three about your dick.â
You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.
âIs that what itâs come to?â
âUnfortunately.â
Thereâs a short silence youâd swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.
âRight,â he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. âMy question...â
Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.
âMm?â you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesnât have a leg to lie on.
âThereâs a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. Iâd like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?â
Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.
âUgh, I want to say yes,â you sulk. âBut Iâve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.â
âFair. Wouldnât want that on my conscience.â
âI could do a weeknight? After work?â
Thereâs a pause on his end.
âIâd rather not promise you a weeknight,â he admits. âI rarely get away on time, and Iâm not startinâ this by standin' you up.â
You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual âahh, well, weâll figure something outâ. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.
âAlso fair. Andâ and thoughtful.â
âFriday, then?â he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.
âFridayâs perfect,â you agree. âItâs a date!â
âIt is,â he agrees, smiling.
The conversation should end there but it doesn't.
You learn things no profile has a field for; that he talks slower than he types, that he hm's real low in his throat when heâs considering something, that when you make him laugh it rumbles, so rough at the bottom that you feel at the back of your knees.
Somewhere past the hour mark you stop scrutinizing the call for red flags and just talk, and you only notice youâve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize youâve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like youâre seventeen.
Eventually, you yawn.
âRight,â he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. âThatâs my cue.â
âAw, no! Iâm fine, really.â
âItâs late, love. And youâve got your family tomorrow.â
âTrue. And youâve got⊠whatever it is old men do on Sundays.â
âLie-in, according to my profile.â
âHa!â you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. âThatâs the lie, I bet. I donât think youâve ever had a lie-in in your life.â
A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. âGoodnight,â he says, declining to confirm.
âNight, John.â
You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.
ââ
Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.
good morning. how was the lie-in?
Wouldnât know. Been up since five.
the lie confirmed!
He doesnât dignify it. You donât expect him to. You grin at your phone while you wait for the kettle to boil.
Your mum will later describe you, over dinner, as âsuspiciously cheerfulâ.
The day swallows you â the drive, the roast, your mumâs questions, your brotherâs kids. Itâs near ten when youâre finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing heâd sent that morning.
survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.
Regards received. Sleep well.
ââ
Monday morning, Johnâs at his desk with his coffee going cold because somewhere between the canteen and the walk to his office, his phone buzzed, and it was you and he hasnât stopped looking at it.Â
good morning :) big meeting today. does this say âpromote meâ or âshe triedâ?
[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]
You, in your hallway mirror â chin tipped, black short-sleeve blouse with a wide collar exposing the smooth skin of your upper chest and collar, grey pencil skirt stretched over the curve of your hips and thighs, one knee bent like youâd just been lowering your foot from fitting on your heel.
His eyes are stuck on the soft-looking flesh just above and between your knees when a rap lands on his door and forces a cough from his throat.
Johnny eases it open with Kyle behind him holding a folder, Simon's behind them both, holding nothing, not even a pretense.
His phone goes face-down on the desk at a compromising speed, shifting to sit up straigher.
Simonâs eyes go to Johnâs hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.
âMorninâ, Cap. Good weekend?â Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.
âFine.â
âAye? Do anythin'?â He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. âAnyone?â
âYouâve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.â
It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.
Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. âHowâs it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?â
John could make them work for it. Heâd planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual itâs a wonder none of them have pulled something.
"Have a date Friday. Drinks."
Johnny is ready to blast out of his seat, but Kyle shoves him back down by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the pressure points on either side of his neck until he relents with a hiss.
"That's great. Same woman or�"
"The same."
âGood, good, good,â Johnny says, and means it â John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.
âWe'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,â Simon says, already turning around, and Kyle picks the folder back up like it had a purpose all along, and they file out the way they came.
"I'm not debriefing you on my date. Don't come!" John calls to them half-heartedly, but the door's already shutting on top of his words.Â
He turns the phone back over.
Promote you, he types.
You look lovely.
Your reply comes before heâs picked his pen back up.
well now the meeting feels easy. thank you x
He gets on with his morning, but by noon he suspects he's looked at that damn photo a dozen times.
ââ
The rest of the week goes standard. Your Tuesday runs long and his Wednesday runs longer, and the messages carry throughout it all. His texts arrive before your morning alarm even sounds, your replies go mid-commute â nothing heavy, just remaining in each other's orbit of interest as Friday chugs slowly into view.
Thursday night, near nine, he rings you, having first texted to ask if he could, which youâre beginning to understand is just how heâs built. Itâs a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm youâre still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.
âââ
You leave work at five on the dot, and youâre in front of your open wardrobe by six.
The little black dress comes off the rail first. Goes back. Comes off again. Back. The floral one gets as far as your shoulders before you pull it off over your head and drop it on the bed, where Twix immediately sits on it.
The silky baby blue halterâs been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadnât already decided and do the tie at the back of your neck twice before the bow sits flat and neat. You pull on some jeans and rummage the closet for your chunky heels.Â
You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.
âItâs just a pub,â you tell her.Â
She doesnât seem convinced.Â
âââ
The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent â quiet, all old mahogany and low brass lamps, no telly anywhere. You claim a stool, hook your heel over the rung, and decide not to order anything yet simply because it just feels polite to wait.
You're fifteen minutes early which means you're left alone with your anxieties.Â
The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait.Â
Youâve done this before, and it almost never goes how the phone promises. There was the guy whose photos were six years out of date. The one who spent both drinks talking about his ex and then sent a payment request for half the tab. The one who, two hours in, hadnât asked you a single question about yourself. And John has been too good to be true for a week, and you know how that saying ends. Tonight is where you find out how, find out he really is just a man between deployments looking for entertainment and a shag.
It felt good, though. All week. Being excited about something. Youâd forgotten the feeling.Â
You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.
You donât have to wait much longer for him.Â
He casts a shadow when he comes through the door. Broad. Tall. Smart olive polo fighting for its stitching across his chest and where it grips into his biceps. Heâs tidied his beard in comparison to his photos, hair less kempt in a purposeful way.
He scans the whole room before he finds you and stops looking anywhere else. He smiles tight and restrained, pleasant, but like heâs pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever youâd planned to open with has shriveled away.
âHey,â he says.
âHi,â you smile.
He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like thereâs tobacco somewhere on his collar.
âYouâre early,â he adds, almost pleased.
âSo are you.â
âIâm always early.â His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. âYou havenât ordered?â
You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. âI wantedâ I was waiting for you.â
The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours â big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft â and you hold on a beat too long. He doesnât mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.
âWhatâll you have?â
âUhm, whatever youâre having,â you decide.
He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth â and thereâs a brief second where he looks at you first, and you notice for the first time that his eyes are blue, and you get stuck, and it seems so does he. By the time he looks back, heâs lost the name of the beer heâs drunk here a dozen times.
âTwo of the, uhâ the local,â he manages.
You pretend not to notice. He knows you did.
He pulls out the stool beside you, and more of his cologne wafts around you as he sits, turned to face you, legs spread, one knee pointing between yours.
The pints arrive wet from the tap, and for a second neither of you says anything at all. You trace a bead of condensation down your glass.
âFunny, isnât it,â you offer, sheepish. âWeâve talked every day for a week, and the second weâre actually in front of each otherâŠâ You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.
âYouâre nervous?â he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.
âA bit, yeah. Arenât you?â
âNot at all.â
You squint at him. âI donât know if I buy that.â
âHm.â He takes a sip that lasts a little too long, and the tips of his ears have gone pink.
Your cheeks are doing about the same. You drink your beer â cold, hop-bitter, helping â and let him have his lie. Itâs a generous lie anyway. Itâs a lie shaped like a man trying, and youâve been handed far worse shapes.
âSo,â you start. âI havenât asked why youâre even on Hinge. You donât seem the type.â
âIâm not,â he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.
You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.
âThatâs it? Thatâs your answer?â
âWell, it wasnât my idea. The lads put me on it.â
âThe lads â your guys from work?â
âYeah.â
âThey what, talked you into it?â
âNo.â He turns his glass a degree. âThey nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.â
âAnd what made them do that?â
He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story â you can almost watch him weigh one â but then he doesnât.
âTheir assessment,â he laughs to himself, âwas that Iâd been⊠cranky. Needed gettinâ out of the house.â
âCranky?â you repeat, delighted.
âTheir exact words were a bit different.â
âHm.â You look at him â at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. âYou donât seem cranky to me.â
âYeah, well. Guess they were right, then.â
Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. âWell,â you manage. âThey do good work, your committee.â
He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.
âOkay, next one, then. Military.â You tip your glass toward him. âWhat do you actually do?â
He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. âWhat dâyou want to know?â
âI donât know. Whatâs your day look like?â
âDepends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.â A beat. âSometimes we go away.â
âAway?â
âAway.â
âFor how long?â
âAs long as it takes.â
âDoingâŠ?â
âWhatever they need me to,â he says easily. âSânot me being mysterious. Iâd tell you if I could.â
âThat must be so strange, though. Having this wholeâ like, most of your life you canât talk about.â
âYou get used to it.â Then, because youâre still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: âThereâs loads I can say. Ask me what six weeks of rain in a jungle smells like. Or what a month in the desert does to your skin.â
âWhatâs a month in the desert do to your skin?â
âNothing good, love,â he answers, shifting to face you better. âThe beardâs load-bearing.â
You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.
âDo you like it? Like, the whole life of it?â
He goes quiet on that one. Longer than heâs gone quiet on anything else youâve asked. You can see him thinking on it.Â
âItâs what Iâm best at,â he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: âItâs all Iâve known, really. Been doinâ it since sixteen.â
You turn that over. Thereâs a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing youâve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.
The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes â his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. Youâre midway through the story of your work feud when a birthday party arrives loud and glittering behind you, and John, without so much as glancing down, reaches down and hooks his hand under the edge of your stool, and pulls.
The whole thing drags six inches across the floor with you on it, your knee sliding neatly between his, close enough now that his voice drops to match the new distance. Youâre looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together.Â
âGo on,â he encourages. âShe said what?â
It takes you a moment to find your place, but you go on.
The bar only gets louder from there, the birthday table multiplying, and when a booth opens up in the back corner, John tips his chin at it.
âGo grab that,â he says, turning back to the bar. âIâll get another round. Want the same?â
âActuallyââ and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a manâs face going tight when you complicate an order, ââcould I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the roundââ
His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. âYou can have whatever youâd like,â he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.
âNoâI know. I justââ
âWhatever youâd like,â he repeats, gentler. âAndââ he grimaces, like what heâs about to say pains him deeply. âDonât ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.â
âS-sorry,â you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.
âNone of that either,â his eyes have gone crinkled at the corners, warm all the way through, and he raps two knuckles soft on the bar top like the matterâs settled. âVodka cranberry. Go, sit.â
âActuallyâ Iâm gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.â
And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot â embarrassed and looked after all at once, which is apparently a combination that works on you.
The bathroom is cooler than the bar and a quiet that leaves your ears ringing. You reapply some lipgloss and wash your hands and look at yourself in the dirty mirror, buzzing warm at the collarbones, eyes shiny, mouth half-curved.
Itâs going well.
Itâs going suspiciously well.
And every time itâs gone well before, this is exactly when you started hunting for the catch. So you dry your hands on the rough paper towel and leave before you can start.
Heâs in the booth when you come back, settled against the wall side, the last of the evening gone from the windows and the lamp above him glowing gold over the table. Your drink is waiting â pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim â set neatly across the table at the seat opposite.
You look at the seat opposite.
Then you slide in beside him instead. Your thigh a heated inch from his, reaching across to relocate your drink.
You donât look at him, but you can tell Johnâs a bit curious of the arrangement. His arm comes up and settles along the back of the booth behind you, and it oddly feels like it was always going to end up here, his thumb grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. He picks up his beer with the other hand.
âComfortable?â he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.
âI am,â you say, and the first sip of the vodka cranberry is cold and tart and sweet all the way down, blooming behind your sternum right where his voice has been landing all night.
The booth is easier than the bar, somehow â closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted â and the talk drifts wherever it wants, his low laugh arriving against your shoulder through the arm behind you. At some point the lull comes; ice softening in your glass, his thumb resting an inch from your shoulder. And maybe itâs the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that youâd need both hands to count nowâ
âHow long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.â
He takes a deep breath before answering. âHonest answer?â
âPreferably,â you giggle softly, and he smiles â most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.
âLonger than what sounds good out loud,â he admits through the pull of it.Â
âSay it out loud anyway.â
âI was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.â
âTen.â
âMm.â
âA whole decade.â
âYou can stop countinâ the years to me at any time, love.â
âSorry, sorry.â Youâre grinning. He is too. âItâs just, quite the gap in romance.â
âIt went quick,â he says, and itâs a joke, and itâs also not. âWhat about you?â
âEnded about a year ago, we were together four.â
âMm.â
âIt was fine. Amicableâ mostly,â you shrug.Â
âMostly,â he repeats â not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.
âMostly,â you confirm, and leave it there.
The ice ticks in your glass. And the next questionâs been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while youâre brave.
âCan I ask something and you not be offended?â
âStartinâ well,â he says, nodding on for you to continue.Â
You settle further into the booth and your shoulders press against his warm arm behind you, his fingers brushing over your shoulder. You lean your head back, turned to his face.Â
âWhatâs changed? Between thirty-two and now that youâre trying dating?â You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. âBecause if the honest answer is nothing, and this is justâ a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, thatâs fine. Genuinely. Iâd just rather know now.â
âFair,â he says. âAsked myself the same thing this week.â
âYeah? And what was the answer?â
âIâm tired of the quiet,â he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. âUsed to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels⊠empty.â
Something in your chest slides sideways.
âSo, no. Not a hookup,â he continues with a breath. âBut I canât promise youâd be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than Iâm home.â His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.
âGuess I wouldnât know unless I gave it a go.â
You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it â and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didnât notice until it let go.
âNo,â he agrees, low. âYou wouldnât.â
Youâre suddenly aware of the distance between you â or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka youâve ended up awfully close: near enough to count the grey threaded through his beard, to catch the beer on his breath, near enough that the light between you has stopped reaching the space. Near enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, and your heartrate has picked up on it before the rest of you has.
His eyes flick down to your mouth. Quick â half a second, there and back â but you catch it, and it lands low in your stomach and stays.
Neither of you leans back.
And the pub carries on behind you â glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming â all of it arriving from somewhere far off and dreamlike.
You move closer. Barely. Imperceptible. Your pulse is in your ears now, drumming out the last of your senseâ
âYou know,â you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, âyou can kiss me. If youâd like.â
âOh, yeah?â
âMhm,â you grin.
âWell,â he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, âI was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.â His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. âBut if youâd rather have it here in the booth, I wonât argue.â
âI suppose I could be patient.â
âMm,â he says, and doesnât move.
Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.
His jaw shifts.Â
âIâll go pay the tab,â he decides.
And youâre both up and out of the booth quick, and you watch him stand at the bar with his back to you, shoulders set, and you press one cool knuckle to your own cheek and find it burning.
You two make it out the door.
The nightâs gone hazy and July-thick, and you get maybe four steps down the side of the pub with his hand a light at the small of your back before you glance up at him and he glances down.
Whatever was left of patient dies right there on the pavement.
He moves you.
One hand finding your hip, the other your jaw, and then your back meets brick, warm through the thin of your blouse and against your bare shoulders, and his mouth is on yours.
Whatever mindful version heâd planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth â this is the interest. The kiss opens on a low rumble out of his chest, one you feel travel through his ribs into yours, and his tongue slides against yours, all beer and him, and you grip the front of his shirt with both fists just incase the wall behind you vanishes.
He kisses you thoroughly, his beard catching along your chin, a chafe you know youâll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but itâs not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, heâd let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing â and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.
He pulls back just far enough to breathe â forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath â and when you open your eyes his are dark.
âVery gentlemanly,â you croon.
âI walked you out first, yeah?â he says, unrepentant.
You giggle against his mouth, and he claims it for himself with one more gentle kiss, and then he steps back a seemly distance, hand smoothing once down over his beard, shoulders resetting, breath evening out, everything going back in its place except his eyes.
âWalk me home?â you ask.
âI drove. Iâll give you a lift.â
You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. âWell, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub Iâm at, and has your name and photo, soââ
âGood,â he replies, no hesitation. âSmart girl. Keep it that way.â He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. âIâm taking you straight home. You have my word.â
He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth.Â
ââ
The car smells like-new â clean upholstery and faintly of engine oil, everything squared away, nothing rolling around in the footwells.
The drive is short. The radio murmurs. His hand rests easy on the gearstick a few inches from your knee â close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else â and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth.Â
The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees â and you catch yourself doing the thing you swore off doing: imagining forward. Him in your doorway. Him in your kitchen on the weekend. Him coming home from wherever away is and it being your door heâÂ
You look out the window. Four miles has never taken so long.
He pulls up outside your building and sets the handbrake, and the engine idles, and neither of you move.
The dashboard glow makes everything blue.Â
You want to ask him up. That's not the question; that got settled somewhere around the second kiss in the alley, possibly earlier, possibly around the moment he walked into the pub, or whatever. But there's the other thing you can't evict from your head: do you really want to sleep with him on the first date?
"So," you say.
"SoâŠâ
You look at him â streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, heâs in absolutely no hurry to resolve you.
"Did you have a good time tonight?"
His head turns. There's a beat where he just looks at you, and you watch him physically decide not to make a joke of it.
"Yes. Best night I've had in a while," he says.Â
"Would youâ" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "âwant to see me again? Like this?"
"Was already plannin' to ask you to dinner." A small crease starts at the corner of his eye. "Was workin' out whether to do it now or ring you tomorrow, so I didn't seem overlyâ"
"Keen?"
"Keen," he confirms, gravely, like the word's been a burden to him all week.
And that lands warm and the relief does something reckless to your mouth, which is that it stops guarding it.
"Okay. Then I'm going to say something, but you can't look at me while I say it."
âRight.â He scrubs a hand over his twitching lips and looks out the windshield, obedient.
"I want to ask you up."
"Mm."
"And I'm having a whole debate about it."
"I can hear it," he says. "Been losin' to the engine for about a minute now."
"Justâ,â you sigh, ââshut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's justâ I spent all week wondering if this was a hookup thing for you. And you answered that, and I believe you, I do. But there's this small, paranoid part of me that's like, well, that's exactly what a man would say at the pub, isn't it? And then there's this other, stupider part that thinks if you come up, you'llâ" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "âthink less of me. First date and all."
He's quiet for a second, lips pursing.Â
âCan I look at you now?â he tries.
âYeah.â
"You want to know where I'm actually at?"
"Truly just desperate for a man to be honest so I know what headspace to put myself in."
âAlright.â He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. âI want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.â
The badly goes straight between your thighs.
âOkay,â you manage. âNoted.â
âI havenât lied to you once tonight. And Iâm takinâ you to dinner whether I come up or not.â
âAnd, likeâ you wouldnât thinkââ
âThink less of you?â He frowns, like the mathâs not mathing. âFor doinâ the same thing Iâd be doing? Together?â
âWhen you put it like thatâŠâ
âFor what itâs worth, Iâm sat here havinâ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didnât want you thinkinâ thatâs all I came for. So if youâd rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, Iâll do that and consider it a perfect evening.â
And maybe itâs the ease of him, the total absence of pressure youâre always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you.Â
âWould you like to come up?â
ââ
The stairwell smells of somebody's late dinner and warm dust, the day's heat still trapped in it, and you take the stairs ahead of him to the second floor.
John is a gentleman.
John has been a gentleman all night.
John gives himself the length of one flight of stairs off the clock â the sway of you in those jeans, the shift and give of you with every step, the smooth line of your bare shoulders under the halter's little bow â and by the landing he's a gentleman again, and if you felt his eyes like a brand on you, and by the half-smirk you throw over your shoulder you did, neither of you says a word about it.
Your flat smells like you â the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week â and a blur of black-and-caramel bolts across the living room and vanishes down the hall before he can so much as get a look at her.
"That was Twix," you say, her paws still pattering away. "She'll start her background check and circle back."
"Sensible."
And then the two of you are standing in your living room with the whole carâs worth of honesty sitting in the middle of the floor, and you look at him, and look at the kitchen, and say:
"Do you want a drink? I have wine. Or, um. Tea? I might have a beer fromâ"
"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side.Â
"Water? I'm gonna have water."
"Then I'll have water," he says like heâs surrendering.Â
He watches you go â and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what heâs looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why heâs standing here, and now youâre in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where heâs stood, was already clean.Â
So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes â you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony â and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesnât move on it.
 Your pace. Your move.
You come back with the waters, and hand him his, and hold your own in both hands like you might drop it. He takes a sip, looks at you over the rim of it.
âYouâre nervous,â he says.
âNot at all.â
âMm.â He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. âDonât know if I buy that.â
He watches it land, watches the laugh come up out of you before you can stop it, head tipping back, throat bare, and half your nerves seem to leave with it.
He likes that.Â
He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too â he tips your chin up with one knuckle, and kisses you.
Easy-like, cold from the water, cranberry still faint on your tongue, your breath catches once against his mouth and then lets go. Your hands slide flat up his chest and stop over his heart â which is going quicker than heâd care to admit, and he feels the exact moment you find it out, the little hum of discovery you make.
When you pull back to look at him, whatever nerves were left in you are gone from your eyes, and theyâre twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you.Â
You take his hand off your waist, lace it through yours, and guide him backward toward the short hall.
In your bedroom he finds the tie of your halter at the back of your neck and pauses with the ends between his fingers, silk warm from your body. One pull and it gives, the fabric sighing loose, and he follows it slide down with his eyes first, then his mouth â the slope of your throat, over your shoulder, then the soft skin below your ear that tastes of strawberry perfume and salt. His beard drags over your neck and a shiver flows through you so he does it again, slower. You shiver harder, fingers curling into the front of his polo.
Good.
You tug the hem of his shirt up and he reaches back, pulls it off over his head one-handed, and drops it somewhere heâll look for later. He unhooks your bra just as easily, and when your palms spread into the coarse hair over his bare chest and down his toned stomach, the muscle jumps under your fingertips, he hears his own breath go rough.
âOkay,â you say, a little wonder in it. âWow, yeah, thatâsâŠ.â
âMm?â
âNothing. Justâ I knew military, just didnât realize⊠this much military.â
âLodging a complaint?â he askes, amused.
âDefinitely not.â
The rest goes gradually â his belt, your jeans peeled down warm thighs with his calloused palms flat against your skin the whole way, a hop and a giggle when the denim catches your ankle and he steadies you by the elbow â and then youâre bare in front of him, lamplight pooling gold along your shoulder, your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. He stops with his hands at your waist and looks.
âSay something,â you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. âYouâre oggling.â
âI am.â His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. âGive me a minute. Been picturinâ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.â
You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then itâs just skin â so much warm skin, soft everywhere heâs hard, giving under his hands, smelling of perfume and the clean sweat July dampens into everyone.
He stretches out alongside you, one heavy thigh over yours, and takes his time. The curve of your waist. The full weight of your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaks and your breath stutters. The inside of your thigh, where the skin is finest and the heat pools. You move under his touch the whole time, restless and rising, fingers in his hair, at his shoulders, and the small sounds you make land somewhere at the base of his neck and prickle there.
Then he shifts down the bed, kisses the soft of your stomach, the plush crease of your hip, and looks up the length of you.
âCan I?â
âYouâ yes,â you breathe, trembling feebly. âYes, obviously, you donât have to aââ
His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.
Youâre sweet and slick against his tongue, already so wet the first slow lick slides easy, and the sound you make is high and caught somewhere low, thigh twitching against his ear, one hand flying to his hair. He hums â feels you feel it â and settles in. No rush. Long soft strokes of his tongue until your hips learn the rhythm and rise to meet it, then his lips close warm around your clit, sucking gently, and your whole body pulls tight.
âOh my godâ okayâ okayââ
âMm.â
âDonât be smugââ and your voice climbs off the end of the sentence as he slides two thick fingers into you, curling them, tongue still working, and whatever the rest of that scolding was, he never learns it.
âCould do this all night, sweetheart,â he murmurs against you, and feels the words land in a shudder. Your breathing changes. Your thighs start trembling, your hand fists in the sheets â and he keeps the pace exactly the same until youâre pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.
âJohnâ Johnâ comeâ I want you. Now,â you whine, âPlease.â
He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearmâ
"I should've said this in the car," he starts, eyes on yours. "I don't have a condom. Wasn't assuming tonight would end up here."
"I don't have any either. I actually checked the drawer before I left tonight." You push his dampening hair back off his forehead. "I'm on the pill, and I trust you. But I'd still feel better if you pull out. Is that okay?"
He nods assuredly. "Then I'll pull out," he says flat and plain. "You have my word."
"You and your wordâ" but you're smiling, and then you're not smiling, because he's already moved and taken himself in hand and dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you, and notched against your entrance, and the smile falls open into something much, much better.
He pushes in slow, watches your face the entire way â he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off â your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms â and fuck, the feel of you: scalding, soaked, tight enough that he has to stop twice, jaw clenched, sweat sliding at his temple, feeding you his cock an inch at a time and pulling back, then giving you more; the slick easy give of you around him unspooling something in his stomach.
"Talk to me," he murmurs, gravel-low. "Alright?"
"Yes." Your voice has gone breathless and small and blissed. "You'reâ godâ"
"Christ, youâre snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. âRelax for me, baby. Breathe.â
"I am breathâoh. Ohâshhitâ"
Johnâs seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet â a shared beat of stillness, you fluttering around him hot and full, his body coming down, forehead dropping to yours, ten months of silence pulling a sound up out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he knew it was coming.
Then you shift your hips, experimental, a slow grind up against him, and that stillness is over.
He moves slowly; long level strokes dragging all the way out so you both feel every hot stretch of the return, your breasts pressing soft against his hairy chest. Your heels slide up the back of his thighs and he budges his hips closer, holding deep and pressing the head of his cock into your furthest wall. Your hands squeeze the meat between his shoulders and his neck as he pushes a small squeal out of you.Â
"I wonât," he murmurs against your jaw. âI wonât move.â
"âokay maybe move a littleâ"
He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts.Â
âItâs hard toâ mmmâthink like this,â you half-moan against his cheek.Â
âDonât think, then.â
Itâs all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. Heâd forgotten there was a version of this with laughing in it; a version with a woman eagerly gripping him and grinning against his cheek in the second before a moan carries her voice away â and every time you say his name, breathed and broken, something in his chest cinches another notch tighter.
He draws back and drives home again, and whatever youâd been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.
You donât think.
He feels the difference in you immediately â your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than heâs giving it, heels dragging him in by the thighs on every stroke, a low frustrated sound building in your throat when he keeps the same controlled pace. Youâre not asking for anything. Youâre taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pullingâ
âHarder?â he asks against your ear.Â
"Yes, please."
He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you widerââSo polite.ââand gives it to you deeper, his weight behind it, your headboard cracking against the wall. You go loud and lovely underneath him, clutching, slick heat and plush skin and your nails scoring lines down his back that he hopes, viciously, will last long enough to admire.
He works a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, riding the motion youâve bkth created.
"That'sâ Johnâ Youâre gonna make me come," you sob.Â
"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me likeâ Christ. Go onâfuck."
He watches it arrive before you do, a shiver running ahead of the wave; your spine arches up off the bed, your cunt clenches around him in long pulsing, aching, waves â it takes you under, and you pull him with you. Â
He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your earâ
How goodâ
How gorgeousâ
Youâre mine now, you know that? Hm?â
Itâs watching you eagerly nod along with his babbling that finishes him. He lasts maybe ten more strokes on borrowed time, heat gathering alacritous and irrevocable at the base of his groin â and he rears back onto his knees, pulling out of you with a growl that tumbles from his throat, fist working his cock over, soaked with you, spilling hot across your stomach and hip in thick ropes, head hanging, shoulders heaving, your thighs still bracketing his knees.
When he lifts his head, youâre already looking at him.
Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach â and neither of you says anything. Neither of you looks away either. His chest is still heaving. Your knee presses in against his side, and the corner of your mouth starts to curl, and his does too, helpless about it.
He comes down on his side, careful of the mess heâs made of you, one arm heavy across the pillow above your head. The curtain breathes at the window beside the bed and the night comes in and cools the sweat on his back, and he can see your heartbeat going hard at your throat, the rise and fall of your stomach not yet settled. He gently fits his thumb against your pulse, just to feel it going.Â
He kisses you, your mouth lazy under his, and then your temple, and the crown of your head, and you make a low, boneless sound and turn your face into his hot neck, and the two of you just lie there breathing each other in, tangled and settling, your finger drawing slow shapes on his forearm.
"John?" Small, against his throat.
"Mm?"
"Would you mind grabbing me a cloth? Bathroom's just across the hall."
He's up before the sentence finishes, annoyed at his own carcass the whole three steps to the door, ten months out of practice and it shows, he used to know this part, the part where he takes care of you before you have to ask.
You bathroom is small and smells of your shampoo, fruity, herbal. He runs a flannel under the warm tap, wrings it out, catches his own eyes in the mirror over the sink â wrecked hair, beard ruined and shiny with your lipgloss. He turns, craning his neck spotting a blooming red scratch coming up nicely at his shoulder.
He comes back and cleans you up properly, kneeling on the edge of the bed, one hand steady at your hip while the warm cloth moves over your stomach â thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when heâs concentrating â and you watch him do it propped up on your elbows with an expression he can't quite read and doesn't need to. It's warm, whatever it is. And itâs aimed at him, so.
"You're staring," he says, not looking up.Â
"You're tidying me."
"Should've done it before you asked." He folds the cloth, sets it on the nightstand, and stretches out beside you again, this time gathering you into his chest. "Out of practice."
"I'll allow it," you say, magnanimous, settling your cheek against his pec. "The rest was very in-practice."
He huffs into your hair.
Your fingers trail idle through the hair on his chest, down over old pinked scars, and you ask him about them â whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs â and he answers more honestly than he means to, your weight settling heavier against him as the adrenaline drains.
There's a soft thump from the hallway, then, and a moment later a small shape appears in the doorway â sits, tail wrapping her feet, and surveys the wreckage: the trail of clothes, the stranger man in the bed, you draped over his ribs.
She stares at John.
John stares back.
"We have an audience," he says.
You look over him to see your cat, "Twix, John. John, Twix."
Twix holds his gaze a moment longer, supremely unimpressed, then steps delicately over his discarded shirt and exits the way she came and he feels you giggling before he hears it, the shake of it against his chest.
"That went well," you say, overly pleased.Â
âYeah?â
âMhm.â
"Well, consider me chuffed."
Some comfortable minutes later he feels you surface a little out of the drowse, feels your breathing change, going careful; feels your face arrange itself against his skin before you speak.Â
"You don't have to stay, by the way." Light. Smooth as eroded stone, polished by use, he imagines. "If you'd sleep better in your own bed. No pressure either way."
And there it is â the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring â except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside.Â
He keeps his hand moving on your arm, slow, so you know nothing's landed wrong.
"I'll head home," he says. "Not because I want to," he clarifies.
âNo?â you ask.Â
"Believe me. This is about the last place I want to leave." His hand doesn't stop, slow up, slow down, steadying you through it. "I'd like at least one proper dinner between us before I go makin' a habit of your bed."
You lift your head off his chest and look at him â hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick â and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it.Â
âAlright," you agree.Â
âYeah?â
âYes. Dinner sounds nice.â
"Mm," he hums, contented. He presses a kiss into your hair and untangles himself, face scrunched with visible reluctance, and dresses while you watch from the bed with the sheet gathered loose around you.
At the door he stops.Â
"C'mere."
You come to him in the sheet, and he kisses you properly, one hand cupping your face, thumb at your cheek. You go languid against him. He takes his time. Long past politeness. Long enough that leaving starts to look renegotiable, and he breaks away before he starts.Â
"Gânight," he says, low, still holding your face.
"Goodnight."
"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."
ââ
The flat is quiet. But it's a different quiet than the one you left this morning and you stand in the middle of it grinning.
Twix reappears at the edge of the counter and stares.Â
âI donât need the lecture, Iâm grown,â you tell her and start walking back to the bedroom, you hear her little jump to the floor and her feather steps catching up with you, âI can have sex. I deserve it, even.â You drop into your bed with a sigh. âYouâd understand if you still had ovaries.â
Pairings | Alpha!John price x Omega!reader, Alpha!Simon Riley x Beta!Johnny MacTavish, Beta!Kyle Garrick.
Summary | Youâve always hated being an omega, it goes against your every wish and your entire personality. It is your curse and your wicked step mother and step sisters seem to make it their mission to make your life even more miserable than it already is.
âŠOr in which you attend The Winter Solstice Ball and Alpha John price falls in love with you and hunts you down when you run away.
Celebrating hitting 5000 followersđđ„° Thankyou!!! Sorry itâs so late!
I had to split this into two because tumblr said it was too long; 27,135 wordsđ part two will be out soon.
You envy the sponge in your hands, scrubbing the dirt away from the floor the way youâd love for the inside of your head to be scrubbed away. Memories are a curse not something to be cherished. They curl around you like tendrils trying to pull you down down down into the abyss of misery.
Prey, youâve been since your day of designation. Hunters and predators around you as you tried to navigate your years of growing, changing. A game of survival that you lost. Now a bird in a cage, no matter how much you sing for freedom, no matter how much you beg to soar through the air youâre wings are clipped and an extra lock is added.
You wish to set the bird ablaze.
Your father, the pitiful man he was, set the precedent that guided the newcomers. Set the rules and regulations they all followed. He is the reason they treat you this way. Cold and unloving. No better words can be used to describe such a man. Designation above blood. Pride above family.
An alpha, so imagine his disgust when his beta wife bore him an omega daughter. Not the alpha son he prayed for to carry on his legacy.
You are nothing, taught that youâre whole life.
Baring your teeth and snarling gets you nowhere. Soft and docile is what is expected of you. How dare you be anything else. Spit at your feet when you try to fight against your designation. It used to hurt, hell you canât deny the rejection still does, but youâre used to it now.
âCan you never do a job properly girl?â The hateful sneer of your wicked step mother is over you once more. âLook at all that dirty water! Youâd better do the whole staircase again!â Her screeches never get easier on your ears, even after all these years. You nod with a mumbled âYes Madameâ knowing sheâd rather you not saying anything at all but would scold you for no reply too.
You can never win with her.
Grabbing the wooden bucket you head outside to throw the dirty water out. Itâs winter, ice on the ground and snow in the air. You feel it more than most, it sinks into your bones like it had in your motherâs. Something you wished you hadnât inherited as youâre not afforded the luxury of thick blankets or anything nice for that matter.
Comfort is not for things like you, they tell you. Pretty things, nice things, special things are not for things like you. Youâre made to serve or maybe to be sold to the highest bidder and do your duty as breeding stock. But thatâs all youâre worth, if anything.
You shiver, teeth chattering as you break the ice thatâs built up in the well. The wind whips around you harsh and unforgiving like the glare she gives you. Itâs only a thin layer since you last filled it thankfully, easily you fill the bucket, once more taking it inside and placing it on the floor.
You sigh quietly noticing the muddy footprints that definitely belong to your just as wicked step sisters. But easier to suffer in silence than to pick a fight. Choosing your battles has become a wonderful habit. You try so hard each day to hang onto the rope youâve been dangled on. Climbing your way up, desperate to make it to the top. Some days you simply hang there wondering if itâs worth it, wondering if it would be easier if you just let go.
Still you envy the sponge, even when you dunk it in the freezing water and wring it out ready to scrub the floor again. Sweat drips down your back in a way that makes you feel nasty, but itâs another feeling youâre used to. The dirt that clings to you might as well be a second skin, might as well be your first one. Itâs disgusting yet comforting all the same.
Youâre done with the stairs just in time to start supper. Potato and leek soup for Madameâs diet. Always dietâs during the winter as she assures herself and her witless daughters that theyâll be invited to the Kingâs ball. This year, this time for sure, she says every winter. It never happens.
The Winter Solstice ball is thrown every year on the eve of the long night moon. The winter moon being the highest and longest full moon of all. It spends more time in the sky than any other full moon. The royal family have traditionally thrown an expensive, luxurious party for all with an invitation to attend. Your step mother wants so desperately for it to be her so she can sink her claws into some rich men for her daughters. Wants to climb the ranks she had fallen from when she married your father, as she so eloquently puts it.
Balancing three bowls of soup as well as the tray of glasses is a talent you have had years to perfect without any accidents. Accidents, even from a stuck out foot, just led to apologies from your tongue and never theirs.
You place the bowls and glasses of ginger, raw egg and apple cider in front of them. You save your scrunched up nose for when youâre back in the kitchen alone. You suppose youâre lucky with a dormant omega not to have to put the same odd things they put into their bodies into yours, but betas were always different. Seen to fade into the background unless in a pack. There they bring balance, there they have a purpose. But your wicked step family brings no balance or peace and has no purpose.
The calloused skin on your hands is cracking again as they harden more and more from the cold air. You stare at them with a shame swirling in your gut, all the years of labour has hardened you around the edges where youâre supposed to be soft. Omegas are supposed to be pampered and taken care of, not worked to the bone.
You see them in town, see how the alphas and even some betas dote on them. Dressed in pretty fabrics, some plump from the good lives they lead. Courting rituals obvious when one of them is presented with a soft new blanket, freshly scented. The courter asking oh so sweetly if the item can seize a place in their nest. The omegas flutter their lashing and never say no.
It sickens you, even with your low station, even though no one has ever offered you a courting gift, you turn your nose up at the altercation. How naive those plaint omegas are for the predators around them, itâs pathetic. Youâre almost glad no alpha has ever even given you so much as a glance. And why would they? You were hard, not soft. You were covered in dirt, no pink powdered cheeks in sight, just soot and dust. You were dressed in rags, servant clothing, not pretty fabrics that bring attention.
Clearing their plates, you once again ignore their chatter about the upcoming festivities youâll inevitably be barred from again. Back in the kitchen, in your solitude you make quick work of the cleaning. Eating what little scraps had been left as you went.
The dying embers of the fire award you little comfort as you climb into your cramped cot, pulling the thin rough blanket you had been allowed over your shoulders, up to your chin.
â
Itâs a little before sunrise when you wake for your favourite part of the day, a morning ride.
Sunfyre, your beautiful friesian black horse. She has given you the gift of feeling like youâre flying when you ride her through the woods. She gives you what you refuse to let your omega give you. Not able to afford the medicinal suppressants some take, you had to make your own concoction that pushes away the submissive little wench prowling in your mind.
You hate her. Her very being is everything you despise about yourself. So if crushing up some herbs that when mixed with water taste like bile and forcing it down twice a month pushes her away behind the door you locked long ago, so be it. Youâll hold on to the key and never let her out.
Saddle, on and a cloak pulled round you for extra protection against the cold winds, you venture out for the only pleasure you have in life. Sunfyre seems particularly energised this morning, taking off faster than you expected and keeping a steady pace that allows you to sit up with your arms out wide. Your cloak blows in the very winds itâs supposed to shield you from but you canât find it in you to care when youâre this carefree-
âLass!â You shriek gripping the rains tight in your shock, your horse coming to a halt in front of a man sporting a kilt.
âJohnny, you almost killed her!â Youâre panting when you hear another voice, one that brightens your day immediately.
âKyle!â His scolding frown instantly turned upside down, a beautiful smile gracing that pretty face of his.
âOh her you smile at.â Johnny grumbles just loud enough for you both to hear, but youâre too busy getting off your horse and hugging Kyle to care.
âHow are you little darlin?â Kyle asks a kiss planted on your forehead.
âAll the better seeing you two.â You grin with a pinch to Johnnyâs side which wipes the pout off his face. Both men frown, knowing the life you lead. What you tell them is simply the tip of the iceberg, they have their own problems, no point adding yours to the pile.
Both Betaâs always bring that sense of calm you thought their kind is supposed to, being around them is a blessing. All your horrid feelings dissolve when they are near.
âWeâve got a surprise for you.â Kyleâs face splits, a huge smile from ear to ear.
âTradespeople we are.â Johnny grins a thumb gesturing to both betas as his other hand presents three tickets. You take the one offered to you and admire the handcrafted invitation. The calligraphy is in gold on a creamy white linen finish paper. The thing screamed, expensive.
âHow did you get this?â You blinked up at them both in surprise.
âLike Johnny said, we're tradespeople. Some rich people gave up their tickets instead of paying their bills for their fancy clothes.â Kyle rolled his eyes.
You stared at the piece of paper in your hand hard. A place full of the rich, a place for fancy people and fancy things. A place not for you.
âLass?â Johnny notices the shift in your mood the way Kyle does too.
âItâs very sweet of you, but I donât want to go.â You push the invitation back into Johnnyâs hand with a shake of your head. âI have no place there.â
âNeither do we lass. Thatâs the point, for a night we can pretend. Be who we want to be.â Johnny argues, determination in his eyes. âBesides you canât say no, Kyleâs already made your dress.â
âWhat? Kyle.â You half scold, but a sweet tone is entangled with your voice. He sheepishly grins at you, eyes sparkling with hope and you simply know you canât crush it. âFine, I'll go.â They both cheer loudly at your surrender. It brings a lopsided grin to your face that dissolves when the Clock Tower chimes seven am.
Both men look sad as you rush to leave the area, but they know itâs best to let you leave rather than argue the toss with you. You wave at one another and head back as fast as Sunfyre will take you. There is still plenty of time left to whip up a quick breakfast for the ugly hearted.
But even as you made the food and served it. Even as you cooked and carried, as you fetched and you mended there is nothing else on your mind but that ticket.
â
âIâve never seen so many thoughts go on behind a person's eyes.â Kyle hums, softly.
âIâm worried the wicked witches will recognise me.â You bit your lip, worrying the chapped skin between your teeth. You never realised how much scaffolding a smile required. How exhausting it is to put on a kind face until you have to fake it.
You sit perched on a stool in Kyleâs backroom studio, surrounded by bolts of velvet and silk, stray pins glinting like stars fallen to the floor. The gown he made for you⊠no, wove for you⊠is not of this world. Itâs starlight stitched to shadow, dusk made wearable. The fabric shifts like liquid silver with every breath you take, clinging to your figure as if it was always meant for you. A midnight blue so dark it looks black unless it catches the candlelight, and then it shimmers in tones of sapphire and silver.
Kyle stands behind you, fussing with the laces, tugging just enough to shape your waist without suffocating you. His fingers still at the small of your back. âGood thing itâs a masquerade then hmm?â
Your hands tremble as you reach for the mask.
Itâs delicate â filigree in silver and ice blue, dusted with crushed opals that glitter like frost. It covers only your eyes, but you feel the transformation settle on your shoulders like a cloak.
Kyle turns you gently by the shoulders to face the mirror. You blink at the reflection â at the woman standing there.
âI donât even look like me,â you whisper.
âGood,â Johnny smirks from the doorway. âThatâs the idea.â
He steps into the room, arms folded, dark coat flared behind him dramatically. His collar is high and his cravat knotted like he was born into nobility. His smirk softens when he sees your face â truly sees you.
âYouâll turn every damn head in the palace, lass.â
âI donât want to turn heads,â you murmur, fingers brushing the soft fabric at your hip. âI just want⊠one night.â
âYouâll have it,â Kyle promises, pressing a kiss to your temple, and Johnny offers his arm.
âShall we get you to your horse, my lady?â
You ride alone beneath the Winter Solstice moon, the world drowned in silver.
The cloak Kyle gave you flutters behind like wings as Sunfyreâs hooves strike the icy road, rhythmic and steady. Sheâs dressed for the occasion too â her mane braided with threads of deep blue and small silver bells that barely chime, and a soft embroidered cloth draped over her back beneath the saddle. Sunfyreâs coat gleams like polished obsidian beneath the moonlight, every movement a quiet storm of power and grace.
You clutch the reins tighter.
You could turn back now. No one would know. The ticket could have been lost, the dress could have ripped, your horse couldâve thrown you.
But you donât turn back.
The moon hangs low, bigger than youâve ever seen it, heavy and ancient, as though itâs straining to witness something important. Its light spills across the snow-dusted world, turning branches to bone and grass to frost-covered lace. The road curves upward through the forest, and every breath you take is a plume of mist, tight with nerves.
Your stomach twists. Your hands are shaking, even through the gloves. Youâve never been this far from home alone. Youâve never worn anything this fine.
And youâve never felt this much like someone else.
You glance down at yourself â the gown fits like it was poured onto you, clinging and glowing like starfire made silk, shaped to every curve youâve spent your life hiding. You hardly recognise your reflection in the icy puddles you pass. The masquerade mask is light on your face, but it feels like armor, silver and moonstone glittering like frost around your eyes.
You look like someone who belongs though you feel like someone whoâs trespassing.
The forest gives way to the ridge, and thatâs when you see it.
The castle.
It erupts from the mountainside, carved into the very bones of the land. Spires pierce the sky like spears of onyx. The towers shimmer with torchlight and enchanted crystals, and the stained glass windows burn like embers in the night. A river, frozen solid, wraps around the back edge like a moat of mirrors.
The clocktower looms above it all, its hands poised at two minutes to midnight.
Sunfyre slows to a walk as the gates come into view â wrought iron and ancient stone, already open. Guards flank either side, but they donât question your approach. Your breath fogs as you pass them, your heartbeat loud in your ears.
Inside the courtyard, noblemen and women dismount from gilded carriages, cloaks trimmed with fur, laughter echoing like wind chimes. You keep your head down slightly, letting the mask do its job. You donât speak. You donât make eye contact.
Sunfyre snorts softly beneath you, sensing your nerves. You reach down and press your gloved fingers to her warm neck.
âIâve got you, girl,â you whisper. âOne night. Just one.â
You dismount with practiced ease and pass her reins to the stable hand, who gawks slightly before snapping to attention and nodding. Sunfyre nudges your arm once before sheâs led away, like a silent promise: sheâll be waiting.
And then, you turn to the castle doors.
They rise before you like a gateway to another life â carved with symbols older than the crown, glowing faintly with enchantment. Music leaks through the cracks, low and haunting, violins and distant drums.
Your pulse flutters.
Your boots crunch over the stone as you walk forward, cloak swirling behind you like a shadow in motion.
The masquerade had begun.
The ballroom doors open with a thunderous echo.
For a moment, nothing moves.
A hush sweeps over the space like a ripple across water â a subtle shift in breath, in posture, in attention â as every head turns toward the grand staircase.
And there you stand.
Bathed in moonlight pouring through the stained glass arch behind you, framed by velvet curtains and two enchanted candelabras that flicker brighter at your arrival, casting stars in your wake.
Your cloak slips from your shoulders, caught by a gloved attendant, and the gown beneath blazes into view â indigo silk and starlight, stitched into a silhouette that glides rather than walks. Your mask glitters with frost and filigree, catching every shard of light the chandeliers offer.
You take the first step down the staircase.
The world feels utterly still.
Each step is measured, steady. The heels you wear â glittering, beautiful â do not falter. You move like someone enchanted, even though every muscle in your body is tense with fear. You can feel the weight of their stares, the curiosity building behind every mask. They wonder who you are. Where youâve come from. What secret nobility they might have overlooked.
They donât know you scrub chamber pots and eat scraps from the floor. They donât know you ride through forests at dawn to remember what freedom tastes like. They donât know you. And they certainly never shall.
You reach the final step and bow your head ever so slightly, just enough to break their gaze. Then, without a word, you melt sideways into the crowd, slipping into the shadows, heart pounding in your throat, pressing yourself to the edge of the room where the candlelight doesnât quite reach. You exhale â slowly. Quietly. You made it. Youâre here.
Youâre just not here to be seen.
The music swells again, and the ballroom comes back to life. Skirts twirl. Laughter sparkles. Champagne glasses clink like silver bells. The nobles have decided youâre not worth chasing after all â a curiosity, nothing more.
Good. Thatâs what you want.
You drift between towering columns wrapped in winter roses and shimmering ivy, half-hidden behind them, you manage to spot them. Johnny and Kyle. You snort into your hand at the sight. Johnny is draped in deep emeralds, gold chains and confidence, his mask sharp and wolfish. He lounges by the banquet table with your eldest stepsister on his arm, whispering into her ear with a voice like spiced wine. She giggles like a fool.
Kyle, always more subtle, is dressed in soft burgundy and bone-white silk. His mask is delicate, but his posture â proud, noble, refined â sells the illusion. Your younger stepsister clings to his arm, all doe-eyed smiles and desperate charm.
Theyâre good. Too good.
They carry themselves like theyâve lived in palaces their whole lives, not in a tiny tailorâs shop above a bakery. But tonight, behind their masks, anything could be true.
And your stepsisters â vapid, vain, stupid with ambition â believe every word.
You smirk to yourself before taking a sip of the wine and immediately regret it. Itâs sharp and sweet in a way that doesnât sit right on your tongue â like drinking something thatâs trying too hard to be expensive. You grimace before you can stop yourself, quickly lowering the glass and glancing around to see if anyone noticed.
Someone did.
âYouâd think with all their wealth, theyâd manage better wine,â a voice says beside you â low, dry, amused. A voice like honey and gravel, like fire coaxed into words.
You turn your head before your body, guarded, unsure. The man standing next to you is⊠impossible to ignore.
Tall. Broad. His dark suit is finely cut but unpretentious, no flashy colors or medals like the other peacocks in the room. His mask is black and simple, shaped almost like a wolfâs face carved from matte metal. But itâs his eyes that strike you â stormy grey-blue, sharp and thoughtful, rimmed with fine lines that speak of sleepless nights and hard-earned wisdom.
You force a polite smile. âI suppose itâs meant to impress, not satisfy.â
âThat sounds like most things in this room,â he replies, and your lips twitch despite yourself.
He shifts closer, not enough to threaten, but enough that his presence becomes undeniable. You can feel the heat of him. Thereâs something steady about the way he carries himself â like he doesnât need to take up space to own it.
âI havenât seen you before,â he says, voice easy, but not idle. âAnd I make a point of remembering things that shine.â
You laugh, quiet and uncertain, the sound almost catching in your throat.
âIâm not sure Iâm meant to shine,â you reply. âJustâŠreflect light.â You internally groan at your awful joke. Youâre not even sure it makes sense as a joke.
He tilts his head, watching you like heâs reading between the lines.
âThatâs a shame,â he murmurs. âBecause youâre doing a terrible job of going unnoticed.â You look away, hiding behind your glass even though you wonât drink again.
âWould you dance with me?â
The question is simple. Gentle. But it lands heavy in your chest. You glance at the ballroom â full of watching eyes, turning pairs, alphas with polished smiles and omegas whoâve been trained since childhood to curtsy, to bow, to yield. Youâll never dance like them. Youâve never danced at all. Your first instinct is to say no.
But something in his gaze keeps you still. Something in the quiet way he waits â not demanding, not pressing, just⊠present.
You nod once. Hesitantly. âAlright.â
He offers his hand. You take it, gloved fingers slipping into his larger, warmer palm. And as he leads you out into the glow of the chandeliers, into the whirl of violins and velvet, you realise your hands arenât shaking anymore.
The moment his hand settles at your waist, the rest of the room fades. Not disappears â just⊠softens. Blurs around the edges like a dream. The chandeliers drip golden light onto the polished marble, and the music swells â violins rising like breath held too long, then spilling over into motion.
A waltz. Smooth, timeless. Haunting.
His other hand finds yours again, your gloved fingers dwarfed in his grip. You expect his touch to command, to control, but it doesnât. He moves like someone who could lead without ever needing to push. You find yourself responding before you even realise youâve followed.
One step. Then two. And then youâre turning.
You move together like smoke in moonlight â like something dangerous wrapped in silk. He guides you across the floor with impossible ease, as though heâs known the shape of your body in his arms long before this moment. As though you were made to fit there.
The violins cry out â a shimmer of sorrow threaded through the melody â and something deep in your chest aches with it.
You try not to look at him, but you do.
His jaw is rough with stubble. His lips are parted just slightly, and his eyesâOh those eyes. Blue, stormy, rimmed in steel grey. They watch you like youâre the last thing heâll ever get to see. Like a man starved, afraid to blink in case he misses something from you.
Youâre suddenly too warm beneath the gown. The silk clings too tight at the small of your back right where his hand is pressed. Your breathing shortens. You feel it â that ripple beneath your skin, like something waking up.
Your omega shifts in her cage, heckles rising slowly, her claws curling around the bars like vines around a tomb. She isnât loud, just aware. Watching. Listening. Feeling. Leaning in like she wants to respond to him. She wants to lean into that hand at your back and ask him to pull you closer.
You stiffen slightly â only for a moment â but he notices. Of course he does. He says nothing, only shifts his grip subtly, easing the space between you by a breath. Giving you control.
You hate how kind it is.
âAm I holding you too tightly?â His voice is low, just above a whisper, close to your ear now as he dips you into a slow, turning glide.
âNo,â you murmur, eyes fixed somewhere over his shoulder. âJust⊠not used to being held.â Heâs quiet a beat too long and youâre afraid youâve been too honest.
âThatâs a shame,â he says finally. His blues stare deeply into your eyes, âYou carry yourself like someone who deserves far more than sheâs been given.â Your throat tightens. You donât know what to say to that.
He spins you gently, your skirts sweeping around you like stardust, and when you come back into his arms, you feel the tension in his shoulders. Like heâs restraining something.
Thereâs a storm in him. You can feel it gathering. A kind of feral calm, like a sea before a hurricane. He wears his mask as well as you wear yours â but under it, you know. Heâs an alpha.
You knew the moment he touched you.
And now that youâre this close, your scent thickening in the air whether you like it or not, he knows what you are too. But he says nothing.
He just holds you, moves with you, pretends â like you do â that this is just a dance. The music slows. The waltz reaches its final swell. You feel like you can breathe again when his hands drop from your body to clap the musicians.
And when the last note fades into silence, he lifts your hand and bows over it â lips not quite brushing your glove â and says in a voice only you can hear, âThank you⊠for the honour.â
You curtsy, as best you can with trembling legs. You draw a breath, preparing to step back into the blur of the masquerade â to disappear again, blend into shadow before someone asks your name or where youâre from.
But then you feel it.
Eyes. So many of them. Turning. Staring. Whispering behind raised fans and jeweled masks. Not all at once â not obviously â but you feel it, a current running beneath the surface of the room, shifting toward you. Toward him.
You glance up at him quickly, heart thudding. His eyes are still on you, not the others.
âTheyâre watching,â you murmur, trying not to move your lips.
âI know,â he replies, just as quietly, gaze unreadable behind the metal mask. âThey always do.â
He lifts your hand again â not to kiss it this time â but to tuck it gently against his arm.
âCome,â he says, softer than before. âLetâs find some air.â
You hesitate. Just for a second. But then you nod and he guides you away.
Not through the front. Not through the great doors like you expected. But through a narrow arch partially hidden by a velvet curtain, past a pair of silent guards who stand still like statues.
The hallway beyond is dim and quiet, lit by floating lanterns that hover in place like suspended stars. You pass old tapestries, half-forgotten portraits, and a long stained glass window of a wolf and a crescent moon.
You donât speak. Your footsteps echo softly on the stone. Then, at the end of the corridor, a door appears â carved with ivy and runes, humming faintly with enchantment.
He pushes it open. Cold air rushes in. But it smells like roses and pine. Like night itself.
The garden is hidden â walled in by hedges high enough to block even the tallest towers. Snow dusts the paths like powdered sugar. The trees glow faintly, enchanted blossoms blooming in the dead of winter, petals giving off a soft silver light. You step through the gate, your breath catching.
And in the center of it all â a fountain. Not stone. Not marble. Crystal.
Water flows from it even in this biting cold, glowing faintly with blue and violet hues, like moonlight made liquid. The surface never ripples unless touched, glass-like in its stillness.
He leads you to it and sits on the low edge of the basin, gloved hands resting loosely on his knees. For a moment, he says nothing. Just watches the water.
You sit beside him, careful not to let your skirts brush the wet stone. âYou come here often?â you ask, breaking the silence â a touch of dry humour in your voice to mask your nerves.
He hums. âWhen I want to be reminded that thereâs still beauty that asks nothing of me.â You glance at him. His mask catches the soft blue light of the fountain. The angles of his face look less severe here. Younger. But the weight in his posture never leaves.
âAnd you?â he asks, eyes cutting toward you.
âMe?â You frown.
âWhat does someone like you need reminding of?â
You swallow. âThat Iâm still real,â you say quietly. âEven when no one sees me.â
His gaze sharpens at that â not pitying, but present. Like he hears something most donât. He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, voice low. âTonight everyone sees you. They all want to know who you are.â
âIâm nobody.â
âYou say that,â he murmurs, âlike itâs a fact. But you move like someone born to haunt their memories.â
The fountain glows between you. The roses around the garden shimmer in the cold. The silence stretches between you like thread pulled taut â not uncomfortable, just⊠poised. The kind of stillness right before a string snaps or a fire catches.
âYouâre not like anybody in that ballroom,â he says at last, studying your face. âYou donât ask imposing questions. You donât preen or pose. Itâs almost suspicious.â
âMaybe Iâm just shy,â you offer lightly, eyes flicking toward the glowing water.
âNo,â he chuckles, shaking his head. âYouâre hiding something.â
You arch a brow, keeping your tone playful. âIsnât that the point of a masquerade?â
The fountain burbles between you, catching the moonlight. The roses behind him are blooming in slow motion, their petals unfolding despite the frost. You feel the warmth from the crystal basin at your back, an enchanted kind of heat that matches the pulse building in your throat.
âSo,â he says, watching you with that wolf-sharp gaze, âif I asked for your nameâŠâ
âIâd say no.â
âIf I guessed?â
âIâd lie.â
He chuckles, low and rich. âA mystery woman, then.â
âArenât all women?â you reply, tilting your head, lips twitching up a little. âWe just decide who gets close enough to solve us.â
His smile lingers, but his body is a little tenser now. Still relaxed, outwardly â yet somethingâs changed. The air has shifted. He tries to play it off, leaning back on his palms like heâs entirely at ease, but his nostrils flare almost imperceptibly, and his jaw shifts slightly. As if working through something internal â something primal.
You donât notice. But he does.
He notices your scent is starting to unfurl â slowly, subtly â like warm cinnamon stirred into cold air, like sugar melting into wine. Cinnamon sugar pie. It weaves into the night, clings to his skin, curls beneath his collar.
His fingers twitch where they rest beside him.
Youâre still speaking, still teasing him, unaware of how the space between your bodies has changed shape. âBesides,â you say, brushing your gloved knuckles along the edge of the fountain, âyou didnât tell me your name either.â
âI didnât,â he agrees, voice a little rougher now. âWould it matter if I did?â
âThat depends,â you reply, eyeing him sideways. âAre you someone Iâm supposed to bow to?â
A beat of silence.
âI donât want you to bow,â he says softly. âI want you to look me in the eye.â
You meet his gaze. You shouldnât of. The fountain glows between you, and his scent brushes against your skin like smoke on satin â woods and musk and heat. It makes your omega stir again, shifting inside her cage, claws tapping at the lock.
Still too faint for you to feel. But he smells it â that slow rise of heat, the awakening. He swallows, slow and deliberate. Every cell in his body demands he move closer.
He doesnât. Instead, he says, âWho are you really?â
You look down at the fountain again, then at the roses that shouldnât be blooming in this cold, then back to him. You let the silence stretch again â let the moment tip toward dangerous before you pull it back.
Heâs still watching you like a hawk, but thereâs something else now: curiosity, yes â but also hunger. Not just for your scent, not just the way itâs starting to settle around you like perfume â but for your mind, your mouth, your mystery.
âYouâre not from court,â he says at last, certainty in his tone.
âNo.â
âNot a noble?â
You give a soft snort of amusement, eyes glittering through your mask. âWhat gave it away? The way I didnât curtsy or the way I didnât try to seduce you in the middle of the ballroom?â
His mouth lifts in a crooked smile. âCould still be noble. Just⊠rebellious.â
You hum, pretending to consider. âNow thereâs a thought.â
He shifts, angling toward you more openly. âSo, if not court, then where?â
You shrug one shoulder, tilting your face to the moonlight. âFar enough to dream of places like this⊠but close enough to still be dragged back by the throat if Iâm not careful.â
His smile fades, eyes narrowing just slightly. âDragged back by who?â
You glance at him, and for a moment â just a breath â something real flickers across your face. A crack in the mask. Then itâs gone, replaced by a bright, wicked smile.
âNow that would ruin the mystery, wouldnât it?â
He doesnât laugh. Not this time.
You tip your head and grin when he opens his mouth to ask once more. âCareful, stranger. Ask too many questions and youâll make me vanish.â
âDonât,â he says, sharper than he means to.
That surprises you. You blink at him, the teasing faltering just slightly.
And thatâs when he realises it â how much heâs revealed without saying anything. His voice, the way he looks at you, the inch heâs leaned closer. The way his fingers twitch as if they might reach for you if they werenât gripping the edge of the fountain so tightly.
He clears his throat, collecting himself. âSorry. Youâre just⊠not what I expected.â
âWhat did you expect?â you ask, chin lifting.
He gives a small smile, slow and private. âSomeone whoâd simper. Bow. Whisper sweet nonsense about titles and silk.â
You roll your eyes, the sound of your laugh bouncing gently off the marble and enchanted roses. âWell, youâve been surrounded by liars then.â
He watches you for a long moment, âI suppose I have.â
The honesty in that steals your breath. You look away first.
âYour family,â he tries again, softer. âDo they know where you are?â
You snort. âTheyâd sooner sell me off to the highest bidder than ask where Iâve gone.â Thereâs a bitterness there. Not buried very deep. And yet you keep your tone light, the laugh that follows too easy.
He doesnât press. But the silence between you folds inward, heavy. Heâs breathing deeper now â you notice that much. Shoulders tense, jaw flexing slightly, eyes dark behind the silver of his mask. And still, he keeps his distance.
But the air around you is thicker now â clinging with something electric. That cinnamon-sugar swirl wraps around both of you like silk set on fire. Burning your skin in a way that has you flinching.
Every breath he takes pulls you deeper into him â like your scent is painting his lungs, pressing against something feral and quiet and waiting inside him. Still, he says nothing. He just leans in slightly, voice low, âSo youâre not going to divulge anything about you?â
You smile, soft and amused. âMaybe I like watching you squirm.â
That makes him laugh â low and husky, the kind that rumbles somewhere in his chest and makes your stomach flutter in a way you wish it wouldnât.
âCruel little thing,â he murmurs.
You grin, teeth flashing. âTakes one to know one.â
You donât touch. But you could. One move. One breath closer. One wrong moment. And the line would snap. Youâre just about to speak â to say something real, maybe even dangerous â when the atmosphere shifts once more.
A presence steps into the garden like a cold wind. âKönig,â John mutters without looking, but you see the stiffness in his jaw, the faint annoyance in the corners of his eyes.
The man that approaches is tall, imposing â his frame made even more intimidating by the ceremonial armour he wears like a second skin. A black half-mask hides the upper portion of his face, but his eyes pierce through it, glinting like steel left out in frost.
âForgive the intrusion, sire,â König says with a bow thatâs too sharp to be sincere. âThe Duke of Bainshire requests an urgent audience with His Majesty.â
You freeze.
His Majesty.
You stare at John â who remains silent. You donât understand, not fully, but your pulse is already starting to race. Instinct twisting in your gut like a knife.
Königâs gaze drifts to you. Too long. Too curious. He doesnât say anything, but your skin burns beneath his eyes like heâs peeling away the fabric of your mask with his stare alone.
John stands and moves closer to the royal advisor to speak quietly and thatâs when it starts. John smells it; a hint of rotting ginger that only gets stronger behind him the longer König is there. It begins to ebb away the more he talks, John getting more irritated the longer heâs away from you.
And when he turns to glance at you, he finds you gone, his ocean eyes turn cloudy like a storm brewing. He searches the area, but youâre gone, a small whiff of your sweet scent hanging in the air is the only evidence you actually existed.
âYou frightened her away you fool!â Johnâs snarl is something König has never heard before from any alpha. Itâs primal, more beast than man, a pure bred alpha clawing its way to the surface with no remorse of who he harms to get what he wants.
The sound echoes outward â carrying through the gardens, bleeding into the marble corridors and stone walls like wildfire. It rings with the clocktower bell, striking midnight. You hear it even as you run.
Even as you shove through the ballroom, dodging swirling silks and confused guests, your lungs tight, your vision narrowing. There are so many alphas. Too many. Their scents hit like fists. You canât breathe. Your instincts scream.
You push through the front gates, heels slamming the snow-packed stairs, vision blurring with the sharp clarity of fear. Rounding the corner by the clocktower, you nearly collide with something massive, growling â feral.
A ghost with black-ringed eyes snarls at you, hovering over what looks to be your friend like a beast risen from the grave. His teeth are bared protectively. Practically foaming at the mouth, he snarls at you. Feral.
âDon't be such a brute! Leave ma wee lass alone Simon.â Johnny scoffs pushing Simon off of him ignoring the grunt of disapproval at the action, your friend is more focused on you. âWhat is it bonnie?â He frowns noticing your panicked expression, your frantic eyes going from him to the alpha behind him.
You open your mouth to speak but Johnâs voice boomingly overtakes yours, âOmega!â The roar makes your eardrums ring, has your fight or flight instincts kicking in that causes you to flee. Youâre faster than him or maybe you just had a head start, pushing yourself quicker and harder to the last flight of stairs and then you see her at the bottom.
Sunfyre.
âOmega come back!â John is hot on your heels.
Please please please you plead with your dormant omega, the one you locked away yourself, to come out and help you. âIâll give you control just please help!â You shout in a panic.
And then â The lock clicks. The cage door swings open. Your omega rises like a wave crashing down â glowing eyes, soul entwining with yours. She takes over in a breath, slipping into your skin like a goddess returned to the world. Youâre shoved to the back of your own mind â watching now as she runs.
She commands your body â powerful, effortless. The wind tears at your skin, your lungs burn, and yet still â you run.
Youâre not sure if youâre chasing something or fleeing everything, only that your feet barely touch the ground. Behind you, you hear the frantic whine of Sunfyre, her hooves hammering into the stones like drums calling down the gods. She follows you, loyal and wild, her breath rising like steam into the winter air.
And then â A fracture inside your chest like bones remembering who they were before they were caged. You stumble. The ground tilts. Your limbs seize, reshape. Fire licks through your bones as they rearrange themselves. Muscles pulling taut. Spine curving. Fingers â paws â meeting the earth.
You donât scream. Thereâs no time. Your body splits itself open, and something ancient and sacred steps through. And then youâre on all fours â galloping, free.
Your fur glimmers in the moonlight â like starlight caught in motion. Your breath comes in short, sharp huffs, and every sound in the world is louder now â the wind, the snow, the hooves of your companion.
Sunfyre lets out a whine, high-pitched and raw, but doesnât stop. She surges ahead, then falls into step beside you â horse and wolf, thunder and shadow, fleeing together through a world not made for either of you.
Your heart is a war drum. Your paws kick up frost. Your soul howls through your chest like itâs just now been allowed to breathe. You run until the castle is long behind you. Until the road turns familiar. Until the adrenaline fades and the snow settles, and slowly â achingly â you become you again.
Two feet in the cold dirt.
And one shoe gone.
âž»
John reaches the steps just in time to see a blur of silver vanish beyond the gates â the snow kicked into a swirling flurry behind you, the echo of pounding hooves and claws tearing through the air like a heartbeat made visible.
At first, he doesnât understand what heâs seeing. But then the light catches â moonlight brushing against fur so white it gleams, so perfect it glows, like a spectre born from the snow. A wolf. You.
His breath catches like itâs been stolen. Your shape twists in the distance â regal, unbroken, wild. Each stride beside the blur of your horse moves with a beauty so primal itâs almost painful to witness.
You became a wolf. A full shift. Itâs something only the old stories speak of now â something whispered over firelight and forgotten in favour of courts and titles. True Lycans have all but vanished. What remains are diluted echoes of the beasts once revered.
But not you it seems. You are something ancient. Something holy.
Behind him, boots strike stone. âBloody hell,â Simon mutters, slowing beside him. The captain of the Kingsguard â a man whoâs killed monsters and crowned men â looks like a child staring at his first snow storm. âDid she justâ?â
John doesnât answer. Canât. His chest is too tight. His lungs arenât working. His senses are still trying to recalibrate â to make sense of the fact that you, the trembling thing in a masquerade mask only moments ago, have just defied every law of his world.
The scent of you still lingers â warm and sweet and charged with something divine. Cinnamon and snow. Sugar and wildness. It curls around his throat like a tether, a bond not yet formed but already felt.
He steps forward, as if he might chase you. But youâre gone. The trees have swallowed you whole. The darkness has claimed you. All thatâs left is the crackle of energy in the air, like a thunderstorm not yet struck, and the faint, silver shape of a single lost shoe lying in the snow like the remains of a dream.
ââ-
âI want her found!â Johnâs chest heaves with each breath, the cold air doing nothing to ease the heat crawling under his skin. His hand is clenched tight â not around a weapon, not around a threat â but around your shoe. A delicate thing. Silken, shimmering with stardust. Too beautiful for the soot-covered world it was left behind in.
He stares down at it, as if it might whisper your name to him if he holds it long enough. But it doesnât. Itâs only cloth and glitter. Not your laugh. Not your scent. Not you. The shoe feels insultingly empty.
âSimon,â he growls, voice low and ragged. âSend scouts to every border town, every hunting path, every fucking lake. She has a horse â gold-maned, fast. Ask for that if you must. Someone must have seen her.â
âYes, Your Majesty.â Simon moves swiftly, already barking orders down the corridor, the silver of his pauldrons vanishing into the night.
König remains, looming in the archway â the chill from outside clinging to him like smoke. But even the Kingâs advisor looks uneasy, his masked face turned slightly away from Johnâs.
John doesnât care. âGet me a list,â he snaps. âNow. Every unmated omega in the kingdom.â
König hesitates. âThat could take time. Some may notââ
âAll of them.â Johnâs voice drops to a dangerous whisper. âSheâs registered. She has to be. By law, all newly presented omegas must submit identification for protection.â
A pause. König inclines his head. âYes, Your Majesty.â
âCross-reference by age. Unmated. Late-presenting. I want a name. I want her name.â
König vanishes and John stands alone at the top of the staircase. The scent is fading. The cinnamon and sugar â once thick enough to intoxicate him â is vanishing into the snow. All thatâs left is the sour rot of ginger clinging to the columns where König once stood, and the icy perfume of fear.
Youâre gone. And he doesnât even know your name. His skin itches. His throat burns. His hands twitch like heâs moments from tearing the castle apart stone by stone. This is not how it was supposed to go.
He is king. He is The Alpha. He never loses. But now, with nothing but a shoe and a fading scent to go on, he is something far more dangerous;
Desperate.
â
They came like shadows on horseback.
Johnâs forces sweep the countryside with a precision that only desperation can sharpen. Cloaked riders thunder down winding roads, flood quiet villages, stalk through forests and field paths with torches and scent-tracking hounds.
The Kingâs seal turns every locked door into an invitation.
âTheyâre searching for an omega,â the whispers ripple. âOne that can shift. A true wolf.â
The words sound like legend, like myth come knocking â and still, they spread like wildfire.
König oversees the records. His eyes scan the scrolls with machine-like efficiency. One by one, scribes bring him names. Dozens. Hundreds.
âToo young.â
âToo old.â
âAlready mated.â
âToo sick.â
âToo docile.â
None of them are you.
And the longer your name eludes them, the more Johnâs hunger grows.
âž»
You wake beneath a sky bruised with dawnlight.
Your limbs ache like theyâve been shattered and reassembled. Your breath fogs the cold morning air as you sit up â slowly, gingerly â among the low brush of the forestâs edge.
Sunfyre nuzzles your cheek with her warm muzzle, as if to remind you, youâre alive. You made it.
But somethingâs different. Your fingers tremble as you hold them to your face. You press your hand to your ribs. Still there. Still you. And yetâŠnot.
You remember the way your bones shifted. The way your body broke itself open. The way the world sharpened around you like a blade as you ran â your paws barely brushing the ground, your eyes catching every flicker of moonlight on snow.
You became a wolf.
Not a vision. Not a fever dream. A true transformation. Something not even the elders can do anymore. And you did it without training. Without permission. Without knowing you could.
You glance down at yourself. Your dress â that shimmering constellation Kyle conjured from nothing â is torn to ribbons. One shoe is missing, lost somewhere in the dark between royalty and ruin. Your mask is hanging from your wrist by a single, frayed ribbon, broken and cracked through the centre.
You hurry to your feet, pulling the remnants of the gown around your body as best you can. Sunfyre follows you quietly, her hooves crunching the frozen earth behind you. When you reach the small barn behind the estate, you tie her back to her post with shaking hands.
âYou were perfect,â you whisper, stroking her mane. âI donât know how we made it, but⊠we did.â
The sound of carriage wheels crunching gravel jolts through you like lightning. You freeze. Dust rising. Hooves clattering. Laughter. Theyâre back.
You peek through a crack in the barn door. Sure enough â the lacquered black carriage. The gold trim. The awful, familiar voices. Madameâs shrill tone cutting across the air like a blade. Your stepsisters giggling about the ball, about masked suitors, about which nobleman may be coming to call now that theyâve made âsuch an impression.â
You whip back around.
Frantic, you gather whatâs left of the mask and the torn gown and shove them deep beneath the hay in Sunfyreâs stall. You kick loose straw over it, praying it will stay hidden â that the scent of horse and mud will be enough to keep any curious nose away.
You tug a grimy cloak from a hook and wrap it around yourself, yanking the hood low over your brow. You hear the front door of the estate slam open, the mad cackle of Madameâs excitement echoing off the walls.
âYou will not believe how many alphas asked to dance with us! I daresay weâll be moving out of this pigsty by the new moon!â
The scent of wine and perfume still clings to them when they stumble in â all silk and smugness, glitter smudged beneath their eyes, heels clutched loosely in tired hands. Madame enters last, like a conquering queen, her painted lips curled into satisfaction.
You donât say a word. You simply begin to help them remove their accessories â slipping the intricate pearl comb from Evangelineâs hair, unfastening the heavy necklace from Islaâs throat, your hands nimble, gentle. They barely glance at you.
âI still canât believe the King himself was there,â Isla giggles, fanning herself with a lace glove. âThey say heâs taken with someoneâsome mystery omega.â
âShe ran off,â Evangeline adds dramatically, flopping back onto the settee. âVanished like mist, before the clock struck twelve. Isnât it deliciously tragic?â
âMen do love a chase,â Madame says, voice sharp with amusement as she pulls the pins from her hat. âAnd kings more than most.â
You swallow hard. Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for the next earring. They donât notice.
âHe had her scent,â Isla continues. âThatâs what I heard. His hounds are scouring the kingdom for her now. Can you imagine?â
âI donât care if she was made of diamonds,â Evangeline sniffs, plucking a grape from the fruit bowl. âSheâll be forgotten once he sees me again. I know he looked at me more than once.â
âOh, please,â Isla scoffs. âHe only danced once, and it wasnât with you.â
âIâll bet the little tramp wasnât even registered,â Madame mutters darkly, smoothing her skirts. âUnmated omegas must declare themselves by law. If the King finds out sheâs illegalâheâll drop her like a hot stone.â
You stand quietly, folding the shawl across the back of the couch. Invisible again. As if the night hadnât happened. As if your body hadnât torn itself apart in moonlight. As if you hadnât touched the hand of a man who is now flipping the kingdom inside out to find you.
As if youâre nothing.
Madameâs eyes snap to you suddenly. Her expression hardens. âYou,â she says, her tone like a whip crack. She reaches out and grips your wrist tightly â her nails digging into the tender skin beneath your sleeve. âStop dawdling and fetch the tea. Now.â
âYes, Madame,â you murmur, bowing your head quickly to hide your expression.
Your wrist stings as you slip away down the corridor toward the kitchen. The moment your back is turned, they begin to chatter again, louder, freer. The words echo behind you as you walk â âalphas,â âdresses,â âmystery,â âomega,â âking.â
Your feet carry you through the motions, but your mind is racing. You can still feel the earth beneath your paws. You can still smell the wild on your skin.
The teapot rattles as you pour the hot water in. Your hands wonât stop shaking.
You steady yourself by bracing against the wooden counter, the chipped edge digging into your palm grounding you for just a breath. The scent of chamomile and mint swirls up with the steam â soft, soothing. But it doesnât reach you.
Not now. Not when your bones still remember the weight of fur and frost. Not when your lungs still ache from the run. Not when your soul aches to run again.
You set the cups on the tray with care, the way youâve done a thousand times, and balance it against your hip as you make your way down the hall. Their voices carry before you even reach the sitting room.
âIâm telling you, Isla,â Evangeline insists, her tone high and dreamy. âHe had to be a duke. That brocade waistcoat was not off-the-rack.â
âOh, absolutely,â Isla agrees, flicking her hair over one shoulder. âThe way he spoke? Like a man used to power. Nobility. And the earl â Kyle, was it? So charming. I hope they call on us tomorrow.â
You pause at the door. Just for a second. You inhale, press your shoulders back, and step in â tray held steady, face blank. They donât even look up.
âThey asked where we lived,â Isla continues, plucking a sugared biscuit from the tray the second you set it down. âI told them. Gods, wouldnât it be perfect if we married them both?â
âIndeed,â Madame sighs, eyes gleaming as she stirs her tea. âFinally out of this dreadful little house. An earl and a duke â not a bad match, for our station.
You keep your eyes lowered. You donât say a word.
Because you know Kyle and Johnny. You know exactly who they are and what they do for a living. Not an earl or a duke. In fact you know them well enough to know one thing for certain: They will never set foot in this house.
Your fingers curl against your skirt, nails digging crescent moons into your palms. You are still playing servant. Still playing safe.
But the truth simmers just beneath your skin â a snarl of your wolf and fire.
And you wonder how much longer you can keep it there.
âž»
A week.
Itâs been a full seven days since the Winter Solstice Ball, and the palace feels colder now. Less gold and more iron. The stone walls whisper of failure every time he passes.
John hasnât slept properly since. The scent of you still lingers faintly in the silks tucked in his wardrobe â a cruel memory of warmth, cinnamon and sugar and want. His sheets are rumpled with tossing. His jaw aches from the clench of teeth. The world is too loud, and yet everything feels too quiet without you.
His guards have scoured every village, every manor house, every outpost from the borderlands to the sea.
And theyâve come up empty.
Simon stands beside him now, lips set in a hard line, dark brows drawn. He doesnât need to say it â the list is exhausted. Every registered omega in the kingdom has been accounted for.
Except one.
âYouâre telling me she doesnât exist,â John mutters, voice hoarse. His hands press against the windowsill, knuckles white. Rain streaks down the glass. âThat a woman â an omega â who turned into a bloody wolf managed to vanish into thin air?â
âShe exists,â Simon says evenly. âSheâs just not in the system. Which means it was intentional.â
Johnâs teeth grind together. âSheâs hiding,â he growls. âOr someoneâs hiding her. Sheâs unregistered. Which is illegal.â
Simon doesnât respond to that. He doesnât need to. Because they both know the implications. If she never registered her presentation, if she avoided the mandatory testing â either out of fear, rebellion, or necessity â the law would brand her a criminal.
John exhales sharply and turns away from the window, running a hand through his disheveled hair. The dark circles under his eyes have settled deep into his skin like bruises. The edges of him have gone jagged.
âShe didnât even tell me her name,â he mutters, almost to himself. âJust vanished. Like she was never there.â
But she was. He can still feel the imprint of her fingers in his palm. The ghost of her laughter echoing in the hidden garden. The glint of her eyes behind that mask. Heâd known many omegas, many beauties â but never one like her. Never one who challenged him. Who looked at him like a man and not a crown.
âSheâs mine,â he says quietly, dangerously. âI donât care how long it takes. Find her.â
Simon hesitates, then speaks carefully. âAnd if she doesnât want to be found?â
Johnâs expression hardens. Something cold flashes through his storm-colored eyes. âThen Iâll make her want to be.â
âž»
The bell above the bakery door jingles softly as you step inside, soaked in midwinter chill and the scent of yeast and cinnamon. You tug your hood a little lower, eyes scanning the street behind you before slipping fully into the warmth of Johnnyâs shop.
Itâs busy enough to be safe â enough people milling about with baskets of bread and pastries that youâre just another face, another figure.
But Johnny sees you instantly.
âLook what the cold dragged in,â he grins, brushing flour off his hands as he rounds the counter. âIf it isnât our missing lady.â
You roll your eyes, tugging off your gloves. âStill alive.â
âBarely,â Kyle mutters, appearing on the stairs behind the counter with a needle stuck in his mouth, his measuring tape slung around his neck. âThe kingdomâs gone mad looking for you.â He whispers as he approaches.
You freeze for just a heartbeat. But only just. You scoff ignoring the comment, stepping aside to let a customer pass. âThe dimwitted witches are still preening by the mirror, waiting for their earl and duke to arrive.â
Johnny huffs a laugh and slides a tray of still-warm brioche toward you. âThey actually believed it too. Evangeline told the butcher yesterday sheâs practically betrothed.â
âTragic,â Kyle adds with a smirk, adjusting a bolt of navy velvet slung over his arm. âIâm sure sheâs already penning love letters.â
But before you can reply, thereâs a sharp commotion outside.
Shouts echo through the street. The town square beyond the bakery windows begins to quiet, a ripple of tension spreading through the crowd. A familiar silhouette takes the raised platform in front of the old well â cloaked, armed, and stern.
Simon.
You and Kyle drift closer to the windows, Johnny coming up behind you with a steaming cup of spiced cider. The customers now moved outside.
The captain of the Kingâs Guard raises his voice.
âBy order of His Majesty, any omega who has presented and is found to be unregistered will be detained and questioned. There will be no exceptions.â
A silence falls like ash over the cobblestones. Simonâs eyes sweep the crowd â and for a moment, you swear they land on you through the window. You inch back from the glass, pressing deeper into the shadows of the bakery.
Kyle sighs, rubbing at his jaw. âTheyâre getting desperate.â
Johnny leans against the counter, arms crossed. His voice drops to something quieter, more serious. âSimonâs worried. About John.â
You donât speak. You donât ask Johnny how he knows Simon is worried. You just sip the cider, and it burns on the way down. The heat doesnât reach the cold knot behind your ribs.
Johnny notices your silence, glances at you â but says nothing. Neither does Kyle. They know better.
Instead, Kyle returns to his velvet. Johnny returns to his loaves. And you sit in the quiet corner, the warmth of the bakery suddenly feels suffocating. Youâre halfway through your cider when the bell jingles again â not light and casual like before, but sharp. Purposeful.
The kind of sound made by someone used to walking into rooms expecting silence to follow.
Simon.
Your breath catches in your throat as the Captain of the Kingâs Guard steps into the bakery, his dark coat still damp from snow, his boots tracking the cold in with him. His eyes â sharp and calculating â scan the room. He doesnât see you â not yet.
But Johnny does. And his face freezes.
The expression that flits across his features is unlike anything youâve ever seen on him: surprise, panic, and something else â something more raw â tangled into one.
âJohnny,â Simon says, voice low and rough like thunder warming over gravel.
Johnny clears his throat quickly and slaps on a lopsided grin. âSimon,â he says far too cheerily, brushing his hands on his apron. âDidnât know the Guard had developed a sweet tooth.â
Simon shrugs. âWas in the area.â And then â softer, almost sheepish â âWanted to see you.â
You nearly drop your mug as you slip behind the curtain next to you.
Johnnyâs hands twitch at his sides, the flour dusted on his sleeves suddenly making him look far too mortal. His smile is too wide, too strained.
âWell, Iâm flattered, truly,â he says, already moving toward the counter, body subtly shifting to block Simonâs view of the rest of the bakery. âBut Iâve got a rush order of lemon tarts to get in the oven before the mayor comes storming down here again. You know how betas are when it comes to their sugar.â
Simonâs eyes narrow slightly. Not unkindly. But perceptively. âLemon tarts?â
âMhm.â Johnny leans hard into the lie. âVery serious dessert diplomacy happening. Canât risk international incident, now can I?â
From your hiding place behind the heavy velvet curtain that separates the front from the bakeryâs back room, you try not to breathe. Your heart is hammering so loud in your chest youâre convinced he can hear it.
You clutch your ripped cloak tighter, the sharp scent of nerves beginning to tickle your nose. You press your arm against your side to try to smother it â contain it â before it betrays you.
Simon tilts his head. âYou seem⊠nervous.â
âOnly because I can feel the flour getting into my lungs,â Johnny retorts smoothly, waving a hand. âGo on now. Come back when Iâm less likely to burn something.â
Thereâs a pause. A long one. And then â to your surprise â Simon actually smiles. Just slightly. Barely more than a twitch of lips, but real.
âAlright,â he says, backing toward the door. âBut Iâm not done with you, Johnny.â
âNot even close,â Johnny mutters under his breath with an eye roll.
And then the door jingles again. Heâs gone. You wait a full ten seconds before bursting out from the back, face pale, breathing shallow.
âHeâs your mate?â you hiss, keeping your voice low.
Johnny throws a rag at you. âAnd youâre a walking felony. We all have secrets.â
You stare at him, jaw dropped. âYouâre mated to the Captain of the Kingâs Guard.â
He shrugs. âWasnât exactly on my bingo card either.â
Kyle shouts down from the tailor shop above, âIs he gone?â
âYes,â Johnny calls back, dragging a hand down his face.
âDid you tell him?â Johnny looks at you, eyes serious now.
âNo,â he says quietly. âNot yet. I donât think he even knows I know.â
You swallow, something heavy in your chest. âThatâs going to end well.â
âYeah,â Johnny sighs. âItâs been a week of terrific decisions.â
âž»
Simon doesnât get far before he stops dead in the snow-covered street, boot heels digging in as his head turns ever so slightly toward the wind.
There it is again. That scent. Faint. But unmistakable. Cinnamon sugar and panic.
Clinging to the edges of the air like the memory of a dream.
He freezes, nostrils flaring.
It shouldnât be here â not here, not now. Not in the middle of a bakery tucked beneath a tailorâs shop. But itâs you. He knows it in his bones. In his blood.
His heartbeat kicks into gear, hard and fast.
He glances back at the bakery, jaw clenched tight. JohnnyâŠJohnny had looked unnerved. The pieces start snapping together with terrible clarity. The girl at the ball. The omega that disappeared into the snow, the one John still dreams about, still aches for.
The way Johnny had shoved him back, snarled at him to leave you alone like a guard dog protecting something fragile. Bonnie, heâd said.
And now? Here?
Simonâs breath fogs in the cold air, but the scent burns through it. Heâs already turning on his heel, coat flaring behind him as he marches straight toward the castle. His mind racing, trying to decide how much to say and how fast.
The guards at the palace gates donât bother questioning him. They part the doors like the Red Sea. He finds John in the war room, hunched over a map strewn with pins and scrolls. He looks worse than Simon remembers â haggard, circles beneath his eyes so deep they seem carved in.
âMy king.â
John doesnât look up. âUnless you have her, donât waste my time.â
âI donât have her,â Simon says. âBut Iâve smelled her.â
John stills. The kind that only comes from someone whoâs been strung so tight for so long that even hope hurts. âWhere?â he asks hoarsely.
âBakery below the tailorâs shop. Owned by the two men from the masquerade â Kyle and Johnny.â
Johnâs eyes flick up. Blue and stormy âJohnny,â he repeats.
âHe called her bonnie the night of the ball. When she ran. I thought it was just a flukeââ Simon shakes his head. âBut he knows her, John. Iâm sure of it now. And she was there today. Hiding. Scared. Unregistered.â
John stands slowly. One hand curls around the edge of the table, the other fisting at his side. His voice, when it comes, is low and deadly.
âShe was right there?â
Simon nods. âJust out of sight. But her scent wasââ He exhales. âSheâs afraid. And if sheâs not registered⊠she could be in danger. If someone else finds her firstâŠâ
They donât need to finish the thought. Johnâs knuckles are white as he speaks. âSend a unit. Quietly. No guards in uniform. No royal banners. I donât want to scare her off again.â
âAnd Johnny?â
John hesitates. Just a flicker.
âBring him in,â he finally says. âGently. If sheâs spoken to anyone, itâs him. And Iâll be damned if I lose her a second time.â
Simon nods.
But even as he leaves, he can still feel the taste of that scent on the back of his tongue.
Warm. Wild. Terrified. And familiar.
âž»
You were long gone when Simon returned.
The scent had faded like old parchment, carried off by wind and soot and the thick tang of hearth smoke. He stood in the bakeryâs doorway for a long time, silent and still, just watching.
Johnny and Kyle were seated near the fire, half-finished glasses of mulled wine between them, their laughter dying off the moment they saw him.
No uniform this time. No sword drawn. Just Simon â tense, alert, jaw set like iron. His voice cuts through the warmth of the room like a blade. âWhere is she?â
Johnny straightens. âWhereâs who?â
Simonâs tone is colder now. âYou know exactly who.â
Kyle moves closer to Johnny, protective but careful, as though navigating the edge of a blade. âWe donât answer to the Kingâs Guard unless weâre accused of something.â
Simonâs hand twitches at his side. âBy royal decree, any knowledge of an unregistered omega must be reported immediately. If you are found to be harboringââ
âWeâre not harboring anyone,â Johnny cuts in, sharp, defiant.
Kyle adds, âYouâll have to arrest us before we say another word.â
Simon doesnât argue. He nods once. Then two soldiers step through the doorway behind him.
âž»
The carriage ride to the castle is short, silent.
The air inside hangs thick with smoke and tension and the faint, aching scent of guilt.
When the guards finally lead them through the heavy palace doors and into the war room, itâs colder than either of them expected â not just from the chill stone, but from the man waiting at the far end of the chamber.
John.
He looks like he hasnât slept in days.
Pale beneath his golden skin. Jaw unshaven. Shadows like bruises beneath his eyes. The wolf behind his ribs pacing. Howling. Heâs unraveling, thread by thread.
âYou smelled her,â he says to Simon, not even glancing at Johnny or Kyle.
Simon nods once. âHours ago. Sheâs gone now.â
John finally looks at the two men. âYou knew,â he says to Johnny, quiet and dangerous. âYou know her. From the ball. You called her âbonnie.ââ
Johnny doesnât speak.
âI can smell her on you. I know she was there.â
Silence. Then Kyle sighs.
âShe was afraid,â Kyle says. âShe didnât want to be found.â
Johnâs hands curl into fists, but he doesnât interrupt. Just breathes. Barely. Johnny speaks next, eyes locked on the king. âWe know her better than anyone. She ran because she thought youâd cage her. Like everyone else has.â
John steps forward slowly, deadly quiet. âWhat has she been running from?â
Neither man answers.
Johnâs voice drops to a growl. âTell me.â
Still, they hesitate. Until Kyleâs mouth opens before his brain can stop it.
âThat witch she lives withââ
Johnny shoots him a glare, but itâs too late. Johnâs entire frame tenses like a wire pulled taut.
âSheâs been hurt?â he growls.
Neither answer. But neither deny it. Thatâs all he needs. The growl that rips from Johnâs throat is inhuman. Chairs crash backward. Scrolls fall from the table. Simon moves quickly, hand on Johnâs shoulder, trying to ground him â and fails. His alpha is beyond reach, trembling with barely restrained fury.
âYou knew, and you let her go back there?â John snarls, baring his teeth.
Kyle snaps, âShe made her choice to go back to the house.â
âIt doesnât sound like she has much of a choice!â John roars. His voice echoes off the stone walls like thunder. Everyone goes still. The only sound now is Johnâs ragged breathing, the low, primal rumble in his chest like a caged beast ready to tear down kingdoms. His eyes flick between them â gleaming, storm-dark.
âI want every guard on that street,â he snaps at Simon. âI want that house searched. I want her safe.â
âAnd if sheâs not there?â Simon asks quietly.
John doesnât answer, he pushes past Simon and out the door.
âž»
The air feels wrong
Too quiet. Too still. Your boots crunch softly over gravel as you cross the back path toward the stables, heart still pounding from your near-miss in town. Your mind races with images â Simonâs face, the royal decree, the scent of fear clinging to your skin like sweat.
But here, with Sunfyre, you can breathe. The stable door groans open, warm hay-sweet air greeting you â but before your eyes even adjust to the dim light, you feel her.
Madame.
She steps forward from the shadows like a specter conjured by rage. In her handsâ
The mask. The shredded remains of your dress. Your blood runs cold.
âI found them buried beneath the hay,â she says coolly, voice sharp and glacial. âYou always were sloppy.â Her grip tightens around the tattered starlight fabric, and suddenly her eyes are no longer hollow, no longer indifferent â they burn with rage.
âYou ungrateful little wretch,â she hisses. âYou dared to go to the Solstice Ball. In my house. Under my roof. While weââ She stops herself, eyes narrowing. Her tone shifts, venomous and slow. âIs it you? The mystery omega. The one the kingâs men are tearing the countryside apart for.â
You donât answer. You canât. Your heart is hammering so hard you think she might hear it. The mask glints in her hand like a noose. She steps closer, voice dripping with contempt.
âDo you have any idea what youâve done? If they find out itâs you, theyâll come here. Theyâll ruin us.â Her words arenât fear â theyâre control. Her concern isnât for you â itâs for her reputation.
She grabs your wrist, fingernails digging into your skin like claws. Her voice drops to a cruel whisper. âFix this. Burn the dress. Deny everything. Or I swear to the gods, I will make sure you never see the sun again.â
Your throat tightens. Your omega, recently awakened, growls somewhere deep inside â low and warning â but still curled, still cautious. You yank your arm back. âYou donât own me.â
That makes her laugh. Not with humor â with disbelief. With scorn. âWeâll see how long you keep that little rebellion up when the kingâs guards tear this place apart.â
She throws the mask to the ground, crushed beneath her heel. âYouâre nothing but a burden,â she spits. âA filthy little stray in my house.â She grabs your wrist and you yelp, stumbling backward as she drags you toward the house.
