10 Ways You Ruin His Day (and 10 Ways You Ruin His Self-Control)
I originally made this list as character notes for future stories — I love digging deep into their dynamics and really breaking them down. But honestly? I couldn’t not share.
Would love to hear your thoughts too: what do you think drives them absolutely mad, and what turns them into helpless fluff puddles? 🖤
🍎 Top 10 Things That Make Caleb Absolutely, Irrevocably Mad
1 He doesn’t know where you are
Even when it makes sense. Even when you’re safe. Even when he’s on the far side of a tunnel with no signal and too much time to think. The silence eats at him, turns every breath into a countdown. By the time he’s back, no one on the base dares talk to him until you’re in his line of sight again.
2 You come home with a bouquet of flowers from another man
It’s not jealousy, really. It’s… fury dressed in olive green. You’re standing there, smiling, saying some poor man gave you flowers because you saved his life. Great. Fantastic. Caleb’s thrilled that his girlfriend is both competent and accidentally irresistible. But now he has to pretend this isn’t bothering him while mentally comparing the man's face to strategic punching surfaces.
3 You climb on unstable furniture to reach something
You know, nothing fancy—just a stack of books on top of a chair that’s on top of a bench. And you? Balancing like a gremlin in fuzzy socks. He walks in and suddenly the war flashbacks begin. You think it’s funny. He thinks it’s a workplace hazard, and you are the HR violation.
4 You rearrange his model planes
He adores you. Worships the ground you walk on. Would throw himself in front of an oncoming dropship for you. But if you dust his shelf and dare to reorder his starfighters and aircrafts by vibes instead of model number? He's already rewriting his will. In blood.
5 You do something reckless and then smile about it
You say “relax, I had a plan.” He hears: “I almost died, and I’d do it again, because I’m cute and unstoppable.” That smile? That grin you give when you know exactly what you did and you’re proud of it? That’s why he needs stress meds. And maybe a punching bag with your face on it. (Lovingly.)
6 You casually mention the girl he used to date
You say it with a smirk, like it’s just some harmless teenage memory. But he doesn’t see her—he sees you. You, standing in the doorway that day. You, catching him with her, both of them half-undressed. And you looking at him like something cracked between you. Back then, you were off-limits. You were the girl he wasn’t allowed to want. So he wanted someone else. Easier. Safer. And now, years later, you bring it up like it’s nothing—while he’s still trying not to remember how badly he wished it had been you.
7 You weren’t his first kiss—but worse, he wasn’t yours
It never comes up. Not out loud. But he remembers. Vividly. The hallway. The way your face lit up. The boy leaning in. You smiling. And Caleb—watching from across the room, fists clenched, jaw tight, playing the role of older brother when his whole body screamed mine. You never talk about it. But he never forgot. Never will. Because that moment should’ve been his—and someone else took it first.
8 You walk away during a fight, or shut down emotionally
You call it “space.” He calls it “psychological warfare.” You shut down. He short-circuits. Nothing drives him more insane than trying to fix something while you’re actively ghosting him across the living room. He’d rather you screamed. Threw something. Anything. But this quiet? This distance? That’s the one thing he doesn’t know how to fight.
9 You cry—especially if it’s because of him
And then he’s done. Game over. His spine straightens like he’s under military command and his entire soul just went through the paper shredder. You cry, and suddenly he’s the villain. You say “it’s not your fault,” but that doesn’t matter. He’s already rewriting the past and taking full responsibility. And yes, he’ll suffer in complete silence. Like a man.
10 You secretly try to uncover what he’s hiding from you
You call it curiosity. He calls it a breach of protocol punishable by full emotional lockdown. You think you’re clever. He thinks you just walked into classified territory barefoot, blindfolded, and with a target on your back. You were never supposed to see that side of his world. And now that you have? He doesn’t know whether to yell, hold you, or lock you in a room with military-grade firewalls and a blanket.
🍎 Top 10 Things That Turn Caleb Into a Complete Fluff-Mess
You wearing his dog tags / uniform shirt / flight jacket
Instant puddle. No chance. He sees you in his gear and his brain just... shuts off. All he can think is mine mine mine, and he gets this dumb, soft little smirk like he’s trying so hard not to combust.
You falling asleep on him—especially mid-conversation
You’re curled into his side, mumbling something about dinner plans, and then: silence. He looks down, sees you asleep on his chest, and that’s it. Whole day ruined. Cancel all missions. He’s not moving.
You bringing him coffee exactly the way he likes it—without asking
That quiet, thoughtful act? Hits him right in the soldier-shaped heart. He doesn’t even know how to process being taken care of, so he stares at the cup like it just proposed to him.
You absentmindedly touching him—fiddling with his fingers, tracing scars, playing with his hair
He pretends he doesn’t care. He does. He cares so much he forgets how to breathe. Just turns into a warm, red-eared statue trying not to whimper.
You whispering “I trust you” or “I feel safe with you” in a soft moment
Core memory unlocked. He stores that one like sacred intel. Will literally whisper it back to himself at 3 AM when he’s lying awake, missing you. It breaks him in the best way.
You clinging to him in your sleep / pulling him closer without waking up
Caleb.exe has stopped functioning. He will lie perfectly still for HOURS if it means not disturbing that moment. Bonus points if you mumble his name while doing it.
You defending him when someone questions his methods or past
He’s used to being the shield—not having someone stand in front of him. The second you raise your voice on his behalf? He falls in love with you all over again. Might even cry. Secretly.
You gently helping him out of his gear after a long day
Soft hands on his buckles. A kiss to his shoulder. A low “You’re home now.” That’s how you make a Colonel melt. His fingers twitch like he wants to worship the ground you walk on.
You surprising him with something dumb and heartfelt, like a handmade gift or bad sketch of him
He acts gruff—says “the hell is this, Pips?”—but then puts it in his locker or keeps it in his chest pocket for missions like it’s sacred treasure. Because it is.
You calling him “baby” / “handsome” / “sweetheart” when he least expects it
He acts like it’s annoying. It is not annoying. It turns him into actual butter. If you do it with a teasing smile? He short-circuits. Might drop something. Might combust. Definitely blushes.
🩺 Top 10 Things That Make Zayne’s Calm Snap Like a Microsurgical Thread
You ignore his instructions when you're sick
You had a fever of 102°F. He left explicit care instructions—bed rest, fluids, minimal movement. You, sweating and glassy-eyed, decided this was the perfect time to rearrange the furniture. When he came home and found you dragging a bookshelf across the room “because the light felt wrong,” he genuinely considered sedating you. Not as punishment. As damage control. For both of you.
You order greasy fast food instead of going somewhere “nutritionally viable”
He offered to cook. You said no. Twenty minutes later, you’re eating fries from a paper bag while half of it spills on his clean table. You grin. He stares. Not angry at the food. Angry because you rejected his precision, then settled for processed chaos.
You leave wet towels on the floor after every shower
He’s not sure when it started. Day three? Day five? But every time he walks into the bathroom and steps into cold, soggy cotton, something in him fractures. You claim you “forget.” He suspects a psychological experiment.
You casually mention spending time with male friends
You think it’s harmless. Lunch with Caleb. Training advice from Xavier. You light up when you talk about them—and that’s the problem. Zayne doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t raise a brow. But the sudden over-fixation on his email inbox says everything.
You receive a speeding ticket. Forty miles over the limit.
You wave it off like it’s a funny little anecdote. He sits in absolute silence, calculating the stopping distance of your car vs. standard reaction time at that speed. You think he’s judging. He’s actually trying not to scream.
You poke his ass. Specifically, between the cheeks.
You call it “affection.” He calls it “emotional terrorism.” He flinches like he’s been electrocuted, whips around with murder in his eyes—and you’re giggling like a gremlin. Later, you regret nothing, but your thighs may beg to differ.
