lynostalgi

[lynostalgi]

You never gave a warning sign (I gave so many signs) | part 1

PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC Reader

SYNOPSIS: An arranged marriage built on silence unravels into a love loud enough to echo—where a repressed heart finally claims what was always his.

WORD COUNT: 6.5k

NOTES: so.. this ended up being way too angsty than the original blurb but oh well no regrets. fair warning, prepare some tissues! The tag list for this fic is CLOSED.

MASTERLIST | part 2

The day you chose to deliver the papers was grey. Not rainy. Not stormy. Just… grey.

A sky without conviction. Wind without bite. The kind of afternoon that felt as indecisive as you were pretending not to be.

You stood outside his office door for longer than you were proud of. Long enough to memorize the grain of the wood. Long enough to talk yourself into it, and then out of it, and then back in again.

You pushed the door open softly, already shrinking into yourself.

You weren’t sure what you expected when you came.

That he’d be behind his desk, maybe. Pen in hand, papers meticulously arranged in little towers like the ones he builds in your mind—precise, unreachable, always half-tilted toward something you’re not allowed to see.

You thought you might say something rehearsed but kind. A line you practiced in the mirror, gentle but final. You didn’t want to hurt him. You just wanted to end the slow bleeding before it became a hemorrhage.

But the office was empty.

The silence hit first.

Not a tranquil silence. Not the kind that invites rest.

This one was clinical. Dry. Like the room had forgotten how to hold a heartbeat.

Zayne wasn’t there.

Of course he wasn’t. He was rarely anywhere you were. You’d grown used to missing him like one grows used to an old injury—limping out of habit, not pain. Not anymore. Not really.

You stepped inside anyway, shutting the door behind you with a quiet click. The room smelled like him—mint and paper, a trace of cologne sharp as memory. The blinds were half-drawn, the light filtering in like a sigh through cracked ribs.

You walked to his desk and placed the envelope down.

Gently. As if it were made of glass.

As if the act itself might shatter something irreversibly.

Why stay in this marriage when the instigator is already dead? It wasn’t a cruel thought. Just… practical. Your mother had orchestrated it all, hadn’t she? Down to the embroidered napkins and the painfully bright chandelier you never wanted. She'd made you both promises you never consented to, and now she was gone, buried in roses and obligations.

That question had come to you in the silence after her funeral, when the guests were gone and the condolences had dried into something brittle. You weren’t looking for liberation. You weren’t angry. But there was a kind of clarity that only grief could offer—harsh, clean-edged clarity that cut deeper the more you looked at it.

You stood there, staring at the divorce papers. The ink still smelled fresh. The curve of your own signature stared back at you like a challenge.

You didn’t hate Zayne.

God, if you hated him, maybe this would be easier.

But love had never bloomed between you. Not really. It had been all frost and formality, glances across long tables, the occasional brush of his coat sleeve as he passed you in the hallway. You learned his silences. He learned your smiles. But you never learned each other.

And even if Zayne had been mostly absent, even if he’d buried himself in work and left you to wander the quiet halls of your shared home like a ghost—well.

You weren’t completely blameless either.

You’d withdrawn before he could reject you. You’d built your own walls, brick by brick. You told yourself you were protecting yourself. But the truth was messier than that.

Maybe you’d been waiting. Hoping.

And when hope dried up, you folded your longing into politeness. Into pleasantries. Into dinner set for one.

Your fingers grazed the edge of the envelope again. He’ll see it when he comes in, you told yourself. He’ll understand.

He was good at understanding, wasn’t he?

But the part of you that still ached—the part that hadn’t quite given up—wished you didn’t have to do this alone. Wished he’d been here so you could have said something. Anything. So you wouldn’t have to walk out with your heart still clenched, still wondering if this was mercy or cowardice.

You turned toward the door slowly, letting your eyes sweep over the room one last time.

His chair was slightly angled toward the window. A mug of coffee sat abandoned on the side table, still half full. A scarf hung on the back of the chair, the one you once bought for him because he never remembered to dress warm in winter. He never wore it in front of you.

Maybe he wore it when he was alone.

Maybe he missed you, in his own quiet, useless way.

Maybe this wasn’t what he wanted either.

Maybe it was.

You didn’t wait to find out.

You slipped out of his office as softly as you had come. No tears. No dramatics. Just the sound of your heels clicking against the tile, carrying you away from the life you tried to build without being given the tools.

Behind you, the envelope sat motionless on his desk.

It would be the first thing he saw when he returned.

Or the last thing he expected.

Either way, the decision was made.

You just hoped he’d understand that it wasn’t born out of resentment.

It was born out of surrender.

And surrender, after all, was the only way you’d ever been allowed to love him.

You go about your day.

Mechanically, precisely. Like if you move fast enough, you won’t feel the weight of what you just did. Like if you keep your hands busy, they won’t remember how they trembled when you left the envelope on his desk.