âYou think youâre clever?â she snaps, her voice shrill and shaking with fury. âYou think I donât see what youâre doing? I know what you are.â
You try to twist free, but she yanks you harder, your feet scuffing across gravel and frost-bitten earth.
âYouâll be locked in that attic until this mess blows over,â she hisses. âAnd when they come knocking, Iâll say Iâve never seen you before in my life. Youâll vanish like the gutter-born mistake you are.â
But just as she pulls you out of the barn and into the pale, blue-grey light of the front yardâ
She stops.
Freezes.
You both do.
Because standing at the gate, lined up like a wall of steel and snow and vengeanceâ
Is the Kingâs Guard.
Armored. Mounted. Armed.
At the front of them all, dismounting his horse with a fury barely concealed beneath his cloakâ
John.
And beside him, jaw clenched and eyes hard, is Simon.
Your stepmother lets go of you as if burned. You stumble back, the air gone from your lungs as your eyes lock with Johnâs.
His expressionâItâs not just fury. Itâs something deeper. Wilder. Possessive. âTouch her again,â John growls, voice low and lethal, âand Iâll make sure you donât have hands to touch anything.â
The threat hangs in the air like smokeâthick, suffocating, undeniable.
Your stepmother stiffens, choking on her next words, the bravado melting from her face like snow under flame. She casts a pitiful glance toward the gathered guards. âI would never harm her. Sheâs my ownââ
She grabs your arm thenâtight, hard enough to bruise, her perfectly painted smile cracking at the edges. Her breath is hot and sharp against your ear as she hisses, âKeep your mouth shut. Do you understand me? You say nothing about what happened here. About me. About them.â Her nails dig deeper, her mask of kindness slipping fully away. âAfter everything Iâve done for you⊠I am your mother.â
Your lips twitchâsomething between a laugh and a scoff escapes before you can stop it.
And then, clear and cold as the frost lining the ground, you speak. âYou are not, nor have you ever been, my mother.â
Her face crumblesâsomething mean and desperate and bitter flashes in her eyes. You rip your arm from her grasp roughly, stepping back, the distance between you and her never feeling more infinite.
John moves forward instantly, sliding between you like a shield forged of wrath and reverence. He doesnât even look at her when he speaks next.
âSimon,â he says, voice sharp. âTake her. And anyone else inside whoâs raised their hand to an omega.â Simon doesnât hesitate. His gauntlet closes over your stepmotherâs arm, this time far less gently than hers had held you.
âIâll scream,â she shrieks. âIâll tell them youâve all gone mad, you canât do thisâ!â
But her voice is already fading as Simon hauls her toward the gate, guards moving in to sweep the house. Somewhere in the background you hear the muffled screeches of your stepsisters being pulled from their feathered gowns and powdered lies.
But none of that matters right now.
John turns to you, his broad frame casting a long shadow in the frost-tinged light. His voice is quiet, but thereâs no mistaking the command threaded into the softness.
âCome with me.â
You blink up at him, chest still tight with adrenaline and disbelief.
âTo the castle?â you ask, as if itâs a foreign land, too far removed from everything youâve ever known.
âYes. Come with me. Let me protect you. Let me show you what it means to be truly safe.â He hesitates. âTo be cared forâŠproperly.â
His words are a balm and a blade all at once. You feel the weight of your past pulling you back, whispering that this is too much, too soon. But the future is tugging harder nowâand it wears the face of a man whose wrath burns for your pain and whose hands have only ever steadied you.
You nodâbarely, shakilyâbut itâs enough.
He exhales and mounts his horse in one fluid, practiced motion. With an outstretched arm, he reaches for you. You hesitate for only a moment before slipping your fingers into his. He lifts you up effortlessly, settling you in front of him, arms bracketing you on either side as the horse beneath you shudders to life.
âHold on,â he murmurs into your ear.
And you do.
The two of you gallop through the icy fields beneath the crescent moon, the wind biting and sharp, but you barely feel it. Not with the warmth of him pressed against your back, not with the thundering of hooves that match the beat of your heart. The frost-covered trees of the forest blur into streaks of silver and black as you ride toward the place that once felt so far out of reach.
The castle looms ahead, majestic and severe, its spires slicing the sky like blades of glass. As you break through the final tree line, a bell tolls overhead â the alarm of return, signaling that the King is home.
The guards at the gate scramble, the drawbridge lowers, and murmurs ripple through the courtyard as the steed comes to a skidding halt on the cobblestones.
But John doesnât let you linger. He dismounts first, hands firm at your waist as he lifts you downâlike youâre made of starlight and silk, not the ash and bone you feel like.
Court members begin to approachâadvisors and lords and hovering noblewomen with curious eyes and sharper tonguesâbut John ignores them all.
With a hand at the small of your back, he guides you inside, fast and purposeful, his presence slicing through the crowd like a blade.
He doesnât slow until youâre halfway up the grand stairway.
There, he spots a maid, pale and wide-eyed at the sight of the king.
âYou,â John commands, voice smooth but edged in authority. âGo to my chambers. Draw a bath. Make sure itâs warmâhot, but not scalding. And bring the softest nightgown in the palace. Silk. Not lace. Sheâs not to wear anything thatâll scratch.â
The maid nods frantically, already turning to hurry up the stairs.
You stare at him, stunned. âYou donât have toââ
âI want to,â he cuts in, gaze intense but gentle. âYou deserve care. Comfort. Dignity.â
He leans closer, voice dipping as he adds, âLet me give that to you.â
You swallow thickly, the warmth creeping up your throat surprising you more than anything.
You donât speak as he leads you again, deeper into the castle and away from the stares and whispers.
Youâve never felt so exposed.
The bath is drawn by the time you arrive at his chambersâsteam curling softly into the air, the scent of lavender and sandalwood curling through the marble room like a lullaby. You hover by the door, unsure, your limbs trembling despite the warmth.
The maid curtsies nervously as John enters behind you, but before she can reach for a cloth or a vial of oil, John raises a hand.
âThatâll be all,â he says firmly. âLeave us.â
She blinks. âYour Majestyââ
âI said leave.â
Thereâs no anger in his tone, but the finality in it is unshakable. She dips her head quickly and scurries out, closing the doors behind her. Youâre alone with him now. The fire crackles quietly in the hearth. The bath beckons like a silken dream.
Still, you hesitate.
He turns to you slowly, voice softer now. âNo one else touches you. Not unless you want them to.â You glance away, unsure if your cheeks are burning from the heat or his words.
He steps closer, hands patient. âLet me help you.â
You nod, eyes wide and silent, as he peels away the remnants of your torn, dirt-smudged dress. His jaw ticks at the bruises that decorate your armsâfaint but there. Like ghosts. As you step into the bath, the heat nearly steals the breath from your lungs. The water hugs you, wraps around you, welcomes you.
John kneels beside the tub, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and picks up a cloth. He dips it in, wrings it out slowly, and begins to wash you.
His touch is gentle, reverent even, but you can see the fire burning in his eyes as he wipes away the grime and blood. Like heâs angry at the filth itself, like he wants to curse every inch of the pain someone else put on you.
âYou shouldnât have had to live like this,â he mutters, voice thick.
You look away, blinking quickly. âYou donât know me.â
âI know enough.â He drags the cloth down your back, careful around a healing scrape. âI know what I saw. What I smelled. What I felt.â The cloth falls away replaced by his fingers threading through your hair gently.
Silence hangs heavy for a moment, until you speak, voice barely above the water. âMy mother used to wash my hair like this. When I was small.â
His hand pauses briefly in the water, then resumesâslower now, gentler.
âWhat happened to her?â he asks softly.
âShe died,â you say. âA long time ago. Fever took her. After that⊠the house changed.â
He doesnât say anything, his fingers combing through your hair with delicate care. He uses a vial of rose oil, lathering your scalp like itâs a sacred thing.
âIâm sorry,â he finally says. âShe must have been kind, given you remember her with warmth.â
You hum, eyes fluttering shut. âShe never once raised her voice. She smelled like violets and cinnamon.â
A small smile plays at the corner of his mouth. âNow I see where your scent came from.â
You chuckle softly, tiredly, and he brushes his thumb over your cheek. His eyes stare into yours, his lips twitch upwards like heâs simply happy just looking at you.
When the water begins to cool, he helps you stand. He doesnât stare. He doesnât leer. He just wraps you in a thick towel and pats your skin dry, careful not to let you get chilled. Then he lifts the nightgownâso soft it might be woven from cloudsâand slips it gently over your head.
The fabric clings to you like a whisper, and you gasp at the feeling. âIâve never worn anything like this,â you murmur.
âYouâll never wear anything rough again.â he says simply.
He leads you to the chair by the fire and takes another towel to your damp hair, rubbing it gently, slowly. His hands are warm against your scalp, grounding you.
Your eyelids begin to droop under the weight of exhaustion and something elseâsomething you havenât felt in so long you nearly forgot the word.
Safety.
You barely register the shift in the room as he stands. Your lashes flutter, struggling against the pull of sleep, but you feel himâsolid and carefulâas he lifts you from the chair with ease.
You donât protest. Instead your arms curl instinctively around his neck, your cheek pressed against his chest, where you can hear the steady beat of his heart. Itâs strong. So unlike your own, which flutters like a nervous bird caught in a storm.
He doesnât speak. Just holds you tightly, protectively, like youâre something precious. The soft rustle of bedding greets you as he eases you down onto the mattress, the sheets warmer than you imagined. You sink into them, the plush pillows and furs swallowing you whole.
John pulls the heavy blankets over you, tucking them around your body like youâre fragile glass. He brushes your hair back once more, fingertips gentle on your temple. âIâll stay,â he murmurs. âIf you want.â
You blink up at him, voice thick and quiet. âI⊠do.â Something unspoken passes between you. A thread of need. Of understanding.
He climbs in behind you without another word, his strong body curling protectively around yours. One arm wraps over your waist, pulling you close until your back is pressed to his chest. His nose buries into your still-damp hair, breathing you in like he needs the scent to survive the night.
You let out a soft sigh, melting into the warmth, into him. For the first time in years, your muscles loosen completely. For the first time in years, you donât fear the dreams that will come.
He whispers something in a language you donât recognize against the nape of your neck. It sounds like a promise. You fall asleep wrapped in it.
Summary: On a quiet train bound for the countryside, a young woman meets a stranger whose gaze she cannot forget. In a world ruled by propriety and silence, their hearts speak in glances, letters, and pauses between words.
Pair: Reader x Lord! Sylus
Tags: SFW, Slowburn, Yearning, Forced proximity , Edwardian era, Romance, Fluff, subtle affection, Friends to misunderstanding to lovers. Mourning the death of a mother.
You get injected with an unknown toxin and now your loyal teammates are determined to help ease your suffering.
â pairing: Task Force 141 Ă fem!141!Reader
â cw: 18+ | sex pollen; dubcon/fuck or die; dd:dne; medical & military inaccuracies; pining; hurt/comfort; angst; fluff; cum and orgasms as the antidote; wc: 12k+
author's note: This has been in my drafts for two years đ And she would've said yes to all of them.
"We need some answers, Kate. Now." Captain Price's voice booms inside the spacious briefing room.
He's practically pacing in front of the desk like some anxious K-9, arms folded over his plate carrier as he keeps his sharp eyes trained on Laswell and the two scientists sitting behind their laptops, staring at their respective screens.
Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captainâall waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.
You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.
You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.
You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your directionâdifferent-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.
Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.
Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.
"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on thatâwhatever that bioweapon is."
Bioweapon.
Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closerâtwo strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.
"Easy there, Johnâ" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.
"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low⊠apparently."
Apparently?!
You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.
"That is correct, sir. She won't die."
Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.
"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."
A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbsâlike they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too longâand process the doctor's words instead.
"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.
"Fuckinâ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.
When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeplyâmusk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.
It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.
And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.
What the hell is happening?
Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.
Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.
"What kind of bloody toxin?"
"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but⊠uh, wellâabout fifty times worse than that."
The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.
"The reports say it turns menâ"
Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.
"Turns them what, doc?"
It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."
The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.
"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."
Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortableâGhost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.
Using a toxin like thatâa bioweaponâon soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.
"Waitâwhat? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.
"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"
Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amusedâthe latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.
Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.
"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"
A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.
"I feel weird."
You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.
Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tinglingâfrom your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.
Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.
"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.
Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms andâto your horrorâthey linger.
The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.
You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.
And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.
Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.
"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.
In a matter of seconds, your teamâGhost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassuranceâare by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.
Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.
"KateâKate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.
Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.
"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.
"It'sâit's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's stillâ" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "âbad."
Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of himâit's not their fault, after all.
It's his.
"Oxytocin might help⊠neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.
"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "ânot the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.
Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.
"Cap'n! What do we do?!"
You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.
Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.
Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.
All that matters is someone touching you.
Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.
"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."
"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.
"I'll call the senior consultant."
Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotchâby accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagineâand leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.
Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.
Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of foodâwhether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his placeâyou twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.
"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.
Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.
"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system andâ"
Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."
Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.
"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, pleaseâ"
Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.
Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.
"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.
"She can't consent!"
It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.
"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help ifâ"
John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.
"Those doctors said it might help if she⊠climaxes."
His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.
"ShitâBabygirl, no, d-don'tâ" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.
He pushes you away by your shouldersâand hates himself for how reluctant he is at itâand he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.
"Please, Kyle⊠Let meâ" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "ItâIt fuckinâ hurts."
Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, yeâre fuckinâ killin' us here."
"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.
"And you, Garrick, takeâ" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.
"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and⊠help her."
The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.
Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.
"But sirâ"
Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.
"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."
Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.
The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.
Not asked, ordered to.
He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.
He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers doâthey trust the chain of command and they execute.
This doesn't feel like any of those things.
He keeps the bathroom door unlockedâjust in case you faint and he needs helpâand lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.
"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.
"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.
Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.
This is not how he'd imagined it.
He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by stepâthe restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.
He hadn't planned any of that.
Fucking liar.
You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.
"Kyle⊠Kyle, I needâ"
"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."
He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.
You're still in your underwearâplain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexyâand it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.
He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.
You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.
Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.
"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.
Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.
You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.
Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Triggerâ
"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finallyâfinallyâlets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.
"Yesâyesâyesâ" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.
Fuckâfuckâfuckâfuck.
He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.
His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills againâclear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your cornersâanything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.
You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'dâ
No. He's not going there.
"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."
He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.
His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.
You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.
"M-more, Kyle, please!"
Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.
Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.
He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.
"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."
He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its placeâsomething tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.
Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.
"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."
You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.
Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.
He doesnât want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.
When you tell him that you're hurtingârepeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yoursâthe young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.
"KyleâKyle, I need more, I need you toâpleaseâFuck, please!"
He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.
"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."
"Pleaseâ"
"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."
He drops to his knees instead.
The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.
He looks up at you onceâyour hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your bodyâand then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.
The sound you make is devastating.
Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.
Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.
He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing thisâyou're not choosing himâand that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.
But he doesn't stop.
Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.
"I needâ" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."
Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.
But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.
He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.
"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."
You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it openâ
And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.
"Soap!"
The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.
Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenchedâhis compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.
"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"
Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."
"Checking onâ" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.
"She needsâ" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.
"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.
Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nodâthe kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.
"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ahâve got 'er."
Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverentâone hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shouldersâand he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.
Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.
He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.
Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.
There is no need to.
Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.
He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.
By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.
It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, heâd be worried about himself if it did.
"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."
And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavishâhe doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.
That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.
Christ, you're beautiful.
He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.
He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.
He's thought about it a lot.
But not like this.
"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.
Close enough.
"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."
He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.
He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.
"Fuckâtha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."
He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.
Let them hear.
His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm awayâoverstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same timeâhe follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.
"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."
He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.
Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.
He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lipsâJohnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnnyâhe nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.
His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.
But he doesn't stop.
He is physically incapable.
You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneathâthe toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slickâand he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.
"Godâfuckâlass, ye taste so fuckin' goodâ"
He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.
The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. Heâs a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.
"Pleaseâplease, Johnny, I needâI can'tâ"
"I know, hen, I knowâ" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "âjus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"
He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.
Inside his combat pants.
His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.
He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.
"MacTavish."
Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.
Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."
"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.
"Get yourself sorted. Now."
Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.
Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.
"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.
"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.
You don't notice the shift at first.
One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.
You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.
A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.
"Don't."
One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.
Ghost.
He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would meanâhe doesn't finish the thought.
Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.
You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.
He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.
Ghost pretends it isnât. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.
"SimonâŠ"
His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first nameânone of them doâand hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.
"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.
"Don't wantâ"
"Wasn't bloody askinâ."
He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistakeâthe critical, tactical, unforgivable mistakeâis that he looks at your face next.
Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.
Not with lustânot the way you looked at Gaz and Soapâbut with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.
Trust.
You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.
Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.
"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your headâjust his palm, just enough to support your neckâand lifts the bottle to your lips.
You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.
"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.
You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too longâhis thumb brushing once against the nape of your neckâbefore he pulls it back like he's been burned.
You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.
"Stay. Please. Don'tâDon't go."
"'M not goinâ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.
He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.
You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.
Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.
Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.
But.
His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.
Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.
You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.
"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.
"Yeah."
"It hurts."
He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightlyâa fraction more weight, a fraction more warmthâand his throat works around words that don't come.
He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors saidâwhat Price saidâand he knows what would fix it, and he can't.
Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.
Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.
Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.
It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.
So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.
You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.
He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.
Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.
Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.
In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.
"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."
Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.
"It's not enough, is it."
It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.
"She's still in pain. She keepsâ" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying sheâs in pain."
The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.
"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.
"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.
"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."
He looks at each of them in turnâGaz, then Soapâand holds until he gets a nod from both.
"And we tell Ghost."
Ghost doesn't agree.
He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.
And then: "No."
Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"
"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."
Soap opens his mouthâprobably to say something spectacularly unhelpfulâand Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.
Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.
"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."
No one dares to argue.
Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.
The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.
You look small.
That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.
You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.
But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.
He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.
"Sergeant."
You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognitionâCaptainâbefore it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.
"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it stillâ"
"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and itâs rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."
He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.
You'll keep hurting. Under his command.
He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.
"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."
His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.
This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.
He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.
This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.
He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.
"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."
He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.
Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.
You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.
It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.
Price reaches for the condom on the nightstandâGaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthoughtâand tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.
He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.
Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.
He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.
"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."
Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expressionârecognition, maybe awareness, youâand finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.
"If it's too much, yâtell me. That's a bloody order."
You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.
He lowers you onto him slowly.
The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.
You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.
"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.
You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.
Almost.
He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.
And he hatesâChrist, he hatesâhow fucking good you feel.
He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his nameânot his rank, not Captain, but Johnâand the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.
Hates that he doesn't want to stop.
Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "JohnâJohnâoh godâ"
His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulderânot kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.
You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.
For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.
Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.
He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity
He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."
You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.
Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.
"Garrick. You're up."
Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.
Where the first round was clinical in its own wayâGaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of commandâthis his round is rawer.
The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.
Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.
He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.
"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."
He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.
Soap goes after. He's not gentleâcan't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harderâbut he's present.
He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.
"Tha's it, sweetheart, take itâfuck, yer soâfuckâ"
The condoms run out after Soap's first round.
Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his faceâthe quiet oh, shitâwould be funny in any other context.
"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."
Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.
"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."
It should be simple, and itâs anything but.
Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.
"Shitâshit, I'm sorry, Iâfuckâ"
He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.
Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.
"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."
"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."
And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.
Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.
The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinalâthe toxin, working its way out of your pores at lastâand you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.
The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.
You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.
Ghost enters the room without being asked.
He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.
He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.
He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.
You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.
Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.
"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.
You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.
"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."
Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.
In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whiskyâthree fingers this timeâand drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.
Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.
How is she?
He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.
Handled. Debrief in the morning.
He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.
Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.
The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.
The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.
The third thing is the balaclava.
You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.
Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.
You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.
The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing needâall of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.
And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.
Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.
The shower. The water. Voices.
John.
Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.
You lie very still.
The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking upâvehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.
You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.
Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.
Neither of you says a word.
His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.
The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.
Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.
"How do you feel?"
You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.
"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.
Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."
His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.
Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.
You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.
â„ pairing: firefighter!sylus qin x pastry chef!reader
â„ summary: âIt started with smoke, and a voice that made the panic go quiet. A firefighter who carries her out of the flames â and goes back in for her kitten. She just wanted to rebuild. Find somewhere new. Keep her kitten and herself safe. She didnât expect him. She didnât expect any of this. But the best things donât always ask for permission. And falling in love, as it turns out, is no exception.â
â„ genre: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)
â„ word count: 100k+ (I look away đ«Ł I am insane and not normal about sylus <3)
â„ status: completed
â„ warnings/tags: alternative universe, firefighter!lads au, idiots in love, mutual pining, strangers to friends to lovers, reader/mc experiencing a fire, smoke inhalation, mild hurt/comfort, thunderstorm, storms, slow burn, very long fic, emotional/sensitive!reader, playful banter, sylus the rage baiter. kitty and the lads shenanigans. slice of life, mutual masturbation, size difference. reader is shorter than sylus. reader is always audhd coded in my writing but anyone can read it. sylus is soft for reader, flirting/teasing, inexperienced/virgin!reader. dry humping, grinding, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, just in overall soft!sylus. sub!reader, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, size kink, a bit of daddy kink oop!?, oral fixation, breeding kink, praise kink, pet names (kitten. sweetie. sweetheart etc.), pleasure dom!sylus, aftercare.
this goes without saying, but if you donât like it donât read it <3
AO3 âą masterlist
San Francisco in the late evening had a particular kind of quiet that youâd never quite managed to find anywhere else.
Not silence â the city was never truly silent â but a settling. The way the fog rolled in from the bay and softened the edges of everything: the streetlights blurring gold, the distant clang of a cable car, the muffled laughter spilling out of a restaurant as its last table of the night lingered over wine. The hills that had punished your calves every single morning for three years now felt, somehow, gentler at this hour. Like the city was breathing out.
You loved it. You loved it in the way you loved all quiet, unhurried things â deeply and without apology.
Your feet were protesting by the time you turned onto your street, the particular ache of someone who had been standing since four in the morning settling into your shoes with cheerful vengeance. There was flour somewhere in your hair that youâd given up trying to locate around hour eleven, and your apron â abandoned on its hook at Miel â had probably taken most of the dayâs evidence with it, but your forearms still wore a fine dusting of it at the creases of your elbows, and there was a smear of raspberry coulis on the inside of your wrist that youâd missed in the wash-up.
You didnât particularly mind.
Fourteen hours. A batch of croissants that had finally, finally cooperated after two failed attempts at laminating the dough. A birthday cake for a little girl named Sophie that had taken the better part of the afternoon and that you were quietly, fiercely proud of. A broken display stand, a near-miss with a tray of financiers, and Leah â your most senior employee and your closest best friend â singing along, off-key and without shame, to whatever was playing through the bakery speaker while she restocked the cases.
A good day, in other words. Tiring in the bone-deep way that only good days could be.
You climbed the front steps of your building, dug your keys from your bag, and let yourself in.
Mrs. Beaumontâs cats found you before youâd fully cleared the door.
âHi, babies,â you said, dropping to a crouch in the entryway with the automatic ease of someone who had done this every evening for two weeks now. Mochi wound himself around your ankles, motor already running; Biscuit regarded you from across the room with the specific aristocratic skepticism he reserved for anyone who wasnât his actual owner. And then, picking her way carefully across the floor in her soft, rolling wobble â each step considered, each small paw placed with a deliberateness that you found endlessly endearing â came Stella.
âThere she is,â you said softly.
She blinked up at you with her mismatched eyes, one pale blue and one gold, and you reached down and let her sniff your fingers before scooping her up, very gently, the way you always did. She was white as fresh cream and had a personality that could only be described as aggressively curious. She was so small. Even for five months old, she was so small, her legs a little shorter than they should have been, her whole compact body fitting neatly against your palm. The vet had explained the dwarfism with calm, clinical kindness, and Mrs. Beaumont had received the news with the equanimity of a woman who had seen everything and loved her cats regardless â but you, the first time Stella had wobbled across the floor toward you instead of away, had felt something shift very quietly in your chest and had not fully shifted it back.
You fed all three of them, tidied the water bowls, ate some left overs from last night and made yourself a cup of tea that you drank standing at the kitchen window watching the fog thicken over the rooftops.
Then you showered, changed into your softest pajamas, and sat on the sofa for approximately seven minutes before your body voted unanimously for unconsciousness.
The candle on the side table was still burning when you fell asleep.
It was vanilla-scented â a gift from your mother, sent in a box with a note that said for ambience, sweetheart, your apartment looks too sterile in photos. It needs to be cozier â and it threw a warm, amber light across the room that was genuinely lovely and that youâd fully intended to blow out after your tea.
You forgot.
And Stella, as it turned out, had been watching the flame with great interest for some time.
â§âË âŸ. âËâĄâĄ
You woke to the smoke alarm.
For a long, disoriented moment you simply lay there, blinking at the ceiling, your brain cycling slowly through the fog of deep sleep trying to locate the source of the sound. Fire alarm, it supplied eventually, with the unhurried authority of a thought that had not yet grasped the full weight of its own message. Fire alarm meansâ
The smell hit you.
You were off the sofa before you were fully conscious, your feet hitting the floor and your body moving on pure animal instinct while your mind scrambled to catch up. The living room was so wrong. The air was wrong, thick and grey at the edges, and the curtain was a tongue of orange that climbed the wall with terrifying enthusiasm, eating upward like it was hungry, like it had been waiting.
Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.
âMochi,â you said, and then louder, sharper, your voice finding itself fast: âMochi. Biscuit. Come here ââ
The older cats were easier. Mochi, the fat tabby, came when called out of sheer automatic habit; Biscuit had already retreated to the bathroom at the far end of the hallway, which had the good sense to be away from the smoke. You scooped them both â one tucked under each arm, Mochi yowling his protest directly into your ear â and got them out into the corridor, setting them down near the stairwell where a neighbor already hovering in their doorway immediately stepped in.
âIs there anyone elseââ
âStella.â You were already turning back. âSmall, white kitten, she canât move fast, I have toââ
âYou cannot go back in thereââ
But your body was already making the decision.
You went back in.
The smoke hit you immediately â thicker than it had been thirty seconds ago, lower, meaner, the kind that got into your throat and stayed there. You dropped to a crouch and pulled your shirt up over your nose and it helped, barely, the cotton filtering almost nothing.
âStella,â you called. Your voice came out wrong already, rougher than it should have been. âStella, baby, where are youââ
Nothing. No small white shape. No wobbling little figure picking her way toward you.
You pressed further in, past the doorframe, staying low, your free hand trailing the wall. The heat from the living room was enormous now â a physical pressure against your face and arms, your skin prickling with it. Through the smoke you could see the glow of the fire painting the walls amber and orange, consuming the curtain completely, beginning to crawl across the ceiling.
âStella.â Louder. Desperate. Your voice cracked on the second syllable and didnât recover. âPlease, please come out, pleaseââ
The smoke found your lungs then. Really found them.
The cough started low and became immediately violent â your whole body seizing around it, your eyes flooding, the wall the only thing keeping you upright as your knees went uncertain beneath you. You couldnât get a clean breath. Every inhale brought more of it, thick and chemical and hot, and your vision was starting to swim at the edges in a way that frightened you more than the fire did because you recognized it, distantly, as your body beginning to lose the argument.
âStellaââ The word dissolved into coughing again. You pressed your forehead against the wall, tried to breathe slow, tried to think. She was here. She had to be here. She was small and scared and she couldnât run fast and you were not leaving without her, you were notâ
Your legs buckled.
You caught yourself on the doorframe with both hands, barely, your arms shaking with the effort of it. The smoke alarm was still screaming overhead. The glow from the living room was getting brighter. You were crouched in a burning hallway and you couldnât stand up properly and you still couldnât find her and the panic was enormous now, shapeless and roaring, drowning out everything elseâ
The hallway door burst open.
Boots on the floor. Radio crackling. And then a figure in full gear was moving through the smoke toward you with a speed that made no concession whatsoever to the conditions â not slowing, not hesitating, crossing the distance between you in seconds and dropping to his knees right beside you.
âHey.â His voice came through the visor, low and immediate, and there was a quality to it that cut right through the roaring in your head â the kind of calm that simply existed, that didnât negotiate with chaos, that arrived and took up all the space the panic had been using. His gloved hand came to your shoulder. âHey. Look at me.â
You tried. Your eyes were streaming and your lungs were burning and your legs were still refusing to cooperate but you tried.
âThe kittenââ It came out as barely a rasp. âSheâs still in there, she canât move fast, she has dwarfism, she hides lowââ
âWhat does she look like.â
Not a question. A lifeline.
âWhite,â you managed, between coughs. âAll white. One blue eye, one gold. Please, sheâs so little, she doesnât â she doesnât understandââ Another cough tore through you, your whole body shaking with it, and this time your grip on the doorframe slipped completely.
He caught you before you hit the floor.
One arm beneath your knees, one at your back, and you were up â lifted clean and fully off the ground in one motion, tucked against his chest before youâd fully registered what was happening. You made a sound of protest that came out as more coughing, your hands gripping the front of his gear weakly, and he adjusted his hold without comment, his grip absolutely certain, the kind of secure that didnât ask you how you felt about it.
âWaitââ you started, between shuddering breaths.
âIâll get her,â he said. Flat. Unarguable. The most unshakeable four words you had ever heard. âBut youâre coming out first.â
He was already moving. Long, even strides back down the hall, angling your face away from the worst of the smoke, shielding you with the bulk of his body. His hand came briefly to the back of your head, pressing your face into his shoulder, away from the air you couldnât breathe â and the gesture was so deliberate, so careful, that something in your chest cracked quietly open alongside the panic.
The stairwell door. The stairs, fast. Another figure in gear passing you on the way up, voices coordinating above you, the buildingâs alarm still screaming.
And then the night air, cold and clean, flooding into your lungs like water into a dry riverbed.
You coughed through it, great gasping coughs, your whole body shuddering with relief and with the aftermath of the smoke. He carried you clear of the entrance before he set you down, slowly, carefully, on the front steps â one hand staying at your arm until he was sure your legs would hold. They held. Barely.
You looked up at him. The visor reflected the red and white of the trucks at the curb. His grip at your arm loosened, but didnât disappear.
âStay here,â he said.
Your throat was raw. You managed one word.
âPlease.â
Just that. He understood it completely.
He held your gaze through the visor for a beat longer than necessary.
Then he turned, and walked back into the burning building without a momentâs hesitation.
â§âË âŸ. âËâĄâĄ
The next four minutes were the longest of your life.
You sat on the cold stone step in your pajamas â soft cotton shorts and a worn oversized tee that said MIEL across the chest in faded pink letters â with your arms wrapped around your knees and your eyes fixed on the door heâd disappeared through. The street outside was lit up red and white, two fire trucks angled at the curb, more figures in gear moving with that same particular controlled urgency. A paramedic appeared at your elbow and tried to get you to move further back, and you did, a little, just enough to technically comply, but you kept your eyes on the door.
Someone put a blanket around your shoulders. You didnât feel it.
Sheâs so little, you thought, and the thought had a specific texture to it, a tightness behind your sternum that had nothing to do with the smoke youâd inhaled and everything to do with the image of Stella wobbling between pieces of furniture, her small uncertain gait, the way she always tilted her head at you when you called her name like she was giving the question serious consideration before committing to an answer.
Please, you thought at the door. Please.
And then he came out.
He came out the way heâd gone in â unhurried, deliberate â and cradled against his chest, small and white and very much alive, was Stella.
The sound you made was embarrassing. You were dimly aware of that even as you made it â a soft, undignified noise somewhere between a gasp and a sob â and then you were crossing the distance between you and him, the blanket falling off your shoulders, your arms already reaching.
âOh,â you breathed. âOh, thank you â thank youââ
Stella, characteristically, seemed unbothered. She was blinking at you with her mismatched eyes, her tiny white nose twitching, apparently of the opinion that being carried through a burning building by a large man in fireproof gear was simply another thing on the agenda of this evening.
âShe was under the bathroom sink,â he said. âSecond shelf.â
âOf course she was.â You laughed, wet and wobbly, pressing your face briefly against the top of Stellaâs small head. âOf course. Thatâs her spot.â
And then â because it was over, because she was safe, because the adrenaline was finally metabolizing into something softer and more complicated â your eyes filled.
You blinked hard. Refused to cry in front of a stranger. Succeeded only partially.
When you looked up, he was taking off his helmet.
You werenât prepared for that.
He was incredibly handsome.
That was the thought that arrived first, and it arrived without apology. Unreasonably, almost unfairly handsome â all clean sharp angles and a jawline that had no business existing on a person who had just walked out of a burning building, the silver hair falling loose from the helmet slightly damp at the temples, catching the red and white light of the trucks in a way that made it look almost luminous. And his eyes â red, a deep extraordinary red, like a garnet held up to a flame â found Stella immediately. Found you, specifically, with a directness that made the breath youâd only just recovered feel suddenly scarce again.
And he was tall. Considerably, almost unreasonably tall. With the helmet off and the bulk of the gear still on his shoulders, he had the kind of frame that made the space around him rearrange itself slightly, the kind that you registered not just visually but physically â a shift in the air, a gravitational awareness.
You became suddenly very aware that you were standing in the street at â you checked the clock on someoneâs phone nearby â eleven forty-seven at night, in cotton pajama shorts, holding a small wobbly kitten, with tear tracks on your cheeks.
âHi,â you said, which was perhaps the least adequate thing you had ever said in your life.
Something moved at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. Something that looked more like someone who was trying to restrain himself from smirking with amusement.
âHi,â he said.
âIââ You adjusted Stella against your chest. She began to purr, apparently delighted with herself. âThank you. I mean it. I â sheâs â thank you.â You were running out of words. You were running out of everything. âI donât even know your name.â
He looked at you for a moment the way he had in the hallway â that brief, assessing pause that somehow managed to feel less like evaluation and more like attention.
âSylus,â he said.
You nodded. Filed it somewhere careful. Somewhere youâd find it again.
âThank you, Sylus,â you said softly.
He held your gaze for a beat longer than was strictly necessary.
Then one of his colleagues appeared at his shoulder â shorter, purple-haired, with the particular energy of someone who had noticed something and was actively enjoying it â and said something into his ear that made Sylusâs jaw shift in a way that looked very much like suppressed irritation.
âRafayel,â Sylus said, with the tone of someone pronouncing a sentence.
âIâm just saying,â the colleague said, and his grin was absolutely incorrigible, âyou were in there a while for aââ
âGo check the perimeter.â
Rafayel looked at you, looked at Sylus, and looked extremely pleased with himself. âRight. Perimeter. Absolutely. Very important.â He backed away with the energy of a man who had already won something. âTake your time.â
You looked back at Sylus.
Sylus looked back at you with the expression of someone who had made peace with his colleagues being exactly who they were and had simply incorporated that peace into his daily existence.
âYou should have the paramedics check you over,â he said. âSmoke inhalation.â
âIâm alright.â
âThatâs for them to confirm.â He said it without inflection, but it landed less like a command and more like â something else. Something that sat just adjacent to concern and didnât quite announce itself.
You nodded. Held Stella a little closer.
He put his helmet back on â the deliberate, practiced motion of it, the way his hands moved with the ease of long repetition â and then he paused, and for one suspended second he looked at you again over his shoulder.
âKeep her away from candles,â he said.
You laughed â a real one, surprised out of you.
âI will,â you said. âI really, really will.â
He turned away. Back toward the building, back toward the colleagues and the crackling radios and the controlled, purposeful world he occupied with such extraordinary ease.
You stood in the street in your pajamas with your kitten and watched him go and thought, with the particular clarity of a mind that has just been thoroughly rattled and is now reassembling itself:
Oh.
Oh, thatâs going to be a problem.
â§âË âŸ. âËâĄâĄ
Stella purred against your chest, unconcerned.
The city moved around you, indifferent, the way it always did.
You looked at the door heâd walked back through.
You thought about red eyes finding yours through smoke-thick air. About a voice that made the panic subside for a little bit. About the way heâd said Iâll get her like it was the simplest thing â like it was simply the thing that needed to be done and therefore he would do it.
You pressed your face against the top of Stellaâs head again.
âDonât tell anyone,â you told her quietly.
She blinked her little eyes at you.
Said nothing and kept your secret.
â§âË âŸ. âËâĄâĄ
read the rest on ao3 <3
bonus: this is stella trying to bite yâalls phones
20K words, Simonâs hair has grown out, reader wears glasses, Simon doesnât know how to dance, smut, the fluffiest fluff, angst, size kink, Simon is huge, pee mentioned, Simon is filthy but we all knew that. Tell me if I missed any tags.
He was four years old when he stole your crayons.
Not all of them. Just the good ones. The red one. The yellow one. The bright, sunflower-gold one that you'd been saving to colour the sun in the corner of your drawing, the way all four-year-olds drew the sun â a circle in the corner, rays shooting out like a child's idea of joy.
You looked at him across the low art table in that bright little preschool room that smelled of poster paint and digestive biscuits.
He was stocky even then.
Chubby-cheeked and heavy-set. A thick, sturdy little boy who sat with his legs wide and his fat fists curled around your crayons like he'd earned them.
He wasn't even looking at you.
He was colouring something â a car, maybe, or a blob that might have been a dog â and the yellow crayon moved in big, purposeful strokes across his paper.
You did not cry.
You considered it.
Then you leaned across the table and took them back.
He looked up.
Brown eyes. Even at four, they were startling â dark and serious and far too watchful for a boy his age.
He stared at you.
You stared back.
Then he slid the gold crayon back across the table to you, said nothing, and went back to his drawing.
His name was Simon.
You would not learn that until the register was called the following morning. But you remembered his eyes before you remembered his name.
â ⊠â
He broke your glasses in Year Two.
Not on purpose â or so you believed, for most of your life, until you were old enough to accept that
Simon Riley did very few things without purpose.
He knocked into you in the corridor outside the dining hall, your plastic NHS frames hitting the linoleum floor, one arm snapping clean off at the hinge.
You stood there, the world going soft and blurry at the edges the way it always did without them, and you felt the particular, humiliating sting of being unable to see properly â the vulnerability of it, the indignity.
Simon picked up the frames. Looked at them. Looked at you.
He didn't say sorry straight away. He examined the break with the seriousness of a boy who was already, at seven, very careful about what he said and when he said it. Then, "I'll carry your bag till they're fixed."
"You broke my glasses," you told him like he didnât know.
"I know." He nodded.
"That's not the same as fixing them."
"No," he agreed. "But it's what I've got."
He carried your bag for three days. And when your mum brought the repaired frames in on the fourth morning, he handed the bag back without ceremony, turned, and went to join his mates by the football cage. No further apology. No acknowledgement that anything had occurred between you at all.
That afternoon, you kicked over his sandcastle in the playground.
He watched you do it. Didn't say a word.
You felt better.
And somehow, after that, you were friends.
â ⊠â
He couldn't read very well. You figured this out in Year Three, during the round-robin reading in class â when the teacher went along the rows and each child read a sentence aloud.
You noticed the way Simon's jaw set and his hands went flat on the desk the closer it got to his turn. The way his eyes moved across the page, laboured and slow, tracking words like they were things to be wrestled rather than known.
He got through his sentence. Barely. His face was blank when he sat back, the particular blankness he'd already learned to wear â that carefully constructed nothing that meant everything was fine when everything was not fine at all.
You didn't say anything about it. Not then. You were eight years old, not stupid.
What you did was start reading with him at break time. You presented it as something you needed â you told him you were practising for a reading competition and needed an audience.
Simon was not fooled. He was never fooled, not really.
But he sat down with you on the bench by the library door and listened while you read, and then slowly, carefully, you handed the book to him and asked what he thought happened next, and he had to read ahead to find out.
It took most of the school year. But by the summer he was reading chapter books. He never thanked you. He did start saving you a seat on the library bench every break time, and that was the same thing.
â ⊠â
He played football and rugby.
You read on the grass bank above the field.
It became a kind of institution â the ritual of your shared proximity without shared activity. Simon on the pitch, broad and determined and already bigger than the other boys by Year Five, already moving with that particular physicality that seemed less like playing and more like declaration.
And you on the bank above, your book open, your reading glasses (a better pair now, tortoiseshell) perched on your nose, half-reading and half watching without ever quite admitting to the watching.
He always knew you were there. He didn't do anything about it. But sometimes, when he scored, he'd look up at the bank first before he looked anywhere else.
You told yourself you were only there because the grass was nice and the light was good.
You were not a good liar, even then.
â ⊠â
The boy's name was Daniel Holt and he pushed you over in the playground in Year Five because you'd refused to give him the answers to the maths homework.
You'd said no three times and the third time he pushed you and you went down hard on your palms and your knees, the concrete was unforgiving.
You were crying before you'd fully registered what had happened. Not dramatically â small, shocked, indignant tears, the kind that arrive before the pain does.
Simon was there before a teacher was. You didn't even see where he came from. One moment the playground was its ordinary mid-morning noise, and the next Daniel Holt had a split lip and Simon Riley was standing over him with blood on his knuckles and a look on his face that was completely, utterly calm.
The calm was the frightening part. Even at ten.
He got three days at home for it. He spent the first afternoon sitting on your front step, eating crisps, because he knew you'd be furious with him and wanted to face it head-on.
You were furious. You told him he was an idiot. He told you Daniel Holt had it coming. You told him violence wasn't the answer. He told you Daniel Holt wasn't going to touch you again.
He was right. Daniel Holt never came near you again.
You didn't thank him either. You went inside and made him a sandwich, and that was the same thing.
â ⊠â
Secondary school arrived like a change in weather â everything slightly larger, slightly louder, the corridors longer and noisier, the stakes somehow higher and more ambiguous all at once. You arrived with a bag so heavy your shoulder ached within the first hour: your textbooks, yes, but also the extracurricular books you carried everywhere, the extra notepad you used for non-school thoughts, the six different highlighters you colour-coded by subject.
Simon took the bag from you on the third day without asking.
"I can carry it," you told him.
"I know," he said.
He slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing, which for him it probably didn't. He'd grown over the summer â not just taller, though he was that, but broader, thicker through the shoulders in a way that made him look like a man playing a boy, trying the shape of it on. He wore it well, even at eleven. He wore everything like he'd already decided what he was and was simply waiting for the world to catch up.
He carried your bag when it was heavy, and it was frequently heavy. He did it without comment and without making you feel small for needing it. That was the thing about Simon â he never made you feel small. He made other people feel small, sometimes, when they deserved it. But not you. Never you.
â ⊠â
The bruises were never from rugby.
You knew by the second year of secondary.
You were not naive â you had read enough, observed enough, understood enough about the world to recognise the shape of what was happening in Simon Riley's house even though he never said a word about it.
The bruises were in the wrong places for rugby. They appeared in the wrong season. They were around his ribs and his arms and once, memorably, along his jaw, and he came to school the Monday after the jaw bruise with that face â that blank, carefully constructed nothing face â and you sat next to him at lunch and said nothing at all.
You said nothing because there was nothing you could do. You were twelve. You were a girl with a book bag and highlighter pens and absolutely no power over the man who was hurting your best friend, and knowing that â the impotence of it, the helpless, hollow ache of caring about someone you could not protect â was the first truly adult pain you ever felt.
What you could do was this: you could make sure he had somewhere to go.
Your mother, who was perceptive in the quiet way that some mothers are, never asked questions when Simon turned up at the back door on a Sunday evening or a Wednesday after school.
She just set another plate.
Your house became a refuge without anyone naming it as such. Simon did his homework at your kitchen table, ate your mother's cooking, watched telly with your family, and slept on your sofa sometimes when the option was presented naturally enough that it didn't feel like charity.
â ⊠â
You got your period for the first time on a Tuesday in November, in Year Nine. In the school toilets, third period, when you were thirteen years old and the day had been entirely ordinary right up until it wasn't.
The particular cocktail of shock and pain and embarrassment and the specific existential bewilderment of being a person whose body was doing something enormous without prior adequate notice left you sitting on the closed toilet lid crying in a way you hadn't cried in years.
You got out your Nokia. That familiar brick of a phone, the keypad worn smooth at the number five. You typed Simon's number and pressed call before you'd properly decided to.
He picked up on the second ring. "Yeah."
"Simon." Your voice came out wrong. Too thin.
A beat. When he spoke again his voice had changed â quieter, more careful. "Where are you?"
"Girls' toilets. Near the science block."
"Right," he said. "Stay there."
He appeared outside the girls' toilets seven minutes later â you could hear him through the door, his voice low and flat, telling a Year Eight girl to go use the other ones â and then he was there, right there on the other side of the door, talking to you through it in that steady, even way he had when he wanted to be calm on your behalf.
"You're alright," he said. âDo you need me to go to the office?"
"No," you managed. "I need â I don't know what I need."
"I'll get you something from the vending machine," he said, that Manchester accent of his low and unhurried. "And I'll text your mum."
When you came out of the toilets twenty minutes later, looking wrung-out and clutching what the school nurse had provided, Simon was leaning against the wall. He looked at you for a moment â took you in, the way he always did, that comprehensive, assessing look â and then he stepped forward and kissed your cheek. Quick. Certain. His mouth warm and deliberate against your cheekbone.
"You're alright," he said again. He said it like a fact. Like he was making it true by saying it.
You cried a bit more, for different reasons, and he pretended not to notice.
â ⊠â
He was captain of the rugby team by Year Ten. It suited him â the leadership, the sense of purpose, the structure of it.
You went to his matches sometimes, wrapped in a scarf on the touchline, and watched him move across the pitch with that same quality you'd noticed on the primary school field: less like playing, more like declaration.
He was ferocious and focused and occasionally frightening, and the other boys deferred to him not just because he was bigger than them but because he had the kind of authority that doesn't need to be announced.
Afterwards he'd find you on the touchline, still carrying that quality â coiled, alert â and it would take him a few minutes to come back to himself. To come back to you.
"Good game," you'd say.
"Yeah," he'd say.
And then slowly, the set of his shoulders would ease, and he'd become Simon again. Your Simon. The one who stole your crayons and carried your bag and ate your mother's shepherd's pie like it was sacred.
â ⊠â
He could make you laugh. This was not a small thing.
Simon Riley was not, by general consensus, a funny person. He was serious and quiet and his face in repose looked like a man carrying a private weather system. But he had a dry, deadpan wit that he deployed rarely and precisely, and it landed, every time, like a key in a lock made specifically for it.
He knew how to make you laugh because he'd spent years learning you. The specific frequency of your humour. The things that made you dissolve into giggles rather than just smile. He deployed his wit with the same precision he deployed everything else, and the result was that when Simon Riley made you laugh â really laugh, the helpless, breathless kind â it felt like being given something he didn't give to anyone else.
Which, you would eventually understand, was accurate.
â ⊠â
His name was Ryan Marsh and he was your first kiss, in the park on a Friday evening in Year Ten, and it was fine. It was nice, even. Ryan was sweet and nervous and smelled of his older brother's aftershave and the kiss lasted approximately forty seconds.
Ryan Marsh had a broken nose the following Monday.
Simon maintained, with total conviction, that Ryan had walked into a door. Ryan, to his credit, corroborated this story completely.
You did not push the matter, partly because you had no concrete evidence and partly because some part of you â the part that read on the grass bank and watched the pitch and noticed when Simon looked up at the bank before he looked anywhere else â felt something that was not entirely uncomplicated about it.
You and Ryan Marsh did not have a second kiss. You told yourself it was because the chemistry hadn't been right.
You were getting a bit better at lying to yourself, by fourteen. But only a bit.
â ⊠â
GCSEs arrived the way all important things arrived â with more weight than you'd expected and less warning than you'd have liked.
Year Ten and Eleven were the years you restructured Simon's entire approach to studying, methodically and patiently, the same way you'd helped him learn to read, finding the approach that worked for how his mind moved.
Simon was not unintelligent.
He was, in fact, formidably sharp in ways that didn't translate easily to an exam paper: quick to read people, quick to understand systems, possessed of a spatial and strategic intelligence that you recognised and admired even as you taught him how to write it down in ways that the mark scheme would accept.
He sat with you at your kitchen table night after night â your mother quietly replenishing the tea,â and you explained things in the language that made sense to his brain rather than the language of the textbook.
He sat with you at lunch during school hours and glared at anyone who called you a nerd. The glaring was extremely effective. Simon Riley's face, by fifteen, was a significant deterrent.
His GCSE results, when they arrived, were good. Better than anyone who knew his circumstances might have expected from a boy who'd had so much working against him.
He rang you on the house phone when he opened the results envelope. He didn't say much. His voice, when he spoke, was different â something in it unguarded, the Manchester in it softer somehow, without the armour it usually carried.
"Couldn't have done it without you," he said.
"You did it," you told him firmly. "I just held the torch."
"Still needed the torch."
You smiled so hard your face ached. "Go celebrate, Simon."
"Yeah," he said. And then, quieter, "Thanks, sunshine."
â ⊠â
He was an apprentice at the butcher's on Renshaw Street after school â learning the trade with the same focused, physical competence he brought to everything else, solid and unhurried, his big hands learning new kinds of precision. You had a job at the bookshop two streets over.
On his lunch breaks you would walk over with a sandwich and a packet of crisps, and you'd sit on the low wall around the side of the shop while he ate and you talked about nothing in particular and everything in general.
He had sawdust on his boots and you'd have ink on your fingers from pricing stickers, and you'd sit in the thin afternoon light talking about books and people and where things might go from here, and it was the most ordinary, irreplaceable thing in the world.
You didn't know, then, that you were storing it up. You didn't know you were in the middle of something finite.
You were seventeen and you thought you had time.
â ⊠â
It was the eleventh of September, 2001.
You were at work when it happened â the bookshop had a small television in the back room, and you watched the footage with your hand pressed over your mouth and the world rearranging itself into a new shape around you.
Simon came to you that evening. He didn't knock â he had a spare key, had done for years â and you heard him come in and go into the kitchen and fill the kettle, the sound of him so familiar and domestic and real that something in your chest loosened a fraction.
He brought you tea. He sat on the sofa beside you and you watched the news together in silence, and at some point your head found his shoulder without either of you deciding it had.
"I'm going to join up," he said. Not asking. Telling.
You lifted your head from his shoulder. Frowned at him. "Join up what?"
"The military."
The word landed in the room and stayed there. You looked at his face â that flat, certain expression he wore when he'd already decided something â and you felt the ground shift slightly under you.
"Simon. You're seventeen."
"You can join at sixteen with parental consent," he said. Straightforward, as though he'd already looked into it. Which of course he had. "Seventeen without."
"That'sâ" You stopped. Started again. "You've thought about this before today."
"Yeah."
Of course he had. You could see it now, the shape of it â this was not a reaction to the footage on the television, not a hot, impulsive thing. This was something Simon had been building toward without telling you. The structure of it. The purpose. The particular kind of belonging that came from being part of something larger than yourself. You'd always known he'd go toward something like this. You'd just hoped, without ever quite admitting to the hoping, that it might be further away.
"You're not going to try to talk me out of it." Not a question.
"Would it work?"
He held your gaze. "No."
"Then no," you said. Your voice was very steady. You were proud of it. "I'm not."
He was quiet for a long moment. The television continued its awful repetition. Then his arm came around your shoulders, heavy and warm, and he pulled you in closer against his side.
You stayed like that until the tea went cold.
â ⊠â
The train station was grey and noisy with other leavings, other arrivals, other people in the middle of things.
Simon stood in front of you on the platform with his kit bag and his big, careful hands and the face he'd spent seventeen years learning to keep blank, and it occurred to you, not for the first time and not for the last, that you loved him.
That you had loved him in different quantities and different registers for most of your life. That you did not know how to say it and were not sure it would do either of you any good if you did.
So you didn't say it.
You went up on your toes and you hugged him â truly hugged him, arms around his neck, your face pressed against his jaw â and he held you back with both arms, the kit bag dropping to the platform, and he was so solid and warm and real that you memorised it.
"Don't be an idiot," you told him, muffled.
He made a sound that was almost a laugh. Almost. "Best I can do is try." The Manchester in his voice, low and warm and his.
"Simon."
"I know," he said quietly, against your temple. "I know, sunshine."
You stepped back. You held it together. He picked up his bag and he walked toward the platform and at the door of the train he turned, and looked at you standing there with your glasses and your coat and your hands pressed together in front of you, and for a second you saw something in his face that wasn't blank at all.
Then he was gone.
You cried on the way home. Proper, ugly crying, in the front seat of your mother's car, while she drove and said nothing and passed you a tissue.
You cried because you thought you might never see him again. Because the world had cracked open on a Tuesday in September and people were going toward the fracture and Simon Riley was one of them.
You cried because you never told him.
â ⊠â
He sent a birthday card every year.
They arrived with no return address and postmarks from places you'd never heard of, and sometimes they were late and sometimes they were so early you suspected he'd sent them weeks in advance in case he couldn't later.
They were always plain â Simon Riley was not a man who browsed the sentimental section â white or cream envelopes, the kind of card that was almost generic, and inside: his handwriting, which had improved vastly from the boy who'd struggled across the page in Year Three, and always the same thing. Your name at the top. Happy Birthday, sunshine. And then: S.
Just S.
Like he was still close enough that you'd know exactly who that meant. Like the initial was sufficient.
It was.
You sent his birthday gifts to a P.O. box he'd given you, wrapped carefully, the tag always: From your best friend. You didn't know if he received them all. You sent them anyway. It felt important to keep sending them â to maintain the thread, even when you couldn't see both ends of it.
â ⊠â
Thirty-four years old now.
You have no husband. You had come close, once â a man named Patrick who had been perfectly acceptable in every measurable way and who had wanted to marry you and had probably deserved someone who could give him more of herself than you could manage.
You had not been fair to Patrick. You knew that. You had been in love with someone else for most of your adult life, and even with the someone else absent and silent and possibly dead, there wasn't room for anyone else.
You have no children, though you wanted them. The timeline on that was becoming its own quiet ache, the kind you didn't prod too often.
You have a job that pays the bills and not much else â admin in an office building that smells of carpet cleaner and recycled air, the kind of work that requires enough of your brain to stop it from wandering but not enough to satisfy it.
You have an apartment that is functional and yours and that you have tried to make cozy, with books on every surface and plants that are mostly surviving and a kitchen you actually cook in.
It is not the house. It is not the house you told Simon about when you were sixteen and lying in his back garden on a summer evening, staring up at the sky.
No birthday card for five years now.
Five years of the particular, specific silence that was different from all the silences before, because the silences before had been interrupted. Annually, reliably, he had broken them.
Five years of nothing had the texture of conclusion. Of a chapter closing. And you had reached the point â slowly, painfully, with the kind of acceptance that doesn't feel like acceptance but feels like exhaustion â where you were fairly certain Simon Riley was dead.
Your heart ached for your best friend in the low, constant way of grief that has become so familiar it's almost structural.
You carried it the way you carried other things, quietly, with your spine straight.
Which is why you are sitting across from a man named â it didn't matter, it really didn't matter what his name was â on what your colleague Debbie had described as 'a perfectly nice date with a perfectly nice man' and trying to remember what it felt like to be interested in your own life.
The man sitting across from you was the complete opposite of Simon Riley.
He was trim and well-dressed and had the kind of face that was handsome in a way that required no effort to appreciate and inspired no particular feeling from you.
He had been talking for, by your reckoning, forty-seven minutes. In that time he had covered: his career (impressive, in his telling), his car (expensive, in his telling), his last holiday (exotic, in his telling), and his general philosophy on modern dating (nuanced, in his telling).
He had not asked about your job. He had not asked about your books or the one peeking out of your handbag; the one he'd glanced at and not commented on. He had not asked if your pasta was nice, which it was, actually, genuinely nice, and you'd have told him so if he'd asked. He had not asked you almost anything, come to think of it.
Simon Riley, who spoke perhaps a tenth as many words as this man, had always asked.
Simon Riley had always wanted to know. Not because it was polite. Because he actually, genuinely, in the particular way of people who care about very few things very deeply â wanted to know.
You excused yourself to use the bathroom and stood at the sink running cold water over your wrists and looking at your own reflection, and you thought: this is fine.
This is a perfectly nice evening with a perfectly nice man. This is what moving forward looks like. This is what being a person in the world, a person with a life and a future and reasonable expectations of company, looks like.
You dried your hands. You went back to the table. He had ordered himself another drink without asking if you wanted anything.
You finished your pasta and smiled at appropriate intervals and thought about Simon Riley and felt, as you so often felt, quietly furious at him for being gone.
â ⊠â
The birthday card arrived on a Thursday morning.
You almost missed it entirely â it was tucked between a pizza delivery leaflet and something from your energy supplier, the cream envelope almost camouflaged by the mundane. You shuffled through the post on autopilot and then stopped.
Your name, in handwriting you would have recognised anywhere, would have recognised in your sleep, had recognised in your bones for thirty years.
You sat down on the bottom stair. Your legs suddenly uneasy.
Your hands were not steady.
The envelope opened. The card was white. Plain. Almost generic.
Inside:
Happy Birthday, sunshine.
I'm sorry it's been so long.
I'll explain everything.
Come, if you want to.
If you can stand the sight of me.
Below that, an address. Three towns over. A postcode you didn't recognise.
And then, at the bottom, the way it had always been at the bottom: S.
You sat on the bottom stair for a very long time.
Then you got up, went to your room, and started thinking about what to wear.
â ⊠â
You plucked up the nerve to go on a Saturday.
The drive took forty minutes and you spent most of it trying to manage yourself â talking yourself through reasonable expectations (he is alive, that is enough, start there), warning yourself against things you could not control (the five years, the silence, the way your hands were doing that unsteady thing again), cataloguing everything practical (the address, the map).
The street was quiet. Semi-rural, the kind of neighbourhood that sits between things â between town and country, between the ordinary and the aspirational. The houses were spread out, set back from the road, each with its own front garden and its own character.
You parked. You looked at the address. You looked up.
And you stopped breathing.
It was a beautiful house.
Large, substantial and solid, the kind of house that had been built to last. White painted render, clean and bright in the afternoon light. A white picket fence surrounding the front garden, which was full of flowers. Roses climbing the gatepost. Lavender edging the path. Foxgloves and dahlias and great loose clusters of something purple you couldn't name from here. The kind of garden that had been planted with intention, tended with care, left to be a little wild in the best way.
A porch. And a porch swing, painted white, with a yellow cushion on it.
And flying from the corner of the roof, bright against the blue afternoon sky: the Union flag.
You sat very still in the driver's seat.
You were sixteen years old. It was a summer evening and you were lying in Simon's back garden on an old sleeping bag, looking up at the sky. He was beside you in the way he was always beside you â solid, quiet, taking up exactly the right amount of space. You'd been talking about the future the way teenagers do, in great floating hypotheticals that feel more like weather than plans.
"What kind of house?" he'd asked. He asked follow-up questions always, quietly, wanting the specifics. It was one of the things about him you loved.
And you'd described it. A big house, not ostentatious but real â space for books and for people and for a garden that did what it wanted within reason. A white fence, because you'd always liked them. A porch with somewhere to sit. A flag, because you were â despite everything â proud of where you were from.
Simon had been quiet for a long moment.
"Okay," he'd said. Just: okay.
You had thought he was humouring you.
You had not thought â you had not let yourself think â what it might mean, that he was going to do anything about it.
You got out of the car. Your legs were not entirely reliable. You held the gate and walked up the path â lavender brushing your hand where it grew close, the scent of it too perfect, almost staged â and you stopped at the foot of the porch steps.
The door opened.
He had to duck.
That was the first thing you noticed. The physical fact of him, the sheer size of him, his shoulders nearly touching the doorframe on both sides simultaneously, the automatic dip of his head as he stepped through onto the porch.
He straightened.
The afternoon light landed on him and you had to spend a moment recalibrating, because the last time you'd seen Simon Riley he had been seventeen years old with sawdust on his boots and a train ticket in his hand, and this man â
This man.
The white button-down shirt was simple, the sleeves rolled to the elbow, and from his left wrist to well past the roll of the sleeve his forearm was dark with ink â a sleeve of tattoos, intricate and considered. A whole geography of imagery that you couldn't read from here but would, you thought, take time to learn.
His right wrist carried a watch. His black slacks were fitted close enough that you could see the muscle of his thighs pulling the fabric with every shift of his weight, and his shoes â loafers, black with gold buckles, completely unexpected and somehow exactly right â were precise.
His hair. A dark sandy blonde, longer than military specification presumably allowed and slicked back from his face, which meant you could see all of it, his whole face; the angles that had sharpened from boy to man, the jaw, the set of his brow, and those eyes. Those brown eyes that had been watching you since you were four years old and had never, not once, looked at you with anything less than complete attention.
He was raking those eyes over you now. Slowly. With the same quality he'd always had â that comprehensive, unhurried assessment that somehow never felt like being measured â and his hands were in his pockets and he was standing there like that, on the porch he'd built or bought or arranged specifically around a description you'd given him at sixteen.
He looked like something out of a magazine and like Simon all at once.
You were going to murder him.
"Hi, sunshine."
His voice. Lower than you remembered, rougher, carrying all the years he'd lived since you last heard it. That Manchester accent â still there, unmistakably, that warm northern flatness underneath everything, the vowels shaped by a city, by a street, by a particular kind of upbringing that no amount of training had entirely smoothed out.
That nickname, in that voice, in that low, deliberate way he'd always said it: like you were his.
Like it was a prayer.
You opened your mouth. And you closed it. And you looked at him â this enormous, tattooed, stupidly handsome man who had stood on your mother's doorstep at twelve years old with bruises he didn't mention, who had kissed your cheek at thirteen and broken Ryan Marsh's nose at fourteen and waved goodbye from a train platform at seventeen and then sent you birthday cards from the edges of the world for a decade and then stopped for five years â
"Five years," you said. Your voice was very quiet.
Something moved in his face.
"I-,"
"I thought you were dead." You snapped cutting him off.
"I figured you wouldâve."
"Simon."
"I know, sunshine." He said it the same way he'd always said things he couldn't argue with â not deflecting, not dismissing, just absorbing. The Manchester vowels in his voice like a hand on your shoulder. "I'll explain everything. I promise. All of it. Whatever you want to know."
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
The afternoon settled around the house, around the garden that was your garden in your own sixteen-year-old description, around the flag and the porch swing and the lavender and all of it, and the distance between you on the path and him on the porch steps was perhaps four feet and thirty years and five years of silence and a whole life of choosing not to say the one true thing.
"You built me the house?" you asked, whispering it. Like you were afraid to say it.
He was quiet for a moment. Then, "Bought it. Had the garden done the way you said."
"Simon." Your heart ached.
"You said lavender at the edges," he said. His voice was completely level. "You said a porch with somewhere to sit. You said you wanted to see the flag from the garden."
You pressed your hand to your mouth.
The rage was still there â it was not going anywhere quickly. The five years of it, the grief of it â but underneath it, something else. Something that had been there since you were four years old at a preschool art table, larger and quieter and more permanent than anything else you'd ever felt.
"You were sixteen," he said. As though this explained it. "You told me what you wanted. I just..." He stopped. Started again. "I wanted to be enough first. I wanted to have what you needed."
There was a long silence. A bee moved through the lavender. Somewhere a few streets away, a lawnmower hummed.
"Come inside," Simon said. "I'll make you tea. And I'll tell you everything."
You looked at him on the porch of the house he'd built you from a word, and you thought: you absolute idiot. You wonderful, impossible, infuriating man. You thought I'd stopped. You thought thirty years of this was something you could be enough for eventually, like it was a bar to clear, like there was a version of you I was waiting on instead of just â
Instead of just you. Always just you.
The lavender brushed your hand again. You walked up the steps and he looked down at you with those brown eyes that had never once left you.
"Hi, Simon," you said.
Something happened in his face. Something opened.
"Hi, sunshine," he said, his hand coming to the small of your back to guide you inside.
He made the tea.
You stood in the kitchen of a house that smelled of fresh paint and cedar and something faintly floral from the garden drifting through the open window over the sink, and you watched Simon Riley move around it like he'd always lived here â filling the kettle, finding the mugs without opening the wrong cupboard, knowing where the teabags were â and you thought: how long. How long has he been here, in this house he bought for you, learning where everything lives, waiting.
You sat at the kitchen table. It was a good table, heavy oak, the kind built to last and you ran your thumb along the grain of it and tried to arrange your feelings into some kind of order and failed.
Simon set the mug in front of you. Milk in last, the way you'd always taken it, which he knew because he'd made you approximately four thousand cups of tea over the course of your lives. He sat down across from you, his own mug between his big hands, and looked at you.
You looked back.
The kitchen light was warm and it caught the angles of his face. The jaw, the brow, the slight crook in his nose that was new, or newer, the result of something you didn't know about and weren't sure you wanted to.
He was watching you with that particular quality of attention he'd always had. Complete. Patient. Like you were the only thing in the room worth looking at.
"You're not wearing your glasses," he said.
You blinked. Of all the things. "No."
"Contacts?"
"For about ten years now, yes."
He was quiet for a moment, studying your face with that same unhurried attention, "I missed them."
"You missed my glasses?" You say with the deadpan tone you'd perfected over the years.
"Tortoiseshell ones," he said. "Used to push them up your nose when you were concentrating." He took a gulp of his tea, Adam's apple bobbing when he swallowed.
You stared at him. Eighteen years. Eighteen years of distance and war and God knows what else, and he missed your glasses. "Simon."
"Just saying."
"You are unbelievable." You scoff.
"The contacts suit you," he said, and the corner of his mouth moved â barely, almost nothing, but you'd spent your whole life reading that face and you caught it. "Everything suits you. But I liked the glasses."
"Stop it." You snap.
"Stop what?"
"Whatever that is," you said, and you pointed at his face, at the not-there-almost-smile, at the quality of his voice when he said everything suits you, at all of it. "You don't get to do that. You've been â Simon, you've been gone. You've been gone for eighteen years and for five of them, I thought you were dead." Your voice stayed steady, which surprised you. You'd expected it to crack on that. "So you don't get to walk out onto your porch looking like â like that â and tell me you missed my glasses and flirt at me like no time has passed."
He listened without interrupting. He always had â it was one of the things about him, the way he gave you the whole space of what you were saying before he entered it.
"You're right," he nodded.
"I know I'm right." Your spine straightened.
"I owe you an explanation."
"You owe me considerably more than that, Simon Riley, but yes. An explanation would be a start."
He wrapped both hands around his mug again and looked at you across the table and there was something in his face that was not the blank-nothing face, was not the armour he'd worn since he was twelve years old but something that was quieter and more exposed and a great deal more frightening because of it.
"Not here," he said.
You frowned. "What?"
"I don't want to do it like this. Sat in a kitchen." He glanced around the room briefly, as though orienting himself. "Come to dinner with me tomorrow night."
"What Iâ"
"The Grill on Merton Street."
You went very still.
The Grill on Merton Street. You hadn't been in years â not since you'd moved away from the area, not since things had shifted and the rituals of your old life had quietly been replaced by other things.
But you knew it. You knew every table in it. The way the light came through the front windows on a Sunday, the smell of it â roasted meat and old wood and the particular warmth of a place that had been feeding families for decades.
Your mother had loved it. Your father used to order the same thing every time and be pleased about it every time, and you and Simon had sat across from each other in the corner booth with the sticky laminated menus and kicked each other under the table and laughed.
"That's still open?" you managed.
"Had a look earlier this week," he said. "Still there. New owners but the same building. Same corner booth."
You looked at him. He looked at you. Outside, through the open window, a late bird was making itself known in the lavender.
"Fine," you said. "Dinner. Tomorrow. And you're going to tell me everything." you struck at him with a serious face.
"Everything," he agreed.
"I mean it, Simon. All of it."
"I know you do."
You drank your tea. It was exactly right. The temperature, the strength, the milk ratio and you hated him a little bit for that. For the fact that he still knew, that across seventeen years and God knows how many miles he still knew exactly how you took your tea, and he'd made it correctly on the first attempt without asking, and you were absolutely not going to cry about that.
You were not.
â ⊠â
You dressed carefully.
Not because you were trying to impress him.
You told yourself this firmly, standing in front of your wardrobe in the room you'd taken in the local B&B â you'd booked a night, not knowing how long this might take, not knowing what state you'd be in for the drive home afterwards â and you told yourself that you were simply dressing appropriately for a dinner at a decent restaurant.
That was all.
That was the entirety of it.
The dress was deep green. Fitted through the waist, falling to just below the knee, with a neckline that was elegant rather than dramatic.
You'd bought it for a work event two years ago and it had lived in your wardrobe since, waiting for an occasion that felt worth it. You put your hair up â not elaborately, just neatly, the kind of arrangement that looked effortless and had taken twenty minutes â and you wore the small gold earrings that had been your grandmother's. Low heels. The good handbag. A slick of red on your mouth that you almost wiped off twice before deciding to leave it.
You were not trying to impress him.
You were absolutely trying to impress him.
He was waiting outside The Grill when your taxi pulled up, standing on the pavement with his hands in his pockets. The air around him relaxed and easy. An anchored stillness, like a man who'd learned to wait and had made peace with it. He has the same dark slacks as yesterday, same loafers with the gold buckles, but the shirt tonight was black.
A deep, clean black that made his shoulders look approximately the width of a doorway, which was in fact an accurate assessment â and he'd left the top button undone. His hair was the same: pushed back, dark sandy blonde curling at the nape of his neck and catching the amber of the streetlights.
He saw you get out of the taxi.
He went very still. Completely, suddenly, entirely present in a way that landed on you like a hand against your sternum. Under your heartbeat.
You crossed the pavement toward him and his eyes moved over you â slowly, comprehensively, that same rake of attention he'd given you yesterday on the porch steps, only this time there was nothing restrained about what it did to your pulse.
He eyed you the same way he used to look at the extra cuts of slow roasted beef your mother added to his plate every time he joined you for a Sunday roast after church.
"Hi," you said.
"Hi, sunshine." His voice was low. The rough Manchester sending tingles down your spine.
He opened the door for you.
The Grill smelled exactly the same.
Roasted meat and warmed bread and old wood and something faintly of candle wax. It hit you the moment you stepped through the door and you had to stand still for just a second, just one second, to absorb the weight of it.
Your father's coat on the hook by the door. Your mother's reading glasses going into her bag as the menus arrived. Simon across from you, fourteen and fifteen and sixteen, his big hands wrapped around a Coke glass, his eyes on you under that careful brow.
The layout had shifted slightly â new owners, as Simon had said â but the bones of it were the same. The dark wood panelling. The low warm lighting. The tables set with proper linen and actual candles in glass holders. And in the back left corner was the booth.
Simon's hand was at the small of your back as the host led you through. A light touch, barely there, the kind of thing that could be merely courteous and was absolutely not merely courteous.
You said nothing about it.
You were almost at the booth when a voice said, "Well. I don't believe it."
You turned.
Margaret and Gerald Howarth.
Margaret had been your mother's friend since before you were born â a small, bright-eyed woman who had somehow barely aged in two decades. Her silver hair cut the same way it had always been, her husband a large, genial man beside her with a napkin already tucked into his collar. They'd been eating here since before you were born too, you suspected. Some people were simply woven into the furniture of a place.
"Margaret," you said, and you felt a genuine, warm rush of it. Of being seen by someone who had known you as a child, who had watched you grow up, who carried that particular knowledge of you that only people of a certain generation can hold. She was already rising halfway from her seat, her hand extended, and you took it and she covered it with her other one, the way she always had.
"We heard you were back in the area," she said â which was interesting, since you'd only arrived yesterday, but news apparently still moved at its old speed around here. Her bright eyes moved to Simon, and something in them softened with recognition and surprise in equal measure. "And Simon Riley. My goodness."
"Mrs Howarth." Simon's voice was respectful, quieter than usual, and you noticed â because you noticed everything about him â that he straightened fractionally. Not stiffly. Just the particular adjustment of a man in the presence of someone he'd known when he was young and unguarded.
"Look at the size of you," Gerald said, not unkindly, staring up at Simon with the frank appreciation of one large man for another. "What are they feeding you?"
"Gerald," Margaret scolded mildly.
"It's a compliment." He shrugged.
Simon almost smiled. "Good to see you, Mr Howarth."
Margaret was looking between the two of you with the expression of a woman who had been quietly observing people her entire life and drawing accurate conclusions from very little evidence. "Are you together?" she asked, with the particular directness that came with age and with having known you since you were in a pushchair.
"We're having dinner," you said carefully.
Margaret's expression said, quite clearly, that she had heard this and had also heard everything it was not saying. "Well," she said, patting your hand once more before releasing it, "it's lovely to see you both. You always did belong together, the pair of you. I said that to your mother once, do you know. I said those twoâ"
"It was lovely seeing you, Margaret," you said, with great warmth and only mild desperation.
She laughed, a bright, pleased sound and settled back into her seat.
As you turned to follow the host the rest of the way to the booth, you were almost certain you heard Gerald say, to his wife, "told you" in a tone of quiet marital satisfaction.
Simon was very carefully not reacting to any of this. You were very carefully not looking at him.
You saw two others you knew before you reached the booth.
Kim Ashworth, who had been in your form in Year Ten and who looked essentially the same as she had in school except that she had a baby on her hip and a husband trailing behind her with a changing bag.
She stopped mid-step when she saw you, did a small, delighted double take, said oh my God twice, and then looked at Simon in a way that was extremely uncomplicated in its appreciation before remembering the husband with the changing bag. There were promises exchanged to catch up properly, phone numbers that would probably not be used, genuine warmth on both sides.
And then at the bar, perched on a stool with a whisky, Dave Pearce â who had played alongside Simon on the secondary school rugby team and who greeted him with the particular vocabulary of men who knew each other at fifteen and have not changed as much as they think.
There was a brief, loud exchange that involved at least one shoulder-clap that could have knocked a smaller man sideways, and then Dave shook your hand too and told Simon he was punching. Which Simon received without expression and you tried your hardest not to laugh, biting your lip.
Finally the corner booth. You slid in. Simon folded himself into the seat across from you, the table scaled to ordinary human beings and therefore slightly absurd against the size of him, his knees bracketing it, his shoulders blocking the view of the room behind him entirely.
The menus came.
They were not laminated anymore â proper printed card, changed seasonally, the kind that meant the new owners had ambitions. But the roast was still on. The proper Sunday roast, the one your father used to order when you could afford to.
"Same corner," Simon said quietly.
"Same corner," you agreed.
He was looking at you across the table the way he used to look at you across this table, except that now his face was older and larger and had been to places that had clearly asked things of it. The look was different in its texture. Deeper, maybe. Older in the same way he was older. Like it had more weight behind it from all the years of being carried.
"You said everything," you reminded him. "All of it."
"I know."
"So." You gestured for him to start.
He set his menu down. Looked at you. And then he started talking.
He told it the way he told everything â without embellishment, without drama, in the flat, precise language of a man who had learned to communicate facts and trusted the facts to carry the weight without decoration.
He'd gone in at seventeen and he'd been good at it. Not surprising. He was built for the structure of it, for the clarity of having a purpose and a unit and a chain of things that made sense.
He'd moved up fast â faster than he let on in the cards he'd sent you, which had been careful, he explained, deliberately careful, because the more you knew the more you might worry. Which, you pointed out, had not been his decision to make. He didn't argue with that.
Task Force 141 came later. Years later, after deployments that he summarised in a sentence each and you understood enough from his face to know that each sentence was doing the work of much longer things.
He was a lieutenant now. He said it the way he said most things about himself, flatly, without vanity, presented as information. He had certain freedoms now that he hadn't had before, certain ability to make choices about where he went and when and what he did with the things the years had given him.
You both ordered your food.
"And the five years?" you asked, sipping your cocktail the waitress had brought over.
He was quiet for a moment, he stared at his San Miguel pint, the condensation sliding down the glass. Your food had arrived at some point during the waiting, while Simon collected his thoughts.
He picked up his fork and then set it down again.
"There was a man," Simon said.
Something about the way he said it made you put your fork down too.
"He ran drugs. Major operation, international â I won't go into all of it." He said this without flinching, looking at you steadily, not softening it. You'd always appreciated that about him â the way he treated your intelligence as a given. "After I escaped him, he decided to make it personal. He went after the people Iâ" He stopped. Chose the word carefully. "The people I was connected to."
The candle in the glass holder between you threw warm, unsteady light across his face.
"He killed them," Simon said. "My brother. Tommy's family." A pause that cost him something; you could see it cost him. "My Mother."
The restaurant continued around you â the murmur of other tables, the clink of cutlery, someone laughing softly near the bar â and you sat very still.
"Oh Simon," you whispered, you could feel the way your face formed the sympathy.
"I'm alright." He said it the way he'd always said it, the Manchester flat and absolute. The way that meant; don't make it bigger than I can hold right now. You knew that voice. You honoured it.
"He knew about you," Simon said and you froze. "That was the other thing. He'd done his research." His jaw shifted slightly. "As long as he was alive, you weren't safe. If I'd contacted you, properly contacted you, kept the thread going the way I wanted to, it would have given him a cleaner line. A more reliable way to reach me."
You understood the logic of it. You understood it clearly and immediately in the part of your brain that processed information. The other part â the part that had sat on the bottom stair with a birthday card after five years of silence, the part that had thought past tense â that part was going to take considerably longer.
"So you cut me off," you said. Not as an accusation. As a fact, laid down. You were starting to understand the shape of it.
"To keep you safe. Yes."
"Without telling me why." You sighed but you knew you were being unreasonable, but you hoped he would let you for a little longer.
"If I'd told you why, you'd have known there was a threat. And you'd haveâ" He stopped. The corner of his mouth moved, something that was not quite a smile and not quite not one. "You'd have done something about it. Gone looking. Made noise."
"I would not haveâ" You stopped, because you would have. You absolutely would have. You'd spent thirty years being completely unable to sit on the sidelines where Simon Riley was concerned, and the knowledge that someone was threatening him would have made you entirely unreasonable. "That'sâ" you huffed.
"Yeah," he said.
"You could have found a wayâ"
"There wasn't one. Not one that was safe." His voice was very level. "I went through every option, love. I promise you. Every one."
The word arrived quietly, without ceremony.
Love.
He'd never called you that â not in thirty years, not in all the time and all the familiarity of what you were to each other. He said it the way he said everything that mattered: without preamble, without dressing it up, laid down like the fact it was.
"And now?" you asked. Your voice was quite steady. Steadier than you felt.
"He's dead." No elaboration. None needed. The flat Manchester vowels carrying the weight of it cleanly, without mess. "And you're safe. And Iâ" He looked at you across the table, across the candle and the white linen. "I bought the house," he said. "I've spent a while making it what it is. Making if perfect. I saved up for years. The 141 pays well when you get to a certain level and I wasn't spending it on anything else."
"For years," you repeated, feeling a shiver rack up your spine and your toes go numb.
"Since I was about twenty." He said this without apparent embarrassment, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to spend fifteen years saving money to buy a woman a house from a description she'd given you at sixteen years old. "Took a while to find the right one that wasnât too far from your parents. The lavender took three growing seasons to look like it did when you pulled up."
Three growing seasons.
He had planted the lavender three years ago. He had stood in a garden three towns from where you lived and planted lavender along a path because a sixteen-year-old girl had mentioned it lying on her back in his garden thirty years ago, and he had tended it for three years, and he had waited.
"Simon Riley," you said.
"It's got room for your books Sunshine, built the shelves myself." His lips quirked up at the corners at your flabbergasted expression.
"You are the mostâ" You stopped. Started again. "Do you have any idea what the past five years have felt like? Do you have any idea what Iâ" Your voice did the thing you'd been preventing it from doing, cracked at the edge of the sentence like a plate under too much weight. You stopped. Pressed your lips together. "I grieved you. I sat in my flat and I genuinely, actually grieved you and decided you were dead. I had â Simon, I had a plan for getting through it. I was managing it."
"I know."
"Don't say I know." you snapped sounding more like a bratty child than angry.
"I'm sorry." And this was different. This was not the automatic I know, the absorbing of your anger. This was something he said the way he said very few things â carefully, with full weight behind it. His eyes on yours across the table. "I'm sorry for the five years. I'm sorry I couldn't find another way. I'm sorry you were on your own with it." A pause. "I'm sorry it took me this long to have something worth coming back with."
"The house is notâ" You stopped. "You didn't need to buy me a house, Simon. I didn't needâ"
"I needed to," he said. Simply. "I needed to know I was coming back with something real. Something that wasn't just me turning up with nothing after all that time, asking you to â to acceptâ" He moved his hand across the table, and his fingers stopped just short of yours. Not touching. Close. "Asking you to take me as I was. I needed it to be enough. I needed there to be something I could give you that wasâ"
"Simon." Your voice was very quiet.
"I know it's notâ"
"Simon." You turned your hand over on the table. Just that. The small, deliberate movement of turning your palm up.
He looked at it. Then he looked at you. Then, slowly, he put his hand in yours â his enormous, careful, tattooed hand. Not quite the one that had carried your bag through every corridor of secondary school and pulled you up off the pavement after Daniel Holt and held you on the platform at the train station, but this one now and his fingers closed around yours and he held on.
"I only ever wanted you," you said softly.
"Sunshine-"
"You were always worth it," you cut him off. And then, because it was time â because it had been time for approximately thirty years and you were done waiting for the right moment when the right moment had repeatedly failed to arrive â "You were always enough. You were always the thing I was â Simon, you have always been the only one I wanted. Exactly as you are."
He was very still.
"I didn't tell you on the platform," you said. "I should have. I've thought about it every day since."
"So have I," he said.
The candle between you flickered in some movement of air from the kitchen, and in the warm unsteady light his face was open in a way you had waited thirty years to see. His hand was warm and sure around yours, and from the other side of the restaurant you were almost certain you heard Margaret Howarth say something to Gerald in a satisfied undertone.
"You planted the lavender," you grinned.
"Three years ago." He finally smiles back at you, it was crooked and uneven and you loved it.
"You are," you said carefully, "the most ridiculous man I have ever known." You shook your head still grinning.
"Missed you too, sunshine," he smirked.
Dinner ended the way the best dinners end â not with a definitive conclusion but with a gradual, reluctant unwinding, the kind where both people keep finding one more thing to say, one more thread to pull, because the alternative is standing up and the evening becoming past tense.
You ordered dessert.
Neither of you particularly wanted it but you both ordered it, and you both knew why, and neither of you said so. The chocolate brownie was very good. Simon ate his methodically, the way he ate everything, and at one point looked up and caught you watching him and said nothing.
The candle between you had burned down to a stub by the time the bill came.
He paid. You protested on principle. He gave you a look that had not changed at all since he was fourteen years old â flat, certain, faintly amused â and handed the card to the waiter without further discussion.
"That's notâ" you started.
"Next time," he said.
Next time. You let it sit there between you, warm and presumptuous and everything you wanted.
Outside, the evening had cooled.
The last of the summer still holding in the air, the kind of September evening that felt like a concession, like the year wasn't ready to be done.
The street was quiet for a Saturday, just a few couples moving between the restaurants and a group of lads outside the pub further down having a smoke. The amber of the streetlights made everything look like something worth remembering.
Simon stood beside you on the pavement, close enough that his arm brushed yours when he turned to look down the street, and you were very aware of the warmth of him and the black shirt and the lavender you couldn't smell from here but could somehow still feel in your hands.
"Walk with me a bit," he said. Not a question, not quite. He'd always done that â phrased invitations as though the outcome were already agreed, as though he simply assumed you'd say yes because you almost always did.
"Alright."
He fell into step beside you, and for a little while you just walked â past the wine bar with its fairy lights, past the old library that had become a gin distillery at some point in the last decade, past the post office that had been there since before either of you were born. You talked about small things. Easy things. The kind of conversation that runs alongside the real one underneath.
Then he stopped.
You stopped too.
Simon looked down at you. His hands were in his pockets. That brown gaze of his moved over your face in the way it had been moving over your face all evening â like he was cataloguing it, like he was making up for lost time in the looking.
"Dance with me," he said.
You blinked. "What?"
He tilted his head, "Come dancing with me."
You stared at him.
Simon Riley, who had sat against the wall at every school disco you'd ever attended, arms folded, watching everyone else with the expression of a man conducting a private risk assessment.
Simon Riley, who you had never, in thirty years of knowing him, seen voluntarily approach a dance floor.
"You don't dance," you said.
"No," he agreed. "But you do."
The simplicity of it landed somewhere very central.
You do.
As though that were reason enough. As though your enjoyment of a thing were sufficient justification for him to walk into it without hesitation.
Which, you supposed, when it came to Simon, it always had been.
"Alright," you said, for the second time in ten minutes.
His hand found the small of your back again, that same light, deliberate touch from inside the restaurant and he guided you down the street.
Simon said you weren't far, when you heard it.
The particular sound of a Domino's box. The slight crinkle of a carrier bag. And then your mother's voice, carrying across the quiet street in the way it always had â warm and clear and entirely without volume control.
"Oh honey! We thought - oh!"
"Oh fuck," you cursed.
You said it very quietly. Not quietly enough. Simon chuckled under his breath.
Your parents were coming along the pavement from the direction of the only car park around here â your father in his weekend coat, your mother in the blue one she'd had for fifteen years. A Domino's pizza box balanced in her arms and a carrier bag hanging from your father's hand.
Movie night. Of course. They still did it every other Saturday, had done since you were small, and of course they would do it tonight of all the Saturday nights in the entire calendar.
Your mother's face when she saw you was pure, unguarded delight â the face she always made when she encountered you unexpectedly, as though each time were still a pleasant surprise. Then her gaze moved, naturally and automatically, to the man standing beside you with his hand at the small of your back.
The delight didn't disappear. It did something more complicated.
"Oh honey," she said again, but differently this time. Softer. Her voice going somewhere else entirely. "Simon?"
The Domino's box dipped. Your father caught it with the reflexes of a man who had been catching things your mother nearly dropped for forty years.
Simon had gone still beside you. Not that controlled, present stillness he had, the one that wasn't tension but something adjacent to it. He was looking at your mother with an expression you couldn't fully read from the side, but you could see the line of his jaw, and it was careful.
"Mrsâ" he started.
"Don't you Mrs me," your mother said. Her voice was not angry. That was the thing â you'd prepared yourself, in the split second between seeing them and now, for anger, or for the brisk, self-protective coolness she used sometimes when she'd been frightened. But it wasn't that. It was something that had tears in it, which was considerably worse to witness.
She handed the pizza box to your father without looking at him â he took it with the silent competence of long practice â and she crossed the pavement in four short steps and she put her arms around Simon Riley.
He was so much larger than her. He had always been larger than her, even at fifteen when he'd eaten her shepherd's pie at the kitchen table and been careful to seem like it was casual and not like he was starving. Even when she gave him seconds and he looked like he would beg for thirds.
But now it was almost absurd, the smallness of her against the width of him, and he stood there for just a fraction of a second â that fraction where you could see him recalibrating, receiving something he hadn't prepared for â and then his arms came around her and he held on.
Your mother was crying. Small, quiet sounds, the kind she made when she was trying not to. Her face was pressed against his chest and her hands gripped the back of his black shirt and she said, muffled and with great feeling, "You absolute boy."
Simon said nothing. His eyes, over the top of your mother's head, found yours.
You had to look away. The street was very interesting. The lamppost in particular.
You bit into your lip.
Your father appeared at your shoulder.
He was a quiet man, always had been. The kind of steady, observant presence that took things in without making a production of the taking in. He stood beside you with the pizza box over one arm and the carrier bag in the other hand and watched his wife hold the boy who had eaten at their table for a decade, and he said, very quietly, to you,
"Well. He's not dead then."
"No Dad," you managed. "He's not dead."
"Good," your father said.
As though this settled it. As though the entirety of the past five years of your grief and his, because he had grieved Simon too in his quiet way, in the way of a man who doesn't say things aloud but feels them thoroughly. He looked at Simon over the top of your mother's head and gave him a single, deliberate nod. The kind that meant; we'll talk. The kind that meant; I have things to say to you. The kind that also, underneath both of those, meant; I'm so glad son.
Simon received the nod with equal gravity, which was exactly right.
Your mother finally pulled back. She held Simon by the arms â or tried to, her hands not quite making it around the circumference of them â and looked up at him with red eyes and the particular expression of a woman who has a great deal to say and is choosing, for now, not to say most of it.
"You'll come for dinner," she said. Not a question. The same tone she'd used on him at fifteen and apparently intended to continue using indefinitely. "Sunday. Proper dinner. Not a restaurant. Mine."
"Yes," Simon said. Immediately. Without hesitation.
"Good." She released his arms and reached up and patted his cheek once, firmly, the way you might with someone who had done something frustrating and beloved in equal measure.
Then she turned to you, and her expression did something complicated and warm and knowing, and she didn't say any of the things she was clearly thinking, which you appreciated deeply.
What she said instead was: "Don't stay out too late. You're thirty-five, not seventeen."
"Mum." You scolded.
"I'm just saying." She shrugged.
"We're going dancing," you told her, with the energy of someone redirecting a conversation through sheer momentum.
Your mother looked at Simon. Simon looked at your mother. Something passed between them that was private and thirty years old and not yours to have.
"Of course you are," she said.
Your father passed the Domino's box back to your mother, and said, "Right then. We'll leave you to it." He looked at Simon one more time. "Sunday," he confirmed.
"Sunday," Simon said.
Your parents moved off down the pavement.
Your mother looked back once â just once â and her face when she did was the face you'd seen her wear at your primary school nativity and at your GCSE results and on the morning you'd gone to university; the particular face of a woman watching her child be happy and feeling the full, complicated, loving weight of it.
Then she turned back to your father and said something you couldn't hear, and his hand found her shoulder as they walked, and they rounded the corner and were gone.
You stood on the pavement in the September evening and breathed.
Beside you, Simon was also very carefully just standing there.
"She cried on me," he said, after a moment.
"Yes."
"Didn't expect that."
You turned to look at him. He was looking at the corner your parents had turned, and his face had the quality it sometimes had when something had reached him â not visibly, not dramatically, just in that particular stillness that meant something had got through.
"She cried about you," you told him. "When you stopped writing. Three years ago â there were several times, actually, but three years ago was the worst. She held me in her kitchen and we bothâ" You stopped. Managed the next part carefully. "She loves you too, Simon. She always did. You were at our table every other night for years."
He was quiet for a moment. Something moved in his jaw. "I know," he said. And this time the I know was different from all the other times he'd said it tonight â heavier, and private.
"You agreed to Sunday dinner," you giggled.
"Of course I agreed to Sunday dinner," he said knowing full well he would have been stupid not to and gotten an earful from your mother.
Simon offered you his hand.
Not at the small of your back this time. His hand, palm up, in the space between you. Old-fashioned and deliberate.
You put yours in it.
"Come on then," he said. "Let's go dancing."
There was, as it turned out, only one place to go dancing in this town on a Saturday night if you meant actual dancing â the kind with a proper floor and music with a real structure to it.
It was not a club.
It was not a bar with a cleared space near the speaker.
It was the old church hall on Callow Street, which had been hosting the Saturday Evening Social Dance since before either of you were born, and which Simon seemed to know about with the specificity of a man who had done his research.
"A dance hall," you said, standing outside it. Through the tall, thin windows the warm light was visible, and the sound â strings, a proper band, something with a waltz rhythm that made the windows hum faintly. "You're taking me to a dance hall."
"Only place with a floor."
"Simon, this is a â there will be pensioners in there." you said quietly.
"There'll be a dance floor," he looked down at you. "And you said yes." he shrugged but looked smug.
He pushed the door open and held it, and because you had in fact said yes, and because the music through the door sounded genuinely lovely, and because you were still holding his hand from the pavement, you went in.
The church hall smelled of floor polish and tea. Fairy lights were strung along the rafters â someone's addition, not the original fixtures, and they made the whole space amber and soft.
Round tables lined the edges, most of them occupied by couples in their sixties and seventies and eighties, a few younger faces dotted among them, everyone dressed with the particular care of people who still believed an evening out was worth dressing for.
On the small stage at the far end, a four-piece band was working through something in three-four time with the ease of musicians who had played together for years.
And at the edge of the floor, clipboard in hand, wearing the same expression of organised authority she'd worn every PE lesson for fifteen years was Mrs Valerie Croft.
She was smaller than you remembered. Or perhaps you were simply larger.
She'd retired at some point â the hair was fully silver now rather than streaked â but the posture was identical: spine straight, chin up, the bearing of a woman who had spent decades telling teenagers to stand properly and had eventually simply become the embodiment of the instruction.
She looked up from her clipboard as you approached and her eyes moved from you to Simon, and to her credit, she didn't miss a step.
"Well," she tilted her chin up to meet his eyes, "Riley."
"Miss," Simon said. Which was technically incorrect given that she had a ring on her finger and had for as long as you'd known her, but you suspected it was because he'd called her Miss in secondary school the way you had. "Mrs Croft. Sorry. We were passing andâ " He paused, which was unlike him. "Is there any chance we could crash it?"
Mrs Croft looked at him. She looked at you. She looked at your joined hands with the expression of a woman who had supervised enough teenagers to recognise a development when she saw one.
"Can you behave yourselves?" she asked.
"Yes," you said nodding.
Simon said nothing.
Mrs Croft made a sound that was not quite a laugh but was adjacent to one. "Floor's open," she said. "Don't knock anyone over." And she turned back to her clipboard.
The first dance was not elegant.
Simon was, as he had always been and had openly admitted, not a dancer.
He was a man built for other kinds of movement â purposeful, directed, the kind that had somewhere to go. Dancing required a different relationship with your body, a willingness to be present in it without agenda, and that was not naturally his.
But he was trying. And Simon Riley trying at something he wasn't good at with complete, unhesitating commitment was one of your favourite things in the world.
He held you correctly â one hand at your waist, the other holding yours at the right height â because he had clearly looked this up at some point, which you were choosing not to think about too hard. His footwork was careful. Deliberate. Slightly behind the beat in the way of someone counting silently.
"You're counting," you told him trying your hardest not to laugh.
"Shut up."
"Simon, I can see your lips moving." you snorted.
"I said shut up."