When you diagnose him with internet psychology
You’ve read one book on attachment styles and watched three reels about emotional unavailability. Now you’ve decided he has "clinical avoidant tendencies with a hint of fear-based control fixation." He stares at you, deadpan, like he's about to perform your autopsy.
You keep spoiled food in the fridge and expired meds in the cabinet
You say “it doesn’t smell that bad” or “maybe it still works.” His eye twitches. His gloves are already on. He’s not even mad at you—he’s mad at entropy. You’ve become its agent.
You watch reality shows. About infidelity. Willingly.
You claim it’s “just background noise.” But he walks in and hears someone scream “that’s not even your baby, Kyle!” and your eyes are glued to the screen. His soul briefly leaves his body.
You washed his white lab coat. With your pink unicorn pajamas.
It’s not just the color. It’s the betrayal. The symbol of his clinical neutrality now smells like bubblegum and looks like cotton candy. You say it’s cute. He looks personally violated by the washing machine.
🩺 Top 10 Things That Make Zayne Soft Against His Will
You bring him lunch at the hospital
He never asks. You just appear—arms full of neatly packed containers, face lit up like this isn’t the third double shift he’s worked this week. He complains about the timing. The smell. The disruption. And then eats every bite with frightening focus. You leave. He stares at the empty container like it’s proof someone still believes he’s human.
You quote him back to himself like a philosopher
You remember something he said weeks ago—some throwaway line about time or structure or entropy—and you drop it casually in conversation, like it’s wisdom from an ancient text. He doesn’t know how to react. You turned his logic into poetry, and he’ll never recover from that.
You wear the little seal keychain he made
He didn’t think you’d keep it. Let alone turn it into your everyday keychain. But there it is—always with you, worn smooth from touch. You twirl it absentmindedly while talking to him, never noticing the way his gaze lingers. Never realizing how something so small can hit him so hard.
You put a photo of the two of you on his desk
It appears one day. No fanfare. Just… there. A moment frozen in light, sitting quietly beside his surgical reports and diagnostic schematics. At first, he moves it to the edge. Then back to center. Now it lives next to his pen. He doesn’t talk about it. But it’s the only object on that desk he wipes clean with his bare hand.
His work shirt smells like you
You borrowed it that morning, wore it while dancing around the apartment with wet hair and no real purpose. Hours later, when he pulls it on between rounds, the scent hits him like a loaded memory. He short-circuits mid-button. Everything feels warmer than it should.
You leave your phone with him while you shower
No password. No hesitation. You toss it into his lap with a breezy “can you clear out whatever’s making it lag?” and vanish behind steam. He sits there, phone in hand, suddenly trusted with everything. He opens nothing. But the fact that you’d let him? That’s the part that shakes him.
You ask for his opinion on minor discomforts
A papercut. A weird freckle. A suspicious sneeze. You hold out your hand, utterly serious, asking what he thinks. It’s laughable. Ridiculous. And it absolutely wrecks him. You could ask a dozen others—but you ask him. Like he’s the one who makes things better.
You’re on top
He likes control. Precision. Strategy.
But when you climb into his lap, all instinct and fire, hands braced on his chest and lips already parted—his brain stops cooperating. There’s something about you taking the lead that makes him unravel. Quietly. Violently. Completely.
You argue with him about complex theories—and mean it
You don’t just nod. You push back. You challenge. You quote sources he hasn’t thought about in years. You spark. You flare. And he watches, fascinated, lips twitching with something dangerously close to pride. No one does this. No one dares. But you? You never flinch.
You whisper “I love you” in your sleep
It’s not loud. It’s not even clear. Just a faint breath in the dark, like a dream half-remembered. But he hears it. Every time. And though he never says a word in return—not while you're sleeping—his fingers tighten around your waist like he's anchoring himself to the only thing that matters.
🎨 Top 10 Things That Make Rafayel Absolutely, Irrevocably Annoyed at You
You told him his painting was “nice”
You stood in front of a piece that cost him three sleepless nights, a minor existential crisis, and two broken brushes—and said “Nice.” Just like that. No gasp, no poetry, no tears. He aged five years on the spot. Somewhere in the distance, a violin cried for him.
You dragged him to a cat exhibit
You thought it would be cute. Enrichment. A bonding experience. Instead, he spent the entire time perched on edge, eyes darting like prey. You said “they’re just kittens.” He said nothing. He was too busy making sure none of them came closer than ten feet.
You cleaned his studio
You thought you were being helpful. But you moved The Pile. The sacred, unholy, perfectly calibrated mess. Now he can’t find his favorite brush, and also he’s deeply offended by how cheerful you looked doing it.
You didn’t reply to his messages for over an hour
He sent three texts, one meme, and a “thinking of you 💭” voice note. You replied 67 minutes later with “sry was showering.” By then, he’d already decided you were breaking up with him, joining a cult, or possibly dead. He had a whole monologue planned. And now you’ve ruined it.
You cut your hair
He loved your long hair. Adored it. Worshipped it. You showed up with a sharp little bob and said “it’s just hair.” It is not just hair. It is the collapse of a visual era. He’s still adjusting. And by adjusting, he means mourning with wine.
You made fun of his driving
You muttered “technically, you were meant to let the tram go first” He muttered “technically, silence is golden.” His driving is instinct. Vibe. Energy. If you didn’t want drama, you shouldn’t have sat in the passenger seat of a man who parallel parks like he’s in a ballet.
You woke him up too early
He went to bed at 4 a.m. because inspiration struck. You woke him at 7:12 like it was nothing, and said “you have that interview, remember?” He does remember. He also remembers specifically telling you that if he ever falls asleep before sunrise, you are to let him die peacefully, cancel all earthly obligations, and throw his alarm clock into the ocean where it belongs.
You hid your phone screen when a message came in
You were probably teasing. Just being playful. But now he’s spiraling. Who was it? Why the secrecy? What do you have to hide? Congratulations—you’ve just activated his inner opera villain.
You got jealous
Which is absurd. He’s the one who invented possessive affection. But you being jealous? That makes him unreasonably indignant. What do you mean you “didn’t like the way that gallery girl looked at him”? Of course she looked. But he didn’t see her. He saw you.
You burned the bacon
You say “it’s fine.” He says it’s charcoal. The entire kitchen smells like culinary war crimes. And now he’ll have to burn incense and replant three garden beds to recover emotionally. Who even let you near the stove? Who hurt you? Was it… the bacon?
🎨 Top 10 Ways You Accidentally Turned Rafayel Into a Purring, Love-Drunk Work of Art
You massage his head
He’s mid-rant. Arms crossed. Absolutely furious about the lighting in that gallery. And then your fingers slip into his hair—and just like that, the war is over. His entire body melts like he’s been tranquilized. He’ll deny it later, of course. But the way he leans into your hand? Case closed.
You claim him in public
It’s an art gala. He’s dressed to ruin people. And then you slip your arm through his, fingers just tight enough to say mine. You smile like a goddess. He pretends he’s unaffected. Inside, he’s writing vows in ten languages and considering printing matching business cards.
You actually listen to his advice
He knows he can be dramatic. Unfiltered. Emotionally volatile. But when you sit there, really listening, nodding like his words matter—you destroy him. Suddenly he’s not the chaos. He’s the compass. And that? That’s love.
You share every detail of your day over dinner
You talk about everything—the lady at the store, the funny email, the awful latte. You give him your day like a story, like he’s the only one you wanted to tell. He leans in, listens too closely, files away each emotion like a collector of rare art.
You’re always down for his wildest ideas
It’s 3 a.m. He wants to hike 2.5 miles along the beach, take a boat to a tiny island, and watch the sunrise with wine. You say “give me five minutes.” And just like that, you become the only person worthy of his wildest, most beautiful chaos.