You have dinner at a high-end restaurant downtown. The kind with mood lighting and cutlery that costs more than your first paycheck. The waiter greets you by name. You’ve been here before. Enough times to build a familiarity that feels almost like comfort.

You order your usual. A glass of wine, a dish too delicate for hunger. You smile when the waiter makes small talk. You nod when he compliments your dress. You even laugh—soft, practiced, hollow.

Around you, couples lean close, forks clinking gently against china, knees brushing under tables. You sip your wine and pretend you don’t notice. Pretend you’re above it all. That you chose this. That you’re fine.

You leave a generous tip and walk out alone.

You stop at a shop on the way home.

There’s a window display with crystals and tiny gilded mirrors and perfume bottles shaped like hearts. Useless things. Luxuries. Trinkets that mean nothing and say everything. You buy a pair of earrings that you’ll never wear, a satin ribbon you don’t need, and a music box that plays a lullaby you didn’t realize you remembered.

It doesn’t help. But it gives your hands something to hold.

By the time you return home, night has long folded itself over the city. You step out of your heels and into the silence, your keys landing with a metallic sigh in the tray by the door.

The house is spotless. Sterile. Like no one lives here. Like no one ever did.

You draw yourself a bath. You pick out the bath salts your mother once gifted you—lavender and sandalwood, soft and laced with memory. The water fogs the mirror, curls against your skin. You sink in, hoping the heat will coax something loose. The ache. The numbness. The way you still listen, stupidly, for the sound of the door opening behind you.

But there’s nothing. No footsteps. No voice calling your name.

Only the slow drip of a tap and the echo of your own breath.

After, you do your skincare. Layer after layer. Toner. Serum. Cream. A ritual. A mask. You look at your face in the mirror and wonder when you started looking so tired. You wonder if Zayne ever noticed. You wonder if he’d care.

You go to bed.

The sheets are cool, tucked too tightly. You lay there, stiff as porcelain, your eyes wide in the dark. The ceiling offers no answers. The night holds no comfort.

Your fingers find the empty side of the bed.

And stay there.

Still.

Quiet.

You don’t cry. You don’t let yourself. Because you made this choice, didn’t you?

You left the papers.

You left him.

But as sleep evades you and the silence tightens like a noose, you wonder if he’ll notice the way your perfume still lingers on the pillow.

And if he does—

You wonder if he’ll miss you.

Or just the absence.

You wake in the dark, unsure what pulls you from sleep. There is no noise, not exactly—just the strange pressure of being watched, the weight of something pressing too hard against your ribs.

Your eyes blink open slowly.

The room is dim, only the amber spill of the hallway light trailing in like a whisper beneath the door. The sheets have tangled around your waist, your body curled in that way it always is when you sleep alone, when there's too much space and too little warmth.

And then you see him.

Zayne.

Kneeling at your bedside. 

His head is bowed, his hands gripping yours like lifelines, like they’re the only thing tethering him to the earth. His shoulders are trembling. There are tear tracks on his cheeks—silent and luminous in the half-light. His palms are cold, clammy, too tight around your fingers, but you don’t pull away.

You can’t.

Because you’ve never seen him like this.

Not composed. Not distant. Not restrained behind the iron wall of manners and duty and that maddening, unreachable calm.

No. This is Zayne—undone.

“Please don’t leave me,” he breathes.

The words are so soft, they barely make it past his lips.

Your breath catches.

You stare at him, heart thudding with a terror you don’t understand. He’s not bleeding. Not wounded. Not dying.

But he looks like he is.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, voice breaking like something rusted. “I’m so—God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how to be your husband. I didn’t even know if you wanted me to be. I thought—” His grip tightens, desperate. “I thought you were happier without me. I thought I was giving you space. I thought it was what you wanted.”

You try to sit up, but he’s still holding your hands, head bowed so low you can feel his breath against your skin. He presses his forehead to your knuckles like he’s praying. Or confessing.

“I saw the papers,” he says. “I came back and I saw them and—” A pause. A shudder. “I felt something inside me go still. Like the part of me that hoped you’d someday choose me… just stopped breathing.”

You swallow.

Your throat is dry. Your heart is loud. Your hands are still in his, small and warm and useless in the face of this.

Zayne’s never begged for anything. Not when you married. Not when you drifted. Not even when the silences stretched longer than the days.

But he’s begging now.

And it breaks something in you.

“I don’t care about the arrangement,” he says, lifting his eyes to yours for the first time, and—God. They’re red-rimmed and wet and unguarded in a way you’ve never seen. Not even when his mentor died. Not even when yours forced a ring onto your finger. Because that's exactly what she was—a mentor before a mother.