You were laughing now. Properly, helplessly, the kind that came up from somewhere real â and he looked down at you with that face, that flat, long-suffering, completely fond face, and something in his eyes that was warm in a way that had nothing to do with patience and everything to do with the fact that your laugh had always been, apparently, one of his favourite sounds.
"You're doing fine," you told him, once you'd recovered.
"I'm doing terribly," he answered. "Keep going."
By the second dance, he was better.
By the third, he had found something. Some adjustment in the way he held you, the way his hand settled more fully at your waist, drawing you closer so the movement between you became less about individual steps and more about one shared thing. He was a quick study. He always had been, once he'd decided something was worth doing.
You became aware, gradually, of the room watching.
Not intrusively. Not all at once. But in the soft, peripheral way of a room full of people who have been in love for decades and recognise the particular weather of it when it walks through the door.
An older couple near the stage â she in pale blue, he in a suit that had been good once and was still cared for â had stopped talking to watch you.
A woman at one of the corner tables had her chin in her hand.
Mrs Croft, by the door, was very deliberately looking at her clipboard and failing to look only at her clipboard.
You didn't mind. You were too busy watching Simon watch you.
The band changed tempo at half past nine.
The waltz gave way to something with a different shape entirely â something that moved from the hips rather than the feet, a rhythm that was slower in its pulse and considerably less innocent in its intention.
A rumba.
You looked up at Simon.
He looked down at you.
"I don't know this one," he said.
"I'll show you." you breathed.
You took his hand and placed it lower at your waist, right above the curve of your ass. Deliberately watching his face when you did it, watching the shift in his expression, the way something in his eyes went very still and very focused. "Hip to hip," you told him. "Slower than you think. Let the music pull you."
He followed your lead with an attention that was frankly overwhelming in its completeness.
Simon Riley giving you his full, undivided, physical focus was not a small thing. He was so large and so present and he moved with you rather than against you, adjusting with every shift of your weight, and somewhere in the second minute of the song the counting stopped and something else replaced it.
He drew you closer. His hand at your hip pulled you in until there was no space left between you, until you could feel the warmth of him through the green of your dress and you were very aware of every point of contact, of the music and of the room full of people who had gone very quiet.
Then he turned you.
It was not technically correct. It was not what the dance required. But he turned you in a single, smooth movement that his body had decided on and yours simply followed, because that was what it did with him.
And then he dipped you.
The room tilted. His arm was across your back, solid and immovable, and you were suspended in the amber light with the music around you and your hand at his shoulder.
He lowered you â slowly, with complete control, no hesitation in the hold and then his face was close, very close, and his nose grazed the line of your throat making your breath hitch.
A slow, deliberate graze. The warmth of his breath against your pulse point. You felt it in places that had nothing to do with dancing, between your legs throbbing.
His hand â the one at your hip â slid down, just slightly, just enough, finding the outside of your thigh where the fabric of your dress lay, and he hooked your leg, slowly, around his hip. His fingers at the back of your thigh. Holding you there. His nose still at your throat.
The music resolved. Somewhere behind you, someone started clapping.
He brought you upright. Smoothly, slowly, until you were standing again and his hand was still at the back of your thigh. Your leg still around his hip and your faces were very close. Your heart was conducting itself in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with exertion.
You were panting. Slightly. Just slightly.
He was not panting. He was looking down at you with the almost-smile, the one that had always been rarer than gold and twice as valuable â and his eyes were warm and very dark and entirely, completely satisfied with themselves.
"You looked that up as well," you managed.
"No," he said.
"Simonâ"
"That one," he said, "I just wanted to do."
From the table by the stage, the woman in pale blue was applauding with great enthusiasm. Her husband had two fingers in his mouth and was whistling.
Mrs Croft had given up entirely on the clipboard.
The taxi back was not a long ride.
It felt longer than it was, and shorter than you wanted.
You sat beside him in the back seat with his thigh against yours and the city moving past the windows and neither of you speaking. The silence had a texture to it that was thick and warm and anticipatory in a way that made the air feel heavy in your lungs.
His hand was on your knee. Just resting there, heavy and warm, the way he did everything â with complete, unapologetic certainty.
You did not move it.
The house appeared at the end of the lane with its white fence and its dark windows and the lavender silver in the moonlight.
You were out of the taxi before it had fully stopped and you were aware how eager this appeared and you didn't care.
Simon paid the driver and caught up with you in three strides because his legs were considerably longer than yours and always had been.
He got to the door first. Key in hand.
The door opened.
And you did not wait for him to step through it.
You took him by the front of his shirt, that black shirt, warm from his body, the fabric bunching in your fists and you lips were suddenly on his.
You walked him backwards through the doorway and you felt the moment his back met the wall just inside and you were already kissing him before he'd fully registered the sequence of events.
Your mouth on his. Your hands in the front of his shirt. Thirty years of it finding its way out all at once, without ceremony, without preamble, without any of the careful management you had been applying to yourself since you were four years old at a preschool art table.
He kissed you back.
He kissed you back the way he did everything â thoroughly, completely, with his full attention and no apparent interest in doing anything else ever again.
His hands came to your face, big and careful, tilting your jaw, and for a moment you were simply inside the realness of him and the warmth of him and the fact that he was here and alive and kissing you in the hallway of the house he'd bought for you.
He pulled back.
"Easy, sunshine," he said against your lips. Low. A little breathless, which you would be privately triumphant about later. The corner of his mouth pulled up in that crooked smile.
You became aware, in the slightly dazed way of someone returning from somewhere, that your hands were still in his shirt and his hands were still on your face and you were standing approximately two inches apart in his hallway.
You also became aware, in the refocusing of your vision, of his mouth.
Of the scar on his upper lip.
You didn't know how you hadn't noticed it before â through dinner, through the dancing, through all of it.
Perhaps you had simply not been this close before. Or perhaps you had been looking at so many things that you hadn't been looking at everything.
It was small, a thin pale line bisecting the left side of his upper lip, old enough to have faded to silver, the kind of scar that had been there for years and had been lived with so thoroughly that the face had absorbed it.
You lifted your thumb and touched it, gently. "How'd you get this?"
He went very still, alert and present and reading you.
You kissed it. Softly. Just that.
Something moved in his throat.
His hands shifted from your face to your waist, warm and settled, and he began to move you gently â backwards, one steady step at a time â turning you both away from the wall and deeper into the hallway. His foot found the door behind him and pushed it closed with a quiet, final click.
"If I tell you about that one," he said, his voice low and even above your head as he guided you past the entrance and toward the stairs, "I'll have to tell you about the rest."
He looked down at you as he said it, that look, the one that said you were the most interesting thing he had ever encountered. The one that made you feel simultaneously seen and slightly undone â and his expression had in it something that was fond and amused and entirely, devastatingly warm.
You kicked your heels off at the bottom of the stairs. They went somewhere behind you. You didn't look.
Your bag went next, dropped against the banister.
"The rest?" you repeated. Your voice came out slightly smaller than you intended. Your eyes, entirely without your permission, moved down the front of him â the black shirt, the breadth of his shoulders, his torso, his thick thighs, all of him â and back up again. Slowly.
He watched you do it. He said nothing.
You swallowed. "Tell me then."
His hand at your waist steered you up the first step, and then the second, and the stairs curved slightly toward the landing above, and at the top of the stairs he pushed open the door to a bedroom.
The room was large and furnished.
A bed, properly large, the kind that accommodated a man his size without complaint. Low lamps on either side casting the same amber warmth as the hall below. Dark wood floors, a window looking out toward the garden, the curtain shifting slightly in a crack of night air.
He kissed you, just inside the door you kissed him back and his hands were at your hips.
Then he pulled back with a groan. Both of you breathing slightly harder than was strictly accounted for by climbing one flight of stairs.
"I want to, sunshine," he said. His voice was very low. Restrained. His hands still on your body, holding you there, his thumbs moving in a small slow motion against the fabric of your dress that was doing nothing to help you think clearly. "I do. But I need to hear it from you first. Your permission. Clear words. I don't want to misunderstand you."
You opened your mouth.
And then your eyes moved, over his shoulder, to the dresser.
A skull mask looked back at you.
You closed your mouth. You looked at it. The mask, white and stark and precise but somehow both alien and completely, recognisably his. The balaclava beside it, folded neatly. And tactical gloves â enormous, black, reinforced, approximately the size of your head.
"That yours?" you asked.
Simon turned his head, following your gaze. He looked at the dresser, then back at you. "Yeah."
"What is it?"
"What I wear on missions."
"Oh," you said.
And then your brain did something entirely beyond your authority. It constructed, with great speed and considerable detail, an image: Simon, broad and enormous, in black tactical gear. Gloved hands. That mask. Hovering over you.
You swallowed.
The image did not leave. It simply settled in, warm and vivid and decidedly unhelpful.
"Sunshine."
His hand came to your face â his big, warm, ungloved hand, his actual hand, the one you knew â his thumb sweeping gently under your eye, bringing you back into the room and the amber lamplight and the present moment.
"Hmm?" you managed meeting his gaze.
His eyes moved over your face with the same comprehensive attention he always gave you.
"Your permission, love," he said. Quiet. Certain.
"Oh." You blinked. "Yes. Yes, you have it. Always."
The almost-smile. "Not for everything I want to do to you." His thumb was still moving, very gently, under your eye. "I'll ask. Multiple times."
You stared at him. "Multipleâ"
"Times," he confirmed. His voice was entirely level. His eyes were not.
You pushed his shoulder and your cheeks burned.
He caught your hand as you pushed it and laughed, a low, real, full sound, the kind that you had spent most of your life engineering because it was so rare and so completely, unreasonably good.
You laughed too, properly, the helpless kind, and his forehead came down to rest against yours and you were both laughing in the amber light of his bedroom with the skull mask on the dresser and the lavender outside the window and thirty years behind you and everything in front.
The laughing settled.
Not all at once â it unwound gradually, the way laughter does when it's the real kind, leaving something warm and loose in its place.
His forehead was still against yours. His hands had moved from your face to your waist, both of them now, holding you the way he'd held you on the dance floor â with that complete, unhurried certainty, like you were something he'd been waiting to hold properly for a very long time and intended to do it right.
The amber light of the lamps lay across everything. Through the gap in the curtain, you could see the edge of the garden â the pale shapes of flowers, the dark of the lawn.
"Tell me about the rest," you said quietly.
He pulled back just enough to look at you. "The scars?"
"You said if you told me about the one on your lip you'd have to tell me about the rest." You reached up and touched the scar again â that thin, silver line â with the pad of your thumb. "So tell me about the rest."
He looked at you for a long moment. Then he reached up and began, without ceremony, to unbutton his shirt.
You were very still.
He did it the way he did everything â without drama, without performance, button by button from the collar down, and when he shrugged it from his shoulders and set it aside you understood, in a way you hadn't before, what eighteen years of that life had written on him.
He was enormous.
You'd known that in the abstract â had known it from the doorframe and the dance floor and the way rooms seemed to reorganise themselves around him â but this was different.
This was the specific, undeniable reality of his shoulders, the breadth of his chest, the muscle of his arms that carried the tattoo sleeve on the left, the ink wrapping from wrist to shoulder in dark, intricate patterns that in this light you still couldn't fully read but wanted to.
And the scars.
There were more than you'd expected.
Each one a different shape and age and story, written into the topography of him in pale and silver lines. A long one along his left ribs. Something older, fainter, across the top of his right shoulder. A circular scar below his collarbone on the left side that your medical knowledge was sufficient to identify and that made your chest constrict briefly and completely before you put that particular knowledge away for now.
He was watching your face as you looked. Careful. Giving you the time of it.
You stepped forward. You placed your hand flat against his sternum â his heart under your palm, steady and real â and you felt him exhale.
"The lip," you said.
"Kandahar. 2004. Caught the stock of a rifle." He said it the same way he'd told you everything tonight â flat, factual, trusting the fact to carry the weight. "Bit through my lip. Wasn't pretty for a while."
You moved your hand from his sternum to his ribs. Found the long scar there, traced it gently with your fingertips.
"That one."
"Knife. 2009. I moved the wrong way and the other man moved the right way." The shadow of something in his face that was not quite humour and not quite not. "Lesson learned."
Your hand moved to his shoulder. The older, fainter scar.
"Before the military," he said, before you asked. His voice changed, just fractionally. Flatter. Doing more work to stay level. "Not a mission."
You understood. You didn't ask further. You pressed your lips to it instead â gently, just that, your mouth against the old pale mark â and you felt the breath go out of him in a way that was different from all the others. Slower. Deeper.
"Sunshine," he said. Very quietly.
"The one below your collarbone," you said.
A pause. "That one's not a story for tonight."
You tilted your head back to look up at him. "Is it a story for eventually?"
His eyes on yours. Something in them that was considering, assessing, "Yeah," he said. "Eventually."
"Alright," you said. You meant it. You had waited thirty years; you could wait for the story of one scar.
His hand moved to your face. That same gesture from the hallway â his thumb at your cheek, slow and deliberate and he tilted your chin up and kissed you. Not urgently this time. Slowly. Deeply.
His hands found the zip at the side of your dress â careful, unhurried â and he looked at you, a clear question in it, and you nodded, and his hands were very steady and very gentle. Your dress went the way of your heels and your bag, somewhere behind you, unmissed.
He looked at you the way he had looked at you on the porch yesterday, and outside The Grill tonight, and across the restaurant table, and on the dance floor â with that complete, comprehensive attention.
Only now there was nothing restrained about what was in it. It was simply there, open and certain, and it was thirty years of something finally being allowed to be exactly what it was.
"Hi," you said. Which was absurd. Which made him laugh again, low and real.
"Hi, sunshine," he said. His hands at your waist. His forehead dropping to yours.
âSi I need to-â you breathed in deep, âI um,â he pulled his head away from yours, looking into your eyes with those brilliant brown ones of his.
âWhat is it Sunshine?â He asked, his finger under your chin tilting your head up.
âIâm, Iâve never-â you sigh, âIâve told you so many things, I canât believe I canât even say this to you.â
âDo we need to slow down?â He asked, his voice softening.
âNo. Itâs not that. I mean Iâm not a virgin if thatâs what youâre thinking I just, no guy has ever-â you sigh again, your eyes dropping from his.
Simon is quiet. He waits, the way he always waits â giving you the whole space of it, not rushing you toward the end of the sentence.
âMade it good,â you finally say, to his chest. âFor me. Itâs always just, fine. Maybe sometimes I get close but then itâs over. Not that thereâs been loads of guys, maybe three.â
A beat.
You make yourself look up at him.
Something changes in his face.
You see the flare of it.
Anger.
Not toward you â you feel that immediately, the anger isn't at you, it moves through him and settles somewhere else entirely. His jaw shifts. His eyes, for just a moment, go somewhere dark and quiet.
"Every one of them," he says. Low. More to himself than to you.
"Simonâ"
"Had you," he says. "And didn'tâ" He stops. The jaw again. His eyes squeeze shut. "Didn't pay attention."
"It's notâ"
"It is." His eyes open. He looks at you, his hands moving to your hips, both of them, settling there with a weight that feels like anchoring, like he needs the contact as much as you do. The darkness has settled now, controlled, underneath everything else.
"And I wasn't here." Something moves through his expression â not guilt exactly, but something adjacent to it, something private and old. "Should've been your first, sunshine. Should've been there toâ"
He stops himself. His forehead drops to yours.
"I've waited years for this," he says quietly. "I'm not rushing it. And I'm going to pay attention."
âPay attention?â You ask breathless.
âTo every sigh,â he kissed your cheek, âwhimper and moan.â His lips moved down to your jaw. âTo the way your hips move, the way your back arches, the way youâll writhe under me, how Iâve imaged it every time Iâve gotten off for the last two decades.â He whispered the last bit into your ear, teeth tugging on your earlobe.
You gasp, âSimon.â Your cheeks burn.
âOh donât tell me you never thought about it.â He grins pulling back to look down at you.
You look at the floor sheepishly cause of course you have. Of course youâve cum the hardest you ever have in your life only when thinking about Simon fucking you.
"Oh you have." He smirked titling his head.
âShut up.â You push his shoulder and he laughs.
His hands leave your hips and then you're moving, his arms around you, and the edge of the bed meets the back of your knees.
Then his massive paws are in your hair and his lips are on your neck as your back meets the sheets. His weight heavy and solid on you. You could tell he was holding himself up so he didnât squish you.
He leaned back on his heels, kneeling between your legs. You sighed in satisfaction when his fingers ran over your bare skin. His blunt nails scratching softly where your pelvic bone sits.
"So beautiful Sunshine," He grabs your hips and squeezes, "Fill my hands with you finally." Simon groans. A noise you've been picturing in your head. This and everything else that happens this evening, you truly believe, will be one of those times when reality is better than anything you have imagined.
Simon's brown eyes have always been intense, but right now the way he's looking down at you it's like he is someone else entirely. His eyes almost black with how much they have darkened.
"Simon." You tangle your fingers with his.
"Can I?" He asks. His hand, the one not in yours, trailing down your thigh and stopping on your mound. You clench around nothing when he pushes down, just a little bit of pressure that you feel in your clit and makes your hips buck.
You don't miss the way his lips do the almost smile thing. You nod furiously but he shakes his head.
"Need your words love." He raises a brow.
"Yes, yes Simon touch me." You breathe out, your chest feeling tight when he nods, moving his hand down to cup your cunt over your underwear.
And maybe its because you haven't had sex in three years, maybe its because you are touch starved or maybe its simply because its Simon, but your back arches and your moan is down right pornographic with a simple touch over your underwear.
"So responsive." He mumbles, his thumb rubbing circles over your clit through the fabric. "Get your tits out for me Sunshine, wanna see em." he grunts feeling your underwear getting wet.
Shakily you reach behind your back and unclip your bra. "Been thinking about them for years. What they look like, how they'll bounce when I fuck you." He groans as you pull the straps down your arms and fling the bra on the floor.
His eyes are on your chest, he doesn't blink. Then as if his system has rebooted, he blows air out of his cheeks and whistles low. "Fuck lovie, so pretty. You're a dream." Simon leans forward and wraps his lips around your breast, his tongue swirling around the nipple as his thumb continues circling your clit.
You moan, fingers tugging at his hair.
He comes off your breast with a pop making you whine and push at his shoulder. He grins pressing his thumb firmer against you, while sliding his other hand over your leg, index finger tracing over the small scar on you leg from when you fell off your bike after Simon broke your training wheels.
There was something comforting about this. Simon wasn't someone you had to explain yourself to, he already knew every version of you, he was simply adding this one to his list. This version, open and honest and begging the man you'd known for thirty years to make you cum on his fingers.
This didn't feel like a hook up, not like other guys have, but it felt like two people who have been each other's home for years and they're finally admitting it.
"Kiss me Simon." You're not even sure if what you said made sense with how much you were panting. But he leaned down to graze his lips along yours. Teasing and soft, despite the fast past he'd started to set with his thumb.
"Stop teasing." You huffed.
"Its my favourite pastime." He grinned hooking his fingers in your underwear, pulling them down and moving with them to settle between your legs.
You gasp, when his tongue slides from your asshole to your clit. "Simon!" His dark eyes are locked on yours as he swirls the tip of his his tongue around your entrance. Your toes curl, your head falling back onto the soft bed sheets.
A few occasions, you could count on one hand, had a guy you were with eaten you out and it was good but fuck, it didn't feel like this.
You felt like you were burning all over with each swipe of his tongue, each dip inside your entrance, each pattern he begins to circle over your clit.
He was learning you.
Simon groans against you, his breath hot, it made you dizzy. You feel everything, its too much to quick and your hips start to buck against his mouth.
Simon clearly had no intention of slowing down or stopping as he slides his arms around your thighs and splays his hands over the tops of them locking you in place.
It feels like fire, like molten lava pooling low in your abdomen the harder his tongue presses against you.
You donât even recognise the sounds coming out of you, itâs as if every movement pulls a new one from you.Â
His thumb replaces his tongue and he rubs the bump in small circles until you can barely breathe. âSound so pretty,â he murmurs just as your back arches and you moan loudly into the night air.Â
He is still speaking but you canât hear anything he is saying, itâs all blurring together the way your vision is blurring. His thumb slides from your clit down until itâs pushing its way inside you. Your hips jerk away but his other hand is quick to hold you in place.
âNo running.â Simon growls.
You cry out when his tongue comes back to torture you, lapping at you like heâs never had a drink and you're fresh water. Soon enough the rhythm heâs built has your hips rolling forward seeking more of whatever he has to give you.
Your hand reaches for his arm and squeezes hard the exact moment your vision turns white and your body shakes, dissolving into pleasure. It's like lightning pulsing through you. He works your through your orgasm, wringing every last wave of pleasure from you before he moves to your lips, kissing you.
âDid so good Sunshine. Iâve got you.â His arms wrap around you, your nipples grazing against the hair on his chest, that alone has you whimpering.Â
"Need more, want you inside me Simon. Please." You look into his eyes, your shyness gone with your orgasm.
"Okay Sunshine." Simon chuckles, the sound vibrating against you.
He pulls back and gets off the bed before he starts to unbuckle his belt. He pushes his black slacks down along with his underwear, his large, and he was so fucking big, cock already hard.
"Always wondered what you'd be like in bed," He tilts his head with a smirk, "If you'd like being in control. Or if you'd prefer me to lead," He knelt on the bed again, and oh my god Simon Riley, your best friend of thirty years and the love of your life was crawling up the bed towards you until his cock was flush with your entrance. "If you'd be needy and beg. Or if you'd bark orders at me." He slapped the head of his cock against your clit. "If you'd be loud or quiet."
"If you'd let me do whatever I wanted to you," his head titled back, eyes shut, "Fuck Sunshine, the things I've imagined doing to you," He looks down at you with the most intense gaze, pining you there on the bed, "Would you let me lovie? Do whatever I want to you?" He asks, pearly whites peaking out to sink into his bottom lip.
"Like what?" Your breath is so unsteady, so hitched and uneven you feel your cheeks heat even more than they have done at his words.
He grins, "Like what?" He chuckles pushing the head of his cock against your entrance, not in, but resting against it, "Wanna fuck you so hard you can't walk. Make love to you slow and so deep you'll feel me everywhere. Bend you over every surface in this house and make you cry on my cock-"
"Simon!" You gasp.
"Can I Sunshine?" He groans pushing in a little more and your eyes sting with tears at the stretch.
"Yes! Please yes!" He pushes in slowly. One of his hands coming next to you on the bed and the other gripping your hip. He keeps sliding in further, so slowly until its sheathed inside you.
Simon does not move. You can see the restraint within the way his teeth are gritted, his brows furrowed, sweat forming on his forehead.Â
âFuck you feel amazing wrapped around me, so tight.â He groans.Â
You donât have any words and even if you did, you doubt you would be able to say them. You have never felt soâŠfull. So filled to the brim and unable to get a reprieve from it.
âMâgonna move, gotta move Sunshine,â Simon growls and the fullness disappears for a second before heâs pushing himself back in.Â
âFuck you feel so good Si.â You shudder and stars appear in your vision when he moves forward and takes your legs with him folding you in half.
Simon Riley has you in fucking mating press and didn't even break the slow rhythm he's building. He continues this push and pull movement until it begins to flow, each movement begins where the other ends. The pattern making you sob, âDonât stop!â
You can't function and its only now that you understand the phrase 'being fucked dumb', rocking your hips, trying desperately to keep up with each thrust, back arched so beautifully.
Simon lets his hand slip and curve around your jaw without thinking about it, "Taking me so well Sunshine." The feral look in his eyes sends a shiver up your spine.
"Too big." You sobbed, your hands grabbing at his large biceps as he thrusts harder. He could feel every ridge and curve of your sopping cunt.
"You can take it." He encouraged you, biting at your neck leaving marks in his wake and looking so damn happy whilst doing it.
You continued to moan and whimper, tears of pleasure falling down your face while Simon's huge body hovered over you. Protecting you from the outside world, in here, it was just you and him.
"Si..oh!" you cried out feeling him hit that rough spot inside your weeping, swollen cunt.
"There it is." He didn't mean to grin like a obsessed man in such an intimate moment but he couldn't help himself. He never can with you. Each thrust hits the one place no man ever seems to be able to find but Simon seemingly found with ease. A spot that makes a tightening begin like a coil, being wound with every drive of his hips.
Your sinful noises morph into higher pitched breathy little screams.
"I know lovie, I know." He cooed, holding you closer. His sweat glazed skin meeting yours as his large veiny hand slips under your head, his other arm curling around your waist.
You move your hips and he groans vulgar into the air, his hand gripping your hair and pulling your head back, a little to the side before he attacks your neck all messy. Smearing his lips across your throat, you donât even recognise the sound that leaves your mouth.
He pulls away, his dark eyes flit to your squelching pussy, the noise attracting his attention pupils dilating, honing in on the way your cunt sucks his cock back in. He couldnât pull away even if he wanted to and fuck he doesnât, he wants nothing more than to stay in your pretty pussy forever.
âSimonfuckyespleaserighttheredontstop!â All the words and moans blend together until your mumbling nonsense trying your hardest to keep conscious, itâs difficult with the way heâs fucking into you so deliciously itâs making you delirious in the best way.
His big body towering over yours, big hands gripping you almost bruisingly. His thick muscular hairy thighs press against your skin compellingly, the sight before you, it's irresistible. All you have to do is look down to see his massive cock sliding in and out of you, a ring of white collecting at the base.
It's too much seeing him like this, feeling the sweet pleasure burn through you and yet Simon moves one of his hands off your head and presses a thumb to your swollen, aching clit.
You're done for.
You sob, so fucking loud you swear everyone in the world can hear it, hot tears flow down your cheeks staining them.
"That's it." The words wash over you with your orgasm, it swirls around you, clings to you, and pushes you down down down the rabbit hole of pleasure. Oversensitivity sets in making you whine at his touch, but you can't stop yourself from wanting more.
Your hips buck into his touch eliciting a dirty chuckle from him.
As Simon picks up his thrusts, he comes to the conclusion that he loves you like this, wants to see it everyday. You're so drunk, so delirious and he loves it. Loves the far away look in your eyes right before they roll back into your skull.
He shoves his face into your neck groaning, "Gonna cum Sunshine, need to. Where?" his thrusts pick up again, as if that were even possible.
"Cum inside me Simon, fill me up." You cry out.
Simon must have been right there as he cums the second you finish your sentence. Hot thick robes of cum pushing deep inside you. He rubs your clit faster and another smaller orgasm zips through you leaving you whimpering.
He stays in you, holding you until he goes soft. He moves your legs so they don't cramp. "Did so well for me Sunshine. I love you so much." He looks into your eyes as more tears spill down your cheeks.
"I love you Simon." you bring your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer to kiss you. The contrast between the way he just destroyed your guts and is now kissing you so softly, is astounding.
He is careful when he picks you up and walks into the ensuite bathroom to the right, flicking the light on and placing you on the toilet. "Gotta pee sunshine, don't want you getting you a uti." He says and you're so tired you don't even have the energy to be embarrassed.
Your eyes as still closed as you pee. Your hand moves to find the toilet paper but a warm flannel is being pressed against you, Simon's other hand on your knee to keep them open. You whine and push his hand away, "Simon that's icky." You frown at him opening your eyes to see him looking at you with a frown of his own.
"Nothing about you is icky Sunshine. I'm clearing up my mess, now move your hand." You do as told and it occurs to you, through your tired haze, while Simon gently wipes you clean that he must be used to clearing up mess with the job he does.
"All done. Want a shower or straight to sleep?" He asks.
"Sleep." You yawn making him smile at you.
He carries you back to the bed, lifting the duvet and settling you both underneath it.
The particular quality of afterwards settles in the room.
The warmth of it, the specific silence, the way the world outside the window continues to exist and you become aware of it again in layers. The sound of the garden. The distant sound of a car somewhere. The sound of him breathing.
You were lying with your head on his chest. His arm around you, heavy and warm. His heartbeat under your ear, steady and unhurried, the same heart that had been beating beside you in one form or another for thirty years.
His hand moved. Slowly, idly, up and down your back.
You watched the lamplight glow on the beside table. You thought about the lavender. You thought about the train station in 2001, and the birthday cards, and the bottom stair with the cream envelope, and Margaret Howarth saying you always did belong together with the satisfied certainty of someone who had known it before either of you did.
"Simon," you said.
"Yeah."
"You planted lavender for three years."
"You mentioned that already."
"I'm still processing it."
A low sound in his chest that was the rumble of a laugh contained. "Take your time Sunshine."
You propped yourself up and looked at him. His face in the lamplight â older, marked, those brown eyes that had been watching you since you were four years old, now watching you from a pillow in the house he'd bought you.
His expression was open in the way it had been open on the porch and at the restaurant table and in the dance hall, the way it had been open perhaps three times in thirty years before tonight and was now, apparently, simply his face when he looked at you.
You loved him so much.
You had loved him in different quantities and different registers for most of your life and now you loved him in this one too, this new one, and it was the same love and completely different and you thought you would be discovering its dimensions for a considerable amount of time.
"You should have told me," you said. "Years ago. Before the train."
"Yeah," he said. No argument.
"I would have said it back then too."
Something moved in his face. "I know," he said. And then, quieter, "I wasn't ready then. Wasn't enough yet."
"Simonâ"
"I know what you're going to say."
"You were alwaysâ"
"I know," he said. "I believe you. Now." His hand came up to your face, tucking a strand of hair back, his thumb at your cheekbone. "Took me a while to get there. But I'm here."
"You're here," you agreed smiling.
"And you're here." his hand tangled itself in your hair.
"I'm here." you giggled.
He looked at you for a long moment. Then, "Stay with me."
Not a question, not quite â more like a hope said aloud. The rarest thing from him. He had carried so much silently for so long, and this one small thing cost him something, and you could see it, and you loved him for it.
"It's my house," you said cheeky and bright.
He blinked. Then that laugh again â the real one, the rare one â and your heart did what it always did when you earned it, that particular, irreplaceable lurch.
"Yeah Sunshine," he said. "It is."
You lay back down against his chest. His arm came around you. His heartbeat under your ear.
Outside, the lavender moved. The Union flag was still on the roof. The porch swing sat in the dark with its yellow cushion, waiting for morning.
"Sunshine," he said. Into your hair.
"Hmm."
"I love you."
You pressed your lips to his chest, above his heart.
"I love you too," you said. "I've loved you since you were that chubby four-year-old who stole my crayons."
A long pause.
"Chubby," he repeated.
"Stocky," you amended, grinning into his chest. "You were very stocky."
"I was four."
"You were a very solid four year old."
His arm tightened around you â not painfully, just firmly, the way of a man making a point through the medium of holding â and you laughed again, helplessly, into the warmth of him.
He made that sound, that low rumbling laugh that lived in his chest, and the lamp burned warm and low and outside the lavender moved in the dark.
Simon Riley.
Who stole your crayons at four and broke your glasses at seven and learned to read because of you and carried your bag through every corridor of secondary school and punched a boy for pushing you over and kissed your cheek in a toilet corridor and sat beside you through every lunch and glared at anyone who called you a nerd and came round to your kitchen table for years and went to war at seventeen and sent you cards from the edges of the world and planted lavender for three years and bought you the house you described at sixteen and came home.
summary: zayne doesn't want to get close to you, but life won't give him that choice.
tags: sfw, baker!reader, angsty drabble bc i'm a masochist, hurt/comfort, illness, medical inaccuracies, reader isn't a hunter, no use of y/n
based off my previous post
zayne, who keeps you at an arm's length, not because he has conflicting feelings for mc. no, that's not the case. it's because he feels a sense of responsibility over herâthe little girl whom he promised to take care of back then, despite being around the same age as her at the timeâbuilding his career around her heart condition.
and he tells himself that if he ever acknowledges his feelings for you, he'll get distracted.
he can't have that, so he distances himself from you.
there hasn't been a single case in decades, so why... why, of all people, did you have to have it?
he assigns himself as your physician, even though your illness isn't his specialty. fuck it, he's willing to fight the entire hopsital if anyone argued.
it feels like a personal punishment to him, watching you grow weaker and weaker day by day. the bloody flower petals increase in number and frequency, and he can imagineâno, he can see through the CT scanâthe roots growing inside your lungs, centimeter by centimeter, curling around the organ and making you bleed. ironically enough, the flower petals look like white rosesâand he thinks, despite the devastation it brings, it suits you. white. it's pure, just like you. just like the color of the dress he always imagined you wearing as you walk down the aisle towards him.
it's you who has the disease, but he finds that he struggles to breathe through each passing day, too.
sometimes, when he checks in on your condition every morning like clockwork (fuck, he doesn't even notice that he has already reassigned mc to another doctor, because he told himself again: "i can't get distracted", but this time, it's about you), he has a hard time keeping his stoic composure. sometimes, he just wants to grab your shoulders and shake you, ask you "who's the bastard making you feel like this!? i'll kill him, i'll fucking kill him!" but he doesn't, even though the urge presses at his lungs the same way the roots do to yours.
he's taking care of your lungs, but it feels like he's secretly taking care of your heart instead, wanting to repair the pieces, even though he knows he doesn't have the right. he's a doctor, but he has never felt so useless until nowâfacing your disease and being unable to do anything about it.
he's trying to keep your condition from progressing, doing everything he can to slow it down, but one day, you cough up a whole flower.
just as he expected, it is a white rose, speckled with your precious blood.
he breaks that day, professionalism be damned.
he puts down his clipboard on your bedside table before he's kneeling on the floor beside your frail form in the hospital bed, cradling your hand that feels way too limp in his own firm one, but his grip is gentle, as if he's scared that you would break. you just might. you're looking at him with wide eyes, but he barely sees it, barely sees you through the blurriness of his visionâbecause of the tears running down his cheeks.
"please, you can't keep doing this to yourself," he croaks out to you, his own fingers trembling. "who is it? that bastardâhe doesn't deserve you. you're killing yourself. you have to move on. you have to find the strength to love somebody else." he leans down, desperately pressing a kiss against the back of your hand. "please." he chokes on a sob. "please."
and then, you say, sounding so defeated, "i'm sorry, i can't."
it breaks his heart, and he wants to beg moreâmight even say something stupid like "no, no, you can't, you have to. you have to move on, that's the only way. don't you see? i need you here. i don't want to see you die. it scares me, it devastates me. please, please don't leave me. love me, love me, love me. please love me instead, and you'll never, ever worry about love hurting you this much again. not on my watch."
but you're not done. you press on. "i saw you. i don't remember when anymore, this was months ago. i wanted to surprise you with your favorite slice of cake on a monday, because i had a thought that day. that i used to not like mondays, nobody likes mondays, but then you came along. i figured that maybe you don't have anything brightening up your monday, so iâi wanted to be it," you choke out, squeezing his fingers, terrified of him pulling away as you confess your bleeding heart out.
"i wanted to make your monday lighter in the form of a cake. but i saw youâwith her. i don't know, i felt so stupid. i don't know why i assumed that your mondays were bleak when they obviously aren't. yâyou smiled so softly at her, and i couldn't. i couldn't give you the cake. there's no way i can win against that, right? her," you whisper, but there's not an ounce of hatred in your tone. only sadness. only belief. only the admission of defeat in a war that he didn't even know you were fighting.
you shake your head, your bottom lip wobbling. you try to smile, but it just looks pitiful with your quivering eyebrows. "i'm sorry, zayne," you weep softly. "this is selfish of me, but i can't stop loving you. i just can't. this is already the happiest i've ever been, i don't mind things ending this way." you look into his eyes, something resolute even in the midst of your tears, your pain. "please let me have this."
and just like that, it's like you stole the air out of his very lungs.
it was him? the bastard was him?
he's the one making you suffer all this time?
and all becauseâwhatâyou thought he loves another woman when every thought he has, ever beat of his heart, every longing in his body is all for you?
oh, you silly, silly girl.
his silly girl.
"i can't believe you," he growls, composure long gone. he doesn't care when you flinch, misinterpreting his tone for rejection, because he's busy wrapping you in his hold, pressing you tightly to his chest, not wanting you to slip away like grains of sand between his fingers.
"you don't think i love you?" he chokes out. "you think i love her? how? how can iâwhen you're there? how can i love someone else when you exist? yes, she's important to me, but she's not you. she's like family, but you're you. and i love you. there's only been you."
he pulls away, shakily cups your face between his hands, and stares into your eyes, hoping he's conveying the amount of love he has for you through his gaze. he has punished you both enough, it's time for him to be honest with himself. he presses kisses all over your faceâyour forehead, your nose, your cheeks, the side of your mouthâwith devotion.
"i love you," he says again, wanting your very soul to hear it. "i love you."
he finally kisses you on your lips, and you do kiss back, just as softly.
you also break down that day, and he holds you through it allâyour tears, his tears, the pressing ache inside both of your chests that has nothing to do with the disease. you're clinging to him, your fingers tangling into his white coat, but he doesn't mind. now that he has you in your arms, he's not letting go. not ever. fuck, he thinks that you're the one who actually has to pry him away from you, because he has denied himself of thisâof youâfor far too long, and he's making up for lost time.
(and soon, there won't be an 'your apartment' anymore, because you'll stay in his.)
he's never making the same mistake again. he refuses to be far away from you now. he always makes sure that you're a part of his lifeâemotionally through both of your feelings, mentally through his thoughts about you in his mind, and physically through your presence. and he will always be there for you, through the good and the bad, because in the deep recesses of his heart,
Summary: Your entire life has been your twin sister. Why should your death be any different?
La Douleur Exquise: the heart-wrenching pain that takes over when you know that the person you love can never be yours.
Tags: hanahaki disease, reader being oblivious, sylus and reader being in love, romantic tension, emotional trauma (on both their parts), lowkey josephine bashing
A/N: First time writing free indirect discourse (both character's thoughts weaved throughout the story), so let me know if anything's confusing!
Part 2 | Series Masterlist | LADS Masterlist
Itâs a Herculean task for your coworkers to end your work day. Your mandatory sick leave starts the second you clock out, and the mere thought alone causes your stomach to roll in protest. Bile burns your throat as you reflect on their kindness and try to keep your head held high as you leave.
From colleagues taking projects out of your hands to your boss saying sheâll escort you home if thatâs what it takes. From your sister recruiting her partner to scold you in that soft, almost monotone, voice of his to how he teleported into your cubicle to shut your computer when you tried to skip your lunch break. From Tara buying you food from your favorite resturaunt to her giving you random tips to manage your symptoms.
Itâs all too much.
You take a rickety inhalation. Your fingers begin picking at the skin of your nailbeds. Coffee and artificial fruits and flowers waft in the air as usual; you can almost taste them on your tongue due to how sensitive your illness makes you. But, despite their overpowered nature, you'll miss them when youâre gone.
Who knew that the Hunters Association would be this protective over one little Protocore scientist?
Your chest clenches, and your heart burns. You try to ignore the pinpricks it causes in you as you stumble to the elevator. Try and try in vain to forget what the blossoming agony means and who they grow for. So, you turn to your phone. It glows with messages from two people: your dear older twin sister and the man who made this pain take root inside of you.
You read your sisterâs texts first. Sheâs uncomplicated and predictable. Overprotective and sassy. No struggles; sheâs family. Even if the main reason Sylus wonât love you lies with her.
The tulips within you constrict at the image of him flashing in your mind. Petals try to crawl out your throat as you rapidly press the âclose doorsâ button so that your fit isnât heard by everyone.
Returning your attention to her messages, you finally read them.
From:Â More Feral Than a Child on a Sugar High But Unfortunately Has Access to Guns
Why are you still here?
I seee youuuu!
Go home!
Workaholic!
And be sure to sleep!
Oh, but eat something first.
And I DONâT mean that shit that you think I donât know is buried in the freezer that you nuke when youâre on a research binge.
I mean real food!
Eat real food and then sleep so that you donât sulk around about having nothing to do.
omg
I think youâre the only person in the world thatâs ever been sad when your boss gives you PAID time off!
No fair. Give it to me.
Actually, donât. Youâre sick.
Again, why are you still here?!
Because apparently Sylus is here for you???
You make any plans with him recently?
You two spend a loooot of time together!
Itâs cute!
But you should tell Caleb about himâŠ
I can only hold him back from interrogating or using The Fleet to find out about the new man in your life for so long.
And neither of us want that.
A bulb threatens to spill out your lips as you struggle to type your response.
This is ridiculous. A mere glimpse of his name on my phone or thinking about him is enough to trigger me.
Imagining your sisterâs voice through her texts drowns out such thoughts and sensations. Scanning them over again in her narration clears your throat and steadies your mind. A temporary reprieve in the storm of your life; she takes the place of your work in this regard.
You stare at the reflective surface of the elevator. Deep eyes bags under dull irises. Discoloration in your cheeks more prominent than thatâs normal for you. Body one second away from collapseâyouâre held together by stubborness and spite rather than any real spark of life. All of it carries a shadow of familiarity. Except the tang of blood on your tongue.
âYou look like death-warmed over,â has become your catchphrase among the office this week.
Youâre far gone. Youâve known for a while. No doctor visit needed. You havenât seen Zayne as your PCP since you found that first bit of flower. No one can know, after all. Thingsâll be real if they do. And your world will come crashing down.
Sylus can and will never love you back. Surgeryâs out the question. And the state of your petals signifies that the procedure to be a necessity at this stage of the disease. Youâre going to die. Alone. In silence. With swiftness.
Body-shaking rasps discharge from your lips. Being still in the elevator on your way to the lobby, no one hears you (never have you been grateful to work on the upper floors of the Hunters Association and the long trips that comes with it). Blood and dark chocolate. A black rose petal than. Your skull rattles from the force of its emergence.
After that brief episode comes clarity in the form of your throbbing throat. With that strength, you write your reply.
To: More Feral Than a Child on a Sugar High But Unfortunately Has Access to Guns
Youâre so obnoxious, you know?
I tell you that recently?
I know how to take care of myself, so stop being a nag!
Youâre worse than Caleb
So much worse
And I wish you and everyone else in this damn building would take a page out of his book and LEAVE ME ALONE
Iâm grown!
Hardly need all these people policing meâŠ
Itâs just a small cough
A small cough that may cause a disturbance here and there
But nothing major
Maybe some bug I caught from you and the Wanderer remnants you bring into the house?
Iâm dying
^edit not dying
Read everything here before you freak out over nothing
Thereâs a dark sense of humor in your little âslipâ. Humor your family wonât find when theyâre burying you. When your sister finds that she has another grave to visit, she wonât be able to chuckle. Not in the beginning. Itâll take time. Sheâll need to grieve you. But, sheâll forget you. Sheâll move on. Sheâll live on.
Youâre not needed in anyoneâs life. Let alone hers. With all the previous ones sheâs led and all the loves sheâs experienced, whatâs one annoying little sister in all that?
It hurts. Burns a brand of fire that scorches and shimmers to a degree that it canât be called a flame. Fervor isnât the right word for the internal wound this fact causes.
Yet, you understand it. As you enter the of lobby of the Associationâs bottom floorâthe fancy air freshener lays on your tongue and you suppress a gagâthe flowers dance again at the brief sight of a welcoming silhouette and car parked out front. Itâs in that flutter, the movement of the garden that spells your demise, where you come alive. Free. Full of adrenaline and high on a drug that no chemical can nor will ever replicate.
Every time Sylus enters your field of vision and you experience the suffocation in your main bronchus, you get this way. On top of the world. The rush of living without limits or regrets. Any negative emotions you could have as a result of thinking about your sisterâs life without you evaporates when the tulips choke you.
The irony isnât lost on you. You embrace it. Love it, even. So much so that you speed walk to Sylus without reading his message. Him and his familiar car, familiar red and black outfit, and familiar bouquet that he gives you each time you meet.
His flowers for you reflect the ones you cultivate for him. You have no name for nor do you produce the beautiful white flowerâone with dazzling long petals that fan behind the main bud. Sylus, in no manner, shows any signs of telling you and smirks at you when you ask. You have no desire to shatter the illusion of this little banter between you.
Iâll just never know.
You do make the purple tulips he gifts with them. They mean royalty and elegance. A bonkers sentiment to describe someone like you. But youâll treasure anything from Sylus. So, on no occasion will you ever voice that opinion.
âDonât talk about yourself like that,â you can already invision his admonishment. âMy sweet Fenghuang deserves better and shouldnât tolerate anything less than what royalty accepts. Even from her worst enemy."
Part of you believes Sylus knows. That heâs intimate with the traitorous voices in your head and the malevolent ideas they whisper. That side of you believes itâs that knowledge that leads him to making this flower gifting of his a tradition between you two.
You give your own flowers to Sylus each time you meet. Except yours are locked behind your ribcage and the chosen vase lies in the lobes of your lungs rather than in your home. All of them are tulips.
Purple for your admiration. Black for his strength, mystery, and practice of rebelling against forces who dare to attempt to cage him. Your other two symbolize your love for him: deep pinkâjoy, gratitudeâand redâboundless desire, passion, and perfect love.
Perfect love.
A ridiculous concept conjured by the heart of a ridiculous girl in love with one of her sisterâs past lovers.
A lover who still holds her dear, judging by the fact that he caters to your whims. Listens to your tired rants about Protocores and space and the stars. Baits you with sweets after you spend days on a particular project and smell like the human embodiment of a Bean-Boozaled.
Reads books to you in a hushed voice as you lay in your bed in Linkon in the apartment you share with your sister; he reads over the phone, on speaker, regardless of the time. Never makes a fuss about you interrupting his schedule with something as mundane as a nightmare about your time at EVER.
Perfect love.
You were bound to develop for someone as devoted as him. Someone who drops everything for you and your sister. Someone who lets you cry on his shoulder when memories of Josephine and the sacrifice she made for you during the explosion resurface at the worst time. Someone who lets you rant about stupid coworkers and demanding deadlines even when he has his own life to attend to. Someone who lets you exist in the same space as him despite how broken you are.
Growing flowers for him was always in the cards for you.
âYou trying to analyze the Aether Core in my eye again, sweetie? Because Iâd love to hear your thoughts on it after I scold you for forgetting the dangers of such a task.â
A voice made of the finest symphonies and orchestras put together brings butterflies into your stomach. Butterflies that pollenate the flora in your chest. Another petal tries to crawl out of your throat, and this time, you taste more of it. A red tulip; they have a specific spice to them when youâve thrown them up in the past.
Shoving it back with the experience youâve garnered from hiding your condition from your sister, you roll your eyes at Sylus and take your flowers from him, âNo, S-skye. I know better. R-remember our first meeting too well not to.â
Sylus chuckles. âThatâs just too bad. Wouldâve been the best excuse for me to finally take you away from your sister.â
His words press on the wounds on your heart a little too much. You try to hide how affected you are.
Am I that annoying? Are you already done with me?
You move to the other side of his car. He follows you. For he would go anywhere with you.
Why must you distance yourself from me? Why must you hide from me?
Sylus knows you well. Too well, one could argue. The twins tease him about it. Your older sister even quizzes him. He couldnât care less. Heâll take any and all badgering if it makes you smile. Makes you laugh. Brightens your day a bit more.
The two of you move to the street. Not the smartest decision.
A little voice in your head that wills a car to come. That hopes and prays for some wayward vehicle or Wanderer to kill you so that your love doesnât. Sylus will never know your feelings for him; youâll die being his good friend. Your sister will never know your feelings for her fiend; youâll die being her nerdy twin with social issues.
The voice in Sylusâ head says something thatâs darker for a different reason in comparison to yours: âDevour her.â
His Aether Coreâs more incessant these days. Burning and yearning inside Sylusâ eye whenever he gets a glimpse at you. It desires you in every way.
To have you live with him rather than your family. Spoil you. Hold you. Love you. And itâs not always the physical and vulgar definition of that word that courses through his veins.
Intrinsic things cycle through more often. Breakfast in bed. Showering you in gifts (more than just flowersâitâs what you deserve and Sylus would be damned if he didnât spend at least 7 figures on you every day you grace him with your presence). Small dates. Big events. Grazes against each otherâs bare skin that says, âIâm here.â
He longs to have you be a permanent fixture in his life. Put a ring on your finger. Wed you. Bed you. Make you his any possible manner.
âDevour her.â
I canât.
He doesnât want to scare you. To have you turn your nose at him with disgust and malice like your twin once did. He couldnât survive that.
You both get back to the usual banter to run from whatâs inside your heads, âW-what reason could you have for that?â
âYou tell me, sweetie.â
âYouâre killing me here. Iâm intrigued,â on the inside, you laugh at your own joke.
Sylus notices the shift in your expression. The worst ideas come to mind before he can beat them away. He pretends otherwise.
âThen it seems I have achieved my goal. A good mystery is always the best way to grab your attention.â
âAm I that predictable?â You lean against the passenger side door, staring at the ground as you card your fingers through the petals of the fresh gift.
Beautiful, Sylus observes.
âYes. Youâre here with me right now, after all,â and he canât help but get closer.
Have your sweet warmth in more of his space. Hear the comforting rhythm of your heartbeat (a background noise that chases away any nightmare and soothes every scar). Inhale the faint perfume you claim your sister likes to spray on herself without a careâand, as an unintentional result, youâevery morning; heâs never smelled it on her.
Is he so consumed by you that he canât? Or did you spin your little story to cover your love floral scents?
Itâs irrelevant.
And he canât forget the sight of you when he gets closer. Your eyes widen a smidge. Your skin with beauty marks and old scabs that you call imperfections but he calls proof of your resilience. The loose clothes that hang on your person.
âDevour her.â
No, he tells it.
Sylus hits your senses as well. His breath. His cologne and the tinge of gunpowder that lies beneath it. The fabric of his clothes shifting as he moves his hand next to your body.
âWhich is a good thing, since Iâm in need of your assistance.â
He doesnât touch you. He wants to (not that youâre aware). But with his Aether Core behaving this way, he canât risk it. Canât risk the self-control he prides himself on failing him for the first time.
He moves you off the door to open it. With his Evol.
âSyâSkye! Youâre gonna get caught!â your squeal and stumble are adorable; you find them embarrassing.
Tendrils of energyâso corrosive and dangerous; ones that render flesh into pulp but touch your skin like itâs pricelessâsurrounds your hips. Sylusâ eyes are on his hands as you squirm at the display of power right in front of your workplace.
Sylus watches you watch his Evol. Curiosity sparkles in your eyes, pupils dart to dissect different segments. Lightness spreads throughout his heart. Another little moment where you show wonder instead of fear. Where you embrace him instead of running from him.
You panic while he smirks. Adoration and anxiety dance between you two. Total opposites. Like everything else about the pair of you.
Does the Association know his Evol? My sister wouldâve mentioned that is they did, right? She wouldnât have forgotten to tell me?
He shrugs at you, unaware of the crisis his presence causes. âA risk Iâm willing to take just to see you smile.â
Cactus needles poke at your heart. The idiotic and duplicitous muscle squeezes under the tenderness of his words. You comply with his request. If you do anything else, you might say something or do something you canât take back.
Like kiss him. Bring his face to yours and kiss him hard enough that he presses you against his fancy car. He'll grab your waist as pushes you further into the hot metal. Make circles on your hips while his mouth devours yours. You'd run your fingers through his hair. Yanking and pulling on the strands in an attempt to ground yourself under the relentlessness of his lips.
Would he stop? Or take you right here, in front of everyone? Or will that famous greed of his get in the way and heâll whisk you away? Will he believe heâs the sole person allowed to gaze upon you in the throes of passion and pleasure? Or would he want to display you?
How fast would he go to get you into his bed? Would his conquest end there? Where would those hands of hisâstained in blood and capable of such violence, yet you know them to be kind ones that soothe you to sleepâwander?
Around your neck? Down your back? Pining your wrists? Between your legs?
And his lips. You can't forget about them. Can't get the idea of them everywhere on you out of your head. How would he taste? More rich and umami like his black tulips? Or sweet like the pink? Maybe even a hint of sourness, like the purple?
Tingles envelop your lips. Tongue vibrates as it imagines a flavor profile you'll never get to sample. Your skin smolders like a flame, and the oak logs are your clothing.
How would I taste to him?
âHere. S-smiling. Now happy?â
Boiling. Bubbling and boiling blood in your veins from your nasty thoughts. You avoid Sylus' hands. And his face. You canât do with more indecent thoughts of him fucking you in his car.
Sylus chuckles. You plea to the universe it's not because of how disordered you are.
Itâs not. Youâre not aware, but Sylus never laughs at you. Finds you adorable, yes. Finds youâre flustered nerves cute (when itâs in bursts and not deep discomfort), yes.
He chortles because itâs better he does that than cup your cheeks in his hands and kiss you. Or rub your face against his like heâs a cat. Moments like this, he wants to hoist you off your feet and spin you. Or put you in his pocket to keep for himself.
Not that your sister would let him.
âI will be. Once you agree to hear me out,â you gesture at him to do so as soon as the words finish leaving his mouth. âI need you for something.â
âForâŠ?â you ask as he opens the door for you to step into his car. You do so and he slinks into the driverâs side.
âTo be my partner,â his full-belly laugh signals that your face sports a strange expression. âNot that way, sweetie. I am a gentleman, after all. I wouldnât dare ask you that question is such a casual setting.â
Stop that. Don't get my hopes up.
Your fingers long to run along his veiny forearms. Steal that jacket of his and wear to enclose his scent around you. Dragons are territorial, right? Would he ever mark you with his aroma like that? To show the world you're his and he's yours?
Or would he bite my neck? Leave deep gashes there and on my collarbones and suck them hard enough so that they linger for days?
Heat pools in your stomach. Without any thought, one of your hands traces the side of your neck. Sylus notices the movement. His breath catches.
You spiral while he preens. You fall apart while he soars.
âDevour her.â
The urge sinks itâs teeth into the logical side of his brain. Biting. Clawing. The fiend within longs to be set free. Sylusâ whole body buzzes, scorches. Hands itch to expore your body. Lips beg him to give in an inch. One little taste. A sample.
His Aether Core hums in his eye. Says it needs nothing more than a portion. One kiss. One mark on your skin. One listen to your whimpers and moans. Itâll be satisfied. Sylus could take his time afterwards.
Itâs a lie. A tale every addict has told. Once would be enough to make him never go back. Keep you in his bed. Cling to you with palms on your form each time you appear before him.
Could he still be gentle after having you that way? Be the soft man you know him rather than the monster everyone else does? He fears becoming possessive. Terrified at the idea of the intrusive thoughts of caging and bruising you becoming reality. Frozen at the notion that, maybe, youâd let him.
Is that better or worse?
You straighten and speak with a jovial tone to break the tension, âW-whatâs the plan then?â
You joke to calm your racing heart. To pretend that your entire being isnât on fire, that your lungs arenât attempting to squeeze what little air you have left in out. Act as if Sylusâ words didnât bring you to cloud nine only to slam you into the harsh concrete. That youâre not breaking on the inside.
You put on a mask. You have to. To keep the flowers inside. To keep the status quo. To stay in your lane.
âWhy would I tell you and ruin the surprise?â the smirk on his lips isnât his usual one. Itâs tinged with something more, roots of other emotions and meanings planted in his eyes. âBut what I will tell you is that in this context, youâd be my partner for a business gala.â
Your heart falls out of your chest and under the seat of the fancy car you have no business polluting with your touch. You attempt to get out the car, to give back the flowers you donât deserve to touch. Thereâs no way you can help Sylus with his request.
Iâm not my sister, your eyes speak as Sylusâ face changes. Iâm not a Hunter. Iâm not a fighter. Iâm not helpful here.
Youâre a fragile nerd, too broken by EVER to stomach the sight of blood or hear a gunshot. Yet another reason you and Sylus would never work. If one excludes all the major factorsâhis love and history with your twin being the most glaring of themâthis âminuteâ detail hammers the final nail into the coffin.
Surviving a life beside Sylus isnât possible for you. Youâre a coward by nature. A runner. A hider. A man with a life like his couldnât stand being romantic with someone like you.
âThe better twin gets off in a bit. S-she can meet you down here. Iâll get going now. I canât help you.â
Sylusâ heart rips open at your words. He wants what he hears to be wrong. But, he clocked the change the second your eyes shifted; long before you spoke.
I donât want her, he begs with his own. I want you.
He wants your heart, one hurt by many but still willing to give.
He wants your eyes, expressive and misted by pain but sharp with determination.
He wants your will; a woman afraid and, at times, not sure of herself but fierce when it matters.
He wants your intellect, that mind of yours able to keep up with his no matter the circumstances. Calculating, but kind. Can be cruel, but more prone to a compassion that borders on naivety. You give that impression on purpose. Allow others to underestimate you.
Once, Sylus did. When he first met you. The less impulsive, more reserved twin. Moments later, he learned how far the depth of that mistake goes. When your eyes locked with his. Direct. No hesitation. Glimmering with an insatiable thirst for knowledge.
Those same irises cloud with sorrow right now.
âThe better twin,â you said. As if it wasnât obvious to everyone around the two of you that youâre equal. As if you believe that rather than love your sister lifetimes ago, he still clings to her.
âSweetie. If I wanted your sister, we wouldnât be having this conversation.â
He leans into your space, grateful you donât flinch away. Tells himself itâs to get you to pay attention, to heed his words.
The core in his eye knows better. Even in this serious time.
âDevour her. Sheâs yours. Consume her.â
Desire thrums under his skin. And heâs thankful you canât hear or sense it any capacity. Sylus runs hotter as he moves over the manual shift stick in his car. The heat of your own body caresses against his.
Iâm too close.
âNot close enough,â his Aether Core supplies.
Not close enough to taste. Have your lips against his. Or maybe his mouth against your neck. Your collarbones. Your stomach. Your thighs. Lower and lower until he reaches his prize. The one place heâll never allow himself to dream about.
Going back from that would be an arduous task. But, he canât depart from you now. He needs this proximity. To convince you. To get you to listen.
He puffs air on your skin as he breathes out. Too sharp for your mess of a brain. Smoke and expensive cologne enters your failing lungs. Heart too loud. Flesh too warm. Your imagination runs wild, and you taste the idea of him on your tongue again.
It's his favorite wine (you've had it before at his place). With a hint of sweetness and exquisiteness that you canât describe any other way but Sylus in his purest form. You wet your lips.
Sylus sweeps away your fantasy, âIf I wanted her, Iâd text her. Iâd call her. Iâd have Luke and Kieran fetch her. I have you here with me because I want you.â
Absentminded, you bob your head in agreement as your body rises to an impossible temperature. Cheeks heat to an uncomfortable degree. Hands sweat so much that youâre surprised Sylus doesnât comment.
Your headâs in fog. Dazed from the weight of the man you loveâs words. What they mean beyond the hints. The reason behind why his eyes are intent on searing holes into you.
Sylus knows you well. Knows how you hide yourself from the world, make yourself invisible in favor of your sister. Knows that it took a while for you to believe to the narrowest of margins he wants to spend time with you.
Knows how you fold in on yourself when strangers stare in your direction for a second too long (he shields you with his large body, and that habit of his became one of the many things that made you fall in love and grow flowers in your chest for him).
Sylus knows how you make your sister the center of your world. How everything you do leads back to her in some capacity.
Even him.
But, at the same time, he knows how to push you. How to move you beyond the box youâre determined to cage yourself in. How to guide your mind towards that specific breakthrough. How to challenge you to see your work from another angle, a different light.
Heâs too good to you, for you. You know that. And for that, youâll taking choking on his love with dignity and grace.
To him, youâre too good for him. Fragile in your health, but strong in your heart. Afraid of what he does, but not of him. Weary and smart and generous, but not jaded. Youâve yet to loose your faith in the worldâin him.
He canât confess. Canât love you the way he wants. You deserve better. Better than him and his harsh hands with countless lives on them and his dark thoughts.
You are not mine to have, you both think.
He buckles you in while youâre still distracted, âKeep that in mind for me, Fenghuang. I never settle for anything less than the best.â
You nod, keeping your head down and fiddling with your fingers in your lap. The tulips in your chest brush against your heart. The muscle pounds at lightning speed and claps like thunder. Not even the plants killing you can slow it.
Sylus drives away from your workplace, smug grin on his face (one he puts on to hide his own complex maze of emotions) as you avoid eye contact with him through the mirrors.
â
With great pain, you detach yourself from Sylusâ side for the umpteenth time to dash to the bathroom. His eyes are on you as you do. Without even looking back, you know his expression; youâve seen the furrow in his brow enough tonight for it to be a permanent fixture in your mind. What it would be like to smooth that crease out with your hands? Bring his forehead to yours as you whisper comforting words to him and peck his cheeks?
Itâs all make belief. Delusions of a dying woman. Thereâs no harm to it. No one gets hurt by them, so you leave your thoughts alone. Put judgement of yourself to the side for a second.
Well, except for me.
You add an addendum; they arenât causing pain to anyone important.
Sylus watches you go, worry snaking throughout his body. He knows that you sometimes get bad allergies. Thatâs not the case here. Suppressed coughs that make your entire body tremble (itâs prominent each time he places a hand on youâwhich he rationalizes to himself and you that itâs necessary to state that youâre his partner and should be treated as such). Speckles of blood on your lips. The air of death that circles around you, thicker and more potent.
Youâve made many trips to the bathroom. Claiming both that youâve had too much to drinkâdespite no even finishing a glass of simple waterâand wanting to give him opportunities alone with his business associates. Each time he tells you itâs not needed. But you flash him that warm smile of yours, and his will to make you stay crumbles.
His eyes follow your retreating form. You stumble a bit, hand on your mouth and back hitching from the force of the coughs you assume he doesnât hear. Heâs heard them all night and knows from even a glimpse of you that theyâre still happening.
He fidgets when youâre like this. Terrified at what it means.
Is it something she ate? Is she sick? Whatâs causing this? Did someone poison her to get to me?
All questions lead to one prevailing notion: he shouldnât have brought you here. Youâre not well. And all the stupid politics and dangers of his life are deteriorating your condition.
When she comes back this time, weâre leaving.
You, on the other hand, remain oblivious to his spiraling just as heâs in the dark about the tulips that nip the back of your throat. Youâre alone when the tides crest. Each session youâve had in the bathroom has been devoid of an audience. This time is no different. No one bears witness to your mess.
Itâs quiet as you expel the plants. No loud retchings sounds. No deafening splashes as handfuls of petals sink in the toilet, weighed by your phlegm and bile. One of a kind you, with the agony that grips your esophagus, and the captivating tulips that spell your end. Itâs poetic, in a way.
Bleary eyed and tired, you sit with your back against the seat for a second. To catch your breath. To think as tears slip on your cheeks, micro bursts of cold that soothe the sizzle of the rest of your face, from the sheer force of what came out of your body. In and out, you count each expansion of your lungs. 1, 2, 3, 4, and so on. Small things help ground you.
When the scratchiness in your mouth and the sear of stomach acid becomes too much, you turn to flush the evidence. You have pause when your eyes begin to register the size of the petals.
Theyâre bigger.
A bad sign. Larger means more progression. Greater growths in greater numbers. Means youâre closer to the end. Taking another shallow breath, you pull the mechanism to make it all disappear.
Deal with it later. You knew this was going to happen. You know youâre going to die. Get over it.
Itâs taxing to leave the stall. A thought crosses your mind to drown yourself here. Get it all over with. Pass away in a humiliating way; a way thatâs crude, sure, but spares Sylus of the insurmountable affliction you know heâs going to have once the flowers engulf you.
Rationale kicks in once you hear the lock of the stall door hit against the little metal piece itâs supposed to slide into to secure it close.
Not here. Donât make things harder for Sylus. Donât stain his relationships with these people with your blood.
Washing your hands and face, you center on your aspirations again. In and out. As slow as possible. As long as possible. Something to latch onto to keep yourself from giving in and doing something stupid.
Whatever calm you gather dissipates when you reunite with Sylus. He gravitates towards you, as if pulled in by the scent of the damned flora growing inside you. He leans into you, exhalation ghosting your right ear and bringing bees to life to buzz in your belly, âWeâre leaving.â
âHold onââ you protest.
âI wonât hear it.â
His command makes your heart pound. Your face flushes and you duck to avoid his gaze. Sylus being Sylus, slides a finger under your chin and raises your eyes back to his. Heâs languid but slow with his movements. Graceful but careful with his brushes.
Elegant but loving with his nudges.
Amusement fills the quirk of his lips, âNow donât go depriving me of the lovely sight of your face. Youâll hurt my feelings.â
âI wonât. If you promise not to use me as an excuse to abandon your duties. Iâm fine.â
Iâd let the world burn for you, but letâs start with the basics, sweetie.
He scoffs and laughs with affection, âThat you are not sweetie. And if youâre so worried about my work, think of us departing as saving my reputation. The host himself has always chastised me about bringing my sick wife here. So let me a doting husband, would you?â
âWife.â
A purposeful decision he made in his mind the second he asked you to come with him. A declaration of everything he wants to say. A subtle jab in your direction of his love.
âWife.â
You were nonverbal from how embarrassed you were when he announced that title for the first time. Will you be the same when he really weds you? Will it fade over time as you accept that position, or will you two be the kind of couple thatâs always like that?
Sylus begins to guide you through the crowd. Canât have that fantasy of his get too vivid. Heâll taste your imaginary wedding cake on his tongue, hear the melody of your first dance. Glimmers and shimmers of a veil on your head. The perfect dressâone more expensive and stunning than the one that hugs your figure right nowâflutters in the corner of his eye.
âWife.â
Thereâs no one in this world, in any life or universe or timeline, he wants to call that but you. Odds are, itâll never come to pass.
âDevour her.â
Meanwhile, the heat of your blood numbs your tongue. You canât even protest when Sylus lays his large palm in the small of your back. Nor can you even muster a peep when he takes you before the host. Honeyed words and pleasantries fall from each manâs lips.
Nothing comes out of yours. Youâre too busy pushing down the petals that threaten to burst forth from them. That, and youâre basking in the rough texture of Sylusâ skin on your bare back. For some reason, the dress he picked out for you (one that matches his suit) opens there.
Youâve been consigned to every brush of his muscled arm or calloused hand setting you aflame throughout the night. Dancing was a hell unlike any other. To have him so close, have his warmth mingle with your cold body every time he got too near. Itâs all oh so overwhelming. Respect and attention and charity that isnât yours to have.
The garden within you has decided to act as it should. Hooked your throat and spilled out your mouth. Ruined this night you had hoped to have with your love, and tainted it with your visceral insides.
Youâre back in the base before you can think about it. At the party one moment, at Sylusâ home the next. Scolding yourself, you try to rush out of the passenger seat of your loveâs car. But, heâs already there: eyes narrowed in suspicion as he opens the door for you and offers his hand to you.
You take it. What else are you supposed to do? Despite how you know you can never be with him the way you want, how you know youâll die. Your heartâs delusion of falling for him. But you also known you can never let him go. That youâll take any opportunity to grasp his hand, to touch him and have him against your skin.
No matter how fuzzy and cloudy your brain gets every time. No matter how many coughs you have to choke back. No matter how many seeds are sown inside of you. No matter how many days are shaved off your short life. Youâll take Sylus in whatever manner you can get.
He does the same. Grips you tight when he can. Touches your bare skin with his whenever he can get away with it. Tiny things. Flashes in a pan.
This is enough, he tries to convince himself. It has to be enough.
Dancing with you tonight. Bringing you to his home. Each millisecond you let him share space with you. Under normal circumstances, heâs too enveloped by you to care about anything else.
Right now, he frets. Notices the wobble in your hands. The way your eyes dodge his. How youâre warmer than usual.
âWhy didnât you tell me before?â sits on the tip of his tongue.
âHow about you get changed, sweetie? I can drop you off at your apartment afterwards if youâd like,â he says instead.
Skimming your outfit, your thoughts spin.
Am I so ugly in this you want me out of it as soon as possible? Or do you not want my sister to know that you bought me it? It has your tastes all over it, after all. Do you want it back? Should I give it to you only to see my sister in it a few weeks from now? Will you give it to her at my funeral?
âNo,â you protest, so quiet youâre sure Sylus doesnât hear you.
He does, âNo what?â
Your eyes flutter towards his against your will. And those soft carmines you cherish are on you as you two walk side by side. They melt you to your core. The flowers decide to torment you less under the caress of his gaze. They hurt less in your chest right now.
âDonât w-wanna go home. Iâll go back tomorrow; the bad thing I ate s-should clear by then.â
The rumble of Sylusâ chest makes the corners of your lips twitch, âOf course.â
He doesnât believe me.
You know that tone heâs using. Know it well. From your sister, to your coworkers, to Calebâall those in your life have given you it. Whenever you did or said something witless. Your cheeks sizzle for another reason, and that reason makes you drop Sylusâ hand as if he had burned you.
âIâm gonna change. Tired of heels and your expensive taste in clothing.â
Voice clipped, and hand scorching from his touch, you sprint to the farthest bathroom in Sylusâ base, not even bothering to look at him again. Youâre too mortified to.
â
Sylus watches you leave with a bleeding heart. Guilt sets in as he pours himself a drink. You ripped yourself away from him. And heâs been so blind and selfish that he didnât know how sick you were until now. Until he got slapped with proof right in the faceâheâs supposed to be better than this.
Itâs so obvious. And I claim to love her.
Your face drained of its usual vibrant color. Eyes dimmed and bags under them thicker. His original belief: nothing more than poor sleep from your research binges (still worrisome, but fixable). But the bit of blood he saw on the corner of your lipsâbeautiful things heâs had to stop himself more than once tonight from kissing, especially with how that dress made your allure stand out even moreâtells him otherwise.
Makes him worry. He wants to lock you away from the world until you tell him whatâs going on and let him help you. Youâd hate him for that. For robbing you of your freedom.
At the same time, the more he notices you wither away, the more the terror of losing you that way begins to get crushed by a greater fear. Watching you lose yourself to illness, to something he could heal, is starting to be more unbearable than your hatred.
He tries to imagine that reality: youâre healthy, full of life and no longer fraught with the burdens of the world. You donât shrink back from everyone around you. Your life no longer centers around your sister. Your eyes donât dull when you think no oneâs looking (heâs always looking).
They only do that when heâs around in this version of events he conjures. Heâs no longer âSylusâ to you; heâs your jailer. The man that stole you. The man you fear above all others. His mind shows the picture of the way your sister once addressed him and twists it to be you. Itâs you with him in Philipâs workshop. Itâs you that he says, âSheâs afraid of you, or⊠disgusted by youâ about.
His face falls. His hand gains a small tremor. And his Evol, wisps of red and black, curl around his finger tips. Even his drink becomes bland. Never has loneliness been so empty. Never has rejection dug so far into his chest.
Her sister stabbed me to death in one life. Yet, this time around, the idea of her fearing me is enough to bring me to my knees.
You have power beyond belief. No Evol. No immortality like your twin and him. Instead, your ability shows in how you bend him and her by existing. A little bomb and a fiend. Beings who can and have destroyed worlds.
Both would buckle with one word from you. Both would die for your smile, and annihilate entire nations over your tears. Sylus grips the wine bottle. The glass strains under his grip.
I could lose her because she gave her heart to the wrong person.
âYouâre back earlier than expected, Boss-man,â Luke provides the perfect distraction.
Sylus kills his earlier train of though with precision. He has no proof of what's ailing you. Blood and bile canât diagnose Hanahaki. No flowers means he can't be certain. He needs more information before he can act.
Would you even give it to him? If he begs and pleads at your feet for something, anything, so that he can help you, would you?
Talking about your problems has never been your strong suit. Will you change that for me? Just this once?
âOr do you not trust me?" he longs to ask of you.
âWhereâs the missus?â
Kieranâs words pull a chuckle from Sylus, even as he circles the drain with his restraint to not teleport to you and demand answers.
Theyâve been calling you that for who knows how long; and Sylus can still recall the first time you âconfrontedâ him to try and make them stop doing so with picture perfect clairty. How you squirmed, not in discomfortâif that was the case, he knows the twins would respect your wishesâbut embarrassment laced with shock.
Shock at the place you hold in their lives. A close friend and maternal figure to the twins. Mephisto has labeled you to be his favorite. The rest of his henchmen that see you in passing have more or less made you out to be their boss' wife; you are to be given the same respect and your words hold equal power.
And to Sylus, of course, youâre his most precious treasure. Mousey, not one to say much, and oh so ravishing. A prize heâs unworthy of. He fears staining your delicate skin with his brutish hands that drip with the blood of countless victims.
Maybe thatâs why he gives you flowers. Why he grows them for you with his own hands in his personal greenhouse. To show youâand othersâthat heâs capable of more than death and destruction. That if he can breathe life into a desolate place like the N109 Zone, one day, he might worthy of holding your heart in his hands. That these strong hands can be graceful enough to hold not just frail flowers, but you.
âSheâs changing. Evidently, she doesnât seem to like the outfits I pick out for her.â
Sylusâ tone is light, but both his boys pick up the pain that floats beneath the surface. Neither comment on it. They exchange some kind of silent conversation before Kieran leaves. Sylus keeps quiet as he does. He sips on his wine again, taking the time to analyze and digest its contents.
Sheâd like this flavor. Iâll offer it to her when she gets better.
â
Kieran drags you out the bathroom to play games with his twin and boss. Said boss keeps a close eye on you in the virtual world. Shadowing you. Quipping with less bite and more concern than usual. Amity and adoration swirl within you at each loving word.
It makes everything all the worse. As you have to leaveâover and over againâin order to not throw up on yourself. Bile eviscerates your throat. Coats your mouth in its disgusting texture that no water or drink can fully drown out.
Bits of reprieve on your tongue come in the form of pink and purple tulips; a bitter candy enters your mouth when they appear. The entire time, your body acts like itâs building towards something.
You get the answer in no time. Not even an hour into the game, you canât hold back the flood anymore. Sprinting to the bathroom without ceremony, your stomach and lungs go on the attack. Itâs awful; the worst youâve ever had.
Sylus exits his pod once you disappear. The twins follow him, concern in their eyes. None of them say anything. Worry sits in their throats. All itch to go after you, but it's clear to all that you don't want them to.
But Sylus can't stand erratic beat of his heart. How the dragon in him calls to go after you. Protect you.
She doesnât want you, he chants while his feet slowly but surely take him to trail after you. She doesnât want you.
Meanwhile, iron envelopes your tongue from the heaps of blood that spills from you. Your eyes are too blurry to tell if you hit your target. You make a mental note to scrub the bathroom before you leave this time. The last thing you need is to infect Sylusâ sensitive nose with the scent of your waste.
Said man hasnât asked any questions. Strange. Off-putting. Do you like things being this way?
No questions. No concerns. Nothing.
Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Do I want him to worry, to fret over me, or do I want to die in peace?
Do you want him to cry over your body, mourn your passing and live with guilt piling on him like stones for his execution? Or do you want to become a blip in his life, one more fleeting human that crossed paths with the great dragon?
Another swell of flowers comes before you can decide. Obliterates your throat. Ruptures one of your arteries. How else could you explain there being this much blood?
What were those foods I read about that helped with blood loss? Poultry and beans sounds good. Maybe I can get Sylus to cook me some. I love his cooking.
More pools in your mouth. Trying to choke it backâto stop the tides, to stop your pain, or to foolishly try and get a gripâdoes nothing. Taste buds on the back of your tongue forget all other cuisine. You only know blood; they only know iron and fiber.
Eyes still filled with tears, you attempt to glare at the mountains of petals in the toilet. You need to channel your anger somewhere. Why not on the flush mechanism? Over and over again, you pull the handle. Screams well up alongside the garden that wants to push out of your neck.
Teardrops splash pathetically into the sea of your torment. Theyâre insignificant amongst the storm. Not adding anything helpful to your predicament. They land improperly on the edge of the seat to dilute the blood you managed to get on there. Another mistake for the books. Another error.
Another failure on top of all youâve done. The knock at the bathroom door you thankfully locked signals that the universe hasnât stopped messing with you.
Sylus arrives while youâre in this state. Blood and bile flood his nose the second he does. But itâs the floral scents that has anxiety clench a fist around his heart. That tinge isnât part of your usual smell.
No. No, no, no, noâŠ
Composure is something that comes easy to Sylus in tense moments. It dies when it involves you. Withers right now. He hopes that when he speaks, he doesnât waver.
âSweetie? Youâve been in there for quite sometime,â Sylusâ voice makes you sob all the harder.
You're desperate to open the door. Fall into Sylus' arms and confess your feelings and spend the rest of your days pampered by a man who drowns in remorse. The ghost of his strong arms are around your waist. Wonderful drinks that heâd brew for your sore throat linger in your oral cavity and the comfortable clothes heâd swaddle you in brush your skin.
Sylus is desperate for you. To comfort you. Shield you from the world and it's cruelty. Nurse you back to health from whatever is plaguing you.
It isn't Hanahaki, he attempts to persuade himself. It isn't. It canât be. Thereâs an explanation to this.
And if it is, itâs treatable. Regardless of what the internet and doctors say.
âBlood is bad, but big is worse,â they say, meaning itâs better to have bloody petals than large ones.
Blood can come from a multitude of things: scratched throat, or a vein or artery being nicked. Not good; but itâs fixable.
Big means progression. Depth. Roots getting into the chest cavity. Long periods of growth time. Big means itâs harder to remove. Harder to treat.
Not that any of this is his problem. You donât have Hanahaki. You canât.
âSweetie?â
He asks again. There's nothing else to do. He can only hope and pray and plead with the stars to not harm another person he loves. To not take away another treasure of his.
You're sick, though, when your love speaks. Your exhausted brain is aware enough to hear the falter in his words. Self-hatred slams into you for your thoughts, for the dreams you know better to even consider.
Idiot. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
You already made a vow to never tell him. Let yourself waste away, become fertilizer for the flowers, without anyone ever knowing. No one will grieve you for long. No one will miss you for long.
Thatâs okay; itâs how itâs supposed to be. You are your sisterâs shadow. You donât exist as a separate person. The world will go on without you. Sylus will go on without you.
Itâs fine. Itâs perfectly fine. Itâs how things should be. Itâs howâ
âSweetie? Answer me,â the tiny crack in his words breaks your heart.
His speech breaks you; your lack shatters him.
What is going behind there that you won't speak to me? How bad is it? Is too late? Are you dying? Are you dead?
His mind provides him a helpful image: you, aspirating silently on bodily fluids, while he stands mere feet away. You're gone before he can do anything. He's this close to breaking the door. His entire body shudders. When was the last time his blood ran this glacial?
The arenas? Finding his sorceress with her memories gone and a child? Or in his first life, when he found out he was all alone? When he almost killed his love?
I don't know. Isn't that frightening?
âIâIâm here,â you finally whimper and the universe inside Sylus holds itself together with duct tape.
Why do you sound so afraid? So broken?
âBecause sheâs dying,â a voice supplies in his headâis it the Aether Core or something else? âSheâs dying and you can do nothing to fix it. You, who promised to protect her.â
Your life is slipping through his fingers, âIâm calling you a doctor.â
Panic shoves itself into your stomach and causes another brief round of vomiting. You try to talk between volleys. Reassure and trick a man you know canât be fooled. A man, that while you canât see, you know is alight with worry.
Normally, youâd be flattered. Joyous for the occasion of having all of Sylus attention on you. Right now, it makes the roots in the lobes of your lungs dig deeper and stir a spoon in your guts.
âNo. Donât waste Philipâs time, s-silly. Iâll⊠Iâll be fine. Itâs just a bug.â
The laugh your love lets out is one entirely devoid of humor and bordering on insanity, âYou must think me a fool if you expect me to believe that,â he pauses. âJust let me in. Iâm begging you.â
He goes deathly quiet and you hear him thunk his head against the door. âYouâre scaring me.â
Sylus is on the precipice of breaking all his rules and morales with you. The scent of copper and iron from you is too strong. The waver in your voice is too much.
I need to see you. Please. I need to see you alive before I go mad.
He presses his head on the door in an empty attempt to get closer to you. Sense you through to the other side. Tell you that heâs here and heâs not going anywhere. He canât stop the sickness that knots in his stomach as he does. From his own hypocrisy.
Part of Sylus that doesn't want to come in. And that's why he keeps the door up. Doesn't want confirmation of his suspicions. Doesn't want to be sure that you love another.
Would he survive seeing such a thing? Would he survive if you lived with this person? Would he survive if you died?
No, he decides. Sylus has lost enough; he won't lose you. No matter the amount of fear inside of him.
But, of course, you none of this. And Sylus knows nothing of your own turmoil.
âYou? S-scared? Of me,â you scoff, hacking a bit as blood slips into the wrong pipe. âBig bag Boss-man afraid of me? Doesnât s-sound too believable. I think Iâll remain here.â
You stutter on every word after your choking bit. Discomforting warmth spreads in your cheeks. Your limbs are on fire.
Inept, stupid little girl.
âIf only you knew the impossibilities and paradoxes you arise within me. Anything is possible when it comes to you, sweetie.â
Itâs strange to be so flustered when youâre dying and standing in front of pool of your own blood. Watching the red liquid bubble and mix with your phlegm as your heart beats faster.
âAnything is possible when it comes to you, sweetie.â
Such sweet words from a man that causes you so much suffering.
âFlattery will get you nowhere,â your cadence is broken; it hurts to breathe, much less speak.
âItâs not flattery, Fenghuang,â he nearly voices.
âI donât want it to get me anywhere but past this door,â is the better option, so he says it.
Sylus returns to normal to a degree. No longer does his voice shatter as he talks. No longer does it bleed trepidation, nor rumble with a tremor not unlike a thunderstorm. Thereâs still twinges of something. Something youâre not clear-minded enough to identify.
That unknown factor that keeps you pushing back against him, âThereâs no need. Really. Itâs just aâa bug and allergies. You know how weak my body is, remember? Always getting s-sick and failing on me.â
Heavy wheezes escape out your lips. Once more, you turn to the toilet bowl and hurl some petals. Once more does the flavor of rich chocolate mix with spice in your mouth. Once more, you note their sheer size and you have to take a breath in to try to process what that means.
âIâm out of options, Sylus,â you want to say. âOnly surgery or your love will save me now. So, thereâs no need for a doctor.â
âSee, I want to believe you. I really do,â that empty chuckle from before echoes from outside the bathroom to jump around in your skull and heart; the flowers tighten around your internal organs in response to the pain your love hoists onto you. âBut I canât.â
âS-sounds l-likeââ
Youâre about to tease him. He talks again with a voice that tears into your soul before you can, âLet me see you.â
Sylus wants to cry. Heâs about to. He will if it gets him to you.
âI look gross, Sy. L-let⊠let me clean up first.â
I donât care, sweetie. I couldnât care less how you look. Let me gaze upon you and put my mind at ease. Prove to me for both our sakes that you arenât dying. That I have more time to be worthy of you.
âYou sound ready to fall apart, sweetie,â you have no idea, my love. âI fear youâll fall and Iâll never be able to gaze upon those eyes of yours again.â
I hope thatâs the case. That I go gently into the night, disappear from everyoneâs lives Iâve been mucking up. There one day, gone overnight. You never have to see these cursed eyes of mine again. I can die without ceremony; you and my sister donât even have to give me a funeral.
At the same time, I hope to die here. Scar you for eternity as I fade away in your bathroom and youâre hopeless to stop me. Youâll miss me forever if that happens, right? No one will forget me. Iâll be the girl that died because of Hanahaki in the leader of Onychinusâ base rather than just my sisterâs twin. Youâll remember out of the guilt for not saving me rather than the guilt of hurting my sister. Youâll remember my blood, my pain, my flowers I grew for you. Could you bare to wash my blood out of expensive tile? Will some of it remain in memoryâ
Stop it.
Youâre a terrible person to wish those things on a someone you claim to love. And itâs for that shameâdeep indignity that burrows into your viscera alongside the seeds on new tulipsâthat you canât let Sylus in. Canât let him cross that threshold.
âIâm gross,â you repeat, and you find it physically hard to speak now. âIâll get my grossness all over you. If you come in, that is. Donât and prevent that from happening.â
Laying your head against the cold porcelain throne to cool off a bit, you sniffle and strive to get out of this bathroom without Sylus knowing anything. To leave this place with your pride and spirit intact.
Nothing good can possibly come from him knowing. The truth will do no one any good.
My selfish need to be loved is what caused all this.
âI do not care how you look, sweetie. I do not care about what you may or may not do to my clothes; theyâre just fabric and all their price tags combined donât amount to how much I value you. I do not care if youâre grossânot that you could ever be so, but thatâs not what this conversation is about,â you hear a tap on the door again, and he sounds closer when he speaks. âJust let me in. Please.â
The following silence is the worst of his life. You say nothing. But, if he strains his ears, he can pick up you shuffling about. Turning the water on to wash your face, he assumes. Pausing at the mirror to peer upon whatever it is that you believe heâd find gross about you.
He could never. Will never, find anything revolting that has to do with you. When he fell in love, he fell hard. Completely. Absolutely.
But you donât think so. Youâre frantic in cleaning. More so than before.
You canât do much for your clothing. You try to scrub out the bits of food, bile, and blood you can find. Face burning with humiliation at what your stupid eyes canât find but you know Sylusâ will, you creak open the entrance to the bathroom. Sylus only needs a glimpse; youâll let him see you, but he wonât be let in.
Your plan falls apart immediately when you the leader of Onychinus is before you with a face twisted in agony. Eyebrows scrunched up, your mind supplies you with the dumb idea to smooth it out with your thumb. Heâs within reach right now as he leans. You could do itâgive the excuse later that your fever and food poisoning made you do something stupid.
You attempt to speak; itâs the only thing that chases your attention way from one loss of face to another (youâre always a mess when you try to articulate anything, let alone with the circumstances right now), âIââ
Your blooming buds decide to silence you. Blood spurts past your lips, and you arenât fast enough to close the door as Sylus follows you the short distance to the toilet. A gasp tells you he sees what swims within the bowl.
Why didnât I flush it? So focused on my grotesque appearance I forgot something so simple.
While you scold yourself, Sylus does the same. Admonishes his own behavior. His selfishness. His greed. How blind heâs become by silly lust and imagination.
Hope, that feeling that you make him hold stock in again, is murdered by whatâs in the bowl. He crushes that useless emotion under his boot.
Tulips.
â
Josephine always said youâd lose your head if it wasnât attached to your shoulders. Your sister and Caleb still say the same thing, but they say it humor. Josephine spat it at youâliterally, the old woman would spray you with saliva sometimesâall the time. When you forgot school assignments. When youâd wait until the last minute to let her know about some event. When youâd get in trouble for not getting her signature on your agenda in elementary school (that, you recall, happened the most).
Always, she said those words to you with a smile. Caleb, your sister, and no one else would suspect there to be anything behind that grin. Imagining it even now gives way to a full-body shiver. A shiver that brings another torrent of illness out of you.
Wanting to forget that woman, you turn your head to the one person whose presence never failed to do that for you. But, when you do, a singular thought rings true:
Liar.
Sylus, evidently, does care how you look. His normal composure is gone. To the ordinary viewer, it isnât; to you, itâs in pieces as he rubs your back. Eyes a bit wider than usual. They refuse to leave you, sticking to your being and scanning your body. They twitch every time he finds what you think must be blood or other fluids on your person.
His touch, hands caressing your back carefully and sometimes making circles in your taut muscles, quivers. Minuscule movementsâyou wouldnât have noticed if you werenât so intent on burying Sylusâ existence into your mind (itâs like youâre trying to kill yourself faster). His grip tightens on you every so often. As if heâs trying to force you to anchor yourself to life. To be the rope that tethers you to this world.
His breathing is off. Catches in his throat in audible sounds between your retches. And something in you dies when he does.
He lets you see. A twisted hope revives itself as he crouches beside you. Begs for you to see him and his concern and his love. Pleads for there to be another outcome.
The petals are large. Massive even. Almost as big as the ones I give her.
âSheâs dying,â that strange but familiar voice rattles. âSheâs dying.â
Denial is a wave within Sylus. A crashing ocean that fizzles and foams before it reaches the shore of his conscious mind. Only fragments of his true thoughts are allowed on the coastline of his heart.
And as you cough more blood with more tulips, the gods stir a storm in that sea. Swirls of denial lace with the creatures of other emotions. Theyâre swept up. Dragged into the deeps of his heart.
Itâs cold there. Will be freezing once youâre gone. Empty. Devoid of the populace you brought. Only riptides of anger and rains of grief will be left.
Sheâs dying.
This time, itâs in his voice. And he canât deny it. Canât ignore it.
It pains him. Digs claws and wrenches a blade through his chest. The sweetest of poisons laces his blood, envelops his heart as each drop of blood from you deepens his lack of faith. For if thereâs a god in this world, why would they do this?
Curse youâintelligent, kind, sweet, beautiful, perfect, youâto be involved in a love like this? To be dragged down through the earth to choke on the selfish love of someone who doesnât recognize what they have in you.
Especially when Iâm right here.
â
Eventually, your flair up passes. Part of you hopes itâll come back. That your flowers will devour you until nothingâs left and you donât have to explain yourself. If youâre dyingâair squeezed out of your lungs, leaves intertwining with your bronchi, roots sucking up the blood from your alveoli to make space for themselves, and tulip florets gathering in your tracheaâSylus will have the decency to ask nothing. He wonât be able to; not when your death-rattles fill the space between you two.
You will the buds to come back. Breach past your uvula and splat onto the scene with you and Sylus. Nothing. Heavy pants over the toilet is what youâre consigned to. The man responsible for your anguish rubs more tight circles into your back. You swear you can hear his teeth grind.
The pair of you stay like this for some time. How long, no one knows.
Sylus still doesnât ask anything of you. He doesnât do so when Luke and Kieran come looking for the two of you. He doesnât do so when he helps you changeâa mortifying endeavor that brings more coughing fits, but also a refreshing bath. He doesnât do so when he hands you a cup of your favorite hot drink. It holds the perfect amount of honey for your taste.
While he gets it, youâre unaware of how his lips burns. Aches and spins alongside his head. Cotton in his mouth. All his skills, all his knowledge, are gone. Vanished. Stolen. Conquered by the veil of your blood and spit. He expects his hands to tremble as he hands the cup to you.
Am I disappointed that they donât? That even now, I canât truly show her whatâs going in my mind?
Bars and cages surround his heart. Try to distance Sylus from his turmoil. What will he do when it breaks? When he crumbles? When he shows you more than glimpses and glitches and leaves his pride to plea at your feet?
Itâs then that he asks his first question. And the one answer he seeks from you is the one you donât want to provide to anyone.
âWho is it?â
Rage. Sylus toils with it. From your hysterics. The proof lies in how he squirms and canât lock eyes with you.
He finds you foolish. Unfit to be his friend. A moron beyond any comparison. Because no one with even a modicum of intellect would be in your position: dying of a disease like Hanahaki when thereâs so many options available to you to prevent that. Things didnât have to get this far.
Thatâs not the truth. He finds your love foolish. Finds them unfit for your affection. A moron who canât see the perfection that is you.
âWhat⊠what youâno, thatâs not right,â you pause, taking a breath in while your cheeks scorch and you shrink back from where you sit on Sylusâ bed. âWhat are you going on about?â
Unable to face Sylus and your own uselessness, you sip at the drink.
âDonât lie to me, Fenghuang. Not about this. Please.â
Thereâs that word again. Thereâs that tone, that look, that expression, that man and his hopeless care.
âI canât tell you," your brain can't keep your mouth shut.
âWhy?â
Because you and my sister would be shattered when I die. Or, you would forget and move on without me and I havenât figured out which one is worse yet. I donât know if I want you to go crying to my grave night after night, or pretend I never existed. I canât tell you because then I would have to decide and I know Iâll pick the wrong one because right now, I want you to myself and never want you to move on andâ
âYouâll tell her,â is the perfect excuse because itâs not entirely a lie. Partial truths, theyâll save you.
He knows who you mean immediately, âI would neverââ
âI donât believe you. I canât.â
So much goes unsaid: âSheâs your sorceress. Iâm your little bird you sometimes like to hear sing. Sheâs your Hecate, your goddess of magic, that stands with you as an equal. Iâm a symbol, given meaning for what I bring and not who I am. Of course you would tell her. Everyone tells her everything when it comes to me, whether I like it or not.â
Sylus wilts under your words. Your refusal. The arrival of your walls. His own inadequacies and failures.
One sister doesnât remember me and the other canât fully trust me even after all this time. Neither can nor will ever give me their heart.
Thereâs only one he wants. Only one love he craves.
âMaybe, prove me wrong. For once,â you joke with your last words, forcing a laugh that tears into the soft flesh of throat.
No coughs come out. You swallow them with your usual act. It wavers when Sylusâwith sinew forearms that shudder from what must be disgustâbrings you to his chest. His warmth is a blanket that surrounds you. You imagine yourself back in your old house, a child with her sister and two childhood friends that bicker due to their shared love of her, by a fireplace outside in the winter.
Sylus protects you from the elements like your sister, Caleb, and Zayne did during these nights. Cotton sweatshirt under your bunched fists. Seeking more comfort, you burrow your head into his neck as he brings your legs to lay across his lap.
He dwarfs you. Unlike when youâd snuggle into Zayne as a little girl (you two were once close in size, after all). Your dragon encircles you with his body. You canât help but raise a hand to trace the tendon in his neck, a motion youâre astonished to get away with.
Goosebumps crawl on him where your finger ghosts. Sylusâ tightens his hold on, ignoring the siren call of your lips.
If I kiss you, take you, make you mine in every way here, will you love me instead?
Brainless. Oafish. A line of thinking not one with any sense would come up with. Heâs desperate, though. Tittering on the edge of mania.
In that state, his Aether Core calls to him to claim you. Begin his addiction and kiss you. Show you that thereâs people out there that love you above all else.
You mind is in a different state. Cloudy from memories and sickness, no rational thought can breach past it to your consciousness. Your fingertips soak up the heat of Sylusâ delectable skin, a real smile blossoming upon your face. Eyes are under the same spell, caught in the same rainstorm, you donât notice when they drift to Sylusâ face.
Thereâs that face again.
Wrinkled brows. Eyes scanning your body. Chiseled jaw hard-set. Your hands make that your next target.