You let him photograph you
Nothing compares. Not awards. Not praise. Nothing rivals the moment you look into his lens—bare, unfiltered, unashamed. Especially when you’re nude, glowing, and laughing like the world doesn’t exist. That’s when he falls in love with you all over again. And again. And again.
You let him choose your dress
You come out in the one he picked. Elegant. Perfect. You spin for him. And the way he watches you? Like he made you. Like you’re the gallery and he’s the only one with the key. It’s not fashion. It’s trust. And he adores you for it.
You sing when you don’t know he’s home
Wearing socks and earbuds, dancing with a broom, serenading your way through burnt pancakes. You’re off-key. Glorious. Real. And he stands in the doorway, silent, just watching. Because in that moment—you’re not posing. And he’s never loved you more.
You take care of him when he’s sick
He has a fever of 99°F and insists he’s fading. You bring tea, stroke his hair, whisper that he’s “very brave.” You don’t mock him. You take his dramatics seriously. He will never forget it. He may also write you into his will.
You join him in the bathtub without asking
He’s already halfway submerged, music playing, steam curling in the air—and then you slip in behind him, no warning. You nudge your legs around his hips, hand him your shampoo, and let him wash your hair while you giggle. He tries to act unimpressed. But when he starts kissing your toes? Yeah. You win.
✨ Top 10 Behavioral Anomalies That Triggered Xavier’s Internal Alert System
You break an agreement—even if it's “just a small one”
It’s not about control. It’s about structure. You promised. And when you bend the rules—just slightly—he doesn’t react outwardly. No visible shift, no sharp breath. But something behind his eyes goes cold. Because for him, even small deviations mean recalculating everything. And that means risk. To you.
You create drama “just to get a reaction”
You push. You poke. You escalate. And he gives you… nothing. No outburst, no flinch. Just that flat, unreadable stare while he mentally exits the room. He doesn’t get angry—he just shuts off the part of himself that wants to stay.
You refuse his protection—on principle
You call it independence. He calls it a strategic vulnerability wrapped in pride. He won’t argue. He’ll just be one step farther back the next time, quietly cataloging how to stop caring just enough that it won’t kill him if something happens.
You call him cold—especially when he’s holding himself together for you
You see stillness. He feels restraint. You accuse. He remembers what it takes to not become the darker version of himself. If only you knew how much energy it took to stay composed. If only you knew it was for you.
You’re late
Five minutes. Ten. No message. No explanation. And his pulse ticks upward—not with impatience, but with pure, trained alertness. He starts looking for signs. Traffic reports. Emergency alerts. By the time you arrive, he’s smiling. But it’s the tight kind. The kind that says never again.
You skip training
You’re tired. You had a long day. You say you’ll make it up later. He doesn’t argue. He just recalculates survival probabilities and mentally adds you to the list of people who might die because they were unprepared. And he will blame himself for letting you get soft.
You pull away from his touch when you're angry
It’s not the rejection. It’s the meaning behind it. He reaches out—small, careful, calculated—and you shut the door in his face with a single backward step. He doesn’t try again. He doesn’t ask why. But the space you leave behind? It echoes.
You use a photo of Lumiere as a bookmark
You think it’s cute. Maybe even sweet. He sees it—and freezes. He’s not jealous. Not exactly. But the idea that you might admire that version more—the legend, the mask, the sharpness—it unsettles something deep. Something he can’t name.
You secretly believe you’re not good enough for him
You never say it out loud. But he sees it—in your deflections, your nervous jokes, the way you doubt his love like it’s a glitch. It doesn’t anger him in the usual sense. It just…hurts. Because you’re the only one who never had to earn it.
You throw yourself in front of him during a mission
It’s instinct, you say. Split-second decision. You didn’t even think. And that’s the problem. He does. Always. Every variable, every movement, every risk is accounted for—except you breaking formation to protect him. You think it’s brave. He sees it as catastrophic miscalculation. Not because you acted without logic. But because you decided his life was worth more than yours. And that? That’s the one conclusion he refuses to accept.
✨Top 10 Things That Quietly Break Xavier’s Walls and Leave Him Unreasonably Soft About You
When you start reading the same book he’s readingYou don’t announce it. You just show up with the same title, a few chapters behind, and start casually asking questions. He plays it off. But inside? He’s spiraling. Because this—this—is how you speak his language. Silently. Precisely. Together.
When you knock on his door like you’re trying to break it downIt’s loud. Impatient. Inappropriate for the hour. But he knows that knock. That rhythm. That you. You need him. Not his solutions. Him. And somehow, that chaos pounding on his door feels more like home than anything else.
When you hug him from behindYou wrap your arms around his torso mid-task, face pressed between his shoulder blades, palms splayed across his chest like you’re anchoring yourself to something ancient and steady. He stills. Every time. Like someone just whispered a secret to his bones. He never asks why. Never moves away. He just tilts his head slightly—listening, as if your silence said everything he needed to hear.
When you touch his sword (the actual weapon, calm down)He never lets anyone handle it. Not even for cleaning. But your fingers skim the hilt, gentle, curious, reverent. And somehow… it’s okay. You’re not just touching steel. You’re touching him. And he lets you.
When you act like a little girlYou scrunch your nose. Say something ridiculous. Blush like you didn’t mean to. And he watches—utterly disarmed. Because he knows exactly what you want. You want him to carry you. Wrap you up. Keep you safe. And he will—without hesitation.
When you join him on a morning runYou complain. You lag. You swear this is “not your vibe.” But you still show up. Same hour. Same route. And when you match his pace for those few precious minutes? He doesn’t say it—but he’s proud. Painfully proud.
When you share your dreams—and say “we”You’re rambling. Light spilling from your words. Talking about the future, the maybes, the next steps. But you don’t say I. You say we. And that sound? That tiny shift in grammar? It settles deep. Irrevocable. Permanent.
When you make matching braceletsYou say it’s silly. Handmade. Slightly uneven. There’s a charm shaped like a rabbit. He never takes it off. Not in combat. Not in sleep. It rests against his wrist like a pressure point—and grounds him better than anything else.
When you remember his habitsYour shopping list always includes his cinnamon. His brand of shampoo. The exact instant noodles he pretends not to love. You don’t make a show of it. You just know. And that knowing? It destroys him in the softest possible way.
When you trust him completely in bed—even when his darker side surfacesThere’s a moment—quiet, charged—when the softness shifts. He waits. Watches. Braces for resistance. But you don’t pull back. You open your hands. Arch into him. Let him take control without fear. That? That’s what breaks him. Not the pleasure. The trust.
🖤Top 10 Things That Push Sylus Into Maximum Sarcasm and Mildly Homicidal Disapproval
Your outdated, unreliable weapon
Yes, he gets it. It’s vintage. It’s “standard issue.” It’s approved by the Hunters Association. Congratulations. That won’t matter when it jams and gets you killed. Every time you return one of the sleek, upgraded firearms he hand-delivers like he’s your personal armory concierge, he has to resist asking if you've already made a draft of your death wish. Alphabetically sorted. With floral headers.
You chew gum—and pop it
It’s not the gum. It’s the snap. The sudden, violent pop of sugary air bubbles that hits his trauma response like a trigger. He knows it’s just a noise. His shoulder still twitches. He’s this close to reaching into your mouth and extracting the gum like a gentleman. A very sarcastic, deeply annoyed, half-feral gentleman.
You try to shake your tail (him)
You use stealth tech. You block your signal. You go dark. Adorable. You’re forgetting that the very system you’re relying on was developed by his own syndicate. The only person who ever really evades Sylus is Sylus. And maybe the cat that lives under his car. But not you. Never you.