“I don’t care who started it. I care that I can’t sleep knowing you won’t be there. That I won’t see your shoes in the hallway. Your cup in the sink. Your voice in the morning. I know I’ve been gone—I know I made you feel alone. But I never stopped—”

He cuts himself off, like the words are too big for him to hold.

“Don’t leave me,” he says again, hoarse. “Please. Tell me it’s not too late. Tell me I can try. Tell me I can love you better.”

And then he says it.

“Because I do—”

Soft. Crushed. Almost drowned in breath.

“—I do love you.”

You sit frozen, trembling with something that isn’t shock but grief—but hope—but disbelief.

Because you’d spent months mourning something that had never bloomed.

And now here he was. On his knees. With all his walls gone.

Waiting for you.

His words echo in your chest like footsteps in an empty hall. They don’t settle. They don’t land. They just… circle. Hover. Haunt.

And yet—your hands stay in his.

You want to pull away. You should pull away. That would be easier, wouldn’t it?

But your fingers won’t listen. They're traitors. Trembling, but curled around his like they still remember how to hold on. 

Zayne’s eyes are still on you—pleading, ruined, impossibly gentle. And you hate him for it. You hate him for coming to you like this now, when your chest is raw and bandaged over with resignation, when your heart has learned to live with its hollow space.

You don’t know what to say.

You’ve always known what to say. You’ve always had something ready. A laugh, a line, a quiet deflection. You were raised to survive with poise, to never let the cracks show.

But now?

You don’t know how to speak through the knot lodged in your throat.

“I…” Your voice barely comes out. It sounds foreign. Bruised. “Zayne, I don’t—I don’t know.”

His brows draw together.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you whisper. “You didn’t want me. You wanted peace. You wanted quiet. I gave you that.”

You’re breathing faster now, not from panic—but from all the things you’ve never let yourself say aloud.

“You weren’t there,” you murmur, looking somewhere past his shoulder. “Not when I waited for you to come home. Not when I made tea and poured two cups out of habit. Not when I cried so quietly I thought I’d go mad from the silence.”

He’s shaking his head, tears falling again.

“I didn’t know,” he breathes. “I didn’t know you felt—”

“Because I didn’t tell you,” you say sharply. “Because I thought I didn’t have the right to want more. We weren’t in love. We were just… two people honoring a contract.”

Zayne looks like he’s in pain.

Real pain.

The kind that doesn’t bleed, just bruises the soul until everything aches.

“I’m not saying this to punish you,” you whisper. “I just—I need you to understand. I don’t know how to believe you now. I don’t know how to trust what you’re offering me, when all I’ve ever known is how to be alone in this marriage.”

He closes his eyes like he’s been struck.

“I’m not whole,” you add, voice cracking. “And I don’t know if I even know how to be loved anymore.”

There’s a pause.

A long, trembling pause.

Then, quietly—softly—Zayne presses your hands to his lips.

He kisses your knuckles like he’s asking permission to breathe.

“I don’t expect you to believe me right now,” he whispers. “Or tomorrow. Or the day after. I just want you to know—I’m not leaving. I won’t run from this again. From you. Even if you don’t forgive me. Even if you never say those words back.”

You stare at him.

Still unsure. Still aching. Still raw.

But something inside you shifts.

Not healed.

Not certain.

Just—listening.

And maybe that’s enough for now.

He stays kneeling for a long time.

Even after your fingers loosen in his grip. Even after your breathing slows and your eyes drop from his face to the twisted bedsheet between you. Even after the tears stop falling from both of you.

He stays. Like a man rooted. Like he’s afraid that if he moves, you’ll disappear.

Eventually, you whisper, “Get off the floor.”

It comes out hoarse. Less command, more tired breath. The words of someone too wrung out to carry this moment any further, but too tender to let it close alone.

He looks up at you, cautious. But the moment has passed for confessions. He knows it.

So he rises slowly, joints stiff, fabric creased and damp from where his knees met the floor. You shift aside, just a little—enough to make room without saying it aloud.

He doesn’t assume.

He stands for a beat longer than necessary. Hands fidgeting. Shoulders tense. And then he moves—quiet as snow—and slips beneath the covers, staying on top of them at first, as though unwilling to cross some unseen line.

The bed dips with his weight. You both lie there, backs half-turned, inches away and aching with silence again—but not the old kind. Not the lonely, echoing kind.

This one is... full. Thick with things unsaid but understood.

His shoulder brushes yours. He doesn't move. Neither do you.

You let your eyes close, but sleep doesn’t come.

Your mind is loud in the hush. Not with words. With fragments. Ghosts. That night at the wedding when your mother held your hand too tightly and whispered that love is just a fantasy. The first time you saw Zayne sleeping at his desk, collar loose, lashes brushing his cheek, more beautiful than anything you were allowed to say. The moment your fingers twitched toward him once, and you stopped yourself. Every almost. Every if.