Sylus speaks before you can discolor more of his flawless nature with your damage, âI have a condition for my cooperation.â
His voice is hard to perceive. Low, as if him raising it any higher would cause you to scatter in the wind like when you and your sister would run around in the park and blow on dandelions. Itâs endearing. It also comes with the caveat of bringing up a morbid memory.
After the explosion that killed Josephine, your sister became clingy to you. You, with no Evol and no Aether Core and slew of health problems no doctorâs ever been able to figure out. You, with your lack of assertiveness and willingness to bend over backwards for strangers. You, with your quiet and unassuming demeanor, that always lands you in the worst of situations.
You, whoâs the reason Caleb âdiedâ because he shielded you as well as Josephine. Ever the protector. Ever the kind soul. Ever the perfect friend that wants the best for you. Now in the grasp of the Professor you vaguely remember from your past.
A past you, Caleb, and Josephine agreed to never speak of. Never acknowledge. It rears its ugly head in other ways. Festers different wounds. Caleb shows his remembrance in his protective and loyal nature. Josephine with her guilt and the way she spoils the three of you.
Your scars come in the form of death. It stalks you every dayâyou theorize that youâve run out of lives and thatâs why your health is the way it is. Every fever. Every aching bone. Every unstable gait. Every allergy test. Death longs to claim you. Itâs the only thing in this world that truly wants you.
Truly craves and hungers for you.
Having death disrupt your little family made your sister spiral. Planning the funeral made her grief deepen. You swept yours away in favor of navigating the issues that arose. When the pair of you could finally breathe without the weight of twin coffins crushing your chests, you both decided you didnât want any of your future loved ones or each other to go through all this.
You drafted wills together. Sloppy ones that would need some ironing out. But, theyâre something. Something that youâre now in need of checking up on.
I hope they remember to spread my ashes. Maybe on that island with those pink dolphins Iâve heard some of my coworkers talk about?
Sylus talks as if he knows whatâs going on inside your head. He holds you like youâve already been cremated and his grip alone is keeping your form together. Like he wonât let the wind, the earth, the sky, or even the fire you dream of claim you. Like a dragon protecting his hoard and family.
âW-what?â
No attempt is made by you to redo your response and speak properly. Humiliation wades through the mud of your skin, of your being. You attempt to move away from Sylus to let it breathe through you. He doesnât let you, an anomaly that makes your emotions all the more twisted and knotted.
âYou let me help you get treatment,â he cranes his neck down, gently knocking his forehead to yours, and his breath fans your face. âDonât make me watch you suffer when we both know I have the resources to assist you. Let me take care of you.â
âLet me hold you, love you. Let me show you how I cherish you,â goes unsaid by the man.
Keep it together. Be slow. Be gentle. Donât scare her.
When your sister found out about his feelings, she told him to do so. To inch towards that kind of relationship with you. That you need time. That going all in will spook you.
âSheâs never been good with attention from, well⊠anyone. Let alone romance. Never makes time for it and doesnât want to start now.â
And given that you know his history with your sibling, things got complicated. All he can do is pray now. Hope he isnât too late. Hope he can take care of you the right way and dig up the roots in your chest.
Give me a chance. I only need a few moments.
Every nerve fires on all cylinders for you. While Sylus ponders and presses a heavier weight on your back, you suddenly become aware of all things that touch your skin. Soft fibers from Sylusâ and your clothing. Textured hands on your spine. Your legs in comfy pants, feet clothed in fluffy socks; you still feel the shifts in Sylusâ thighs underneath it all. Still trace the firm mattress with your toes as a method of grounding.
Your mindâs on a high, and your ears barely pick up his next words, âThe wonderful thing about technology and advancement, sweetie, is that your condition is no longer a death sentence. People can live relatively long lives without surgery or requited love these days.â
He pauses. A thought runs across his mind. Something he stupidly decides to give life and voice to, âYou could even be given enough time to fall out of love with this miscreant that doesnât deserve you.â
His usual cadence and confidence drains from him. Is there any proof of his emotions on his face? You donât react if there is.
Do I want her to? To notice? To consider me?
Itâs a stupid question with an obvious answer: yes. Sylusâ mouth dries, empties, in his moment of panic. Itâs exacerbated by your silence. Heâs left alone with only the wisps of the coziness your proximity stirs in him and his tongue that weighs like lead.
Misfired neurons short circuits your brain and your left with repeating the last thing you said, âW-what?â
Your stutter leaves cracks in his heart.
You wonât even consider such a thing, will you?
He canât blame you. All other options disappeared once you made your way into his heart. No one could be an option with you around. Perhaps youâre the same with your mystery gardener?
He waits patiently for you to gather yourself. Youâre unnerved by his quiet. He presses his forehead deeper into yours. A glimpse of his expression reveals his eyebrows scrunched and his eyes in pain. Hands find their way to the back of your head. And for some reason, youâre compelled to toss your legs to straddle his waist.
Both your breaths hitch at the movement. Youâre too close. Too on edge. Sneaking towards crossing a forbidden line that neither you will return from.
Kiss me, Sylus beckons you internally. Do it. Take whatâs yours. Be greedy and ruin me for eternity.
Sylus canât cross the boundary. The invisible line that keeps his Core and fiendish side in check.
You can. You can have me. Even if itâs to fill the hole left behind by someone else. Even if it means nothing to you.
For a split second, you move your face closer to his and your noses brush. Sylus invades all of you: your nerves, your thighs, your breath, your hands that find their way around his neck. You invade him: his eyes, his Evol, his DNA, his soul, and every life he will ever live. Everything about you two intertwines.
It gives you the strength to speak, âYouâre not going to pressure me to get the s-surgery?â
Sylusâ shoulder sag for a second. You blink and itâs gone. Twitch and heâs back to normal.
He finally allows you to hear that deep laugh of his you adore. This close, his chest rumble under your hands. Hands that he moves to his cheek to nuzzle. Part of you pleas with your eyes for him to kiss it as well, to push you over the edge so that you have an excuse to dive in for his lips.
You ache to. With your bodies almost melting into one another, him speaking to you with his baritone voice and touching your burning skin. One brush of his lips anywhere on you would break you. You lick your own at the thought.
Plump and plush petals of another kind against your mouth. Ones that bring the taste of blood on your tongue for a good reason. Ones that tears whimpers and sighs from your throat, sounds that bring you to your knees and ignite a new spark in your body.
One kiss. Just one is all it will take.
He hypnotizes you further with his words, âWould you consider it if I asked, my dear Fenghuang?â
The drug that is Sylus captures you, and you shake your head no without hesitation. Forgetting the love you have for him isnât an option. Never has been, never will be.
âThought so.â
He wouldnât in your position. He canât judge. Foolish heart be damned.
His other hand, now returned to the bottom of your back, pushes you further into him. Part of him weeps when he does.
The day I got this close to you in my bed went an entirely different way in my head.
You burn for another reason in that dream. Throat sore from his actions rather than someone elseâs. And if you cried, well⊠it goes without saying that those tears wouldnât put gaping wounds in his heart.
Not this. Not him cradling you, begging you to love and trust him while heâs too much of a coward to voice any of it to you. Too locked in remembering the parents that cast him aside, the villagers that called for his death, and the sorceress who peered at him with fear drenched in disgust.
He thought at least your sisterâs love for him would never smear.
I wonât survive your rejection. Not even reincarnation could undo that.
For you are the first humanâthe first complete strangerâto never shy away from him. Any terror youâve shown around him doesnât come from you being fundamentally repulsed by him. Any reluctance to make eye contact is due to embarrassment or exhaustion; not wanting to distance yourself from him and his power (in fact, youâre rather intrigued by everything about him).
You accept Sylus. You care from him. Stay in his life despite your hatred of blood and violence. Losing you would be his final straw.
âAnd only extreme cases need that kind of intervention. Your condition isnât that far along, correct?â
You nod. The roots of your conscience dig into your soul. They take to Sylusâ as well. For both of you are aware of how much of a dirty lie your words are.
- pairing: zayne, caleb x afab!reader
- synopsis: sunburns are caused by too much exposure, too much closeness, too much lingering heat. it hurts after the warmth fades. what happens when two men are inevitably obsessed with you?
- tags: nsfw content, childhood friends, coming of age, neighbors au, modern au, love triangle, angst, emotional repression, yearning so bad it makes everyone stupid, jealousy-driven, repressed obsession, suburban summer vibes, malewife zayne, golden retriever caleb, slowburn, possessiveness, rivalry, âwho do you like more?â, sexual tension, worshiping, dubcon, touch-starvation, dense!reader, codependency themes, heavy makeouts, m!masturbating, mfm, strictly 18+
- a/n: hi! i'm finally back. i worked on this for over a month and it's pretty damn heavy + plot-driven, so i advise reading this when you're fully free! this is also going to be a two-parter, so stay tuned. (the image is not mine. credits to the rightful owner. would appreciate it if someone tags the artist.)
- wordcount: 23.6k
when you were eleven years old, friday nights always smelled the same.
you always caught scent of soy sauce simmering in the kitchen, charcoal smoke curling into the air from the backyard grill, and somebodyâs perfume lingering near the doorway where all the mothers stood talking too loudly over each other while the fathers argued about basketball games and neighborhood gossip.
your parents called it a âsmall gathering,â even though there were always too many slippers by the front door and too many soda cans sweating on every table. you liked those nights anyway, mostly because they never changed. and especially because you get to hear your aunties and uncles dousing you with compliments about how cute your eyes are.
but they also stayed in their own circles like planets orbiting each other, carrying paper plates and stories they had already told before. meanwhile, all the other younger children drifted wherever they wanted, forming temporary little worlds in corners of the house.
tonight, your world sat cross-legged on the living room carpet. or ratherâtwo boys your age did. you watched them from the armchair nearest the staircase, your chin resting against the cushion while your legs dangled over the edge.
caleb and zayne were sitting side by side beneath the warm yellow glow of the standing lamp, completely absorbed in a puzzle game spread across the floor between them.
they looked nothing alike even back then.
the brown-haired one sat carelessly sprawled on his stomach with his socks mismatched and knees bent in the air as he kicked his feet behind him. he kept stealing pieces from the wrong pile just because he was impatient, humming nonsense under his breath while his hair stuck out in every direction.
âthat one doesnât even go there,â the one with round glasses says for the fifth time.
and the other could only grin at him without shame. âit could though."
âit literally cannot.â
âyou wouldn't know that until we try!"
the black-haired one stared at him with the exhausted disappointment of a tired old man trapped inside a ten-year-oldâs body. even as a kid, he already had that look about him.
neat posture... neatly combed dark hair... neatly folded sleeves.... he handled puzzle pieces like fragile scientific discoveries, turning each one carefully beneath the light before placing it down with precise certainty.Â
you thought they were funny together. caleb was all sunlight, and zayne was all winter mornings. they truly were polar opposites, and yet somehow, they understood each other the most. somehow they still fit beside each other naturally, like they had always been arranged that way from the start.
âyou skipped the steps again,â zayne muttered.
âbecause your steps are booooring.â
âor theyâre efficient.â
âsame thing.â
zayne sighed the kind of sigh adults usually made after paying bills, and it made you laugh quietly into the couch cushion. both boys looked up immediately at the sound you accidentally let out. it was strange, looking back on it now, how quickly they always noticed you.
caleb brightened first, he always did. âhey!" he called, pushing himself upright so fast the puzzle pieces scattered a little. âcome help us!"
âare you losing?â you asked, eyebrows raising.
âweâre winning,âÂ
âyou are objectively losing though,â zayne said, returning his eyes at caleb, as if he couldn't handle the eye-contact with you.Â
you slid off the chair and padded toward them then, stepping carefully around abandoned shoes and empty juice boxes. the carpet felt warm beneath your feet from the heat of too many people inside your house.
up close, you could see the difference between them even clearer. calebâs cheeks looked pink from running around outside earlier, and there was a grass stain near the knee of his jeans with a bandaid on his elbow from some accident nobody had witnessed, but everybody expected. zayne, meanwhile, looked untouched by chaos itself. except for one thing, as there was a tiny pencil mark on the side of his hand.
you pointed at it with a smug look. âhey, you might want to clean that off.â
zayne looked down at his hand like he hadnât noticed, and caleb bursted out laughing. âwow, didn't know the genius makes mistakes too.â
zayne frowned. âitâs not a mistake, pencils transfer residue naturally.â
âthat sounds so made up.â
âitâs literally science, you idiot.â
âbetter than a nerd.â
you sat between them, eyes following the rhythm of their voices. caleb shifted first to make space for you, all easy warmth and careless movement. your shoulder bumped against his accidentally and he froze for half a second before pretending nothing happened. zayne noticed, he always seemed to notice every single thing. his eyes flickered down once before returning to the puzzle board with suspicious concentration.
you, entirely unaware, picked up a random piece. "where does this go?â both boys leaned in immediately, and for one brief second, their heads nearly knocked together over your shoulder.
those friday gatherings still happened every month, or every other week, like clockwork. same houses. same families. same folding tables lined with food nobody waited long enough to cool down before eating. but growing up was sneaky like that. one day you were all sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the carpet arguing over puzzle pieces, and then everybody started drifting into different corners of the house without meaning to.
especially the three of you.
â
you woke up to the sound of chairs scraping against the floor.
for a few seconds, everything felt soft around the edges. sunlight spilled lazily through the classroom windows, warm and golden against your cheek where you had fallen asleep on top of your folded arms. your vision blurred slightly as you blinked awake, eyelashes sticking together from sleep.
reality returned slowly after that. you're in your classroom, and it's a friday afternoon. you lifted your head with a sleepy frown, hair flattened embarrassingly on one side. there was a faint imprint of notebook rings pressed against your skin.
âseriously?â your voice came out hoarse. âyou guys couldnât wake me up?â
âyou looked really dead,â one of your classmates answered from across the room.
another pointed a broom at you accusingly. âplus i didn't know you drool when you sleep. yikes.â
âi do not.â you rubbed your eyes with the sleeve of your uniform, still too drowsy to defend yourself properly. the classroom smelled like dusty chalk, floor cleaner, and afternoon heat trapped between old walls.
outside the windows, the sky had already started turning honey-colored. the prettiest part of school days. you slowly sat upright, stretching your arms above your head until your joints cracked. you pulled out the compact mirror from your bag with a sigh, and you see your hair looking freakingly terrible. one side puffed outward from sleeping while the other remained stubbornly flat against your cheek. you tried fixing it using only your fingers, but it somehow made things worse.
âwow,â it's ridiculous to think how you still look like this at the ripe age of eighteen. after gathering your things, you slipped your bag over your shoulder and stepped outside the classroom into the corridor.
you see students drifting through the pathways in clusters, as their laughter echo faintly between buildings while teachers carried stacks of papers toward the faculty rooms. somewhere in the distance, a whistle blew from the soccer field.
fridays always carried a different kind of tiredness, the kind wrapped in anticipation. normally, friday nights meant the gatherings. the usual routine. your parents dressing up slightly nicer than necessary with trays of food balanced carefully in the car.Â
you exhaled quietly through your nose. for some reason, the thought exhausted you today. maybe it was because your body feeling strangely heavy, maybe it was the headache blooming faintly behind your eyes from sleeping awkwardly at your desk, or maybe it was simply one of those days where existing around too many people sounded unbearable.
you descended the school steps slowly, your fingers tracing absentmindedly along the strap of your bag. honestly, locking yourself inside your bedroom sounded much better tonight. and maybe a movie playing quietly in the background while the sounds of the gathering muffled themselves downstairs. you could already picture it perfectly.
a breeze passed through the campus grounds then, carrying the scent of cut grass and approaching evening. you tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear and kept walking toward the school gates, still half-lost in thought.
âi swear, caleb and zayne are literally impossible to approach.â the words floated past you casually, lightly. like paper airplanes tossed through the air. you almost didnât react at first.
campus gossip traveled fast enough that hearing their names wasnât exactly unusual anymore. still, something about the sudden shift in voices nearby tugged gently at your attention, and before you could stop yourself, your gaze wandered toward the right wing of the campus.
and there they were. caleb and zayne, walking side by side beneath the amber wash of the afternoon sun.
unsurprising.Â
youâd spent nearly your entire life seeing them like this. same neighborhoods, same gatherings, same schools. always somewhere within the same orbit as each other. and yet, every time you looked at them lately, it still startled you a little how much older theyâd become. the boys from your childhood memories now had stretched into something sharper and more defined.Â
caleb predictably moved through crowds without effort, the way sunlight slips through open curtains without asking permission. taller nowâmuch taller than he used to beâwith broad shoulders that filled out the blue-and-white varsity jacket hanging loosely over his basketball jersey, as he smiled at nearly everyone who greeted him along the pathway.
people really greeted him everywhere. a classmate waved, and caleb would grin immediately. someone from the lower years calls his name, and he would point at them in recognition with an easy laugh. even from far away, you could tell how naturally people gravitated toward him. he carried attention like he didnât even realize he had it.
then there was zayne beside him, quieter. where caleb moved like warmth, zayne moved like still water.
he carried several books tucked neatly against one arm while balancing his phone in the other hand, his attention split somewhere between reading messages and listening to whatever caleb was talking about. his glasses rested low against the bridge of his nose, slightly crooked like heâd adjusted them too many times throughout the day.
his sleeves were rolled neatly to his forearms, posture straight despite the weight of the books. everything about him looked composed in that effortless way that somehow made him even more intimidating. still, girls glance at him when he passed, teachers greet him with visible approval, and underclassmen would straighten instinctively whenever he looked their way.
the smartest student in school and the athlete everyone adoredâthe popular duo.
honestly, it made sense. they looked unfairly perfect walking across campus beneath the falling afternoon light, like characters somebody specifically designed to make ordinary people feel underdressed.
you stared for maybe three seconds longer than necessary. you weren't exactly mesmerized, it's just that familiarity sometimes makes people pause. despite growing up beside them your entire life, you still didnât really know them at all. you looked away first, adjusting your bag higher onto your shoulder and continued toward the school gates.
it didnât matter anyway. the three of you were never actually close.
the evening breeze brushed lightly against your face as you quickened your pace down the sidewalk, already thinking about home, about your bedroom, about escaping tonightâs gathering before anyone noticed your mood.
â
by the time you got home, you went straight to your bedroom.Â
downstairs, the gathering slowly came alive piece by piece. you heard doors opening, voices arriving, and laughter swelling louder. you could practically predict the entire night without looking.
you rolled onto your back and stared sleepily at the ceiling. honestly, staying hidden up here sounded perfect. your eyelids slowly began growing heavier. you were just about to fall asleep whenâ
*buzzzzz!*
your phone vibrated beside your pillow, making you abruptly open your eyes. with sleepy reluctance, you reached for it blindly.
the screen glowed against the dim room, and immediately, your eyebrows pulled together in confusion. because the notification said: a text message from caleb!
for a second, you genuinely thought maybe you opened the wrong chat somehow. caleb didn't really text you. sure, you had each otherâs numbers. everybody did after years of family gatherings and school projects and parents insisting on âstaying connected.â
but your conversations mostly lived in the realm of accidental politeness. text messages like... "happy birthday!", "can you send the assignment?", "your mom said dinner starts at seven." that kind of thing... which made the message sitting on your screen feel oddly out of place.
[18:49] caleb: "hey, wya?"
you blinked. your phone remained warm in your hand while you stared at the message. for some reason, your heartbeat suddenly felt embarrassingly loud in the quiet of your bedroom.
why would he message you that? it felt wrong, so you stared at the message again alongside his icon.
more laughter downstairs rose faintly through the floorboards, followed by the distant clinking of plates and someone calling for extra ice.
you hesitated, then typed back anyway.
[18:50] you: "in my bedroom."
you didnât expect anything after that. you were already setting your phone down whenâ
*buzzzzz!*
your eyes flicked back to the screen so fast it almost startled you.
[18:50] caleb: "on my way."
ââŠon my way?â you whispered to yourself, sitting up so quickly your blanket slid off your lap.
what did that even mean? why would he come up?Â
you swung your legs off the bed, already moving. you werenât sure what you were doing, exactly. you just knew you were doing something. your hands started fixing things instinctivelyâpushing stray clothes deeper into the laundry basket, straightening a book on your desk that was already straight, and then shoving your charger under the pillow.
what does caleb even want right now?
a knock on your door sounded.
for a second, your brain refused to process it as anything important. it was as if your body had decided to pretend it didnât hear it at all.
then, another knock, louder this time.
so you had no choice but to slowly reach for the door handle. still hesitating, you twist the doorknob, pulling the barrier open.Â
"hey," and there he was standing in your doorway.Â
he was taller up closeâso much more obvious now than in passing. the hallway light framed him from behind, softening the edges of his varsity jacket and casting a faint glow around his hair. his arms crossed loosely over his chest, smiling. that easy, boyish smile that always made him look like he was about to laugh at something the world hadnât said yet.
âwhy'd it take you so long to open?" he casually remarked, like this was the most normal thing in the world.
you didnât respond. instead, you stared at him. "does mom know youâre up here?âÂ
caleb blinked once, before letting out a short chuckle, shifting his weight slightly in the doorway. "yeah, of course she does."Â
you exhaled. "anyway,â you stepped back into your room, crossing your arms. "what even brings you here?âÂ
caleb followed you in without hesitation, not even a pause. his hand went straight to your light switch and flipped it fully on, bathing everything in warm brightness.
you turned your head sharply. âwhy did you do that?â
âuh, so i can see you.â
âyou couldâve seen with the hallway light."Â
you stared at him, but he wasnât looking at you anymore. he's already walking further in and glancing around your room. you sat down on the edge of your bed with a controlled sigh. âokay, talk. why are you here?"
caleb held up two fingers immediately, like heâd been rehearsing this. "actually, i'm here for two things.â
you narrowed your eyes. âwhy are there always âtwo thingsâ with you.â
âbecause life is balanced,âÂ
âthatâs not evenâ never mind. go.â
he leaned back against your desk, shifting comfortably. "firstly, about the sports day fest.â
you blinked. "...thatâs it?â
âyup."
you stared at him. "you came upstairs, into my bedroom, during a family gathering, just to ask me about sports day fest?"
âwell, youâre on the committee, so why not personally ask you?" he grins.Â
you leaned back, processing that for a moment. âokay, then, what about sports day fest?"
caleb immediately straightened, interest sharpening. "okay so,â he moves away from your desk and paced your room, âare we doing the same relay setup as last year?â
âprobably revised,â you grabbed your phone from the bed, scrolling through your notes. âthe committeeâs still finalizingââ
âwill we not get those ridiculous team shirts anymore?â
âyea, probably.â
âgood,â he said instantly. âlast yearâs were damn tight.â
you looked up. âthey were your size though?"
âway too tight,â he corrected confidently, stopping near your bookshelf and casually picking up one of your notebooks.
your eyes snapped up. âhey, donât touch that.â
he already opened it. "hmm, why not?â
âbecause itâs mine.â
âso?â
you stood up again, walking over to him. "don't touch that, i said!"
he didnât even look guilty. he was flipping through it like it was entertainment. "but this is just your committee notes,âÂ
âexactly.â
âhuh, itâs very organized, i'll give you that,â he whistles.Â
you reached for the notebook and took it back. âthank you, now stop touching things that arenât yours.â
caleb shrugged, unbothered, and wandered toward your window instead. "anyway,â he continued, âare we still doing the obstacle course? because last time someone tripped on the tire thing and it was kind ofââ
âcaleb,â you cut in and pointed at him. âfocus.â
âi am focused.â
âyouâre touching my curtains.â
he glanced down, realized his hand was indeed messing with your curtain tie, and let it drop casually. âokay,â he said, stepping back. âiâm focused now.â
you returned to your bed slowly, sitting down again with a tired expression. "sports day is basically the same structure,â you explained more firmly this time. ârelay, obstacle course, mixed games, but weâre adjusting the scoring this year though.â
caleb nodded, listening intently. you added, âand no, you canât âfixâ anything last minute like you did last year.â
âthat wasnât fixing though,â he combed his hair back with his fingers. âthat was improving morale!"
âby bribing your team with snacks?" you snorted. and he just smiles back, eventually he stopped pacing. which, in your experience, usually meant one of two things: either he was done being chaotic for now, or he had found a new kind of chaos to settle into.
this time, it was the former. he walked over and sat down on the edge of your bed across from you, causing the mattress to dip slightly under his weight. caleb leaned back on his hands, studying you for a moment in a way that made you suddenly aware of your posture, your hair, the fact that you were still wearing your slightly wrinkled shirt from earlier. âhuh,âÂ
you frowned. âwhat?"
he tilted his head a little. âitâs been a while since iâve seen you this close.â
you blinked once. "but you saw me earlier at school.â
âyeah,â he said easily. âbut not like this.â
you didnât ask what âlike thisâ meant. you already didnât like where it sounded like it was going. caleb squinted slightly, like he was comparing something only he could see. "youâve really gotten shorter, it's like you're growing backwards.â
your face went flat at that. âi have not.â
âyou have,â he insisted. âor maybe i got taller. either way, something changed.â
you cleared your throat, trying to avoid the tension in the air. you wonder if he's doing this on purpose, or if he could be a victim to it as well. "so whatâs the second thing you're here for?"
caleb straightened himself, resting his elbows on his knees now instead of leaning back. "oh right,"
you waited as he glanced at you, then away, then back again, deciding how casual to make it sound. "well, iâm having a house party next week.â
"of course you are.â
he ignored that. "and a lot of people are coming, literally anyone you could think of, including zayne's clones."Â
âalso of course.â
caleb watched you for a second, waiting. but you didnât say anything immediately. it wasnât surprising, really. not for him. not for caleb. he was the kind of person who collected people without even trying, just by using his charm and looks.
you adjusted your position on the bed, fingers resting on your blanket. "i see,"Â
calebâs eyebrows lifted a little at that.
you met his eyes briefly. âiâll think about it.âthere was a pause, as if he was reading your answer and deciding what to do with it.
then caleb smiled, not the usual one, but smaller. he shifted forward and reached out before you could react, pinching your cheek like it was an automatic reflex he didnât even question. "then... i'll be happy if you come,"Â
you immediately recoiled. âahââ
"think about it, okay?"
you rubbed your cheek consciously. âyou didnât have to pinch me.â
âi did,â he stood up now like the conversation was naturally ending. "it was necess-uh-ry, so think about it hard. if you aren't there, i'll burn my house and mom will blame you."Â
"is my presence really that important?" you chuckled offhandedly, but the next thing that comes out of caleb's mouth was something you didn't see coming.Â
"it is," he glances at you over his shoulder with a cheeky smile. "rest well and drink your meds, pipsqueak."Â
and then, just like that, he leaves your room.
â
calebâs house looked completely different at night, like somebody had taken the familiar shape of it and dipped it into glittering lights and loud music until it became something unreal.
you stood near the front gate for half a second too long, staring at the amount of cars lining up the street. you suddenly understood what caleb meant by âa lot of people.â apparently, âa lotâ meant half the school population.
âcome on,â one of your classmates laughed beside you, tugging your sleeve. âdonât freeze nowâyou're the one who dragged us here,"
when you followed them inside, just as instantly, warmth crashed into you. warm lights, warm air, warm noise. and lots of people everywhere! students crowded the living room shoulder-to-shoulder, conversations overlapping into one giant buzzing blur while music echoed through the walls loud enough to rattle your ribs. somebody cheered from somewhere near the kitchen, somebody else was already filming videos with flash on.
you stepped carefully through the chaos, trying not to bump into anyone.
honestly, it was kind of overwhelming. you adjusted the hem of your outfit nervously. you had spent way too long deciding what to wear tonight only to immediately regret every clothing decision the second you walked in. still, your classmates kept talking excitedly around you, so you tried to relax. somewhere in the back of your mind, one thought repeated quietly: whereâs caleb?
you hadnât seen him once since arriving. which, honestly, made sense. this was his environment anyway. of course he was busy.
you glanced around again, seeing unfamiliar faces moving endlessly beneath colored lights. then suddenlyâyour classmates disappeared on you. one moment they were beside you, the next moment somebody had pulled one of them toward the dance floor while another vanished into the kitchen crowd, and somehow the current of the party separated you from all of them without warning.
you came to a halt. fuck, where are they?
all you could see were moving shoulders, flashing lights, strangers laughing too loudly over music that kept swallowing every thought whole. panic flickered in your chest, enough to make your stomach tighten.
great. now you were alone.
you pulled your phone from your bag, already considering texting caleb, but then immediately paused.
no, he's absolutely unreliable right now. he was probably halfway across the house entertaining fifty different people at once.
you sighed quietly and slipped your phone back away. okay, fine, you could handle this.
you tried moving forward again, weaving carefully through the crowd while searching for somewhere quieter to stand. except every direction somehow looked louder than the last. you attempted squeezing past them, and immediately somebody bumped your shoulder, now another person nearly stepped on your shoe.
the crowd swallowed space way too quickly, pushing and shifting around you like waves. âsorryâ excuse meââ your voice disappeared instantly beneath the music. you tried moving faster, and then suddenlyâyou feel a hand wrap around your wrist.Â
you turned, already halfway prepared to elbow some random stranger out of self-defenseâonly to freeze.
oh, of all people.Â
for a second, your brain genuinely forgot how to function properly. because seeing zayne at school and seeing zayne at a house party were apparently two completely different experiences.
first of allâthe black shirt. it fit too well, sleeves hugging the shape of his arms in a way that looked unfairly distracting beneath the dim party lights. no rolled-up uniform sleeves tonight nor a neatly buttoned school attireâjust dark fabric stretched across broad shoulders that had definitely gotten wider since high school started, whether you noticed gradually or all at once.
he looked taller somehow too... or maybe the crowd just made him stand out more. either way, he looked painfully out of place against the chaos of the party.Â
you're only brought back to reality when zayne glanced briefly toward the crowd, letting go of your wrist, the sudden movement startling you out of your dazeâhe must've been staring at you that long too. his gaze pressed around the two of you before looking back down at you.
then, without saying a word, he motioned lightly with two fingers for you to follow him. and you could only nod.
he stepped ahead first, guiding a path through the crowd while you followed closely behind him. people shifted instinctively when they noticed him approaching, parting easier somehow compared to when you had tried surviving the dance floor alone thirty seconds ago. you noticed the looks too, how most of the girls glanced at him openly. some even whispered things to each other after he passed.
it's annoyingly understandable. especially tonight. especially with that shirt.
you were still internally judging him for the shirt when suddenly, you feel his hand hovering lightly near the small of your back, guiding you in the quietest possible way.
your entire spine immediately became aware of itself, which was ridiculous because technically he wasnât even touching you. except every now and then, when the crowd tightened too closely, his palm would briefly brush against your back to steer you forward before disappearing again.
you focused very hard on walking normally.
eventually, the music softened as zayne led you toward the corner of the house near the back hallway. the lights here were dimmer and calmer with fewer people crowding the space.
gosh, you could finally breathe again.
you turned toward him at the exact same moment he turned toward you.
âwhy are youââ âdid calebââ both of you spoke simultaneously, and then meeting at the exact same pause.
a tiny silence settled between you, before you waved awkwardly toward him first. âyou go ahead.â
zayne blinked once. and for one brief second, you caught the almost-smile forming in his features. the faintest crack in his usual composed expression, like he was stopping himself from chuckling. unfairly handsome beneath the warm hallway lighting.
âdo your parents know youâre here?â he asked.
you stared at him. ââŠthatâs your question?â
âitâs an important question.â you remained silent though, trying to read through zayne's expression. âanswer it.â
you crossed your arms. âyes, they know.â
zayne studied your face for half a second longer, like he was checking if you were lying, before nodding once. âi see.â
you narrowed your eyes. âwhy are you.. acting like my probation officer?"
âbecause,â he said calmly, âyou looked one inconvenience away from getting kidnapped out there.â
you opened your mouth in immediate offense. "i was handling it just fine.â
zayne glanced toward the crowded living room where you had very visibly been fighting for survival thirty seconds ago, then back at you. ââŠwere you?â
you pressed your lips together, which, unfortunately, was basically an admission of defeat. zayne noticed, he had always been annoyingly observant like that. his gaze lingered on your face for a second longer, calm and unreadable, while the music from the other room pulsed faintly through the walls behind him.
you cleared your throat first, mostly because you refused to let him win this interaction. "anyway,â you said quickly, âwhat brings you here?â
zayne leaned one shoulder against the wall beside you. âcaleb invited me.â typical zayne. talking to him sometimes felt like trying to pry information out of a locked vault using emotional guesswork.
with a quiet sigh, you walked toward one of the empty tall chairs near the kitchen island and climbed onto it carefully, resting your elbows against the counter while observing the chaos happening from a safer distance. from here, the party looked less overwhelming. people moved beneath the colored lights like blurry scenes inside a movie montage.Â
zayne sat beside you a moment later, close enough that you could feel the quiet warmth of his presence beside your arm.
neither of you spoke for a while. surprisingly, it wasnât awkward. it was rather comfortable in that strange unfamiliar way silence sometimes becomes when shared with the right person. your eyes wandered idly around the kitchen island before stopping on something abandoned near the fruit bowl.
a deck of cards.
âyouâre into those?â
you hear zayne ask, in which you nodded to. âyeah, card games are kinda my thing.â
âhm.â
you tilted your head slightly. âwhat about you?â
zayne shook his head once. âno.â
âthen why do you sound interested?"
his expression shifted almost imperceptibly. "i know a few tricks,âÂ
ââŠooh, what kind of tricks?"
zayne didnât answer verbally. instead, he extended an open palm toward you. for some reason, the gesture alone made your stomach feel weirdly aware of itself.
you stared at his hand for a second, catching sight of the veins that were faintly visible beneath warm skin under the party lights. without speaking, you grabbed the deck and placed it onto his palm.
zayneâs fingers closed around it smoothly. his fingers flicked through the deck with practiced precision, cards cascading neatly between his knuckles in soft clicking sounds that somehow cut through the distant music around you.
you stared. âsince when can you do cardistry?â
zayne glanced at you briefly. âi get bored sometimes.â then his attention returned to the cards. his hands moved with quiet confidence, slender fingers guiding the deck through intricate motions like muscle memory lived in every tiny movement. cards flipped over his knuckles smoothly before disappearing into his palm again, edges brushing against each fingertip.
there was something oddly attractive about the way he handled them. you watched one card spin neatly between his fingers before snapping back into the deck again, making your mouth slightly part. âthat was kinda cool.â
âkinda?â
âdonât get arrogant.â
the faintest hint of amusement touched his face. zayne tilted the deck once more, cards fanning cleanly between his fingers like unfolding silk. you suddenly became hyperaware of everything at once. the low music, the warmth of the lights, the elegant movement of his hands.
without looking away from the cards, he asked calmly, âimpressed?â
you ignore him, too focused on what he was doing with his hands.
zayne glanced back down at the cards in his hands, calm and composed as ever, before performing another trickâas if elegance simply happened around him without effort. the deck split cleanly between his fingers. one card disappeared, then reappeared tucked neatly between two knuckles of his other hand before flipping itself back into place.
you blinked. "woah, that's shit.â
âlanguage,â zayne finally set the cards down onto the kitchen island, before looking at you properly. from this angle, the neon lights shifted faintly across his face in blue and pink streaks, and his glasses caught the colored light every now and then, reflecting small flashes whenever he tilted his head.
you stared back before you could stop yourself, narrowing your eyes suspiciously. "so do you know more party tricks?â
zayne leaned back against the counter. "a few.â
âseriously?â
âthereâs one involving drinks.â
you perked up. âshow me.â
"...i havenât actually tried it.â
your eyebrows lifted. âthen how do you know about it?â
âiâve seen it.â
you frowned instantly. that answer alone felt wrong coming from him. "wait,â you said slowly, âso you regularly go to parties?â
zayne looked almost offended by the accusation. ârarely.â
âbut you do.â
he sighed quietly through his nose. âcaleb bribes me.â
you nodded, â...that actually makes complete sense.â
âthank you.â
you laughed softly under your breath despite yourself, before leaning forward again. âokay, so whatâs the drink trick?â
zayneâs expression changed enough for you to notice. his fingers adjusted his glasses lightly against the bridge of his nose before he glanced away for a split second. âitâs not really appropriate.â he looked visibly reluctant now, which only made this infinitely more interesting. because zayne never got visibly reluctant.
you leaned closer across the counter, curiosity fully awake. "what kind of trick is it?â
âone your mother would disapprove of.â
âthat makes me want to know more!"
âthat is exactly the problem.â
you grinned, pressing further. "come on, tell me," zayne held your stare, silent and resisting. which only made you more determined. âyou canât just say mysterious things and not explain them.â
âi absolutely can.â
âyou coward.â
one of his eyebrows lifted slightly, then sighed once, slow and controlled, like he had finally accepted defeat. except instead of answeringâhe leans forward, far too close.
one second zayne was sitting beside you normallyâand the next he was hovering near enough that your entire brain short-circuited on instinct. his arm braced lightly beside you against the counter with his face inches away. close enough for you to notice the faint scent of clean cologne beneath the warmth of the room. close enough to see the tiny reflection of neon lights in his glasses. close enough that your heart immediately launched itself into full panic for absolutely no reason.
you jolted backward so fast you nearly lost balance off the chair.
zayne paused at that, blinking as he calmly reached past you to grab the beer bottle and empty glass sitting behind your shoulder.
silence. the realization alone nearly killed you.
ââŠrelax,â he said finally, leaning back. âyou shouldnât be that easily rattled, especially if youâre going to keep provoking me.â
you rolled your eyes playfully. "i was not provoking you.â
âyou called me a coward.â
âbecause, you were acting mysterious.â
âand now?â he poured himself a drink while speaking, amber liquid glinting beneath the lights. ânow i think you enjoy making me uncomfortable.â
you scoffed. âplease, you donât get uncomfortable.â
zayne only hummed quietly like he disagreed. you stayed suspiciously silent after that, watching him instead. which turned out to be a mistake. because observing zayne too carefully was becoming increasingly dangerous tonight.
he stretched one arm toward the nearby side dishes, long fingers reaching effortlessly for a slice of lemon resting beside the drinks. the movement pulled faint tension across the sleeves of his black shirt, subtle muscle shifting beneath dark fabric before he settled back beside you again. then he held the lemon slice between two fingers and said, very calmly, âopen your mouth.â
ââŠwhat.â
âhm.â zayne tilted his head. âcoward.â
your jaw dropped, "you cannot keep using that against me.â
âseems effective.â
you narrowed your eyes at him, but he only waited patiently. his composure somehow made refusing feel embarrassingly childish now.
you huffed quietly through your nose before finally leaning forward slightly and parting your lips just enough. immediately, warmth crept into your face the second zayne slid the lemon slice, carefully, between your lips.
his fingers brushed against the corner of your mouth for only a second, but your entire nervous system noticed. his gaze lingered there briefly before he looked away first, then he glanced around thoughtfully.
you frowned around the lemon. what is he looking for?Â
âone second.â he stood from the chair and walked toward the kitchen drawers nearby, leaving you sitting there in complete confusion holding a lemon slice in your mouth like somebodyâs deeply humiliated house cat.
you watched him pull open one drawer, then another. until finally, he grabbed a small glass jar of... salt? unscrewing the lid, he dipped two fingers lightly into the salt. and only then did realization begin crawling horrifyingly into your brain.
he returned to stand between your knees before you could escape properly. he's way too close like this.
"you said you wanted to know the trick,â and before you could argue again, his fingers brushed lightly against your collarboneâcool grains of salt scattered softly over warm skin.
you sucked in a tiny breath when his hand settled against your hip, steady enough to keep you still. and then he leaned down, licking the salt from your clavicleâhis warm tongue grazed along the surface of your skin, for a second longer than necessary, he sucked on it.Â
your breath caught instantly, a tiny sound escaping you before you could stop it, soft and startled and humiliatingly real.
zayne paused for the briefest second afterward. then slowlyâfar too slowlyâhe lifted his head again, his face close enough that the lemon scent mixed faintly with the warmth of his breath. without meeting your eyes, he leaned forward once more and carefully took the lemon slice from between your lips using his own.
zayne still refused to look directly at you. instead, he reached for the glass calmly, closed his eyes once, and drank the alcohol in one smooth swallow.
the music still played somewhere behind you, and people still laughed. but everything around you felt strangely muffled, as if your brain had wrapped itself in cotton after what just happened. your collarbone still tingled faintly, the memory of his saliva and tongue against the skin ghosting over it.
did that seriously just happen? you couldn't even focus on your own internal monologue, as you noticed the way zayne's brows pinched together ever so slightly as he swallowed hard after the drink, setting the glass down against the counter with a quiet clink. then he coughed once into his fist.
the image of calm, composed, terrifyingly smooth zayne abruptly cracking because of alcohol was so unexpected that your brain physically stalled trying to process it. âhey, are you okay?â
zayne straightened almost instantly. "iâm fine." except his voice sounded rougher now, the faintest flush spreading beneath the sharp line of his cheekbones.
you stared harder. â...are you used to drinking?â
there was a tiny pause, before zayne adjusted his glasses and answered with complete honesty, âthis is my first time.â
what?Â
he looked away briefly, clearing his throat once more. âi said iâd only seen the trick before.â
your eyes widened, "zayne!â he winced faintly at the volume of your voice. âyou made it sound like you knew what you were doing!â
âi did know what i was doing.â
you stared at him in disbelief, a course of guilt rushing down your face. now that you were really looking at him, he genuinely seemed affected. not drunk exactly, but definitely warmer around the edges than before. his composure still sat perfectly in place, yet there was something subtly looser about him now.
"sorry,â you started quietly. âi didnât know youâd neverââ
âzayne!â both of you looked up at the interruption.
a guy from the caleb's team was waving from the other side of the kitchen, already halfway approaching through the crowd. âthere you are,â he said breathlessly. âcalebâs looking for you.â
zayne blinked at him, composure slipping neatly back into place. âwhy?"
âsomething about the speakers. nobody else understands the setup except you.â
of course. even at parties, zayne somehow got assigned technical support duties against his will. he sighed through his nose before standing properly from the chair. for one second, his gaze flickered back toward you. and suddenly the air felt warm again. "donât disappear,â and, before you could answerâhe was already gone back into the crowd.
â
ever since then, for reasons you were oblivious to, both zayne and caleb started treating you like someone they actually knewâwhich was strange considering you had technically grown up together your entire lives. but before, there had always been distance, you know, the careful kind. now, somehow, they stayed.
you, meanwhile, remained catastrophically unaware. because in your mind, this was normal. right? they were childhood friends. technically. and childhood friends probably acted like this all the time.
unfortunately for you, everybody else at school possessed functioning pattern recognition, which became increasingly obvious.
but they had always bickered, hadnât they? except now the arguments felt oddly targeted. caleb would interrupt conversations just to steal your attention away from zayne, and then zayne would correct calebâs exaggerated stories while looking directly at you instead of him.
during the friday gatherings, caleb suddenly insisted you sit beside him during karaoke nights while zayne quietly occupied the chair on your other side before anybody else could. they acted normal individually. but together? strangely competitive. but somehow, you never really fully noticed.
until... the campus practically vibrated with excitement that morning.
music blasted through giant speakers across the field while students flooded the grounds wearing brightly colored team shirts beneath the hot sunlight. you could hear the whistles echoing from afar and how somebody was already yelling into a megaphone because everybody isn't exactly organized.
you, unfortunately, were suffering. committee duties meant running around with clipboards while surviving on pure stress and iced coffee.
âwhereâs the relay list?â
âwho moved the cones?â
directly in the center of it is caleb and zayne being on opposite teams. the universe found it hilarious, because the second the games started, things became unbearably obvious.
caleb played like a man personally offended by the thought of defeat itself, incredibly fast and competitive. he truly is all effortless athleticism beneath the glaring afternoon sun, his jersey clinging slightly from sweat while crowds screamed his name every five seconds.
on the other hand, zayne is somehow equally terrifying. it made no sense because zayne wasnât even the sporty one. yet there he was, calm and calculating beneath the heat, playing with the same frightening precision he approached everything else in life.
they kept watching each other, constantly, like two academically gifted wolves. every single time one of them scored, their eyes immediately searched for you afterward. you noticed that part eventually, mostly because it kept happening.
still, you remained mostly confused rather than enlightened, then came the foul that happened during one of the final basketball rounds, fast enough that everybody gasped at once.
caleb deliberately blocked zayne harder than necessary near the court line, the collision sharp enough for sneakers to screech loudly against polished flooring.
whistles exploded instantly. âfoul!â
âwatch it!â the committee members beside you stood up immediately, except neither caleb nor zayne looked at the referees.
they looked at you. both of them. like somehow your reaction mattered more than the actual game. you stood there clutching your clipboard in complete disbelief. "...what are they doing,âÂ
one of your friends beside you snorted loudly. "fighting over you, obviously.â
you turned so fast you nearly dropped the clipboard. "no they aren't?â
he stares at you for a long moment. âyou... actually donât know?"
after that, it became impossible to unsee. impossible for literally everyone else. once somebody pointed it out, the pattern started unfolding everywhere. in your defense, both boys behaved in ways that were just plausible enough to deny. maybeâ maybe âyou were simply unlucky enough to exist directly between both personalities at once.
â
summer is nearby.
the afternoons stretched longer, with the concrete outside shimmering faintly beneath the heat. even the trees beyond your backyard fence looked sleepy, their leaves barely moving whenever wind passed through.
your laundry basket sat beside you, half-empty now, while damp clothes hung heavily across the clothesline one by one. sunlight warmed the back of your neck as you clipped another shirt into place, fingers smelling faintly of detergent and fabric softener. somewhere nearby, a radio played old music from another house. you liked days like this, days where nobody expected anything from you except folded laundry and watered plants. except lately, your brain had refused to stay quiet.
you clipped another shirt onto the line harder than necessary.Â
the two guys werenât even trying to hide it anymore. and almost everybody seemed to notice it now. even your own mother noticed, judging by the increasingly suspicious smiles sheâd been giving you lately whenever either boy visited.
honestly, it stressed you out. because the problem was you didn't dislike them. rather, you cared about both of them too much to treat any of this lightly. which was exactly why you refused to bring it up first.
because if there truly was something thereâsomething realâthen it should come from them. right? and selfishly, you didnât want the burden of dragging confessions out into daylight only to ruin whatever fragile thing currently existed between all three of you.
you sighed and reached for another damp shirt. inside the house, your mother suddenly called your name.
âcoming!â you shouted back.
the screen door slid open as your parents peeked outside together, your mother already holding her purse while your father jingled car keys impatiently beside her. âweâre leaving for the whole day, okay?â your mother called out. âthereâs food in the fridge!â
you nodded. âokay!â
âdonât forget your laundry outside later!â
âi know!â
a few moments later, you watched their car disappear slowly down the street while cicadas buzzed lazily in the afternoon heat.
silence settled over the house afterward. so you returned to your laundry basket with another sigh. and, unfortunately, immediately started thinking again. about calebâs lingering touches, about zayneâs stares, about the sports day, about that stupid lemon trick.
your face warmed at the memory. âthis is so annoying,â and as if summoned directly from your thoughtsâ
the doorbell rang.
you froze, frowning suspiciously at the gate. you're pretty sure your parents didn't inform you earlier of anyone visiting at this hour...
you wiped your damp hands hurriedly against the sides of your shorts before making your way through the house and toward the front door. the second you opened it, you regretted everything instantly.
because standing outside your gate were caleb and zayne, together.
huh, talk about a coincidence.
your eyes flicked towards the two plastic bags filled with fruits hanging from caleb's arm while zayne carried another smaller bag beside him. sunlight poured over both of them harshly enough that you had to squint. âheya, pips," caleb greeted first, smiling easily the second he saw you.
zayne gave a small nod beside him. âgood afternoon.â you stared blankly for approximately three whole seconds before your brain suddenly remembered your current appearance.
oh, this was horrible.
you were wearing an old white tank top slightly wrinkled from heat, loose boy shorts, and your hair was tied messily on top of your head in the kind of rushed bun that made you resemble an exhausted suburban mother halfway through a sunday cleaning routine!
your entire body now became aware of itself, and judging by the brief silence afterwardâthey probably noticed too.
zayne adjusted his glasses lightly, gaze flickering away for one suspicious second before returning to your face with entirely too much composure. "we brought fruits,âÂ
caleb lifted the bags. âour parents bought too much again.â
âand your mom mentioned nobody would be home,â zayne added.
your eyebrows lifted slowly. ââŠmy mom told you that?â
âshe saw us outside earlier,â caleb answered. âthen she basically assigned us delivery duty.â
that sounded unfortunately believable. you glanced down at yourself again instinctively. big mistake. because when you looked back up, caleb was very visibly trying not to grin.
âwhat?â
ânothing.â
âyouâre smiling.â
âbecause you lookââ zayne elbowed him before he could finish, causing a cough out of caleb to correct himself instantly. ââbusy,âÂ
you stepped outside instead, the concrete warm beneath your slippers as you approached the gate. the metal latch clicked when you opened it halfway, enough for you to reach over and take the plastic bags from their hands. the fruits inside shifted heavily against your arms.
âthanks,â you said, avoiding eye-contact for a second because you were still painfully aware of your appearance.
caleb leaned against the fence immediately after handing the bags over, sunlight catching against his hair in uneven gold streaks. âthatâs it?â
you blinked. âwhat do you mean, thatâs it?"
âarenât you gonna let us in?â
you stared at him. âwhy would i let you in?"
âbecause we carried fruits all the way here under the tragic heat of the sun,â he pressed a hand against his chest. âweâre basically your heroes.â
âyou live just three houses away.â
before caleb could continue arguing, zayneâs gaze shifted past you toward the backyard. more specifically, toward the laundry lines swaying gently beneath the summer wind. he noticed the basket first, then the enormous remaining pile of unfolded clothes still waiting beside the basin.
âso youâre doing laundry,â he observed.
you looked over your shoulder, âobviously.â
there was a small pause before zayne adjusted his glasses and said, in the calmest voice possible, âwe can help you.â
you turned back around so quickly you nearly dropped the fruit bags. ââŠwhat? noâ"
âyeah,â caleb chimed in, straightening from the fence with alarming enthusiasm. âwe have nothing else to do anyway."
âyou do not need to help me with laundry.â
âwhy not?â
âbecause itâs laundry.â
caleb frowned. that wasnât a valid argument at all. zayne remained standing quietly beside him, somehow already looking committed to the task. you opened your mouth to refuse again, but when you glanced back toward the backyard, toward the mountain of clothes still waiting, your shoulders visibly deflated.
caleb noticed. âsee? she needs us.â
âdonât sound so happy about it.â
still, you found yourselves walking through the side path toward the backyard together while sunlight filtered warmly through the trees overhead. you set the fruit bags down onto the small outdoor table near the clothesline, pushing loose strands of hair away from your face as the boys surveyed the situation.
âthis is a ridiculous amount of laundry,â caleb commented.
âweâre entering summer,â you replied. âthe bedsheets multiply during summer somehow.â
âscientifically impossible,â zayne murmured.
âtell that to my mother."Â
caleb carries the heavier basin closer to the line while zayne organized the clothespins into neat little rows because apparently even laundry required structure in his mind. you couldnât help glancing at them every now and then in faint disbelief. it felt strange, domestic in the oddest way. it's the kind of scene that wouldâve looked completely normal if you were all ten years old again.
except now, both boys were taller than the clothesline poles and looked unfairly attractive beneath the afternoon sun.
âzayne!â water splashed suddenly across calebâs side.
zayne paused, one sleeve still damp from where heâd accidentally flicked water while wringing a shirt. âthat was unintentional,â
caleb looks down at himself. ââŠbro.â before you could even react properly, he lets out a troubled snicker and grabbed the hem of his shirt, pulling it off in one smooth motionâonly to show underneath was only a fitted white sleeveless undershirt clinging against his frame from the heat.
now you understand why almost the entire female population of your school acted clinically insane around him.
you turned your face away. far too late, unfortunately, as caleb definitely noticed your reaction. his grin widened. âwhy are you looking away?â
âiâm not.â
âmhm.â
you focused aggressively on clipping towels onto the line. surprisingly enough, the boys werenât fighting today.
zayne just sighed quietly and rolled his sleeves upward toward his elbows before eventually pushing them all the way near his shoulders. the motion revealed clean forearms lined faintly with veins beneath warm skin. he reached for another shirt. âif you keep teasing her, sheâll stop letting us help.â
caleb laughed. âshe likes us helping.â
âi never said that.â you cut in.
âwell, you didnât have to.â
you ignored the dog's remark and crouched over the basin with a tired sigh. things always had a different plan for you, though.
one second you were lifting it carefully from the ground, and the next, cold water came crashing against your front with a sharp splash that made you gasp aloud. the weight of it soaked through your tank top instantly, thin white fabric clinging embarrassingly fast against your skin.
âshitââ you completely froze as you felt itâthe damp cling of fabric, the cool air against exposed skin underneath, and the way your brassiere is now far more visible than it had any right to be.
slowly, you looked up, only to find both boys staring. caleb had gone unusually quiet. his easy smile disappeared somewhere between surprise and something else entirely, his gaze lingering for half a second too long before darting upward again. beside him, zayne looked equally caught off guard, though his reaction was quieter. his hand still held a clothespin loosely between slender fingers, unmoving, while his eyes flickered downward once before carefully returning to your face.
neither of them spoke. and the silence made heat rush violently into your cheeks.
you crossed your arms over yourself instinctively, suddenly aware of every inch of your body beneath the sunlight. the backyard no longer felt breezy or playful or safe. it felt small. âiâll just go get another shirt,â you muttered quickly, already turning toward the house before your embarrassment could fully consume you.
except zayne spoke first. âiâll come help you.â
your steps halted, turning to him. âhelp me⊠change?â the second the words left your mouth, caleb choked on air beside him.
zayne blinked once, gathering his words much more carefully. âthatâs obviously not what i meant.â
before you could answer, caleb suddenly stepped forward and grabbed the shirt heâd tossed aside earlier. his white undershirt stretched faintly against his chest as he walked to you. âor,â he holds the shirt out toward you, âyou can just wear mine.â
you stared at him, then unfortunately at his big arms for one treacherous second before forcing your eyes upward again. âcalebââ
âitâs clean,â he added quickly. âwell, mostly.â
zayneâs gaze shifted toward the shirt in calebâs hand, expression unreadable. then, without a word, he began unbuttoning his own overshirt.
your eyes widened. ââŠwhat are you doing?"
âoffering a better option.â
caleb let out a laugh of disbelief. âyouâre kidding.â
âhers is soaked,â zayne rolls his sleeves downward again before shrugging the dark overshirt from his shoulders. âmine actually covers properly.â
the air changed after that, just enough for you to feel it settle heavily between them. both boys met each other's eyes, and suddenly you felt less like a person and more like the center of a very polite war.
caleb returned his gaze towards you, shirt still held loosely in one hand while the other rested against his hip. âtake mine, itâll be more comfortable.â
before you could even process that, zayne moved too, closer to your other side. âmine is larger, youâll feel less exposed.â
your heartbeat stumbled stupidly, because now they were both standing close enough for you to feel heat radiating from either side of you. close enough that their voices dropped lower naturally beneath the summer stillness. somewhere above, the laundry fluttered softly in the wind while water continued dripping from the hem of your soaked shirt onto the concrete below.
you looked between them helplessly. it's really ridiculous how both of them were standing in your backyard wearing sleeveless undershirts, how your soaked tank top clung colder against your skin as you glanced between the two shirts again.
if you were choosing purely based on practicality... zayneâs was the obvious answer. it was larger, plus it wasn't damp. trying very hard not to think about the implications of literally wearing one of their clothes, you slowly reached toward zayneâs offered shirt.
*buzzzzz!*
all three of you paused.
zayne reaches into his pocket, already looking mildly irritated by the interruption. he checked the screen.
caleb leaned slightly. âwho is it?â
âmy tutor.â
you and caleb both stared at him. ââŠright now?âÂ
âtutor advance classes,â zayne answered flatly, âi forgot.â he really had always been terrifyingly academic. the type to voluntarily attend extra classes during the last few months of school while the rest of humanity tried surviving the heat without collapsing. still, there was the faintest tension in his expression. one of reluctant annoyance, subtle enough.
âis it important?â you asked.
zayne looked at the screen for another second too long before finally answering, âyes.â he didnât sound too happy about it.
caleb whistles, "that's brutal."
for one tiny moment, zayneâs eyes flickered back toward you, toward the hand that had almost reached for his shirt earlier. something unreadable crossed his face. quiet satisfaction, maybe. or maybe you imagined it.
without another word, he slowly slid his overshirt back on, rolling his shoulders once as the fabric settled neatly against him again. somehow, watching him button it back into place felt oddly intimate too. âyou should change before you catch a cold,â he said.
âin this scorching heat?â
âstill possible.â
typical zayne answer.
he adjusted his glasses before turning toward the side gate, but not before giving caleb one brief glance, meaningful enough that you instantly became suspicious. âiâll see you later.â
just like that, the genius left.
you watched him disappear past the front yard while warm wind stirred softly through the hanging laundry around you.
slowly... very slowly... you turned back toward calebâwho was already looking at you. who looked amused, deeply amused. you narrowed your eyes. âaren't you going to follow after zayne and have the courtesy to leave as well?"
caleb leaned casually against the outdoor table, arms crossing over his chest, the shirt that he had offered earlier dangling from one of his hands. âhave you always been this feisty since you were a kid, pips?â
âonly towards you.â
his grin widened. "you really were gonna pick his shirt, huh."
âbecause it was bigger!â you faced your back towards him, hanging the last batch of clothes.
âmhm.â
âand it covered more.â
âsure.â
you stared at him in offense while he laughed softly under his breath. the worst part was how unfairly pretty he looked doing it. summer sunlight caught against the loose strands of hair falling over his forehead while his shoulders shook lightly with amusement. and then, his gaze drifted downward for a split second toward your still-soaked shirt before immediately lifting back to your face. the shift was quick, respectful even, but you still caught it.
by the time the last batch of laundry was finally finished, the afternoon sun had softened into something warmer and slower. the backyard smelled faintly of detergent and sun-dried fabric now. bedsheets swayed overhead in lazy motions while the remaining drops of water glimmered along the concrete beneath the clotheslines.Â
you bent down with a small sigh, reaching for the empty basins stacked beside the faucet. your shoulders ached slightly from standing too long. âfinally,â you muttered. âiâm never washing clothes again...â you glanced back to find caleb watching you from beside the outdoor table, amusement tugging lazily at the corner of his mouth. his hair had dried messily beneath the heat.
you looked away immediately. before you could properly walk past him, caleb stepped into your path.
you look up at him with a curious gaze. âmove.â
âno.â
âcaleb.â
âyouâre still so soaked.â
you frowned down at the wet shirt sticking annoyingly to your frame. âiâll just change inside.â
âlet me do it for you.â
âno need, cay.â before you could sidestep him, caleb leaned closer, close enough to make your pulse trip over itself.
instinctively, you stepped backward, and he kept on trapping you until your back bumped lightly against the screendoor, the sound making both of you pause.
âsit down for a second.â he said. despite yourself, though, you glanced toward the small wooden chair nearby. caleb's grin softened into something quieter. âcâmon.â
you huffed softly through your nose before finally setting the basin aside and dropping onto the chair with reluctant defeat. âsuch a bossy old man,âÂ
âyou love it.â caleb laughed under his breath before crouching slightly in front of you. then his fingers caught the hem of your soaked tank top.
you freeze at the gesture, eyes widening at him.
âcan i?â the question shouldâve embarrassed you more than it did. maybe it was because this was caleb, or maybe it was because the summer heat had melted your common sense hours ago.
either way, after a second, you gave the smallest nod. almost awkwardly now, he guided the damp fabric upward while keeping his eyes shut tight like it physically pained him to peek. you helped tug the wet shirt free before quickly pulling his shirt over yourself afterward.
the fabric smelled like him. it made you warm.
âokay,â you mumbled weakly. âyou can look now.â
caleb opened his eyes slowly, smiling. he crouched lower until he was nearly eye-level with you, one knee pressed against the concrete while he wrung your soaked shirt carefully between both hands. water dripped steadily onto the ground beneath him.
out of the blue, caleb laughs under his breath, though it didnât sound entirely happy. âyou know,â he started, twisting the fabric tighter, âi donât really like how you are around zayne.â caleb kept his eyes lowered toward the shirt in his hands. there was still a smile on his face, but it looked strange now, thinner around the edges.
âwhatâs that supposed to mean?â you asked.
he shrugged one shoulder. âi don't know, you listen to him more.â
âno, i don't.â
âyes, you do.â his voice stayed light, casual almost, but something underneath it tugged too tightly. âwhen he tells you to sit still, you sit still. when he says something, you get all quiet and nice. you even looked so ready to wear his shirt earlier without arguing.â
he glanced up finally, brown eyes warmer than the afternoon sunlight spilling across the backyard. âbut with meâŠâ he smiled faintly. âyouâre really mean.â the smile on his face remained there stubbornly, but now it looked almost brittle. like he was trying very hard to keep things playful even while something heavier sat underneath every word.
the distant hum of cicadas still filled the spaces between words. for a while, caleb only stared at the fabric, listening to it. and then he laughed softly to himself. âyou know whatâs crazy? that party i threw a few weeks ago?â
your stomach immediately tightened. â...what about it?"
his fingers stilled against the shirt. âdid you really think i didnât see?â
âsee what?"
caleb stared at you for a long second, the smile disappearing from his face entirely. and suddenlyâsuddenly he didnât look playful anymore. he looked serious in a way that made your heartbeat stumble. âzayne,â he said quietly. âwith you.â
your breath caught.
caleb leaned back against his heels. âi saw him take you away from the crowd, and i saw him touch you. you think i didnât know what he was doing?â his jaw tightened faintly before he continued. âi went looking for you because you disappeared. then i found the two of you in the kitchen.â his gaze dropped briefly toward your neck. âand i saw him licking you off,âÂ
the bluntness of it made heat rush violently into your face. caleb looks away, running a hand through his hair roughly before laughing again under his breath. âgod, i was so pissed.â you stared at him, because you couldn't say anything. anything at all. what else is there to say? deny what he saw? you knew it was true. tell him it was an accident? both of you and zayne were fully sober. he looked hurt, really hurt. âi wanted to punch him.â
your eyes slightly widened at that.
âiâm serious,â he said, looking back at you. âbut i couldnât even bring it up because what was i supposed to say, huh? âhey, i saw the girl i like with my best friend and it made me feel insaneâ?â he exhaled sharply through his nose before leaning closer, close enough that your breath caught on instinct.
âdo you know how hard it was pretending i didnât care after that?â his eyebrows deeply furrowed, purple eyes holding yours. âwatching you act normal around him after he did something like that to you?â his voice lowered further. âand the worst part isâŠâ his fingers loosened from your shirt completely, dropping the damp fabric beside the chair before his left hand settled against your waist instead. âwould it be unfair if i wanted the same thing?â
your breath hitched when his grip tightened ever so slightly before he leaned in further, head tilting slowly toward the side of your neck. you could now feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, but apart from that, you also felt the hesitation. unlike zayne, caleb was expressive and emotional. you could practically hear the conflict happening inside him.
wanting. waiting. holding himself back.
his lips ghosted just barely against your skin, and your fingers instinctively caught against the edge of the chair beneath you. and then suddenlyâcaleb forms a crooked smile, and pulled away.
you blinked at him in stunned silence while he leaned back again, laughing quietly under his breath like he was mocking himself. âsee? i canât do it.â he murmured. âbecause iâm not like zayne.â his hands slid slowly from your waist, trailing down your arms with unbearable gentleness before settling briefly against your knee. âheâs calm when he wants something, he thinks first, plans first.â
his thumb brushed lightly against your skin, drawing lazy circles across the surface. âbut me? i just feel everything." you didnât know what expression you were making. maybe none at all. maybe that was the problem.
while caleb sat crouched in front of you with his hands still lingering against your knee, your face remained unreadable beneath the soft sunset light. your heartbeat was loud enough to make your chest ache, but outwardly, you only stared back at him. somehow, your silence seemed to unravel him more than rejection would have.
you could practically see the conflict worsening behind his eyes, messy and emotional and far too honest to hide. caleb had always been terrible at concealing feelings. even as a child, everything he felt used to spill out immediately through expressions, through gestures, through the way he hovered too close.
âsay something,â he murmured.
you swallowed softly but didnât answer fast enough, before calebâs hand tightened around your knee. âbecause i donât get it.â his other hand rose until it settled against your shoulder, fingers curling there with growing tension. âyou let zayne do things i canât even imagine doing to you, but then you look at me like iâm justâŠâ he shakes his head. âi donât know. easier?â
you frowned. âthatâs not true.â
âthen look at me.â his grip tightened slightly. âlook at me when iâm talking to you.â
you finally lifted your eyes fully toward him, and immediately wished you didn't. he looked vulnerable in the ugliest, rawest way possible. like jealousy had been eating at him quietly for weeks and heâd finally lost the ability to keep swallowing it down.
âiâm different from him, you know that, right?â his thumb pressed lightly against your shoulder as if trying to anchor you there with him. âzayne acts like heâs in control all the time. but me? iâve been trying so hard not to lose my mind over you lately."
âcaleb, you're..."
âiâm serious.â he leaned closer again, eyes searching yours desperately. âif youâd just give me somethingâ anything âi swear iâdââ
his hand around your knee tightened again unconsciously, but pain bloomed sharply this time. âcaleb, that hurts.â
and then, everything stopped. his expression changed so fast it almost startled you. the frustration disappeared first, followed by the desperation. then whatever reckless emotion had been pushing him forward moments ago.
caleb looked down at his own hand gripping your knee like he genuinely didnât recognize it. like he didnât recognize himself. and suddenly he let go so quickly it was almost panicked.
âshit.â
he pulled back, both hands dropping away from you entirely as though burned. horror crossed his face in slow motion while he stared at the faint pressure marks already beginning to form against your skin.
âshit,â he repeated quieter this time. âi didnât mean toââ he stopped speaking halfway through.
because what explanation was there? what excuse could possibly make that better?
you rubbed your knee instinctively while he stared at the motion with visible guilt twisting across his features.
âchrist,â the words sounded directed entirely at himself, as he stood up, fast enough that the wooden chair creaked faintly beneath the movement. caleb drags a hand down his face before stepping away from you altogether, embarrassment and self-disgust radiating off him so clearly it made your chest ache.
âiâm sorry,â he bent down immediately afterward and grabbed the abandoned basins near the faucet, almost too quickly, like he needed something physical to focus on. âi got carried away,â he muttered while stacking them together. âthat was shitty.â
you opened your mouth slightly, but no words came out. seeing caleb like this felt strangely awful. heâd gone from intense and overwhelming to withdrawn within seconds, every bit of earlier confidence collapsing inward now that he realized heâd frightened you.
he kept his back turned afterward while carrying the basins toward the side of the house. and for the first time since this strange complicated thing between the three of you beganâcaleb looked genuinely ashamed of wanting you so much.
â
the basins were stacked back into their corners, and the faucet had stopped dripping. the laundry danced beneath the evening breeze while the last traces of sunlight melted into warmer shades of orange across the neighborhood rooftops.
you stood quietly near the gate, fingers curled loosely around the metal bars as you watched caleb leave. he walked with his hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched beneath the fading sunlight as he made his way back toward his own street a few houses away. from behind, he looked strangely boyish again despite everything that had happened earlier. not the schoolâs golden athlete, not the loud charming boy everybody loved, but just caleb. your childhood neighbor.
you looked down afterward. the faint marks around your knee had already begun fading beneath your skin, barely visible now unless you focused on them carefully. you knew what happened earlier shouldâve unsettled you more. it shouldâve frightened youâthe way caleb lost control for a second there.
but strangely enough, fear never came, for all you could remember was the expression on his face afterward.Â
everything between the three of you had become so complicated lately. and somehow, you felt guilty too. guilty because part of you understood why caleb was unraveling. guilty because you kept letting both of them stay close while pretending not to notice the obvious. guilty because maybe you did treat zayne differently.
you groaned under your breath. âthis is so messy.â
that evening, normalcy returned little by little. your parents came home carrying grocery bags and stories from wherever theyâd spent the day while the house filled with the comforting smells of dinner cooking in the kitchen. you helped prepare the table while your mother talked endlessly about traffic and your father complained about the heat.
it felt ordinary and safe again.
the soft yellow lamp near your bedroom desk cast warm light across the walls while the curtains fluttered gently from the open window. outside, summer night hummed through the neighborhoodâdistant barking dogs, cicadas hidden somewhere in trees, and the faint sound of somebodyâs television drifting from another house.
you exhaled the second your bedroom door shut behind you. your body practically melted with exhaustion as you walked toward your bed, already reaching for your phone when suddenlyâ
*buzzzzz!*
your brows furrowed, glancing down at the screen.
you genuinely wondered if you were hallucinating, because zayne rarely called people, he barely even texted first unless it was academic or medically necessary. and more importantlyâhe had never called you before.
your thumb hovered uncertainly over the screen before curiosity won. you answered the call and lifted the phone toward your ear while sitting down onto your bed. âhello?â
for a moment, only soft static answered. then, zayneâs voice came through the line, low and slightly hoarse. âdid i wake you?â
you immediately sat straighter for absolutely no reason. âno, whatâs up?â
there was a brief pause on the other end before he spoke again. âi think i left my watch there.â
ââŠyour watch?â
âi took it off while helping earlier.â
your eyes drifted toward the window, as if the watch might magically appear outside in the dark backyard. it was probably still near the laundry areaâexcept the thought of going downstairs again felt genuinely devastating. you groaned softly and fell backward against your pillows. âcan i just give it back tomorrow morning?â
another quiet pause. then, âthatâs fine.â you could practically picture him nodding to himself on the other side of the call. âthanks,â he added afterward.
your fingers reached automatically toward the small nailcare basket sitting near your bedside table. absentmindedly, you pulled it onto your lap and started sorting through tiny bottles and nail files while balancing the phone against your shoulder. âsure, no probs,â
the silence afterward shouldâve ended the conversation. normally, zayne wouldâve hung up already. that was how he worked, oh so efficient and straightforward. except when you thought he already ended the call, you noticed his caller id still ongoing after several seconds passed.
you frowned. ââŠanything else?â
a soft sound came from the other end. a hum, maybe. âwhat are you doing?â your hand paused midair over the nail polish remover. for a second, you genuinely thought you misheard him. because this was not a zayne question, at all.
this was the kind of question normal teenage boys asked when they wanted conversations to keep going. meanwhile, zayne is a teenager, but he usually spoke like every sentence had been academically pre-approved beforehand.
ââŠiâm cleaning my nails,â you answered slowly.
another hum. you could also hear faint rustling on his side of the line too, like sheets shifting softly. and the image of zayne lying on his bed with his glasses slightly crooked nearly distracted you.
what a dangerous thought. you focused aggressively on your cuticles, before his voice came again.
âdid you eat already?â
your fingers stopped moving, staring blankly at your nail file. âuh, yeah, during dinner.â
âgood.âÂ
silence settled again afterward, but strangely enough, it didnât feel awkward. through the phone, you could hear the faint sound of his breathing every now and then. it was strangely calming beneath the soft nighttime sounds drifting through your bedroom window.
âyou sound tired,â you murmured.
âi am.â
âhow were your classes?â
zayne sighed on the other end, and the sound traveled straight through your chest for some unfair reason. âlong.â
you smiled faintly to yourself while pushing back your cuticles. âthat sounded miserable.â
âindeed it was.â
âpoor zayne.â
âdonât mock me.â
âiâm being supportive.â you laughed quietly before catching yourself. unbeknownst to you, miles away in the quiet dimness of his own bedroom, zayne had stopped doing work a long time ago.
his textbooks remained abandoned near the edge of his desk, untouched for the past twenty minutes while warm lamplight spilled across scattered papers and half-written notes. instead, he sat leaning back against the headboard of his bed in an oversized white shirt and dark sleeping pants, one knee drawn upward beneath the blankets.
his phone rested against his ear. and despite himselfâhe hadnât hung up yet. the pen between his fingers rolled habitually over his knuckles while he listened to the soft sounds on your side of the line. your quiet breathing, and the occasional rustling whenever you shifted against your bedsheets.
zayne liked you most in moments like this, in unguarded moments. âi should apologize.â zayne broke the silence.
your hand paused over your nails. âhm? for what?â
âthe party,â he answered. âfor how i acted.â
ah. the lemon trick. why would he apologize for that now?Â
your face warmed, âoh."
âi crossed a line.â despite the memory, his voice remained calm, but there was still something restrained underneath it. âif you felt uncomfortable, i can keep my distance from now on.â
your brows furrowed immediately. âwhat? no." the answer came out far too fast, and you realized it a second later. so did he.
still, you hurried onward before your embarrassment could consume you. âi meanâitâs fine. i was the one provoking you anyway."Â
ââŠso you werenât uncomfortable?â
you sat up straighter against your pillows. âthatâs notâ i meanââ a nervous laugh escaped you instantly, trying to dissolve the weight of your own words. âyouâre making it sound weird.â
âam i?â through the phone, you heard the faint sound of his pen stopping completely. somehow, that tiny detail made your heartbeat worsen.Â
the next words that come out of zayne's mouth were so out of place that it almost had you considering the end call button.Â
âyou should be more careful around caleb.â
âwhat?â
zayneâs tone remained even. âcaleb isnât who you think he is.â
"what does that even mean?â
another brief silence followed, like he was debating whether to continue. âyou think heâs harmless because he acts open about everything, but heâs not.â
your confusion only deepened. âzayne, youâre being really vague.â
âhe hides things better than people realize.â
âlike what?â
the pen clicked once between his fingers. âhe keeps photos of you.â
that made you still. "sorry?"
âi've seen them in his room.â your brain stalled completely, and all you could recognize is the familiar gush of mixed emotions piercing through your stomach. âphotos from school events, family gatherings, random pictures from his phone.â zayne paused briefly. â...sometimes printed.â
âthatâs notâŠâ you tried to find the right words, as if you're looking for a scapegoat to make sense of caleb. because right now, to you, he didn't seem like the boy you knew all along. âthatâs not weird, isn't it. weâve known each other forever.â
zayne hummed, not agreeing, and yet not disagreeing either. âhe looks at you differently when nobody notices, but you donât see it because caleb acts the way he is all the time.â
your fingers curled tighter around the nail file in your lap. for some reason, the image of caleb earlier that afternoon flashed into your head immediately. his hands gripping your waist, the jealousy in his voice, the look on his face after hurting you.
outside your window, summer wind began to stir harshly through the trees. you watch a few of the resting birds fly away.
âyouâre not slow, y/n,â zayne spoke once more over the phone. âi know you notice things quickly.â you sat frozen against your pillows, fingers still loosely holding your nail file. âso donât let caleb fool you, whatever he says about me.â
wait.
your brows slowly met. âwhat do you mean whatever he says about you?â
zayne ignored the question entirely. âi donât like how you are around him.â
there it is. the exact same words that was spoken under the summer heat and the swaying clotheslines were now spoken again into the tranquility of the summer's night.Â
âwith caleb, youâre different.â your grip tightened unconsciously around the phone. âyou laugh louder around him, and you say whatever comes into your head. because you're more comfortable around him. but with me,â the silence afterward lasted too long. âwith me, you act too polite. you're careful around me, like iâm not someone you grew up with.â
caleb had said the same thing earlier, almost exactly the same thing. you stared blankly at the wall across your bedroom while your thoughts slowly started connecting themselves together in horrifying little pieces. caleb saying he didnât like the way you acted around zayne. zayne now saying he didnât like the way you acted around caleb. both of them sounding bitter in nearly identical ways.
zayne had forgotten his watch, which meant he probably came back. your mind replayed the afternoon immediately. because if zayne returned for his watchâthen how much did he hear? did he hear caleb talking about the party? about jealousy? about wanting you? did he hear everything?
the silence on the call stretched longer and longer while realization settled heavily into your chest like stones sinking underwater. the worst part wasnât the possibility that zayne overheard. the worst part was realizing he sounded jealous enough to care.
you pressed your free hand against your forehead slowly. this was getting out of control.
everything between the three of you had started tangling together so tightly that you couldnât even breathe around it anymore. you suddenly missed when they were just boys playing puzzle games at family gatherings, before stares started lasting too long.
âzayne,â you finally said something, closing your eyes. your thoughts were too loud, your chest felt too crowded. and for the first time in a long while, you genuinely didnât know what to say anymore. so instead, you laughed weakly beneath your breath and murmured the only honest thing left in your head.
âyou two are seriously exhausting.â you ended the call.
â
ever since that night, you started keeping your distance, but not in a way that anyone can outright accuse you of avoiding them.
you just stopped lingering after conversations, replied later than usual in group chats. and during friday gatherings, you stayed closer to your parents or the younger children instead of wandering naturally toward wherever caleb and zayne happened to be. at school, you busied yourself with committee work or classmates before either of them could pull you aside into another strange emotionally loaded interaction.
it felt safer that way.Â
lately, everything around the three of you had begun feeling too intense for no reason at all. honestly, part of you still refused to believe it was really about you. you kept telling yourself there had to be another explanation.
maybe caleb and zayne were simply competitive by nature, or maybe years of growing up side by side had turned everything between them into some unconscious rivalry that eventually extended toward you too. after all, the three of you werenât even inseparable childhood best friends. you didnât grow up attached at the hip. they were always closer to each other than they ever were to you.
so maybe you were overthinking this entire thing. their jealousy wasnât really jealousy, you just happened to be standing in the middle of whatever strange tension existed between them. that explanation felt easier to carry, so you chose it. and gradually, over the next few weeks, the distance became noticeable.
caleb still waved at you across campus sometimes, but less brightly now. his texts became more occasional, more restrained, almost like he was forcing himself not to reach for you too often. while zayne returned to acting composed and unreadable, though every now and then, youâd still catch his eyes lingering toward you during class assemblies or committee meetings before calmly looking away again.
by the time june started creeping closer, summer heat had fully settled over the campus grounds. electric fans spun uselessly against the humid cafeteria air while students crowded noisily around tables with melting iced drinks.Â
you sat near the corner windows during lunch, quietly scrolling through your calendar app while picking lazily at your food.Â
you were halfway through reorganizing your weekend errands when suddenly somebody dropped into the seat across from you. âhey.â
you looked up from your phone.
an acquaintance from the sports committee leaned toward you with wide eyes already full of gossip.
ââŠhello, yes?" you said cautiously.
âhave you heard?â
your brows furrowed. âheard what?â
she lowers her voice despite the cafeteria already being loud enough to drown entire conversations. âthe sports committee funds went missing.â
your eyes widened at the news. âwhat?â
âthat's what everyoneâs talking about right now.â
you straightened in your seat so fast your spoon nearly clattered against the tray. âwait, seriously?â
she nodded quickly. âapparently a huge portion of the budgetâs gone.â
that's really bad, especially with sports fest preparations still ongoing. âno way, how does money just disappear?â
your acquaintance shrugged helplessly before leaning even closer. âthe last person who handled it was the committee auditor.â
âmace?â
âyeah. but sheâs saying somebody mustâve stolen it.â
your mind immediately started spinning. the sports committee funds werenât small amounts. there were receipts, records, signatures involved. things like this became messy incredibly fast. âis the faculty involved already?â you asked.
âprobably soon.â she grimaced. âpeople are already accusing each other.â
you stared down at your untouched lunch. somehow, deep in your chestâyou felt a strange sinking feeling already beginning to form.
the entire walk back to your classroom felt strange afterward.
students were already whispering about the missing funds in clusters along the hallway, their voices blending together. every now and then, you caught fragments of conversation drifting past.
ââheard it was stolenââ
ââsomeone from the committeeââ
by the time you reached your classroom, your mood had already soured completely. you slid into your seat near the windows with a quiet sigh before pulling out your notebook and reviewer for the next subject.
this didnât involve you anyway.
or at least, thatâs what you thought.
you had barely opened your notes when suddenly, the classroom door opened.Â
your brows furrowed as one of the sports committee members hurried inside, breathing hard like heâd sprinted across campus. you recognized him instantlyâmaceâs close friend and the current treasurer assistant. his face looked tense in a way that made your stomach twist.
before you could even greet him, he made a direct beeline toward your seat. âdo you have the committee funds?â
your confusion deepened. âwhat?â
âthe missing funds,â he said quickly. âare they with you?â
you blinked at him in disbelief. âno, it's not with me...â
his jaw tightened. âare you sure?â
your expression hardened a little at that. âobviously iâm sure.â around you, classmates had already started subtly turning in their seats. the atmosphere inside the room shifted almost instantly, curiosity spreading faster than fire.
the guy rubbed a hand over his face before lowering his voice slightly. âyou were one of the last people who handled the money.â
you frowned. âbecause i was helping audit it.â
âexactly.â
âthat doesnât mean i took it.â he looked unconvinced. suddenly, irritation started crawling up your spine.Â
sure, a few days ago, you had helped organize records with mace after committee hours, but that wasnât unusual. multiple officers handled budgeting paperwork all the time during sports fest season. âyou're reaching,â you said calmly, keeping your voice level despite the growing attention around you. âa lot of people had access to the funds.â
âbut you were there during the last audit.â
âand so were you.â
that made him pause, then his eyes dropped toward your bag beside the chair. ââŠcan i check your bag?â
the classroom went completely silent.
you stared at him. âyou're joking.â
âi just need to make sure.â his expression remained stubborn and tense, almost desperate beneath the pressure of the missing money situation. âif you didnât take it, then there shouldnât be a problem, right?â
whispers immediately started bubbling around the room. you could feel everyone staring now.
jesus.
your face burned slightly beneath the attention, but more than embarrassment, you felt offended. angry.
still, you knew refusing would only make things worse. so after a long second, you exhaled sharply through your nose and shoved your bag toward him. âfine, go ahead.â
your classmates then leaned forward openly.
the guy crouched beside your desk and started searching through your bag while you sat there stiffly, arms crossed tightly over your chest.Â
this entire thing felt really insulting.Â
you watch his movements stop, before slowly pulling out a thick white envelope from the bottom of your bag.
your brows furrowed immediately. wait, what?
the guy stared at it for one second before quickly opening the flap. âi knew it.â within a second, gasps erupted around the classroom, but you could only feel your heart dropping straight into your stomach.
âno way, y/nââ
âthatâs the envelopeââ
you stared at the money inside like your brain physically could not process what it was seeing. because that envelopeâthat envelope should not have been there.
âwhat the hell?â you muttered under your breath.
the guy stood up abruptly, clutching the envelope tightly in one hand while looking at you with outright disbelief. âyou're a liar and a thief, huh.â
you abruptly shot to your feet. âi am not!â
âthis is literally the missing funds!â
âthat's not mine!â the whispers around the room exploded louder now. some classmates were openly staring while others were already pulling out phones. your pulse thundered violently in your ears, but even through the panic rising inside you, one thought stayed terrifyingly clearâyou know someone put that there.Â
someone must've framed you.
you looked directly at him, jaw tightening. âi donât know how that got into my bag.â
âseriously?â he snapped. âyou expect people to believe that?â
âyes,â you shot back. âbecause i didnât steal anything.â
his expression only hardened further. âthen explain why it was inside your bag.â
âi canât explain something i didnât do!â your voice rose louder this time, frustration finally cracking through your composure while the entire classroom watched like spectators at a live show. âthis is insane, somebody obviously planted that there.â
but nobody looked convinced. not him. not your classmates. not anyone. oh how terrifyingly easy it was for people to turn against someone once suspicion had already settled in the room.
it didnât matter how firmly you defended yourself. eventually, the gossip spread anyway.
by the end of the afternoon, it already felt like the entire campus knew your name for all the wrong reasons. whispers followed you through hallways and conversations suddenly stopped when you passed by. even people you barely talked to were staring at you now with that same awful mixture of curiosity and judgment.
it hurt more than you expected it to, because you knew you were innocent.
you walked toward the faculty building with your jaw clenched tightly enough to ache, forcing yourself to keep your posture straight despite the heaviness building in your chest. students lingering outside the offices glanced at you openly as you passed, and you hated how conscious it made you feel.Â
inside the faculty room, the air-conditioning felt unbearably cold against your skin. your adviser sat across from you with a troubled expression while the sports committee moderator stood nearby flipping through paperwork and transaction records. the missing envelope rested on the desk between all of you like physical evidence in some crime investigation.
you stared at it with growing frustration. âsir, i promise, i didnât steal steal anything,â
your adviser sighed. âwe understand youâre upset, but you have to understand why this looks serious.â
âbecause someone put it in my bag.â
the moderator looked up. âdo you have any idea who would do that?â
â...n-no,â you answered. âbut, sir, why would i even steal committee funds in the first place?ânobody answered that. and somehow, that silence hurt.
they didnât fully believe you either.
you rubbed your hands together beneath the table, trying to steady yourself while the moderator continued asking questions. where was your bag during lunch? who had access to it? why didnât you notice the envelope sooner? were you struggling financially? did you owe anyone money?
each question felt more humiliating than the last, but you answered everything anyway. calmly at first, then desperately. little by little, you started realizing how terrifying this situation actually was.
this wasnât just rumors anymore. of course this was a disciplinary issue. a record.
your throat tightened painfully. âplease,â your voice cracking despite your efforts to keep composed. âiâm telling the truth.â your adviserâs expression softened a little at that. unfortunately, that kindness nearly made you cry harder. you werenât someone who got into trouble.
you followed rules. you worked hard. you stayed responsible. and now suddenly you were sitting here defending yourself against something you didnât even do while half the school probably already thought you were guilty.
your vision blurred, and you looked down immediately, embarrassed at yourself for tearing up in front of faculty members.
god this was awful.
âi would never do something like this,â you whispered, helplessly.
the room fell quiet for a moment.Â
but the faculty room door opening hard enough to make everyone look up broke the silence.Â
you wiped quickly at your eyes as someone stepped inside.
he looked like heâd come straight from running across campus. his usually neat hair had fallen slightly out of place while his tie hung loosened beneath his collar. in one hand, he carried his laptop bag and several printed papers.
your adviser blinked in surprise. âzayne?â
he barely acknowledged the room before looking directly at the moderator. âshe didnât steal the funds.â the certainty in his voice made you stare at him.
the moderator frowned. âand how exactly do you know that?â
without another word, zayne crossed the room and placed several printed screenshots onto the desk. âbecause the envelope was planted in her bag during lunch period.â
the moderator immediately picked up the papers while your adviser leaned closer in confusion. from where you sat, you recognized blurry still images from security camera footage near the cafeteria hallway.
zayne continued speaking calmly. âthere's a security camera outside the student council corridor,â he explained. âmost people forget it exists because it only records the lockers and hallway benches.â
your brows slowly knitted together.
âduring lunch,â he continued, âher bag was left unattended for several minutes while she bought food.â he tapped one of the screenshots. and there-there was maceâs friend. the same guy who accused you earlier, caught crouching near your bag.
âwhatâŠâ you whispered.
the moderatorâs expression darkened while flipping through the timestamps. another screenshot showed him slipping something white into the slightly opened zipper compartment before walking away casually.
âhe planted it himself,â zayne finished.
nobody spoke for several seconds.
your adviser looked completely stunned now while the moderatorâs face hardened with growing anger. meanwhile you sat frozen in your chair, staring at the evidence.
zayne found proof. he actually found proof.
âhow did you even get this?â your adviser asked.
zayne adjusted his glasses lightly, though you noticed how slightly out of breath he still seemed. âi checked the hallway footage after hearing what happened,â he answered simply. âthe timestamps matched the period before the accusation.â
simple. it's as if he hadnât just saved you from a disciplinary record.Â
the moderator stood up afterward, already calling for another faculty member while muttering angrily under his breath about suspension and investigations.
everything around you suddenly became blurry noise, because relief hit all at once. violent relief. your hands started trembling slightly in your lap while you stared down at the papers on the desk.
so you werenât crazy, you werenât guilty.
your eyes lifted toward zayne again. and he was already looking at you, quietly concerned in that restrained way of his.
for a long moment, you couldnât say anything at all.
the faculty room buzzed faintly around you with movement and conversationâthe moderator speaking urgently to another teacher, papers being gathered, chairs shifting against the floorâbut all of it blurred somewhere far into the background.
because your eyes remained fixed on zayne. and his stayed fixed on you. a quiet eye contact stretched impossibly long beneath fluorescent lights and cold air-conditioning. it felt more intimate than every charged conversation youâd ever had with him before.
you looked at him like you were trying to say thank you without words. and zayne looked back like he understood every single thing you couldnât bring yourself to say aloud.
his emerald eyes stayed steady against yours, meaningless and unreadable to most people. but after growing up beside him for years, you had slowly learned how to recognize the subtleties hiding underneath his composure. the way he watched you carefully, like he was quietly checking whether you were still holding yourself together.
it made your chest ache. but as always, you looked away first.
a little while later, after the faculty settled things enough for you to finally leave, you stepped out into the hallway alongside zayne. late afternoon sunlight poured through the corridor windows, warming the polished floors gold.
you walked side by side in silence.
the thoughts within your head still felt tangled from everything that happened earlier. from embarrassment, and relief, and anger to exhaustion. they all sat too heavily inside your chest to untangle properly.
âare you okay?â zayne's voice came out softer than usual. you nodded automatically, even though you knew you werenât okay yet. your throat still hurt from trying not to cry earlier. your hands still trembled slightly from adrenaline. and beneath all of that, there was still the lingering ache of realizing how quickly people turned against you.
you swallowed and kept your eyes ahead. for some reason, speaking suddenly felt impossible.
zayne noticed. but unlike most people, he didnât rush to fill the silence. he didnât push you to explain yourself or force comfort onto you just because the quiet felt heavy. instead, he simply slowed his pace to match yours better, and stayed there beside you.
the warmth of the afternoon sun filtered through the windows in soft stripes across the hallway, catching faintly against the edges of his dark hair and glasses. beside you, his hand shifted slightly at his side.
before it lifted.
for one brief second, it looked like zayne was going to touch you. his fingers hovered uncertainly near your shoulder, hesitant in a way that felt strangely unlike him.Â
but it paused midair, before slowly curling back toward himself instead.
the smallest flicker of restraint crossed his face before he adjusted his glasses, putting that careful composure back into place. âi should go,â he said. âi still have errands to finish.â
you looked at him finally.
up close like this, he looked tired. probably from running around campus gathering evidence for you all afternoon instead of resting or studying like he normally would. your chest tightened again. ââŠokay,âÂ
zayne gave a small nod, stepping back slightly. âi'll see you later,âÂ
you nodded once more and watched him walk away down the hallway.
â
you went home with an empty head and a heavy chest.
the entire walk back through the neighborhood felt muted somehow, you only listened to the way the world had lowered its volume without telling you. you also watched the children still playing outside, somebodyâs dog barking lazily down the street. life continued normally around you despite how strange the day had become.
you hated that.
you hated how quickly people looked at you differently over one accusation. even now, your stomach still twisted remembering it.a part of you wanted desperately to fix everythingâto stand in the middle of campus tomorrow and scream the truth until everyone finally believed you. but another part of you knew it wouldnât matter. once rumors spread, they stayed.
you learned that today.
so instead, you kept your expression blank and quietly entered your house like nothing happened at all.
your parents greeted you from the kitchen while evening news murmured from the television nearby. you answered absentmindedly, slipped out of your shoes, washed your hands, and wandered toward the counter where a bowl of apples sat waiting.
normal things. you needed normal things.
the knife moved carefully beneath your fingers as you peeled an apple in long curling strips, trying very hard not to think about school.
...or zayne.
except unfortunately, your thoughts circled back to him anyway, to the way he walked into the faculty room without hesitation and to the way he looked at you afterward. your chest tightened at the memory. he really went through all that effort for you; the same boy who acted quite distant for years despite growing up beside you. before you could overthink it further, you suddenly set the knife down onto the counter.
your mother looked up. âwhere are you going?â
âoutside for a bit,âÂ
âoutside whereââ
but you were already halfway out the front door.
warm evening air hit your face immediately as you hurried down the street, sandals slapping lightly against pavement while your heartbeat thudded strangely hard inside your chest. you werenât even entirely sure why you were rushing this much.
you justâyou needed to thank him properly.
the neighborhood blurred around you as you walked faster through familiar streets lined with glowing porch lights and flowering plants. eventually, the familiar houses came into view.
calebâs house first, then zayneâs right beside it.
you slowed near the gates. for some reason, your eyes drifted briefly toward calebâs house. the lights inside were dimmer than usual tonight.
strange. you hadnât really seen him around since the accusation incident started earlier. but before your thoughts could linger there too long, you shook your head lightly. that wasnât important right now.
you walked toward zayneâs front porch and pressed the doorbell.
your pulse suddenly felt ridiculous. why were you nervous?
after a few moments, footsteps approached from inside the house before the door finally opened.
zayne looked exactly the same as earlier. same loosened tie and same slightly tired eyes behind his glasses.
had he only just gotten home too?
you noticed the genuine surprise crossing his face upon seeing you standing there. you immediately felt awkward. âuh, hi.â
zayne blinked once, before stepping aside. âcome in.â
once you reluctantly entered, he shut the door gently behind you and turned back toward you again. âwhatâs wrong?â there it was again. that immediate concern. his first instinct was always checking whether you were okay.
âi didn't get to thank you properly earlier,â
and before you knew it, words started spilling out of you all at once.
âsorry, i justâ i really wanted to thank you properly because what you did earlier was really...,â your hands twisted together nervously. âyou saved me in there and i donât even understand how you managed to gather all that evidence so fast, and if you didnât show up i genuinely donât know what wouldâve happened to me because they were already looking at me like i was guilty andââ
you barely even paused to breathe.