You don’t introduce him as your boyfriend to your old classmates
You panicked. He gets that. You called him “a friend.” And now he’s deeply committed to the bit. For the next seven days, every time you said anything, he replied with “Of course, as your friend…” in front of waiters, dealers, and one extremely confused ambassador. You only managed to shut it down by hastily posting a photo of you two with the caption “my boyfriend and the love of my life.” Acceptable recovery. Barely.
You refuse to use his resources
His private jet? Untouched. His cars? Collecting dust. His black card? Sitting unused like some kind of insult in your purse. You say you’re “independent.” He says you’re actively offending his entire lifestyle philosophy. Do you have any idea how disrespectful it is to ignore an entire walk-in wardrobe prepared for you in his estate? Honestly, it’s almost admirable. Almost.
You once smoked a cigarette, and he saw it
He didn’t say anything. At the time. Just looked at you. Silently. Like someone had drop-kicked a kitten in front of him. He’s not judging. He’s just picturing your lungs in an ashtray. And adding another page to your death wish list.
You speak in riddles and expect him to “get it”
You want something—time away, a trip, his attention—but instead of asking, you sigh dramatically and murmur, “It’s fine. I guess some people just don’t want to escape the city with their girlfriends…” He blinks. Slow. Dangerous. “Was that a request, a riddle, or an emotional booby trap?” If you want something from him, Kitten, try using nouns and verbs. Not cryptic guilt puzzles.
You suggest another woman would be “perfect for him”
It’s a joke. Offhand. Barely a breath. But your voice wavers—just slightly—and that ruins it. He doesn’t want her. He doesn’t want options. He wants you. And now, thanks to your charming lapse in self-worth, he has to waste the rest of the evening reminding you that this face, this power, this entire empire already belongs to someone. Guess who.
You sneak up on him
You never mean to. But somehow, you're always the one person who slips past every alarm, every trained instinct, and ends up whispering behind him when his brain is still in kill mode. It takes everything in him to not react on pure reflex. You think it’s cute. He thinks it’s potentially catastrophic.
You don’t believe him when he says he’s fine
Yes, he’s bleeding. Yes, his shirt is soaked. But he said “it’s a scratch,” and when he says that—he means it. His body heals like a myth. Your worried face? It makes something in him ache. Because the real wound isn’t on him—it’s in you, for thinking he’s anything less than unbreakable.
🖤 Top 10 Things That Make Sylus Dangerously Soft for You (And Yes, He’s Keeping Score)
When you finally spend his money
It started with coffee. Small. Harmless. But the alert hit his phone and, for a moment, he genuinely wondered if his card had been stolen—until he saw your name. And something in him shifted. Not because of the cost. Please. He could buy the city it was brewed in. No, it was the fact you used it. You. Willingly. Now? You’re bolder—little dresses, shoes, jewelry you don’t need. And every time you do, he rewards it like you just proved you understand the assignment: what's his, is already yours.
When you give orders to his men like you're the boss
You don’t ask. You instruct. Calm, certain, completely in charge. One of his men hesitates—just once—while you’re directing them to rescue a terrified kitten stuck in a tree. Sylus doesn’t interfere. He just watches, arms crossed, a grin tugging at his mouth as armed professionals scramble to obey you like you're the patron saint of lost animals. Somewhere in his mind, he’s already fitted you for a crown. With tiny cat ears.
When you secretly pet Mephisto
The mechanical raven used to drive you insane. Now? You’re sneaking him treats and absentminded scratches under the jaw. Sylus sees it. Says nothing. But deep down, he knows: if you’ve accepted the bird—you’ve accepted all of him. And that’s lethal. To him.
When you make him a playlist
You never explain them. Just send a link and say nothing. But he listens—every time. Alone. In his car. In the bath. Eyes closed, calculating your every choice like it’s encrypted intel. Each track? A hint. A mood. A coded message from you to him. He doesn’t ask for them. He just waits for the next one. And when it arrives, he treats it like gospel.
When you leave a trail of chaos in his car
Your hair on the seat. Your gum wrappers in the cup holder. The seat so close to the wheel he practically has to fold in half. And the music? A full-volume love ballad ready to ambush his eardrums at ignition. It's obnoxious. It’s inconvenient. It’s perfect. His life, now featuring you.
When you eat from his plate
You swore you weren’t hungry. You said “no carbs this week.” And now? You’re stealing fries from his hand and dipping into his steak sauce like it’s your birthright. He doesn’t stop you. He just watches you chew with that look that says: mine. forever.
When you talk and talk and talk
Something happens. You spiral. Words spill. Thoughts tangle. You’re not even aware you’re rambling—but he is. He listens to everything. Stores it all. Because there’s something magical about your voice when it’s unfiltered. You don’t realize it, but he falls a little harder every time you forget to censor yourself.
When you crawl into his lap while he’s working
He’s in the middle of paperwork. Calculating things. Dangerous things. And suddenly—you. Right there. Knees on either side, arms around his neck, like the world’s most beautiful interruption. He tells himself he needs to finish. But his hands are already on your hips.
When you call and ask for help
A jar. A stuck zipper. A ride. It doesn’t matter. You’re a trained hunter—you’ve faced things with claws, fangs, and no name. But you still call him. Because you want him. And that? That wrecks him in ways he’ll never admit. He’s already on his way before you hang up.
When you scream his name right before you come
There’s a lot he’s proud of. His empire. His power. His record. But nothing—nothing—satisfies him more than the moment your voice breaks open with his name. Like prayer. Like surrender. Like he’s the only thing in your world. Which, of course… he is.
“We need to talk,” you say, trying to keep your expression serious as you stand before Xavier.
Rather than responding, however, he simply extends his hand toward you.
“Xavier? Did you hear what I said?”
Without a word, he gently pulls you toward the large beanbag in the corner of the room. Before you can protest or explain that your serious tone was just a joke, he’s already settling into the cushion, bringing you down with him.
“This... not now,” he murmurs, positioning you against his chest as he wraps his arms around you. His deliberate movements make it clear—this is his strategy for avoiding whatever discussion you’re trying to initiate.
“I was just—” you begin, but Xavier has already closed his eyes, his breathing starting to deepen in that familiar pattern.
You sigh, realizing he’s purposely choosing sleep over conversation. As his arms tighten slightly around you, keeping you securely against him, you can’t help but wonder if he saw through your playful ruse or if he simply decides that any conversation beginning with ‘we need to talk’ isn’t worth staying awake for.
𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄
“We need to talk,” you announce as Zayne walks through the door.
He pauses mid-step, his eyes immediately fixing on yours. He sets down his belongings without a word and takes a seat beside you, giving you his full attention.
“Go ahead,” he says simply.
You hadn’t expected such immediate, focused attention, and your planned joke suddenly feels less humorous under his intense gaze. You hesitate, considering whether to continue the prank.
“I’m listening,” he prompts when you don’t immediately speak.
You decide to come clean. “There’s nothing serious to discuss. I’m just happy to see you.”
His expression doesn’t change, but he holds your gaze for a long moment before rising from his seat with a relieved sigh. “I’m happy to see you, too,” he smiles before adding, “But, please, don’t start conversations with ‘we need to talk’ next time,” he says. “Those words create unnecessary anxiety.”
He moves toward you, his demeanor softening slightly. “If you want my attention, you have it. No need for dramatic preludes.” He caresses your head briefly before heading to the kitchen.
Later, he brings you a cup of coffee and sits beside you. “Now, did you want to talk about something else? Or was the goal simply to see me worry?”
𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋
“We need to talk,” you announce from the doorway of Rafayel’s studio.
The faint smile that usually dances across his face when he paints vanishes instantly. His whole body seems to stop functioning—even the glass of water halfway to his lips remains suspended in air, forgotten.
His eyes—wide and alarmed—fix on you with such intensity that your playful mood instantly evaporates. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just stares at you with growing dread.
“What—” he finally manages, voice barely audible. “What did I do?” he whispers. “Did I miss something important? Was I supposed to be somewhere?”