You feel him shift beside you. Just a fraction.

Then his hand—a single scarred hand—moves slowly across the space between you. Hovers. Waits.

You don’t open your eyes. You don’t breathe.

And then, as gently as anything you’ve ever known, he rests his fingers on your wrist.

Barely a touch.

Just a presence.

I'm here, it says.

You don’t move. You don’t speak.

But you let him stay.

The sheets rustle as he slides down slightly, mirroring your position. His forehead brushes your shoulder. His breath warms the back of your arm. His hand stays wrapped around your wrist like an apology without words.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours.

You fall asleep like that.

Not in his arms. Not pressed close. Not healed.

Just… not alone.

For the longest time, your mother dictated the weather of your world.

She didn’t just control the room—she was the room. Her presence seeped into the walls, into the silence, into the decisions you hadn’t even made yet. She knew what you’d wear before you opened your closet. She could recite your schedule before you checked your calendar. She didn’t raise a daughter—she built a reflection.

And she expected that reflection to obey.

At first, it was subtle. Childhood rules disguised as safety. 

“Don’t play in the sun, you’ll get too dark.”

“Keep your voice down, good girls don’t shout.” 

“Smile when guests are around, don’t embarrass me.”

But over time, the rules turned into walls. And the walls became a prison. You learned to swallow words before they formed. To weigh your tone. To apologize for breathing too loudly.

It didn’t matter what you wanted. What mattered was what she thought you should want.

And then Zayne entered the picture.

A calm man. A blank page. A voice with the temperature of winter mornings—cool, crisp, distant. You hadn’t even fallen for him. You’d simply watched as your mother’s attention pivoted from micromanaging your life to orchestrating your marriage.

He was her dream son-in-law. A doctor. Unshakeable. Mannered. From a family she couldn’t nitpick.

She didn’t ask if you liked him.

She didn’t need to.

She assumed you would be grateful.

And in some ways, you were.

Because Zayne—unavailable as he was, emotionally constipated and always at the hospital—did one thing your mother never did.

He left you alone.

There was no suffocating presence. No list of expectations folded into every meal. He didn’t demand you dress a certain way. Didn’t police your volume, your mood, your silences. He didn’t ask much of you at all.

And in that eerie vacuum, you found something terrifyingly precious.

Autonomy.

Even if he barely spoke to you, even if he barely saw you, Zayne gave you the one thing you craved more than affection.

Freedom.

At home, your mother would barge into your room with unsolicited opinions. In Zayne’s apartment, you had a key to your own space. At home, your mother would correct you mid-sentence in front of relatives. Zayne would barely notice if you said something silly, let alone make you feel small for it.

He didn’t tether you.

And while that coldness carved an ache in your chest during sleepless nights, it also came with a strange sense of safety.

He was distant, yes.

But he was not cruel.

When your mother visited your new house for the first time after your wedding, you saw her try it—try to step into your space like she still owned it. She scanned your kitchen with sharp eyes, criticizing how you stored the spices. She told you you were putting on weight. That you needed to stop being lazy, that Zayne would leave you if you didn’t “keep up appearances.”

She said it lightly, like a joke.

Zayne was standing by the coffee machine.

He looked up, his gaze ice-cold.

“I didn’t marry her for appearances,” he said, voice clipped, face unreadable. “And if you’re done insulting my wife, you can go.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

You remembered the way your mother blinked. Like someone had thrown cold water on her. She huffed, lips pursed, and left without another word. She didn’t even say goodbye.

And you…

You’d looked at him like he was a foreign language.

He didn’t look at you. Just poured his coffee and left for work without a second glance.

But you had stood there, rooted to the floor, hands shaking.

Because for the first time in your life, someone chose you. 

Zayne had drawn a line in the sand.

And your mother had been on the wrong side of it.

You hadn’t cried then. Not even when the door slammed shut and silence filled the apartment again. But you remembered the tightness in your chest. The way you stared at the floor like you were thirteen again, except this time you weren’t helpless.

Because someone—your husband—had made it clear you were not to be messed with.

You still think about that moment. More than you probably should.

Because Zayne never brought it up again. Never mentioned her. Never asked how it made you feel.

But he didn’t apologize for defending you.

He didn’t make you feel like you owed him for it either.

And somehow, in his detachment, there was a kind of tenderness your mother had never offered you.

He gave you space.

He gave you a shield.

And somewhere in the folds of that cold, quiet marriage, you started seeing him not just as the stranger you were legally tied to—but the man who, even in silence, stood between you and the woman who broke your voice.

He might not have held your hand.

But he kept your name safe in a house that was finally your own.

And maybe that didn’t look like love in the way you were raised to recognize it.

But it was protection.

And for someone like you—raised to feel like a burden—that meant something.

You wake before the sun.

The room is still steeped in the heavy blue of early dawn, where everything looks softer than it really is. Blurred at the edges, like grief.