âand i know you probably think itâs not a big deal, but it is to me because nobody else believed me and somehow you just... you just immediately knew i didnât do it. so thank you. seriously. i donât think you understand how much that meant to me.â
finally, your rambling slowedâmostly because zayne was faintly smiling at you and the sight completely stole the rest of your words.
you had seen zayne smile before, technically. small amused smirks and quiet little reactions hidden behind sarcasm. but this was different. soft and tender, almost. the kind of smile that made him look suddenly less untouchable somewhat.Â
âhush,â zayne stepped a little closer then, gaze gentler than youâd ever seen it before. âitâs okay,â the single word settled over you so gently it nearly melted every remaining ounce of tension still trapped inside your chest. âyou donât have to thank me that much,â he murmured. âi was going to help you either way.â
his words came to you like a pencil attempting to sketch the smile lines across your features, and you smiled the kind of smile that came naturally after somebody caught you before you shattered. it was small, tired around the edges after the terrible day youâd had, but genuine enough that it softened your whole face beneath the room's light.
and, for all that you are, zayne's expression changed so subtly most people would have missed it. but you didnât, not anymore.Â
the faint curve of his lips slowly disappeared as he looked at you, almost like the sight stunned him more than he expected. his emerald eyes lingered on your smile for a second too long, darkening with something quieter than surprise and far more dangerous.
affection, raw and unguarded.
it hit him hard enough that he actually had to look away. you watched his throat move in a slow gulp before his gaze drifted briefly toward the floor, one hand tightening faintly at his side like he was collecting himself.
zayne never lost composure. and yet here he was, undone by nothing more than your smile.
âthank you,â you said again softly, almost laughing beneath your breath now. âseriously.â
zayne exhaled through his nose before looking back at you. âitâs to make up for what i did.â
âwhat did you do?â
he gives you an uncertain stare. âthe call.â your heartbeat slowed strangely, as you remembered how the late-night conversation went, and the memory settled heavily into the room between you. zayneâs gaze flickered briefly over your face before dropping somewhere near your shoulder. âi pressured you that night.â
you opened your mouth. âzayne, iââ but the words never fully came out.
suddenly, his hands found your waist, warm and firm.
your breath caught at the sudden gesture, as zayne stepped forward until the space between your bodies disappeared entirely, his arms wrapping around you with a restraint that somehow made the intimacy worse. like he was holding himself back even now, like this was already more than heâd allowed himself to take.
you froze, you didnât know what to do with how badly your body reacted to it. he was so tall that your chin tipped upward instinctively, your fingers barely brushing his chest as he leaned down and buried his face against the curve of your neck. warm breath spread against your skin through the collar of your shirt, and the sensation made heat rush violently into your face.
his grip around your waist tightened almost imperceptibly, a telltale sign that he needed the contact more than he wanted to admit. âi didnât mean to make you uncomfortable,â he murmured near your ear. his voice sounded rougher from this close, much deeper.
it slid through you slowly, dangerously.
your fingers curled against the fabric of his shirt. ây-you didnât,âÂ
zayne inhaled at that, the sound brushed warm against your throat. âwith you, i donât really know how to act anymore.â you feel his forehead rested lightly near your shoulder now while his arms remained secure around your waist, and for one dizzy second, you let yourself melt into it, into the warmth of his body, into the quiet intimacy of being held so carefully by someone who spent years pretending not to want you this much.
your eyes slowly fluttered shut. everything felt so soft and close... and dangerously tender...
until the front door opened.
âzayne, whereâsââÂ
your eyes snapped open instantly.Â
and the sight of caleb, who stood by the doorway, hit you all at once.
caleb was there, there behind the man who's hugging you into an embrace. his uniform was half undone, white shirt wrinkled and untucked with dirt streaked faintly across the fabric, and bruises darkened visibly along his arm, his cheekbone, the corner of his lip.
he looked exhausted. beautifully, painfully exhausted. somebody who had finally reached his limit. but none of that compared to the expression on his face when he saw the two of you.
his hand remained wrapped tightly around the doorknob while his tired, lilac eyes locked onto zayneâs arms around your waist.
then... slowlyâto you.
you watched calebâs jaw tighten faintly beneath the bruising near his mouth as his heavy breathing slowed. his eyes dragged downward briefly to where zayne was still touching you before lifting back to your face again. and god, that look nearly hurt to survive through. caleb looked like he had walked into the exact thing he feared most.
his fingers tightened harder around the doorknob until the muscles in his forearm flexed visibly beneath bruised skin.
and when he finally spoke, his voice came low and rough around the edges. ââŠdidnât know you had company.â
immediately, you stepped away from zayne. the warmth of his arms disappeared from your waist too quickly, leaving behind a strange lingering heat against your skin as you stared at caleb standing by the doorway.
up close, he looked worse than you initially thought.
the bruises werenât small. one darkened the edge of his cheekbone while another bloomed faintly beneath the collar of his wrinkled uniform. his knuckles looked scraped raw, reddened skin stretched tight over bruised fingers that was surely caused by hitting something far too many times. even his lip had split slightly near the corner, dried blood staining against pale chapped skin. despite how rough he looked, caleb still looked devastatingly beautiful in that messy, ruined sort of way.
zayneâs brows furrowed beside you too, his expression sharpening the longer he examined calebâs condition.
âwhat happened to you?â you asked before you could stop yourself. worry flooded through your voice instantly as you walked toward him, brows pulled together while your eyes searched over every bruise scattered across his body. âcaleb, did you get into a fight?â
he didnât answer. he just stood there staring at you. his tired eyes dragged slowly across your face, memorizing something before losing it completely. the muscles in his jaw flexed beneath the fading blood near his lip.Â
âcaleb?âÂ
his throat bobbed once. before suddenly, his gaze dropped downward and the faintest broken sound escaped him.
almost a whine.
completely unlike the confident golden boy everyone else knew.
you blinked in surprise, waiting for him to finally explain himself. but instead, caleb lifted his eyes back toward you and asked quietly, âwhen are you gonna understand?â
you stilled. ââŠwhat?â
âwhen are you gonna understand,â he repeated, âthat i like you so fucking much it actually hurts?â
the room went completely silent behind you.
caleb laughed softly then, but the sound carried no humor at all. only exhaustion. only frustration stretched too thin after holding itself together for too long. âi beat him up. that asshole who framed you.â his jaw tightened sharply as he spoke. âhe made you cry, humiliated you in front of everyone when you didnât do anything wrong.â
you could only stare at him, because you couldn't bring yourself to believe it. caleb was capable of something like this? caleb was capable of harming someone just for your sake?Â
âand i couldnât stand it,â he admitted, biting his lip. âi couldnât stand hearing people talk about you like that.â you watch caleb look away briefly, running a bruised hand through his messy hair before sarcastically smiling again. âi was looking for you afterward, wanted to make sure you were okay.â his eyes flickered toward zayne, and the softness disappeared instantly.Â
âand then i walk in here and see this.â
the jealousy in his voice sliced through the room, but it was the kind that came from heartbreak instead of anger.Â
calebâs gaze returns to you, it looked even worse. you could practically see the years of suppression slowly rotting underneath all his teasing smiles and playful touches, how exhausted he mustâve been carrying all of this alone.
his lips parted slightly before he spoke again, quieter this time. âi donât know what else iâm supposed to do anymore.â
he stepped closer. just one step.
âi always look for you everywhere. and i get jealous over stupid things. and i literally beat somebody up because they made you cry.â his eyes searched yours desperately. âand you're still looking at me like you donât get it?â
his gaze flickered briefly toward your mouth before lifting back to your eyes again.
âdo i seriously have to kiss you before you understand how much i love you?â
no. no, you already understood. that was the worst part.
you stood between them, too warm beneath the dim yellow lights of zayneâs living room, too aware of every breath being taken around you. calebâs confession still echoed inside your head in painful waves, mixing together with the memory of zayneâs arms around your waist just moments ago.
everything made sense. every argument that carried hidden bitterness underneath it. every strange moment where the air between the three of you became too intimate for childhood friendship alone.
they loved you. both of them.
and you no longer can run away from it.
your lips pressed together, gaze dropped toward the floor. you couldnât look directly at caleb right now. not when his eyes were fixed on you like thatâdark and exhausted in a way that felt unbearable to witness.
you couldnât turn around either. because behind you stood zayne, silent.
you didnât know what expression he wore now. you didnât know if he looked angry or hurt or completely unreadable the way he usually did when emotions threatened to spill too close to the surface.
you were too afraid to find out, too afraid to face either of them fully. all you knew was this awful aching certainty sitting inside your chest: you couldnât choose. you didnât want to.
âi...â you started weakly, but the words dissolved before forming properly.
everything felt... tangled. so you stepped backward instinctively, because you always believed that distance might somehow save you from the intensity pressing in from both sides.
but caleb moved first.
the front door clicked shut behind him with a sound that made your pulse jump. then suddenly he was close again, towering over you with tired eyes and a face that looked heartbreakingly ruined from wanting too much.
his hands came up, one against your cheek, the other cradling your jaw. warm palms against burning skin.
from this proximity, you could see the tiny split near his lower lip more clearly now. dried blood swelling near his cheekbone. he looked really messy in a way caleb never usually allowed himself to be.
he whispers into your lips, âiâm sorry.â and before you could even process the apologyâ
he kissed you.
it was almost devastating how unsteady it felt.
caleb crashed into your mouth like a man depraved of everything he was supposed to have.
âmmph!â your eyes widened instantly as his lips pressed against yours with all the desperation heâd been holding back for years, roughened breaths shaking faintly between every second of contact. trembling, your fingers clutched at the front of his dirt-stained uniform, wrinkling the fabric tighter beneath your hands as your body struggled to catch up with what was happening.
he kissed you with his eyes shut tightly, brows pulled together like he physically could not bear the thought of you pulling away from him now. every ounce of restraint he usually carried so casually had disappeared, leaving behind something painfully naked underneath.
pure, humiliating desire.
you feel his hand tremble against your face as he deepened the kiss for one brief reckless second, breathing you in desperately like he was trying to memorize the feeling before it disappeared from him forever. and godâyou could feel every ugly, yearning emotion tangled inside him.
somewhere behind you, the room remained silent. way too silent.
the realization sent another rush of heat through your body so intense it almost hurt.
caleb mustâve thought about that too. because his grip tightened slightly against your jaw, and a broken sound escaped him into the kiss itselfâhalf sigh, half acheâas though even this moment didnât feel enough.Â
âungh...â he knew this was selfish, but he couldnât stop anyway. or maybe he just simply refused to.
you couldnât tell anymore.
all you knew was that your thoughts were dissolving frighteningly fast beneath the weight of his mouth against yours. his kiss carried none of the polished confidence people usually associated with him. it was too desperate for that.Â
and now that it was out, he was drowning in it.âmmgh- shit..â caleb whined against your lips, making your knees weaken embarrassingly beneath him.
the warmth of his body crowded closer while his hand stayed firm against your jaw, thumb brushing shakily along your cheek. your fingers remained tangled tightly in the front of his ruined uniform, wrinkling the already dirt-stained fabric further.
without realizing it, you kept stepping backward underneath the pressure of him. but caleb followed instantly every single time, taller and broader in a way that slowly consumed your sense of balance altogether. the room blurred behind your closed eyelids while his mouth moved against yours with aching urgency, it almost felt like there was nothing else left except him.
...almost.
you thought, as your back hit something solid, warm.
your breath caught sharply into the kiss itself.
caleb paused for the briefest second, enough for confusion to flicker weakly through your haze, but before you could fully pull away or understand what was happening, another hand rose slowly against the side of your neck from behind you.
long fingers, cooler skin.
they brushed your hair carefully over one shoulder, gathering the loose strands away from your nape with a touch so calm it contrasted painfully against calebâs desperate grip on your face.
your pulse stumbled violently, because you knew those hands.Â
your eyes remained shut instinctively, overwhelmed too quickly by warmth and the terrifying awareness of both of them surrounding you now.Â
you shouldâve stepped away. you shouldâve stopped this immediately. but instead, your body betrayed you by leaning further back into the warmth behind you.
a soft inhale brushed the back of your neck. then, another pair of lips touched your skin.
âhaa-â
zayne moved differently. his mouth barely grazed the sensitive curve of your nape at first, almost like he was testing your reaction before letting the warmth of his lips linger there properly. the restraint in it somehow made it worse.Â
a helpless sound escaped youââhmngh-ââa small whimper swallowed directly into calebâs mouth.
calebâs reaction to it was immediate, his entire body tensed against yours before a shaky breath left him, almost pained, almost wrecked by the sound you made for them. behind you, zayne stayed terrifyingly calmâthe way his teeth sunk into the supple flesh of the slope of your neck had you unconsciously pressing yourself against him.Â
zayne noticed. and it made him halt in his tracks. for a moment, his hands stilled on you and pulled away slightly, eyeing you from behind. "y/n,"
the mention of your name also had you woken up from the daze you were starting to get lost into, while caleb's eyes flickered towards his bestfriend who's behind you, slowly pulling away.Â
"y/n,"
the air between the three of you was strangely suffocating, charged with something that made the fine hairs on your arms stand on end. you felt a sudden, pulsing warmth beginning to bloom deep in your core, a heavy, liquid sensation that seemed to radiate outward from... there.Â
what was happening to you?Â
zayne's eyes narrowed, his gaze dropping from your face to the subtle, frantic rise and fall of your chest. he could see the way your pupils had dilated, swallowing the dark iris until your eyes looked like bottomless pools of desire.Â
âyou're flushed.â zayne murmured, he didn't pull his hand away from your arm; instead, his thumb began to trace slow, deliberate circles against your pulse point. caleb noticed it too, his gaze following zayne's. the raw, jagged pain in his expression smoothed out into something much more... predatory.Â
âyou're... burning up,â he didn't care about the fight or the blood on his lip anymore; all he could see was the way your lips were slightly parted, glistening and inviting.
the tension snapped like a taut wire. zayneâs fingers tightened around your shoulder, not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor you as he leaned in, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. "it's not just the fever of the moment, is it?" he whispered, and the implication hung in the air, as he let his gaze wander down the curve of your neck.Â
you can't help it. the heat was becoming too much to bear. âno,â you gasped, the word feeling small and fragile against the overwhelming intensity of their gazes.Â
you forced yourself to step back, stumbling away from the magnetic pull of their bodies. you could feel your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. âthis is... it's wrong. we can't. you're best friends, and this... this isn't right,â your voice trembled with a desperate attempt at denial.Â
you tried to wrap your arms around yourself, to shield the growing warmth in your core, but the logic felt flimsy in comparison to what was actually going on.Â
zayne and caleb both froze, the sudden distance between you feeling like a physical wound. they watched you with a look of profound, aching reverence. to them, you weren't just a girl; you were something sacred, a masterpiece of soft curves and delicate skin that they had spent years worshiping from afar.Â
the thought of bruising your skin or marring your perfection with their need sent a shiver of hesitation through them. they wanted to devour you, to just lose themselves in the heat of your body, but also, they were terrified that their very touch might ruin the precious thing they loved so much.
âis it wrong?â caleb whispered, his voice a ragged, broken thing. he took a tentative step toward you, his hands hovering in the air as if he were afraid to reach out and break a spell. âbecause it feels like the only thing that's ever been right.âÂ
he reached out, not to grab you, but to let the very tips of his fingers graze the underside of your jaw, a touch so light it was almost a ghost of a sensation. it made your breath hitch in a way that betrayed your protest.
zayne, seeing caleb's approach, felt a surge of competitive desperation. he didn't want to be the one who stayed in the shadows. so he moved to your side, yet there was still a visible tremor in his hands. he reached for your waist, his palms barely skimming the fabric of your clothes, tracing the curve of your hip with a reverence that felt like a prayer.Â
âif it's wrong, then let us be wrong together,â he murmured, his voice a low, seductive velvet. he leaned in, his lips not quite touching your skin, but the warmth of his breath against your neck was enough to make your toes curl in your shoes.Â
ugh, he's doing it again...
this is ridiculous. you tried to hold onto your denial, to tell them to stop and tell them that this was madness, but your body was a traitor.Â
every time caleb's lips teased your earlobe, a fresh wave of liquid heat flooded your thighs. and every time zayne's fingers traced the dip of your waist, an involuntary moan escaped your lips. you were being pulled apart by two different kinds of worship, one frantic and one deliberate, and the more you tried to resist, the more your body craved the very thing you claimed was wrong.
they were both so careful, so agonizingly hesitant, as if they were handling the finest porcelain. they watched your reactions with wide, hungry eyes, terrified of overstepping but unable to pull awayâlike caught in a loop of wanting to ruin you and wanting to preserve you.
but as you felt the weight of their worship, something shifted inside you. the vulnerability that had been making you tremble somewhat changed into a sharp, jagged spark of defiance.Â
maybe it's the insistent teasing, maybe it's something else entirely. you didn't know.Â
âstop,â you raise your hands.Â
you just found yourself stopping and instead forcing them to look you in the eye. âif... if you insist on going this far,â you tried, even though you knew deep down how much they affected you. âcan you even handle what comes with it?â the question hung in the air, heavy and loaded. you saw the flicker of confusion in calebâs eyes, the way his brow furrowed as he tried to parse your meaning.Â
you didn't stop there. you leaned in slightly, your gaze sweeping over both of them, challenging their masculinity. âi'm not just talking about the consequences of what we do to each other,â you punctuated. âi'm talking about you. if i stop being the girl you're so afraid to break... if i actually take what i want from you... could you even handle it? could you handle me?â
the effect was instantaneous.Â
the air seemed to vanish from the room as both boys froze, their hands hovering inches from your skin like statues.Â
was it just that easy?Â
they had been treating you like a fragile thing, but you had just reminded them that you were also a woman with a hunger that could rival their own.Â
zayne felt a tremor of genuine uncertainty ripple through his chest, his dark eyes squinting as he realized... you weren't just a recipient of their lust. because you were also capable of undoing them.
a nervous, triumphant smirk tugged at the corners of your lips as you forced it. you could see the doubt creeping into their expressions, the way their bravado was being replaced by a sudden, frantic rethinking of the entire situation.Â
âwell?â you prompted, your voice a teasing lilt that mocked their hesitation. âdon't just stand there looking like you've seen a ghost. you were so sure of yourselves a moment ago. you were so hungry.â you reached out, your fingers grazing the fabric of caleb's shirt, then zayne's wrist, a mocking reminder of the contact they had been so terrified to initiate.Â
âtouch me, then. if you're as brave as you're acting, prove it.â
the silence that followed was deafening.Â
caleb's frown remained deeply on his face, his eyes slowly moving down the swell of your breasts, gulping, but he couldn't even bring himself to extend his hands.Â
the boys, who had been so bold in their intentions, were now suddenly behaving like hesitating little boys. caleb snapped his eyes away from your chest, his face flushing a deep, embarrassed crimsonâwhile zayneâs gaze drifted away for a split second, his usual stoicism crumbling into a visible uncertainty.Â
all you could do was watch them, because the tension was no longer just about lust; it was about the exhilarating unknown of what would happen if you truly let go.Â
you had thrown down the gauntlet, and now, the ball was in their court.
it was already evident though. you already knew the answer.
they were sinful enough to want you, but not enough to touch where sin waited most.Â
ânever mind,â you whispered into the thickening silence. you made a reluctant, jerky movement, stepping back once more. before they could find their voices or their courage, you turned on your heel, your heart thundering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, and walked away.Â
you practically ran, your lungs burning as you navigated the familiar streets between zayne's house and your own. the cool night air hit your flushed skin, but it did nothing to dampen the fire still smoldering in your core.Â
you didn't stop until you had burst through your own front door, fumbling with the lock before slamming it shut behind you. leaning your back against the wood, you finally released the breath you realized you had been holding since the moment the tension had snapped. the house was silent, your parents are probably upstairs.Â
your heart was still a wild thing, drumming a frantic, uneven beat in your ears.Â
fuck.
you breathed, sliding down the door until you were curled on the floor. what would have happened if you hadn't walked away? if you had stayed, if you had let them touch you, there would have been no turning back. the boundary between friendship and something sinful would have been erased in a single, feverish moment.
a heavy sensation settled in your stomach, a feeling that was difficult to name.Â
you felt... dirty.Â
but as you sat there in the dim light of your hallway, you realized the sensation had nothing to do with the way they had looked at you or the way their hands had hovered near your skin. it wasn't because of them; it was because of yourself.Â
because you hadn't just been willing to let them touch you; you had been craving it.
the thought of indulging in both of them made a hot blush creep up your neck. the idea of being caught between them felt scandalous. you knew, with a terrifying certainty, that you would have enjoyed it. you would have relished the way they looked at you, the way they fought for your attention, and the way they would have worshipped your body.
âjesus christ,â you groaned, burying your face in your hands, your fingers digging into your scalp.Â
you hated it.Â
you hated how easily your resolve had crumbled, how quickly your mind had drifted toward the delicious, dark possibilities of what could have been. you were supposed to be the one in control, the one who kept the boundaries intact, yet here you were, trembling in the dark because you had realized how much you wanted to be ruined by them.
unbeknownst to you, that very same night, you had deeply embedded yourself within caleb and zayne's heads. and their wounds had only gotten deeper.Â
the silence of calebâs bedroom was a lie.Â
the air was thick with the sound of his own ragged, desperate breathing. he had practically stumbled through his front door, his mind a chaotic storm of your scent and the memory of your beautiful eyes.Â
he felt like he was drowning, the pressure in his chest so immense that he felt he might actually suffocate if he didn't find some way to release the tension coiling in his gut. he didn't even bother turning on the lights, moving through the shadows of his room like a man possessed until his hand found the hidden stash in his bedside drawer.
his fingers curled around the soft fabric of your underwear, the one that he had stolen and kept in his pocket when you were doing laundry together.Â
a silent, shameful theft that had become his most private ritual.Â
he pulled them out, the fabric feeling like a holy relic in his trembling hands. he brought them to his face, burying his nose in the material and inhaling deeply. he breaths you in, and a pained sound escaped his throat, a sob that was half moan. it felt like he was trying to pull your very soul into his lungs just to stop the ache.
âi should've...â slowly, he got onto his sheets, the friction of the fabric against his skin feeling like nothing compared to the phantom sensation of your body.Â
and he pressed the underwear against himself, pressing the stolen fabric against his hardening length. his movements were frantic and uncoordinated, driven by a desperation that bordered on madness. he was moaning, a series of broken, whimpering sounds that filled the dark room, each one a testament to the agony of his restraint.Â
"fuck... y/n..." he choked out, the name a prayer and a curse all at once. he was haunted by the memory of how close he had been to you, how he had felt the heat radiating from your skin, and the crushing weight of his own cowardice.Â
he should have reached out. his fingers tightened their grip around his dick, forcing the pre-cum out of the slit.Â
he should have grabbed your waist and pulled you into him before you could even think of running. he should have been the man you challenged, not the boy who stood paralyzed by the fear of ruining you. tears began to sting his eyes, blurring his vision as he worked himself toward a release that felt more like a surrender than a pleasure.Â
he felt pathetic, whining into the empty air of his bedroom, jerking himself off until his muscles ached. to keep from crying out too loudly, to keep from biting his lip until it bled like he had earlier, he reached for the silver dog tag hanging around his neck. he bit down on the metal, the cold, hard surface grounding him even as his mind drifted back to the curve of your hips and the defiant tilt of your chin.
every stroke was a reminder of what he had lost in that moment you turned away. the "should have's" looped in his mind like a mantra, and it only drove him to a fever pitch of frustration.Â
he wanted to be the one to consume you, to prove he could handle the fire you had promised, but instead, he was left alone in the dark, clinging to a piece of your clothing and the ghost of your scent.
calebâs hand was a blur of motion, his grip tight and demanding as he worked himself up. he pressed your underwear harder against the head of his cock, the soft lace and cotton teasing his most sensitive nerves.
he was lost in a fever dream of you, his mind conjuring the sensation of your soft thighs wrapping around his waist and the way your breath would feel hot against his neck. every slide of his palm, every desperate tug, was a frantic attempt to imagine you, to imagine what would have happened if he hadn't been a coward earlier.
âplease... y/n... please,â he whimpered, the words dissolving into a guttural, choked sound as the first wave of climax began to crash over him.Â
his body stiffened, his back arching off the sheets as he felt the sudden, violent surge of release. he came with a force that left him gasping, a heavy, pulsing eruption that felt like his very soul was being poured out of him. but instead of collapsing into the exhausted peace of a finished act, caleb found himself unable to stop. his hand, still slick and trembling, didn't fall away. he couldn't let it.Â
oh what would have happened if he touched your breasts? how would it feel against his hands?Â
âhmnnhg....â he began to stroke himself again. his dick was hypersensitive, but he didn't care about the slight ache or the overwhelming sensation. he was chasing the high, chasing the memory of your scent.
he kept going, his movements becoming slower, and even more desperate as he tried to force his body to find that peak again, his eyes squeezed shut as he fought to drown out the reality of his loneliness.
he bit down on his dog tag again, the metal clinking against his teeth as he let out a long, low whine.Â
would you unbutton yourself for him? so he could have better access inside? âahh... would you have....?â
no matter how many times he came, it would never be enough to fill the void you had left behind. he would keep stroking, he would keep yearning, until his muscles gave out or the sun rose to expose his shame.
but caleb wasn't the only one doing this. there was also somebody else.Â
zayne was a silent, simmering furnace of controlled agony. he didn't retreat to the comfort of his bed. instead, he found himself in the cold sanctuary of his bathroom, the moonlight filtering through the small window to cast long shadows across the tile.Â
he stood with his back pressed hard against the cool wall, his head tilted back so that his throat was exposed, a vulnerable line of pale skin in the dim light. his eyes were squeezed shut, his mouth slightly ajar as he fought to regulate the heavy, uneven rhythm of his breathing.
his hand was wrapped tightly around his thick cock, his movements precise and rhythmic, yet fueled by a simmering resentment. he wasn't just seeking release, he was punishing himself. every slide of his palm was a silent accusation, a tell of the regret that was eating him alive.Â
he should have been the one to bridge the gap. he should have ignored the logic and the caution that usually defined him, and instead, he should have reached out and claimed you. he should have pressed you against the wall and shut you up with a kiss so deep and so demanding that the very thought of running would have vanished from your mind.
the thought of your lips the way they had been parted, glistening and inviting, sent a jolt of desire through him. but as the thought deepened, it was tainted by a bitter, poisonous jealousy.Â
you hadn't even kissed him. you let caleb kiss you. you let him taste you. the memory of calebâs lips grazing your skin, of the way caleb had been the one to actually make contact, made zayneâs jaw tighten until it ached.Â
it made zayneâs strokes grow faster, more aggressive. the jealousy drove him to push himself harder than he ever had before, like he was stroking to erase the image of caleb's lips on you, to replace it with the sensation of his own.
his breathing became a series of manly gasps that echoed off the tiled walls. he imagined his hands gripping your hips with a firm, unyielding strength, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left for doubt or denial. he imagined the taste of you, the way you would moan his name if he finally broke his restraint and took what he so desperately craved.
the friction was becoming almost painful, a searing heat that centered in his groin and radiated outward, but he welcomed the sting. it was a distraction from the mental image of you running away, leaving him standing there like a fool, a spectator to his own desire. he needed to feel you.Â
as he neared the edge, his movements became frantic, his hand a blur of desperate motion. he let out a low, guttural groan, his head thumping back against the wall as the first wave of climax hit him.Â
and then he stood there, slumped against the wall, chest heaving, with the only thought of what could have been if he was brave enough to get rid of that tank top off of you.Â
for the rest of the night, they didn't stop thinking about you.Â
but the universe has a cruel way of turning a moment of into a fading echo, and for the three of you, that moment was the beginning of the end.Â
as the sun rose the next morning, neither caleb nor zayne knew that the feverish connection they had shared in the dark would be the last time your souls truly touched. the electricity that had crackled between you in that room didn't ignite a fire that burned forever. instead, it acted like a flash of lightning blinding, terrifying, and then gone, leaving only a lingering darkness in its wake.
the distance didn't happen all at once, though. it was a slow, agonizing erosion. myou were the one who initiated the retreat, driven by a cocktail of shame, confusion, and a desperate need to reclaim the pieces of yourself you felt you had lost that night. you began to build walls, brick by heavy brick.Â
you stopped answering the late night texts, and you became a ghost at the friday gatherings where they were present, and eventually, you simply stopped showing up altogether.Â
for caleb and zayne, the silence was a deafening weight. they both waited, hovering in the periphery of your life, hoping for a sign, a glance, a single word that would bridge the chasm you had created. they both felt the same hollow ache in their chests, but neither of them had the courage to chase a girl who was so clearly running away.Â
they could only watch you vanish from a distance, both of them wondering if they had been too slow, too scared, or too much of the âlittle boysâ you had mocked.
the inevitable arrived with graduation. the day should have been a celebration of beginnings, but for the three of you, it was a silent funeral for what might have been. as you walked across the stage, your eyes scanned the crowd, perhaps searching for a familiar face, but you found only strangers. there were no congratulatory texts, no flowers delivered to your door, no lingering glances exchanged in the hallway.Â
the three of you, who had once been so intimately entwined by desire and tension, had become nothing more than names in a yearbook, memories tucked away in the dusty corners of your minds.
you vanished into your own pathway, throwing yourself into studies, work, and new cities, trying to drown out the memory of the two boys who had once looked at you like you were a god. you told yourself you had forgotten. you told yourself that the heat, the sweat, and the desperate, lonely nights they spent thinking of you were just a fever dream of youth.
â summary: The soulmark system is supposed to be simple: two names, one great love, one companion. But when you, Mei, and Prince Caleb all bear each other's names, the truth becomes impossibly tangled. Some truths reveal themselves only in death, and some loves are understood only when they can no longer be returned.
â cw: MDNI, fem!reader, non-mc reader, soulmate au, arranged marriage au, unrequited love, heavy angst, AGAIN HEAVY ANGST, love triangles, miscommunication, misunderstandings, mc is mei, ancient china au, court politics, tragedy, tw mentions of contraceptives/abortifacients, tw concubinage, tw childbirth, tw death from childbirth, angst with a bittersweet ending, major character death, prince!caleb, no one is the villain they're all just blind, unbetad, unedited.
â wc: 18k, went all out here lol
â a/n: I kind of rushed this because I want to post this before Caleb's myth drops, so I am so sorry if the writing is bad and the angst is meh. Also, due to the character limit, the format might feel weird, I recommend reading in AO3 instead.
â arranged marriage aus | lads masterlist | AO3
I
Your nursemaids tell you stories about soulmarks before you are old enough to understand what they mean.
They say that sometimes a person bears two names on their wrists when they come of age. The marks appear without warning, as if written by an invisible brush. One name is the great love, the soul you are bound to above all others, the one who will consume you, complete you, destroy you if you lose them. The other is the companion, the soul that walks beside you through life, steady and true, a hand to hold when the path grows dark.
The marks never tell you which is which, that is what you must learn by living.
Some say the cruelest fate is not to lose a name, but to watch one change color and finally understand which it was. When your great love dies, their name darkens on your wrist like a bruise that never heals. When your companion dies, their name turns grey, like ash, like a memory fading.Â
You are seven years old when you first hear this story and you do not think about it much. Seven-year-olds do not worry about death or love or the mysteries written on skin that has not yet appeared.
You think about apple orchards instead.
The imperial palace has extensive grounds, and your father's position as a high-ranking lord means your family has chambers here, close to the court. You have the run of the gardens when your tutors release you from your lessons. The apple orchard is your favorite place, the rows and rows of trees heavy with fruit in autumn, branches perfect for climbing in summer, blossoms like snow in spring.
Caleb is always there.
He is a prince, the third son of the Emperor, which means he has more freedom than his older brothers. He does not have to sit through as many state functions or memorize as many treaties. He spends his afternoons in the orchard, reading under the trees or playing with his wooden practice sword.
You are shy around him at first. He is older, ten to your seven, and he is a prince, but he has kind eyes and a patient manner, and when you climb too high and cannot get down, he laughs and helps you, boosting you onto his shoulders to reach the ground.
"You are brave," He sets you down gently. "Most children would cry."
You flush with pride and do not tell him you wanted to cry very much.
Mei comes into your life when you are eight.
Her family are retainers to your household, lower in rank but trusted. Her mother serves your mother, her father serves your father, and now she is assigned to serve you.Â
Mei is exactly one year older than you, nine years old with serious eyes and a protective streak that runs deeper than the rivers surrounding the capital. She finds you in the orchard one afternoon, crying under an apple tree because one of the palace children, a duke's daughter with a cruel tongue, called you a country bumpkin and plain.
"Who said that?" Mei's voice is fierce. "Tell me who said that."
You shake your head, hiccuping.
"It does not matter. She is stupid and her eyes are bad." Mei sits beside you, pulling you against her side. "You are not plain. You are my lady. Mine to serve, mine to protect, and anyone who says different is a liar."
You rest your head on her shoulder and feel the tears dry. There is something about Mei that makes you feel safe. Something about the way her arm wraps around you, solid and certain.
"Will you stay with me?" you ask, and your voice is small.
"Always," Mei promises and reaches for your hand. "Where you go, I go."
Caleb finds you both there an hour later, and that is how it begins.Â
The three of you in the orchard, Mei's hand always finding yours first, Caleb's laugh bright as lantern lights, and you in the middle, not yet understanding what you are building.
You turn nine, then ten. Caleb turns thirteen, then fourteen. Mei turns ten then eleven, and she grows tall and graceful, her childhood roundness replaced by elegant lines.
You notice the way Caleb looks at her.
It starts small. He stumbles over his words when she speaks to him. He watches her when he thinks no one is looking. He brings her gifts, ribbons for her hair, a hairpin carved from jade, a book of poetry he claims he found in the market but you suspect he bought specifically for her.
Mei accepts these gifts politely, but there is distance in her manner. She does not blush nor simper. She does not gaze at him the way the court ladies gaze at princes.
She looks at you instead.
You are too young to understand what that means.
The years continue to pass. You turn twelve, then thirteen. Caleb is sixteen now, nearly a man, his shoulders broadening, his voice deepening. He has begun training with the imperial guard, learning strategy and swordcraft. He is good at it. Everyone says so.
Mei is fifteen now, and she is beautiful. You are not blind to it. The court notices her now, despite her lower rank. Men watch her when she walks through the palace gardens. Marriage offers have begun arriving for her family to consider.
She dismisses them all.
"I am not interested," she tells you one evening while she is brushing your hair in your chambers. "My place is here, with you."
"But you could marry well," you protest. "You could have your own household, your ownâŠ"
"I could." Her hands are gentle, working through a tangle. "But I do not want to. I want to stay here with you. Is that so strange?"
You do not know how to answer that.
Caleb's feelings for Mei are no longer a secret, at least not to you. He is obvious about it now, seeking her out in the gardens, asking her to walk with him, writing poetry that he does not give her but leaves where you might find it.
You read one once.Â
It compared her eyes to lotus pools and her grace to a heron taking flight.
You fold it carefully and return it to its hiding place. You do not tell anyone about it. You certainly do not tell Mei. Watching Caleb fall in love with her is both painful and beautiful. Painful because youâŠ
You do not let yourself finish that thought.
The apple pies start when you are thirteen.
The cook in your father's kitchens makes them perfectly, sweet and tart, the crust flaky, the filling rich with cinnamon. She makes them for the household, small luxuries to brighten the long summer days.
Mei steals the first one.
"Come on," she whispers, catching your hand and pulling you toward the back stairs. "While everyone is at court."
You follow because you always follow her.Â
You sneak through the servants' corridors, giggling, the stolen pie warm in Mei's hands. You eat it in the orchard under your favorite tree, passing it back and forth, licking cinnamon from your fingers.
"We will get in trouble," you complain, but you are laughing.
"We will not. I will take the blame if anyone asks." Mei grins at you, her face smudged with apple filling. "Worth it though, was it not worth it?"
It was. It is. Every stolen moment with her is worth it.
You steal pies together all that summer.Â
It becomes your secret, your private rebellion.Â
Sometimes Caleb joins you, and then it is the three of you again, laughing, eating too fast, lying in the grass and watching clouds drift across the sky. Those are the good days. The golden days. The ones you will remember later when everything has gone wrong.
You turn fourteen. Your childhood is ending, sliding away like silk through your fingers. You begin attending more formal functions, your education intensifying. You learn household management and history, poetry and music. You learn how to smile and curtsy and all other things that daughters of noble houses do.
You learn how to watch Caleb watch Mei and pretend your heart is not breaking. You are old enough to name the feeling that has been growing in your chest for years now.
You are in love with Caleb.
You have been in love with him since you were seven years old and he lifted you down from a tree. You have been in love with him through every afternoon in the orchard, every stolen pie, every moment of laughter and lightness. Every time he shared his cloak when it rained, every time he noticed you were sad before you said anything, every kindness you took for granted.
But he does not see you, not the way you want him to.
He sees only Mei.
You cannot blame him.Â
Mei is extraordinary. She is everything you are not, confident where you are hesitant, bold where you are careful, beautiful that sometimes people stop and stare.Â
She is your dearest friend. Your protector. Your companion.
How can you resent her when you love her almost as much as you love him?
You tell no one about your feelings for Caleb. Not Mei, the person you trust the most, not your mother, not even your diary. You bury them deep, pressing them down like stones at the bottom of a river. You smile when he talks about Mei. You nod sympathetically when he confides his fears that she will never return his affection.
You are a good friend. A very good companion.
II
Your mark appears on the morning of your fifteenth birthday.
You wake to find two names written on your inner left wrist in ink that seems to shimmer when you move your arm.
Caleb
Mei
You sit on your bed for a long time, staring at your wrist. Your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears.
Two names.Â
One is your great love. One is your companion.
You know with certainty that it feels like destiny that Caleb is your great love. He has to be. You have loved him for eight years. He is written in your bones, carved into your heart. The mark is simply confirming what you have always felt.
And MeiâŠ
Mei is your companion. Your truest friend. The person who has walked beside you through childhood, who has held your hand promised to never leave.
It makes perfect sense.
You should feel happy. You should feel hopeful. Instead, you feel strange, as if the world has shifted and nothing is quite where it should be.
You dress quickly and go to find Mei.
She is in her family's chambers, and when she opens the door, you see immediately that her mark has appeared as well. She is wearing longer sleeves, but you can see the edge of ink peeking out at her wrist.
"It happened," you say, and your voice sounds breathless.
Mei nods.Â
She does not look happy. Her expression is unreadable.
"Mine too," she replies, her voice quiet and almost reluctant.Â
You enter her room and close the door behind you.Â
"Will you show me?"
For a moment, you think she will refuse, then she pushes back her sleeve.
Two names.Â
Your name and Caleb.
The same names as yours. The same two people.
You do not know what to say, you just stand there, staring at her wrist.
"We have the same marks," you say, and it is not a question.
"Yes."
"That means..." You trail off.
Mei pulls her sleeve back down, hiding the names.Â
"It means we are both connected to each other and to him. That is all."
But it cannot be all. The marks mean something, they have to mean something.
"Do you think..." You wet your lips. "Do you think you know which is which? For you, I mean?"
Mei looks at you for a long moment. There is an emotion in her eyes you cannot name, it makes your chest tight.
"I think," she starts slowly, "that the marks do not tell us. We have to live and discover the truth ourselves."
"But you must have a sense. You must feelâŠ"
"I feel many things." Mei cuts you off gently. "But I do not think it is wise to make assumptions. Not yet."
You want to demand she tell you what she is thinking, but Mei has always been private, and you have learned not to press when she closes herself off.
"Will you tell me?" you ask instead. "When you know for certain?"
"Yes." She takes your hand, squeezes once. "I will tell you everything. I promise."
You leave her chambers feeling unsettled. The conversation felt wrong, but you cannot put your finger on what.
Caleb's mark appears three days later.
He comes to the orchard in the afternoon, face flushed with excitement, and shows you and Mei his wrist without preamble.
Your name
Mei
The same names. All three of you connected in a triangle, bound by invisible threads of fate.
"This is it," Caleb looks at Mei with such naked hope that you have to look away. "This is proof. You are one of my soulmates, Mei. I knew it. I have always known it."
Mei says nothing. Her face is very still.
"Mei?" Caleb's smile falters. "Are you not happy?"
"I am..." She pauses. "I am surprised. I had not thoughtâŠ"
"You have my name, do you not?" He reaches for her wrist, pushes back her sleeve before she can stop him. You see the flicker of emotion cross his face when he sees your name alongside his. "We all have each other's names. We are all bound together."
"Yes," Mei says quietly. "We are."
"Then this is fate." Caleb is still smiling. "You see? The gods have decided for us. You cannot refuse me now. You cannot say we are not meant to be together."
Mei gently pulls her arm free.Â
"The marks tell us we are connected. They do not tell us how."
"One of us is the great love. One of us is the companion." Caleb's voice is earnest. "I know which you are, Mei. I have known since I was thirteen years old."
You stand there, watching this exchange, and you feel as if you are disappearing. Neither of them is looking at you. Neither of them is acknowledging that your name is there too, that you are part of this triangle as well.
"Caleb," Mei says, and her voice is gentle but firm. "This is not the time for such declarations."
"When is the time?" He is pleading. "I have waited years, Mei. Years. Tell me you feel nothing, and I will stop. Tell me I am wrong."
Mei does not answer. She is looking at you instead, her expression unreadable.
"I think," you speak instead, and your voice sounds distant even to your own ears, "that we should not make assumptions. The marks have only just appeared. We have time to understand what they mean."
Caleb finally looks at you. You see the moment he remembers you are there, standing beside him, your wrist bearing the same names as theirs.
"You are right," he says, and he sounds chastened. "I am sorry. I got carried away. This isâŠthis affects all of us. Not just me."
"Yes." You manage a smile. "It affects all of us."
But you already know that Caleb's mind is already made up. He has decided Mei is his great love. He has decided the story of his marks before he has lived it.
And you are the companion. The friend, the third point to fateâs triangle.
Later that night, alone in your chambers, you trace the names on your wrist with one finger.
Caleb. Mei.
You know which is which, you have always known.
Caleb is your great love. He is the one who will consume you, complete you, destroy you when you lose him.
Mei is your companion. Your steadiest friend. The one who walks beside you.
The marks have simply confirmed what your heart already knew.
III
The summons comes three months after the marks appear.
Your father's household is to meet with the imperial court to discuss a formal arrangement. You, Mei, and your families are to attend. Caleb will be there as well, representing the royal family's interests.
You know what this is before you arrive. You have heard your mother and father discussing it in low voices, arguing behind closed doors. You have seen the way the court ladies watch Caleb now, whispering behind their fans, calculating his worth as a potential match.
You know what is coming, and you feel numb about it.
The meeting takes place in one of the smaller audience halls. Your father and mother sit on cushions across from the Emperor's representative, an elderly minister with shrewd eyes and a neutral expression. Mei's parents are there as well, seated slightly behind, their faces tense.
Caleb stands to one side in formal court robes. He looks older than his eighteen years, solemn and princely. He does not look at you or Mei. His gaze is fixed somewhere in the middle distance, his jaw tight.
The minister speaks first. His voice is dry and formal, reciting the terms like he is reading from a ledger.
The arrangement is this:
You will be betrothed to Caleb as his primary wife. Your rank demands it. You are the daughter of a high-ranking lord, a princess in all but name. The match is appropriate, politically advantageous, entirely proper.
Mei will be given to Caleb as his concubine. Her family's status as retainers, servants, three generations of faithful service but no title, no land, no name of consequence, makes her ineligible for the role of wife, but the marks have spoken. The gods have written both of your names on his wrist, and to ignore the marks entirely would be to insult heaven.
Any child that Mei bears will be recorded as yours. The lineage will be clean. On paper, you will be the mother of all his children, whether they come from your body or hers, ensuring the imperial bloodline remains unbroken.
Everyone in the room remains very still while the minister speaks. You focus on your breathing, in, out, in, out, because if you focus on that, you do not have to think about what is being said.
When the minister finishes, your father speaks. "This arrangement is acceptable to our house."
Mei's father speaks next, his voice tight. "It is acceptable to ours as well."
They do not ask you. They do not ask Mei. Women do not get asked in matters like these.
Caleb finally looks at you, but you cannot understand his expression. It is blank, the face he has learned to perfect for courtly functions. Then he looks at Mei, and his face changes and softens.
The minister continues with more details.Â
The formal ceremony will take place in three years. There will be a betrothal period where you and Caleb will be expected to spend time together, to learn each other, to prepare for married life.
Mei will move into Caleb's household two weeks after the wedding. That is the tradition, the wife is installed first, before the concubine is brought in.
You find this detail particularly bitter. Two weeks. Two weeks of pretending to be a new wife before your dearest friend, your companion, is moved into the same house, into your husband's bed.
The meeting ends. You stand and bow. Everyone bows. You are dismissed.
In the courtyard outside, Mei catches your arm, her grip is tight enough to hurt.
"I do not want this," she whispers. "I do not want him. You know that, do you not? You know I have never wanted him."
"Then why did your parents agree?" You cannot keep the hurt from your voice.
"They had no choice. When the imperial court makes a request, it is not truly a request." Mei's eyes are bright with anger. "But I am telling you now, I do not want this. I will not pretend I am happy about it."
"Neither am I." The words come out sharper than you intend.
Mei flinches.Â
"You are angry with me."
"I am not angry with you. I am angry withâŠ" You gesture helplessly at the palace around you, at the whole structure of it, the system that decides women's lives without consulting them. "I am angry with everything."
"Then we are in agreement." Mei's voice softens. "We are both trapped."
You look at her and see the exhaustion in her face. She looks older than her sixteen years. There are shadows under her eyes, and her usual confidence is stripped away.
"I need you to do something for me," you hear yourself say.
Mei straightens.Â
"Anything."
"I need you to..." You stop before forcing yourself to continue. "I need you to go along with this. Be what Caleb wants. Be what Caleb needs."
"What?" Mei's voice is sharp. "Why would I do that?"
"Because if you do not, he will be miserable, and if he is miserable, this whole arrangement falls apart, and then what happens? They send you to a different household? Marry you off to some stranger? I will lose you entirely." You are speaking too fast now, the words tumbling out. "But if you do this, if you accept your position in his household, then we stay together. You and I. That is all I care about. Staying together."
"You cannot ask this of me."
"I am asking. I am begging." Your voice breaks. "Please, Mei. Please do this, if not for him, then do it for me."
Mei stares at you for a long moment. You see her throat work, see her blink rapidly as if fighting tears.
"You do not understand what you are asking."
"I do."
"You do not." Her voice is cold. "But I will do it. If this is what you truly want, I will do it. I will be what he wants. I will be what he needs."
The words sound like a vow and a curse all at once.
You reach for her hand.
"Thank you."
Mei does not answer. She pulls away from you and walks across the courtyard, her back straight. You watch her go and feel something inside you breaks.
Later, when you are alone in your chambers, you will wonder why you did that. Why you asked her to sacrifice herself. Why you thought that was the solution, but in this moment, you tell yourself it makes sense. You tell yourself you are keeping her close, keeping her safe, keeping her yours in the only way the world will allow.
You tell yourself many lies that evening.
IV
The betrothal period passes in a blur.
Three years is a long time to pretend.Â
You spend time with Caleb as required. You take walks in the gardens, attend court functions together, sit across from each other at formal dinners and make polite conversation. You learn his preferences, how he likes poetry but cannot stand most music, how he has a sweet tooth he tries to hide, how he is terrible at strategy games but too proud to admit it.
He is kind to you. He treats you with the respect due a future wife, but his eyes are always searching the room for Mei. You pretend not to notice.
Mei, true to her word, allows Caleb's courtship. She accepts his gifts. She walks with him when he asks. She smiles politely when he attempts poetry. She does everything a concubine-to-be is expected to do.
But there is a distance in her manner. There is a wall she has built between herself and him, invisible but unmistakable. She goes through everything without being truly present.
You wonder if Caleb notices. You suspect he does not.
There are moments, though. Moments when it feels almost like before.
One afternoon in the second year of your betrothal, the three of you find yourselves in the orchard together. It is autumn, the trees heavy with fruit, the air crisp and clean. Caleb plucks an apple from a low-hanging branch and tosses it to you.Â
"Remember when we used to steal pies from the kitchen?"
You catch the apple, surprised by the sudden nostalgia in his voice.Â
"Of course. Mei was always the one who got us into trouble."
"I was the one who got us out of it," Mei retorts, but she is smiling.Â
It is a real smile, not the polite mask she wears at court.
"You were both terrible influences." Caleb's voice is warm, teasing, he sounds like the boy you knew at ten. "I was a perfect prince before I met you."
"You were boring," Mei counters.
"I was dignified."
"Boring," you and Mei say in unison, and then all three of you are laughing.
You sit in the grass, passing the apple back and forth, and for a moment, it is like nothing has changed, like you are still children without complications, still friends who steal pies and climb trees and watch clouds.
"I wish it could stay like this," Caleb admits quietly.
The words hang in the air. You want to agree, want to reach for that feeling and hold it tight, but Mei's smile fades.
"It cannot," she says. "It never could."
Caleb's face closes off. You look away. The three of you sit in silence for a while longer, and then Caleb makes an excuse and leaves. Mei watches him go, her expression unreadable.Â
"Someone will always be unhappy," she murmurs so softly you almost miss it.
You do not know who she means, perhaps all of you.
The wedding ceremony is elaborate and exhausting.
You are eighteen now, no longer a child.Â
You wear red silk embroidered with phoenixes in gold thread. Your hair is arranged in an intricate style that takes hours and hurts your scalp. Your face is painted and your lips stained crimson. You look like a doll. A beautiful, expensive doll.
Caleb wears matching red, his robes heavy with embroidery. At twenty one, he has grown into his features, handsome and princely and entirely unlike the boy you used to steal pies with in the orchard.
You exchange vows in front of the entire court. You drink from the same cup. You bow to his ancestors and to the Emperor. You become his wife in the eyes of the gods and the empire. Through it all, you smile and say the right words and do not let yourself feel anything.
After the ceremony, there is a feast. Hundreds of guests, endless courses, music and dancing. You sit beside Caleb at the head table and accept congratulations. People toast your health, your happiness, your future children.
Mei is somewhere in the crowd. You catch glimpses of her throughout the evening, always at a distance, never meeting your eyes. She is wearing pale pink, a concubine's color, and she looks beautiful and sad and so very alone.
The ceremony for taking Mei as concubine happens a week later. It is quieter, more private. Only close family and a few court officials attend.
Mei wears crimson as well, though a simpler style than your wedding robes. She kneels before Caleb and you, you, his wife, granting permission for her to enter the household. She bows three times. She pledges her loyalty to you first, then to him.
When she rises, her eyes are dry, but you see the strain in the set of her shoulders.
That evening, Caleb comes to your chambers.
It is your wedding night, delayed by a week to accommodate the concubine ceremony. Custom demands he spend this night with you, his wife, before he is allowed to turn his attention elsewhere.
You are ready or as ready as you can be. Your maidservant has prepared you, dressed you in a thin sleeping robe, arranged your hair. You sit on the edge of the bed and try to calm your racing heart.
Caleb enters. He looks nervous. He is still in his formal robes, though he has removed the outer layers.
"You look lovely," he says, and it sounds reflexive, the thing he was supposed to say.
"Thank you." Your voice is steady.
He sits beside you on the bed and the mattress dips under his weight. You can smell the incense that was burned during the ceremony earlier, still clinging to his clothes.
"IâŠ" He stops."You understand, do you not?"
The question hangs in the air. You could pretend you do not know what he means. You could make him say it outright, but what would be the point? You are not cruel enough to make him spell out what you already know.
"Yes," you reply quietly. "I understand."
"I do not want to hurt you." His voice is earnest. He sounds young suddenly, younger than his twenty one years. "You are my wife. I will always respect you. I will always honor you, but my heartâŠ"
"Is elsewhere." You finish the sentence for him. "I know, Caleb. I have always known."
He looks at you and you see guilt flicker across his face.Â
"Forgive me."
"Do not be sorry. The arrangement was not your choice any more than it was mine."
"Still. You deserve better than this. Better than a husband whoâŠ" He cannot finish the sentence.
You reach out and take his hand. His fingers are warm, slightly calloused from sword practice.Â
"Shall I tell you what I think?"
"Please."
"I think we can build a good life together. Perhaps not the life you dreamed of, or the one I dreamed of, but a good life nonetheless. We have been friends since childhood. That is more than most married couples can claim."
"Friends." He sounds sad. "Yes. We have been that."
"So let us continue to be that. Friends who share a household. Friends who support each other, and who fulfill our duties with grace." You squeeze his hand once. "We do not have to pretend to have great passion when we both know the truth."
"You are generous," Caleb says.
"I am practical."
"No. You are generous, and I do not deserve your kindness."
He leans forward and kisses you. It is gentle, chaste, a kiss between friends rather than lovers, then he stands.
"I should go," he says. "I should let you rest."
You nod. You do not point out that this is your wedding night, that custom demands more than a single kiss. You do not mention that the servants will notice, will gossip, will speculate about what it means that he is leaving so quickly. You let him go.
When the door closes behind him, you sit very still for a long time. You do not cry. You simply sit and breathe and accept that this is your life now.
Your marriage. Your role. Your future.
The next morning, you learn that Caleb spent the night in Mei's chambers.
V
The first months of marriage settle into a rhythm.
You wake early, attend to your duties as Caleb's wife. You manage the household, oversee the servants, handle correspondence. You are good at this, the careful navigation of social hierarchies, the endless small decisions that keep a princeâs estate running smoothly. Your mother trained you well.
Caleb is often away during the day, attending court functions or military training. When he is home, he is pleasant. He asks about your day. He ensures you have everything you need. He is a model husband in every way except the one that matters.
Mei lives in the chambers adjacent to yours, and you see her every day. You take your meals together when Caleb is absent. You walk in the gardens, sit in the pavilion overlooking the lotus pond, sometimes you steal away to the kitchens late at night to share rice cakes and talk about the rumors you hear at court.
In those moments, it almost feels like before, like you are still children, but then Caleb comes home, and everything shifts.
He seeks Mei out immediately. He brings her gifts, bolts of silk, jade ornaments, books of poetry. He writes her letters even though they live in the same household. He requests her company for meals, for evening walks, for viewing the moon.
Mei accepts these attentions with polite grace. She never refuses him. She never encourages him either. She exists in a strange middle ground, neither welcoming nor cold, simply present.
You watch this courtship from the sidelines and try to pretend it does not hurt.
The court notices, of course. The servants gossip. The other noble wives watch your household with speculation and poorly-concealed pity. Everyone can see that your husband prefers his concubine to his wife.
You hold your head high and refuse to acknowledge their whispers.
One evening, during a court banquet, one of the Empress' ladies makes a comment just loud enough for you to hear.Â
"How gracious Her Highness is, to allow her husband such obvious devotion to the concubine. Most wives would be beside themselves."
You smile serenely.Â
"Why should I object? Mei has served my family since childhood. She is dear to me. My husband's affection for her brings me joy, not sorrow."
The lie comes easily, you have had months of practice. The woman looks disappointed. She was clearly hoping for drama, for tears, for some crack in your composure. You give her nothing.
Later, Mei finds you in a quiet corner of the garden.Â
"You do not have to do that," she says.
"Do what?"
"Lie for me. Defend me. Pretend you are happy with this situation."
"I am not lying. You are dear to me."
"But you are not happy." Mei's voice is soft. "I can see it, even if no one else can."
You look away, focusing on the lotus flowers blooming in the pond.Â
"Happiness was never part of the arrangement."
"It should have been." There is anger in her tone now. "You should have been cherished. You should have beenâŠ"
"Please do not." You cut her off gently. "I do not want your pity any more than I want theirs."
"This is not pity. This isâŠ" She stops. When you glance at her, her expression looks pained. "I wish things were different. That is all."
"So do I, but wishing changes nothing."
Mei moves closer, takes your hand. Her fingers are cool against yours.Â
"I would give this up in a heartbeat if I could. I would leave this household, go anywhere, if it would make you happy."
"You cannot leave. Where would you go? Back to your family? They have no wealth to support you. To another household as a servant? That would be a worse fate than this." You squeeze her hand. "We are bound together now, you and I. We must make the best of it."
"Then let me make it easier for you," Mei replies. "Give me leave to refuse his attentions. I do not want them. I have never wanted them."
You have noticed this. The way she holds herself distant when Caleb visits her chambers. The way her smiles never quite reach her eyes. The careful way she accepts his poetry without reading it aloud.
"If you refuse him outright, it will cause scandal. He is a prince. His prideâŠ"
"His pride is not my concern."
"It is mine." You pull your hand free. "He is my husband. His honor is my honor. I will not have the court saying he was rejected by his own concubine."
Mei's expression closes.
"As you wish."
She turns to leave, but you catch her sleeve.Â
"Mei, wait. I did not meanâŠ"
"You meant exactly what you said." Her voice is cutting. "You want me to continue this charade. To let him court me, to accept his gifts, to pretend I might care for him someday. All so you can save face at court."
"That is not fair."
"Fair?" Mei laughs bitterly. "What about any of this is fair? You married a man who loves me. I am forced to live with him and accept his attention when IâŠ" She stops abruptly.
"When you what?"
"When I would rather be anywhere else." She finishes the sentence carefully.
You study her face, trying to understand what she is not saying, but Mei has always been good at keeping secrets. She has been keeping them your entire lives.
"I will not ask you to leave," you say finally. "But I will not give you permission to publicly reject him either. Find some middle path. Please. For me."
Mei nods once, then she walks away, leaving you standing alone beside the lotus pond.
The Moon Festival arrives in the eighth month of your marriage.
The court celebrates with lanterns and music, feasting and poetry.Â
You sit beside Caleb at the festivities, smiling and nodding as officials and nobles pay their respects. The celebration goes late. When you finally return to your chambers, exhausted, you do not expect Caleb to follow, but he does.
"May I come in?" he asks from the doorway.
You are surprised enough that you simply nod. He enters, closing the door behind him. He is still in his formal robes, though he has loosened them slightly. His face is flushed, from wine, perhaps, or from something else.
"Mei turned me away," he says, his voice rawâŠ"She said she was tired. She saidâŠ" He stops. "It does not matter what she said."
Ah. So that is why he is here.
Not because he wants you, but because she refused him.
You should send him away. You should tell him you will not be a substitute for the woman he really wants, but you are tired of fighting, tired of pretending, tired of everything.
"You can stay," you hear yourself say. "If you wish."
Caleb looks at you for a long moment, then he nods.
He is gentler than you expected, almost tender. He undresses you slowly, his hands careful, and when he lies beside you, he takes his time. There is a loneliness in the way he touches you, as if he is seeking comfort rather than passion.
You let yourself sink into it. You let yourself pretend, just for these few hours, that he is here because he wants you, that his hands on your skin mean something beyond duty or disappointment.
Afterward, he does not leave immediately. He lies beside you in the darkness, his breathing slowly evening out. You think he has fallen asleep, then his arm slides around your waist.
It is unconscious, you think. A reflex. He pulls you back against him, his body curving around yours, his face buried in your hair. He holds you like he does not want to let go.
You go very still and barely breathe. You do not want to break this moment, this unexpected gentleness. Slowly, carefully, you place your hand over his where it rests on your stomach. His fingers tighten slightly, then relax. His breathing deepens. He is asleep.
You lie there in the darkness, held in your husband's arms, and let yourself pretend. Just for tonight. Just for these few stolen hours.
You pretend he came to you because he wanted to. You pretend the tenderness was real. You pretend that when morning comes, he will wake and smile at you, kiss you, and choose to stay.
You know better. You have always known better, but for tonight, in the darkness, you let yourself hope.
In the morning, he is gone.
The pillow beside you still holds the shape of his head. The blankets are tangled where he slept, but Caleb himself is nowhere to be found. You press your hand to the pillow, feeling the lingering warmth, and your heart breaks a little more.
A few weeks later, you have dinner with Caleb and Mei together, a rare occurrence now that the household has settled.Â
The meal is pleasant enough.Â
Caleb discusses trade negotiations with the northern provinces. Mei asks about a new shipment of silk from the south. You contribute everything that you have observed from the outer court.
For a moment, it almost feels normal. Three friends sharing a meal, the conversation flowing easily.
"Do you remember," Caleb says suddenly, "the year we stole pies every week for an entire summer?"
"The cook never did figure out who was taking them," Mei smiles.Â
"Because you were clever about it," you add. "You always took them when she stepped away, and you replaced the covering so it looked untouched."
"We were terrible," Caleb says, but he is laughing.
"We were children," Mei corrects.
The three of you reminisce for a while, trading stories and memories. For a while, the complications of your arrangement fall away. But then the meal ends, Caleb reaches for Mei's hand as they stand.Â
"Walk with me?" he asks her.
Mei glances at you. You see the regret and apology in her eyes.Â
"Of course," she tells him.
They leave together. You sit alone at the table, surrounded by empty dishes and fading laughter.
Someone will always be unhappy, Mei said once. You are beginning to understand what she meant.
The months continue, and the pattern repeats.Â
Caleb pursues, Mei deflects, you observe. The court whispers grow louder. Some say Caleb is bewitched by his concubine. Others say you are too patient, too forgiving, that you should assert your position as primary wife more forcefully.
A few, a very few, say quiet things about Mei's loyalty. About how she seems to spend more time with you than with Caleb. About the way her gaze follows you across rooms.
You do not listen to those whispers. You cannot afford to. Instead, you focus on your duties. You embroider. You manage the household. You write letters to your family. You sit through endless court functions with a smile painted on your face.
And at night, alone in your chambers, you trace the names on your wrist and remind yourself which is which.
Caleb, your great love, your husband, the man who will never love you back.
Mei, your companion, your truest friend, the one who walks beside you through all of this.
You repeat this until you believe it. You have to believe it. What else is there?
VI
The discovery comes on an ordinary morning.
You wake feeling nauseous.Â
At first, you assume it is something you ate at the banquet the night before, the fish had tasted strange, but the nausea persists through the morning, worsening when you try to take tea. Your maidservant takes one look at your face and goes very still.
"Your highness," she speaks carefully. "Have your monthly courses come?"
You open your mouth to say yes, then stop. When was the last time? You have been so consumed with household matters, with court functions, with carefully not thinking about your marriage, that you have lost track.
"No," you say slowly. "Not for... not for six weeks at least."
The maidservant's face brightens.Â
"Your highness, you may be with child."
The words do not feel real. They hang in the air, impossible. You and Caleb have barely touched since the wedding night. While he comes to your chambers perhaps once a month, he only stays as long as necessary to maintain appearances. Your couplings are brief, done for duty rather than the passion of newlyweds.
Except for the Moon Festival, that night had been different.Â
"Send for the physician," you instruct her. "Quietly. I want no announcement until we are certain."
The physician confirms it that afternoon. You are pregnant, and the child should arrive in early spring. After he leaves, you sit in your chambers and try to understand what this means.
A child. Your child. Caleb's child.
Word travels faster than you anticipated. You are still in your dressing gown when Caleb appears at your door. His face is flushed, as if he has been running.
"Are you sick?" The words come out rushed. "The servants said you called for the physician. Are you ill? Is something wrong?"
You stare at him, surprised by the urgency in his voice.Â
"I am not sick."
"Then whyâŠ" He stops, looking at you more closely, at the way your hand unconsciously rests on your stomach. Understanding dawns on his face. "Are youâŠ"
"I am with child." The words come out quieter than you intended. "The physician just confirmed it."
For a moment, Caleb simply stands there, then he crosses the room in three long strides and pulls you into his arms. The embrace is fierce and desperate. His hands shake where they press against your back. You can feel his heart pounding against your chest, feel the tremor that runs through his whole body.
"Are you safe?" he asks, his voice muffled against your hair. "Are you well? Does anything hurt? Do you needâŠ"
"I am fine," you say, bewildered. "Caleb, I am fine."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face. His eyes are bright, searching.Â
"You are certain? You are not in pain? The physician said everything is well?"
"Yes. Everything is well."
"An heir," he breathes, but there is something else in his voice. Something beyond political satisfaction. "You are carrying my child."
He pulls you close again, and this time you feel it, the fear beneath the relief. He is trembling, actually trembling, his breath uneven.
"I heard about your motherâs pregnancies," he states gently. "After we married, I asked some servants in your household, I know she had difficulties and IâŠ" His voice breaks. "I cannot lose you. Do you understand? I cannot."
The words stun you. You stand rigid in his arms, trying to understand what you are hearing.
"CalebâŠ"
He kisses your forehead. It is tender, lingering, more intimate than any kiss he has given you before. When he pulls back, his eyes are wet.
"Forgive me," he says. "I am being foolish. This is good news. This is very good news."
He steps away, composing himself, but you can still see the tremor in his hands, the brightness in his eyes.
"I should let you rest," he starts. "You need rest. The baby needsâŠ" He stops himself. "I will make sure you have everything you need. Anything you want, just tell me."
Then he is gone, leaving you standing in your chambers, trying to understand what just happened.
Mei finds you an hour later, staring at nothing.
"I heard," She starts as soon as she enters your chambers "The whole household has heard by now."
You turn to look at her.Â
"Did you know Caleb asked the servants about my motherâs pregnancies?"
Mei pauses.Â
"No, but it does not surprise me."
"Why not?"
"He cares for you." Mei states it simply, as if it is obvious. "More than you think, more than he knows how to show."
"He only cares about his heir."
"No." Mei's voice is firm. "He cares about you. I have seen it in the small things he does"
"Those are justâŠ"
"They are not just anything." Mei takes your hands. "He may love the idea of me, but he cares for you. There is a difference."
You want to argue. You want to insist she is wrong, but the memory of Caleb's embrace, his trembling hands, his fear, it sits heavy in your chest.
"He told me he cannot lose me," you whisper.
"Because he cannot." Mei reaches for your hand. "You are his wife. The mother of his child now. Someone he has known since childhood. Whether he understands it or not, you matter to him."
"But he loves you."
"He thinks he does." Mei's smile is sad. "But love is more than longing, more than pursuit. Sometimes it is in the quiet things. The unconscious gestures. The fears we cannot name."
You do not know what to say to that.
The weeks pass. Your body changes. Your stomach begins to round. You feel the first fluttering movements, strange and wondrous.
The court is told. Congratulations pour in. The Emperor himself sends a letter expressing his pleasure at the news of his grandchild. Your parents visit, your mother hovering anxiously, your father looking pleased in his austere way. Everyone is happy for you.
Caleb becomes more present. Not in the way you once hoped for, he still spends his evenings with Mei, but in smaller ways. He insists you sit during lengthy court functions. When you attend audiences, he cuts them shorter than usual. He checks that your chambers are warm enough without you asking.Â
Once, when you grow dizzy in the garden, he appears at your side before you can call for help, his hand steadying you, his voice tight with worry as he walks you back inside. You do not know how he knew you were there. You do not ask.
When you are five months along, Mei arranges an afternoon tea in your chambers. It is just the three of you. You, Mei, and Caleb. The conversation starts awkwardly.Â
Caleb discusses updates about the military. You share things about the household. Mei adds the preparations for the coming winter. Then Caleb says something about your lack of rest, and Mei's eyes flash.
"Perhaps if you visited more often as a husband rather than as an official checking on imperial property, she would feel less alone," Mei says, her voice sharp.
Caleb goes very still.Â
"I visit regularly."
"You visit to ensure your heir is well, not to ensure she is well."
"That is notâŠ" Caleb stops. "That is not fair."
"Is it not?" Mei turns to you. "When was the last time he asked about your wellbeing that was not related to the child?"
You open your mouth to defend him, but you cannot think of an instance. Caleb's face has gone pale.Â
"IâŠ"
"She is your wife," Mei continues, relentless. "She carries your child. The least you could do is see her as more than a vessel for your heir."
The silence that follows is heavy, painful. Then the baby kicks. It is strong enough that you gasp, your hand flying to your stomach. Both Caleb and Mei turn to you immediately.
"What is wrong?" Caleb asks, alarmed.
"Nothing. The baby justâŠ" You place your hand over the spot. "The baby is moving."
Caleb stares at your hand on your stomach.Â
"May IâŠ" He stops. "Would you mind if IâŠ"
You take his hand and place it where you felt the movement. For a moment, nothing happens, then the baby kicks again, directly against Caleb's palm. His face transforms, wonder replaces the tension from moments before.Â
"I felt it," he breathes. "I feltâŠ"
"Let me feel too," Mei says softly.Â
You take her hand and place it beside Caleb's. The three of you wait, silent, until the baby kicks again.
"Strong," Mei gasps, and there are tears in her eyes. "Your child is strong."
"Ours," you say instinctively. "You said you would help me raise them, that makes them ours."
Mei's fingers curl against your stomach. The baby kicks again, and for this one fragile moment, the three of you are connected. All of you feeling this new life, this small person who exists because of all your complicated relationships.
"I will do better," Caleb states, he is looking at you now, not at your stomach. "You are right, Mei. I have been seeing her as the mother of my heir, not asâŠ" He stops. "I will do better."
Mei pulls her hand back.Â
"See that you do."
The moment breaks. Caleb stands and excuses himself. Mei begins clearing the table, but something has shifted. You sit there, your hands on your stomach, and let yourself feel a tiny spark of hope.
Then one afternoon, you find Mei alone and preparing herbs in the kitchen.
You watch her work for a moment before you recognize the plants she is crushing. You grew up in a lord's household. You know what tansy and pennyroyal look like when they are ground together. You know what they are used for.
The realization strikes you. Abortifacients.
"Mei?â You call her name before you can stop yourself.
She turns, sees you, sees the herbs. Her face goes pale.
"How long?" you ask.
"Since the beginning." She replies without shame. "I will not bear his children. I will not give him that."
"But why? A child wouldâŠ"
"Would what? Tie me to him forever? Make this pretense real?" Mei's voice is sharp. "I am not you. I do not accept this quietly. I do not make the best of my cage."
The words are meant to wound, and they succeed. You take a step back as if struck.
"That was cruel.â
"Yes." Mei looks away. "Forgive me, that was cruel."
"If you hate this so much, why do you stay?"
"Because you asked me to." Her response comes quickly. "You asked me to be what he wants. To go along with this. To stay here, with you. So I stay."
"I did not know you were this miserable."
"Of course you did not know. You are too busy being miserable yourself to notice anyone else."
The observation is so accurate it steals your breath. You stand there in the kitchen, staring at each other, and for the first time, you see the full weight of what you have asked of her. The sacrifices she has made. The pain she has endured, all because you begged her to stay.
"I am sorry," you tell her, but the words feel inadequate. "Mei, I am so sorry."
"Do not apologize. This is not your fault. None of this is your fault." Mei turns back to her herbs, crushing them with renewed force. "But do not ask me to pretend I am content. Do not ask me to pretend I want him, because I do not. I never have."
"Then who do you want?" The question escapes before you can stop it.
Mei goes very still.Â
For a long moment, she does not answer. When she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.
"Someone I cannot have."
She does not elaborate. She finishes preparing her herbs in silence, and you do not ask again.
That night, you lie in bed with your hands on your growing stomach and take in everything you have asked of Mei.
You asked her to stay. She stayed. You asked her to accept Caleb's courtship. She accepted. You asked her to smile at court. She smiled.
And beneath all of it, in the privacy of the kitchen when no one was watching, she ground bitter herbs into tea and drank them so that the one boundary she had left would hold.
You think about what it must have been like. Month after month. The taste of tansy and pennyroyal, the cramping, the pain because of her refusal to let her body become one more thing that belonged to him.
She did that ever since she became Calebâs concubine.
She did that while brushing your hair, while smiling at you, while reassuring you, while staying with you, and laughing with you in the gardens as if nothing were wrong.
You roll onto your side and press your face into the pillow, and you do not sleep for a very long time.
VII
The banquet is in honor of the Emperor's birthday.
All of the court is required to attend.
You are six months pregnant now, your stomach round and obvious beneath your formal robes. You move slowly, carefully, one hand always resting on your belly as if to reassure the child within.
Mei walks beside you, her presence a comfort in the overwhelming crowd. Caleb is somewhere ahead, fulfilling his ceremonial duties as a prince of the blood. You will join him at the high table once the formal presentations are complete.
The Emperor sits on his throne, receiving tributes and well-wishes. The hall is filled with nobles, officials, foreign dignitaries. Everyone who matters in the empire is here. Including the Emperor's concubines.
There are four of them.Â
You know their faces, their names, their positions in the complex hierarchy of the inner court. The eldest, Lady Qi, is kind and has always treated you with courtesy. The second, Lady Qin, is ambitious but intelligent, someone you respect if not quite trust.
The third is Lady Xue.
She is the youngest of the Emperor's concubines, only recently elevated to her position. She is beautiful, clever, and hungry for power. Her family is wealthy but not particularly well-connected. Her position depends entirely on the Emperor's favor, and that favor is slipping.
You have heard the whispers. The Emperor has lost interest in her. He visits her chambers less frequently. He has been seen courting a new woman, a merchant's daughter with a sharp wit and considerable political connections.
Lady Xue is desperate.
She needs to do something dramatic, something that will remind the Emperor why he favored her in the first place. She needs to prove her value, her indispensability.
She needs a victory.
You do not know that Lady Xue has been watching your household, noting the Emperor's pleasure at the news of his grandchild. You do not know that she has decided removing Caleb's heir would destabilize his position, would create chaos that she could exploit. You do not know that she has already bribed one of the servants to poison your wine.
The banquet proceeds.Â
Courses arrive in endless succession, delicate soups, roasted meats, fish cooked in wine and spices, steamed dumplings, sweet rice cakes. You eat sparingly, mindful of your pregnancy and the rich food.
Mei sits beside you, as is proper for a concubine. She barely touches her food. She has been tense all evening, her gaze constantly scanning the crowd.
"Are you well?" you ask quietly.
"I do not like this." Mei's voice is low. "Too many people. Too much attention on you."
"It is the Emperor's birthday. We cannot avoid attending."
"I know, but I do not like it."
You squeeze her hand briefly to reassure her.
"You think too much. Nothing will happen. I am perfectly safe."
Mei does not look convinced.
The wine arrives. It is a special vintage, brought out only for imperial celebrations. The servant fills your cup, then Mei's, then moves down the table.
You raise your cup to drink. Mei's hand closes around your wrist.
"Wait." Her voice is low, urgent.
"Whatâ"
"The servant." Mei's eyes are fixed on the man retreating down the table. "He poured yours differently. He tilted the bottle at the end. Everyone else received a straight pour."
You glance at your cup. The wine looks the same as everyone else's, dark red and sweet smelling.
"Mei, you are beingâŠ"
"And he looked at someone when he set your cup down, across the hall. I saw his eyes move." Mei's grip tightens on your wrist. Her knuckles are white. "Do not drink it."
"It is the Emperor's wine. No one would dareâŠ"
"Someone already has." Mei's voice is steady, but her hand is trembling. She is not guessing. She is reading the room the way she always does, with the sharp, relentless attention of someone who has spent her entire life watching for threats against you.
You set the cup down.
Mei stares at it. Then at you. Then at your rounded stomach.
You see the decision form behind her eyes a half-second before she moves.
"Mei, noâŠ"
She snatches up your cup and drinks the wine in three quick swallows.
The hall goes very quiet. People are staring, someone laughs uncertainly, thinking this is some kind of joke. Then Mei's face contorts. She doubles over, gasping. The cup falls from her hands, shattering on the stone floor.
"Mei!" You lunge for her, but she is already collapsing. You catch her as best you can, supporting her weight, lowering her to the ground.
"Get the physician!" someone shouts.Â
Caleb is there suddenly, shoving people aside. He kneels beside you, staring at Mei's face. She is convulsing, foam flecking her lips, her skin turning an awful grey.
"What happened?" Caleb demands. "What did she drink?"
"My wine." You are shaking. "She drank my wine."
Understanding and horror dawns on Caleb's face. The wine was meant for you. For the child you carry.
Mei would have known that. She would have known the poison was meant for you. She drank it anyway.
The physician arrives, but it is clear almost immediately that there is nothing he can do. The poison is too strong, too fast-acting. It is burning through Mei's body, shutting down her organs one by one.
She is dying.
You pull her into your lap, heedless of propriety, of the watching court. You cradle her head against your chest, your tears falling onto her face.
"Stay with me," you beg. "Please, Mei. Please stay."
Her eyes flutter open. She looks at you, and despite the pain, despite everything, she smiles.
"I love you," she whispers.
The words are so quiet you almost miss them. You stare down at her, and in that moment, you understand.Â
You finally understand everything. Not Caleb. Never Caleb. You.
Mei has always loved you.
Caleb is there beside you, holding Mei's hand, weeping openly. He leans close, his face twisted with grief.
"I love you too," he sobs. "Mei, I love you. Please do not leave. Please."
He thinks she is talking to him. He thinks her final words are for him, but Mei is not looking at Caleb. She is looking at you. Only at you.
Her lips move again. You lean closer, and you hear her breathe three more words.Â
"Protect the child."
Then her eyes close and her body goes still.
Mei is gone.
The hall erupts. Guards are summoned. The physician declares her dead. The Emperor demands to know who poisoned the wine. Servants are questioned, dragged away. Lady Xueâs face is pale with shock, she did not expect her plan to fail.Â
She did not expect Mei to intercept the poison.
You hear none of it. You sit on the cold stone floor, holding Mei's body, and you cannot breathe. You cannot do anything except stare at her lifeless face and try to understand that she is truly gone.
She loved you. She has always loved you. And now she is dead.
Caleb tries to pull Mei from your arms. You resist, clutching her tighter, but eventually he succeeds. He lifts her body, his face streaming with tears, and carries her from the hall.
You sit there, alone, blood and wine staining your formal robes. Your hands are shaking. Your whole body is shaking. Someone, your maidservant, perhaps, helps you to your feet. Someone leads you from the hall. You move like a ghost. When you reach your chambers, you collapse, and finally, finally, you let yourself scream.
VIII
The funeral is held three days later.
Mei's body is prepared with the traditional rites, washed, dressed in burial silks, laid in a lacquered coffin. Incense burns at the four corners. Mourners file past to pay their respects.
You attend because you are required to. You are Caleb's wife, and Mei was part of your household, but you feel absent from yourself, as if you are watching from a great distance.
Caleb is devastated. He weeps openly during the ceremony. He talks about how he loved her, how he will always love her, how her death has left a hole in his heart that can never be filled.
Every word is a knife, because he is wrong. He is wrong about everything. Mei did not love him. She never loved him.Â
She loved you, and he will never know that.Â
He will spend the rest of his life believing she died loving him, that her last words were meant for him. The truth will die with her.
After the ceremony, after Mei's coffin is carried to the burial ground, after the earth is mounded over her and the final prayers are spoken, you return to the palace.
The investigation into the poisoning has concluded.Â
Lady Xueâs involvement has been proven beyond doubt, servants have testified, silver has been traced, the poison itself has been identified. She has been arrested, stripped of her position, sent to face imperial justice, but that is not enough for the court gossip.
The court needs someone to blame, and Lady Xue's arrest is not dramatic enough for them. A concubine's failed plot is politics. A jealous wife's poisoning is tragedy, and tragedy sells.
So the rumor takes root, you did it. You, the patient wife, the dignified presence at every function, finally cracked under the weight of your husband's obvious preference for his concubine and killed the woman he loved.
It does not matter that Lady Xue confessed. It does not matter that the poison was traced, the servants questioned, the evidence laid bare. The court has chosen its story, and your innocence is not part of it.
Caleb does not correct them. That is what breaks you, not the whispers, not the sidelong glances, not the women who draw back when you approach.Â
His silence. His refusal to stand beside you and say my wife did not do this. He is too deep in his own grief to notice yours, and the court takes his silence as confirmation.
Three weeks after the funeral, he comes to your chambers.
You are in bed, still in your sleeping robe even though it is midday. You have not bathed in days. You have not cared enough to bother. Caleb stands in the doorway, looking at you with an expression you cannot read.
"We need to speak," he starts.
You sit up slowly. You do not ask him to come in. You simply wait.
"The court is talking," he continues. "The rumors about you and Mei, about the poisoning, they are damaging my reputation and the imperial family."
"I did not poison her." Your voice is hoarse from disuse.
"I know that."
"Then why do you not say so? Why do you not defend me?"
Caleb looks away.Â
"Because I cannot bear to look at you."
"What?" you whisper.
"Every time I see you, I think of her. I think of Mei, lying dead on the floor. I think of how she is gone and you are still here. And IâŠ" His voice breaks. "I wish it had been you."
The room tilts. You clutch at the sheets to keep from falling.
"I wish you had been the one who died instead of her. I wishâŠ" Caleb cannot finish. He is weeping now, his shoulders shaking. "I cannot do this anymore. I cannot live in this house with you. I cannot look at you and not see what I have lost."
"Where would you have me go?" Your voice sounds distant, as if someone else is speaking.
"I have a summer estate. Three days' journey north. I am sending you there. You will stay until the child is born. After that⊠we will decide what happens after."
He is exiling you.
"And if I refuse?"
"You will not refuse. You will go. You will leave this palace, and you will not return until I send for you."
He turns and walks away, leaving you alone in your chambers. You sit very still for a long time after he leaves. Then, carefully, you look down at your wrist.
The names are still there. Caleb and Mei, written in the same shimmering ink. Mei's name has not changed. It is still the same as it was the day the marks appeared. You trace it with one finger, and finally you let yourself cry.
Not for Caleb. Not for your marriage or your position or your reputation. For Mei. For the friend who protected you. For the woman who loved you back and never told you. For everything you could have had if you had only understood sooner.
IX
The retinue assigned to escort you to the summer estate is small but capable.Â
Two guards, a driver, and your maidservant. They load your belongings into the carriage. You watch from the window of your chambers, already feeling like a ghost haunting your own life.
Your mother comes to see you before you leave. She looks older, worn down by the scandal. She does not embrace you. She does not say she believes in your innocence.
"Try to stay out of sight," she tells you. "Let the rumors die down. Perhaps in a year or two, people will forget."
"Perhaps," you echo, because what else is there to say?
Your father does not come. You are not surprised. To him, you were always a tool for power. A disgraced daughter is worse than no daughter at all.
The carriage journey begins. You sit in silence, watching the palace disappear behind you. The capital fades into countryside, rice paddies, small villages, rivers winding through green hills. It should be beautiful, you cannot bring yourself to care.
On the second day of travel, you notice something strange. The driver has taken a wrong turn. You lean forward.Â
"Where are we going?"
"To your destination, my lady." His voice is calm, steady.
"This is not the road to the summer estate."
"No, your highness. It is not."
Your maidservant reaches over and takes your hand.
"We are taking you somewhere safe," she says gently. "Somewhere you will be welcome."
"I do not understand."
"The summer estate is not safe for you. The other servants in the prince's household do not believe you are innocent. They believe the rumors. If you go there, you will be alone, unprotected, and when the child is bornâŠ" She stops. "We do not trust what might happen."
"Where are you taking me?"
"To Lady Mei's family."
You stare at her, confused.
"HowâŠwho arranged this?"
"Lady Mei did." Your maidservant's voice is gentle. "Some time before the Emperor's birthday banquet, she told us that if anything happened to her, we were to bring you to her family instead of the summer estate."
"Mei did?"
"Yes, my lady. She knew something was going to happen. She did not know what, exactly, but she sensed danger. She wanted to ensure you would be protected."
"She planned this." You cannot breathe. "She planned all of this."
Your maidservant squeezes your hand.Â
"She wanted you safe, so she made arrangements."
You sit back, stunned. Even in death, Mei was still taking care of you.
The journey takes five days instead of three. The roads grow rougher, the villages smaller. You are traveling west now, toward the mountains, away from the luxuries of the capital and into harder country. By the time you arrive, you are fevered and exhausted.
Mei's family home is modest, a compound built around a central courtyard, simple but well-maintained. As the carriage stops, you see an older woman emerge from the main building, her hair streaked with grey, her face lined with years of work.
She looks like Mei. The same eyes, the same determined set to her jaw. Meiâs mother, whom you have not seen since the announcement of your betrothal to Caleb.
You try to stand, to exit the carriage properly, but your legs buckle. The world tilts, going dark at the edges. You hear voices, feel hands catching you, but it all seems very far away. The last thing you remember is the smell of rain and the feeling of being lifted, carried inside.
When you wake, it is night. You are in a small, clean room. A single lantern burns in the corner. You are tucked into a bed that smells of herbs and soap.
A woman sits beside you, pressing a cool cloth to your forehead. Mei's mother.
"You are awake," she says softly. "Good. You have been fevered for three days."
Three days. You have lost three days.
"Where am I?"
"My home. My husband and I brought you inside when you collapsed. We have been caring for you."
You try to sit up, but she pushes you back gently.Â
"Rest. You need rest. The baby needs rest."
"Why are you helping me?" The question comes out sharper than you intend. "I am the oneâŠthey say I am the one whoâŠ"
"You did not kill my daughter." Mei's mother's voice is firm. "I know that as surely as I know my own name."
"How can you know?"
"Mei wrote to me." Her voice breaks slightly. "Several weeks before the Emperor's birthday, she sent a letter. She believed that you and your child were in danger. She told me she had made arrangements for your safety, that she had paid your servants to bring you here if anything happened to her. She told meâŠ" Mei's mother stops to compose herself. âShe told me that if you arrived at my door, it would mean she was gone, and that I should care for you as I would have cared for her."
"She knew something would happen."
"She knew danger was circling. She did not know the specific form it would take, but she knew, and she chose to protect you rather than herself." Mei's mother strokes your hair, the gesture so like her daughter's that it makes your chest ache. "That is who my daughter was. That is what her love looked like."
You cannot speak. You can only weep.
"She wrote to me every week since she entered your household," Mei's mother continues quietly. "She told me everything. About the tea she was taking. About how she would never bear that prince's child. About how her only happiness was you."
"She told you she loved me?"
"She told me she had always loved you, since you were children. Since the day you cried under that apple tree and she swore to protect you." Mei's mother's own eyes fill with tears. "She told me about the soulmarks. She knew that you were her great love, but you did not know, and that you believed the prince was yours."
"I do not understand." Your voice is shaking. "If she loved me, why did she never say anything? Why did sheâŠ"
"Because you asked her not to. You begged her to be what the prince wanted, to go along with the arrangement, to stay in that household for your sake." Her voice is gentle but unyielding. "My daughter would have done anything for you even if it meant giving up her life for you.."
The truth of it crashes over you. Mei sacrificed everything. Her happiness, her future, her very life. All because you asked her to. All because she loved you.
"I did not know," you whisper. "I did not know she loved me that way untilâŠ. I thoughtâŠI thought she was my companion. My friend. I thought Caleb wasâŠ"
"Caleb was her great love?" Mei's mother makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob. "No, child. You had it backwards.â
"What do you mean?"
"My daughter knew the truth of all three marks. She knew which name was which for each of you."
I love you. Not to Caleb. To you.
"She also knew," Mei's mother continues, "that Caleb's great love was you. Not her. You. You were his great love, just as he was yours, but both of you were too blind to see it, too convinced of your own assumptions."
You stare at her.Â
"That cannot be right. Caleb loved Mei. He pursued her. He mourned her. HeâŠ"
"He loved the idea of her. The unattainable woman. The one who would not love him back." Her voice is sad. "But his great love was always you. My daughter knew that. She knew she was the companion to both of you. That her purpose was to walk beside you, to support you, to help you find each other."
"Then why did she drink the poison?" Your voice breaks. "If she was only the companionâŠif her death would not destroy him the way a great love's death wouldâŠwhy did she do it?"
"You were carrying his child. She knew that poison was meant for you, and if you died, you would both lose everything. She could not let that happen." Mei's mother wipes her eyes. "She removed herself from the situation. She knew that with her gone, you and the prince would have to face each other without her in the middle. She hopedâŠI think she hopedâŠthat her death would force you both to see the truth."
You cannot speak. Everything you thought you knew is wrong. Every assumption, every certainty, all of it built on misunderstandings and blind hope and the failure to simply ask the right questions.
Caleb is your great love. You are his. And Mei knew that.Â
She always knew. She loved you anyway, with the quiet devotion of a companion who puts her great love's happiness above her own.
"I would have chosen her," you whisper. "If I had known. If she had told me, I would haveâŠ"
But the words falter before you can finish them. Would you have? Truly? If Mei had come to you at fifteen and confessed everything, if she had taken your hands and looked you in the eye and told you that she was your great love, not Caleb, would you have believed her?Â
Would you have turned away from eight years of longing, from the boy who lifted you out of apple trees, from the ache in your chest every time he entered a room? Or would you have held Mei's hands and felt sorry for her and gently explained that she was confused?
You do not know the answer. That is the worst part. You want desperately to say you would have chosen her, that you would have defied the court and your family and every expectation placed on you, but you are no longer certain of anything you once believed about your own heart.
"I would like to think I would have chosen her," you amend, and your voice is very small.
Mei's mother strokes your hair and does not argue. Perhaps she knows the truth. Perhaps she is kind enough not to say it.
"I know." Mei's mother pulls you into an embrace, and you sob against her shoulder. "I know, child, but she could not ask you to make that choice. She could not ask you to give up your position, your family, your future. She loved you too much for that."
You cry until you have no tears left. You cry for Mei, for yourself, for Caleb and the tragedy of three people who could not see what was written on their own skin. When you finally pull back, exhausted and hollow, Mei's mother smooths your hair.
"You will stay here," she says. "You and the child. You are safe here. You are welcome here."
"But what aboutâŠ"
"No one knows you are here except those who brought you. Your servantsâŠthey are loyal to you, not to the prince. They will not betray your location." Her voice is firm. "You will stay. You will have this baby, and then we will decide what comes next."
You are too tired to argue. Too tired to do anything but nod and let yourself be cared for.
That night, lying in a small room in Mei's childhood home, you dream of apple orchards and stolen pies and a girl with fierce eyes who promised to always protect you.
You wake crying, but this time, someone is there to hold you through it.
X
The months pass slowly in Mei's family home.
Your pregnancy progresses.Â
Your stomach swells more, the baby moving constantly now, pressing against your ribs, making you breathless. The discomforts of late pregnancy are compounded by grief that never fully leaves, that sits like a stone in your chest.
Mei's mother attends you with quiet care.Â
She brings you ginger tea for nausea, rubs salve into your aching back, sits with you during the long afternoons when you cannot sleep.
She tells you stories about Mei as a child.Â
How stubborn she was, how fierce, how she once punched a boy who made fun of her younger brother. How she learned to sew because she wanted to make you a dress. How she wrote in her diary about you constantly, pages and pages of memories and hopes and quiet, desperate love.
You listen to these stories and feel yourself break a little more each time.
You also grow weaker.
At first, you attribute it to the pregnancy.Â
Late pregnancy is exhausting, everyone says so, but as the weeks pass, you notice things that worry you. You are tired all the time, sleeping twelve, fourteen hours a day. You have no appetite. Your hands shake.
The local healer examines you and shakes her head.Â
"The baby is fine. Strong heartbeat, good position. But you⊠You are not well."
"What is wrong with me?"
"Your body is giving up. Grief sometimes does that. Takes root in the bones, drains the life away."
"Can you treat it?"
"I can give you herbs to strengthen your blood. But the real medicineâŠ" She pauses. "The real medicine is wanting to live, and I am not certain you do."
She is right.Â
You are not certain you do.
You go through day by day.Â
You eat when Mei's mother insists. You walk in the small garden behind the house, placing your hand on the rough bark of the apple tree that grows there. You sit in the sun and try to feel warmth.
But everything is distant, muted, you are a ghost drifting through someone else's life.
Seven months pregnant. Eight. The baby will come soon.
You wonder if you will survive the birth, part of you hopes you will not.
Mei's mother seems to sense your thoughts.Â
One evening, she sits beside you and takes your hand.
"You must live," she says. "For the child. For my daughter's memory. For yourself."
"I am trying."
"Try harder." Her voice is fierce, so much like Mei's that it hurts. "You have a choice, here. You can give up, let grief swallow you, or you can fight. You can live. You can raise this child and give them the love you never got to give my daughter."
"What if I cannot?" Your voice is small. "What if I am not strong enough?"
"You are. You have always been strong. You survived a marriage you did not want, a household that did not value you, the loss of your dearest friend. You can survive this too."
You want to believe her. You want to find that strength within yourself.
But as the weeks pass, as your body grows heavier and your spirit lighter, you feel yourself slipping away.
You think about the orchard often now.Â
Those golden afternoons with Caleb and Mei.Â
The three of you together, before everything went wrong.
You think about Mei's hands always finding yours first. The way she used to brush your hair. How she looked at you when she thought you were not watching.
You think about Caleb's laugh, bright and careless. How he used to help you down from trees. How his eyes would light up when he saw Mei, not realizing the person he was truly seeking was standing right beside him.
You think about the baby growing inside you.Â
Caleb's child.Â
The heir he wanted. The person who will carry both your grief and your hope into the future.
You hope the baby looks like Caleb. You hope they have his laugh, his kindness, his capacity for joy.
You hope they never make the mistakes you made. Never assume, never fail to ask, never let pride keep them from admitting what their heart already knows.
The contractions begin on a spring morning.
The sky is clear, the air warm. Cherry blossoms are blooming in the garden, pink and delicate.
You labor through the day and into the night.Â
It is long and difficult. Your body is exhausted before you even begin. Mei's mother stays with you, holding your hand, murmuring encouragement.
"You can do this," she says. "You are almost there."
But you already know that this is the end for you.
You have enough strength to bring the child into the world, but not enough to remain in it yourself.
The baby arrives just before dawn.Â
A girl, small but healthy, with a powerful cry and perfect tiny fingers.
They place her in your arms, and you look down at her face and see Caleb.Â
She has his eyes, that distinctive purple that marks her as imperial blood. She has his nose, his chin, his delicate features.
She is beautiful.
"What will you name her?" Mei's mother asks.
You do not hesitate.Â
"Mei."
Mei's mother's eyes fill with tears.Â
"Are you certain?"
"She is named for the only person who truly loved me." Your voice is weak, fading. "Let her carry that name. Let her carry that legacy."
You hold your daughter for a long time, memorizing her face, the weight of her in your arms, the sound of her breathing.
Then you look at Mei's mother and speak the words you have been preparing.
"Take care of her. Raise her here, away from the capital, away from the court. Do not tell Caleb where she is unlessâŠ" You pause. "Unless he comes looking. If he never comes, let her grow up here, in peace."