You can almost see the memories flashing behind his eyes—all the times he’s flaked on commitments to his art exhibition, all the responsibilities he’s brushed aside for spontaneous ocean swims for inspiration, and all the times he’d flee from social gatherings.
“It was a joke,” you interrupt his thoughts quickly. “Just a silly joke. There’s nothing wrong.”
Relief floods his entire body. “Why would you scare me like that? Now my mind’s blank and I can’t paint anymore,” he huffs.
He ‘punishes’ you with all-day cuddles to make himself feel better.
𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒
“We need to talk,” you say, entering Sylus’s office with a deliberately somber expression.
There’s the briefest pause in his movements before his composure returns completely.
“Do we now?” he responds, leaning back in his chair. “What is it, sweetie? Enlighten me about this matter that demands such a grave introduction.”
He gestures to the seat across from him, watching you closely as you sit down. His expression reveals nothing, though you catch the slight narrowing of his eyes as he studies your face, preparing responses for various scenarios.
“I’m waiting,” he says after a moment of silence.
You can’t maintain the charade under his intense scrutiny and break into a smile. “Actually, there’s nothing. I just wanted to see you.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Are you trying to see how I’d react? I assure you, I was completely unaffected.” Despite his claim, there’s a hint of relief in his posture as he leans forward.
“Your mind stopped working for a split second there, didn’t it?”
“Careful,” he murmurs, reaching across the desk to brush his fingers against yours. “Next time you cry wolf, I might just show you what happens when I’m genuinely concerned.”
𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁
“We need to talk,” you announce, keeping your voice serious as you enter Caleb’s room.
He looks up from his phone, and for just a moment, his demeanor falters. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the concern vanishes behind a bright smile.
“Nooope. No, we don’t,” he declares, tossing aside his work. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it can wait until after dinner. Or tomorrow. Or never.”
You try to maintain your serious expression. “Caleb, I’m being serious here.”
“And I’m seriously not having this conversation,” he replies, already guiding you toward the door with an arm around your shoulders. “Let’s go get some food instead. Or watch that new movie at the cinema. Anything but ‘talk.’”
“You’re aware that avoiding the topic only makes me more curious, right?”
“Of course,” he grins, “but if I keep you entertained long enough, you might just forget about it.”
“You were scared,” you tease.
“Absolutely not,” he insists, though his grip on your hand tightens slightly. “I just have a strict policy against conversations that start that way. They’re banned in this relationship, effective immediately.” He pulls you closer, his playfulness restored now that the perceived threat has passed.
The living room is quiet as you grab a spare blanket from the closet. Xavier watches you quietly, head tilted slightly.
“Why are you taking that to the couch?” he asks.
“I’m sleeping on the couch tonight,” you explain, not meeting his eyes.
He blinks slowly, processing. “Is the bedroom uncomfortable?”
When you explain your reasons, he simply nods once and says, “I understand. I’ll join you.” He’s already following you to the living room. As you settle onto the couch, he squeezes in beside you, somehow fitting into the remaining space.
“Xavier, there’s not enough room,” you protest.
“But I want to sleep here,” he states, already wrapping an arm around your waist. His body radiates warmth as he pulls you closer against his chest. Your continued protests are met with the same neutral reaction, but his grip only tightens, secure and protective.
“Sleep,” he mumbles into your hair, his breath even. “I sleep better when you’re close.”
You shift uncomfortably, the couch clearly not made for two people. He notices immediately, his hunter’s senses attuned to every movement.
“Is it uncomfortable for you?” he observes quietly. Without another word, he repositions both of you, somehow finding the perfect arrangement where your bodies fit together like puzzle pieces on the narrow surface.
“Better?” he asks. When you nod, his lips twitch in what might almost be a smile. He brushes your hair back with careful fingers, his touch delicate despite his strength.
“Xavier, how can you sleep in such random places, then?” you can’t help but ask.
“Mm? I just... sleep when I feel like it,” he says absently, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “I’ll just close my eyes and sleep.”
Within minutes, his breathing deepens, and you realize he’s already fallen asleep, still holding you tightly against him, completely content with wherever you choose to rest as long as you’re together.
𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄
The bedroom door closes with a soft click as Zayne retreats inside, leaving you alone on the couch. He doesn’t argue when you announce your intention to sleep there tonight—just gives you a brief, assessing look before nodding once.
You toss and turn on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position. The cushions, while plush, don’t quite support your body the way the mattress does. After twenty minutes of adjusting pillows and rearranging blankets, you finally settle into an awkward position that feels almost comfortable.
From the hallway comes the sound of soft footsteps. He appears in the doorway, arms crossed as he leans against the frame, watching you shift for the dozenth time.
“You can’t sleep like that,” he states the obvious, voice low in the dim room. His expression remains impassive as he approaches, but his eyes track your movements.
“The human spine requires proper support during sleep cycles,” he continues, bending down beside the couch. He slides one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you against his chest.
“This will lead to muscle strain, and you’re going to wake up sore tomorrow,” he says, carrying you toward the bedroom. His voice is firm, but his hold is gentle. “As a doctor who’s in charge of taking care of a certain stubborn hunter who doesn’t want to sleep on the bed, I cannot allow it.”
“The bed has more than enough space for both of us,” he says quietly, placing you carefully on your side of the mattress. “And I prefer knowing you’re getting proper rest.”
He settles beside you, maintaining a respectful distance while still close enough that you can feel his warmth. “Now sleep. Doctor’s orders.”
𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋
The pencil in Rafayel’s hand pauses mid-stroke when you announce you’re sleeping on the couch tonight. He looks up from his sketchbook, eyes widening as you walk past him with a pillow.
“What? Why?” he calls, abandoning his work to follow you.
When you settle onto the couch and explain, he pouts dramatically, flopping down on the floor beside you.
“But I can’t sleep without you,” he whines, reaching up to tug at your blanket. “Remember last week when you fell asleep in the bath after your mission and I just sat on the bathroom floor all night?”
“Well, that was your choice. Or you could’ve carried me to bed,” you dismiss him.
“That’s not the point,” he sighs, rolling onto his back. “Fine. If you’re sleeping here, so am I.”
He disappears momentarily, returning with his own pillow. As you try to get comfortable, he squeezes himself onto the couch, ignoring your protests that there isn’t enough space.
“There’s plenty of room,” he insists, wrapping his arms around you and nuzzling into your neck.
You shift uncomfortably under his weight, the couch creaking in protest. He notices your discomfort but misinterprets the cause.
“Am I too heavy?” he asks, adjusting himself so he’s half-draped over you, half-wedged between you and the back of the couch. “Better?”
It’s not better, but his hopeful expression makes it hard to say so. You squirm again, trying to find a comfortable position.
“Hold still,” he murmurs, suddenly serious as he studies your face. “You’re actually uncomfortable, aren’t you?”
Before you can answer, he’s up and pulling you with him, his previous playfulness replaced with genuine concern.
“We’re going to bed,” he declares, tugging you toward the bedroom. When you resist, he sighs dramatically.
“Look, I know I sleep on the couch sometimes, but I usually wake up lightheaded, and I have to lie down on the bed the whole day with no work finished. Trust me when I say discomfort isn’t worth it.” His voice softens. “Please? For me?”
With gentle insistence, he leads you back to your shared bed, immediately pulling you close once you’re both settled. “See? Much better,” he whispers, fingers tracing patterns on your skin. “Now, I can hold you properly.”
𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒
The phone in Sylus’s hands is set aside the moment you announce your intention to sleep on the couch. He watches you from his position on the bed, expression unreadable save for one slightly raised eyebrow.
“Really?” he asks, voice smooth and calm as you gather your things. He makes no move to stop you as you head for the door.