There’s a moment, a breath, where you forget. Where you wake as if from a dream and all is suspended. The air is cold against your cheek. The sheets heavy with the imprint of two. And there’s warmth behind you. A weight.

Zayne.

Not a memory. Not a phantom. Not another figment of wishful thinking conjured up by your loneliness.

He's still here.

The realization sinks in slowly, like tea bleeding into water. At some point in the night, he must’ve shifted closer. One of his arms is draped around your waist, tentative but real. His chest rises and falls against your back, the rhythm steady, anchoring. And his face—God, his face is tucked into your shoulder like it’s the only home he’s ever known.

You don’t move.

You just lie there, blinking up at the ceiling, your body stiff with exhaustion and the kind of grief that has no name. You're not sure what it is you’re mourning. Only that it’s something vast. Something invisible. A version of this marriage you never got to live. A thousand versions of yourself you never got to be—with him, beside him, for him.

There’s a heaviness in your chest that isn’t pain. Not sharp, not sudden. Just... present. Like fog. Like longing left too long in the cold.

You think about the envelope still sitting on his desk. Signed. Final. As binding as a scar.

You think about how easy it would be to slip out from under his arm. Walk away before the sun catches you both in this quiet trespass. Before the ache turns into expectation. Before kindness gets mistaken for forgiveness.

And yet—you stay.

Not because anything has been resolved. Not because his whispered apology last night has undone the loneliness you watered for so long it grew roots inside you. But because you're tired. And his breath is warm. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you’re not waking up to a silence that only belongs to you.

He shifts slightly, his hand tightening instinctively on your waist. Just a twitch. Just enough to remind you: he feels you there.

The tears come before you can stop them.

Slow. Silent. The kind you don’t sob out loud. The kind you let slip into the pillow because you’re too proud to make a sound.

You wish you could hate him.

You wish he’d never said anything at all. That he hadn’t come into your room like that. That he’d left the papers on the desk and let the story end quietly.

Because now there’s a crack.

A crack in the coffin you tried to bury this marriage in.

And through it, something stirs.

Not hope. Not yet.

Just the unbearable truth that he’s still in there, somewhere—beneath all that absence. That maybe he always was. That maybe, just maybe, he had been mourning it too, all along, but in his own cold, closed, unreadable way.

Zayne breathes in deeply, then exhales with a small, uneven sigh. Still asleep.

You glance down at the hand around your waist. His fingers twitch once, like he’s dreaming of holding you tighter but doesn’t quite know how.

It hurts.

Not because he’s touching you—but because of how long you’ve wanted him to. Because of how gentle it is. Because tenderness, after all this time, feels like both a balm and a blade.

You close your eyes again.

You don’t move.

You don’t wake him.

There is a funeral between your ribs and a heartbeat beside you, and both feel sacred.

And maybe—just for this morning—that’s enough.

The eggs are overcooked.

Zayne stares down at the pan like it offended him personally, the browned edges curling up as if mocking the silence that’s wrapped itself around the kitchen. The yolks aren’t runny the way you like them. He used the wrong kind of salt. The tea might be too bitter. Everything’s a little off today.

Or maybe he is.

Zayne places the plate gently on the table, careful not to make too much noise. You’re sitting across from him, wrapped in your robe, a thin line between your brows as you butter your toast like it’s a task that requires precision. You haven’t spoken much. Not since waking up to find him still there, hovering in the doorway with eyes swollen from a night spent begging the universe to turn back time.

He watches you through the soft steam rising from the tea.

And he aches.

Not with longing, though that’s part of it.

No, this ache is older. Rooted in something he thought he buried years ago, back on that cursed mountain where blood froze faster than it could pool, and lives ended mid-sentence.

He shouldn’t be thinking about that morning—not here, not with you sitting across from him—but he is.

Because the divorce papers, the ones still waiting on his desk like an open grave, reminded him exactly how it felt to lose something you didn’t know how to hold.

That night on Mt. Eternal… years have passed since then, but the cold never really left his bones.

He still sees William’s face sometimes. In dreams. In the flicker of a hallway light. In the space between one breath and the next, when memory has no mercy.

He hadn’t known the man for long—barely a few months, a blip in the timeline of his tightly folded life—but William had burned bright. Reckless, brilliant, infuriatingly intuitive. He had a way of making people feel seen. A way of cutting through Zayne’s silence with nothing but presence.

And then—

Zayne remembers pressing his hand to William’s chest, trying to keep the life in. His own blood mixing with his friend’s. He remembers the way the air smelled—like frost and iron and finality.

He remembers thinking, If I survive this, I will never love anything fragile again.

And then he met you.

He looks up.

You’re chewing slowly, eyes unfocused. Lost in your own world of unspoken grief.