"And if he does come?"
"Tell him I forgive him." The words are important. They need to be said. "Tell him I understand. Tell him it was not his fault, any of it. We were all blind."
"I will tell him."
"And tell MeiâŠ" You look down at the baby. "Tell her she was loved. Tell her she was wanted. Tell herâŠ"
But you cannot finish, your vision is blurring, darkening at the edges.
Mei's mother takes the baby gently from your arms.Â
"I will tell her everything. I promise."
You smile, or try to. You are not certain if your face is moving anymore.
"Thank you," you whisper. "For everything. For taking me in. ForâŠ"
"Hush now. Rest. You have done well."
You close your eyes. The last thing you feel is warmth, sunlight streaming through the window, or perhaps just the memory of warmth, of spring afternoons and stolen moments and a hand that always found yours first.
You slip away thinking of apple orchards.
XI
The weeks after he sends you away are quiet.
Caleb returns to his duties. He attends the court. He trains with the imperial guard. He sits through the imperial council meetings and says the right things at the right times.
He visits Mei's grave every third day, kneeling in the dirt, speaking to her headstone as if she might answer.
He does not visit your chambers. There is no reason to, they are empty now, but sometimes he finds himself walking that corridor anyway, his feet carrying him there out of habit before his mind catches up. He stops outside your door, hand half-raised, and stands there for a moment before turning away. He does not examine why.
Your maidservants have been dismissed or reassigned. The rooms are being cleaned and closed. A servant asks whether your personal effects should be packed and sent to the summer estate, and Caleb opens his mouth to say yes, then stops.
"Leave them," he orders. "Leave everything as it is."
He does not examine that either.
At night, he reaches across the bed in his sleep. His hand finds empty space where a body should be, and he wakes confused and grasping, unsure who he was reaching for.
He assumes it is Mei. It has always been Mei.
After her funeral, Caleb checks his wrist obsessively. Waiting for the sign, for the darkening that would tell him his great love had passed, but both names remained unchanged, clear, vibrant, exactly as they had been since he received them.
He did not understand. How could Mei be dead and his mark remain the same? He convinced himself it was a delay. That fate took time to register death, that eventually, the change would come and he would finally have confirmation that Mei was his great love.
Then, three months after Mei's death and your exile, he wakes one morning and sees it.
Mei's name has changed. It did not darken as he expected, it faded. The characters have turned grey.
Grey. The mark of a companion.
He stares at his wrist, and the world tilts beneath him. No. That cannot be right.Â
Mei was his great love. She had to be. He loved her for years, pursued her, mourned her⊠But the marks do not lie.
If Mei's name is grey and she was his companion. Then that meansâŠ
He looks at your name. Still there. Still unchanged. Still shimmering.
The realization crashes over him. You. You were always the great love.
And suddenly, everything that felt wrong about Mei makes sense. The way his longing for her was always tinged with frustration, never peace. The way she never quite fit into the space in his heart he tried to force her into. The way loving her felt like chasing something perpetually out of reach. Because she was not meant to be caught, she was the companion. The friend. The bridge.
And you.. He remembers the last words he said to you. I wish it had been you.
The memory hits him. He told you he wished you had died instead of Mei. He looked at you, pregnant with his child, grieving your closest friend, accused of murder by the entire court, and he told you he wished you were dead.
He sent you away while heavily pregnant with his child. He had known about your mother's difficult pregnancies. He had known, and he had sent you away regardless.
And Mei died protecting you. Protecting you and the child. That was her last act of love for you, drinking poison meant for you, sacrificing herself to save you both. And he repaid that sacrifice by exiling you. By telling you he wished you were dead. By sending you away when you needed protection most. When Mei would have wanted him to protect you.
"No." The word tears out of him. "No, no, noâŠ"
He is running before he realizes it, shouting for servants, for guards, for horses.
"The summer estate," he gasps. "Ready a retinue. Now. We leave immediately."
"Your Highness, it is barely dawnâŠ"
"Now!"
The ride takes three days. Three days of riding hard, stopping only when the horses must rest. Three days of Caleb checking his wrist obsessively, looking at your name, praying it does not darken. Praying he is not too late.
He will apologize. He will beg for forgiveness. He will tell you he was blind, that he was wrong, that he convinced himself Mei was his great love when you were standing beside him the entire time.
He will make this right. He has to make this right.
When he arrives at the summer estate, he dismounts before his horse has fully stopped. He strides through the entrance, calling your name.
Servants appear, looking confused. The head of the household, a middle-aged woman with stern features, bows low.
"Your Highness. We did not expectâŠ"
"Where is she?" Caleb demands. "Where is my wife?"
The woman's confusion deepens.Â
"Your Highness, she is not here."
The world stops.
"What do you mean she is not here? She was sent here several months ago. Where is she?"
"We received no such person, Your Highness. We received word that Her Highness would be coming, yes, but she never arrived."
Caleb's blood runs cold.Â
"That is impossible. She was sent here. With guards. With servants. They were to deliver her safelyâŠ"
"We have seen no one, Your Highness."
He tears through the estate like a madman. He checks every room, every chamber, every corner. He finds nothing. No belongings. No sign you were ever there. He returns to the capital and summons the servants who escorted you. They kneel before him, trembling.
"Where is she?" His voice is deadly quiet. "Where is my wife?"
"We delivered her to the summer estate, Your Highness," the driver says. "We saw her enterâŠ"
"Liar." Caleb's hand goes to his sword. "The estate says she never arrived. Where did you take her?"
"Your Highness, weâŠ"
"WHERE IS SHE?"
The servants exchange glances. Fear is written on their faces, but beneath it, something else. Defiance. Loyalty to someone who is not him.
"You told us you would come when the child was born," one of the servants he brought from the estate finally speaks up. "You made it clear you did not wish to see her until then. We thought, when she did not arrive at the estate, we thought you had changed your mind. That you had made other arrangements."
"What other arrangements? Where is she?"
Silence.
"ANSWER ME!"
But the servants from the retinue he assigned you do not break. They kneel there, silent and stubborn, protecting your location even under threat of death.
Caleb wants to execute them all. He wants to torture the truth from them, but a part of him, the part that remembers Mei's sacrifice, that understands these servants cared for you more than he did, that part stops him.
"Get out," he says finally. "All of you. Get out of my sight."
They leave, and Caleb is alone.
He sends men to every province, every village, every corner of the empire. He offers rewards for information. He follows every rumor, every possible lead.
Every morning, he checks his wrist. Your name remains unchanged. This gives him hope, irrational, desperate hope. If you were dead, the mark would darken. It has to darken. That is how it works. So you must be alive. Somewhere. Hidden, angry with him, but alive.
He will find you. He will make this right.
Seven years pass. Seven years of searching. Seven years of checking his wrist every morning, seeing your name unchanged, telling himself you are still out there. Seven years of guilt and desperation and the faint, foolish hope that maybe, when he finds you, you will forgive him.
Then he sees her.
A little girl in a market by the countryside, six or seven years old, who looks exactly like you the first time he saw you in the orchards. She has your smile, your features, the way you tilt your head, but her eyes, her eyes are his, that distinctive imperial purple, and standing beside her is a woman who looks like an older Mei.
Caleb stops dead in the middle of the market. People flow around him, annoyed at the obstruction, but he cannot move.Â
It is your daughter. Your daughter and his. The child you were carrying when he sent you away.
The woman holding the girl's hand looks up, and her face goes still when she sees him. She knows who he is, everyone knows the third prince by sight.
"You," Caleb says, and his voice is rough. "I need to speak with you."
The woman, Mei's mother, pulls the girl closer.Â
"We have nothing to say to you, Your Highness."
"That childâŠ"
"Is not your concern."
"She has my eyes. She is⊠she is mine." The words break. "Please. Please tell me where her mother is. I have been searchingâŠ"
"Her mother is dead." The woman's voice is flat. "She died giving birth."
Seven years. You have been dead for seven years, and his mark never changed. Your name is still there on his wrist, unchanged, as if you are still alive. But you are not alive.Â
You have been dead for years, and the marks gave him no sign. No darkening. No confirmation. He checks his wrist again desperately. Your name is still there, still shimmering, still unchanged.
The marks are punishing him. They told him the truth about Mei but they refuse to tell him the truth about you.They leave your name unchanged, eternal uncertainty, no closure, no confirmation that you were his great love even though he knows, he knows you were.
"No," he whispers. "No, she cannot be... The mark is unchangedâŠ" He sobs. "She cannot beâŠ"
"She died in my home, far from you, far from the court that destroyed her and my daughter." The woman's eyes are hard. "She spent her last months in the same room my daughter grew up in. She named her baby after my Mei, and then she died, content that the child would be cared for."
"I tried to find her. Her servants would not tell me where they took herâŠ"
"My daughter paid for them before she died. She made arrangements to keep your wife safe, to bring her here instead of your summer estate." Mei's mother's voice is sharp. "My Mei knew you would not protect her, so she did."
The words are a knife. Caleb stumbles, has to catch himself on a nearby stall.
"I need to see her." He reaches out, desperate. "Our daughter. Please let meâŠ"
"You have no daughter." The woman pulls the girl behind her, shielding her. "You have an heir you never wanted, a wife you drove to death, and a legacy of cruelty. That is all you have."
The child, little Mei, peers around her grandmother's skirts, studying Caleb with curious eyes.Â
"Who is he, Grandma?"
"No one important, darling. Come. We need to go home."
"Wait!" Caleb takes a step forward. "Please. I know I have no right to askâŠbut please. Let me know her. Let me⊠I can provide for her. I can give her everything. Education, a title, a place at courtâŠ"
"She has everything she needs here." The woman's voice is final. "She has a home, a family who loves her, a quiet life away from politics and from the court. Why would I give that up to send her to you?"
"Because I am her father."
"You are the man who got her mother pregnant and then cast her out while she was heavy with child. That is not a father. That is a stranger who shares her blood and nothing more." Meiâs mother softens slightly, pity flickering across her face. "Go home, Your Highness. Go back to your palace. We do not need you. We never needed you."
She takes the child's hand and walks away, disappearing into the market crowd. Caleb stands frozen for a long time. Then he makes his way to the nearest inn and requests a room.
That evening, a messenger arrives. He carries two letters, one from Mei, one from you.
Mei's letter is long, detailed. She explains everything, the marks, the truth about who loved whom and what she hoped would happen after she was gone. She apologizes for not telling him sooner, for letting him believe she might love him someday, for not having the courage to simply say no.
You and my lady were always meant to be together, she wrote. I was merely the bridge. I pray that my death will help you see what was always written on your skin.
Your letter is shorter, simpler. I forgive you. That is all. No recriminations, no anger, no long explanations, just forgiveness, simple and complete.
Caleb reads both letters three times, then he folds them carefully and places them in his robes, over his heart.
That night, he dreams of apple orchards. He sees you as a child, seven years old, stuck in a tree, afraid to come down. He lifts you onto his shoulders. You laugh. He sees Mei, nine years old, fierce and protective, swearing to always guard you. He sees himself, blind and foolish, chasing the wrong person while the right one stood beside him the entire time.
When he wakes, his face is wet with tears.
He sends letters to Mei's family. He sends money, gifts, offers of support. Everything is returned, unopened. He tries three more times to visit. Each time, he is politely but firmly turned away.
He will never see his daughter again. This is his punishment, and he accepts it.
The marks on his wrist remain unchanged, Mei's name in grey, your name still shimmering as if you live.Â
He sees them every morning when he wakes, every evening when he undresses. They are a constant reminder of everything he failed to understand.
The absence of darkness on your name torments him more than any blackened mark could. It is a punishment worse than confirmation. It is eternal uncertainty, eternal hope that maybe, somehow, the marks are wrong and you are still alive somewhere. But you are not alive.Â
You were his great love, and you are gone.
He never remarries. He never takes another concubine. He lives alone in his household, performing his duties, serving the empire, but never truly living again.
Sometimes, on quiet evenings, he takes out your letter and reads it again. I forgive you.
He does not forgive himself. He will carry that weight until the day he dies.
XII
The orchard is exactly as you remember.
Apple trees heavy with fruit, grass soft beneath your feet, sunlight filtering through the leaves in dappled patterns. The air smells of summer, earth and apple blossoms and something indefinably sweet.
You are wearing a simple robe, the kind you wore as a child. Your feet are bare and your hair is loose, unbound by pins or ornaments. You feel light, as if a great weight has been lifted off your shoulders.
"Hello."
You turn.
Mei is standing beneath an apple tree, smiling at you. She looks exactly as she did at sixteen, before the marks appeared, before the arrangement, before everything went wrong.
"Mei."
"Hello, my love." She holds out her hand. "I have been waiting for you."
You run to her. You do not walk nor do you maintain dignity or decorum. You simply run, and she catches you, and you bury your face in her shoulder and sob.
"I am sorry," you gasp between tears. "I am so sorry. I did not knowâŠ"
"Hush." Mei strokes your hair, her touch gentle. "There is nothing to apologize for."
"I asked you to stay with him. I made you..."
"You made me nothing." She pulls back, cupping your face in her hands. "I chose to stay. I chose to drink that poison. I chose everything, knowing what it would cost, because I loved you."
You stare at her, and finally, you let yourself understand.
"You were my great love."
"No." Mei's smile is sad as she shakes her head. "You were mine, but I was not yours."
"The marksâŠ"
"Do not match perfectly. They never had to." Mei traces a finger down your cheek. "My great love was you. My companion was Caleb. Your great love was Caleb. Your companion was me. Each of us loving different people, bound together by fate but not identically."
"He was my great love." You say it aloud, testing the words. "Truly?"
"Yes, and you were his. You were both too busy looking elsewhere to see it."
You look at your wrists. The marks are gone. Your skin is bare.
"They fade after death," Mei explains. "They no longer matter here. What matters is what we carry in our hearts."
You take both her hands.
"I love you, Mei. Maybe not the same way you loved me, but I loved you. I love you still."
"I know." Mei's smile is infinitely tender. "And that is enough. It has always been enough."
You stand there in silence, holding hands beneath the apple tree. The question rises in your throat before you can stop it.
"Do you think we would have been happy? If I had chosen you instead?"
Mei is quiet for a long moment.
"I think we were happy together in this life, in our own way. We loved each other, supported each other, shared moments of joy even in the midst of sorrow." She squeezes your hands. "What we had was real. Messy and painful at times, but real. I would not trade that for some imagined perfect version."
"But I could have loved you better. If I had knownâŠ"
"You loved me as well as you could with the understanding you had. That is all anyone can do." Mei guides you to the base of the apple tree. You settle into the grass together, shoulders touching. "We are here now. Together. As we were always meant to be, in some way."
"Will we see Caleb again?"
"Eventually, when his time comes." Mei glances at you. "Do you want to?"
You consider this.Â
Part of you wants to see him, to understand what he felt, what he wishes he had done differently, but part of you is afraid it will hurt all over again.
"I do not know," you admit.
"You have time to decide." Mei's voice is gentle. "This place is patient."
You sit in silence for a while, shoulders touching, listening to the wind move through the orchard. You think about Caleb, about the years he spent chasing Mei while you stood beside him, and you wonder if Mei ever resented being caught in the middle as much as you did.
Then Mei speaks, and her voice is different. Smaller and less certain.
"I was not always graceful about it. Loving you."
You turn to look at her.
"There were nights I hated you for not seeing me." She does not meet your eyes. "After he came to your chambers and you let him stay, after the Moon Festival, I lay in my room and thought terrible things. I thought, she knows. She has to know how I feel, and she simply does not care. I told myself you were selfish and blind and that I was a fool for staying."
Her hands are clasped tight in her lap.
"It passed. It always passed. By morning I would see you at breakfast, tired and sad and trying so hard to hold everything together, and the anger would dissolve, and all that remained was the wanting." She exhales. "But the resentment was there. I carried it alongside the love, and some nights, the resentment was louder."
You reach over and take her hands, uncurling her fingers.
"You are allowed to have been angry with me."
"I know, but I wanted you to hear it from me, not imagine me as someone who never struggled. I struggled. I raged. I wept into my pillow and cursed the marks and wished I had been born loving anyone else." Mei finally looks at you. Her eyes are bright. "And then morning would come, and you would smile at me, and I would think, oh, there you are, and it would start all over again."
You pull her close and hold her, and she lets you, and neither of you speaks for a long time. Then something shifts, a thought that has been circling the edges of your mind for longer than you want to admit finally settles where you can see it clearly.
"I did to you what he did to me."
Mei goes still beside you.
"Caleb kept me close but never truly saw me. He valued my presence but not my heart. He decided what I was to him before he ever asked." Your voice is steady, but your hands are not. "And I did the same thing to you. Every day. For years."
"That is notâŠâ
"It is." You do not let her soften this. "You tried to tell me. In the kitchen with the herbs, you were telling me in the only way you had left, and I walked away. When you asked me for permission to refuse him, I said no, not because it was the right thing, but because it was easier for me. I made you carry his attention so I would not have to watch my marriage fall apart. I used you, Mei. The same way the arrangement used all of us, I used you."
Mei is quiet for a long time.
"You did not mean to."
"Neither did Caleb. He did not mean to overlook me. He was not cruel on purpose. He simply never questioned what he assumed." You turn to face her. "I never questioned either. I decided you were my companion and I stopped looking. I stopped asking what you needed, what you wanted, whether you were happy. I saw what was convenient and I never looked deeper."
"You were suffering too. You were trying to survive."
"So was he. That did not make it hurt less when he looked through me." You take her hands. "I am not asking you to forgive me. I am asking you to let me say this, because you deserve to hear someone name what was done to you instead of dressing it up as fate or duty or sacrifice."
Mei's composure fractures. It is small, a tremor in her jaw, the unshed in her eyes, but it is the most unguarded you have ever seen her.
"I waited a very long time," she whispers, "for someone to say that."
"I know. I am sorry it took me dying to get here."
A sound escapes her that is half laugh, half sob. She presses her forehead against your joined hands.
"You insufferable woman," she breathes. "Even now, you find a way to break my heart."
"I think that is what we do to each other. It seems to be our particular talent."
Mei finally laughs, wet and raw and real. You stay like that for a long time. Long enough for the trembling to stop. Long enough for the orchard to settle around you again.
When you finally pull apart, Mei wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, and the gesture is so ordinary, so human, that it makes your chest ache
"Tell me about my daughter," you say softly.
"She has a wonderful life. Bright and curious and loved. She grows up with her grandmother, learning to sew and tend the garden. She laughs often. She is happy."
Relief floods through you.
"Good. That is good."
"She looks like you, except for the eyes. Those are all Caleb."
You close your eyes. The orchard is peaceful, and safe, you could stay here forever.
"Mei?"
"Yes?"
"I am glad you are here. I am glad we have this."
"So am I.â
"Even when the marks fade?"
"Especially then. Because when the marks are gone, we know the love was never about what was written on our skin. It was about what we chose to give each other, day after day, even when it cost us everything."
Mei leans in and presses her lips to your forehead, soft and lingering.
"Rest now. You have been tired for so long. Rest."
So you do.
You rest in the orchard, in the place where your childhood lived, where your memories are sweetest.
You rest beside the girl who loved you more than you ever knew, who gave everything for you and never asked for anything in return.
And for the first time in forever, you sleep without grief.
The End
â an: writing let the light in part two frustrated me so much because i can't get the angst right that i ended up focusing on this fic instead. this is also my first attempt writing an f/f fic so please be kind to me. as always your likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated!
Hello Everyone! Honestly, I would say out of all the versions of the "I'm Jealous of MC!" I think this is the most self indulgent. So, sorry, this is apparently specifically for me. Hope you all enjoy, I sure did! I'm happy to finally be done the series! Thank you everyone who kept reading!
Even after being LADS LIs' partner, you can't help, but be jealous of MC. How would the LIs react.
Tags: Â Minors DNI!!! Self-Esteem Issues, Negative Self Talk, Anxiety, Attempt at Medical Speak (Sorry, Iâm BSing it all with Google), Horrible Description of a Dancing Class (Iâve only been to a few classes before, sry), Chubby!Reader x Dr. Zayne, Fluff, Unaware and Socially Awkward Reader, Greyson x MC, Dawnbreaker x Y/N Angst (Towards the end)
Please leave feedback or suggestions in comments and/or replies!
Other Versions: Sylus / Rafayel / Caleb / Xavier
Zayne:
âI need a man like that.â You muttered to yourself as you sat on one of the benches in Akso hospitalâs garden. You were all alone, eating your pathetic tuna sandwich you made just before your appointment this morning, when suddenly a gorgeous couple appeared. Right across from you, was a handsome, tall, raven haired, and hazel-green eyed man dressed in a lab coat walking around with a bombshell of a woman. The woman had a slender and sculpted figure, fair skin, brown hair and eyes, and was strapped in what seemed to be a hunterâs uniform. You almost gasped when you laid eyes on them. They were both stunning. It was as though you were witnessing a romantic drama in real life.Â
You tried not to watch, but your gaze followed their angelic presences. You watched as the doctor and hunter walked the garden, chatting and laughing together. You even noticed the man momentarily glancing yearningly at the huntress when she wasnât looking back. You couldnât help, but sigh from your own self-pity. When were you going to meet your super hot and rich doctor boyfriend that looked at you that longingly?Â
If you stayed longer, you would have probably kept starring, but luckily your phone alarm snapped you out of your trance. It was time for your appointment. You left the garden, and headed straight to your doctorâs office, Dr. Greysonâs. Typically, the doctor didnât have many patients in his regular roster. He was more focussed on cardiac surgeries and his job as an assistant to the renowned Chief Cardiac Surgeon and Deputy Chief of Surgery at Akso Hospital, Dr. Zayne Li. However, he made an exception for you because of your status as his childhood friend. A friendship that spanned a decade. Though despite you both being close, you hadnât met him in person since he started medical school. In fact, your appointment would be the first time youâve seen him face to face for a long while. You were nervous, especially with the recurring heart palpitations youâve been experiencing. What if things were awkward between you both? Or worse, what if you were dying?!
With your nerves high, you walked into the surgery department and spoke with the receptionist. She was a young brunette in a nurse uniform with a sweet looking face. As she checked you in, you couldnât look into her friendly eyes. Youâve always had issues with eye contact. To ease your nerves, you stared at the nurseâs name tag instead. Once she finished, she gave you back your IDs, and kindly instructed you on where to go. You nodded timidly and replied:
âThanks Yvonne.â
She smiled cheerfully back as you left to head to Greysonâs office. As you faced the officeâs door, you were hit with another wave of anxiety. You found your hands shaking as you reached for the doorknob.
Come on Y/N, you can do this! There is nothing to be nervous about, Greyson is one of your closest friends.
You took a deep breath, and opened the door. You expected to be greeted the moment you went inside, but instead you were greeted by a quiet and empty room. Your doctor wasnât currently in.
Heâs probably busy doing something else.Â
Him not being there didnât bother you, in fact it was a relief since it gave you time to adjust to the new space. Here on your own, you decided to explore around. Unfortunately, the room was pretty bareboned. Barely any decor was inside, only the standard hospital posters, and the teddy bear you remembered Greyson loved so much as a kid.Â
âDang Greyson, you really need to add more color in your office.â With nothing new to see, you sat on the examination table and waited for almost half an hour. Mainly passing your time by scrolling on your momentâs page on your phone, though a part of you whispered that you must have made a mistake with your appointment. Before you could continue to question your memory, you heard a knock on the door.
âCan I come inside?â The voice was deep and stoic, nothing like Greysonâs.
âUh, sure!â The office door opened, and instead of seeing the brown shaggy haired man with the wire frame glasses as you expected, it was the black haired doctor you watched earlier in the gardens. Your heart began to race.
Oh no, why is he here? Where is Greyson? I look like a mess, oh man this is so embarrassing. I need to leav-
âGood afternoon Ms. L/N. I am Dr. Zayne Li-â
The renowned Chief Cardiac Surgeon and Deputy Chief of Surgery of Akso Hospital, Dr. Zayne Li?! First off, I didn't know Zayne would be this hot and young. Also, why is he here, oh no am I dying? Why would-â
As you panicked and blanched, Dr. Zayne had stopped his introduction and instead placed his hand on your shoulder. He probably wanted to soothe you, but his cool touch made you even more flustered.
âI donât mean to alarm you Ms. L/N. I am just here to cover Dr. Greyson for your appointment. Unfortunately, his morning surgery is taking longer than anticipated. Since I was free, I offered to handle his appointment with you. However, if you are uncomfortable, I can send you back to Yvonne to schedule another time when Dr. Greyson is free.âÂ
You shook your head vigorously. After gathering the courage to come here to figure out what was happening to your heart, you couldnât back out.
âIâm okay, thanks for the offer.â Dr. Zayne replied with a small soft smile before sitting down on the desk chair.
âAlright, so I read his notes that you came in because you mentioned having heart palpitations. Is that correct?â
âThatâs correct. Iâve been experiencing them for the last year on and off. Itâs been worrying me a lot.â
âAnd have you been feeling any pressure, or pain in your chest?â
âNo.â
âHow about dizziness, or shortness of breath.â
âA bit, but Iâm not sure if itâs really bad.â
âI see. Now, Iâll need to listen to your heart.â Dr. Zayne stood up and approached with his stethoscope in hand. âCould you lift up your shirt for me?â You could feel your cheeks heating up, but still you did as instructed. You lifted your shirt, exposing your bra covered chest and flabby stomach. You were shy showing him your most insecure spots, but Dr. Zayne didnât react. He only gave a quiet thank you for your assistance, before continuing. He put the stethoscopeâs eartips in his ears and pressed the metal round piece to your chest. It was cold and made you involuntarily shiver.
âTake a few deep breaths and try to remain as calm as you can.â You took a deep breath, but feeling the chill from the metal didnât let you relax. It also didnât help being able to see the golden specks on the irises of the doctorâs hazel green eyes as the man looked down at your chest. You gulped and closed your eyes, praying your heart rate wasnât skyrocketing. After a minute, he removed the piece from your chest and returned the stethoscope to his neck.
âThank you again, though I must ask, do you have white coat syndrome?â Your heart started to race and your eyes became saucers.
What does that mean? Am I dying?
Dr. Zayne gazed at you concerningly.
âMy apologies, I didnât mean to scare you with that question. I just asked because some patientâs readings come up more elevated than normal in clinical settings. Thatâs what white coat syndrome means.â You laughed at your own ridiculousness.
âWith how embarrassingly Iâve been acting, probably.â The doctorâs gentle smile returned.
âDonât be embarrassed Ms. L/N. A lot of people get nervous around doctors. Especially with my face, I am aware I can be intimidating.â
âThereâs nothing wrong with your face, itâs a very nice one!âÂ
Why did I say that?
The young doctor looked down briefly, the tips of his ears turning pink.
âThank youâ He answered hesitantly before coughing. âNow back to business. I think I may be able to give you some answers.â He sat back down on the desk chair. âConsidering your answers earlier, and looking through the results from the monitor they requested you to wear for 24 hours and your journal, I might have a possible source of them.â
You felt your heart skip again.
âWhat is it?â
âAnxiety and stress.â You immediately exhaled and slumped. You were ashamed, you were scared and made all this effort for something so mundane.
âAre you sure?â
âWe could do further tests to double check, but each heart palpitation was attached to a moment of high levels of stress. I can prescribe you a Benzodiazepine, or a medication that can help with you.â You groaned.
âI donât really want to take any, but if itâll help.â The doctor turned around, began writing on a prescription form on the desk, turned back and handed it to you. Looking down at the piece of paper, you realized Zayne must be perfect at everything. Most doctorsâ handwritings are messy and unreadable, Zayneâs resembled calligraphy.
âThis is an initial dose, but if needed, we can increase, or decrease the prescription. I would recommend checking back with Dr. Greyson every few months.âÂ
âThank you, but I wanted to ask. Are there other things I can do to help lessen my anxiety and stress?â Dr. Zayne pinched his chin, before looking back at you and answering:
âThere are numerous things you can do. You can implement more exercise in your routine, you can add activities that will help you relax, and another great resource is seeing a mental health professional, or a therapist. Hopefully one of these will be helpful to you.â
You nodded, grateful for the help.
âIâll give those a try. Thank you doctor.â
â
After your appointment, you trudged into your dark and small apartment and went immediately to your bedroom. You groaned as you undressed and put on your fuzzy pajamas in front of your mirror. As you stared at your reflection, slowly removing your clothes, you realized you no longer recognized the woman. For the last few years, youâve been coasting. Following the flow and immersing yourself completely in your schooling and now work. Unfortunately, while pursuing your career, you let yourself go. Youâve gained weight, looked sloppy, and didnât have many friends, or family you could rely on. Today, looking at the gorgeous couple and your appointment was your wake up call. You didnât want to keep neglecting yourself. You had to start working to mold yourself into the woman you know you should be. A woman that would finally be desirable and deserving.
âCome on Y/N.â You muttered to yourself as you grabbed your laptop. âTime to start your new life.â
â
A Week LaterâŠ
You ran as fast as you could from the parking lot to your gym. You couldnât believe after hyping yourself the whole week before, even wearing the cutest gym set you had, you were about to be late for your first drop-in Dance class. Once in the building, you scanned your gym card, and jogged to the recreation room where your lesson was being held. Luckily, you were only a few minutes late when you entered the room. At that time, the class hadnât started. Most of the participants were scattered around, chatting. You sighed in relief and quickly sifted through the large crowd of students to find a spot for you to dance. You finally found a space, and stood upright in it.Â
âWelcome everyone to Beginnerâs Dance! First, we will start our stretches!â
As instructed flamboyantly by the teacher at the front, you started stretching when you heard a familiar voice next to you call. You froze.
âMs. L/N?â You looked at the source of the voice in shock.
âDr. Zayne?!â The last man you wanted to see was standing right next to you, wearing a white long-sleeved compression top that accentuated his large biceps and pecs and grey jogging pants that showed off the rest. He looked absolutely stunning. He put on a friendly smile and shifted his body towards you as he continued his own warm-up.
âSeems you have followed my advice.â You awkwardly giggled and blushed.
âYeah, I did. Thank you again for giving the advice to me.â
âNo thanks needed, I was just doing my job.â You tippy toed closer to him.
âThough I am curious, why would you join a dance class? Stress?â Zayne rubbed the back of his neck.
âYes, and I was recommended by MC to go. She said I was âstiffâ.â He emphasized moving his fingers to create the quotation mark. You laughed.
MC must be his girlfriend.
âWell itâs always good to listen to your girlfriend. You know what they say, happy wife, happy life!â The doctor raised an eyebrow at your remark.
âMC and I-â
âAlright class, time to start our first track!â Your attention was immediately redirected from the man next to you to the lady in the front. âAlright, to those who are new, just follow my steps.â As she finished talking, upbeat music began to fill the room from the speakers. Your heart thumped along to the rhythm.
âOneâ The instructor took two steps.
âTwoâ The instructor waved her arms.
âThreeâ The instructor twirled around with her arms in the air.
âYour turn!â You slowly followed the same moves and it felt easy. You felt momentarily exhilarated before the teacherâs pace went faster and faster. Suddenly, you could no longer catch up. You wobbled your body around trying to match the instructorâs movement, but your clumsy steps were not matching the professionalâs at all. Occasionally, you glimpsed at the man next to you, and although Zayne seemed winded as well, he was matching the teacherâs pace and moves, looking radiant from the glow from his sweat.
HOW???!!!
You were embarrassed by your stiff movements, but you had to at least finish.You kept going, but you suddenly felt a gravity shift.You cried a faint âAhâ before falling. Going backwards, you thought you would feel the wooden floor, but instead you felt two strong muscled arms holding you up from behind. You were left out of breath.
âAre you alright Ms. L/N?â Zayne caught you! Your face turned red as you could feel his solid pecs on the back of your head.
âIâm fine, Iâm fine, let me go please.âÂ
âOf course.â Holsting you up by your armpits, he effortlessly lifted you up and back on your feet.Â
Wow.
You were impressed, but mostly mortified. All of it made worst by your instructorâs holler:
âGreat improvisation you two! I promise more partner dances in the next tracks.â You and Zayne turned to each other. The doctor mouthed: âPartner dances?â
â
After the last track ended, you were left exhausted, slumped and struggling to breathe. Meanwhile, Zayne stood nearby taking a few heavy breaths of his own. The doctor was clearly in great shape.
âAlright, now I want you all to partner up. The next tracks will require a partner.â Your heart dropped. It reminded you of gym class all over again. You panicked as you looked around the room, hoping you could find another chubby shy girl like you on the side lines. Then unexpectedly, you felt a tap on your shoulder. It was the tall man next to you.
âThe teacher already announced us as partners, do you want to continue partnering up with me?â Zayne asked earnestly. You were nervous partnering up with the intimidating figure, but if he was willing why not? Â
âSureâ You answered nervously, inching a bit closer to him.
âWow what beautiful couples!â The instructor praised as she clapped and looked at you and Zayneâs direction again. Your face reddened more from the comment. âAlright, so the first step, leads! Put one of your hands on your partnerâs back and your other hand should be clasping your partnerâs.â Taking the lead position, Zayne walked to you cautiously.
âBefore I start, are you alright with me touching you?â Zayne asked, staring deeply into your eyes. You were incredibly anxious, but you were resolved to not let your fear get the best of you as per usual.
âGo ahead Doc.â The man smiled at you and did as what was instructed. Your heart started to pound as your bodies closed in and his hands held your back and hand. You involuntarily shivered from his cool touch.
âAre you still ok?â Zayne asked with a worried look on his face. His proximity and concern was too intimate.
âI got this!â You responded with an exaggerated thumbs up from your clasped hand, pulling another grin from the stoic man.
âWonderful!â The instructor continued. 0Your hand moved to land on his shoulder, but you paused.
âAre you alright with me touching you?â Zayne snickered.Â
âOf course Ms. L/N.â You placed your palm on his sturdy shoulder, resisting the urge to squeeze.
âAlright fantastic! Now, follow me.â The instructor, pretending to be dancing with an invisible partner, simulated the moves. âFirst, we will sway, sway, twirl, dip.â You grinned hesitantly at Zayne, worried your weight may break his back as he dipped you, but Zayne didnât appear to have the same concern as you. Confidently, he guides you through each move, swaying and twirling with you in his arms. Then when he dipped you, he showed no sign of struggling. His strength left you amazed. A small âwowâ escaped your lips, before you recovered and you dramatically lifted your connected arms. After the dip, he pulled your body close to his. You swore you couldnât breathe looking up at his sharp face.
âZayne I-â
âNow faster!â Zayne guided you back to your original position and moved with you more quickly. Though the speed didnât help. Like before, your clumsy movements couldnât catch up. On one turn, you accidentally stepped on your partnerâs toes. Zayne hissed in pain and you immediately bowed apologetically, though your bow accidentally hit him in the chest.
âOh my God, I am so sorry!â Zayne laughed and smiled wider than youâve ever seen.
âItâs alright, letâs keep going.â You returned his pep and continued on. Your new attitude didnât stop you from fumbling, but there was no space for shame, only laughter and warmth between the two of you. After a quick hour, the class ended, and you sadly had to let the man out of your hold. Your proximity together was so brief, but you found yourself already missing being in his arms. However pathetic that may be. You shyly peeked at him, and while swaying back in forth said goodbye:
âI really enjoyed dancing with you Dr. Zayne, take care!â The doctor made a small nod towards you.
âYou as well, Ms. L- I mean Y/N.â You couldnât help the dorky smile on your face when he called you by your first name. He waved hastily at him.
âBYE!â
â
When you returned home, you couldnât help the ecstasy you felt. You found yourself dancing on your own replaying the memory of being in his embrace. Though slowly, your bliss decayed to shame. You sighed melancholically. You had a huge crush on the stoic gentle man, but you shouldnât. He already had a girlfriend. A girlfriend who was significantly better than you, and who he chose and loved.Â
âOh well.â You murmured to yourself. Again, as you did last week, you grabbed your laptop and searched online. You enjoyed the dance class today, but it was mostly because of Zayne. You could feel your heart yearning to see him again, but you refused to be a homewrecker (even though you knew he would never choose you over his beautiful lover anyways). Still, despite your 0% chance with him, you knew it was wiser not to entertain this relationship further.
âTime to look for a new class to join.â
â
One Week LaterâŠ
âWelcome to Baking 101, thank you all for joining! Now please pick a baking station and partner up.â
Partners again?!
You groaned as you watched all the participants quickly form into teams, leaving you alone. You couldnât understand why you needed a partner. You were decent enough at baking, you could work alone. As the instructor walked around, you raised your hand, getting her attention. She came closer to you the moment she noticed your hand.
âYes?â The older woman in a wool sweater asked inquisitively.
âThere is nobody else here who can be my partner. Can I do this class alone?â The teacher pursed her lips together.
âWell we recommend having a partner, though since there is nobody-â Before your instructor could finish, the classroom door opened cautiously.
âI apologize for my tardiness, could I still join the class?â You recognized the voice instantly.
What, it canât be! What freaky dimension did I fall into?!
In front of you was Zayne once more. This time wearing a black dress shirt and pants, with a brown trench coat draped on his broad shoulders.Â
Why does he look like a romance lead again! Man, his girlfriend is dressing him up so well!
âPerfect timing! You can partner up with this young lady right here.â The teacher exclaimed while clapping excitedly. Turning to you, Zayneâs face froze in surprise, but he quickly morphed into a familiar soft smile and he nodded in your direction.
âOf course, I would love to.â He walked next to you, behind your shared baking station. As you stood awkwardly next to him, he looked at you and whispered:
âItâs wonderful seeing you again Y/N. Do you always go to this many classes?â
You sighed and answered snarkily:
âNormally no, but unfortunately a Doctor made the suggestion. So now you are stuck with me again.â Zayne playfully smirked.
âIn that Doctorâs defense, he didnât say the only way to relax was to go to recreational classes. I am certain he recommended other activities.â You pouted.
âWell thatâs what I like to do so stop following me.â You both giggled before the teacher called for attention from the chattering students.
âQuiet down please!â Once the room turned silent, the instructor continued. âToday, we will be making a Fruit Cream Cake. Now, for those that are new, this is a free roam class! The recipe is on your station, as well as the ingredients you need. If you have any questions, or need help, just ask!â
Quickly after, the chatter started up again as the teams worked on making their cake. Immediately, you grabbed and put on the apron on the counter, quickly glimpsed at the recipe, and turned to your partner who was putting on his apron too.Â
âOkay, looks like we can add any fruit we want. What do you prefer, berries? Mangoes? Strawberries?â The doctor gulped.Â
Is he salivating?
âThey all sound amazing, maybe mangoes.â A large smile grew on your face.
âGreat choice, I love mangoes too! Now, letâs make the batter first! Iâll grab the ingredients and you watch the mixer!â One by one, you added all the needed ingredients and put it inside the metal mixing bowl, meanwhile Zayne assisted. It was all going fine until you noticed Zayne pouring almost half of an overflowing cup of sugar. You grabbed his wrist before he put in the rest. His eyes widened, shocked by your sudden contact.
âSorry Zayne! I already put in the 1 and Âœ cup of sugar needed for the recipe.â The doctor cocked his head to the side and looked at you with furrowed brows.
âI did see that, but I donât think thatâs sweet enough. I think another two cups would be perfect!â Your eyes and mouth were agape.
âThat would be too sweet!â Adorably, the man pouted.
âItâs better to be too sweet than not sweet at all.â You guffawed.
âI thought as a doctor, you would be advising there to be less sugar.â
âIâm not acting as a doctor right now. And me, as Zayne, says more sugar.âÂ
âCompromise, only one more cup of sugar!â He sighed.
âAgreed.â You felt proud of your compromise, but noticed Zayne still had the crammed cup of sugar in his hands.
âBut wait, not that full-â But before you could stop him from pouring in the ungodly amount of sugar, it was too late. He quickly poured in the sugar in the mixing bowl. You groaned.
This cake is going to be extremely sweet.
âBad doctor! You didnât let me finish!â You jokingly complained as you stomped your foot. âNow, since I canât trust you with the batter, you are now assigned to whip cream and fruit duty.â Your partner chuckled before grabbing the equipment he needed for his part and moved to the other half of the station. Your eyes lingered in his direction, staring at his adonis back briefly before you caught yourself.
Come on Y/N focus!
After the oven was done pre-heating, you poured the batter into a parchment covered cake pan and put it in the oven to bake for almost a half an hour.
Sweating from the ovenâs heat, you wiped the sweat from your brow and returned to your team mate.Â
âIâm just waiting for the cake to finish baking, do you need help with anything Zayn- I mean Doctor-â Zayne lightly flicked your forehead. âOwwâ
âYou donât need to call me by my honorifics outside of the hospital. Zayne is just fine.â You bit your lip, excited by the prospect. You were making a friend!
âOf course, Dr.- I mean Zayne. Sorry, give me time.â Zayne grinned before giving you a chopping board.
âCan you help me cut mangoes and make the mango filling?â
âI would love to.â
â
After a half hour of quietly working on the cakeâs filling. Many ovens, including your own, beeped. Notifying you both that the cake was ready. Happily, you walked to the oven and opened the door with your baking gloves on. As the oven was opened, a deliciously sweet aroma filled the hot air around you. Looking down at your cake, you could see it was a beautiful golden brown. You delicately grabbed the cake and placed it on the counter.
âLook at our baby Zayne!â The man walked next to you and stared at the cake lovingly. Though, you noticed his ears were rosy colored.
âItâs beautiful, but could you not refer to the cake as our baby.â You dramatically gasped.
âWhy? Do you not want to have a baby with me!â You meant it as a joke, but after the words slipped out, you realized the implication. You looked at his sheepish face horrified. You waved your hand around, humiliated by your own tongue. âI didnât mean it like that!â Zayne chuckled at your distress and put his hand on your arm and lightly squeezed.
âItâs alright, I didnât mean it like that either. I just would rather not say I want to eat our child.âÂ
âHaha fair enough.â
Before you could say anything else, the instructor called back everyoneâs attention.
âBakers! The cakes will need another 2 hours to cool off, weâll take our lunch break now. Iâll see you all in two hours.â The whole class, including you and Zayne, dispersed out of the room. While in the hallway, outside of class, you looked eagerly at your phone for a nearby restaurant to eat alone, but you noticed Zayne following behind you.
âDid you want to have lunch with me Y/N? There's a bubble tea place nearby I love.â A whisper in your mind reminded you that you shouldnât, but-â
âI love bubble tea!â
â
After ordering your drinks and food, you and Zayne sat across from each other waiting. The atmosphere between you was awkward. Both of you didnât speak, just sat staring at the workers behind the counter. You tried swaying around the rotating stool you were on, but after almost falling, you decided to try to make small talk.
âSo, Zayne.â Zayne instantly focussed on you the moment you called. âWhy did you decide to join a baking class as well? Did MC recommend it too?â Zayne rubbed his shoulder.
âNo, I wanted to join a baking class for a while now actually. I love sweets so I spend a lot of my earnings on baked goods. So, I thought since I have more free time, maybe I should learn how to bake, and add all the sugar I want.â You chuckled at his response.
âStill, not over the sugar huh?â The man shrugged and was going to speak further when your orders arrived.
Both of you ordered the same salmon bento box, but with different drinks. He got a simple brown sugar milk tea with 100% sugar (obviously), while you got a creme brulee strawberry smoothie, though with only half the sugar. You sighed contently as you dug into your food and drink. Both were immaculate. For a bit, you both enjoyed your food in silence, but you started to notice green eyes staring at you, or specifically, your drink. Who knew the perfect doctor had such an affinity to sweets. You offered Zayne your beverage.
âDid you want to try it?â Zayneâs eyes widened and glowed.
âAre you sure? I have my own.â
âNah, itâs all good, go ahead! Though I should get you your own straw-â Before you could get up to get a clean straw, without a thought, Zayne grabbed your smoothie and started guzzling from your straw. You were already far past your teenage era, but you couldnât help squealing internally.
An indirect kiss?!
A grin grew on the man opposite of youâs face as he sipped and handed you back your smoothie.
âThat was wonderful, though it could use more sugar.â You rolled your eyes.
âOf course you would want it sweeter. Still, did you want my drink? We could trade?â Zayne looked away, looking contemplative before returning his gaze to you.
âItâs alright. Iâll order it next time we come here.â You blinked rapidly.
Next time we come here?!
You would have been overjoyed by all of this, the whole date vibe, going out again with such a handsome man, but he had a girlfriend! The inner girlâs girl in you demanded you shut this down immediately. You didnât know anything about MC, but you had the primal urge to protect her.
âAnyways! MC, letâs talk about her. How did you both meet?â Zayne looked surprised by your subject change, but followed along.
âWe met when we were kids. We were childhood friends, though we didnât grow up together. I moved away and we only reconnected recently.â
âAww adorable! Iâve never met her, but she's the breathtaking brunette Hunter, right?âÂ
âI might not call her that myself, but that sounds accurate. When did you see her?â
Crap! I canât say while I was watching you both in the hospital garden a few weeks back!
Hesitantly you answered:
âI think I saw her while visiting the hospital. She is extremely beautiful by the way. You are incredibly lucky. I wish I could meet someone like her too!â Zayne didnât speak for a moment, seeming to be processing what you just said.
âOh, so do you like women primarily?âÂ
Waittt does he think Iâm gay????
âNo! I mostly date men, or only men, though some women maybe, I donât- I mean-â You realized you were babbling nonsense, so you grabbed your drink and chugged a bit before continuing. âI mean, I tend to prefer men. Why do you ask? Is there a handsome rich doctor you can set me up with?â Zayneâs eyes went up and down your figure, before he gave you a small smile.
âSomething like that?â You were mixed between wanting to know more, and completely shutting down the conversation. Before you could find out which, your phone alarm rang.Â
âOoops class is on soon, we gotta go!â
â
âWhat happened?!â
When you and Zayne returned, you were faced with a flat, lopsided cake. It didnât look like that when you took it out of the oven. The teacher looked at you both apologetically.
âI am so sorry guys. There wasnât enough space in the fridge, so we had to stack the cakes together. Yours was on the bottom.â You frowned, shrugged your shoulders, and looked up at your partner.
âItâs alright, our cake will just have more character, right Zayne?â Zayne smiled back.
âYes, we got it.âÂ
âThank you both.â The teacher bowed before walking back to the front.
âOkay Zayne, I am determined to make this cake beautiful. Pass me the whipped cream you made and the mango and mango filling.â Zayne bit his lip nervously before grabbing what you requested. You looked at the ingredients and they looked perfect, except, the bowl with the whipped cream had only â of the cream you needed.Â
âWhat happened to the cream? Did someone take the rest of ours by mistake?â Zayne looked away, before shamefully returning his gaze to you.
âI might have indulged in a bit of it.â
âA bit of it? A majority of it is gone.â Zayne peered at you awkwardly and glumly apologized:
âI am so sorry, Iâll make more.â You shoved his shoulder gently.
âDonât worry about it. I was just giving you a hard time. Iâll just remember this for next time.â Zayne smirked back.
âI wouldnât have it any other way.â
You took what you had, a lopsided cake, barely any whipped cream, and a lot of chopped mangoes and mango filling, and made the prettiest cake you could. In the end, it was ugly, but cute ugly. There was only enough whipped cream for the center and the very top, the mango jam was leaking from the center, and the only decorations were unevenly chopped mangoes (mostly uneven because of you). Despite your ugly cake, you couldnât help, but feel prideful. You took out your phone and took a lot of pictures including selfies. You smiled dorkily on each photo and noticed Zayne stiffly standing on the side, you beckoned him over.
âCome here Zayne, we need to commemorate our cake baby.â Zayne chuckled and stood next to you. You smiled as prettily as you could as the timer on your phone counted down, but in the middle, the doctor put his arms around your shoulder and pulled you closer to him. Leaning your body on his. You almost gasped from the sudden heat, but continued to smile wobbly as the phone camera flashed. Once the picture was done, you quickly removed yourself from his arm and looked at the picture taken. Unsurprisingly, Zayne looked handsome while you appeared skittish and messy. You wished you looked better, but even so, you had to admit, it was an adorable photo of you both.Â
âLook at us.â You said proudly as you showed him the photo on your phone. Zayne peeked at you and grinned.
âYou look cute.â You blushed at his compliment and scratched the side of your cheek.
âThank you! And thanks for baking with me. I had a lot of fun. Well, I guess I will see you around.â You shot finger guns in his direction and were reeling to leave, but as you were turning away, Zayne held your arm.
âBefore you go, can I give you my number so that I can get a copy of the picture?â An alarm began blaring in your head. You shouldnât take the number of an attached man, but, is it alright just to give him a photo?
âSure.â You answered conflictedly as you opened your contacts and handed your phone to the man. Zayne swiftly took your phone and added his number in.
âThanks in advance Y/N. I hope I can see you again.â
â
A Month LaterâŠ
You had wanted to join more classes, but work was more hectic than normal for the last month. You had to deal with an onslaught of terribly rude clients, unreliable coworkers, and overbearing and harsh higher ups. It was a struggle, but finally, after a month of dealing with hell and working non stop, you got yourself a few days off. The first free day, the only plans you had was to lie around, eat snacks, and binge your favorite shows.
As you chomped down on your chips, with crumbs covering your pajama shirt, you heard a soft chime on your phone. You groaned in disgust, it was probably a coworker demanding help, or a boss overstepping again. You grabbed your phone and looked at the screen. Your shock made your hands tremble and almost drop your phone. Glaring back at you was a text from Zayne:
Dr. Zayne: Hi Y/N, how have you been?
You felt a wave of panic. This was the first time since you sent the picture that Zayne has ever texted you. You quickly unlocked your phone and went straight to your messages to respond.
You: Hi Dr. Zayne, itâs been awhile! Iâve been alright despite work being horrible! Hbu?
Dr. Zayne: Sorry to hear about that. Hope you havenât been dealing with a lot of stress and heart palpitations. If you need to see a doctor let me know. Me, Iâve been fine. The hospital has been hectic as well. I haven't been able to go back to the dance or baking class unfortunately.
You: Haha, me as well. I miss them though. I had a lot of fun hanging with you. How has MC been?
Dr. Zayne: Sheâs fine, havenât been able to see her much either lately.
You: Aww that sucks. Are you going to be off soon?
After a few minutes of no answer, with only a grey bubble with dots, indicating he was typing on the screen, a new message popped up.
Dr. Zayne: Yes, actually thatâs why I wanted to contact you. Thereâs a painting pottery workshop I wanted to try tomorrow. Would you want to join me? I can sign you up for you?
Your heart skipped a beat. You were surprised that he would want to hang out with you alone. What about his girlfriend? Why would he want to be alone with a single woman? Unless he doesnât see you as attractive enough to be considered a romantic threat, that would be harsh, but fair. Yes that had to be it. Still, you didnât want to be stealing MCâs time with her beau and possibly cause conflict between the beautiful couple.
You: That sounds like fun! Why donât you invite MC with us? I can invite a friend, it can be a double date!
The grey bubble with dots reappeared and stayed longer than last time. Your nerves peaked. Just to escape the growing anxiety, you were about to switch to another app, when a new message came up.
Dr. Zayne: I checked with MC. She said she could join.
You sighed in relief. This felt like a thumbs of approval from MC. You didnât have to worry about breaching any boundaries in their relationship. Now you can just enjoy your platonic friendship with Zayne and perhaps add MC to your growing list of friends.
You: Excited :D! Iâll ask my friend to come with us! Iâll see u tmr!
Dr. Zayne: Excellent, the class starts at 11am. I can pick you all up, just provide me with your address.
You: Sure :) !
You smiled at your conversation, then it quickly dissipated when you were hit with a dreadful realization: you had to find a friend!
You scoured your phoneâs contacts and realized you didnât really have anyone to invite. All your friends were either out of the country, you knew was working, or you barely spoke to them in years.
Why did I offer to invite a friend?! Now Iâm going to look like a loner!
After going back and forth on your phone, you realized you only had one person left, but he would most likely be unavailable. Even so, you had to try. You clicked your friendâs name and waited as your phone rang until a warm voice answered:
âHello?âÂ
âHi Greyson! Are you free tomorrow?â
âWow, uh not sure why?â You sighed at his non-committal response.Â
âIâm going on a double date, I need a friend.â
âUmmm Iâm not really interested in dating, I mean-â
âPlease! I donât want to be a third wheel with Zayne and MC! Plus you missed our appointment, so you owe me!â
âHey, I was saving someoneâs life! Also, did you say Zayne, my boss, and MC? Theyâre dating?!â
âYeah, you didnât know?âÂ
âI didnât know, but I guess it should have been obvious. Man that sucks, I really liked-â He suddenly stopped. âAnyways, sure!â
âWait- Liked?! Who, MC?!â Before you could extract any answer from the uneasy doctor, he started to rush to end the call.
âIâLL GO BYE BYE BYE!â
âIâLL TEXT YOU THE DETAILS!â
â
Next DayâŠ
You decided since this was just a hangout with your friends, you didnât have to try too hard with your appearance. Glaring in the mirror, all you could see was a sloppy looking girl wearing a grey hoodie and black ripped jeans. Luckily, you didnât look completely gross or dead because of the light amount of makeup you applied that added color to your face. Still, you couldnât stand to scrutinize yourself any longer. Anxious, you waited in your living room until you heard the ringing of your doorbell.
âComing!â You hollered as you ran to the door. Almost out of breath, you tidied up your messy hair and opened the door. On the other side was Greyson, looking snazzier than usual in a white polo shirt with beige capri pants. The man seemed just as nervous as you. Standing at your doorway, his foot tapped rapidly on the ground.
âHi Y/N. â
âWow Greyson, you look fantastic!â The doctor gave you a shy smile.
âThanks Y/N, I tried.â You guffawed.
âI certainly didnât. Now grab a seat, weâre waiting for Zayne and MC to pick us up.â You noticed the man slump before putting on a small pout and falling into your couch. Something was bothering him. You sat next to him and turned your body to face him.
âAre you alright Greyson?â The man bit his lips before answering.
âIâm alright.â You furrowed your brows.
âDoes this have to do with your unrequited crush on MC?â Greyson stared at you completely aghast. His eyes and mouth were hanging open.
âHow did you know! I never told anyone!â You shoved his shoulder.
âI guessed and I am so sorry!â Greyson groaned, lied on the backrest of your couch, and covered his face in his hands.
âDonât pity me! I know the whole thing is pathetic.âÂ
âNOOO!â You laid your head on his shoulder. âYou arenât pathetic. A lot of people deal with unrequited crushes. Heck, Iâm going through it right now.â Greyson peeked at you from between his fingers with a frown.
âWho?â
âDr. Zayne.â
âYeah, everyone does.â His hand rubbed your shoulder consolingly. âStill, Iâm sorry Y/N.â
âWeâll both be alright. I got your back.â Greysonâs frown turned to a grin, when suddenly you both jumped at the sound of the doorbell ringing again.
âAlright, itâs time.â You said enthusiastically as you patted Greyson on the back and walked to your vestibule. After taking a deep breath, you opened your door and were immediately pulled into a tight hug. As you were held, long brown hair tickled your face and a delightful fragrance of blossoms filled your nostrils. After a few minutes in her embrace, MC released you and looked into your eyes.
âOh my gosh, Zayne spoke so much about you! I am happy to finally meet you.â It took you a bit to speak. You were taken aback with how beautiful MC presented up close. Her skin was unblemished and smooth, her chocolate colored hair was silky, her body was lean and muscled and shaped in a perfect hourglass. She reminded you of the models you would see in magazines or screens, the ones you would painfully compare yourself to. You felt a pang in your chest, an ache tinged with jealousy. You could understand why both Zayne and Greyson wanted her.
âIâm happy to meet you too. Zayne spoke to a lot of you as well.â The hunter dressed in an endearing white, flower patterned dress, swayed around, her arms behind her back, and a playful smile on her face.
âWell not surprising considering I am one of his childhood friends. Anyways letâs- Wait! Is that Greyson?â The brunette man immediately turned his head when he heard his name and answered:
âOh, hi MC!â The girlâs smile widened as she scampered to Greyson. As she passed you, you looked up at Zayne. As usual, the man was dressed impeccably, wearing a white dress shirt, a grey waist coat and dress pants. Though you couldnât help chuckling to yourself. It was kind of hilarious how the man couldnât spend a day without looking anything but professional. You leaned your body on your doorway.
âAre you not worried about paint splashing on your fancy clothes?â Zayne looked down at himself before smirking.
âThis is just my casual attire. Itâll be fine if paint gets on it.â
âThese are your casual clothes? Wow, you are definitely more fancy than me. This outfit is my version of casual.â You mentioned as you gestured theatrically towards your clothes. The doctor sized you up and answered with a grin:
âYou still look cute.â You would usually blush and smile, but you knew he was just being polite. MCâs appearance far exceeds yours. Yet, you didnât want to be ungrateful, so you nodded and smiled politely. âThanks. Anyways, we should probably start going.â Zayneâs grin shrank as he shook his head in agreement.
âAgreed, letâs go!â MC chanted as her and Greyson joined you both.
â
Right in front of your apartment building was Zayneâs black BMW, and as you all walked to the car, MC, ahead of the group, instantly instructed:
âAlright, Y/N, you sit shotgun next to Zayne.â MC grabbed Greysonâs arm, making the smaller doctor turn red and gulp. âAnd Iâll sit in the backseat with Greyson.â You couldnât understand the odd arrangement? It would be too awkward sitting in front with Zayne while his girlfriend and the guy who liked her were in the back.Â
âActually, would it be alright if I sat in the back with Greyson?â MC stared at you puzzled.
âOh, are you sure your donât-â
âActually.â Greyson gently retreated from the womanâs grasp. âI agree with Y/N. Iâll sit in the back with her.â Briefly MC eyes dimmed, but recovered and she replied with a small smile.
âWhatever makes you both comfortable.â
â
The whole car ride started uncomfortably. Initially, MC tried to make small talk, but the conversation quickly simmered and all that was left were soft tunes from the radio. At least that was the case until the car passed a familiar kitty cafe. You were so surprised that your middle school hot spot was still open that you moved your whole body towards the carâs window to look.
âWait! Is Paws still open?â Greyson stopped staring outside and turned to you.
âIs it? We havenât been there since middle school.â You smirked as a flash of memories came to mind. Back when you both were so youthful, naive, and hopeful. Not the cynical adults you were now.
âDo you remember when you tried to steal one of the cafeâs cats?â Greyson glared at you, mortified. There was a part of you that felt guilty for mentioning the embarrassing story, but it was too hilarious not to.
âI didnât! We both know that kitty chose me! I was just respecting the catâs decision to come home with me.â You playfully rolled your eyes and giggled.
âIs that why you hid the kitten in your school bag and got caught!â Intrigued, MC spun from her seat, focussed on you both and asked:
âWait, what happened?!â You bit your cheek and laughed as you pushed Greysonâs shoulder. His eyes darted between the two ladies staring at him predatorily.Â
âUm, well I donât really want-â
âCome on Greyson, tell us what happened!â
âCome on Greyson!â MC joined in, showing her best puppy eyes. The cornered man whined and began telling the story. Throughout the whole tale, you continuously laughed and pushed him around while adding in your own perspective. Meanwhile, MC stayed silent, but you could see her engrossed gaze towards Greyson as she giggled along. As you listened, your gaze subconsciously rose from the shy doctor to the carâs driver. You expected Zayneâs eyes to be focused on the road, but from the rearview mirror, your eyes met his hazel green eyes staring at you. Flustered, you shifted your eyes away and tried to ignore the heat in your cheeks.
â
After driving for almost half an hour, you finally made it to your destination, the pottery workshop. The moment you all went inside, you were greeted by friendly employees wearing light brown aprons and pastel colored walls and tables.Â
âHello!â A teenage girl with one of the shopâs aprons greeted. âYou guys can start painting right away, just pick one of the items from the shelf and sit at one of our craft tables. All the supplies will be there, and you can order food and drinks at the counter.â You all thanked the girl and began browsing at one of the shelves. The shelf was covered in clay statues of cute animals, mugs, bowls, and jars, all lovingly crafted. After several minutes of perusing, your whole group struggled to pick anything, you especially. You couldnât focus as you felt Zayneâs warmth as he stood directly behind you, almost pressing himself against you. Your heart fluttered, but you did your best to ignore it and focus on the items in front of you. As you all continued to search, MC spoke up again.
âItâs too hard to pick, but I have an idea to make this easier! Why donât we paint something for our date and give it to them.â Your heart ached, that was such a romantic idea! Too bad nobody would ever want to do anything like that with you.
âThatâs a great idea.â You said as excitedly as you could. âIâll make something for you Greyson.â
âOh thank you Y/N. Iâll do the same.â You and Greyson returned your gaze to MC after your sullen agreement. You had expected her to eagerly proclaim her anticipation, but instead she seemed gloomy and confused.
âOh, you and Greyson?- Okay! Sure, I guess Iâll make something for you, Zayne.â Zayne didnât say much either, he just quietly nodded. He didnât appear happy about your idea as well. Did you say something wrong? You grabbed Greyson by the arm.
âI want to check the stuff on the other shelf, come with me.â Eyes wide, the timid man shook his head and followed your lead.
â
Zayneâs POV:
Zayne was a rational man. He knew you and him were nothing more than friends, or perhaps even that was too generous of a title. Still, despite having zero entitlement to your time, he couldnât help, but feel jealous. Watching you walk away, holding Greysonâs arm, he felt a terrible urge to pull you away from the other man and take his spot, but instead he ignored the itch.Â
This whole time he foolishly thought when you offered the double date, you would be his date. Thinking back, he should have known better. Your voluntary distance from him and your closeness with Greyson made the reality of you two dating obvious. Besides that, if Zayne was being honest with himself, he understood that Greyson would be a better fit for you. You deserved someone warm and kind, not closed off, intimidated, and cold as he was.Â
As he sadly browsed the same shelf, he felt panicked pokes on his back and whispers:
âZayne, Zayne, Zayne, Zayne, Zayne.â He groaned and turned to see MC pouting. âYou lied, you told me Greyson was single.â
âThe last we spoke, he was.â MC frowned further and shook him by the shoulders.
âI canât believe this. Your girl stole my man!â
âShe wasnât ever mine.â MC groaned and hit his shoulder with her forehead.
âShe could have been, but ugh how we fumble so hard Zayne!â
âI donât know, but we need to respect their relationship.â The girl glared at her childhood friend.
âI know that! Iâm not a homewrecker, but you have to admit this sucks, Zayne.â Zayne sighed and ruffled MCâs hair.
âIt sucks, but letâs do our best to have fun. For them.â
âFine.â
â
Your POV
As before you were mesmerized by the coupleâs interaction. Watching Zayne cutely ruffle MCâs hair, you couldnât help, but wish it was you. You cringed, it was a disgusting thought.
âY/N how about these ones?â Greysonâs question snapped you out of your trance. You followed the brunetteâs gaze and it landed on two fuzzy clay bears, wearing matching knitted scarves and tuques.
âOh my Gosh Greyson! I love them, letâs do it!â Greyson grabbed the two bears and followed you to the table. You both sat on the table and began painting your bears. As you both painted, Zayne and MC picked their own items and joined you both. As you greeted them, you peeked at the figures in their hands and noticed that like you and Greyson, the other couple picked matching statues. Zayne had a chubby snowman, while MC painted a penguin wearing winter gear.
Why do they have to be so cute?!
âI love your snowman and penguin, they are so cute together!â MC smiled gleefully at your praise.
âRight! I love your two bears, Iâm jealous!â As she finished her sentence, a glint of mischief appeared in her eyes. âSooooo how long have you two teddy bears been together?â You squinted your eyes as she pointed at you and your childhood friend.
âWhat?â You asked hesitantly as MC scratched her cheek. Before she could continue, Zayne gently bumped his elbow on her arm as he started:
âMC, itâs none of our-â
âI mean they donât have to answer! But come on nothingâs wrong with just asking! So, before I was RUDELY interrupted, Y/N, how long have you been dating Greyson?â You were too stunned to respond, you turned to Greyson and could see his expression matched your own.
âWhat? No NOOOO! I mean no offense Greyson you are great and handsome but-â One of MCâs eyes twitched as you called him handsome. You looked away from MCâs intense eyes, coughed and continued: âIâm-, I mean weâre not dating, absolutely no interest in each other. We are like siblings and Iâm not into inces- Iâll stop now.â You looked down at your lap as your hands laid on your thighs. Momentarily, there was silence, until MC guffawed. Confused, you stared at the woman across from you as she was bent over laughing.
âYou guys scared me!â MC immediately stood up and grabbed Greysonâs arm, lifting him up to his feet. Greyson gasped with his eyes wide and disorientated. âOkay, Greyson and I have to talk. Here is our share for the bill, enjoy your date you two!â MC instantly pulled out bills of cash and slapped it onto the table counter. After, MC interlocked her hand into your friendâs and bolted from the workshop, leaving both you and Zayne alone.
âUhmm, did your girlfriend just steal my date?â Zayne peered at you incredulously.
âWait, did you still think MC was my girlfriend? I thought I told you before that we werenât together?â You started to blush.
He told me?!
You tried to re-think all your interactions with Zayne, but you couldnât pinpoint a single time he told you his relationship status.
âI-I canât remember you telling me.â Zayne stared at you mortified.
âOh, I was sure- Either way, I am unattached.â You were rattled to your core. Shocked, you moved your hands on the table and fiddled your fingers. Unsure of what to say or do after this huge bombshell. This whole time, you had reserved yourself to the idea that he was completely unattainable, already taken and in-love. Still, despite his status, that didnât change a thing. You werenât entitled to him, especially with who you were currently. Besides your flaws, you are certain you saw yearning in his eyes when he gazed at MC. Is this a case of unrequited love? You opened your mouth to speak, but the moment Zayne gently placed his hand on your much smaller interlocked hands, you froze. His touch was cool, but you felt anything but cold. âY/N Iâm sorry-â
âItâs alright, I shouldnât have assumed-â
âNo, Iâm not apologizing for the misunderstanding, though I should have been more direct. Iâm apologizing for not being clear with my intentions.âÂ
âIntentions?â Zayne put one of his hands between your two locked ones, separating them and held your right one firmly between his hands.
âI really like you Y/N, and I truly enjoy being around you. Would you consider dating me? I am aware I am not the warmest person, that I seem intimidating and unfriendly, and please donât feel obligated to return my feelings, but I would be privileged if you would give me a chance.â You were left in complete disbelief. How could such a kind, handsome and intelligent doctor think you of all people would reject him. You would be over the moon if he chose to date you, but what if you were only a rebound to his true love? You frowned, feeling your heart pounding.
âI really want to accept Zayne. I really like you too, but I donât know.â Zayne smiled hesitantly, and lightly squeezed your hand.
âWhatâs stopping you?â
âItâs just hard to believe someone as incredible as you would want a nobody like me. Iâm not exactly a model, or a cool hunter with an amazing evol. Iâm just a regular woman. I donât have any evol and I work in a mundane office. Would you want to be with someone so unextraordinary? Are you just rebounding because MC likes someone else?â Zayne frowned and squeezed your cheek. âOwwâ
âY/N, please donât speak about yourself that way. Youâre beautiful, fun, warm, kind, and someone I know is worth getting close to. I donât need you to be MC. A long time ago, I thought I loved her, but after meeting you, I realized what all I truly felt was infatuation. Sheâs still important to me, but I donât love her. And it may be too soon to say, but I see myself falling completely for you. So, would you be willing to give us a chance?â Zayne pulled your hands to his mouth and placed on the back of your hand a delicate kiss. Your mouth widened from the dorky smile you couldnât control. You never felt so ecstatic.
âThen, I would love to give us a try!â Zayneâs smile wasnât as large as yours, but as he looked into your eyes intently, you swore you could see his eyes tearing up. Perhaps, it will all work out.
â
Months LaterâŠ
Every night, Zayne was tortured by the same recurring nightmare. It would leave him in cold sweat, jolting out of bed, and gasping for air.
In his dream, Zayne woke up not as a prestigious cardiac surgeon, but an alternate and crueler version of himself. A murderer that went by the name: Dawnbreaker. In his unconscious mind, he found himself alone in a deserted wasteland. Nobody was left alive in the post-apocalypse Linkon. It was only him and the endless hoard of wanderers he dedicated his existence to destroying, desperately hoping his mission would cleanse him of his sins.
One day, as he traversed the abandoned city, he heard a scream. However, unlike any other he has heard, the scream was human. He ran to the direction of the cry, and thatâs when he met you. You were tiny, but fierce. Screaming while hitting a wanderer with a baton, barely doing any damage. He sighed and before you could be impaled by the wandererâs sharp claws, he dispatched the monster. Piercing the beast with a wave of sharp icicles. After his effortless save, you looked at him with adorably large eyes. You jumped towards him and held him tightly in your arms. Your warmth was the first he felt in a long time. Still, he couldnât completely trust you. Your existence in this dead world was an anomaly.
He attempted to leave you there, but like a pup, you followed behind him and refused to leave his side. Blabbing on and on about your origins. Apparently, he was right, you werenât from his world. You were an interdimensional traveler, a researcher that traveled to alternate universes and sent your information to your higher ups. Unfortunately, you entered, or more like crashed into this world. During your abrupt arrival, your ship was destroyed, trapping you in this nightmare with him.
âAs the only human left, you have to help me!â You begged earnestly. âIf you help me fix my ship, Iâll bring you back with me. My world is more pleasant!â The prospect of leaving this empty world was tempting, but there was something or someone he wanted more.
âI donât want to go back to your world. Thereâs a woman, MC. I have dreams, I know she exists in another universe. Promise me to bring me to a world where I can finally be with her, and I will help you.â He remembered you cocking your head with skeptical squinted eyes before smirking and shaking his hand.
âI promise.â
That promise started your twoâs partnership. Together, you both worked endlessly on your broken ship that was in chunks. With the damage, it took you several years to fix it. It took so long that as time passed, your relationship slowly shifted from strangers, disgruntled partners, friends, to perhaps something more.Â
Neither of you claimed ownership of the other, but that didnât stop you both from using the excuse of needing companionship and warmth to fully indulge in each other. Kisses placed on every part of your bodies, you both fully sinking and becoming one. Initially, it was supposed to be only physical, but the connection evolved. The hours of conversations, sprinkled with jokes and more personal talks, spending time leisurely instead of tickering with the ship, hours of playing games, reading books, exploring the world, having picnics, and so much more. Suddenly, Zayneâs tiny and dark world was filled with light. He found himself needing you. The traveler found a way to nestle herself into his heart. Was he in love with you? He wasnât sure. The idea of falling for you was daunting. It felt like a betrayal to the woman he dreamed each night of. The one who stood by his side when he was a kinder man, a doctor.
So, he never put a label on his feelings for you, and never said the shattering 3 words. He could tell, especially during those quiet nights, when he held you against his naked chest, that his silence hurt you. He expected you to say something, but you seemed alright with the current status quo, being second place in his heart, at least thatâs what he thought.
Closer to the end of his dreams, a few years later in his nightmare, you both were finally able to complete the shipâs revival. It was perfect, except a horrible truth came out. You never had any intention of getting him out, at least together. Your ship could only accommodate one passenger. Your plan was to travel to your world alone and send him a ship to go on his way. It would have worked, though you both would be apart, but a new problem arose after a few tests were done. To fully activate the ship, you had to use a large amount of protocore energy, this would attract wanderers to your area. Meaning, someone had to protect the ship while it was transported away and this would most likely kill the person left behind.Â
He remembered your panicked face as you explained all this. He didnât feel the same fear as you. In his heart, he knew he would die on this unforgiving planet. The reality that crashed into his face should have hurt, his dream of being with MC being annihilated, but instead he felt peace. He got to live his last years blissfully with you. He would be honored to die for the woman he cherished.
âLetâs do it.â Was all he said. You looked at him mortified, tears in your eyes, but agreed. The next morning, after a final night in each other's embrace, the ship was activated. The moment the ship turned on, he could hear the cries of wanderers. His end was near, but he wasnât afraid. He was ready to fight for you when you called him.
âZayne, can you look at this quickly, something is wrong with the ship.â There was a tremor in your voice. This had to be serious. He rushed to your side and peered inside the small pod. Everything seemed fine he thought before he felt your delicate hands on his back, shoving him inside. The moment he tumbled inside, the ship sealed, making him unable to escape, unable to save you.
âY/N WHY!â He shouted while banging the shipâs door, although it could set him free. You tried to smile happily, but he saw your lips wobbling and your tears that stained your cheeks. Before saying a word, you removed the bandage on your arm, the one you refused to let him inspect. Under the bandage were small protocore fragments penetrating your skin from the inside. One of the symptoms of late stage protocore syndrome. How did he miss it? How did he fail to protect you? âY/Nâ
Suddenly the room began to vibrate as the ship was slowly activating and the wanderers' cries approached. This couldnât be happening. As much as he could move in the small space, he fumbled around the screen to stop the ship from teleporting, or to open the shipâs hatch, but everything was locked. It was hopeless. All he could do was continue banging the door and begging. You were unmoved, instead you smiled wider while placing your hand on the window between you.
âZayne, itâs alright. Iâm dying. If you stayed, there would be two bodies instead of one. I need you to live on. Find your true love MC and enjoy life. I set up the coordinates to send you to her. Good bye Zayne.â
Before he could say anything, a large group of wanderers came in, stealing your attention from him. He shouted for you, but you ignored him, instead you advanced towards your death with only a single pistol in hand. He wanted to reach you, he wanted to fight beside you and die with you, but all he could do was watch as the ship glowed, signalling its near departure.
âI LOVE YOU Y/N!â He yelled at the top of his lungs. You didnât react, didnât acknowledge his words. Did you hear him? He doesnât know. The last glimpse of his beloved traveler was her being pierced in the chest by the claws of a wanderer, blood pooling at your feet.
After your death, this is when he begged for the dream to stop, but it never did.
When Zayne opened his eyes, he found himself in a hospital gown with a shaggy haired brunette doctor he remembered from his dreams, staring at him concerningly. He expected the man to question his alien presence, instead he worried about his brain.
âWe are so glad you are awake, Zayne. You were in a terrible car accident. Do you remember what happened?â
âNo, I donât remember the accident.â It was a lie, but what could he say? Nobody would believe he was an imposter teleported here by his now deceased partner. So, he played his new role, the kind-hearted cardiac surgeon. Luckily, he was able to adjust to his life fairly easily. He didnât understand how his belovedâs ship worked, but now he had all the memories and skills of the Zayne he replaced. Further luck, MC was in his life. She visited him in the hospital, she was his emergency contact, and telling by how she blushed and looked passionately into his eyes, she wanted more. A decade ago, this reality would have been his heaven, but without you, without his light, his life felt as meaningless and cold as the wasteland he was once trapped in.
Consequently, even knowing you would be disappointed in him, he rejected any further relationship with MC, and decided to lay low and try to forget you. Though nothing worked, you were forever etched into his soul. He had nothing but regret accompanying him, and he had nobody else to blame but himself.
If only he could have another chance. If only he could only make things right.Â
Y/N Iâm so sorry-
â-
He woke up again, unable to breathe.Â
Please tell me she is still here?! I didnât lose her again did I?
He turned to the spot next to him on the bed, but you werenât there.
No, please, it canât all be a dream. You came back to me!
Abruptly the doctor opened the door of his bedroom and he ran to the living room.Â
âY/N!âÂ
âAHHH!â You screamed at the man rushing to you. You were just cooking breakfast leisurely for the man you love and yourself to enjoy, dressed in only your underwear and his pyjama shirt, not expecting a sudden ambush from your beloved.
âZayne.â You whined, your heart pressed to your chest. âYou scared me.â You were annoyed until you noticed the manâs teary eyes. You immediately held him tightly in your arms.
âAnother nightmare my love?â He kissed your bare neck and whispered a yes. You leaned your head into his. âDid you want to talk about it, my love?â He shook his head, and swayed around with you in his arms.
âNo, all of it was from the past. I just want to focus on you now.â You kissed his cheek, pulled away from his embrace, and held and squeezed his fair and soft face.
âI want to take care of you too, Zayne.â You pressed your lips on his, moving against him, savoring him and the sweetness on his tongue. You felt his smile on your lips as he returned your cravings with his own. You both stayed interlocked, until you both were out of breath. You pulled away, needing to breathe, but his lips chased your own, he needed to feel every part of you. To reassure himself you were truly beside him, that you werenât a cruel illusion. You needed it too, but there was a question irking you. You put your forehead on his to stop him and ask:
âBe honest, do you think our relationship is moving too fast? Weâve only been dating for a few months and we already live together. Should we slow down?â The doctor softly chuckled before holding your face and placing multiple kisses on your face. First on your forehead, your fluttering eyelids, your nose, your cheeks, and lastly, your lips. Though on your lips, he lingered, he was tempted to continue, but with the small amount of self-control he had left, he parted from you.
âMaybe, but honestly I donât care. All that matters to me now is making sure you know each day how much I love you. However, if it would make you happy, Iâm willing to go slow.â He placed another desperate long kiss on your lips, before separating one final time. âGoing slow, would just mean I get to savor you more.â You moved your hand to his firm chest, feeling his racing heartbeat on your palm.
âI donât care either Zayne, I just know that I love you too.â
Zayne grinned and returned to your lips hungrily, refusing to let you go for the rest of the day. Later that night, after savoring his company, as you snuggled his firm chest exhausted, you grinned lazily. You felt truly blessed and loved. Despite the fact you knew your insecurities would never be completely gone, you knew that Zayne would stay by your side, loving you no matter what.
⥠Tags: boss!Sylus x housekeeper!reader, fem reader, corruption kink, dubcon, oral sex (cunnilingus), stalking, tw for attempted rape and murder, death, blood warning, sylus is lowkey a perv :3, coercion, possessiveness, manipulation, unbalanced power dynamics
⥠Summary: You beg Sylus for a job as his housekeeper after he saves you from a violent run-in on the streets of the N109 Zone. What other choice did you have? It was supposed to be simple...clean up, stay quiet, donât make a fuss. But nothing about Sylus is simple.
And his reasons for hiring you go far beyond dust and dishes...
"I knew it was a mistake coming in here," he mutters, his voice taut, eyes unblinking. "Now I have to ask. How much?"
Your brows furrow, confusion flickering in your expression. "F-for...?"
"A taste," he says flatly. The word lands like a spark in dry brushâno hesitation, no shame, only a simmering edge of something dark and consuming.
You freeze in place. The air feels electric, like it's grown too thick to breathe. "Do...you meanâ"
"Yes." His voice was low, but certain, as if the question itself had been gnawing at him long before you asked it aloud. "To taste you."
Before you can even find your voice, Sylus reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out an envelopeâthick, clean, heavyâand tosses it onto your nightstand with a quiet but deafening thud.
Cash. Stacked high, crisp, bound with a strip of paper.
⥠AN: Hiii guys. This fic idea came to me in a dream haha. So happy to finally get to share with you guys! Lowkey I had an entire plot planned for this but then realized I was writing too much again oops. SO if this is liked enough I'll write a part 2!! I just love building tension its so fun (ă„> v <)ă„âĄ
"Hey pretty gal, where ya goin'?" the snarly voice says, peering down at you with an eerie grin. You blink up, dazed, still catching your breath, but you can make out a fatter man looming over you. His smile is crooked, teeth yellowed, and his eyes flick with amusement at your fear. He takes a step closer, his heavy boots thudding against the pavement, and you can smell the stale liquor on his breath even from where youâre sitting. Your pulse quickens.
"Yeah, you stopped before, what's the rush now?" another voice chimes in from behind, smoother but no less unsettling.
You whip your head around, stomach turning, and see a skinnier man approaching. This one looks slightly more put together, like he just got back from the officeâsuit and tie still clinging to him despite the grime on his cuffs and collar. His slicked-back hair is damp with sweat, his hands stuffed casually into his pockets like this is routine. But the look in his eyes tells a different story. Thereâs that same predatory glint, the kind of look that makes your skin crawl.
The fat one chuckles low, a sound that vibrates in his chest and makes your stomach knot. "Didn't mean to scare ya, sweetheart. We just wanna talk, yeah?"
You scramble to push yourself backward, heels scraping against the concrete, but thereâs nowhere to go. You're boxed in. Your breath is shallow, chest rising and falling too fast as your thoughts race, searching for an escape, a weapon, anything.
The skinny one crouches slightly, trying to meet your eyes. "You donât have to run. We noticed you earlier...figured you might like some company. You looked lonely."
Your mouth is dry, panic sticking your tongue to the roof. You shake your head slightly, hoping theyâll take the hint and back off. They donât.
Not even close.
Wasn't your first run-in with creeps from the N109 Zone. Hopefully this would be your last...and not in the demise kind of way. Youâd seen enough horror stories unfold around here to know how fast things could go south. But tonight, it felt like your number had finally come up.
"I have an incurable disease. I wouldn't touch me," you say, voice strained and wavering despite your best effort to sound confident. It was a long shot, a gamble born from panic, but maybe, just maybe, it would give them pause.
The two men chuckle in unison. The fat one sneers wider, eyes flashing, and lunges toward you without warning. His arms wrap around you with crushing force, lifting you off the ground like a ragdoll. You scream, loud and raw, your bag tumbling from your shoulder and hitting the pavement with a thud.
He spins you around effortlessly and traps you in a brutal bear hug, pinning your arms to your sides, holding you fast in front of the skinny one, who now steps in with the air of someone approaching a prize.
"Wouldn't doubt it," the fat one murmurs into your ear, breath hot and reeking of beer and decay. "A girl as cute as you is no doubt a whore. Good thing I brought condoms."
Your stomach lurches. The word "whore" hits like a slap, but the real fear twists in your gut when you realize how calm and practiced they both are. This wasn't a spontaneous act. These two had been prowling for someone exactly like you.
You jerk your head back, teeth bared, aiming to sink them into any piece of flesh you can reach. But the fat one squeezes tighter, cutting off your air, forcing a sharp, agonized wheeze from your throat. Your ribs scream, your lungs burn, and your vision starts to spark at the edges.
"Hold fucking still," the skinny one says, voice low and trembling with excitement. He slips a knife from his coatâsmall, sharp, and chillingly clean. The blade glints under what little light leaks from the busted streetlamps. You writhe, but your body isnât responding fast enough. He kneels, eyes locked on you, and presses the blade to your shirt.
He starts slicing.
The cold metal kisses your soaked uniform, dragging down the fabric slowly, deliberately. You can hear every fiber snap under the blade, feel the chill rush of night air against newly exposed skin. Heâs savoring it, the sick bastard. Every second stretches long and heavy with dread.
The fat one chuckles again, a low rumble that vibrates through his chest and into your spine. "Look, she's already shaking" he snickers. "Can't wait to see that pretty red blood drip down your tits when we're done with you."
Panic claws at your throat. Your mind races.
You're not getting out of this alive.
Had your life truly been destined to be so terrible that it had to end the same way too? Shitty parents, born in a shitty city, working shitty jobs to make ends meet all your shitty life. No breaks, no safety nets...just a constant grind with nothing to show for it but bruises and exhaustion. Every step forward had been a crawl. Every chance you'd hoped for had slipped through your fingers like water.
You tried so damn hard. You kept your head down, followed the rules, did everything the world told you to do. And still, here you wereâin some dark alley in the N109 Zone, freezing, humiliated, and helpless. Your chest ached, not just from fear, but from the deep, gnawing sense of betrayal. Like the universe had always had it out for you.
You shut your eyes as you feel the cold air hit your chest. Your bra is exposed now, fabric damp and clinging, offering no warmth or comfort. You bite your lip to keep it from trembling. Well. This was it then? The end? Not even a warning, no last moment of dignity. Just this.
Your fingers twitch at your sides. You don't know what you're reaching forâhope, courage, a miracleâbut anything would do. Anything to stop this. Anything to change the ending.
You suck in a shaky breath and prepare for whatever comes next. The pain, the cold, the end.
"Gentlemen, fancy seeing you two here. I was actually just looking for you both. Seems you didn't get the memo on our meeting earlier today," a voice says from behind you.
All three of you freeze.
The air shifts. Like a thunderstorm about to break loose right above your heads. You feel it roll over your skin, the tension clamping around your lungs.
The two men whip their heads around, eyes wide, searching for the source. Their confidence drains from their faces like blood down a sink.
"Shit, don't tell me that'sâ" the skinny man starts, voice cracking like glass.
But he doesnât finish.
In a blink, his body is ripped backward like a ragdoll, hurled through the air by a force you canât see. He slams into the side of a building with a loud, sickening crunch that echoes down the alleyway. Brick cracks from the impact, and he crumples to the ground in a heap, groaning once before going eerily still. The knife he was holding clatters to the ground next to him.
The fat manâs grip loosens instantly. Shock paralyzes him for a heartbeat. Then two. He releases you without a word, hands trembling as they fall to his sides. You drop to the ground like dead weight, landing hard on your ribs. Pain jolts through your body, but it's nothing compared to the relief crashing over you.
You groan and look up, blinking through tears and grime, just in time to see itâ
Red mist.
Thick, pulsing, and alive. It weaves through the air like smoke with purpose, coiling around the fat manâs legs first, snaking its way up his body in slow, suffocating loops. He stares down in horror, hands clawing at the red haze like he could somehow peel it off.
You watch, frozen, as his feet lift from the ground. He risesâarms flailing, mouth wide open in a silent screamâas the mist tightens, dragging him up like a puppet.
Then heâs thrown.
He rockets backward with impossible force, crashing into the wall opposite his partner. The impact is brutalâlouder, deeper, cracking the stone like thunder. Dust explodes around him, raining down in gritty sheets as the building seems to shudder in protest.
Silence follows. Long and oppressive.
The street goes still. Not even the buzz of broken streetlights.
You sit there, gasping, heart racing, and stare through the lingering red mist.
And thenâ
Shoes. Slow, deliberate footsteps echo against the concrete. Heavy. Calm. Unbothered.
You stop breathing as a man appears out of the shadows. Tall, broad-shouldered, moving with a slow, confident gait. His hair is white-greyish, short, and groomed neatly as if untouched by the chaos around him. He wears a dark collared shirt, sharp and clean despite the filth of the N109 Zone, and a heavy jacket draped casually across his shoulders like a cape. But the most piercing feature about him? His eyes.
Crimson red.
They glow faintly under the broken streetlights, inhuman and unreadable, like fire simmering behind glass. He glances at youâjust for a moment. You canât read the expression. Indifference? Curiosity? Whatever it is, it sends a chill through your bones.
Without a word to you, he turns and stalks toward the two men groaning on the ground.
"Seems you were too busy harassing women to remember to bring me what Iâm rightfully owed," the man snarled, voice low and sharp like broken glass. "No matter. I warned you I'd get it back in blood."
The fat one scrambles, shielding his face with his arms, whimpering. "Sylus! Please! We can stiâ"
His begging is cut off by a choked, wet gurgle. His throat clenches under invisible pressure, red mist coiling tighter and tighter around his neck. His eyes bulge. Feet kick. Hands claw at nothing.
The skinny one tries to run. He scrambles up, limping, almost making it two steps before something grabs his ankle. The mist againâfaster this time. It twists, tightens, and thenâ
SNAP.
A sickening crack splits the air, sharp and final. His ankle bends the wrong way, bone giving way with a sound that makes bile rise in your throat. He collapses, screaming in agony.
You canât take it anymore.
You shut your eyes and cover your ears, curling into yourself as tightly as you can. The screams, the choking, the crunch of boneâit all keeps going, echoing in your skull even through your hands.
You just want it to stop.
A few moments of muffled chokes and screams...and then silence.
Not the kind of silence that feels peaceful, but the thick, eerie kind that makes your skin crawl. Your ears ring faintly, and your breath stutters in your chest as if your body refuses to believe itâs over.
You breathe heavily, chest heaving as you try to calm the shaking in your limbs. The cold from the ground seeps through your soaked clothes, but you barely register it. Your hands are still pressed over your ears, your fingers curled so tightly theyâre starting to ache. It takes every ounce of courage to peel them away and crack your eyes open.
You're surprisedâno, stunnedânot to see the gruesome aftermath you expected. No blood. No bodies. No twisted limbs or broken faces. In fact, there's zero trace of the men who had once stood there, like the earth had swallowed them whole and wiped away the evidence.
You blink rapidly, trying to make sense of the empty space in front of you. Adrenaline is still racing through your veins, making your vision blur slightly around the edges. The only sound now is the soft crunch of gravel beneath a shoeâmeasured, unhurried.
Your eyes dart toward the movement. You watch as Sylus bends down slowly, like he has all the time in the world, and picks up something small and shiny. At first, it looks like a shard of glass, almost invisible in the dim light. But it catches a flicker from the nearest working lampâalmost clear, glinting faintly with an internal glow that pulses like a heartbeat.
"That's..." you whisper, barely able to hear your own voice. Your eyes widen as the pieces click into place.
A protocore?? You had never seen one so close up before.
They were supposed to be rare. Expensive. Illegal to possess without license, let alone harvest. The kind of stuff people killed over.
You barely get the thought out before he pockets it in one smooth motion. Then he turns toward you.
Those red eyes lock onto yours like heâs been waiting for this moment all night. They burn with a strange intensity, unreadable and terrifying and impossible to look away from. He takes a step closer, and you flinch before you can stop yourself.
But he doesn't speak. He just studies you. Eyes roaming all over you.
And in that instant, you realize something unsettling: heâs not trying to intimidate you. Heâs evaluating you. Like heâs sizing you up for something you donât yet understand.
Your breath hitches, throat dry, mind racing. Who was this man? What had you just witnessed?
You squeeze your eyes shut as he suddenly walks toward you. Shit. You were probably next.
You just watched a man commit murder, two murders no less. Of course you were next as the witness. Your pulse hammers against your ribcage as panic floods you. Why didnât you run when you had the chance? Why the hell did you freeze?
You brace yourself for the worst, chest tightening as your breath stalls in your throat. Every step he takes echoes louder than the last, like the final countdown to something irreversible. The air around you feels charged, heavy with power and blood.
But instead of pain or a final breath, you feel something else.
A soft, warm weight settles across your shoulders.
Fabric. A jacket.
You flinch at first, confused, until the warmth begins to seep into your frozen skin. The cold on your back evaporates slightly, replaced by the comforting weight of thick, dry fabric. Your eyes flutter open, hesitation making your lashes tremble as you lift your gaze.
He's standing just inches away, crouched down, eyes unreadable in the dim light. No expression.
"For your...situation," the man says evenly, voice low but firm, eyes briefly flicking to your torn shirt and the state of your exposed chest.
Your bra is wet, see-through, and clinging to your skin. You gasp in embarrassment, face flushing hot, and immediately rush to close the jacket over yourself, clutching the lapels with both hands. Your fingers shake, knuckles paling from gripping so tight.
"S-sorry..." you whisper, voice small and shaken. You donât even know what youâre apologizing for...your appearance, your weakness, your existence? But the word slips out anyway.
He simply sighs, standing up and running his fingers through his hair. The motion is slow, tiredâlike heâs dragging the weight of something heavier than tonightâs encounter. His fingers rake back through the white-grey strands, revealing the sharp edges of his face, shadowed under the streetlights. His posture eases, but not from comfortâmore like indifference. The threat is gone, and so is his interest. But his eyes...they remain hard. Crimson still burns faintly beneath his lashes, like coals left smoldering.
"Do you always apologize for things that aren't your fault?"
The question lands like a blade, too casual to be comforting. Cold. Rhetorical. He doesnât give you a chance to answer. Doesnât seem like he wants one.
Without waiting for a response, he turns his back to you.
"I assume you know how to keep your mouth shut. Have a good night."
Your pulse spikes.
His name...his name was Sylus. That was what that man had called him.
It hits you like a gunshot.
That name. Youâve heard it beforeâin whispers, in rumors passed through alleyway trades and late-night conversations that always ended in warning. There was talk of a syndicate that lived in the bones of the city. Powerful. Untraceable. It didnât operate within the law. It was the law, in places like this. Onychinus. And at the top of it all, one name. Ruthless. A demon with red eyes they say.
Sylus.
But it was rumored no one had actually seen him. Or not lived long enough to give details.
Could this really be him?
Your breath quickens as your heartbeat stutters in your chest. Slowly, shakily, you get to your feet. The alley feels impossibly long, the lights dimmer than they were before. Your legs tremble beneath you, unstable, the weight of everything finally catching up to your body. The jacket around your shoulders slips slightly, reminding you it's still there. Heavy. Warm. His.
You reach out.
Not because youâve planned it. But because some part of you needs to.
Instinct. Desperation. A pull you canât name.
Your fingers brush against his arm and clutch tightly.
"Please wait! Sylus!" you cry, louder than you expect, voice cracking under the strain of exhaustion, fear, and something raw you hadnât felt in a long timeâhope.
He stops mid-step.
The world halts with him.
The buzz of lights, the distant city humâit all dies. The only thing you hear now is the frantic pounding of your heart.
This is crazy. Absolutely insane. You must have a death wish. What the hell were you thinking, grabbing him like that? Demanding the attention of someone who could crush people without a thought? Your stomach churns with fear, twisting itself into knots, but something inside you refuses to shrink away.
Youâre still standing. That has to mean something, right?
If he wanted to kill youâhe wouldâve already.
And besides, even if he wasnât Sylusâeven if this was all some massive coincidenceâhe was clearly someone powerful enough to make people vanish into mist. Someone important enough to be feared in this city. And feared men didnât worry about rent. Feared men had power. And power meant money. And money...
Money meant stability.
A steady job. A real paycheck. Enough to cover groceries without counting every coin. It meant the possibility of fixing your old laptop, maybe even affording a new pair of shoes without soles worn thin. A chance at reclaiming some control, some pride without begging or risking your life.
Sylus doesnât turn fully. Just tilts his head slightlyâenough to glance at you from over his shoulder. Itâs a subtle motion, but the weight behind it still makes your breath catch.
The look in his eyes pins you in place. Itâs not anger. Itâs colder. Calculating. Like heâs measuring you for something. Or deciding if youâre worth the air youâre still breathing.