The living room is quiet as you settle onto the large couch. Despite its size, it still feels small compared to Sylus’s custom bed. You’ve just begun to get comfortable when the lights dim slightly.
“This is rather amusing,” comes his voice from the doorway. Without waiting for your response, he approaches, towering over you. “You think I’ll allow this arrangement?”
He bends down and lifts you effortlessly into his arms. “Sweetie,” he says, voice laced with amusement, “that couch, impressive as it is, wasn’t designed for proper rest. Even I find my legs hanging off the edge.”
As he carries you back toward the bedroom, his hold is firm but gentle. “If you wish for space, just say so,” he continues, laying you down on the bed. “But I prefer to have you where I can reach you.”
You start to object, but he raises a finger to your lips, silencing you mid-sentence.
“I’ve watched you shift positions seven times in the span of two minutes,” he observes. “You’re not going to rest properly that way, Miss Hunter.”
He sits beside you on the edge of the bed, one hand coming to rest on your shoulder. His fingers trace a path down your arm, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone so powerful.
“The bed is large enough for both of us, even if you wish to maintain distance,” he says, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Now, shall we try this again? Or would you prefer I join you on that inadequate couch?”
When you hesitate, the corner of his mouth quirks up in a knowing smile. “I thought as much,” he murmurs, sliding in beside you, one arm draped across your waist. “Much better, wouldn’t you agree?”
𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁
The smile falls from Caleb’s face the moment you announce you’re sleeping on the couch tonight. He watches from the bedroom doorway as you grab your pillow and head for the living room.
“Hey, wait a second,” he calls, following close behind. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”
When you give your reason—whether it’s needing space, being upset, or just wanting to sleep alone—his demeanor shifts.
“That’s not happening,” he says, crossing his arms as he blocks your path to the couch. When you try to move past him, he catches your wrist, gentle but firm.
“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” he states, voice dropping lower. “Not tonight, not ever.”
Despite his words, you manage to settle onto the couch, arranging your pillow and blanket while ignoring his frustrated sigh. You toss and turn, the couch suddenly feeling lumpy and uncomfortable. He notices immediately, his sharp eyes tracking your every restless movement.
“This is ridiculous,” he finally says after watching you adjust your position for the tenth time. “You’re uncomfortable, and you’re just being stubborn.”
His expression softens slightly at whatever he sees in your face. “I know when something’s bothering you,” he says, voice gentler now. “But this isn’t solving anything.” He scoops you up in his arms, blanket and all.
“The couch is fine for watching movies,” he says, carrying you toward the bedroom. “Not for sleeping. Especially not when there’s a perfectly good bed where I can hold you properly.”
His grip is steady as you squirm in his arms. “If something’s wrong, we’ll talk about it,” he promises, gently placing you down on the bed before lying beside you, one arm draped firmly across your middle. “But I’m not letting you spend the night uncomfortable just to prove a point.”
Whoops, got a tiny bit carried away with this one... 😬
Stepping through the door of his apartment, Xavier freezes at the sight of you curled up on his couch. The dim light of the entryway casts long shadows across your sleeping form. His eyes soften as he approaches on silent feet. For a moment, he simply stands there, studying your peaceful face. He carefully removes his jacket and places it over your shoulders.
“You’re here,” he murmurs. A half-empty cup of tea sits on the table—long gone cold. His fingers hover over it briefly, a subtle furrow appearing between his brows. He hadn’t expected you to be here since you didn't text him anything besides ‘take care!’ a few hours ago.
“See you in the morning,” he whispers, brushing hair from your face. The exhaustion starts to catch up with him from the mission. Xavier settles on the carpeted floor, content to watch over you until morning—with his hand holding yours, and his head resting beside you.
𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄
The apartment is quiet when Zayne unlocks the door, shoulders heavy with fatigue after the unexpected emergency surgery. His steps falter when he spots you asleep on the couch, the book still open on your lap. Quietly removing his coat, he approaches with quiet steps, taking in the scene with a mixture of slight exasperation and fondness.
“I told you not to wait,” he mutters, though there’s no real reproach in his tone. He marks your place in the book before setting it aside. Then, he lifts you with careful hands—the same hands that saved a life hours earlier—and carries you to bed. As he tucks you in, he smiles before pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“You never listen,” he whispers, affection evident in his voice despite his words. Before joining you, he retrieves a small candy from his pocket, and places it on your side of the pillow as a silent gesture of appreciation.
𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋
Rafayel bursts through the door, ready to regale you with how annoying the people were or how stuffy the place was or how the traffic wasted his time on the way. His entrance halts abruptly when he spots you asleep on the couch, clearly having dozed off while waiting for his return.
“Oh? What’s this?” he teases softly, though you can’t hear him. He studies you like he’s admiring his art on the canvases, memorizing the way moonlight plays across your features.
“You were waiting for me. How sweet,” he murmurs, gently brushing your cheek, his fingers idly tracing patterns on your skin. He settles beside you, pulling you against his chest without waking you.
“We’ll greet each other properly tomorrow,” he whispers into your hair, joining you to sleep.
𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒
The door to Sylus’s private residence opens with barely a sound, his commanding presence entering the space with calculated steps. He looks amused when he discovers you asleep on his bed, clearly having attempted to wait for his return.
“What a pleasant surprise,” he remarks quietly. Approaching with silent footsteps, he observes how peaceful you look—a stark contrast to the ruthlessness he demonstrated hours earlier when dealing with a betrayal of his ‘employee’.
“You could have demanded I return sooner,” he settles onto the bed beside you, careful not to disturb your slumber, “I would have obliged.”
His admission comes easily even in your sleep. He props himself up on one elbow, content to simply watch the rise and fall of your chest, the slight flutter of your eyelids as you dream. His fingers hover above your cheek but don't make contact—reluctant to wake you.
It’s not his time to sleep yet, but his other work can wait.
𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁
The gathering continues in full swing, but Caleb’s attention has shifted entirely to you, noticing your struggle to keep your eyes open despite your polite attempts to hide your exhaustion.
He calls his adjutant to escort you home safely. You protest immediately, reminding him of your plans to watch a movie together later—the one you've been talking about all week. Your resistance only softens his expression momentarily.
“The movie will still be there when I return,” he whispers. “I won’t be long.”
An hour later, he enters his place quietly. He pauses at the doorway, taking in the sight before him—you’ve fallen asleep on the couch, the television still playing the opening menu of the movie you had insisted on watching while waiting. A spread of snacks remains largely untouched on the coffee table.
He chuckles quietly before lifting you into his arms, cradling you against his chest as he carries you to bed, whispering, “I have a day off tomorrow. I promise we’ll do anything you want.”
“I love you,” Xavier says, his voice steady as he rests his head on your shoulder.
Silence hangs between you. You pretend to be absorbed in your phone, hiding your playful smile.
He doesn’t move as he remains perfectly still, watching you. His expression doesn’t change, but his gaze intensifies, drilling into the side of your face to watch your expression and whatever it is that catches your attention on your phone.
Seconds tick by. You glance up, meeting his eyes—flat, patient, and expecting something from you. The corner of his mouth twitches.
“Did you not hear me?” he asks, his voice deadpan.
You return to your screen, suppressing a laugh. His stare doesn’t waver. He shifts his body so he can see your face better.
“I love you,” he repeats.
When you still don’t respond, he gently takes your phone and tosses it aside.
“Hey—”
“I will return your phone after you say it back,” he cuts you off, his eyes holding yours captive.
“Fine,” you sigh, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “I love you, too.”
The moment you say those words back, his shoulders relax slightly, and he returns to rest his head on your shoulder—but not before leaning down to place a soft kiss on your forehead.
𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄
“I love you,” Zayne says as he adjusts his tie, ready to head to the hospital.
You smile but continue packing his lunch without responding. His eyes narrow slightly as he studies your face, searching for clues.