You hadn’t said anything last night after he fell asleep against your shoulder. You hadn’t moved away. But you hadn’t touched him, either.

Zayne doesn’t blame you.

He doesn’t know what to make of your silence—whether it’s resignation, or fear, or kindness. Whether he’s been forgiven, or whether you’re still too tired to fight.

He wishes he knew how to ask.

He wishes he were the kind of man who could reach across the table and take your hand, just to show you he's still here. That he finally wants to be here. But he isn't that man. Not yet.

And you deserve better than half-formed promises from someone still trying to dig his heart out from beneath layers of protocol and loss.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, almost without realizing it. The words come out hushed. Fragile.

You glance up.

Your eyes meet.

There’s no anger in them. But there’s no relief, either. Just tiredness. And something that looks too much like a mirror of his own sorrow.

Zayne swallows.

He wants to tell you everything. About the nightmares. About the way guilt has hardened in his chest like a scar tissue. About how hard it is to come home to a soft, warm bed after you've learned to sleep beside death. About how sometimes, when you smiled at him, he looked away not because he didn’t care—but because it hurt too much to hope.

But he doesn’t say any of it.

He takes a sip of tea. It’s scalding. Bitter. His throat burns.

He watches you spread jam on toast with careful, robotic movements before you casually reach over and add two spoonfuls of sugar into his tea, and thinks—I should’ve told her sooner. I should’ve told her everything.

But he didn’t. And now, here you both are. Sitting in the ruins. Pretending it's breakfast.

There’s no music. No birdsong. Just the soft clink of ceramic and the breathing of two people who don’t know how to mourn what never had a name.

He looks at your hands—those same hands he held last night like a prayer—and wishes he could rewind time.

Just one month. One year. One heartbeat.

But he can’t.

So he lifts his fork. Cuts into the eggs. Forces himself to chew.

Because this is what it looks like, sometimes, when you try to make amends:

Burnt breakfast.

Too many silences.

A table full of ghosts.

And you—still here.

Not forgiving.

Not forgetting.

But here.

And for Zayne—for a man who’s only ever learned to grieve in private—that is a beginning worth mourning, too.

His phone vibrates against the table.

He flinches—guilt, maybe, or just the startle of being dragged out of a thought you didn’t want to leave.

You don't look up, still quietly chewing, lost in that dreamless place where sorrow goes to sleep in you like a second skin. But Zayne reaches for the phone, thumb swiping across the screen, half-expecting some emergency at the hospital. A late case. A consult. Another impossible situation to fix so he doesn’t have to fix himself.

But it’s a text from Greyson.

"You still coming to the charity gala? Need someone to block Dr. Malik from hijacking the auction with his ugly vintage duck paintings again."

He exhales—one short breath, barely a sound. The message is simple. Banter, really. Nothing urgent. Nothing pressing. 

He hasn’t replied to Greyson in weeks.

He hasn't thought about the gala either. Usually an excuse for donors to parade their goodwill in overpriced suits, for surgeons to trade horror stories over cocktails, for the hospital to raise enough funds to keep the rural outreach programs going another year.

Zayne’s gaze flickers upward.

You’re sipping your tea now. Still quiet. Still careful. But you’re here. Still in this kitchen. Still in his orbit.

Zayne lets a thought settle in his chest—tentative, unsteady, like a flame in high wind:

Perhaps not all is lost.

Maybe not everything has calcified into endings. Maybe not every door has shut. Maybe there's still a sliver of future that hasn’t collapsed beneath the weight of what went unsaid. You hadn’t kicked him out last night. You hadn't pulled your hand away when he clutched it like a lifeline in the dark.

And now, this. A small, ridiculous gala. The softest suggestion of routine, of life continuing.

He looks back at the message, thumb hovering over the reply field.

Maybe… maybe he could take you.

The thought startles him with its tenderness.

Would you even want to go? Would it feel like a poor excuse to make up for everything? A bandage over a bullet wound? Would you dress up just to stand beside a man who once vanished when you needed him most?

Zayne’s thumb lowers.

He doesn’t reply. 

Instead, he watches you butter another piece of toast with slow, mechanical grace. He memorizes the way your lashes cast shadows down your cheeks. The way your hand trembles just slightly, like you’re barely holding yourself together.

You were so strong, always. And he—he let himself believe you didn’t need him. That your strength meant he could keep hiding inside his cold logic and call it love.

He knows better now.

Maybe it's too late to be the man you needed back then. But maybe… maybe he can still learn to be someone you don't have to heal from.

He slips the phone screen-down on the table.

Then, with hesitant hands, he reaches across the table and nudges the jar of jam closer to you. A quiet offering.

You glance at it.

He meets your eyes again.

And in that fleeting glance, something moves. The first light in a room long sealed shut.

The moment passes too quickly.