"Not many are so bold to call me by my name so fiercely on the first meeting," he says. His tone is unreadable, smooth and dry, like stone scraped across silk.
You canât tell if he's amused. Annoyed. Or seconds away from deciding youâre a loose end that needs cutting.
Then, without a hint of emotion, he adds, "Speak. I have things to attend to."
Your heart skips. Panic swells again in your chest, but itâs different nowâwarmer, messier. Your fingers tremble as you release his arm. The courage you had seconds ago is unraveling fast under the weight of his presence.
"SyâI mean, sir..." you stammer, bowing your head quickly, instinctively, as if submission might protect you. "Thank you. For saving me...I just wanted to askâ"
You pause, breath shaky, gathering whatever's left of your pride and resolve. This is insane. This could end so, so badly. But your options ran out a long time ago.
You suck in a breath, chest tightening.
"Please give me a job..."
The words hang there, small but thunderous in the stillness. You know how it sounds. Pathetic. Desperate.
He turns now, slowly, and for the first time you see his full expression. His face twists in slight confusion, one brow raised. "You want...a job? You want me to give you a job?" he repeats, frowning as if the concept itself is absurd. Like you're speaking a language he's never bothered to learn.
Shit. Say something. Make it convincing. Say anything.
You bow your head in shame, your voice wobbling. "I'm sorry, I know itâs sudden! I just...I just got fired and I donât have many options. Iâll lose my apartment soon if I canât pay..." Your voice cracks, and you start to sniffle, humiliation burning hot in your chest. You wrap his jacket tighter around yourself like itâs armor, like it can hide how much you're unraveling.
Sylus hums in acknowledgment. Itâs not agreement, not exactlyâjust a sound to let you know heâs still listening. Still watching. Then his voice comes again, even colder this time.
"I'm not a charity. I don't take on the weak."
The words hit like a slapâsharp, final. Your stomach drops, but your mind races.
You scramble for somethingâanything thatâll keep him from walking away.
"Iâm very useful, actually!" you blurt, lifting your head so fast it makes your vision swim. The words come out fast, breathless, desperate. "I can clean, cook, fix things, run errands, I learn fastâI donât complain, and I donât need much! Please, Iâll do whatever you need. Just give me a chance. I donât have anyone else."
Your voice is trembling now, but you keep talking, like if you stop, youâll shatter. "Iâve worked double shifts on no sleep, Iâve handled angry customers, cleaned up all kinds of fluids from bathroom stalls, learned how to stretch a bag of rice for a weekâIâm not weak, Iâve just never been given a shot by someone who matters."
The alley is silent again, dense and waiting. A breeze slips past, carrying the scent of rust and smoke. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails and fades.
Youâre still staring at him, heart pounding so loud it drowns out your thoughts. Hands clenched into tight fists at your sides. You can feel your knees threatening to buckle, but you stay upright. You wonât beg. If he says no again you'll accept your fate.
At least you'll have tried.
Sylus doesn't seem moved by your emotional outburst, but something shifts behind his eyes. Heâs not dismissiveâheâs pondering. Cold logic at work, turning your words over in his mind with clinical precision.
"Cleaning, huh..." he scoffs softly, the sound low and rough, like gravel underfoot. There's a flicker of somethingâamusement? Skepticism?âas a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He slips his hands into his coat pockets, the gesture fluid and deliberate. Nothing about him is rushed. Heâs the kind of man who never speaks or moves without intent.
"If I had a nickel for every time someone I saved begged to work for me right after...well, Iâd have 3 nickels technically." He let out a low chuckle. "This was surely unexpected."
You blink, trying to read his expression. Your heart is hammering in your chest, your breath caught somewhere in your throat. What does that even mean? Three nickels?? What was he talking about?
"So...does that meanâ?" you start to ask, your voice cracking under the weight of hesitant hope.
He doesnât answer immediately. Instead, he turns his head, gaze drifting toward the skyline like heâs already moved on. His silhouette is framed by the hazy orange glow of a streetlamp, the red mist still curling faintly at his feet. When he speaks again, the words cut through the silence like a blade.
"I'll entertain this 'job' for you. But you have to live up to the standard you've set for yourself. Otherwise, you'll be gone faster than you can even breathe."
His tone is flat. Not cruel, but not kind either. Itâs a warningâsharp, unflinching, final.
You donât move. For a moment, you forget how. The alley seems to pause with you, the air thick with something unspoken. And then it hitsâ
Your heart swells. Joy floods your chest in a violent, overwhelming surge. It feels like your ribs might split from the pressure of it. You almost canât believe you heard him right.
"Yes! Of course! I wonât let you down!" you blurt out, too fast, too eager, but thereâs no stopping the emotion rushing out of you. You bow your head deeply, again, againâgrateful, desperate, stunned.
Sylus sighs, long and drawn-out, the sound edged with the kind of exasperation that says youâre already a handful. He rolls his eyes with a quiet mutterâsomething you canât make outâand turns on his heel.
He begins walking away without another word.
Panic flares in your chest.
"W-wait... where do I go? When do I start?" you call after him, stumbling a few steps forward. The weight of his jacket is still warm on your shoulders, grounding you in the surreal moment.
He doesnât break stride. Doesnât turn. But his voice drifts back to you, clear and crisp as ever.
"Iâll be back in three days. Tallest building in the city. Youâve seen it. Eleven PM. Donât be late."
And just like thatâheâs gone.
His body dissolves into a swirl of red mist that coils around him and bursts outward, vanishing into the night like smoke drawn into a vacuum. Itâs silent again. No footsteps. No echoes. As if heâd never been there at all.
You stand frozen, jacket clutched tightly in your fists, staring at the empty space he left behind. The chill of the night wraps around you, but your skin burns from adrenaline.
Three days.
Tallest building in the city.
You whisper the words like a vow, repeating them to yourself again and again, willing them to anchor you to this reality. Your breath is shaky, your pulse pounding, but for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you feel alive.
You werenât dreaming.
You actually got a job.
Why so late at night, though? Maybe he didnât want you seen. Maybe it was a testâor maybe the day just wasnât a place people like you belonged in his world. Then again, in the N109 Zone, there wasnât much of a day to begin with. The sky was always dark, the sun just a rumor behind a layer of industrial haze. But still...even under dim lights and darker skies, this felt like something new.
A clean slate.
Sylus wasnât sure what he was doing.
Hiring a random woman he saved to be his housekeeper? It was reckless. It was unnecessary. And it was completely unlike him. Even now, as he sat alone in his office, the question churned at the back of his mind like a splinter he couldnât remove.
Unbeknownst to you, Onychinus had already had housecleaning staff. A full team, trained and vetted, all handpicked to maintain control and order of the base. But the moment he returnedâbarely hours after dragging two bodies into the shadows and watching you fall apart in front of himâheâd given a simple, final order: dismiss the entire cleaning unit. No explanation.
He hadnât cared about anything but the image still seared into his mind: a dirt-covered girl shivering in his coat. His coat.
It had been easier to lie to himself at first. You needed help. Thatâs all it was. A brief act of pity. A one-time gesture. Something to balance the scales after taking two lives without hesitation. Maybe even a little entertainment to break the monotony.
But something about you unsettled him.
The way youâd looked up at him from the groundâmud streaked across your cheek, clothes soaked and cut, lips trembling, chest exposed but your eyesâŠThere was fear, yes, but beneath it, a defiant glimmer. Something that sparked against the cold stone he called his conscience.
Heâd felt it. A pang in his chest. It had no business being there. Unfamiliar and unwanted.
So he did what he always did when something unimportant peeked his interest. Ignore it. He even tried to end the conversation before it even started.
But then youâd grabbed him.
That tiny, trembling hand curling around his arm like he was a lifeline. Not to manipulate. Not to seduce. Just to hold on. And asked him for a job of all things. You had no other options. You were recently fired. About to lose your apartment. The perfect excuse to have his new interest near him.
That had done something to him.
Something violent and strange. Something possessive. A pulse beneath the surface that refused to quiet.
And in that instant, Sylus had stopped making excuses.
Now, he stood in his office, watching you on the security feed. You moved through the suite like a ghost trying to prove you still belonged among the livingâscrubbing at already clean surfaces, adjusting already perfect details. Your back was straight, shoulders tense, every movement painfully precise.
You were trying so hard. It had been weeks since then and you were still trying to fit in.
Trying not to be a burden. Trying not to mess up. Trying to earn a place no one had offered you.
It was adorable.
It was raw, honestâand it stirred something far more possessive than he liked to admit. You didnât know how to rest. You only knew how to survive. Every over-polished surface, every obsessively straightened object reeked of someone beggingânot for praise, but for permission to exist. It wasn't just endearing. It was maddeningly cute. You were trying so hard, and you didn't even realize who you were trying to impress. Him. All of it was for him.
And he couldnât look away.
There was something feral in the way you moved, a quiet desperation dressed up in duty. Like a cat that hadnât been given safety in so long, it wouldnât know what to do with peace if it had it. That kind of survival wasnât just familiar, it was intimate.
And you didnât yet understand that the moment you reached for him in that alley, you stopped being a stray kitten.
You became his.
And you didnât yet realize that he hadnât brought you here to mop floors.
He told himself he was still in control. That this was still about curiosity, about amusement. That he was just studying you. Surely, he'd get bored. Fire you, and move on.
But even he didnât believe that anymore. Not after seeing you a second time when you arrived on your first day. That same feeling had returnedâsharper now, more insistent, like something gnawing at the base of his spine. You were under his roof, moving quietly through his space, wearing the weight of his attention like it might crush you. And still you kept going. Still you tried. Even brought him back his jacket. It was infuriating. It was addictive.
What was it about you that made him feel like he couldnât stop watching? What exactly had ignited this itch under his skin, this tightening in his chest? You werenât extraordinaryâat least not by normal standards. But maybe that was the point. You were quiet. Unassuming. But beneath all of that, he could sense something uncut and wild. Something no one else had tried to reach.
And now it was his.
He needed to know more. He needed to peel back every layer until he understood what, exactly, had hooked him so deep heâd broken his own rules.
Because Sylus never did anything without purpose.
And he hadnât fired an entire staff, hired only you, and rewired a dozen camera anglesâŠjust to be charitable.
He had done it to keep you where he could see you.
Your reaction when he walked out half naked, dripping from the shower a few days ago had been amusing, though he didnât show it. He'd done it on purpose to see your reaction. The way your face flushed, the way your gaze darted anywhere but at himâit had been a moment he savored quietly, filed away for later. You really thought you could hide it. How flustered you were. How small you felt in his presence.
That habit of apologizing for everything, thoughânow that grated. Like nails on glass. Heâd have to break that out of you eventually. No one in his world got away with empty words, and he didnât tolerate the kind of weakness that came from guilt without conviction. He often wondered what kind of pain and trauma turned someone into thatâinto a person who apologized just for breathing.
HoweverâŠhe didnât completely mind if you were a bit weak.
Weak people were easy to keep an eye on. Easy to understand. Easy to protect.
He watched the screen again, eyes narrowing slightly as you pulled a stool across the polished floor to reach a high shelf. He saw it immediately. You hadnât pulled one of the legs out all the way.
It would collapse under you.
He exhaled, annoyed but composed, and in a blinkâhis form dissolved in a swirl of red mistâhe was gone from the office. A breath later, he was standing in the kitchen.
You didnât even notice him behind you, too busy reaching to rearrange items on the top shelf, lips pursed in focus. You were murmuring something under your breathâmaybe a list, maybe just the words you used to fill silence, but it didnât matter. Your voice was soft, distracted, and it did nothing to prepare you for the presence behind you.
Sylus stood silently in the doorway, arms folded, posture impossibly still. His eyes tracked every movement you made with the precision of a predator, narrowed with cold intensity as he studied your choice of outfit.
A skirt again. Of all things. To clean in.
It shouldnât have surprised him, but it did. It clashed so violently with the rest of youâyour quiet demeanor, your constant apologies, your hesitant glances like you were afraid of taking up space. Heâd pegged you as cautious. Careful. Maybe even prudish. But a skirt like that? That was either reckless...or intentional.
There was no middle ground.
His gaze moved downward, slow and deliberate, and he didnât even try to stop it. Your legs were bare, shifting with each tentative movement, the muscles in your calves flexing delicately as you struggled for balance. They looked too smooth, too soft for someone who lived in the N109 Zone. You werenât made for this place. Not really. And yet, here you were, stretching and tiptoeing as if you had something to prove.
The hem of your skirt lifted slightly as you reached higher, just enough to tease. Just enough to show the dip where your thigh met your hip, the subtle curve of your ass beneath the thin, clinging fabric. He stared, jaw flexing, something animal and possessive threading through his blood like poison.
Quite the choice indeed.
You didnât know what you were inviting.
And maybe thatâs what made it worse.
He inhaled slowly through his nose, his irritation mountingânot at you, not exactly. At the way he responded. At the way his body reacted, heat flooding low in his gut just from watching you stretch in that stupid skirt. You had no idea what you were doing to him, what kind of restraint it took not to close the distance, not to press his hand flat against the small of your back and bend you over the marble counter just to make a point.
Then his attention flicked to the stool.
He noticed it instantly: the leg, barely extended, shaky. A disaster waiting to happen. And you, too distracted to realize it. Too busy trying to impress. Too busy trying to earn your place.
He couldâve called out.
He didnât.
He watched.
Three seconds passed.
Two.
One.
The stool gave out beneath you, the sharp crack of metal folding breaking the moment like glass.
You yelped, arms flailing, and your body dropped fast, too fast.
But the floor never came.
In one fluid movement, before your breath could even finish escaping your throat, he was there.
His arms snapped around you, catching you mid-fall with unflinching strengthâone arm anchoring your waist, the other locked across your back like steel. The force of the motion sent your body into his, chest against chest, your breath stolen not by impact, but by proximity.
You collided not with cold tileâbut with him.
With warmth.
You gasped, hands curling instinctively into the front of his shirt. His muscles shifted under your fingersâhard, tense, unwavering.
His face hovered inches from yours. Red eyes locked onto your expression, studying every flicker of panic, every rapid breath you took.
You started flailing in his arms, clearly panicking, eyes wide with embarrassment and confusion. The contactâtoo sudden, too closeâhad scrambled your senses. You didnât know what to do with yourself, writhing slightly in his grip as if you could squirm away from the electricity between you. Your breath hitched, hands pressing feebly against his chest, but he held you like he had no intention of letting go until he was ready.
Inwardly, Sylus chuckled, dark amusement curling behind his otherwise unreadable eyes. You were flustered beyond reason, struggling in his hold like a bird that had flown into the jaws of a predator. It was almost sweet. Ridiculous, really, how easy it would be to keep you. A word, a gesture, a little pressureâand you'd fold like paper.
"I'm so sorry! I didn't realize you were there!" you panted, cheeks burning as you tried harder to escape his grasp. Your voice cracked slightly, high and breathless, and your fingers gripped at his shirt like you werenât sure whether to push him away or hold on.
Reluctantly, he let you go. His arms unwrapped from around you with a slowness that betrayed how much he didnât want to. Every inch of lost contact felt like something stolen. He could still feel the impression of your body against hisâyour warmth, your weight, the exact curve of your waist where his fingers had fit so perfectly.
Heâd much rather have you pinned underneath him on the cold marble floor, your wrists above your head, that flushed face staring up at him in breathless silence. The image wasnât just tempting, it was consuming.
Instead, he straightened calmly. He smoothed his shirt with a deliberate hand, as if nothing had happened, as if his blood wasnât simmering just beneath the surface. His expression slipped back into its usual cold neutrality, though his eyes lingered.
"What did I say about apologizing for nothing?" he said sternly, his voice cutting through the air like the crack of a whip.
You froze. The sound of his voice triggered a visible change. Your expression fell into sorrow, your shoulders curling inward like a scolded child, your hands falling limp at your sides. You avoided his gaze, eyes cast downward as if you expected punishment.
"Iâyeah. Right. I'll work on it," you murmured, voice small and brittle.
He watched the way your lips trembled. The way your posture folded in on itself. You thought apologizing would save you. That submission would earn mercy.
You were far too weak and innocent for your own good.
And he wanted to be the one to destroy it.
Touch by touch, until your shame melted into heat, until your gasps became moans, and the floor beneath you was scattered with torn, forgotten clothing. Heâd peel away your innocence like silk, savoring each layer, each tremble, each moment of surrender.
Ignoring the growing hardness in his pants, Sylus turned his attention to his watch, feigning indifference as the tension coiled like a vice in his abdomen. Every nerve in his body felt wound tight, a hum beneath his skin he was trying very hard not to show.
"Arenât you supposed to be heading home anyway?" he asked, voice cool and measured, each syllable sharp with veiled command. His gaze flicked to you and then lingered, unwilling to fully detach. You never noticed how much he watched you.
You bit your lip before dragging your tongue across it nervously, a subconscious gesture, but one he immediately clocked. That innocent, uncertain movement stirred something primal in him. It was the kind of unintentional tease that made his jaw tighten. That made him want to reach out and tilt your chin up just to see if you'd tremble under the weight of his full attention.
"Yeah...I was just doing some extra work," you replied, voice quiet, almost hesitant. You fidgeted with the hem of your skirt as if trying to distract yourself from his stare. "Hoping it would warm up a little if I waited. Itâs freezing today. I'm not looking forward to walking honestly."
He followed your gaze to the wide expanse of floor-to-ceiling windows. Frost clung to the edges of the glass like white scars. The world outside looked like it had been locked in ice. It was the kind of cold that stole the breath from your lungs, bit into skin, made the city feel even more hollow and harsh.
And yet, you'd chosen that outfit.
His eyes dropped again, deliberately this time. The skirt. Thin, flimsy. Just enough fabric to cover you, but not enough to shield you. No tights. No layers. No intention of warmth. Your legs were bare. The skin flushed from chill and movement.
Why?
You werenât actually this stupid were you? You were cautious. Quiet. Observant. Which meant this wasnât accidental. Not a miscalculation.
No, this had to be deliberate. Maybe you weren't as innocent as he had previously assumed?
"Ah...I knocked some stuff down when I fell," you muttered, crouching low to gather the scattered cans, trying to appear unfazed, as if your body hadnât just been caught by his in a moment of pure vulnerability. Your voice was soft, flustered but casual, an obvious cover. You didnât want him to see the way your hands trembled slightly, or how your breath still hadnât quite steadied. But to Sylus, nothing about the moment was casual. He remained frozen where he stood, posture straight and calculated, his eyes locked onto you with a focus that felt less like curiosity and more like predation. He was studying. Dissecting. Memorizing.
He waited for the phrase heâd heard so many times from your lips. That anxious, habitual little âIâm sorryâ that you wore like a second skin. Your default reaction. But it never came. Instead, you stayed silent, concentrating on your task. Your lips pressed into a thin line.
That flicker of growthâit struck him harder than it should have.
You were learning. Adapting. Sharpening under pressure like a blade honing itself on stone. And it didnât ignite pride in him. No, pride was far too tame. What he felt clawing its way through his chest was something darker. Possession. The need to mark what was his before anyone else could lay claim. He was already changing you in subtle ways.
His eyes traveled down, following the subtle tension in your limbs as you reached forward. The way the fabric of your skirt tightened over the swell of your hips made his jaw clench. The hem hit just right. Creased around your thighs. Teasing. Just enough to suggest, not enough to reveal. Until you shifted just a bit further, and the lace revealed itself.
Not much. Just a whisper. A delicate edge of pale fabric tracing along your skin.
Lace underwear. Definitely not silkâhe knew better. The thread count and finish marked it as something affordable, not luxury. But that didnât matter. That wasnât what caught his attention.
It was the fact that you had worn it at all.
Worn something pretty. Something intimate. Something entirely hidden from the world.
Why?
You didnât strike him as someone who put thought into seduction. You didnât wear your body with confidenceâyou shrank into it, hid behind it. And yetâŠthat lace told a different story. Whether it was for comfort, confidence, or something more unspoken, it was a secret softness tucked under the armor of your survival.
Something no one else was meant to see.
And yet here he was, seeing it. Claiming it in his mind. Making it his.
He didnât realize heâd stopped breathing until his chest ached. The image of you crouched low, vulnerable and unaware, your body wrapped in fabric he now felt a savage urge to tear off seared itself into the hollow of his mind.
The urge to touch you rose inside him like a tidal wave. He imagined gripping you by the waist, hauling you up effortlessly into him. Pin you against the counter just to hear the sound youâd make. The feel of your weight against him. He could already envision the way youâd look pinned against him, breath stuttering, lips parted, eyes wide and unsureâbegging without knowing what for.
He ground his teeth. The thoughts were consuming. And entirely uninvited.
No. Not uninvited. JustâŠunacted upon.
He drew in a breath, a quiet exhale through his nose as he forced the heat back down into the pit of his spine, burying it beneath layers of discipline and ice.
Then, he spokeâvoice low, the edges smoothed by control but still thick with gravity.
"How about I take you home today?"
The shift in your expression was immediate. You snapped upright, startled, your eyes wide and flickering with something he didnât expect.
Hope.
It landed like a blow. Your face opened up, lips parting slightly, shoulders lifting in surprise. For a moment, it looked like you might even smile. But you caught yourself. Reeled it back in like a secret.
Still, the damage was done. Heâd seen it.
You looked at him like he was safe. Like his offer meant salvation instead of danger. And the strangest part of it all? That look made something in his chest ache.
You were so damn cute. So reactive.
So completely unguarded.
It made him want to cradle you in his hands. And then use those same hands to crush you with desire.
He envisioned you again...only this time, you were in his bed. That same skirt hiked up around your waist, the lace shredded by his fingers, your thighs parted, eyes glazed and trembling as you whispered his name like a confession.
"I'd really appreciate that...I live a little far. Um... you might not like my neighborhood. It's...old," you said hesitantly, brushing your skirt down as you rose to your feet. Your voice wavered just slightly, betraying the anxiety buried beneath your words. There was something in the way you said itâapologetic, like you were ashamed of this part of your life but knew better than to hide it. You tried to make yourself look more put-together, smoothing the fabric over your thighs as if that alone could shift the image in his mind.
Sylusâs eyes followed your every movement, taking in more than just your body language. He was reading youâdissecting the tone of your voice, the pace of your words, the tight way you held your breath between sentences. The word "old" wasnât about age. It was a coded confession. He knew exactly what it meant. Heâd heard it before from people who came from nothing, who had learned how to make do with what little the world threw them.
It meant you had lived with less for too long.
His jaw ticked slightly as the image built in his mind. He imagined your space, trying to piece it together from the clues you hadnât meant to give him. He could see the threadbare couch you probably slept on when your bed got too cold. The one lamp with the flickering bulb. The box fan in the window struggling against the summer heat. He imagined you curled up in the corner with a secondhand blanket, your knees drawn up, trying to stay warm while the outside world threatened to bleed in.
He pictured your kitchen. Cramped. One chair missing a leg. A fridge that rattled when it kicked on. Dishes stacked on the counter because the sink wouldnât drain properly. He imagined you cooking something cheap but warm, something you stretched over a few days, all while wearing that same skirt that had ridden up earlier. That lace underwear hidden underneath. That softness, that sweetness, surrounded by decay.
And it did something to him.
You didnât belong in a place like that. That lifeâthe struggle, the worry, the scarcity...it didnât fit someone like you. Not with the way your lips parted when you were flustered, not with the way you bit the inside of your cheek when you were nervous. You werenât hardened. Not yet. And the idea that the city would only further sink its teeth into you made something sharp twist in his chest.
It didnât suit you. None of it did.
No, you were meant for softness. For warmth. For luxury. He could see itâclear as dayâyou draped across one of his penthouse chaise lounges, wearing something silk he bought you. Maybe youâd still be shy at first, still fidget with the hem of your skirt, but it would be different. Youâd glow. Comfortable. Fed. Protected. His.
His mind fed on the thought, deeper and darker. He imagined you standing barefoot in his kitchen, reaching for a glass in one of his cabinets, his oversized shirt hanging off your shoulders, lace peeking through. Youâd look over your shoulder when he walked in, eyes soft, lips parted just for him.
And heâd take care of you.
Youâd never have to beg a landlord for hot water again. Youâd never worry about bills or broken locks or freezing nights. Youâd live where you belonged, someplace warm. Safe and lavish.
He watched you brush imaginary dust from your skirt, still trying to preserve a scrap of dignity, and the thought struck him again with more weight than before.
You didnât even know what you deserved.
But he was trying not to get ahead of himself. Not when his thoughts had already begun to spiral too far into territory heâd sworn to avoid. He knew better. He always had. He was a man carved from violence and control, a life defined by taking, by silence, by blood. Someone like him wasnât good for you.
Someone like him would ruin you. Corrupt you. Strip away that softness heâd started to crave.
And no matter how badly he wanted itâhow deeply the image of you in his bed, in his life, had begun to root itselfâhe wasnât sure how youâd handle him.
So he kept his expression unreadable, the desire clawing beneath his skin tucked away with practiced precision. Without another word, he simply turned and gestured for you to follow him. His movements were precise, clipped, careful not to betray the storm in his chest.
You hesitated for only a second, then fell into step behind him. Your footsteps were light but uncertain, the rhythm of your shoes against the polished floor betraying your nervousness. You trailed behind like a shadowâobedient, unsureâbut still close enough that he could feel your presence pressing faintly at his back.
As you made your way toward the private elevator that led to his parking garage, Sylus kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, every muscle in his body straining not to look at you. Not to reach. Not to touch.
Because if he did...
He might not stop.
The car ride was quiet and long, the kind of stretch that gave Sylus too much time to think. Not that he let it show. His hands remained steady on the wheel, gaze fixed on the road as the city slipped by in shadows and glimmers of neon. You sat beside him in silence, arms tucked tightly against yourself, trying not to fidget, though your body language betrayed you. Five minutes in, he noticed the way you subtly curled inward, trying to conserve warmth. Your shoulders trembled ever so slightly.
Without a word, he reached down and adjusted the temperature. The heater clicked on with a low hum, warmth slowly spilling into the cabin. He didnât say anything, didnât look at you. He simply did it. Heâd never used it beforeânot once. He never needed to. He hadnât even realized it worked. But for you? He made it work.
A few minutes later, you gave him your address, voice low and mumbled, already thick with exhaustion. He barely acknowledged it, just nodded slightly and continued driving. Not because he needed the directions.
He already knew exactly where you lived.
Of course he did.
Heâd had Mephisto tail you every night since that first encounter. Every step you took home, every street you crossed, every time you looked over your shoulder or hugged your arms tighter when the wind picked upâhe knew it all. Heâd seen the route. Studied the pattern. Memorized the way your silhouette moved beneath the flickering street lamps.
He hadnât told you.
Youâd never asked.
While he hadnât yet stepped foot inside your apartment, heâd seen enough to picture it. The buildingâold, cracked, unwelcomingâtold him more than words ever could. The peeling paint around the doorframe. The stairwell that looked like it might collapse with one wrong step. The busted callbox out front.
And it made something settle heavy in his gut.
But beside him, you had fallen asleep. Head tilted toward the window, lashes soft against your cheek, lips parted just slightly. Completely unaware.
When he finally pulled into the shadowed lot outside your apartment building, Sylus didnât move to wake you right away. He simply shifted the car into park and turned slightly in his seat, his eyes tracing the soft lines of your sleeping face in the dim glow of the dashboard. There was a rare stillness to you nowâyour body slack, your breathing deep and steady, lips parted slightly with each quiet exhale. It was a version of you he rarely got to see: unguarded, untouched by the weight of the day, vulnerable in a way that pulled something tight and possessive in his chest.
He studied your expression, searching it like a map for answers he didnât know he wanted. You looked so docile like this. So soft. Your hair slightly mussed from the ride, lashes casting shadows on your cheeks, arms curled loosely around your midsection. How could someone who had been through so much still sleep like thisâstill carry a hint of innocence when everything else around you had tried to beat it out?
His thoughts drifted to the checks. The ones he started giving you after your first week. They werenât modest by any stretch. The amount was enough to make you freeze when he handed you the envelope the first time, your fingers trembling, eyes welling with tears you had tried to blink away. You had thanked him far too many times, voice barely steady.
But since then, heâd noticed something.
No new clothes. No styled hair. No flashy purchases or even a change in your worn-out shoes. You were still the same girlâpractical, quiet, unassuming. And that only deepened the mystery. What were you spending it on? Rent, obviously. Maybe food. But beyond thatâŠ? Debt perhaps?
You hadnât changed a thing about your appearance. Not even for vanityâs sake.
His fingers tapped slowly on the steering wheel, restless with curiosity.
You looked so peaceful. Like nothing in the world could touch you in that moment. The sight of it made his throat tighten.
He wondered when he would get to see you like this again.
You're awoken by a gentle shaking at your shoulder. Disoriented, your eyes blink open slowly, only to meet the cool interior of Sylusâs car and the low hum of the engine winding down. The warmth of the heater still lingers on your cheeks, and you sit up, blinking the sleep from your eyes.
Sylus is watching you, his face unreadable, but thereâs something oddly soft in the way he looks at youâlike heâs memorizing the exact shape of your sleepy expression.
"Ah, thank you. Goodnight," you murmur, still dazed, rubbing your eyes and reaching for the door handle.
"Goodnight," he responds evenly, reaching forward to unlock the passenger side with a click. The sound startles you a little, only now realizing the lock had been engaged from his side the entire time. Your hand lingers on the handle for a second longer, your thoughts slow, muddled. You almost ask about the child safety lockâwhy it was on in the first placeâbut youâre too tired to form the question.
Instead, you step out into the cold. The temperature hits you instantly, sharp and biting, and you hug your coat tighter around your shoulders. The street is dark, quiet, the usual chill of the N109 Zone sinking into your bones. You fumble with your pocket, fingers searching for the familiar jingle of your keys.
Keys...keys...
Your heart skips.
Where are your keys?
You pat your coat, your skirt, even dig into your bag, your movements growing frantic.
Nothing.
Panic starts to bloom in your chest as you realizeâtheyâre not on you.
Shit.
Your stomach sinks. There's no avoiding itâŠyouâll have to ask Sylus. You must have left your keys back at Onychinusâs base during your frantic cleaning and recovery from that near fall. Youâd been too flustered. Too distracted.
Defeated, your shoulders slumping, you turn around and hurry back to the car, your footsteps crunching against the gravel with each rushed step. The wind bites at your face as you approach. Sylus, thankfully, hasnât driven off. Heâs still parked in the same spot, one hand on the wheel, the other idly scrolling through something on his phone, bathed in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.
You tap nervously on the passenger window, hugging your arms to your chest. Almost immediately, his gaze flicks up and he rolls it down with a smooth whirr, red eyes pinning you in place.
"My keys...I think I left them back at Onychinus," you say quickly, cheeks already burning with embarrassment. "This might be a stupid question, but...do you know how to pick a lock?"
So...thatâs how Sylus, without a single word of instruction, plucked a bobby pin from your hair with deft fingers and picked your lock like it was second nature. It took him less than a minute. You stood by stunned, arms crossed against the cold, watching the door click open like it was nothing.
You were amazed, partly by his skill, but mostly by the way he never hesitated. Like helping you break into your own home was just another item on his to-do list. You felt a strange, pressing urge to thank him. He didnât have to do any of this. You were just an employee. A cleaner. One he had only met just a few weeks ago.
So it felt right to do something.
You nervously glanced at him, then gestured toward the open door. "Would you like to come in? Just for a minute. IâI'd like to give you something. A treat. For helping."
He nodded kindly, and followed you in.
The inside of your apartment was exactly what you'd feared he might judge: dingy, too small, and colder than it shouldâve been. There were cracks in the paint and the floor creaked when you stepped inside. But Sylus didnât comment. The only thing that gave away his discomfort was the way he had to crouch slightly to pass through the doorway, tall enough that the frame brushed his shoulders.
You hurried to the small kitchen, pulling out a container from the fridge and placing it carefully in the microwave.
"This is my momâs recipe," you said over your shoulder, fumbling with the buttons. "She gave it to me before she...left."
The quiet stretch between you filled with something unspoken as the microwave hummed.
He didnât press for details. But you could feel his attention lingering. Not just on your words, but on youâyour hands, your nervous movements, the way your voice faltered at the mention of your mother.
Then, softly, he spoke. "You talk about her like sheâs still alive. Like maybe thereâs still a part of you waiting for her to come back."
You froze, startledânot by the words themselves, but by how gently he said them. Like he saw past what you said and into the truth underneath.
"She left without a word," you murmured. "But I guess...yeah. I still cook this like she's coming home."
You really did not want to talk about this anymore, and Sylus seemed to pick up on that instantly. His eyes flicked to the microwave, then back to you, his expression unreadable as always. Without missing a beat, he changed the subject, his voice shifting into something lighter.
"How does it feel to have your boss step foot inside your own home?"
The question caught you off guard, and you let out a nervous little laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. "I donât normally have guests... much less my employer, but itâs been a lot less nerve-wracking than I thought itâd be."
You avoided his gaze, pretending to busy yourself with the food as the microwave dinged softly behind you. Your hands moved on autopilot, but your mind stayed tangled in the oddness of the moment. Sylusâhere, in your crumbling kitchen, ducking under your doorframe, accepting a homemade dish with quiet interest. There was something surreal about it. Like the roles between you had been suspended, just for a night.
And stranger still, you didnât hate it.
âGood. Iâd hate to find out Iâm the most intimidating thing in a room with a flickering lightbulb and a sink from the last century.â
This made you laugh. A real, unfiltered laughâthe kind that caught in your chest and spilled out before you could stop it. It was sharp and sudden, and a little louder than you meant it to be, but you didnât care. It felt good. You hadnât done that in a while.
You wiped your eyes, cheeks warm, the sound still lingering in the air as your gaze drifted to Sylus. He was staring. Not blankly. Not like he was studying you. But almost...softly. Like your laugh had surprised him.
Suddenly self-conscious, you tucked your hair behind your ear and looked away. "Ah...it wasnât that funny, I guess. Iâmâ"
"Sorry?" he finished for you, his tone edged with irony but his eyes still locked on your face.
You sucked in a breath, caught red-handed, but it melted quickly into another quiet laugh. "Yeah, yeahâŠI know."
A beat of silence passes, and then he speaks again, but his voice is lower.
"Don't apologize for that. I like when I hear those kinds of sounds from you. They're pretty."
You aren't sure if you heard him right. Your face heats up instantly, the words echoing in your ears like theyâve carved their way in. "Huh?" you ask, voice quieter than you mean it to be, gaze darting anywhere but his.
The air in the room feels heavier nowâcharged. The warmth from the microwave, the hum of the light overhead, even the distant sound of the city outsideâall of it fades into background noise.
He chuckles under his breath, low and unhurried. "Don't pretend you didn't hear me, sweetie."
You stiffen slightly as he moves, rising from the chair heâd been leaning on with effortless grace. He crosses the small space between you, the closeness making your breath catch. You tilt your head up just enough to see his face in the dim, amber lightingâhis eyes sharp, but glittering with something unreadable.
"In fact," he murmurs, voice dropping just enough to graze against your spine, "I'm wondering what other sounds come out of that pretty mouth of yours."
The distance between you vanishes with every word, and you feel itânot just in your chest, but everywhere.
A slow burn, threatening to catch fire.
"Sylus..." you breathe, your voice barely audible. His expression has shiftedâserious, intense, like heâs bracing himself against something dangerous thatâs already clawing its way to the surface. It makes your stomach twist with nerves, your pulse fluttering beneath your skin like a trapped bird.
He lowers himself suddenly, dropping to one knee in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. The motion is fluid, almost graceful, but the way his gaze locks with yoursâsharp, possessive, hungryâmakes your breath stutter. Itâs like heâs trying to memorize you. Or maybe unravel you.
"I knew it was a mistake coming in here," he mutters, his voice taut, eyes unblinking. "Now I have to ask. How much?"
Your brows furrow, confusion flickering in your expression. "F-for...?"
"A taste," he says flatly. The word lands like a spark in dry brushâno hesitation, no shame, only a simmering edge of something dark and consuming.
You freeze in place. The air feels electric, like it's grown too thick to breathe.
"Do...you meanâ"
"Yes." His voice was low, but certain, as if the question itself had been gnawing at him long before you asked it aloud. "To taste you."
Your lips part, but no words come out. Your breath catches in your throat, heart lurching. Was he serious? The look in his eyes was anything but playful. This wasnât a joke, it couldnât be. His expression was molten intensity, carved from restraint, as if heâd spent weeks biting it back until now.
You blink, stunned. Youâve never been looked at like this. Not with hunger, not with reverence, not with the trembling edge of control threatening to unravel.
Everything in your body screams to move, to react, but you're locked in place, caught in the gravity of something you can't name but feel all the way to your bones.
"Do you want your paycheck early?" he asks, voice softer now, almost coaxing, though thereâs a rawness behind it. It sounds like heâs bargaining more with himself than with you.
You shake your head, words tumbling out. "N-no, itâs fine, Iâ"
"Fuck it," he cuts in sharply, the words punched out of him like he canât hold them back anymore. Heâs breathing harder now, chest rising and falling with restraint that looks like itâs about to shatter. "Do you want three times your paycheck? Just a taste. I promise."
The room feels like itâs spinning. Tension coils so tightly in your chest you feel like it might snap your ribs apart. The look in his eyes is unrelentingâdark, desperate, determined. And still, somehow, controlled. Just barely.
Before you can even find your voice, he reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and pulls out an envelope, thick and heavy, and tosses it onto your nightstand with a quiet but deafening thud.
You stare at it.
Cash. Stacked high, crisp, bound with a strip of paper.
Three thousand dollars.
Enough to pay off everything.
Your rent, your utilities, the credit card bills youâve been dodging, the mounting stack of final notices tucked inside your kitchen drawer. The broken heater youâve been hoping would last just a little longer. Even groceries for the rest of the monthâmaybe two. Gone. All of it, gone. Just like that.
Three thousand dollars was more than reliefâit was oxygen. It was the first exhale after being held underwater too long. It was a full night of sleep. It was a moment of silence after endless noise.
And yet, it sat there on the nightstand like a loaded weapon, wrapped in clean paper and cold temptation. A gleaming symbol of powerâand surrender.
And all for a taste.
Your heart is racing now, thudding so loud in your chest you can barely think over it. Your mouth feels dry. Your limbs are frozen. Youâre not sure what terrifies you moreâthe offer, or how much you want to take it.
He hasnât moved.
Heâs just watching you, waiting, like a wolf crouched at the edge of a line you didn't know you were drawing.
"It'll feel good. I won't hurt you," he says, his voice dropping to something low and coaxingâsoothing like warm velvet, but beneath it, a thrumming urgency that vibrates in the stillness between you. Thereâs a tremor in his restraint, a sharp tension in the way his fingers flex and release at his sides, like heâs physically holding himself back from reaching for you.
You swallow hard, your breath stuttering in your throat as the atmosphere in the room thickens. The heat in his gaze scorches, pressing against your skin like a physical touch. Your pulse skitters against your ribs, every nerve raw and acutely aware of how close he is.
"I don't know..."
"I know Iâm coming off strong," he says again, a note of frustration edging his voiceâbut itâs not aimed at you. Itâs aimed at himself. His eyes donât waver, locked on you like youâre the only thing anchoring him to the ground. "Every second. I see you and I canât breathe. If I do it now, if I can just touch you, just once, maybe I can finally get it out of my head."
You don't say anything for a bit. Your lips part, but the words are stuckâthick and tangled in your throat. Your heart is hammering, each beat echoing against your ribs like itâs trying to shake loose the answer you canât seem to give. Itâs not that you donât want to speakâitâs that youâre overwhelmed. The offer. The money. The tension so tight between your bodies it feels like it could snap. The way he looks at you, like heâs barely holding himself back. Like heâs one breath away from devouring you.
Finally, you manage to whisper, "I donât believe youâŠthree thousand for a...taste? Why not ask to go all the way...?"
Sylus exhales through his nose, slow and measured, but thereâs a weight in that breath. "Because I know you canât handle that," he says, his voice low but firm. Thereâs no smugness in it. And yet, beneath the calm surface, thereâs a trembleâbarely perceptible but unmistakable. Heâs not unaffected by this. Not even close.
"It would hurt you," he continues, eyes narrowing slightly, his jaw tight. "I donât want that. You think I havenât thought about it? That I havenât imagined it in every possible way? I have. Every day. But Iâm trying to be better than that."
He pauses, and the room stretches out around his silence, dense and vibrating. His eyes stay locked on yours, unblinking. "This...this is my compromise with myself. To not be greedy and just take you."
Youâre frozen, your skin hot, your pulse crashing through your veins. The intensity of his words, the weight of his restraintâitâs almost more intimate than if heâd touched you. Thereâs something terrifying in how controlled heâs being. How much he's holding back.
You swallow, throat tight, and glance back at the envelope on the nightstand.
The money is still there. Staring back at you like a second pair of eyes in the room. Itâs more than just a bundle of cash, itâs a symbol. Of his temptation. Of your need. Of the space where control and desire blur.
Itâs real. Heavy. Life-altering.
Your head is spinning. You know in your heart this is a terrible ideaâyou should say no, shouldn't be entertaining any of this. Every moral fiber in your body is screaming to get up, walk away, salvage whatever shred of dignity you have left. But your brain, more practical, more battered by life, is screaming even louder: you'd be stupid to say no.
You stare down at the floor, the stained edges of your cheap rug blurring in your vision. You canât make sense of it. Why would someone like him want to do this? To you? Of all people? You werenât glamorous, weren't the kind of girl who got attention from men like him. So why was he here, offering money, lowering himself to his knees, saying he wanted to...bury his head between your legs?
Your heart hammers as the silence thickens, every second a pressure cooker of conflicting thoughts and desperate what-ifs.
"Is the amount the issue? I can give more. Itâs no issue," he suddenly interrupts, his voice firm but almost...breathless. The words slice through your spiraling thoughts like a blade, yanking you back to reality. Back to the weight of the momentâand the intensity in his gaze that hasn't faltered once.
"No...I just don't do things like this," you whine, covering your face in shame. Your voice trembles, not just from embarrassment, but from the sheer weight of the moment pressing down on you. Is this really what it had come to? Trading your body for cash? For survival? The idea claws at your insides, a slow burn of humiliation rising in your chest. And worse still, the fear gnaws louderâif you said no, would he fire you? Would he rescind the only lifeline youâve been given in weeks? This strange, fragile opportunity heâd extended might vanish, and with it, the fragile thread holding your life together.
You weren't sure what to think, and that scared you most of all. Because a part of you, a small, shaky part you didnât want to acknowledge, wasnât completely horrified. Not at him.
"I can tell," he says quietly, his voice low and steady. He reaches out and gently moves your fingers away from your face, his touch feather-light, surprisingly careful. Itâs not the grasp of someone impatient or predatoryâitâs...something else. Something worse, maybe. His eyes meet yours, searching with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. You canât read him.
"You donât have to do anything. Just lay there," he murmurs.
His words are soft, almost comforting, but the promise woven into them is anything but. You feel that pressure behind every syllable he speaks, like the tension thatâs been building between you has finally reached its breaking point.
He suddenly moves much closer to you, and instinctively, your body reactsâyou back away, your breath hitching in your throat. The room feels smaller now, his presence taking up all the space like a storm cloud pressing in. You manage to slip past him, heart racing, but your escape is short-lived. The backs of your legs bump against the edge of your bed, halting your retreat with a jolt.
"Are you scared, kitten?" Sylus asks, his voice velvet-soft but unmistakably firm. He steps forward with unsettling calm, each stride deliberate, controlled, like a predator circling prey that it already knows wonât run far. You stumble backward and fall onto the mattress, your palms bracing behind you, eyes wide.
He's over you in an instantâtowering, his body blocking out the low light in the room. His hands brace on either side of your waist, caging you in without touching you. You can feel his warmth, the restrained energy radiating from his skin. Your breath quickens as you look up at him, throat tight, heart hammering a wild rhythm against your ribs.
"Do you think I'm going to hurt you?" he asks, his gaze locked onto yours with unnerving intensity. His voice holds no menace, only quiet certainty, like heâs stating a fact he already knows the answer to.
You shake your head, voice barely a whisper. "N-no, but...are you going to...force me?"
A low chuckle escapes his lips, dark, amused, and disturbingly composed. "If I wanted to force you," he murmurs, his tone like a blade wrapped in silk, "you wouldn't be asking that question. It would be obvious."
One of his hands slides down your side slowly, deliberately, before gliding up your leg. His fingers graze bare skin, teasingly light as they slip beneath your skirt. The contact sends a jolt through you, your muscles tensingânot entirely from fear, but from something hotter, more primal, curling in your stomach.
His touch lingers just long enough to test your reaction, to feel the tremble in your thighs. Heâs watching you like heâs memorizing every micro-expression, every hitched breath, every second of hesitation.
"But you would be a fool to turn down my offer," he says, voice lower now, more dangerous. The calmness in him is unsettling, like heâs already decided how this ends and is simply waiting for you to catch up. "And we both know this."
The way he says itâso certain, so assuredâdoesnât feel like a question. It feels like inevitability. Like a fuse already lit, burning closer and closer to whatever explosion heâs been holding back.
You can barely think past the rush of blood in your ears, past the heat thatâs rising to your cheeks, to your chest. Your thoughts spiral, second-guessing every feeling that bubbles up inside you. Itâs too much. Too fast. Too intense.
He's right...right? This is your best chance to pay off your debt. And he's not even asking for more than a taste. Just a taste. You should just...say yes...right? You try to convince yourself itâs nothingâbut deep down, you know thatâs a lie. Nothing about this is simple. Nothing about Sylus has ever been.
Your mind is a whirlwind of panic and pressure, too tangled to form a coherent answer. Thoughts crash into each otherâfear, doubt, curiosity, need. Before you can gather your thoughts, your breath catchesâ"I-I...ah!"
Sylus lowers his head and begins kissing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. The contact sends a jolt through your body like white-hot electricity, sparking every nerve as it travels down your spine. Your entire body tenses at the sensation, and then melts a second later. Your stomach tightens, breath stuttering as a sharp, unfamiliar heat coils low in your belly, twisting into a knot of want and confusion.
He doesnât rush. No, heâs slow, achingly slow. He savors every inch of skin, every flinch and tremble, as though heâs memorizing the map of your reactions. Each kiss is soft, but deliberate, searing a path into you that lingers long after his lips have moved on. Itâs excruciating in the most maddening way, the kind of teasing that blurs the line between pleasure and torture.
You let out a breathy, broken whine, your fingers clenching in the bedsheets like theyâre the only thing grounding you. He continues, lips trailing with devotion, worship, obsession. His control is terrifyingâand thrilling. Itâs as if he owns you already, and heâs just now getting to unwrap his prize.
"You sound beautiful, sweetie" Sylus murmurs, voice low, rough, vibrating with restrained hunger. It sends another shock of heat through you. He sounds almost pained, like holding himself back is costing him something.
He pauses just long enough to lift his gaze to yours, locking eyes with you in the low light. His mouth still hovers against your skin, warm breath tickling. "Just let me make you feel good."
The words hit like a drug, warm and dizzying, wrapping around your spine and sinking into your thoughts, your bones. His voice pulls you deeper, makes it harder to hold onto doubt. Harder to breathe. You still don't know if you should say yes. You donât even know what you want anymore.
Sylus's fingers slide up under your skirt further, his touch firm and insistent as they wrap over the hem of your panties. "Ah! Waitâ" you start to protest, but his grip tightens, cutting you off. His eyes are filled with a primal hunger, a look that sends a shiver down your spine.
"I'll make it six times your paycheck," he growls, his voice low and commanding. "Lay back and keep still." You can feel the urgency in his tone, the barely restrained desire that threatens to consume him. The cold air hits your now exposed cunt as he roughly pulls off your panties, leaving you vulnerable and at his mercy.
He can't wait for a clear answer anymore. His darkened gaze drinks in the sight of your glistening arousal.
You gasped, a soft "A-ah! Sylus...okay..." escaping your lips as your body reacted instinctivelyâyour thighs tensing, a flush spreading across your cheeks, and a warm ache building deep inside.
You cover your face in heated shame as Sylus pries your thighs apart, his strength leaving no room for resistance. You gasp as he leaves a sudden, hot wet streak of saliva trailing up your inner folds with his tongue, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure mixed with embarrassment through your body. Your lower half feels like it's on fire, every nerve ending alight with anticipation.
"S-stop...!"
You struggle in his grip, trying to back away from the wet sensation, but his hold on you is unyielding. He drags you back into position, lowering his head between your pussy once more. His warm breath teases your sensitive flesh as he begins intricate circles around your swollen bud, his tongue a masterful instrument of pleasure. "Mghn..." you moan, your hands gripping his hair subconsciously, torn between the urge to push him away and the desire to pull him closer, to deepen the exquisite torture of his touch.
"You taste even better than I imagined," Sylus coos, his voice a low, throaty murmur that vibrates against your most sensitive spots. He gives your throbbing clit a break, instead pushing his tongue deeper inside your cunt, exploring your depths with a skill that leaves you breathless. "Ahh!" You nearly arch off the bed, the intensity of the sensation overwhelming.
Only Sylus's steady and strong hands keep you in place, grounding you as waves of pleasure crash over you. You've never felt anything like this before, the vibrations of his voice adding to the aching pleasure that builds with each tortuous stroke of his tongue pushing in and out of your walls. "Don't...talk like that. Just hurry...mghn!" you manage to gasp out, your voice a mix of desperation and shame, urging him to bring you to the edge and over. Sylus truly had no shame with how blunt he often came across. You had often admired that about him.
In this situation though? It was mortifying.
A deep chuckle rumbles in Sylus's chest, a sound that vibrates through you, sending shivers down your spine. He pauses, looking up briefly to gaze into your eyes, studying your distraught and shameful expression with a mix of amusement and hunger. "As you wish, kitten," he murmurs, his voice laced with a promise of pleasure. He moves his tongue back to circle your clit, his touch both teasing and demanding.
As he begins to suck lightly, you let out a sound so primal and filthy that it surprises even you. Your whole body tenses, your core building with a tense pressure that threatens to explode. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and vulnerability that leaves you gasping and clutching the sheets, desperate for release.
"Hah...hah...hah..."
Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat as Sylus licks and devours your pussy with an insatiable hunger. He switches between sucking your clit and licking in between your folds, his tongue relentless in its movements. Each stroke, each suck, builds the tension inside you, pushing you closer to the edge. You can feel the pressure coiling tighter, your body trembling with anticipation. The room fills with the sounds of your desperate pants and his wet, hungry licks, a symphony of raw, unfiltered desire.
You manage to crack open your eyes, catching a glimpse of Sylus's flushed and heated face, his expression one of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He's clearly enjoying himself, his eyes dark with desire and his breath coming in ragged gasps. When you try to quiet your moans by biting down on your lip, he only sucks on your clit harder, drawing out the pleasure until you're practically screaming.
Your legs lock around his head, but he doesn't seem to mind, his focus entirely on the task at hand. Suddenly, he looks up, his eyes narrowed and intense as he locks his gaze with yours. You're a moaning, writhing mess, your body trembling on the edge of release. The last thing you need is to cum with him looking at you like that, his gaze searing into your soul. But it's clear he has no intention of looking away, his stare unyielding and demanding, as if he's determined to watch you unravel completely.
"Fuck! Sylus!" The words tear from your throat, a desperate cry that echoes through the room. But it's too late, the pressure has built to a crescendo, and with one final, powerful suck, it explodes. Your whole body tenses and shivers as a crash of aching pleasure overfills your lower half, waves of ecstasy washing over you, leaving you breathless and trembling.
Your face tears up and you gasp for breath as you ride out the intense orgasm. Sylus watches, his eyes locked on yours, as you unravel on his tongue. He laps up your juices, his movements slow and deliberate, savoring every drop. You twitch and jerk on his mouth, your body convulsing with aftershocks of pleasure, each one sending new waves of sensation coursing through you. He doesn't let up, his tongue continuing to tease and explore, drawing out the feeling until you're a quivering, spent mess, completely at his mercy.
Eventually, the sensations of Sylus's tongue continuing to lick your oversensitive bud become too much, the pleasure bordering on pain. You plead with him to stop, your voice breaking as you burst into tears, overwhelmed by the intensity of the experience. Sylus pauses, his tongue stilling as he licks his mouth, his face softening with a mix of satisfaction and tenderness. He's breathless, his chest heaving as he leans closer to your face. Through your tears and sobs, you can barely see him, but you feel him lean in, his lips capturing yours in a firm, passionate kiss. It's strong and demanding, leaving you helpless to do anything except lean into it. He pries open your mouth with his tongue, exploring and claiming. He pauses between each breath to speak.
"Everything you do...is so damn cute. Even when you're crying... God...what am I supposed to do with you?"
He doesnât ask; he takes, yet not without a strange reverence, like heâs claiming something that was always his to begin with. Your body responds before your mind can catch up. Instinct, surrender, exhaustion, maybe all three. You lean into the kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue, powerless against the storm heâs become.
Everything becomes a blur after that. Your senses dull, body limp from exhaustion, nerves frayed to the point of collapse. Your eyes begin to feel unbearably heavy, each blink slower than the last. You vaguely register movementâhis hands, still careful despite the storm that had just passed, adjusting your position on the bed, guiding your head to the pillow.
You think you hear him murmur something near your ear. Itâs low, almost regretful. âI think Iâve just made things worse for myself.â Or maybe you imagined it. You canât be sure.
Thereâs the faint rustle of fabric, the cool sensation of a cloth against your skin. You open your eyes just enough to catch the shape of him cleaning you with surprising gentleness. Another flutter of vision: a fresh pair of underwear, slipped back into place with care. Then, a sudden weight is placed on the bed beside you. A second envelope of cash.
And thenâŠnothing. Heâs gone. The room is quiet again.
Your eyes finally close, this time for good.
When you wake up the next morning, for a split second, you almost believe you dreamed the whole thing. A strange haze clings to your thoughts, like your mind is desperately trying to rewrite reality into something softer. But the two thick envelopes of cash sitting ominously on your nightstand and bed say otherwise.
You sit up slowly, the ache in your body making it clear last night wasnât just a vivid fantasy. Shame floods your chest as the memories return in jagged pieces. You grip your hair, curling forward on the bed.
"Shit, shit, shitâŠ" you whisper harshly to yourself, your stomach twisting into knots. How were you supposed to go back to work and face him after that? Could you even look him in the eye? Should you even bother showing up again? Or was it better to disappear, let this whole thing vanish behind you like a nightmare?
You try to steady your breathing, to ground yourself, but your thoughts are a chaotic mess. As you sit there, overwhelmed, something shifts in your periphery. You glance toward your front door.
Boxes.
Taped, sealed boxes. You blink, confused. You hadnât ordered anything. You hadnât expected anything. Yet there they wereâstacked neatly by the door like they belonged.
A strange chill rolls down your spine.
What the hell is this?
The first was a box of winter clothes. Not just any clothesâthick, soft-lined wool leggings, a heavy coat with a fur-lined hood, warm gloves that fit your fingers perfectly, thermal socks, and a sturdy pair of boots that looked brand new. The fabric was clearly expensive, designed for someone who actually had to walk in freezing weather. All of it in muted, neutral tonesâdeep gray, soft beige, dark burgundy, as if selected not just for practicality, but to suit you.
The second box held a phone.
Your breath hitched. A brand new, high-end smartphone. Sleek, lightweight, and already powered on. The screen displayed nothing but a single message: a contact preloaded into the device. Just one name.
Sylus.
You swallowed hard. You had only mentioned in passing that you didnât own a phone, something about saving up for one eventually, tossed out in conversation and barely remembered. But he had remembered. Not only that, he had acted on it. Gone out of his way to give you something you hadnât even asked for. He'd even noticed you didn't have proper winter clothes.
Your heart pounded, warmth blooming in your chest so abruptly it startled you. Was this guilt? Remorse for how things had gone last night? Did he feel bad for pushing you past your limits? OrâŠwas this something else?
You didnât know. But whatever the reason, gratitude surged through your veins like a wave.
You had to thank him. But you were too nervous to text him.
The idea of crafting a message was too much. So instead, you threw yourself into getting ready, tugging on the new winter clothes heâd sent. The coat fit like it was tailored for you, hugging your body in a way that made you feel both secure and...oddly seen. The boots were warm and sturdy. Even the gloves made your hands feel less forgotten by the cold.
You rushed to work without checking the time. Your heart beat like a drum in your chest the entire way, thoughts looping back to last night. That momentâthose momentsâhad unraveled something deep in you. Something that had never been touched before. Even now, thinking about it made your cheeks burn. The heat crawled up your neck as flashes of memory danced behind your eyes.
It had felt good. Too good. Even if it had been unexpected and confusing, the way heâd touched you, spoken to you, looked at youâit all stayed with you. And now...your debts were gone. Cleared. Just like that.
Because of him.
You owed him more than money could ever measure. Even if the circumstances had been a little strange. You had to say something. Anything. You felt awful for blacking out on him so suddenly, for never even thanking him properly.
As you stepped into the elevator, thoughts still tangled and storming inside you, the soft chime of the top floor arriving pulled you from your haze. The doors slid open.
You entered the suite, heart pounding, nerves buzzing, a mixture of anticipation and unease swirling in your chest like a storm barely held at bay. Your palms were clammy inside your gloves, your breath caught somewhere between hope and dread. But the moment you stepped inside and spotted Sylus, your face instinctively lit up, a flicker of relief sparking in your chest.
He had his back to you, seated with an almost lazy confidence on one of the sleek leather couches that made the massive living room feel even more expansive. You took a breath, readying yourself, rehearsing the words you'd been building up the courage to say.
"Sylus...I just wanted to say Iâ"
And then you stopped cold.
A voiceâlow, smooth, unmistakably feminineâslipped through the air like smoke.
Your eyes shifted. Next to him on the couch sat a woman. A vision. Slender and poised, legs elegantly crossed, a cigarette balanced with casual grace between long, painted fingers. Her dark hair fell in effortless waves, and her eyes, smoky, lined to perfection, scanned the room like she owned it. She looked like she stepped out of a magazine spread or a high-society gala. Everything about her screamed power, ease, control.
And SylusâŠ
He wasnât the man you usually sawâsharp, unreadable, and cold. No, this version of him was relaxed. Too relaxed. His posture loose, one arm slung along the back of the couch, the other resting on her thigh like it belonged there. They laughed together, the sound low and intimate. It was a touch that spoke of familiarity, not formality. Not business. Personal.
The air thickened around you.
They both turned as the door clicked shut behind you.
And you froze in place.
All the breath youâd been holding escaped you in a shallow, silent gasp.
Your fingers gripped the sleeves of your coat tightly, a useless attempt to hold onto something solid as the ground beneath your feet shifted. For a single, endless heartbeat, all you could hear was the blood rushing past your ears.
"Oh? Who's this, Sylus?" the woman asked, her tone light and teasing, yet unmistakably edged with curiosity. She tilted her head, dark lashes framing her amused eyes as she took another slow drag of her cigarette. Smoke curled around her like perfume, adding a haze to the air as she studied you from across the room, her gaze settling on you like a cat watching a cornered mouse.
Sylus didnât even spare you a glance. His voice, when he spoke, was flat, indifferent, practically clinical. "Just the housekeeper. We got a new supply of rags for you, since the others were torn or bleached. The kitchen floor needs scrubbing today."
Just the housekeeper.
The phrase echoed in your head, each syllable heavier than the last. You stood there, frozen, trying to pretend those words hadnât hit you like a slap to the face. Trying to pretend the tight knot in your chest was anything but what it was.
He turned back to the woman without pause, without a flicker of acknowledgment that you might have had something to say. His fingers remained lazily draped on her thigh, his posture relaxed, comfortable in a way youâd never seen before. He chuckled at something she whispered in his ear, his lips curling in a way that made your stomach twist with something sharp and bitter.
Your heart dropped, heavy and cold, like it had been cut loose and left to sink. Your arms felt numb. Your breath felt caught in your throat.
You didnât even fully understand why it stung this much. Maybe it was the sudden switch from last nightâs intensity to this cold dismissal. Maybe it was the look in his eyes when heâd touched you, compared to the easy comfort he now gave so freely to someone else.
You had just gotten the stark reminder that you were nothing but the help. A background character in his real life.
You managed to speak without choking. "Oh...yeah. Iâll get right on that," you mumbled, your voice tight and fragile, like it might crack if pushed any further. You turned away before either of them could see your expression.
The hallway felt darker as you walked away, the soft echo of their laughter following you like a ghost. It clung to you, taunting, curling around your shoulders like smoke.
Just the housekeeper, huh?
All of thatâevery touch, every look, every whispered wordâhad just been for his own amusement. For him to get off. A way to toy with you, distract himself, maybe pass some time. Nothing more. The money, the clothes, the phoneâit had all been out of pity. A rich manâs guilt dressed up as generosity.
Of course. He was the leader of Onychinus. A man of unshakable power and influence. What had you honestly expected? That someone like him would look at someone like you and see something worth wanting? That he had good intentions with you? Of course it had meant nothing. He got what he wanted and you got the money.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
You were stupid to overthink it otherwise.
You were nothing but a desperate girl from the N109 Zoneâbarely scraping by, barely surviving. You werenât beautiful like that woman on the couch. You werenât polished, or confident, or powerful. You were a speck in his world. A faceless, voiceless shadow.
Stupid. So, so stupid. You felt utter shame now. Felt used.
The self-loathing came in waves, sharp and consuming as you scrubbed at the kitchen floor, harder than you needed to. Each movement was angry, bitter, punishing. Scrub, rinse, repeat. The pain in your knees didnât matter. The sting in your fingers didnât matter. The tears threatening to fall, those didnât matter either.
Because this was your place.
Not in his lap. Not in his bed. Not in his thoughts.
Here. On your hands and knees. Scrubbing. Silent. Invisible.
You were a nobody. Lowlife scum. Best to remember that.
Best to know your place.
And keep being the quiet, disposable housekeeper heâd hired you to be.
they joke about you being needy but you take it seriously so you stopped kissing and sleeping with them and suddenly they're not laughing anymore.
mdni. 18+ only. grinding. suggestive but no actual sex. reader enjoys being an insufferable tease <3
sylus.
You pushed him down on the couch and straddled his thighs while one of his hand runs up and down your back, and the other rests on your waist.
He breaks free from your deep kiss with a playful smirk on his face.
"You've been quite needy lately, kitten."
You paused.
Needy?
"Oh."
Sylus froze as soon as he saw the lack of amusement on your face.
"I didn't mean â "
"No, you're so right." You suddenly got off his lap and expertly dodged the hands that attempted to catch you and pull you back down. "I really should calm down, shouldn't I ?"
"No â "
"That's such a great idea, Sylus." you smiled and pinched his cheek. "Let's do something else instead. Let's make cookies!"
That was the start of Sylus' awful week, when he didn't get to touch you at all.
No hand holding.
No hugs.
No kisses.
No sex.
Sylus thinks he might actually go insane.
But he can't lose your game so easily.
He'll toughen up if he must.
He lasted years without you and he had successfully kept his distance from you, no matter how difficult and tempting, until the time was right.
His patience and self-control are not to be underestimated.
He'll be fine.
That's what Sylus keeps reminding himself every time he gets the urge to hold you. Every time his eyes fall to your lips, he tells himself that he'll survive without them.
You're trying to punish him for calling you needy, but he won't give in.
He'll wait until you give in.
It's more fun that way.
Okay, so this is harder than he thought.
It's day two and he's already weak on the knees from the very moment you walked out of the bathroom wearing the dress for tonight's date.
Sylus watched you put on your heels, flashing him a part of your thighs while doing so, and he wanted to run a hand on it to feel your smooth skin.
"Sylus?"
He blinked out of his trance to realize you just asked him a question. "What was that, sweetie?"
"I was asking if it'll be cold in the restaurant you chose, so I can know if I should bring a jacket or not."
He shook his head. "You'll be just fine."
That was a total lie.
It turned out to be cold as your table was specially reserved at a rooftop of a building.
However, it just so happens that Sylus has a jacket and the cold wasn't affecting him, so he was able to give it to you.
With a grin on his face, Sylus pulled your seat right next to his and gently put the jacket around your shoulders, making sure his fingers brush against your skin even if it's only for a second.
"Thanks." as you gave him a smile, you slightly moved closer to his face. "I feel much better now."
Sylus made the mistake of looking at your lips. Without much thought, his head tilted down and his nose grazed yours before aligning your lips.
"Wow! This wine is so good! Try it!" You shoved your glass of wine to his lips before scooting your chair back to its initial place, a couple of feet away from him.
Sylus almost choked on the alcohol but gladly accepted your offer. He put his lips on the same spot that had your lipstick stain on it.
At the very least, he got to enjoy an indirect kiss that should keep him satisfied for the rest of the week.
Or so he thought.
Day four.
The frustration has gotten to Sylus.
It's like owning the world's most valued weapon yet not being able to use it.
He can look, but he can't touch.
It's much more difficult than he thought.
Especially when you're doing everything in your power to make him cave in.
Well, technically, you aren't doing anything out of the ordinary.
Right now, all you're doing is hitting the punching bag in the exact way that he taught you, but the way you look at the moment is making him want to grab you and pin you down â or you can be the one to pin him down. It doesn't matter to him. All he wants is his body to be pressed against yours.
Sylus quietly growled under his breath.
He clenched his fist and started to hit the other punching bag, hoping to take away some of the tension burning inside him, particularly inside his shorts.
You tilted your head and watched curiously as Sylus' punches to the sandbag has gotten heavier, leaving such satisfying sounds at the impact.
"Whoa! So good! You look like you're getting ready to beat up some real nasty bad guys. Did anyone piss you off or something?" You picked up the clean towel nearby and held it up towards his face to wipe the sweat on his forehead. "You do look tense lately."
Sylus' left hand suddenly caught the one you're using to wipe his face. "You're a vicious little kitten."
He gave your hand a kiss before stepping back and patting your head before walking out of the room and leaving you alone.
"Hey, where are you going?! We haven't sparred yet!"
"Shower." He looked over his shoulder to give you a smirk. "Would you like to join?"
You almost agreed in a heartbeat.
But you have to stay strong.
"Nope, I'll just stay here and keep practicing so I can kick your ass the next time we spar."
Your own answer only disappointed the both of you.
Day seven.
You and Sylus went out for a ride on his newest motorcycle at night, on the empty, spatious roads of N109.
It was the worst idea of all.
As the one that's manipulating the vehicle, you're the one sitting at the front and you took advantage of the close proximity by pressing your ass right against his crotch.
Sylus had to concentrate on making sure his grip on your waist doesn't hurt you, with the way his body had gone stiff. Every part of him.
Every bump on the road slammed your hips against him and he had to hold his breath every time. His pants became tighter and tighter by the minute, and his breath had gotten unsteady.
He was sweating throughout the entire ride.
And once you finally made it back to his place, Sylus' patience finally broke.
From the moment you got off the motorcycle, Sylus quickly removed his motorcycle before taking off yours.
As soon as your face was in clear view, before you could even comprehend what was happening, Sylus' left hand caressed your jawline before locking his lips with yours.
Your eyes widened with surprise, though you didn't waste a precious second to kiss him back and pull him close by grabbing onto his shoulders.
Sylus didn't dare to pull away until he was out of breath. Even then, he'd only stop for a second before diving back in like a starved man.
Every time you'd pull back to gasp for air, Sylus would come after your lips and slip his tongue between them to capture yours.
"You win." he huffs in between kisses while your hands run through the strands of his hair. "I yield."
"Heh?" you can't help but grin. "What are you talking about? What are you yielding for?"
"Don't play innocent, kitten. You know what you've been doing." He tapped your forehead as you laughed. "I won't call you needy ever again, so if you could stop teasing me, I'd greatly appreciate it." he whispered against your ear before kissing it softly, "I don't know how long I can keep holding back."
"Since you learned your lesson...." you pressed your lips under his jaw. "You don't need to hold back anymore."
That was all he needed to hear.
Sylus wrapped your legs around his hips and kept you up against him as he made his way into his bedroom.
zayne
You're drawing random patterns with your finger on Zayne's bare chest as you cuddle with him when suddenly, he made a lighthearted joke.
"Your libido has been rather high lately. Based on my record, your premenstrual syndrome symptoms shouldn't be showing up for another two weeks."
You looked up to see the playful grin on his face.
"Oh, is that right?" you huff. "Must be my diet or something. No worries, I'll fix it."
Zayne blinked with confusion. "Huh?" But he received no more response for an explanation as you closed your eyes and drifted oft to sleep.
It was only until the very next day when he realized his mistake when he received absolutely zero kisses.
He was quick to figure out what brought on such an evil scheme.
"Oh, no..."
Day three.
You stopped by his work to join him for lunch, just as he requested.
Zayne observed that you're not angry with him and you have no problem spending time with him. You act normal for the most part. The one big change with your behavior is that you refuse to give him any physical affection.
You didn't even give him a hug as you greeted him.
It feels strange. It's like he's forgetting something as important like his wallet or his car keys.
"Are you punishing me for what I said the other day?"
"What you said the other day?"
"You know... about your high libido...."
He could've sworn a vein popped out from your forehead just now and he does his best to suppress a smile of amusement. He's already in trouble. He doesn't want to dig his grave any deeper.
"Nope! I don't care at all!"
Despite the words that came out of your mouth, you continued to make him suffer.
Later that day, you met up aftet work to drink milk tea while taking a night stroll around the city during such a lovely weather.
The way you were smiling the whole time made Zayne want to hold your hand and keep you close to him.
And yet, you were constantly moving around so much, either on purpose or due to all the sugar from your drink, so he ended the night feeling somewhat emptyhanded.
He hasn't realized until now just how much he enjoys even the little touches you grace him with.
Day five.
You and Zayne attended a formal event.
It's a banquet for the hunters association and you were obligated to come, and he was your date, so you two dressed up nicely to follow the dress code.
Although, if he was being honest, Zayne wishes you two are still in your apartment, where he can have you all to himself.
Ever since he had come to your home to picked you up, he couldn't keep his eyes off you. And throughout the event, he has been rather... uneasy.
As you're eating dessert, Zayne can't help but imagine tasting it from your lips. It has been days since he last kissed you, and he needed to be reminded of your sweetness.
He needed to feel the warmth and softness of your skin underneath your dress.
Zayne lets out a shaky breath before loosening his tie.
It seems that the room suddenly feels hot.
Or maybe it's just his racing mind and heart and the blood rushing down below his hips.
"Zayne, are you okay?"
You scooted your chair closer to him so that your legs are touching. You faced him and put a hand on his forehead.
"You feel warm. Are you sick?"
Zayne lets out a laugh that was half-nervous. "Are you teasing me again?"
"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just worried about you."
He detected from your tone that you are indeed teasing him.
On the drive back, Zayne was clutching the steering wheel as his mind continues to race, imagining all the things that he'd been wanting to do with you. Sitting still became difficult with a bulge rising through his pants.
But yet again, he ends the night without a single touch from you.
And Zayne has decided, he'll never joke about anything ever again.
Day six.
On his day off, Zayne had taken you out for a picnic and the torture continues.
Whenever you two have a picnic, there's lots of cuddling involved. This time, there's none at all and there's the Happy Snowman plushie sitting right between you two as a barrier.
You two are playing kitty cards and Zayne seems to be on top of his game today.
After all, he had a special proposal.
"Whoever wins must do something that the winner wants."
It's a simple but classic prize that no one can ever resist, so you gladly accepted the challenge thinking you'd easily win.
But Zayne's focus is unshakeable.
He's consecutively dropping assist cards to take away your points, and somehow he's stocking up all the sixes.
He won't even let you switch cards by acting cute. That's how serious it is right now. The stakes are high.
After six rounds, Zayne comes out as the winner.
"How could this happen?!"
Zayne chuckles at your dramatic cries, aggressively shaking Happy Snowman as if it was the one responsible for your loss.
Unfortunately for Happy Snowman, it's Zayne's turn to have your attention.
Zayne snatched the plushie out of your hands and set it aside.
"Darling, it's time for me to claim my prize."
You sigh and bowed playfully. "Yes, yes, congratulations for being crowned as the King of the Kitties. What can I do for you, Your Highness?"
Zayne smiled and gently held your chin with his fingers before guiding you to look up so you can lock gazes.
"Kiss me."
Your mouth drops at his request, face immediately heating up.
"Oh."
He found a way to end your silly little game.
He really is a clever boy.
"Your wish is my command~"
At last, you stop holding back against your urges and brought yourself on his lap.
Zayne eagerly welcomes you into his arms and wraps them around you tightly, making sure you don't try to escape.
His lips meets yours with desperation and his hands slides down to your thighs, encouraging you to sway your hips back and forth.
Between the deep and heavy kisses, he mutters, "I joked about you being needy yet here I am, being the needy one. But it's all your fault. Are you going to take responsbility for it?" Zayne pressed you down against his hips to let you feel just how hard he is for you.
"...should we end picnic early?"
"We should end picnic early."
caleb
You stumbled into his room while removing his shirt and almost tripped on his feet as you reached the bed.
"What's the rush, Pip-squeak? And here I thought I was the needy one."
Your hands come to a halt.
"What did you say?"
"I said there's no need to rush, I'm not going anywhere â "
"No, you just called me needy just now."
Caleb chuckles at your furrowed brows.
"I was joking, Pipâ what are you doing?" you picked up his shirt that you dropped on the floor and threw it at his chest before walking out of his room.
"Gonna be needy all by myself in my room. Goodnight."
"Wha â hey wait!"
It's too late. You stomped your way into your own room and Caleb is left all alone with a boner that remained standing until his mood died down.
Caleb sent you a bunch of stickers, hoping you'd come back beside him. Sadly, you ignored all of them and he was forced to sleep with a cold, empty bedside.
The next day, Caleb woke up early and prepared breakfast for the two of you as usual. You came out of your room and lazily greeted him a good morning, so he was relieved to know that you weren't really mad.
But once he tried to kiss you on the cheek after giving you a cup of coffee and you blocked his lips with the palm of your hands, he learned that he's not completely off the hook just yet.
"No."
"Huh?"
"No kisses."
"What?! Why?!"
You almost laughed at the way his face shifted, looking like a little boy who'd gotten his favorite toy taken away.
"Because. I don't want to seem needy."
"Come onnnn, it was a joke! I'm sorry!" he tried to embrace you from the back but you stood up and moved away.
"Wow, look how nice the weather looks today!" you exclaimed as you look out the window, admiring the clouds of Skyhaven.
Caleb pouts at the way you deflected him.
Knowing how you behave whenever you're being petty, he has to brace himself for the worst few upcoming days of his life.
Day two.
The pout hasn't left his face.
You two are working out together at his home gym and he's pouting as he's doing push ups.
You're not even sitting on his back and motivating him to do more reps. You're just doing your own sets of excercises in front of him while pretending he's not there.
"Pip-squeak, look. I'm doing push-ups with one hand."
"...."
"Now I'm doing push-ups with just one finger!"
"..."
No matter what he did to grab your attention, he just couldn't get you to look at him.
But what if....
"Whew, it's so hot in here."
Caleb took off his shirt and threw it aside.
He tries not to grin as he caught you sneaking glances from the corner of your eye.
Now, he'll do pull-ups on the bar right in front of you.
Or at least, that was the plan.
His shirt was thrown back at his chest just like the other night.
"Caleb you dummy. You'll get cold."
You walked out of the room and he was back to pouting.
Day four.
You went back to Linkon at Monday morning. Caleb couldn't believe he lasted four whole days without getting a single kiss from you. He didn't even get to hold your hand or pat your head.
The lack of physical affection and intimacy should be nothing to him since he always had to hold back from acting on his feelings for you. He was willing to wait forever for you.
But now that he thinks about it, he'd always been touchy with you.
Even before you were in a romantic relationship, he'd given you plenty of hugs, he'd given you lots of forehead kisses, he'd hold your hands whenever you let him, he'd hold you when you don't want to sleep alone, and he'd even kissed your cheek during the times whenever you pretended to be a couple.
Physical affection has always been a part of your relationship.
Taking it away is like taking away a pilot's airplane.
Well, maybe it's not that drastic but it surely feels that way to Caleb.
Now that he's able to kiss you and hold you whenever he wants, he can't stop. He loves being with you and becoming one with you.
He can't help but seek for your touch.
It's only been a few days but he misses your warmth. He misses how you taste. He misses the sounds you'd make.
Oh, he definitely won't survive for long.
This scheme of yours has to end now.
Day five.
You got a good jumpscare when The Colonel showed up at your doorstep at night, in his full uniform and all.
Before opening the door, you peeked through the peephole and took note of his serious expression, just as The Colonel often appears as.
But the scary demeanor vanished the moment you oppened the door.
His face lights up and you're flashed with the warm smile you've used to seeing.
"Caleb! What are you doing here?!"
"I just dropped by to bring you something you forgot at my house. It's pretty important so I thought I'd make a trip to Linkon so you don't worry about it."
You let him in your apartment, trying to recall what you could have forgotten. You were able to get through a long day at work without noticing anything missing, so what could've been that important that he had to give to you immediately?
"What did I forget?"
Caleb dug something from one of the pockets of his coat.
"Ta-da! Here you go~"
Caleb took your left hand and dropped something to your palm.
".....Are you being serious right now?"
A hair clip.
"What? It's something that you use every day, is it not? I know you were probably feeling weird without it. You're welcome."
"...I leave this behind on purpose. I always use it whenever I'm at your house, every time I'm doing my hair. It was meant to stay there."
Caleb laughs and scratches the back of his head. "Oh, my baaaad, Pip-squeak. Ah, but since I'm already here, might as well have dinner together!I'll help you cook~"
He removed his hat and coat before entering your kitchen. You're in the middle of making dinner too, so he somehow arrived perfectly on time.
You should've known he came in with a mission.
As he goes around the kitchen, he does everything possible to accidentally touch you.
He'd lightly bump into you and touches your shoulder as he apologizes.
His hand brushes against your waist to move you aside so he can pass by.
He stands behind you and reaching over you so he could get some containers on the cabinet, making sure to grind his hips against your ass just for a brief second.
Eventually, you found yourself cornered against the fridge.
"What are you doing?"
"Making dinnner." you glare at him and he was quick to give you a pout. "...And trying to win your attention because you've been so mean to me by neglecting me."
"Neglecting?" you tilted your head. "But I thought I was being needy."
Caleb groans before completely losing his patience.
He pulls you into a hug. "I'm sorry! I won't say it again! Please don't punish me anymore I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry â " his embrace starts getting tighter at every word, making you cough dramatically.
"Jeez, alright fine! I get it, now let me go â "
"Never!"
Caleb lifts you off the ground and nuzzles his face against yours. "So soft and so warm ~"
"Caleb, the pot is boiling!"
"The pot can wait. I'm busy."
"Caleb â " the sizzling noises from the stove forced him to jump away from you.
"Okay I'm coming!"
rafayel
"You don't need to be so needy cutie, I'm not going anywhere~"
You pulled away from his kiss and raised a brow at him. "Needy...?"
Rafayel's eyes widen as he realized what he just said. "I â I was just joking!"
"Right..."
You laughed along but five minutes later, the kisses suddenly stopped and your attention shifted to your phone to play a silly game (one that he recommended to you in the first place).
Rafayel didn't think much of it. He was able to cuddle with you as the two of you fell asleep that night.
But once he woke up, things started to seem weird to him.
As you left to go to work, you didn't give him a kiss. You always give him a kiss. You rushed out of the studio before he could even remind you about it.
He didn't get to see you for the rest of the day because the Wanderers robbed him all of your time and energy.
At the very least, he was able to videocall with you and chat with you about how your day went. Though, seeing your sleeping face made him wish he was next to you so he could comfort you and ease your exhaustion.
Day two.
You joined him for a stroll at the beach and helped him collect some shells. He tried to hold your hand but you not-so-subtly moved away from him.
The face he made was worthy of a drama actor award.
"Are you worried I'd give you a virus? Come here, cutie, I'm perfectly clean. I just took a bath an hour ago."
"No no, just don't wanna seem clingy, that's all."
Rafayel took a moment to figure out what prompted that response.
"Waaaait, you're not really mad about me calling you needy, are you? It was just a joke, Miss Bodyguuaaard..."
"Mhmm."
Rafayel sighs as he realizes you're going to prolong this cruel revenge of yours just a little further. It's good that you're not really mad, though he can't help but pout about it.
He had to walk through the beach with you so close yet so far from him, and his hands have never felt so cold and lonely.
You don't even always hold his hand, as sometimes collecting sea shells require all hands available, but now that he's aware of your punishment, he can't help but notice that he really loves holding your hand and giving you little kisses.
Without them, his day feels incomplete.
Day three.
You showed up at Rafayel's art exhibition and he's acting like you just dumped him.
"Oh, I didn't expect you to show up today, Miss Bodyguard. I thought you'd forgotten all about me."
He showed you one painting that you haven't seen finished until now.
"This is inspired by the gaping hole in my heart because my beloved has left me."
Trying not to laugh, you flicked his forehead. "Your beloved saw you this morning for breakfast and watched you get scolded by Thomas because you weren't ready for your event on time."
Rafayel huffs. "Well, I would have woken up early and would've been prepared on time if only I went to sleep early. But I couldn't sleep early because my beloved is being mean to me and won't let me kiss her."
"Weeeell, that sucks for you." you patted his shoulder. "I'm gonna go check out that lovely painting over there. See you later."
Rafayel followed you the entire time, walking so closely beside you so his hand would constantly brush against yours.
Once you reached an empty room, he stood right behind you and put a hand on the wall next to the painting that you're admiring.
His lips brushed against your ear after taking a whiff of your neck. "This perfume... it's the one that I really like..."
It was indeed the scent that makes him act like a cat that's high on catnip. You wore it on purpose, solely to get the reaction that he's giving right now.
Rafayel's lips brushed against your neck like a feather, testing the waters to see if you'd push him away.
So far, you do nothing but stare at the beautiful painting he worked months on.
His right hand landed on your stomach and gently nudged you back so that your body is right against his.
His kisses grew a little bolder, lingering on your skin a little longer.
But then, the sound of footsteps coming close forced you to spring away from him.
You held back a grin at his red face.
"This has been a wonderful exhibit, Sir Rafayel. Thank you for the tour."
"...Hmph..."
He crossed his arms and looked away, trying to calm down his racing heart.
Looks like his body craves for you more than he realized.
Day four.
"I got here as fast as I could! What's the emergency?!"
You slam the bathroom door open to find Rafayel chilling in his bathtub, naked body submerged in warm water mixed with pink foamy soap.
"...."
"Oh, good, you're finally here." Rafayel sighs with relief. "Miss bodyguard, you have to help me. I slipped from a paintbrush earlier and hurt my right arm, so I can't move it around easily because it hurts. Will you help me with my bath?"
"How did you get in the bathtub in the first place if your arm hurts so much?"
"Don't worry about it, cutie. That's in the past. I like to focus in the present."
You shook your head, though you're unable to hide a smile from his silly yet clever response.
You knelt down beside the bathtub and started petting his head. Right away, he closed his eyes and leaned in towards your touch.
You lowered your hand to his neck and brushed slowly your thumb against his skin just under his jaw, and you caught him gulping nervously.
Next, you slid your hand down to his chest, drawing random shapes between his pecs, causing his breath to stutter.
"But now that I think about it... how does one get help for taking a bath?" you asked. "What exactly do you want me to do?"
Rafayel caught your hand before you could even think about pulling away and leave him hard, just like yesterday at the exhibit.
"I just need you... to move your hand... just a little lower...."
Your face heated up at his low tone. His face had turned into a dark shade of red, flushed from the warmth you've made him feel with just a few light touches.
"You better be careful." you whispered, moving your hands down as slow as possible. "With how you sound just now, someone might think that you might be a little....needy...."
Rafayel opened his eyes but didn't move a single muscle. His hand remained on top of yours, letting you wander to wherever you want to.
"Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm the needy one." he kept his gaze fixated on you. "I need to have you close to me. I need to hold you. I need to feel you."
Your face burned.
As did the rest of your body.
At last, your hand reached where he needed you to be.
Stiff and twitching, just for you.
Your core clenched as you recall the way he feels inside you.
"If.... if I'm gonna help you take a bath, you better make some room for me."
Rafayel has never moved so quickly.
xavier
Xavier breathes heavily on his bed, face flushed and chest heaving, glistening with sweat. You're lying next to him, equally spent after getting lost in each other's bodies.
"We've been doing it so much lately, I'm starting to feel sore." he says with a chuckle, putting one hand on his neck and shoulder.
"....You're right." you softly tapped on his chest as if to give him comfort. "Don't worry, I'll let you recover. Let's not do anything for a while."
Xavier's eyes widen. "What?! That's that not what I meant â "
You let out a yawn. "I'm sleepy. Goodnight, Xavier~"
"Wait â "
"Goodnight, I said."
Day one.
You had to be joking, right?
You were probably just so tired and blurted out such a hasty statement.
You probably don't even remember what you said.
Xavier didn't forget, though. He couldn't, even if he wanted to.
When he woke up at noon, you were already at work. You made breakfast for him. If you were really upset with him, you wouldn't have cooked anything for him.
So, everything should be fine.
He arrived at work and the very first thing he did is greet you at your station. You're behind your desk, busy with a report on your computer.
"Good morning."
He leaned down to give you a hug. Although you didn't return it, you didn't deflect him.
That means you really were just bluffing. Everything is fine.
"Good morning, Xavier."
Fast forward to a couple of hours later, you two are investigating an abandoned but recently used building that's been raided by Wanderers.
There was a suspicious man on site, so you hid somewhere so that you can observe him for any possible leads.
Xavier pulled you into a room that looks to be a supplies closet, which was luckily clean enough to not contain any foul smell that would make it unbearable for you to hide in.
You stood by the door that's slightly cracked open so that you can keep an eye on the suspicious man.
Xavier stood right behind you with absolutely no space between your bodies. His left hand made its way to your waist while his lips brushes against your neck.
Before he could do anything else, you turned around and covered his mouth with one hand.
"Hmm? What are you â "
"Shhh. We need to be quiet."
Okay, so you rejected his attempt to makeout.
But that was only because you couldn't risk missing out on any leads and had to focus on the suspicious guy, right? That's all. Everything is fine.
Everything is not fine.
He caught you on a conversation with Andrew and you were touching his shoulder. Then you spoke with Simone and you were touching her arm.
But when he talked to you, you didn't touch his shoulder or anything. You didn't touch his hand and you even moved away when he tried to touch yours.
For the final check: the Pocky test.
Once you're back in his apartment after work, Xavier decided to share his last box of Pocky with you.
As you were eating one, Xavier quickly went up to you.
"Wait, let me check if yours is good."
He continued to eat the stick of Pocky until he's closer to your lips.
But then you suddenly pulled back and ate the rest.
"Wah â "
You gently patted his cheeks. "Nice try."
So, it turns out you knew what he was doing and no, you were absolutely not going to give him kisses today.
And so, sulky Xavier makes his return.
Day two.
Xavier decided to get revenge for taking away kisses and cuddles by showing you the most horrifying scary movie on both of your watch list.
You two are sitting on his giant bean-bag chair, sharing a blanket while your eyes are glued to the TV screen, unable to look away at the bloody scene of another character getting ripped apart.
Little did you know, Xavier is mentally cheering.
For every jumpscare, you scoot closer and closer to him. Around halfway of the movie, you're sitting on his lap yet you're too focused on the movie to realize it.
Xavier kept quiet and rested one hand on your thigh, while the other casually shoves popcorn in his mouth.
As the end credits started to roll, Xavier got up to refill your drinks so that you can have more for the next film, which is another horror one.
"Wait where are you going?!" you grabbed his hand before he could start walking towards the kitchen.
Xavier almost laughed at your expression. "I'm just going to get us more drinks. I won't be gone for long. Just sit here and relax."
"You're not scared even a little bit?" you murmured, tightly hugging a pillow. Right now, your brain is imagining the killer in every dark spot of the apartment.
"I'll be fine~"
Five steps forward and he suddenly turns around.
"Are you really that scared?"
He uses his evol to shine a bright light on his face while pulling a silly expression, mocking the one that the killer from the movie wore.
"Ah!"
His plan worked a little too well because now, you can't sleep alone.
"Are you really that scared?" he asked, walking up to the bed, watching you hug Bunbun with your dear life. "We fought Wanderers that are much worse. If you were in the movie, I bet you'll make a good final girl that'll outlive the killer."
He sat next to you and smiled as he put a hand on the plushie.
"Bunbun can go now. I'm taking over his job in protecting you while you sleep."
You gasped as he snatched the plushie and threw him across the room.
"Xavier!"
"Ssshh, I got you."
After turning off all the lights, he laid down next to you and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close to him, with your back against his chest.
The second you closed your eyes, your mind starts replaying the scariest parts of the movies you just watched, causing you to shift uncomfortably.
You hear a faint gasp behind you, but you ignore it as you're trying to block off the scary images in your head.
"Ugh! It's no good! I need a distraction."
You turned around to get your phone on the nightstand, but then you come face to face with Xavier.
"A distraction?" he leans close to you so that your noses touch. "I can give you a distraction, if you want."
"....nope, I'm good." you turned back around with a huff. "Don't wanna make you sore."
Xavier laughs and nuzzles his face on your neck.
"I'll remember not to joke about something like that ever again. I'm sorry. Will you forgive me?"
"....are you also sorry for making me watch those really scary movies?"
"Well.... not really...."
They were excellent movies, after all. Aside from the scary parts, he could tell you enjoyed it overall.
"At least you're honest."
A few seconds later, Xavier starts to pepper kisses all over your neck and jaw.
"Do you still need a distraction? I can help you get your mind off of anything scary."
You let out a quiet moan as he softly pushed his hips against yours.
"Just focus on me."
From the moment he got on top of you, you forgot about everything â your silly scheme and the horror movies.
Listen... I don't even know what I'm on with this. Just... don't judge me. Omfg what is wrong with me.
AO3 Link -- TW: omegaverse wildness, biting, blood, etc.
Your people are starving, and your clan's Alpha has asked you, their only remaining Omega, to give yourself up as a sacrifice to save them. So, you agree, and you are to be mated to one of the Alphas of Clan 141, praying that it is to any of them except Alpha Price. He is known to have a knot that is impossible to take, but when you finally meet him, you're not sure of what's possible anymore. Will you risk it all to be with him, even if his knot might kill you? One way to find outâŠ
The Old Way
You couldnât see the stars. The shroud that hung over your head was made from fine, black silk, and through its thin organza, you could barely make out the shape of the Watcher in front of you, much less the glittering galactic expanse overhead. You were wrapped like a gift, and if you wanted to save the lives of everyone youâd ever loved, you would remain cloaked in your darkness, hidden, waiting for your big moment. More than anything, you wanted to pull your veil away from your eyes just to see the familiar constellations again, to comfort yourself with their shapes, to make one last independent choice before all of your volition was stolen from you forever.Â
That wasnât the right word. You couldnât steal something that was given freely. You were not bound, and you were certainly not forced to wear the shadowed veil against your will. You had selected this path for yourself, and now you were living through the consequences of that decision.
As the only Omega in your clan â the first one born in seventy years â you were raised on the knowledge that you may one day be asked to give up your life for your clan. After the war, life was hard, and now that your people were stuck in a seemingly endless drought, it had become even more desperate. Your clan leader, Alpha Roan, had come to you six weeks ago with a terrible look in his eyes, a palpable guilt, still wearing his mourning collar for his long-lost mate, Omega Kiran, and he had asked you if you would be willing to undergo The Exchange.
His own wife had come to your clan through The Exchange, and although they had chosen to perform a private ceremony, you knew that it had been a challenge for her. Before she died, she had taught you much about your role, but you were still a youngling, and some things were just not for you to hear at such an age.Â
You thought about the years that had passed after the loss of your clanâs Omega. Alpha Roan had insisted on your education, and your training, but the idea that you would be asked to leave your clan through The Exchange was always a distant threat. But, now, here it was. You had been called by your Alpha to sacrifice yourself for their benefit; not in a marriage of love, but in a clan trade.Â
You had been asked by your Alpha to think about your choice. After he left you to ponder your choice, you sat down in your chambers surrounded by your Watchers, the women who had raised you, who had taught you to read, to write, to fight, and to charm. They looked at you with the same guilty, knowing eyes, and they asked you if you were prepared to make the sacrifice.Â
âYou do know what awaits you at the end of The Exchange, donât you, Omega?â Watcher Trinity had asked you quietly, holding your hands in her shaking fingers, the wrinkled skin of her knuckles folding and stretching over her thin bones.Â
You nodded, âYes, Watcher. I am to be given to a new Alpha.â
She had looked at you then, her eyes sharp and calculating, trying to figure out how she would ask her next question.  Â
âDo you know the way in which you will be given, Omega?âÂ
Her tone chilled your heart, sinking through your body like ice across a pond, freezing you in place. You waited. There was more that she needed to say, and you allowed her to explain.Â
And now that you knew the truth, you felt fully prepared to accept the terms of the agreement. You would deliver your people from their strife, and any pain, any shame, and any horror that you experienced from this point onward would be in service to your clan. You hoped that would be enough solace to sustain you. There was no shame in your sacrifice, you knew that. But, in your soul, you knew that knowing a thing and experiencing a thing were two vastly disparate sides of the same coin.Â
You informed your clan Alpha, holding your chin high,Â
âI accept the terms of The Exchange, Alpha Roan.â
âYour people are forever in your debt, Omega. Watchers,â he addressed your caregivers, âPlease make preparations in the old way of our clan.â
âThe old way, Alpha Roan?â Watcher Trinity had asked, her voice giving away her apprehension.