“Is everything alright?” he asks.
“No, everything’s fine,” you nod casually, handing him his coffee. He doesn’t take it. Instead, he places both hands on your shoulders, looking directly into your eyes.
“Something’s wrong,” he states. “Did I miss something? Was it the late shift four days ago? Or the call during dinner last night?”
His brow furrows deeper with each possibility. He checks his watch—he should be leaving, but you can see him mentally rescheduling his morning.
“If there’s something bothering you, I’d rather know now before I head to the hospital. I can’t focus at work if I’m thinking about this all day,” he admits. “Please, just tell me what’s wrong.”
“I love you, too, Doctor Zayne. I was just teasing,” you chuckle at his troubled face.
Relief washes over his face as he pulls you into a tight embrace. “Don’t scare me like that,” he murmurs against your hair, then kisses you firmly before finally heading to work.
𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋
“I love you,” Rafayel says as he drapes himself across your lap while you read. You pat his head absently, not looking up from your book.
“Excuse me?” He sits up abruptly. “I said I love you.”
When you still don’t respond, he slides closer, his nose practically touching yours.
“Hello? Is anyone home?” He waves his hand in front of your face. “I just declared my undying affection, and you’re... ignoring me?”
“I heard you,” you reply, fighting a smile.
“And?” he persists, inching closer until his face is directly in your line of sight. “You don’t love me anymore? Or you don’t love me back? Is that it?”
He wraps his arms around you, effectively trapping your book between you. His chin rests on your shoulder, his breath tickling your ear.
“I love you,” he whispers again, more insistently. “I looooove you. I. Love. You.”
Each attempt grows more dramatic than the last. He starts peppering your face with kisses, making it impossible to ignore him.
“Say it back or I’ll never say it again,” he threatens, though it’s all just a bluff. He could never not express his feelings to you, ever. “Fine, I’m holding you hostage until you do.”
You finally laugh, “Okay! I love you, too,” and his triumphant smile lights up the room.
𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒
The morning light filters through the window as Sylus adjusts his cufflinks, preparing for another day of ruthless negotiations and power plays.
“I love you,” he says, glancing at you from the corner of his eye as you lounge on the bed, scrolling through your phone.
“Mmm, have a good day at work,” you make a noncommittal sound, deliberately focusing on your screen.
A beat of silence follows before he smoothly returns to his preparations. “Very well. I’ll see you later.”
You watch him leave, huffing in annoyance at his composed reaction.
Hours later, when you hear the door open, you’re surprised to find him returning much earlier than usual. He enters the bedroom carrying several packages and a bag of food that fills the air with tantalizing aromas.
“What’s all this?” you ask, genuinely confused.
“Just some stuff I bid at auction, and your favorite meal,” he replies casually, setting everything down.
When you stare at him in disbelief, the corner of his mouth curves up slightly. “Whatever I did to displease you this morning,” he says, “consider it rectified.”
“I was just messing around…”
“I know.” He approaches, tilting your chin up. “Now, tell me, aren’t you forgetting something?”
You finally confessed, he deserves to hear it anyway. “I love you, too.”
He smiles, satisfied. He won’t admit that he’d been thinking about it the whole day, though.
𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁
Rain patters against the windows as you and Caleb relax in the living room, the comfortable silence broken only by the occasional rumble of thunder.
“I love you,” he says, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm as you lean against his chest.
You pretend not to hear, focusing instead on the TV. He shifts, angling his head to look at your face. “Hey, did you hear me? I said I love you.”
“Yeah, I heard you,” you reply, fighting to keep your expression neutral.
He straightens up, forcing you to sit upright as he moves to face you directly. “Seriously?”
Before you can respond, his hands are on your cheeks, gently squishing them together as he leans in close.
“I don’t think I heard your response properly,” he says, his face inches from yours now. “Let’s try again.”
When you press your lips together stubbornly, he shakes his head. “Say it back,” he insists, fighting a grin. “Come on, three little words. Not that hard.”
“I luff oo,” you manage through squished cheeks.
“No, no,” he chuckles, easing his grip slightly. “Again, with feeling this time.”
"I love you, too, Caleb,” you manage to say it again despite your still squished cheeks.
His grip softens when you finally say it clearly, but he doesn’t release you until you’ve repeated it once more.
You sit up slowly, partly because you don't want to wake Rafayel, and partly because if you go too fast, you'll end up throwing up in his bed. You cradle your head in your hands as you fight a wave of nausea. Next to you, you hear the rustling of sheets, and you realize your efforts were in vain - Rafayel is also now awake. His hand is planted on your back, and he rubs slow, small circles into it.
"Again?"
You nod, afraid if you open your mouth, everything you ate for dinner would end up making its way back up. You feel Rafayel's hand make its way from your back to your forehead, pushing your hair out of the way.
"I think your fever's gone down though."
You gather your strength and manage to get out of bed, one hand on your stomach, and the other covering your mouth.
"Bathroom," you manage to mumble. Rafayel watches you leave the room, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
---
You sigh, relishing in the way the cool water trickles down your face and onto your neck. You grab the hand towel hanging near the sink, and wipe your face, looking at your reflection in the mirror. Whatever this is, food poisoning or a stomach bug, it is definitely kicking your ass. But somehow, you had managed to wipe down the toilet bowl and sink with a household cleaning spray - you're afraid of whatever it is you have spreading to Rafayel.
You consider making your way back to his room. Right now, it seems like a pilgrimage, something just slightly out of your reach. You look at the bathroom floor. For some reason, its cool tiles beckon to you. For one, you won't be waking Rafayel up with your constant trips to the bathroom. Plus, if you did need to hurl again, the toilet would be right there. You resign yourself to lie down on the floor, thankful that he does keep his bathroom clean. Your fevered skin feels good against the cool tiles, and soon, you find yourself drifting back to sleep.
---
You wake again, but this time, it's your throat that snatches you from your slumber. It's burning, and you want to gasp for air, but you feel like a single breath could tear it apart.
Water... the sink!
Your hand reaches out to the floor next to you, as you attempt to stand. Instead of the floor, it manages to catch something else, something that tumbles to the ground when you hit it. You squint at it, suddenly realizing how dark it has become. You swear you had left the lights on. Amidst your confusion, you see that the thing you hit was a bottle of water.
Water!
You swipe at it, suddenly afraid that you're hallucinating and dreamt the bottle of water up. You manage to grip it tight, and you desperately start twisting the cap. It comes loose, and within the next second, you're downing the entire bottle. The relief that comes makes you want to weep with joy. You've never enjoyed drinking water this much.
After you finish chugging down the bottle, you look at it, perplexed. How did it get here? And why is it dark? What happened to the lights?
You attempt to stand, and you place your hand behind you. Instead of the cool, tiled floor, you're pushing up against something warm and soft.
"Hey, watch it!"
Rafayel sits up from the floor, and he's rubbing sleep out of his eyes again, squinting at you. You stare at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish.
"What are you doing here?" you croak. You look at him, and see he's brought a blanket with him. Where your head was, there is now a rolled up towel with the shape of your head indented into it. There was nothing there but floor before.
"I found you in the bathroom on the ground. I thought you passed out and fell. When I tried to wake you up, you told me to piss off." His voice is also croaky, annoyance tinging it slightly.
You blink at him. "Oh, sorry. I must have been having a fever dream."
At the mention of the word "fever", Rafayel once again places his palm against your forehead. Heat spreads across your cheeks, but it's not because of the fever. There's a fluttering feeling in your stomach as Rafayel examines you, his face just inches from yours. "You still feel a little warm."
"I'll be fine," you assure him. You hold up the bottle, now empty. "And thank you for the water."
He gives you a drowsy grin, then gives you a quick peck on your forehead. Your cheeks warm up again, and you're tempted to give him a kiss back. He senses this and gives you a couple of gentle taps on your cheek.