Your eyes lower again, lashes shuttering the fragile connection. You spread the jam he offered, slow and deliberate, as if trying not to let your hands betray you. Zayne watches the knife tremble ever so slightly in your grip. Not enough for someone else to notice. But he does. Of course he does.

He’s used to studying tremors for a living—on monitors, in pupils, in dying pulses beneath his palm.

And now, you.

You, trembling under all that quiet.

He clears his throat.

It’s not a loud sound, but it slices through the morning hush with a clean, surgical precision. You blink up at him, guarded again. As if waiting for him to say something devastating, or worse—dismissive.

Zayne presses his palms against the edge of the table. He doesn’t lean forward, doesn’t crowd you. He keeps his voice level. Gentle. Low.

“I, ah…” he starts, and immediately hates how uncertain he sounds.

You set your knife down.

Zayne exhales softly through his nose, schooling himself into coherence. He can do this. He speaks to grieving families, for God’s sake. Tells them about cardiac arrests and brain deaths and the final moments of their loved ones. He can string a sentence together.

But this—this is harder.

“The hospital is hosting its annual charity gala this weekend,” he finally says. “Greyson asked if I was coming.”

You tilt your head. Neutral. You say nothing, but he thinks you’re waiting. Letting him go on.

Zayne looks down at his mug, watching the swirl of steam curl like a vanishing thought.

“I was thinking,” he says carefully, “maybe you'd like to come with me.”

There.

He doesn’t look up immediately. He can’t. He doesn’t want to see your hesitation, your polite refusal, the way you’ll swallow your discomfort and say maybe next time when you know there won’t be one.

But then—

“Why?” 

Your voice is not sharp. Not cruel. Just… tired.

Zayne looks up.

You’re watching him now, one brow faintly raised, lips parted slightly—not in expectation, but confusion. Sincere confusion. And something deeper beneath it—wariness, perhaps. The kind that comes from being wounded too many times in the same place.

He leans back in his chair. Not retreating. Just trying not to suffocate you with the closeness of his yearning.

“Because…” he begins, but the rest of the sentence gets tangled somewhere in his chest.

Because I want to be seen with you.Because I want to try again.Because I miss being beside you even when we weren’t really together.Because I can’t bear the thought of showing up alone and being reminded of what I let die between us.Because I want to be yours.

Instead, what comes out is softer. Smaller.

“Because I’d like you to be there.”

You don’t answer.

Instead, your eyes move over him—like you’re taking stock of the man across from you. Not the doctor. Not the public figure. Not the version of Zayne that the world sees. But him.

You study the way his hands are folded, the way his jaw is clenched not with arrogance but restraint. The hair still damp from his morning shower. The sleeves of his dress shirt slightly creased because he didn’t take the time to iron them.

He’s not posturing. Not performing.

He’s just… here. Holding out a hand through the quiet wreckage.

And finally—finally—your lips part.

“Is it black tie?” you ask, like you’re still testing the water, still waiting to see if this is real.

Zayne blinks.

Then breathes.

“Yes,” he says. “Full formal.”

You nod. Just once. A small thing. A quiet gesture that still manages to bloom something in his chest that almost feels like hope.

“Then I’ll need a new dress,” you murmur.

And Zayne doesn’t smile. Not fully. But something in his expression softens, loosens. The beginning of light behind stormclouds.

He knows it’s not forgiveness. But maybe, maybe—it’s the start of returning home.

Zayne finishes his tea in silence.

And as he stands to leave, brushing past your chair to take the dishes to the sink, he lets the faintest hope settle into the hollowness of his ribs.

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[lynostalgi]

can we stay together? | caleb xia (m)