âYes, Watcher. We will follow the law, no matter how⊠upsetting it may be. Clan 141 is too powerful for us to take any undue risks. If they do not accept her, we may not survive their engagement.â
Even in your sheltered little academy, you had heard of Clan 141. Their clan was small, but it was deeply feared. If any other clan dared step out of line, the 141 were there to rain hellfire and destruction down on them until there was nothing left. They were not cruel, but they abided no violent acts in their territory, and any whisper of rekindling the war efforts or of superseding the peace treaty was dealt with swiftly and decisively.Â
Before the war, kings and presidents and generals had pulled the strings. Now that the world lay in ruins, the 141 was the only thing between your small clan and total destruction from larger, more aggressive packs. The 141 was the only reason your people still had other clans to trade with; they had made sure smaller communities had access to fair market costs for food and services, and no one dared to shun your merchants now that you were under their protective wing.Â
Your Watchers had done their best to ease you into your preparations. Clan 141 would be at the neutral ground in six weeks, and your team had tried to make every moment of that window meaningful in your training. They had started slowly, teaching you to stretch your untouched hole with your fingers, showing you diagrams and depictions of your own anatomy, warning you of the physical trial of taking an Alphaâs knot.Â
It was mortifying when you endured your first test. Watcher Gillar and Watcher Bhin had made you sit in front of a mirror and show them your progress. You were told to clench and release the muscles of your hole on command, fluttering it to prove its strength. Then, they had produced a carved, glass phallus, expecting you to practice on a smaller model before moving you up to a more advanced size.Â
You took it from their hands, looking at its curved, rigid shape with wide-eyed curiosity, trying to swallow your grief at being seen doing the unthinkable by people you considered to be your closest friends and caregivers. It almost made you regret your decision. But, your people needed you, so you rested the smooth tip of the phallus at the entrance of your hole and began to shove it inside of yourself.Â
This new feeling was overwriting your mind, so alien and yet so very comforting to you, confounding in its sensations yet overwhelming in its unique, bright pleasure.
It was a struggle, but you managed to slip it into your body almost down to the large, bulbous knot on the end. The sharp pain of being entered for the first time was not as terrible as you had feared, but when you pulled the phallic rod back out of you, it was cloudy with your slick and your blood.Â
âTry the knot, Omega. Your Alpha will be twice as large as this, at least. You do not want your first experience to be at the ceremony. I know that you will want to appear strong in front of the other clans.â Watcher Bhin encouraged you, holding you to her shoulder as she sat behind you, trying her best to comfort you through such a harrowing ordeal.Â
You put their practice cock back inside of you, slipping down further than you had, feeling the wide anatomy pressing against your entrance, but still unable to take the full knot inside. You pushed and pulled with your muscles, just like your Watchers had taught you, but it wouldnât budge. You were panting, sweating, and teetering on the edge of an embarrassing orgasm in front of your Watchers, and you gasped out, exasperated,Â
âI canât. I donât think I can do this, Watcher.â
âLay back, Omega. I will help you,â Watcher Gillar said softly, replacing your hand with hers at the base of the phallus.Â
You lay down on your back against your soft pillows, trying to avoid your Watchersâ pitying eyes. Then, you felt a cool gel being applied around the sore ring of your hole; something to ease the way since there was no true Alpha present to coax your slick from your glands. Watcher Bhin had held your hand in hers, gripping you tightly, letting you squeeze her through the pain, wiping away your tears as the glass bulb of the pretend knot began to split you, stretching your body before finally popping into place.
You Watchers had comforted you for a few minutes, but then you were told to begin your meditations.
With much difficulty, you sat up, feeling the heavy knot nestled against your walls. Then, Watcher Bhin handed you a firm pillow, and you understood that you must straddle it, and that it would push the knot against you. You were to train your body and your mind to accept it so that you would have the stamina to withstand the ceremony.Â
âDo not be afraid to listen to your body, Omega. We will return to help you remove it and recover. I will light some incense for you. Concentrate on your strength.â
You nodded, uncrossing your legs and settling yourself over the firm pillow, feeling the deep, sacral grind of the phallus as you set your weight against it. When you were left alone, you began your breathing techniques, but all the while, a flush was rushing across your skin, the shadow of a rising desire to come, and yet subtly different. Something whispered in your mind, and you wondered if you could call your slick down yourself, without an Alphaâs help.Â
So, you tried, rocking back and forth across the pillow, churning the knot within your core, feeling the rounded tip rubbing against your deepest parts. You removed your robes, letting the flush keep you warm, watching yourself in the tall mirror, meeting your own eyes.Â
It took only minutes before a true orgasm was upon you, but you tried to hold it at bay, searching through the sparkling, cracking fog of pleasure for the part of you that made you special. No Beta would survive a knotting; they never did, and it was a crime to even try. But, you were meant for it, and you knew that your Watchersâ training would not let you down. You breathed through the bliss, reaching out with your mind towards your slick, imagining it, visualizing your success, manifesting it deep within you.Â
When the Watchers found you later that night, they woke you with cool rags and worried faces,
âWhat happened, Omega? How did youâŠâ Watcher Gillar looked down at your bare legs to where the pillow sat under you, seeing a torrent of slick and milky come covering your skin and the silk of the bolster, confused by how you could produce it without an Alphaâs beckoning call. It was just not done, not even considered to be a possibility.Â
After that night, there was much chatter amongst the Watchers. They consulted old tomes, dusting off the pages in the library of your little academy where you trained far away from the rest of your village, kept up here in your tower like a Delphic oracle, buried like a treasure.Â
The training became more intense, and each practice phallus that your Watchers produced became harder and heavier, each bearing knots that were unfathomably large. You used your newfound power to face each of your challenges, less ashamed now to perform in front of your team, but knowing that the ceremony would be something else entirely.Â
You had asked about it one night as your Watchers were helping you bathe after a particularly difficult practice session,Â
âWill there truly be none absent from the ceremony, Watcher Trinity?â
âOnly the cubs and their mothers are forbidden from attending. Otherwise, all clan members are obligated to witness The Exchange. We will even invite Clan Farlight and Clan Seres to the feast as a token of goodwill. You know this, Omega,â her tone was a little impatient, wondering why you were asking such a basic question, âYour Alpha has asked for your ceremony to be conducted in the old way, according to the original scrolls.âÂ
âI am worried that I will dishonor you with my abilities. I cannot seem to take even these false knots without tears,â you repeated the old scripture, chanting it rote to your Watcher just as you used to do when you had started your adult training, âOmegas are vessels. They will silently submit. The ceremony will be still, honoring the sacrifice.â
Watcher Trinity knelt down beside your bath and made you look at her. Her eyes softened, and she told you,
âYes, that is what is written, but it is not that simple. You have already honored us with your sacrifice. We have no grain. We have skinny, milkless goats, and our well is nearly dry. When we feast after your ceremony, the full bellies of your people will mean so much more than any perceived weakness that you are reluctant to show.â She grabbed your hand out of the warm water, holding it in hers, âIf you need to cry, we will understand, and we will be comforting you from the crowd. Trust me, Omega.â
You tried to put it all out of your mind as you marched down the path, following behind your Watchers as they surrounded you, adorned in their own ceremonial garb. They had worn their armor and their long, red robes, carrying huge, black scythes like walking sticks, as was the custom of your clan. Your Alpha was walking in the front of your pack, guiding your clan to the meeting point. You could just see the white, canvas tops of the tents and yurts that had been constructed for the ceremony, meant to house hundreds of people for at least three days. Yours was the biggest, its adornment the most splendid. But that was little comfort to your frayed nerves.Â
You were miles from home at this point, missing the comfort of your room and your books, knowing that you would never return there, and that perhaps your new Alpha would not allow you to keep any of your belongings from your old life.Â
Youâd heard horror stories from some of the Betas in your clan, tales of Alphas who used their Omegas like slaves, keeping them clad in irons, surviving in dark dungeons only to be used to breed and to give their Alphas carnal pleasure.Â
While you were being prepared for this journey, a pair of Beta women had helped you paint your skin, drawing intricate symbols and prayers in gold flake, chittering about the ceremony and the feast without knowing what you had been through over the past six weeks.
âThis is the first time I will witness a ceremony done in the old way,â Beta Lilia said.Â
âDo you know which Alpha will claim you?â Liliaâs friend, Beta Tyran, asked you, not knowing how loaded her words were.
You shook your head; you didnât even know how many Alphas belonged to Clan 141. Lilia gushed about them for you, taking the conversation out of your hands,
âClan 141 has four Alphas! Can you imagine? I hear that they have an entire army of Omegas as well. Alpha Garrick is so handsome, and he has three gorgeous Omegas. They are almost too beautiful to look upon.. I saw him when I was at the central market once. He was leading a team, hunting the vagabonds who set fire to a farmerâs field, you remember when that happened? It was years ago now. He was so imposing. But, that other one was there, too.âÂ
She made a face that was strong enough to make you ask about it,
âWhich one?â
âThe Ghost, Alpha Riley. They say that no one has seen his face. He wears a terrifying skull mask. I heard from Yair that he has three Omegas as his guards, all masked as well. Yes! Guards! They have armor and weapons and huge, bulging muscles. Beautiful and lethal ââ
âDonât be ridiculous,â Beta Tyran interrupted, âNo one would give their Omegas weapons. No one would let their Omegas out in the public markets! Imagine the danger.â
Lilia shrugged, âYair said that these Omegas were the danger.âÂ
Then, you heard about Alpha MacTavish, a descendant from one of the ancient warlords, charming and fearsome. He kept two Omegas as his brides, always pregnant, but almost as fearsome as Alpha Rileyâs guards. Alpha MacTavish often expected them to travel with their Beta friends, to take their children up into the mountains, hunting and fishing and exploring outdoors. All sorts of stories about his large, loving family. You silently hoped you would be claimed by him. It would be nice to live amongst Omegas and their cubs.Â
âWhich one is their Apex Alpha? There must be one in a clan with so many Alphas,â you mused, asking the girls since you did not know much about Clan 141 yourself.
The Betas shared a look, and then Lilia shook her head,
âYou will not be claimed by him, Omega. Donât worry.â
âWhy?â You pried, using your influence to force her to tell you.
âHis name is Alpha Price, the leader of Clan 141. Heâs the deadliest man in the entire land, and heâs the one who destroyed Clan Konni.â
The weight of that news sank in, and the dramatic tone of her story had attracted other Betas and Watchers to gather around you to listen to her tale,Â
âAlpha Price has never claimed an Omega. They say that he had tried. He had found one of Alpha Garrickâs Omegas to be very pretty, but she tried to take his knot and failed, so Alpha Garrick took her under his protection instead.â
âFailed?â Watcher Bhin asked, shocked by the implication.Â
âMy sister was a medic who served with the Alliance in the most recent skirmish, and the 141 helped defeat the rebels who were killing members of Clan Darrah a few years ago. She said that she served under the doctor who had healed Alpha Garrickâs Omega. Said heâd never seen anything like it before in his life. She was so strong, and yetâŠâ
Liliaâs words hung heavy in the air, and all of the women looked at each other and then at you, suddenly feeling the weight of your sacrifice, ashamed at their earlier levity. Tyran shook her head and patted you on the arm,Â
âDonât worry. Alpha Price will not claim you. You have nothing to worry about.â
That night, painted gold and covered in your black silks, you sat in your tent and meditated while you waited for the other clans to arrive. Your mind kept wandering to Alpha Price and his lonely existence. Had he really injured an Omega during his claiming of her? How large must his knot have been to do so? It made you shudder to think about it, and yet deep inside of you, your core warmed from the thought. If he imprinted on youâŠ
But, imprinting was just a myth. Something only written in old texts as a footnote or a story. It was a part of the ritual of The Exchange, but it wasnât real.Â
âOmega,â Watcher Trinity interrupted your meditation and peeked her head into your tent, âIt is time to present The Cloth.â
Clan 141 was here, then.Â
The ritual of The Exchange began with The Shroud, which you were already wearing. Then, it was The Cloth. If all went well, it would then be The Meeting. And finally, The Ceremony.
The Cloth was a gift from the Omega to her new Alpha, a token of her affection and a chance for him to smell her scent for the first time. In ancient legends, this is when her true mate would imprint upon her, her Omegan scent bringing out his Alphic marks, dark spots or stripes across his neck and back, making him look like a big cat, ready to bite into her neck and claim her as his own.Â
She tried to shake herself out of that fantasy world. All she could hope was that one of their Alphas would be drawn to her scent enough to accept her. Her people were depending on her.
âHere is your cloth, Omega. I embroidered it myself. I hope that it honors you,â Watcher Trinity handed you a wooden box, carved and adorned with great care, and when you opened it, you found a red silk square of fabric, sewn with the sigils and symbols of your clan in fine gold thread. You smiled up at your Watcher and reached out to hold her in your arms,
âItâs perfect, Watcher. Thank you for caring for me.â
You were both fighting off tears when she finally pulled away. You hoped that your Alpha would at least let you say goodbye after the ceremony, even if you might never see her again.Â
Watcher Trinity and all of the other women left you alone again in your tent, giving you privacy to prepare The Cloth. You made yourself naked, and you began to rub the silk across your neck and glands, trying to soak your scent into the piece. Then, you wiped it between your legs, swiping up some of your wetness to coat the fabric. Usually, this would be enough. You could call your Watcher back into the tent and give her the box, and you would be done.Â
But, something in your heart told you to try to call out your slick. You listened to your instincts, and you began to rub the soft fabric against your folds, bringing your own pleasure to a warm, shining height. Just when you thought you might not be able to do it, that your nervousness would make it too difficult or that you might black out again from the effort, you felt something inside of you slip free. Then, your hole was flooded, the orgasm making your vision go blurry and form spots at the edges, your whole body convulsing from the strength of your pleasure, and you had to lay down just to try and stay awake through your gushing bliss.Â
You felt it coat the silk and your hand, a thick, milky slick, and your heart swelled with pride. You knew that a gift this special would sway the attention of at least one of their Alphas. You trusted in your skills and training that you were worthy of this ceremony and that your people would be saved.Â
Sitting up, you carefully opened the box and returned The Cloth to its resting place, soaked with your scent. You took time to clean yourself up, stuffing wet blankets into your laundry packs and hiding them away, remaking your nest before your Watcher would know what you had done. You werenât sure why you were keeping a secret from them, but you just felt like this was something between you and your Alpha. A promise, of sorts.Â
You replaced your black silks and veil over your otherwise unclothed body and called your Watchers. They entered your tent along with Alpha Roan.Â
His eyes widened as he approached you, taking the box from your hands. Quietly, as if knowing that this was an extremely private affair, he whispered to you,Â
âWhat have you done, little Omega?â
âI am doing what needs to be done, Alpha. Please, deliver my message to my new Master.â
You use of the ancient terminology caught your clan Alpha off guard, but you were glad of it. If this was to be done in the old way, then you would withstand it, but you would also do it your way. You were the Omega, here, and you were the reason your clan would survive this struggle. It was time you started acting like the heroine that you were. You would be your peopleâs strength, no matter the cost.
âVery well,â Alpha Roan sighed, closing the box, calling out to your team, âWatchers, bring your Omega to The Cloth ritual.â
You were guided to the path again, leaving your tent behind and walking towards the big, outdoor theater. It was a crude coliseum of sorts, a large circular pit lined with rows and rows of carved seating that was cut into the land. People had already begun to line the viewing platforms, each clan decorated in their traditional garb. You felt proud to see the stripe of red where your people sat, holding each othersâ hands and praying for your safe arrival.Â
You were not greeted with raucous applause but instead with reverent silence. Alpha Roan walked in front of your Watchers, and you were the last one into the theater, dressed only in your sheer shroud, trying your best not to feel self-conscious about the fact that - because of the firelight - everyone could see your naked, painted body through the veil, even though you were covered head to toe in the organza. In the tent, the lighting was low and kept you in darkness, hiding your body under the thin silk. But, not here in the theater. Your skin was illuminated by the torches, and you knew that even your friends and neighbors could now see your most private parts.Â
You made sure that your face did not give away your lingering shame.Â
Alpha Roan took center stage, and you saw the Alphas of Clan 141 for the first time.Â
Alpha MacTavish was standing between his two Omegas, and you mused that his oldest children must have stayed behind to care for his cubs. He was dressed in his Clanâs black gear, covered in armor like a gladiator, his head shaven into a mohawk, spiked and messy on the crown of his head. His body was huge and stocky, and the Omegas seated at his sides looked so tiny compared to his bulk. But, they were strong. Their bellies were round with the promise of future cubs, and their skin and hair glowed like the stars.Â
Alpha Garrick stood next to him, his Omegas seated together to his right, dressed in the finest robes you had ever seen. He clearly had a type, and you thought that they looked like triplets, all decorated in jewels and gold, riches youâd never even dreamt of. Their Alpha was every bit as handsome as the stories had promised. He had pouty, full lips that were curled in a snarky sort of smile, and his soft brown eyes exuded pure confidence. His hands were wide and powerful, resting on his curved blade that lay sheathed at his hip.Â
Alpha Riley was masked, as you had been told, as were his Omegas. They were not seated, and every bit of armor that was strapped to his hulking body was also strapped to them. They had glittering knives, bows, arrows, and slings, looking like they could win their own war by themselves. Their bodies were heavily muscled, and all four of them seemed as tall as Alpha MacTavish, standing proudly in leather boots.Â
Then, you saw Alpha Price. He was holding a large wooden stick, at least seven feet tall, with hundreds of notches sliced into the side. You wondered what he was keeping track of, and you shuddered to know. His beard was neatly trimmed, and his hair was cut high and tight on the sides. He was certainly bigger and better muscled than each of his men, but that was not what you noticed about him first. It was his eyes. They were piercingly blue, like glacial ice, and they were looking right at you. Hungry.Â
Something inside of your core tightened under his scrutiny, but Alpha Roanâs voice shook you from your trance,
âClan Arlos welcomes Clan 141 to The Exchange. We present you with our offering, an unmated Omega, 26 years of age, fully trained in the old ways of our people. She is our greatest gift, and we ask for your acceptance of our sacrifice.â
Alpha Roan held up the box with The Cloth inside for all to see. He set it on the large, marble altar in the middle of the stage and backed away from it, waiting for the other Alphas to take part in the ritual.Â
Alpha Price spoke, and your body nearly trembled at the sound of his deep, purring voice. You were more nervous than you thought, and you tried to breathe to manage yourself.Â
âWe will consider your honorable offering, Clan Arlos.â
With that, he slammed his huge stick against the stony ground and Alpha MacTavish stepped up to the altar. He opened the box, and along with the other Alphas in attendance, his body had a visceral reaction. His hands went to touch the cloth and he brought it to his nose, smelling your scent with a sort of wonder and amazement.Â
Then, to your great relief, he raised his hand, palm outward, as a show of his acceptance of your scent. If you accepted him as well, you would be mated.Â
But, the slamming sound of the stick shook you out of your celebrations. Alpha Price called up Alpha Garrick.Â
This was most unusual. Typically, only one Alpha had to agree. It wasnât like you had much choice in the matter. Even if Alpha MacTavishâs scent did not stir your heart, you would still submit to him as expected. This was not a marriage of love but of convenience.Â
MacTavish looked back over his shoulder at Price, just as shocked as you were. His Omegas looked even more taken aback, strangely offended that you would not automatically join them. But, Alpha MacTavish returned the cloth to the box and made room for Garrick, disappointed and visibly confused.Â
Alpha Garrick opened the box and buried his face against The Cloth, breathing in once, twice, and then tasting the fabric, right in front of everyone. It was his right, but it was a little audacious.Â
His palm went up, high in the air, and his Omegas smiled and held each otherâs hands, excited at your acceptance.Â
Another loud slam. Another rejection.Â
You may still end up with MacTavish or Garrick after negotiations, you remembered, but you were now wondering why Alpha Price had chosen to test you against all three of his men before making a decision. It was very odd. Alpha Roan looked greatly concerned.Â
Alpha Riley approached the altar, his gloved hands prying open the box, then, he lifted the bottom of his mask to reveal his mouth and nose. The slightest murmur of shock rippled through the crowd. He bent to smell your scent, and he raised his hand in the air, signaling his acceptance before replacing his mask. You thought you caught the hint of a smile just before his pale lips disappeared beneath the skull plate again.Â
Slam! The stick pounded against the floor.
All of Clan 141 turned to look at Alpha Price at once. Your heart stopped. Why would he⊠Why would Alpha Price want to undergo The Cloth ritual himself? He had no Omega. Surely, he wouldnât claim you now, not after what had happened. You watched Alpha Garrickâs Omegas. One of them stared at Alpha Price with wide, glossy eyes. You thought that it must be his prior candidate for a mate. She was afraid for you. They were all afraid.
All eyes were on Alpha Price as he approached the altar, and the entire theater was silent as he took The Cloth in his hands. He lay it out flat, in no rush, inspecting the wet stain that you had left for him, using his thumb to feel the fine, gold embroidery. Then, his eyes darted up to yours. He was the first one to look at you while he held The Cloth to his nose, that icy gaze making you tremble with anticipation.Â
You were so lost in his eyes that you didnât see what was stirring the crowd. There was a loud gasp and then an explosion of whispers. You looked around, trying to understand what was happening. Then, when he tucked The Cloth into his breast pocket, keeping you for himself, you saw it.Â
Long, red lines began to stain his skin like lightning. All of his veins tattooed themselves across his neck, and although his armor was covering his shoulders, you knew that the marks would be there as well.Â
Alpha Price had imprinted for you.Â
Then, he silenced the crowd by raising his right hand, palm up, staring at you the entire time.Â
You were whisked away, surrounded by your Watchers, hearing Alpha Roanâs voice behind you, sounding like protest, but you couldnât make out the words. Compared to the initial silence, the area erupted in a shattering din, clans shouting and yelling over each other, the drama from the ritual dividing the people.Â
You thought you would be taken back to your tent, but you were brought to a large lake about five hundred yards from the theater. It was quiet again. No one was allowed to follow you here, it seemed.Â
Watcher Trinity tried to explain in a rushed whisper, helping you climb into a boat and rowing you out to the middle of the lake,
âThere is a dispute for your claiming. Alpha Roan will negotiate new terms, and Clan 141 must decide who will be your Alpha. It will be alright, Omega. Itâll be alright.â
She sounded like she was trying to reassure herself more than you.
âWhat now?â
âBecause there is not just one Alpha who has claimed you, they will undergo a ritual called The Trial. It is a fight; a test of will. Whichever Alpha can win will be granted the right to appeal to you first. If you reject him, then you will be given a chance to hear the appeal from the second.â
âSo, it will be up to me, then?â
âYes. Alpha Price has put the choice in your hands. Very odd, and not in our custom, but we must honor his wishes. You will wait here for the winner.â
You looked around. You were now in the middle of the lake, and there was a platform lingering just below the water. It was a wide stone block, about three meters wide in each direction. Watcher Trinity helped you out of the boat and you stepped tentatively onto the platform.Â
âWill you wait with me?â You asked, feeling the uncertainty and fear finally get the better of you.Â
âNo, my Omega. I cannot. These waters are forbidden to Betas. Only Alphas and Omegas can touch it. Take this. It is your flare. If you are in trouble, if he tries to get to you, fire it high into the sky and we will rescue you. You can do this. I know you are strong. Wait patiently for your Alpha,â she paused, grabbing your hand, âI realize you are doing this for us, but please, follow your heart.â
âI will, Watcher.âÂ
So, you waited. You meditated, standing in an inch of cool lake water as you tried to commune with the land around you. And you waited some more. Hours passed until, finally, you saw torches. Your Watchers lined one side of the lake, and they greeted the newcomers. Then, you saw him. Alpha Price was being stripped down by your Watchers. They took his weapons from him, and then his clothes, making him naked on the shoreline. He craned his neck, trying to look for you in the lake, but it was dark and you were dressed in black.Â
You could see him just fine, though. His huge body was covered in short, curly hair, dense and dark against his skin. His muscles bulged and popped as he peeled away his layers of clothing. They left his undergarments on, little more than a linen loincloth. Then, you saw your Watchers attach a huge, metal collar around his neck. They clamped it together with a padlock in the back, and a huge chain was attached at the latch.Â
They bound his hands, chaining them together, and then loaded him into the boat. They rowed toward you with his back facing the platform, and as he got closer, you saw his imprint markings, red and raised like jagged scars across his neck and shoulders. Your scent had marked him permanently. The welts would go down, and the red would fade, but it would always be there, evidence of his imprinting.Â
The boat reached you, and he climbed out of it, sitting on the opposite side of the platform from you, just far enough to be out of range for your scent.Â
His eyes found yours again, staring at you through your veil, finding your gaze with a natural ease. He held a small box in his hands, and you thought you saw the phantom of a smile across his lips as you looked over his face.Â
The boat rowed to shore, dragging the long chain all the way back, and you were alone with him. It was quiet for a long while. You were just staring at each other, studying each other, trapped in a silent battle.Â
You looked down at his hands, noticing for the first time his cut, bloody knuckles, and he saw the worry cross over your eyes.
âTheyâre fine,â he said quietly, âMy men. If thatâs what you were wondering.â
âBut, you triumphed over them, clearly,â you replied, not trusting your own voice.Â
He chuckled a bit, sighing,Â
âI did.â
âYou fought for me, then.â
The laughing stopped, and he lifted his chin, proudly,Â
âI did.â
âAnd you are here for my acceptance.â
He didnât respond to your cue, but instead, he took the box in his hands and slid it across the platform, skittering it along the surface of the water, making little splashes as it landed in front of you.Â
You reached for it, opening it up to reveal a shining key.Â
âThrow it in the lake,â he commanded you, using his Alphaâs voice to bend your will.Â
It shocked you, and you were so close to obeying, but you stopped, cutting your eyes at him,
âWhat is this?â
âThrow. It. Omega.â
His voice seared through your blood, calling to you with old magic. You fought hard to keep your mind under your own control,Â
âStop! Stop it. Tell me what this is, Alpha.â
âIt unlocks my collar. Otherwise, if I make so much as a shift in your direction that they donât like,â his head turned to look back toward your watchers, âThey will pull me into the lake, and I will drown.â
âAnd if I unlock itâŠâ
âThen, you will be my mate,â his tone turned vitriolic then, âAnd you will die.â
You let his words sink in, your curiosity overcoming your fear,
âYou believe your knot cannot be taken.â
He spat back,Â
âMy belief is not ââ
âBut, itâs not up to you,â you interrupted him, âIs it?â
The shock that washed over his bright eyes filled you with a sort of sick satisfaction. You should be afraid of him, but your roles were reversed out here on this rock, and you were holding him under your command.Â
âToss that key, girl. MacTavish fought hard for you. Heâll care for you. Heâs a good man.â
âAre you a good man?â
âNo,â he growled, his eyes dropping to the water, examining the chains around his own hands, inspecting them for the bloodstains that he obviously thought should be there.Â
âI am here for my people, Alpha Price. I am not looking for a husband. I am a resource to be traded for other resources. My clan needs The Exchange. Our people are starving, and I ââ
âI would not let them starve,â Priceâs eyes shot back up, indignant that you would suggest that he would leave you and your clan without food or water.Â
You let yourself smile slightly, teasing him,Â
âSpoken like a good man.â
He twisted his lips over his teeth, but he stayed quiet. You continued to torment him,Â
âWhy did you raise your hand for me?â
He sighed, sitting forward, sloping his shoulders toward you,
âI couldnât help it. My AlphaâŠHeâŠâ He paused, searching for the words, âI could smell you through the box. I knew you from the moment I saw you walk through the arena. And when my men all raised their hands for you, I knew you would be accepted as our Clan Omega. You are mine in every way that matters. And I cannot have you.â
His voice was full of bitterness. You wanted to smell him. What were the chances that he was your true mate? One-sided imprinting was rare, but true mates were one in a million.Â
You stood, surprising him, and he jolted back, sitting up right. The chain around his wrists clattering. You looked over at the shoreline. Your Watchers held the long chain around his neck, heavy and sagging into the black water, ready to yank it tight if he lunged for you, if he fell prey to his Alphic instinct to breed you.Â
He watched you approach, seeing how the water rippled with every step you took, gazing upon the dripping silks that clung to your legs, devouring you with his eyes. You stopped in front of his crossed legs, Knowing that he could smell you now. Your pussy was shielded only with a few layers of silk, and you watched him flare his nose, sniffing you right in front of his face, blowing a slow exhale of air through his lips, making the organza billow between your legs.Â
âCan I smell your scent, Alpha?â You whispered, your voice slicing through the silence of the still lake.Â
His chains clattered as he twisted his head to look up at you, peeling his eyes away from your pretty pussy to meet your gaze. Then, he bent his head to one side, giving you his neck, showing you his scent gland, a sea of red stripes emanating from its center.Â
You bent over him, closing the gap, steadying yourself by laying a gentle hand on his huge shoulder. Then, you took a long pause and breathed him in. His scent swirled through your body, wrecking your other senses. It was only him. Alpha. Alpha. Alpha. Your Alpha. Your mate. Your true mate.Â
You felt the red marks of your imprint streak across your skin, and his eyes widened in shock as he saw them branch through your veins and across your gland just as his had done.Â
The click of a lock made his eyes flash back to you, and with that movement, his heavy collar tumbled into the lake, the drag of the chain singing as it scraped the side of the platform.Â
âWhat have you done, my Omega?â Price breathed.Â
It was the second time youâd been asked that question. Your response was still the same:
âI am doing what needs to be done, Master. I am giving myself to you, my true mate.â
The boats were in the water the moment the collar slipped from his neck. The Watchers were on you in moments, and Priceâs Beta soldiers were there to collect him. You watched as they rowed you two apart, taking you back to your camps to prepare for the ceremony.Â
Your Watchers were in a rush. There were only a few hours until sunrise. Your wet robes were switched out for red ones, and a red veil adorned your head. Underneath, you were rubbed and painted and sprayed with oils, until finally, Watcher Trinity came forward with a bowl of salve. She had made it herself, you could tell. She cared for you so deeply.Â
âI trust you, Omega. I know you know what youâre doing. But, please take this. It will help your muscles relax for him, and it will make it easier to bring on your natural defenses.â
She was being coy, avoiding using the word to refer to your slick, knowing that you had your own method of calling it forth using your special power. But, you took it from her anyway, and after you were left alone again to meditate, you used two fingers to massage it into your hole, feeling its effects begin to warm you, making your flesh supple and pliant.Â
A hand curled around your tent flap, pulling it open. Instead of your Watcher, you saw one of Garrickâs Omegas. It was her, the one who had failed to take your Alphaâs knot.
She stepped inside,
âMay I speak with you?â
You nodded, motioning for her to sit,
âYes, but Iâm afraid I already know what you are about to say.â
Her eyes widened,Â
âIf you know, then why have you accepted this? Alpha MacTavish was his second. He is not to your liking? His Omegas are kind and ââ
âNo, they were all to my liking. I am eager to join your pack in whichever way I can, but Alpha Price is my true mate.â
You showed her your skin from under the red silks, knowing she could not see them through the red of the veil. She gaped at them,Â
âYour⊠true mate? He could⊠This could kill you, Omega. I donât want to see you come to harm, and it would destroy him. I saw how he was after my accident. I nearly blamed myself for his deep sorrow.â
âI trust my training, Omega, and I am so grateful for your support, but he is my mate. What is meant to happen to me, will.â You stood with her, seeing your Watchers hovering just outside the tent, signaling them that you were ready to leave.Â
âThen, I trust you as well. The others are so excited to meet you. I wish you an easy path, and I hope your ceremony is just as you want it to be. After this, you will be our Clan Omega, and I will serve you until the end of my days.â
She kissed your cheek through your veil and left you to be delivered back to the altar.Â
For a long time, you had wondered if this final walk away from your pack would be a sad one. You expected every step to be filled with hesitation and fear. But, the only thing you felt was joy. Your mate awaited you at the end of this long path, and you were ready to submit to him. He was worthy of your strength, and he would help you deliver your people from danger. You would rule beside him, helping him use the 141 for good, eradicating the evil from your land.Â
The sunâs pink wash was rising out of the horizon line just as you reached the theater. The crowd was silent again, and you saw the pallor and shock painted on all of their faces. They were expecting a funeral instead of a feast. They had no idea why anyone would be so desperate as to sacrifice their only Omega to this Alpha, especially when it was not necessary. But, they didnât realize that you were no prisoner. You were no oneâs puppet. You were in charge, here, and your Alpha would breed you as you commanded him to.Â
Your Watchers led you to the altar, kissing your hands through the thin cloth as they passed you to take their seats near Clan Arlos, tears in their eyes and staining their cheeks, and finally, your clan Alpha approached you.
âAlpha Roan,â you greeted him.Â
âLittle Omega,â he smiled, kissing your hands just as your Watchers had done. He didnât need to, but it was his way of showing everyone that he trusted your choice, âI hope you know what you are doing.â
âI do,â you said, smiling at him through your red silk veil.Â
Then, Alpha Priceâs men came through the center of the theater, each of them bending to kiss your hands. But, instead of the back of your knuckles, they turned them over to kiss your palms, a sign that they would accept what you had to give them. Alpha Riley was first, and he lifted his mask to show you his mouth and chin, his kiss warm and tender against your skin. Then, Alpha Garrick knelt down, placing multiple kisses along your fingers and wrists, displaying his loyalty and respect. Finally, Alpha MacTavish knelt before you, daring to whisper to you as he kissed your palms,Â
âBrave lass.â
You used your thumb to pet his lip, acknowledging his trust in you.Â
Then, it was time for the Omegas to join you. They approached as a unit, not individually as their Alphas had done, and they helped you lay on the altar, guiding your body back onto the marble platform. They pulled at your silks, allowing the crowd to see your naked body, painted in fine brushes of intricate gold designs, of prayers and songs of your people, their symbols adorning you from neck to toe. Finally, they began to kiss you, licking and sucking at your mouth like lovers, showing their devotion to you as their clan Omega.Â
As they kissed you, your skin began to flush hot, your body somehow knowing what was about to happen to you. The Omegas felt your fire against their lips, and they pulled your legs apart, each of them bending to lick and suck at your flowerâs drooling petals, slurping and sucking up your creamy nectar. They were at your breasts, your neck, your belly, your hands and feet. You were overwhelmed with pleasure, shaking and trembling under their affection, yet moved by their deep loyalty. You knew you would be safe with them. They would care for you just as your clan had done.Â
Then, you heard the familiar slam of a longstaff. Your Alpha had arrived.Â
According to the ceremony, you were meant to be still and silent as a showing of your acceptance. If you moved or cried out in any way, you risked a clan war, as taking a mate without their consent was a dark offense. You had to prove to your people that you were here of your own free will, and even though you were feeling the static cling of apprehension beginning to worm its way into your chest, you tried to breathe through it, trusting your Alpha to lead you through this moment with his protective power.Â
Your legs were lowered to the stirrup-style rests that were carved just below the stone table, keeping your knees wide apart, allowing your pussy to drip openly, glistening with the beginnings of your slick. You calmed yourself as they left you alone, each of them kissing you softly once more to show their reverence.Â
Then, you heard the clatter of fallen armor. He was undressing, removing his warlordâs mantle and coming to you fully bare. You spotted him between the vee of your legs as he approached the dais, his imprint marks flushed a deep wine red, his body shining with the traditional oils, meant to give him another layer of aphrodisiacs, promoting his production of his seed, keeping his cock tall and hard.Â
But, you knew that your imprint on his gland would do more than all of their drugs combined. He would kill every last person in this arena to get to you at this point, and although you had consented to this joining, you were no longer controlling it. He would take you, no matter what.Â
Then, when he got close enough to your platform, you saw it. It was standing proudly against his thick, furry belly, dripping with precome and lubricants, glittering in the rising sun. His cock was immense. You had not practiced on one so large. And his knot was larger than your two fists pressed together. He was intact, and his foreskin was slipping down his flushed head, unable to contain the swelling glans. Your body threatened to quiver from your suspense, and you tried to move your mind into your meditative trance.Â
As he approached, he did not go straight for his position between your legs. Instead, he walked around the front of the marble platform and bent to look you in your eyes, leaning his head down for a deep, heady kiss. He fed you his tongue and suckled on yours, letting it writhe inside of his mouth, rubbing against his own probing muscle.
He pulled away to gaze upon you, his eyes soft and full of joy. You smiled up at him, watching as he enjoyed the rest of your body, caressing your breasts, admiring your paintings.Â
âDid my clan show you their loyalty, my Omega?â
âYes, Master,â you answered quietly.Â
âAre you prepared for me to show you mine?â
âYes, Master. I am,â you replied, giving him a brave face despite the absolute weapon that was slobbering for you against his belly. You wanted to taste it, but now was not the time.Â
He returned to the base of your platform, kneeling in front of your wet hole, bending to place his mouth against you. He began to suck, pulling your soft lips into his mouth like he was starving, lapping up the beginnings of your bodyâs fluids, moaning from the taste and the smell of your scent. You wanted to moan, you wanted to pin his head to your trembling quim, but you didnât dare move a muscle or make a single sound. Breathing in, breathing out, letting the sparks of an orgasm rush through you, bringing tears to your eyes from holding back so much pleasure.Â
Your Watcherâs salve was almost too effective. It had made you pliant, but now you were beyond sensitive, able to feel the pound of your own heartbeat through your hole, desperate for something to press inside of you. You needed his cock.Â
But, he did not give it to you. He just sucked and sucked and sucked, and his fingers began to rub along the entrance of your slippery hole, pressing down on your pussyâs walls, testing their strength. You fluttered for him, just like your Watchers had taught you, and you felt him stumble in his movements, shocked by your power.Â
He stood between your legs, his face and beard soaking from his meal, letting you drip off of his chin like a messy hound drinking from a river. Then, to test your resolve, he teased you with a little bit of meanness, stepping forward to let his cock lay along your body, measuring himself on the outside of you. He reached far beyond your navel, his lubed phallus warm and heavy, his knot resting in the softness of your folds, and you could feel him throbbing for you.Â
You didnât dare move, but you wanted to cradle his cock in your hands, to rub up and down his length, to feel the smoothness of his head and the firmness of his knot. But, you stayed stock still, showing the crowd that you would not waver. There was some soft chittering from the clans, the shock at his size obviously enough to break onlookers out of their respectful quiet.Â
Then, he began notching his head at the entrance of your pussy, letting the tip slide up and down your tight ring of muscles that guarded your entrance.     Â
âLast chance, Omega. Call it off. Cry out, and my own men will cut me down,â he bade you under his breath, having a hard time holding his words and sentences together, his voice shaking in his throat.Â
You looked up at him with closed lips, making a point to give him a soft smile as a response.Â
No deal.Â
You pulsed your muscles again, making your pussy lap up his sloppy precome like a little mouth, watching as he was torn apart by your action, no matter how minor.Â
So, without any other choice, he fed himself into you. It was a fearsome experience, at first. You werenât sure if you could actually handle him. But, you breathed through the stress, relaxing your body, finding that deep, secret place inside of you, making your slick drop down for him, flooding your hole to welcome him in.Â
The confusion that painted his face was so satisfying. He couldnât understand the sheer warmth and comfort he was experiencing. His cock was being sucked into you, deeper and deeper, and finally, you felt his knot.Â
He pulled all the way out of you, and sheathed himself all the way back in, always reaching to that one spot, just above his bulbous anchor, and then starting his process over again. Each time his cock fucked its way through your body, humping himself into you, creamy, milking noises filled the quiet, open-air arena. The whole ensemble could hear him invading your hole, the lurid slap of skin on skin loud and unashamed.Â
His phallus was large enough to rub against your most sensitive spot over and over, bullying it into producing more and more slick, making you come just by dragging his heavy cockhead over it, in and out, in and out, pounding into you with almost reckless need.Â
You came for him, and your body began to shiver from the overwhelming bliss, but you held your voice. You tried to still yourself, not wanting to show weakness, but there was nothing you could do. You were shattered by his cock, coming over and over again. It was an endless wave. You had no idea where one started and the other stopped.Â
You could taste blood in your mouth from biting the inside of your cheek. Still, you pushed through it, testing yourself with every push and pull of your body.Â
His huge hands pawed at your hips and breasts, squeezing you, watching your plump flesh jiggle with every cruel strike of his hips. Your Alpha took your own slick and began to rub it all over your skin, swirling it around your nipples, letting it smear across your belly from his palm. Then, he painted himself, taking it from your well-fucked hole and rubbing it across his scent gland, down his chest, matting his hair with your wetness.Â
Then, you felt his precome begin to pump out of him. You knew it had begun because this was when your slick was meant to wash through you, but there was no space for anything else. So, it began to pour out of you and over his knot. Every time he pushed it against your body, it threatened to slip into your hole, and you were filled with a twisted excitement, ready for it to be stuck inside of you, to churn and grind against your insides, to trap you in a blinding, rageful bliss. You nearly cried out from the heavy want you felt in your chest.Â
âYou ready for my knot, pretty Omega?â He growled, no longer speaking to you softly. There was no gentleness left within him.Â
He shoved you back across the dais, climbing up onto it with you, breaking every protocol by doing so, but knowing there wasnât a single other Alpha in attendance who would do anything about it unless you asked them to. But, he trusted you, lifting himself above you, bringing his face to your face, kissing you and beginning to lick your scent gland, making you see stars.Â
Would he really bite you right here in front of all these people while you were about to take his knot? It was beyond intimate. Not only was it private, but it was dangerous. It was when an Alpha was most vulnerable. The audacity of this man shook you to your core.Â
âBite me, Omega. Please take me. Claim me as yours, sweetheart. Show them that you are mine. My Omega.â
His voice was ragged and deep, a hoarse purr of commands, all of which you were happy to obey. You began to lick his neck, putting your mouth over his gland as you began to suck at the round swell of flesh. Then, just as you canted your hips, feeling his knot slip inside of you, shoving and burying itself within the tight sheath of your pussy, you used your muscles to yank him the rest of the way in, and you bit down on his neck, hard, your body seizing from a hard, ruthless orgasm. .Â
You heard the crack of his gland, and you felt him sink his fangs into yours, the pain and the pleasure mixing within you like a drug, his cock firing rope after rope of searing hot come into your belly, flooding your womb with his spend. He pulled his mouth away and stared into your eyes. His pupils were blown wide, his face full of disbelief,Â
âMy loveâŠâ
You kissed him, taking his lip into yours, suckling on it, trying to guide him back down from his tantric high. He was struggling above you, stuck deep inside of you, unable to stop himself from dumping heavy loads of his come into your body, his cock pulsing and throbbing with each burst of his cream.Â
He rested his head on your neck, returning his mouth to your gland, and every time he licked it, now, you felt your pussy twist around him, threatening to slam you with another orgasm. You licked him, too, hearing him cry out against your skin, feeling the mirror of your sensations, his heavy phallus jerking as you sucked on his broken gland.Â
Finally, he was able to rock back and forth, letting his knot slip out of you before popping it back inside, fucking you with it just like he did with his cock. He twisted his hips forward, driving into you with all of his strength, and then he would pull himself back out, the swell of his knot increasing with each thrust until, on the last thrust, he was finally trapped, unable to remove himself from your core.Â
Now, though, it was your turn. You began to use your muscles to push and pull him from the inside, fucking him like a sleeve of smooth, soaked warmth, jerking his shaft up and down with your insides.
âOh, fuckâŠâ He whispered, not expecting your skills to be so advanced, but you had trained hard for this moment. You werenât about to let it go to waste.Â
You moved him inside of you, letting his knot take the brunt of your efforts, squeezing it like a fruit, making sure all of his juice melted into your skin. You made him come like this again, using the salve that your Watcher had given to you as an advantage, knowing that the heightened sensitivity you felt was now being passed on to him. He filled you up, his knot plugging your hole, preventing any of his seed from leaking out, and your tummy was swollen from his load, round and full for everyone to see.Â
He sat up on his heels, looking down at you with his eyes full of adoration and wonder, watching your strong abdominals clench and twist as you used them to help you work inside of yourself, edging him over and over before pulling him down into the depths of another hard come with you.Â
His hands went to the bulge of fluid in your belly, most of it flooding into your womb, unable to escape anywhere else. Your Alpha caressed your skin, marveling at the fullness. Then, he looked down at your stretched hole, playing with your clitorus that had been forced out from under its hood due to the sheer size of his knot, all of your skin bowing around it and pulled tight.Â
Your Alpha forced you to come like this, milking him hard, trying not to make a sound but giving away your mind-bending pleasure with shaking, whimpering breaths.Â
âThatâs a good Omega. So full of my come.â
You smiled up at him, enjoying the full feeling of his come inside of you. But, you were losing your strength, and he could feel it. Alpha Price leaned over you again, grinding himself down into you and helping you reach one last orgasm, pulling himself along with you, squirting the last of his spend into your pussy. Then, he carefully twisted his cock out of you, watching the gush of his come coat the marble platform, dripping out of you and down the sides of the dais.Â
You were so empty and weak, but you were being lifted, cradled in his arms, and the whole arena burst into revelrous applause. The feast had begun, but not for you. You would be in your Alphaâs tent, and there you would remain until he bred you, making sure that you were laden with his cub, sharing food and drink with him in bed while you were stuck on his knot, traditionally until sunset when you would be presented to the clans as the new Apex Omega, destined to rule beside him forever.Â
âAre you done being quiet, my Omega?â
âYes, Master,â you whispered, nestling into his broad chest.Â
âGood,â he smiled, âI need to hear you scream for me.â
âAnd I need my Alpha to breed me. I need your knot again, Master. Donât pull it out.â
âIâm at your command, my love,â he smiled, planting a kiss on your temple, smearing his own salve across your swollen flesh, working his cock until he was hard again.Â
When you felt his knot for the second time, you knew you had made the right choice. Your people were safe, and so were you. You werenât sure if it was the high of your claiming or the truth that you felt in your heart, but you were eager to be dripping with his come every night. Trapped underneath your Alpha was right where you belonged, knotted and full of his love.Â
Seriously, send help. I was too ashamed to even reread it for typos. I'm so sorry.
explicit đ | sylus/reader | 7.2k (chp 1) 16.5k (total)
summary: relationships between alphas are supposed to be an impossible ideaâand yet, despite everything, youâve made it this far with sylus. ruts are the one aspect of your dynamic left untouched. maybe itâs time to test this strange peace between you.
tags: omegaverse, alpha/alpha, canon compliant, established (but undefined) relationship, mating cycle/ruts, rough sex, knotting, sylus topping from the bottom, mating bites, choking, fingering (vaginal and anal), inappropriate use of evol, more tags for part 2 on ao3
author's note: below is just the first chapter of a two-part fic, though it was originally a one shot and therefore can be read independently. the second part can be found exclusively on ao3!
this fic contains some universe-specific internalized gender essentialism that, while ruminated on, is not exactly resolved.
You hang up the phone and take in a measured, controlled breath.Â
Happy thoughts: the weather is beautiful. The waves crest against the beach in soothing, repetitive motions. Sylusâ villa is lovely. Sylus is next to you, silent. Sylus, the one who dragged you on this vacation. Sylus, the one who pulled you away from your omega.Â
Your omega who is not actually your omega, but really just someone you hook up with for the exclusive purpose of working through each otherâs cycle. But now, theyâre with some other alpha. Another alpha who clearly isnât taking care of them right, not if theyâre calling you, begging for your attention, in the middle of their heat.Â
And instead of being with them, you are stuck on this godforsaken island with Sylus.
Suddenly, the pounding rays of the sun become all too much, every grating squall of a seagull making your eyebrow twitch. You never should have agreed to this. It would have been so much easier for you to stay home and ride out your rut like you always do. Better yet, you could be spending your rut with an omega, as nature intended. Instead, your regular hookup is spending a heat without you, and youâre choking back suppressants to avoid the crippling embarrassment of Sylus seeing you break.
You would rather die than give him the satisfaction. It was his coercion to take you on this tripâknowing you were due for your rutâthat got you into this situation in the first place.
How mortifying, for another alpha to have heard that phone call. He must think youâre pathetic, that heâs so much better than you. This is exactly why you do not do alphasâeverything becomes a competition. And being a woman and an alpha? Even worse. These men always think they have something over you, like they have a rightful place at the top of lifeâs hierarchy, like you are just an unnatural deviation for the simple sin of being a woman.
But Sylus has never made a point of that, not once. Sure, you two clashâteeth gnashing, nostrils flared and voices growling when you argue. Yet whether he wins or loses, he takes it in stride, never sinking to disrespect you. Treating you like an equal .
You are starting to think that has been his own version of a humiliation ritual all along and you have just been naively unaware. Why else would he be so desperate to spend your rut together? Heâs floated the idea countless times, has even suggested joining you and your omega just to get a taste. All to the extent of inviting you out to one of his many tropical properties right when it was supposed to hit.Â
He wants to embarrass you, surely. Thatâs why youâre sitting here in this awkward silence, the grip on your phone so tight you feel the metal crease under your fingers. He must be so smug right now.
God, this is all his fault.
So of course, when he finally speaks, he says the worst thing he could possibly manage in that dulcet voice of his: âAre you alright?â
Rage stirs in your gut like a simmering volcano. Breathe in. Breathe out. Beautiful weather, nice waves, lovely villa. Beautiful weather, nice waves, lovely villa.Â
Beautiful weather. Nice waves. Lovely villa.
âSweetie?â
In one swift motion, you throw your phone as hard as you can until it lands in the ocean with a distant splash . You swear you hear Sylus suck in a breath, but you donât turn to see his expression. Itâs possible that if you look at him right now there wonât be much preventing you from losing it on him completely, and that would mean more embarrassment, which would mean he won.
You hate this unbearable heat. You hate the unending roar of the waves. You hate that everything here belongs to him.
Without bothering to pick up your bag, you swiftly stand from your lounge chair and begin stomping away, cursing the sun, the sand between your feet and the air that Sylus breathes.
âWait. Talk to me,â he says, frantic as he follows after you. He sounds concerned, maybe even genuinely so, and that is so much worse. Now heâs pitying you.
It takes everything in you not to hit him when he grabs your arm, somehow mustering a modicum of restraint. His grip is loose enough for you to tug away from him instead, but still, his insistence is enough to force you to turn around and confront him.
His red eyes are wide with worry but his jaw is tight, Adam's apple bobbing with a swallow. It only pisses you off further how effortlessly handsome he is, his linen shirt loose and sheer enough to show off peeks at the sculpted body underneath. How easy would it be to tear it off? For once, the guilt of ruining something likely expensive beyond your means barely crosses your mind.
A sudden breeze rushes past, and you feel yourself engulfed in his scent. Itâs almost nauseating, the way your senses are quickly filled to the brim with the smell of whiskey and peat smoke. It overpowers you, fingers twitching with the way you now crave a cigarette.Â
âWhatever youâre going to say, I donât want to hear it,â you bite out, clenching your fists at your sides. Nothing sounds better than wrapping your hands around his throat, but you manage to fight the urge with the press of nails into your palm.
âSo I canât be worried about you, then?â Sylus raises an eyebrow, head lolling to the side, but his body remains stiff and poised, arms crossed against his chest. His posture feels⊠commanding, almost. Without thinking, you puff your own chest in response.
âOf course not.â
âI see. Can I ask you one thing, before you storm off?âÂ
âNo,â you answer curtly, but wait for his question anyway.
âYour suppressants. You took them this morning?â His tone is mocking in the way it always is, that teasing nature weaving its way into everything he says. Right now, it makes you want to kill him, but you could settle for a knock to his jaw.Â
âYes, what are you? My father?â You remember it clearlyâspecifically the way his arms wrapped around your waist in the bathroom, pulling you tight against his body. Him whispering in your ear, telling you that you donât need them. You locking eyes with him through the mirror, staring him down as you swallowed each pill with a satisfied smirk.
He leans in close for a second, taking in a brief inhale before you step back to avoid slapping him. âItâs just⊠your scent. You smell likeâŠâ
Oh.Â
Suddenly it begins to click. Your aggression. The way heâs posturing himself in response. The brewing, feverish need to pin him down on the floor and either fuck or fight. Preferably both, the two ideas feeling more and more like one single concept in your mind.
âThat call, I think it triggered your rut,â he continues, not waiting for you to finish your thoughts.Â
âNot possible. My suppressantsâŠâ
âArenât 100% effective. Especially without regular use. Even more so if your emotions are heightened.â When did he get so close? He towers over you, his height imposing, leaving him looking down on you. You bristle, hair standing on end as you dig your heels into the ground. God, itâs not fair how natural being an alpha comes to him, his body alone carrying this dominating force.
There comes a bestial urge to wipe that smirk off his face, to show him that no matter the alpha he thinks he is, you will always be better.
You grab the collar of his shirt and drag him down to your height without any grace or gentleness. âYou planned this, didnât you?â
He gasps with the movement, a brief look of shock on his face before a satisfied smile comes to claim it. âThe trip? Yes. Your omega calling you mid-heat? Iâm many things, but Iâm not omniscient, kitten.â
âBut you knew that I was due for my rut. That this could happen.â
âAnd regardless, I would have been perfectly happy relaxing on the beach together. The rest was up to you. Itâs still up to you.â
âDonât play games with me,â you growl as you let go of his collar only to grab his jaw, long nails digging into his cheeks. He hisses before meeting your expression with furrowed, intense brows, letting the heat of their breaths mingle in close proximity.Â
âThen be serious with me first. I am doing a very, very good job of holding myself back right now.â It takes a moment before you realize that Sylus is walking you backwards, caging you against the door to the villa. âBut you and your scent⊠are not making it easy by any means. So be honestâdo you want this or not? Because I do, and I am at the limit of my restraint.â
âDo you realize what youâre asking?â You force your way out from under Sylus before you do something you regret, flipping your positions so you have him against the door now. Your hand returns to grasp his chin, forehead knocking into his. âWeâre both alphas. This isnât⊠natural. Itâs going to be messy. I could hurt you.âÂ
Itâs only a matter of time before your rut hits in all its force, before the desire to dominate becomes less of a desire and more an unrelenting, primal need.
And Sylus isnât an omega. His scent wonât soothe you into protective gentleness, wonât balance your hormones the way your body craves during a rut. No, heâs an alphaâeverything about him antagonizes you, provokes this ceaseless hunger for control. Itâs a miracle you two have managed to have not just sex, but some semblance of a relationship until now. Your rut is a factor that threatens this already delicate equilibrium youâve established.
Yet undeniably, he wants this.
âDo your worst,â he says seriously, leaving no room for ambiguity. You feel your resolve melting away as you look into his eyes for any sign of doubt, but find only a clear, desperate want.Â
âSylusâŠâ We canât, you want to say. We shouldnât. But there is no will left to protest any longerânot when every moment you do feels like one more second wasted. All you can think about now is how pretty heâll look when heâs finally put in his place. All you can feel is the ghost of his lips against your own.
âKitten, donât make me beg.â
Your hand drifts to his throat, feeling his pulse rapid beneath your fingers. âWhat if I want you to?â
That despicable, devilish smirk spreads on his face in pure satisfaction. With a practiced, near-mocking degree of sensuality, he speaks his next words without a hint of hesitation: âPlease, alpha.â
Bastard, you would say, if you werenât crashing your lips against his with an intensity akin to a volcanic eruption.Â
Nothing about the kiss is gentle. Itâs ferocious, cruel, more biting than kissing, as if the two of you forgot how an actual kiss is supposed to feel. Sylus groans with both pain and pleasure when you draw blood from his lip, iron tang spilling onto your tongue. It only spurs you on further, the alpha inside of you triumphant at the idea of truly hurting him, inhibitions stripping away as you sink deeper into a more primal state.
The door swings open as you back him into the villa, his hand presumably fumbling for the handle behind him as you maul his lips. But nothing about getting from point A to point B matters, not when your mind has already begun to cloud over with arousal and the one resolute goal of forcing his submission.Â
You hoist your legs around his waist, needing him closer, tighter, but not unless youâre above him. Your hands find their way to his hair, pulling at his roots until he groans with the pain and you separate.
A string of spit connects your lips to Sylusâ, his own already purpled and swollen, pupils dark with want. You wonder what itâll take to make him actually beg.
âBed. Now,â you command, slipping into your alpha seamlessly.
Sylusâ hands grope at your thighs, nails pressing into muscled flesh before slamming you against the wall. âWhat if I want you right here?â
You yank at his hair even harder, needing his scalp to burn. âI donât care what you want.âÂ
God, leave it to Sylus to not make any of this easy. Naively, a part of you thought he would just grit his teeth and submitâbut no, he wants to play this like an alpha, it seems.
Fingers sneak themselves under your sarong, palming at your ass before gliding gently across your spine, a learned trick to make you arch with a gasp, dropping the grip on his hair. Newfound freedom allows Sylus to mouth at your chest, leaving hickeys to bloom exactly where your bikini doesnât cover, selfishly on display.
Itâs one thing to be pinnedâitâs another to have his scent waft over you, filling your lungs and drowning you in heady smoke. Your hair stands on end, senses blaring with bright red alarms signalling to fight, fight, fight. You growl, attempting to wrestle out of his grip but he doesnât budge, only presses you more firmly against the wall as he continues licking and nipping at your chest.Â
You then drag your nails down his back, clawing against his flesh hard enough to cause him to falter, sliding down his body in his loosened hold before he catches you again.
In this position you feel him hard against your core, and when you grind against him, feel that wonderful pressure through your clothes, you almost lose your resolve. Almost give in to being fucked here, right where he wants you. And maybe, any other day, you would let him winâbut right now, every bone in your body revolts against the thought. Your nature just wonât be satisfied until he loses.
Just as he moves in to kiss you, hips rutting against your own, you stop him with a hand to his throat. You feel his Adam's apple bob underneath with a heavy swallow, pressing your fingers with just enough force to make him moan.Â
For a second, itâs almost like he leans into your palm. Itâs almost like he enjoys this just as much as you do.
With an unthinking recklessness, your lips move to where his neck meets his shoulder, licking at his scent gland. His whole body shudders underneath you with the deprecating act, the wall steadying his balance. Thereâs no way his alpha isnât roaring at him, isnât fit to burst with the way you squeeze at his throat and your teeth graze at his marking point. But he doesnât act on it, only steels himself instead. If you didnât know any better, you would swear heâs only gotten harder.
âTake me to bed so I can fuck you properly,â you whisper.
When you pull back to look at him, his eyes are wide, wearing an expression youâve never quite seen on him before. Maybe itâs shock, or rage, or humiliation, or maybe all three and then throw in some arousal to round it out. Whatever it is, your alpha is wild for it. No, you are wild for it.
He smirks, but it only finds a place among all the other emotions he wears, not erasing them entirelyânow, heâs also smug. âAnything for you, alpha.â
Fuck. Itâs almost instant, the way arousal thrums through your system, the wetness you feel pool between your thighs. You shouldnât love that as much as you do, not when he says it in that tone. âYouâre mocking me.â
âIâm not,â he responds, walking the two of you towards the bedroom. Still flaunting that goddamn smirk.
âYou are!â
Once the back of his knees hit the bed, he sits down, settling you on his lap as he leans back on his elbows. One hand then comes to wrap around your wrist, pressing you harder against his throat, gaze locked to you in challenge. âShut me up, then.â
There is something dangerously pleasing about having him like this. The little gasp for air before you squeeze, a finger pressed to his carotid, the rhythm of his pulse vibrating through your touch. He stutters on a whimper, hips canting, cock impossible to ignore as it grinds up. What a sight to behold, this impossibly large manâanother alphaâbeneath you, writhing, desperate and willingly submitting into your grasp.Â
Youâve felt his hand around your own throat enough times, but you never thought beyond the simple, carnal pleasure of it. Now, you know what he must feelâthis satisfaction, the way your most primal urges coo with the power he relents to you. Itâs different from omegas. Not better, not worse, but different.Â
And despite not being an omega, he enjoys it. He actually likes yielding to you, even though you can feel the way his nails dig into your skin, the veins in his arms tight with tension, a physical showcase of his resistance to his own urges.Â
You know that feeling, tooâthe way your alpha will scream at you, furious with your submission, and the taboo pleasure it brings when you shut it down and sink further into pleasure instead.
Except Sylus has the benefit of being of sound mind when heâs choking you, free from the clouded haze of a rut.Â
You, on the other hand, want to kill him.Â
Itâs as if your rut reaches deep into the well inside of you, the place that wills you beyond all rationale to devour him. Itâs lived in you as an echo since you first met, always simmering, quiet, but with the aid of your rut it roars. A raging force telling you to consume, to destroy.
Which is not good, considering the recent realization that you actually like having him around. How inconvenient.
You are well aware you need to relent, and yet you continue to squeeze until Sylusâ grip on your wrist forces your hand off his throat. He sucks in long, deep breaths, chest heaving as his lungs fill. Glassy eyes assess you, one with the faintest unnatural glow of red. Then youâre yanked forward, first to lay on top of him, before being quickly flipped and pinned to the bed instead.
âYouâre going to have to try harder than that to kill me, kitten.â He doesnât look upset, despite the fact that you can already see the fingertip shaped marks bloom under his jaw. You wonder what it would take to make him truly angry with you.
Sorry, hangs the word on your tongue, but you canât quite find the lucidity needed to mean it. âJust thought youâd make a pretty corpse,â you retort instead, honest.
âSo you think Iâm pretty?â he asks with a short, breathy chuckle, annoyingly giddy with the accidental admission.Â
âWhen youâre quiet,â you scoff. Even with the added adrenaline of your rut, you still struggle against his hold, his fingers lacing with yours and pressing into the plush of the bed, legs bracketing your hips. The power returns to his favor with ease.
Sylus brings a finger down to worm its way under the strap between your breasts, the thin elastic connecting the two cups of your bikini. He pulls back before letting it snap back against your skin. âI like this.â
âYou bought it.â It certainly wasnât cheap, and you like it too, so heâd better not rip it.
âI know. I have excellent taste.â But his attention drifts from your bikini as he leans in close, far too close to your neck, hot breath dancing its way across your clavicle until you feel it directly over your scent gland.Â
A signal flare explodes through you, scalds each and every nerve on its way out of your body as a scream, your limbs flailing against his hold.Â
You feel the force of his Evol lasso around your arms and legs, holding them back as you writhe.Â
âSylus, fuck, donât,â is all you manage to say with a gnarled tongue, shifting your body as much as you can to get out of reach of his teeth. A useless effortâno match for his Evol, nor his strength, and worst of all his persistence.Â
Except the only mark he leaves is the gentle press of his lips and a self-satisfied laugh that may as well bruise.
Then he drags his mouth down your shoulder, just until he reaches the string of your bikini, pulling the bow loose with his teeth. He mirrors his movements as a large hand splays at the small of your back, arching you off the bed so he can reach the last string, removing your top with excruciating patience.
âThe way your scent spiked just then⊠incredible. Youâre dangerous, kitten.â He sounds breathless with exhilaration, as if overtaken by a wanton fervor he has no intention of hiding. Palms drag across your torso, from your hips to your breasts until a nipple is pinched between his fingers, the other taken into his mouth and sucked between his teeth.Â
You keen, the sudden shift from fight response to pleasure giving you whiplash. You have never been taken so close to the heart of your instincts, never been so consumed by them, and never been aroused like this.
This experience of your rut is incomparable with omegas. Sex with them is as natural as breathing. Itâs seamless like the intersection of river and sea, an estuary where two forms blur together into one shape. No push, no pull, just give and take without a thought. Itâs a perfect symbiosis, this ethereal sensation of being wholly completed by the other.
With alphas there is none of that simplicity. Every action has the same intentâto push at the walls that contain the all-consuming desire to triumph over the other. Sylus has taken to opening that cage and letting you run wild with it.
It should be impossible to find an equivalent exchange of power. And yet here he isârelishing in the moments where you win, then settling the score as he pleases.
With his Evol keeping you pinned, his free hand travels to the strings keeping your bottoms on, pulling them loose and slipping them off with ease. He continues teasing at your nipples while sneaking a finger through your folds, a languid drag that has you both groaning like animals starved.
âYouâre so wet for me. I donât think Iâve ever felt you dripping like this. You like it that much?â Sylus spreads you open, circling your clit slick with your own arousal.Â
God, yes, I fucking love it, you want to say. Get off of me or Iâll tear you apart, your instincts would rather respond. You search for a compromise between the two. âIâd like it more if you let me go.â
âYes, alpha,â he moans, exaggerated, and grins when he feels you squirm as a result. He teases your clit just a bit more, greedily taking pleasure from you before relenting his Evol and giving way to your strength. Thereâs no need for him to resist, a clear satisfaction in his eyes when you shove him against the bed.
âI hate you,â you growl, finally tearing off his expensive linen shirt, ripping without care.
He just smiles with a fond confidence. âNo, you donât.âÂ
It doesnât matter how right he is, you canât stand him being a cheeky bastard.Â
In revenge, or maybe just desire, you bite and claw at every centimetre of exposed skin, painting his chest in red welts made to bruise. It feels good when he moans, feels even better when he hisses, when you know it stings. His back arches, trying to escape the deep drag of your nails down his back, a violent path you carve to reach his shorts and pull them off.
Sylusâ cock bobs free at long lastâangry, hot and leaking. He makes a sound akin to a whining dog as you waste no time wrapping your hand around him. You bask in the way his hands grip the sheets with each slow pump to his member, knuckles white with tension, with calculated resistance.Â
Normally, heâd be fighting to fist his hands in your hair, to force your mouth where he wants it. Right now, he knows better. An alpha in rut is an alpha who likes to bite. Smart boy.
When you release his cock to dig into the nightstand, Sylus groans with the loss, replacing your hand with his own. He looks to you with curiosity and a sprinkle of caution as you return between his legs, swatting him away from his cock. Like a selfish apology, canines dig into his skin with a hard bite to his muscled thigh.Â
You eye the base of his cock, the ring where his knot sits, ready to bulge and pop with his release. How unfair. Unlike you, his body was made for this, made to breed and to mark. All you can do is stew in envy, an alpha without outlet.
Itâs tempting all the same, however, when you lean in to lick at it. âI just⊠want to ruin you,â you mutter against his knot.
âFuck, kitten, you already have,â he says, a desperate honesty to his words.Â
âNot enough.â You squeeze the lube onto your fingers, pressing one against his entrance. Thereâs nothing you want more than to drive into him, to prove your point, but even your alpha has a heart as you peer up at him for permission.
Red eyes stare back at you, crazed, pupils blown out with a delirious arousal. He nods furiously, wanton, despite the way his teeth grit and the vein in his neck bulges, tense.
You suck down his cock the same moment your finger enters him, and god, the way Sylus moansâa guttural, strangled exclamation of fuckâcould make you come then and there.Â
Itâs rare to see Sylus like thisâsquirming, whining, submissive. It might be the sexiest thing youâve ever witnessed, and how you went so long without seeing this side of him is criminal. Here is the famed leader of Onychinusâone of the most feared and respected alphas of the underworld, and heâs become undone by you. Itâs your finger inside him, your mouth on his cock, and your scent thatâs unraveling himâand he loves it.
He gets the hint quickly enough when you bracket his knee and grind down, his leg coming to meet you exactly where you want it.Â
With his cock heavy on your tongue, you curl your finger inside of him, searching and soon discovering the spot that makes him thrash with pleasure. You nearly choke on him, teeth grazing in warning as you force his hips still with a crushing strength.Â
âFeels so good, shit, you are unbelievable. Iâm close, IâmââÂ
Lips are released from Sylusâ cock with a sudden and audible pop, your finger stilling inside of him. He whimpers, high-pitched and needy from the loss. You, however, continue your grind against his leg.
âYou come when I feel like it, understood?â To punctuate your point, you flick at his cock and watch him hiss at the sting. Then you pull your finger out of him with a slow drag, his cock twitching when you plunge back in just enough to tease before removing it entirely.
âI should have known you wouldnât play nice.â
âWhen am I ever nice?âÂ
âI can think of a few instances.â Sylus moves his hands to your waist, guiding you as you chase the friction of your cunt against his thigh. He sucks in a breath, and you know exactly how good you look when you swivel your hips just like you do when you ride him. Except this is only for yourself, greedily chasing the one-sided pleasure of your clit against his skin.
Tension coils in your stomach, that familiar feeling mounting into an impending crescendo. It hits you faster than you expectâno doubt thanks to your rutâthighs quivering with the sudden intensity.
Sylus pulls you down on top of him to swallow your moans in his mouth, licking into you with a starved fervor.Â
Thereâs no relief to be found with your orgasm, your throat tight with want and this restless, unending energy that thrums through your system. His scent only makes it worse, a whiskey-soaked rage flooding you every time you breathe in too deeply. Especially now, as close as you are with his tongue down your throat.
Whether from his familiarity with his own rut or just with you, he must know that you need more. So practiced fingers find their way inside of your cunt, slipping in without any resistance with how wet youâve gotten.
It feels so wrongly good to be filled.Â
Your alpha revolts, penetration rattling this filthy feeling of being demeaned inside your head. You should kill him for this. Even with you on top, he still hasnât learned his place, still grabs at control, biting at your lip, curling his fingers deep inside of you. But something about that makes it all the better.
You want him torn apart.Â
You want him to fuck you.
With difficulty, you pull your lips away from him, one catching between his teeth before he finally relents. They find themselves next to his ear, your breath sending a shiver down his spine that reaches the tips of his fingers, if the way they twitch inside of you is anything to go by.
âNeed you inside of me.â
âI am inside of you.âÂ
Why is this man always so difficult?
âYou know what I mean,â you growl, impatient.
âNot sure I do, actually.â
Enough of this. You wrap your fingers in the silver strands of his hair and pull with the intent to rip. âFuck me before I change my mind.â
Pleased, Sylus drags his fingers out from inside of you. âThatâs more like it.â
Everything tells you that you should be enjoying the emptiness, and your alpha indeed thrums with satisfaction as you pin his wrists to bed. But when you grind against his cock, feel the hard length of him through your folds, catching on your clit, soaking in your arousalâwell, thatâs when it thrums with a delicious fury.
You release your hold on him with one hand just long enough to position his cock at your entrance. âDonât look away,â you coo, stealing his line.
Inch by perfect inch, you sink down on him and revel in the stretch, feeling your walls clamp down on him as if they intend to reject his cock entirely, but noâyou want this, want it desperately .
And he does too, judging by the look on his face. His eyes never leave you, mirthful gaze fixed like he might wake up from a dream if he so much as looked away.Â
Here, neither of you win. Itâs his cock inside of you, itâs your weight barring down on him, itâs a mess of power and control that finds only satisfaction in the way you clash against each other with unstoppable force. You two have fucked plenty of times before, and in this very position beyond count, but itâs never felt like thisâlike a loaded gun with the trigger held down but not yet released.
âHow do you always feel so fucking good?â he groans, grinding up into you but held down from thrusting properly.
Suddenly, with his cock inside of you, your hormones spiraling out of control, you let slip a dangerous question: âDo you have someone else to compare?â
An unfair possessiveness overcomes you, as if you arenât the one who only came here because your omega hookup was busy. Maybe itâs your rut, maybe itâs just what it means to be an alpha, but for whatever reason, you want someone you donât have to share.Â
âWould that make you jealous?â A non-answer.
Yes. âNo.â
âInteresting.â
Thereâs no way your alpha will let him get away with avoiding the question. You press. âNo omegas warming your bed?â
He has the nerve to laugh at you, and if it werenât for him soon continuing to speak, you might have forgotten about the sex entirely to throttle him instead. But his words come gentle, sincere. âAnd here I thought I was being obvious. Kitten, thereâs only you. Could only ever be you.â
Oh. You canât tell whether youâre surprised at the confession or if youâre relieved to hear the answer you so desperately wanted. Regardless, something you didnât realize was weighing on you unwinds in your chest, unfurls and splays itself bare in a way that makes you want to cry. Stupid rut. Stupid hormones.
Sylus doesnât look like heâs waiting for a response, knows you well enough to not expect one.
But he does grind into you, reminding you of the very hard cock piercing your very wet cunt. So you smile, and respond in kindâdragging yourself up the length of him before slamming back down.
Now, the seal is broken. You couldnât stop fucking yourself on him if you tried, the slide of his cock inside of you pressing against your walls in every way you could ever want, instincts trading their fight for the undeniable satisfaction of him underneath you. Even when he wrestles his wrists free from your grasp to grab at your waist, you barely find the mind to care. Instead relishing in the bruising force, the helpful way they move you on his cock, his hips thrusting up in perfect tandem.
You fall forward, legs weak with the pace and intensity, your head burying in his neck and drinking in his scentârevolting as much as it is intoxicating.
Despite your pleasured delirium, one stupid thought wonât leave your head. Maybe you just need to say it out loud, to get it out of your system so your alpha will shut up.Â
âGod, I hate that I want to mark you.â
âSo do it, then.â
Sylus shocks you into lucidity, and he groans with impatience when you still his hips. But he canât say that so casually. You are not playing around with something like that. âYouâre not an omega.â
âDoes that matter?â He doesnât sound like heâs joking. When you look at him, he has a deadly serious look in his eyes, like heâs speaking more casually than he actually means.
âItâs not normal. It might not even take.â And if it does, itâs permanent. Thereâs no need to say it out loud. He knows this. He knows that you know this.
âThen letâs see what happens.â
âYou canât be serious.â
âBut I am. Make me yours,â he says in a voice not unlike a whisper, as if a hushed tone better conveys the sincerity of his request. Heâs not just doing this for you. All that talk of using him is starting to sound more and more like owning him.
âSylus, do you really mean it?â
He tilts his head away, exposing his neck in a way so unbefitting of a respectable alpha. Unless, of course, that alpha is looking to be marked. Scent gland perfectly on display, whisky and peat smoke filling your senses completely, this time an irresistible draw.
You press your lips against him, watching him intently, but he only twitches involuntarily. Natural resistance. âThis is going to hurt.â
âI told you to do your worst, didnât I?â
So with canines barred, you bite.
Sticky iron taste fills your mouth, and you moan, a feeling indescribable dancing through the whole of you. Total possessionâhis skin in your teeth, blood on your tongue and cock stuffing you full all at once.
For the first time, you catch a real glimpse at his alphaâhis teeth gnash to bite at you in a sudden, spirited movement, nails claw at your bare back with skin-breaking depth. Catching himself, he reels away with a low growl from the back of his throat that he swallows down.
As you lap at the wound, you feel him fuck into you again, no patience for slow or steady, kicking back up at a fearsome, relentless pace. You hand him control for the moment, savoring the fulfillment of your mark on his body.Â
From now on, everyone will see that he belongs to someone. To you.
Itâs enough to rip another orgasm from you, this one devastating in itâs bliss, rupturing through you as you clench on his cock fucking deep inside of you.
Then you feel it. The widening stretch at the entrance of your cunt.
You have never taken his knot before, have barely even felt the temptation. Always stopping just short of it, letting it inflate on itâs lonesome as you fucked yourself on the length of him instead. You just haven't understood the desireâyour body wasnât made to take it, not like an omega. You canât be bred. There isnât a point.
Worse now, during your rut, every instinct is telling you to stop.
Your alpha is bashing on the walls of your consciousness, screaming at you, begging you not to debase yourself, not to be defiled by another alphaâs knot. But against the deepest part of your nature telling you not to, you want it. Want it more than you ever thought you could. Like you just wonât feel complete without it.
Sylus, still recovering from your mark, somehow finds half the mind to try and pull you off of it as he chases his release.Â
âPlease,â you press a hand to his jaw, turning him to face you. âI want your knot, alpha.â
He stares at you in disbelief for a moment, jaw slack and hips stilling for the briefest second, not believing his ears or perhaps the very fabric of reality. But when you move your hips back down his cock, he groans deep, possessive like an alpha should.
âGod, yes, gonna fill you up and keep you there,â he promises, hammering into you without restraint, easing you down further onto his bulging knot with every thrust.
You feel it when he comes, feel his cock twitch and empty, feel his knot pop, expanding inside the rim of your cunt. Fuck, youâre not made for thisâthe stretch aches, presses against you in every way it shouldnât. But the ache feels good, feels full, feels complete. Another orgasm overcomes you, this one tempered, slow, blooming from the deepest part inside of you. It feels so good on his knot, dulls the pain in exchange for an all-encompassing pleasure.
Except this is what he wanted all along, wasnât it?Â
To get you weak and susceptible, to overwhelm you while you were at your most vulnerable all so he could pop his goddamn knot.
Without thinking, your hand finds his throat, wrapping around right where his jaw meets his neck. Devour, consume, destroy. The thoughts rush through your head as his knot continues to expand, your hand contracting around him in mirror.Â
Heâs just so pretty like this, fucked out, weak, suffocating beneath you. Yours, isnât he?
âKitten,â he whispers through your hold, his right eye shining that bright, beautiful red.
Fuck. Right, you donât want to kill him. You like him so, so much.
You find the will to release his throat, coming back to reality as you collapse on top of him, strength sapped from your body all at once in a sudden release of adrenaline.Â
Not a moment passes before strong arms wrap around you, pulling you even tighter against the wide, warm expanse of his chest. And just as exhaustion claims you, you feel a gentle kiss to your forehead and a calm voice lulling you to sleep.
When you awaken, Sylusâ knot has long since deflated, your cunt empty and sore. Youâre still on top of him, swaddled in his embrace. His sweltering, furnace-like embrace.
âYouâre too warm,â you mumble against his sweaty chest.
âWelcome back,â he says, voice just as warm as his body. You feel his lips against your hair, his fingertips dusting along your side in soothing strokes. Both of you are sticky with a number of fluids, the sheets most certainly in desperate need of a change. Itâd be rude to get a housekeeper in at this hour. Youâll have to sleep in one of the guestrooms, but Sylus will definitely complain about the firmness of the mattress.
Already, your mind is wandering to pointless minutiae. Your rut must have been thoroughly fucked out of you if youâve come back to yourself this easily.
You donât need to say a word, Sylus knowing you too well not to start carrying you to the shower.
Itâs there, under the bright bathroom lights that you see the full extent of your rutâs collateral damage. Sylus is absolutely covered in bruises and welts, bite marks littering every possible space across his torso. He looks worse for wear than any fight or explosion the two of you have escaped, and if you didnât know about his uncanny ability to heal, you think you would be rushing him to the hospital.
Worst of all is his neck. Bright red impressions of your fingers cover the underside of his jaw, looking less like a kinky night in bed and more like he survived an attack on his life. Which, all things considered, is basically true.Â
As Sylus starts the shower, warm water cascading over the both of you, you trace over the imprints. A light touch trails down to the mark on his shoulder, the perfect shape of your teeth in his scent gland.Â
What a useless alpha, you are. Uncontrollable in your path of ruin. Even with Sylus, someone you care for as much as you do, you canât help but try and destroy him. Purposeless devastation. Just an accident of natureâan alpha, yet a woman. Not made to lead or to follow, to breed or be bred.
All you are meant to do is hurt.
âIâm horrible, arenât I?â
âIndeed you are.â He surprises youâhis voice unmistakably fond, cradling your face in his hands with a gentleness you havenât earned, but nuzzle into anyways. âItâs a good thing Iâm horrible, too.â
Sylus draws you in, kissing you slow and simpleâno teeth, no tongue, just the press of lips that carry something more in their gesture.
Is it wrong to love looking into his eyes this much? Not because of him and that ruby stare, but because you like the version of yourself reflected back? Somehow, through him, even your ugliest side feels beautiful.Â
You wash each other clean of the evidence of your rut, but soapy touches lose their innocence quickly, and soon you fuck slow and tender against the cool tile of the shower.
When you finish, you find yourself once again caught in a stare at your mark on Sylusâ shoulder. You wonder if it will really take, if the way his scent hasnât spurred you into another frenzy is a sign. He takes your chin in his fingers, guiding you to look at his eyes instead.
âTwo weeks.â
You squint at him, confused, raising an eyebrow in suspicion. âUntilâŠ?â
âMy rut.â He smiles, sinful, smug and everything else Sylus likes to be. âIâm your responsibility now, alpha."
the second part, featuring sylus' rut, can be found exclusively on ao3!
â„ pairing: sugar daddy/ceo!sylus qin x assistant!reader
â„ summary: âShe has spent three years loving a man she cannot have. He has spent three years wanting a woman he wonât allow himself to reach for â until the day he decides, quietly and without hesitation, to reach anyway. What neither of them realises is that theyâve been finding each other all along. She just doesnât know heâs the one on the other side of the screen yet.â
â„ genre: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)
â„ word count: 50K+??? (I am insane and not normal about sylus <3)
â„ status: COMPLETED - 1st of April
â„ warnings/tags: sugar daddy!sylus, alternative universe, ceo!sylus, yearning/longing, sylus is 39 in this, assistant!reader, sugar baby!reader, power imbalance, eventual boss/employee relationship, idiots in love, mild hurt/comfort, emotional/sensitive!reader, very long fic, banter, sylus the rage baiter. mutual masturbation, sexting, size difference. reader is shorter than sylus. reader is always audhd coded in my writing but anyone can read it. sylus is soft for reader, flirting/teasing, inexperienced/virgin!reader. dry humping, grinding, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, just in overall soft!sylus. sub!reader, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, size kink, full on daddy kink⊠I mean⊠itâs a sugar daddy au. so⊠<3, oral fixation, breeding kink, praise kink, pet names (kitten. sweetie. sweetheart etc.), multiple sex positions, pleasure dom!sylus, aftercare. mc loves the color pink a lot.
ⶠa/n: HIIIIII here I am with a new fic. as of the moment I am writing this it's still a wip. this fic is probably gonna be over 60k words. either way I still wanted to share the post on tumblr already. I always wanted to write a sugar daddy au BUT didn't find inspiration until RECENTLY. so in the lads server I'm in they are currently doing a 'kink bingo'. it's a little event that writers can participate and write a story around a certain trope. I went with sugar daddy đ€đ I said I wasn't gonna write for a while but what can I say⊠sylus brainrot. he's literally my muse. EITHER way. I hope you enjoy this story. đ„șđ for anyone wondering⊠this is how I imagine sylus his build. either way I never know how to write fic in a short format so enjoy another lengthy fic from me again! also because I donât wanna post it in parts youâll have a sneakpeek on tumblr but to read the story in its full length youâll have to head to ao3. thank you and I hope y'all love it as much as I loved writing it! đ title inspired by the song 'provider' by sleep token. (I don't normally listen to that type of music but my bestie leah recommended me this song for the fic) đđđ
ps: for anyone wondering⊠this is how I imagine sylus his build. (without the blood and scratches) đ€đđ€€đ„”đ„Žđ« đ”âđ«
this goes without saying, but if you donât like it donât read it <3
AO3 âą masterlist
New York City does not care about your feelings.
This is something youâve made your peace with over the years â the way it moves around you without slowing down, all noise and glass and cold wind off the Hudson in the early mornings when youâre walking the four blocks from the subway to Linkon Tower, coffee cup in hand, trying to remember if you forwarded that document last night or only dreamed that you did. The city asks nothing of you emotionally. It simply expects you to keep moving.
You are, in this way, well-suited to New York.
What you are less well-suited to â what you have been quietly, privately, catastrophically less well-suited to for approximately three years now â is being in love with your boss.
The elevator opens on the fifty-third floor.
You are fine.
âGood morning.â
His voice reaches you before youâve fully stepped through the glass doors of the executive suite â low and unhurried, carrying the particular warmth he reserves for very few people, and you are, for reasons that keep you awake sometimes, one of them. Sylus is already at his desk, as he always is, as he has always been every single morning in the three years youâve worked for him, because the man apparently does not sleep like a normal person. The Manhattan skyline stretches silver and pale behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the early light, he looks almost painterly â silver hair, dark suit, those red eyes lifting from the document in his hand to find you the moment you walk in, the way they always do, like he has a sense for you specifically.
Like he was waiting.
âGood morning,â you say, and you are very proud of how normal your voice sounds.
âHow was the commute?â He asks it with genuine interest, setting his document down, which is one of the things that got you in trouble in the first place. The way he actually listens. The way Sylus, who runs a multi-billion dollar enterprise from this office and commands rooms full of people who are intimidated just by his posture, always has time to ask how your commute was.
âCold,â you say, unwinding your scarf. âThe L train decided this morning was a good time to have an existential crisis.â
âThe L train always does that.â He tilts his head slightly. âYou should have taken the car.â
âIâm not taking your car to work, Sylus.â
âYou could.â
âI know I could. Iâm choosing not to.â You drop your bag at your desk and pull out your tablet, already scrolling to his schedule. âIt makes me feel like a kept woman.â
The silence that follows is approximately one beat too long.
You look up. Sylus is watching you with an expression you canât fully decode â something that passed through his eyes too quickly, smoothed back over by the composed, unreadable surface he wears most of the time. The corner of his mouth curves.
âHeaven forbid,â he says mildly, and goes back to his document.
You turn back to your tablet and breathe.
Three years, you remind yourself. You have survived three years of this. You will survive today.
ïœĄ â°àŒșâ€ïžàŒ»Â°â ïœĄ
Here is what three years has taught you about Sylus:
He takes his coffee black, no sugar, too hot for comfort, and he drinks it while standing at the window with Manhattan spread out below him like something heâs quietly fond of. He is pathologically early to everything and has zero patience for people who arenât, with the single exception of you â for you, he simply comes to find you, appearing at your workspace door with that unhurried patience, as though waiting for you specifically is a different category than waiting in general.
He reads physical documents even though everything could be digital because he thinks better with paper in his hands. He keeps the office two degrees warmer than the building standard because he noticed, in your first winter working for him, that you were always cold. He has never once mentioned this to you directly. You figured it out yourself, six months in, when you checked the buildingâs climate control records out of sheer curiosity, and you had to sit with that knowledge quietly for a long time afterward.
He is privately, genuinely funny â not the performative wit he turns on in meetings, but something dryer and warmer that surfaces only in the quiet moments, usually aimed at you. He reads in at least four languages. He grew up far from here, far from any of this, and there are moments when something in his expression goes distant and careful and you sense the geography of everything heâs built between himself and whatever came before.
He has never raised his voice at you. Not once. In three years of high-pressure deadlines and impossible situations and the particular chaos that seems to follow a man of his ambition, he has never directed anything at you that wasnât measured, and considered, and â underneath its careful composure â surprisingly kind.
He is also tall â unreasonably, almost absurdly tall, the kind of tall that means the rest of the world simply exists lower than him â broad-shouldered, white-haired, and red-eyed, and standing next to him, which requires you to tilt your head back at an angle youâve gotten quietly used to, makes you feel both very small and, inexplicably, very safe.
This is the problem.
This is the entire problem.
ïœĄ â°àŒșâ€ïžàŒ»Â°â ïœĄ
âYou have the Meridian Capital call at nine,â you say, following him into his office with your tablet. This is another part of the choreography â the morning briefing, where you trail after him and he listens without looking at you directly, which you have learned means heâs paying the most attention. âBoard review at eleven. You have a lunch blockââ
âClear it.â
You glance up. âYou specifically asked for that block last week.â
âI know what I asked for last week.â He settles into his chair, leaning back in that easy way of his, long legs stretched under the desk. Even seated, the man is an unfair amount of presence. âBook somewhere for lunch instead. Somewhere quiet â not the Meridian district, Iâll have been on a call with those people for an hour and Iâll want a change of air.â His eyes come to you, and theyâre soft in the way they sometimes are when itâs just the two of you and the morning is still early. âSomewhere youâd like. You choose.â
You pause. âYou want me to choose.â
âIs that not what I said?â
âYouâre very particular about restaurants, Sylus.â
âIâm particular in general,â he concedes. âBut I trust your taste.â A brief pause. The softness in his expression doesnât waver. âLunch for two, somewhere youâd like. Thatâs all.â
You look at him for a moment too long â which you do sometimes, which youâve been doing for three years, and he always holds the look, always lets you, like he has nothing to hide and all the time in the world, which is terrifying because it makes you feel seen â and then you nod and look back at your tablet.
âIâll find somewhere,â you say.
âI know you will.â He picks up his pen. âYou always do.â
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The Meridian call runs long, as you predicted, and you have reorganized two schedules and soothed one very anxious junior analyst by the time it wraps. Sylus emerges from his office at eleven-oh-three, jacket on, expression still and composed from the professional armor he wears in those spaces, and crosses directly to your desk.
He sets a cup of tea down at your elbow.
Your tea â your specific order, the one youâd mentioned offhandedly to him eight months ago and apparently never needed to mention again â brewed at the temperature you like, with the little paper sleeve because the cup gets hot.
âYour eleven oâclock moved to eleven-fifteen,â you tell him, not trusting yourself to acknowledge the tea directly, âwhich means you have twelve minutes, and also I found a restaurant â itâs on the Upper West Side, French-American, supposed to be very quiet on weekdaysââ
âPerfect.â Heâs reading something on his phone, already walking, and he pauses at the edge of your workspace and glances back.
âYou barely ate this morning.â
You blink. âI ate some cereal. How could you possiblyââ
âYou have the look,â he says, simply, like this is a perfectly reasonable thing to say. âThe one that means you ate something that technically qualified as food and decided it counted.â The faintest curve of his mouth. âIt doesnât count.â
âIt absolutelyââ
âBook a table for twelve-thirty.â Heâs already moving again, unhurried, like the conversation is entirely settled. âIâm not signing a single thing until I know youâve had a real meal.â
Then heâs gone, moving down the hallway toward the boardroom, and youâre left staring at the empty doorway with your mouth still open and the faint, traitorous warmth of being known so precisely by someone spreading all the way up to your ears.
You close your mouth.
You book the table and then pick up your tea.
It is perfect.
You are in so much trouble.
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The restaurant he lets you choose is a small place tucked between a bookshop and a dry cleaner on West 74th â French in its bones but soft around the edges, the kind of room that smells like butter and old wood and feels completely removed from the city outside. Youâre not sure how it stays so quiet in Manhattan. Maybe it exists slightly outside of time.
Sylus ducks slightly to come through the door.
He does this â accommodates the worldâs architectures with a patient, practiced ease, as though he accepted a long time ago that most spaces werenât built for him and has made his peace with it. You notice this more than you should. You notice the way he instinctively adjusts when heâs close to you too â angles himself, shortens his step, never makes you feel like the difference in your heights is anything other than simply the way things are.
The host seats you at a corner table. The light is golden and low.
âThis is nice,â Sylus says, and he means it. Youâve gotten good at knowing when he means things.
âI thought youâd like it.â You unfold your menu. âIt feels like somewhere youâd eat if you didnât have to perform anything.â
He goes still for just a moment. Then, quietly: âThatâs a very accurate read.â
âThree years,â you say simply.
Something in his expression moves â warm and careful at once, like heâs handling something he doesnât want to drop. He looks at you across the small table, and in the golden light of this room outside of time he looks different than he does in the office. Younger, almost. Softer. Like the thing he usually holds back with both hands is closer to the surface.
âYouâre distracted this week,â he says eventually. Not an accusation â an observation, offered gently, the way he offers you most things. âYou hide it well. But I know your face.â
Your heart catches.
I know your face. Said like itâs simply a fact, something true and uncontested, filed away somewhere in him.
âI found something,â you say, because you can never not tell him things, in the end. He does something to your defenses â doesnât dismantle them, exactly, just makes you feel like theyâre not necessary with him, which might be worse. âAn apartment. A loft.â You look at your water glass. âIâve been dreaming about my own place for years. You know how New York is â Iâve been in the same sublet since I moved here, and itâs fine, itâs always been fine, but itâs not mine. Nothing in it is mine.â You smile, self-deprecating. âI walked past a listing last weekend. A loft in the West Village â high ceilings, big windows, exposed brick. Thereâs a little terrace that looks out over the rooftops and I just â I stood on the sidewalk and looked at it for a long time.â
Sylus is watching you with his full attention â the specific quality of stillness he gets when youâre saying something he wants to remember. His hands are folded on the table. Heâs not eating. Heâs just listening.
âIt needs renovation,â you continue, quieter now. âA lot of it, still. Which is part of why the price isââ You exhale. âThe price is a lot. More than a lot. My savings are good, Iâve been careful, but between the listing and the renovation costs itâs justââ You shake your head. âItâs not realistic right now.â
A long pause.
âTell me about it,â Sylus says.
You blink. âI justââ
âNot the numbers.â His voice is gentle. âThe place. Tell me about the loft.â
Oh.
Oh.
You look at him. He looks back, patient and entirely serious, and something in your chest aches in a way you donât have good language for.
And so you tell him â the arched windows and the way the afternoon light would fall across the floors, the exposed brick that runs the whole length of the far wall, the little wrought-iron terrace barely big enough for two chairs and a plant but somehow perfect, the ceiling height, the bones of it. The way youâd stood on that sidewalk and seen, with a clarity that surprised you, exactly what it could become. What it could be. You tell him all of it, more than you meant to, more than is probably professional over a two-person lunch that youâre already trying not to read too much into.
Sylus listens to every word.
When you finish, heâs quiet for a moment. Thereâs something in his expression thatâs gone a little careful.
âWhatâs the address?â he says.
You study him. âWhy?â
âBecause youâve just described the place you want most in the world,â he says, very simply, âand Iâm interested in things that matter to you.â
The ache in your chest deepens. You look at him for a long moment â this man who runs a company from the fifty-third floor of a Midtown tower, who is a decade older than you and a foot taller than you and should by any reasonable accounting be the most intimidating person in your life, and who instead feels, in moments like this, like the safest one.
You give him the address.
You donât know what heâll do with it.
You just know, the way you know most things about Sylus, that heâll do something.
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The afternoon passes the way good afternoons in the office do â with a steady rhythm of tasks and small exchanges, the comfortable back-and-forth that youâve built between you over three years like a language that only the two of you speak fluently. He stops by your desk at three to ask if you want anything from the coffee cart downstairs, which he would never do for anyone else, and brings you back a hot chocolate without commenting on it. You catch him at five-forty-five standing in the doorway of his office watching you finish up for the day with an expression you arenât supposed to have seen â unguarded, quiet, something in it that sits low and warm in your stomach for the whole subway ride home.
It doesnât mean what you want it to mean, you tell yourself, earbuds in, Manhattan rushing past outside the windows.
Heâs just kind. Heâs kind to you because you work for him and youâve earned it and thatâs all it is.
Forty-three blocks uptown, Sylus stands at his office window with your address on a notepad in his hand and thinks, for a very long time.
Then he sits down at his desk.
Opens his laptop.
And begins to type.
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