"No kisses from you for now. Maybe in the morning, once you've brushed your teeth and had some mouthwash."
Sylus tries to soothe you through the comms unit in your helmet. You hadn't realized it, but you're gritting your teeth, your jaw is clenched tight and you're holding your breath.
"And watch out, you're going to rip a hole through my jacket."
You're gripping his biking leathers so tightly, you had lost feeling in your fingers. Your arms are wrapped around his waist, elbows locked, afraid that if you moved even a little bit, you would fall off his bike.
"Maybe if you didn't drive like a maniac, I'd be able to relax a little," you manage to mutter.
He laughs into the comms, and you feel his sides move against your arms. He's thoroughly entertained, but you're fearing for your life. Sylus had promised you a relaxing afternoon ride, but all he'd subjected you to was him weaving in and out of traffic at ridiculously high speeds while you clung to his back like a terrified koala.
"We're almost there. And I drive like a dream, if I do say so myself."
You roll your eyes inside your helmet, wishing he could see it. He continues to speed along the freeway, but you notice that his swerves are a little smoother, his moves through traffic a little less daring.
Eventually, you exit off the freeway, and thankfully, Sylus slows down as he nears a set of traffic lights. He pulls up next to a car, also waiting at the lights. The driver of the car rolls his window down and motions to Sylus. Sylus flicks his visor up, and looks at the driver.
"Hey, buddy, nice bike! Compensating for something?" the driver chortles. He then looks at you. "And with a pretty little thing on your back too. Leave some for the rest of us, won't you?"
You feel Sylus tense up beneath your arms, and you're immediately worried for the driver. But instead of responding to his taunts, Sylus reaches over to the car. He goes for the rear passenger door and pulls it open. Then, he reaches to the front, and pushes the side mirror into the car. The driver, initially bewildered, realizes what Sylus has done and starts cussing both of you out. In the next moment, the lights turn green and while the driver is still dealing out a barrage of insults, Sylus flicks his visor down again and speeds off through the intersection. You hear a series of angry honks, no doubt the other cars behind that driver annoyed that they're held up at the set of lights. You can't help but giggle, and you imagine Sylus is smirking underneath his own helmet.
---
"Look after Natasha," Sylus had said, while removing his helmet. He had headed off, leaving you to clamber off the motorcycle.
"Natasha?"
"That's her name. The bike."
"Of course he'd name it Natasha," you grumble to yourself. He'd left you outside with the bike while he went inside the motorcycle workshop, your helmet in hand. He promised he'd be no more than ten minutes, but the late afternoon heat is starting to get to you. You are leaning against it, sorry, her, while you scroll on your phone mindlessly. To be fair, she is a beautiful motorcycle. The bikes that the Hunters use to get around Linkon are swift and silent things, only as big as they needed to be. But Natasha is large, she is impressive. Sleek and dark, she was beautifully designed, modeled after older motorcycles that used to run on a primitive source of energy - petrol. She drew the attention of people walking past the workshop. You would just smile at them, slightly uncomfortable at their stares. One young man had asked if he could take a picture. You agreed, hoping that Sylus wouldn't mind, but then decided you didn't care if he did anyway.
Sylus, please hurry up, you plead silently. You see a man walking in your direction, and he looks like he is trying to get your attention. You groan internally - if he had any questions about Natasha, you know almost next to nothing about her. He locks eyes with you, and you give him a brief, forced smile.
"It's gorgeous," he tells you, breathlessly, as he approaches.
You nod. "Isn't it?"
The man gives you a lopsided grin. "What's a precious thing like you doing driving something so big?"
You frown, and you open your mouth, about to tell the man to piss off, when you feel a sudden presence at your side. Sylus looms over the man, staring him down.
"Can I help you?" Sylus all but growls.
The man frowns. "J-just making conversation," he stutters.
You watch as Sylus's eyebrow twitches upwards. "Well, now, make like the wind and be gone."
The man scurries off, muttering under his breath, and you watch after him, still frowning.
"I could have handled him," you tell Sylus, annoyance tinging your voice a little.
"Of course you could have," Sylus chuckles. "But I don't want you doing the dirty work I should be doing."
You've lost count on how many times you've rolled your eyes today. Before you can come up with a witty retort, you glance at Sylus's hands. He's carrying something wrapped in a canvas bag.
"What's that? My helmet? Was there something wrong with it?"
He hands it to you. "Open it."
It's hefty and solid. It takes a bit of a balancing act, but you manage to unwrap it without dropping it. You gasp, and marvel at the object in your hands. It's a motorcycle helmet - obsidian black, so dark that instead of light bouncing off of it, it seems to absorb it. The helmet is covered in intricate gold carvings - it's a dragon, surrounded by blossom petals. You're entranced, and it takes you several seconds before you can address Sylus again.
"What is this, Sylus? I already had a helmet."
Sylus shrugs. "I had it custom-made for you. It's one of a kind, and fits you perfectly. Here."
He helps you put it on. He's right. It felt heavy in your hands, but light on your head. Your head feels secure and comfortable. The visor display lights up ,showing today's weather, time and traffic updates. You feel Sylus tap the top of the helmet, and the display turns clear, his red eyes peering in.
You remove the helmet, stunned. It must have cost a fortune. Sylus watches you admire it, amusement twinkling in his eyes.
"I couldn't have you riding around with me with just an old spare helmet," he says, so nonchalantly.
You cradle the helmet in your arms, suddenly feeling how precious it is to you. You clear your throat before you speak. "Thank you. This is beautiful."
The corner of Sylus's lips twitches upwards as he puts his own helmet on. "There was one thing I forgot though," he says as he climbs back onto Natasha.
"What's that?" you ask, climbing on after him.
"I forgot to get the word 'Kitten' engraved at the back."
onichynus headcanon where sylus only stocks up on snacks for the base when mc is there so luke and kieran get so excited when mc comes over... they're all "YAY WE GET TO HAVE FOOD 🥹🥹" and mc is like "omg are you starving them????" to sylus and sylus is all "no wtf they literally have allowance for food????" and luke and kieran go "yeah but the snacks taste better when boss buys them" and sylus knocks both of their heads together
Rafayel: best photographer you'll ever get. He knows exactly what to do, tell you how to pose, gets the best lightning, has all the aesthetic down, and will take more than enough of pictures so you have plenty to choose from. He'd also insist to edit them for you, probably.
Caleb: after the first time you ask him, and he doesn't know what to do, he'd definitely pull an all-nighter and learn all the possible tips and tricks to take the best instagram pictures ever. From zero to hero immediately. Next time you ask, he's ready and locked in to get you only the best pictures.
Sylus: at first he sucks, but as you guide him, he slowly starts to get better and better, to the point when he can even tell you to fix your pose or come up with better angles. It takes a while, but he gets there and the photos come out GREAT.
Zayne: he takes pictures like a mom. He definitely has good intentions! But he just can't quite get it. But one time, when you show him an inspo pic, you suddenly learn, that he's actually an ace at making an exact copy. So you adapt. Next time you want him to take some pictures, you show him all the photos you like ahead, and then one by one he copies them for you to a tee. Everyone is happy with the outcome.
Xavier: he also has good intentions. Really good intentions, okay!! But I fear like he's a lost cause. Just like with his cooking, it's not because of his lack of trying, really, it just can't quite come out right. In the end, whenever he's around, you just ask Jeremiah for help, which definitely does not sit well with Xavier, though. As he's determined to get better, turns out he's actually quite good at taking all the blurry, moved, spur of the moment photos (mostly cause they just come out like this anyway). When you finally post some of the photos he took, he's very proud of himself and insist you don't need to ask Jeremiah anymore.
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dailybridgerton
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jacobvanloon
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yousharknotpass
annaxmalina