summary: ever since you and caleb xia had been paired together for flight simulations, the two of you realized you made the perfect team - your calm, no-nonsense focus on your objectives balancing out his playful, sometimes aggressive captaining and piloting of whatever vessel he's put in. a drunken kiss shared in a bar puts strain on your friendship, with you squashing your ever-burgeoning feelings for him because you know his heart belongs to someone else - and he’ll never be yours. an invitation changes everything, but it’s not just any invitation…no, caleb’s received an invitation to his best friend’s (who’s basically his little sister) wedding. blindsided by the suddenness, caleb comes to you, the only one who he sees capable of helping him with his crazy ideas, with one that may ruin you completely: go back to his hometown and be his date to the wedding. what could possibly go wrong? info: daa fighter pilot!caleb x daa operations officer!afab!reader | daa pilots au | non-mc reader | unrequited requited love (they fall in love by the end i promise) | fluff, angst, some comedy, smut | 27k words (i am so sorry-) warnings: set in a alternate canon compliantish universe but if caleb was only in the DAA + him and mc grew apart + the events leading up to the farspace fleet never happened, non-mc mc, caleb’s childhood friend’s name is meilin chu (do we get the joke?? meilin chu?? mc??? okay-), gideon + patrick + josephine + xavier + hunters association characters make an appearance, gideon and patrick take the term wingman literally and figuratively, meilin is a girl’s girl and mc has a hard time confronting herself and her feelings bc of this, howl’s moving castle mention but vaguely, they yearn for each other, caleb says they’re going to pretend to be normal and almost like a couple haha so funny (narrator voice, they’re not pretending btw), fluff, a gratuitous basketball game scene, meilin and reader bonding, a dress/corset tying scene [her dress is referencing a longer version of caleb mc’s spring and flowers dress!!], tension, wedding scenes [meilin’s dress is referencing xavier mc’s wedding dress!], angst, crying, making up, love confessions, smut, dom(ish) caleb x sub!afab!reader, messy kissing, kind of? manhandling, clothed grinding, mc pulls caleb down by his necklace mhm, m!receiving! hair pulling, f!receiving! fingering, f!receiving! oral sex, g-spot stimulation, clit stimulation, f!receiving! multiple orgasms, squirting, unclothed grinding, unprotected sex, the necklace dangles in front of her face during sexxxy time and tbh we need that in game, m!receiving! scratching, crying during sex, creampie, oh boy- author's note: writer's block might be strong but I'M STRONGER BITCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! oh my god i hope you guys enjoy (;-;) if you liked this pls send me an ask!! i rlly appreciate you for reading this monster of a fic, she's my new baby ♡ disclaimer: if you are a minor and you're seeing this, i ask that you turn away and do not read. this is an 18+ story and minors are not welcome. if you are uncomfortable with any of the topics listed in the warning, please do not read this story! header made by me! thank you to: @starlightkwan for beta reading and being the best ading and cheerleader (;-;) you mean so much to me!! i love you long time <33 *ੈ✩‧₊˚ playlist linked here!

How do you come back from a kiss you’ve dreamed of for years now?

You don’t know, especially since it just…happened.

One second you were at the bar top, shooting the shit with your squadron after a regularly scheduled fighting simulation. You would have stopped after your usual one cocktail before chugging a water and eating bar nuts so that you could drive your drunk teammates back to the DAA’s housing, but something felt different.

And with Gideon promising to stay sober to give you a break from being the mom of the group, why not do something unusual?

One drink turned to three, three drinks turned into hyping up the crowd in the middle of the bar’s dance floor by the antique record player, and dancing turned into…this.

A calm space in the middle of the sweaty, passionate bodies - his hands on your waist while you wrap your arms around his neck so that you can peer into his amethyst eyes that are creased in the corners because of the soft smile on his lips.

“Captain Xia, don’t you know it’s in bad taste to be dancing with your operations officer like this?” There’s no bite in your tone, only heated desire as you tease him gently. He’s nonplussed though, simply grabbing at one of your hands grasping at his shoulder so that he can twirl you around gently.

“Not when I’ve wanted to do this since I first met you in training.” Caleb emphasizes the words by dipping you in his arms, making a breathless laugh leave your lips as he pulls you back into his embrace. His hands settle on your hips before he lifts you in the middle of the dance floor, spinning you around in the hot air and making you feel weightless with a dizzy, giddy feeling.

The spin comes to a stop with you falling back safely into his embrace, him wrapping you in his arms so that all you can smell is the standard soap given to all personnel in the DAA and his sweat that makes him smell so fucking good. The moment freezes when you realize just how close the two of you are to each other - chests pressed together, noses brushing, eyes wide with the realization of what might happen. Is this really about to happen? Are you two really about to-

“____, my north star,” comes a soft murmur from beside your ear, before hesitant lips brush against yours lightly.

The effect is instantaneous - your fingers reaching up to grab at his short hair while you pull him closer to deepen your kiss. A groan escapes his mouth as he moves his lips with more fervor, mixing with the quiet whimper you unknowingly let out and making your head turn even more fuzzy than it already is.

His feet move almost unwittingly, and you gasp as you fall into a shadowy alcove of the bar. Caleb’s quick to press you into the wall, pulling your legs up so he can wrap them around his slender waist and push the beginnings of his bulge into your needy core. A moan slips out of your mouth at the contact and your fingers twine through his hair, pulling lightly as your kisses turn desperate. He answers with a whispered expletive before swiping his tongue against your bottom lip, making your mouth fall open and giving him access to your taste.

This is everything you’ve ever dreamed about - everything you’ve been afraid to do because you’re squadron mates and a system operations officer does not kiss her pilot and captain.

The kiss slowly comes to a stop, the alcohol that’s still burning in your veins mixing with the heady desire that pools in your stomach. Your skin feels electric - like any more of his touches will light you on fire and burn the both of you in your endless need for him.

You don’t want this, him, to stop.

But when his eyes slowly open, you feel your heart sink in your chest.

Even with his eyes dilated, you can see the shock on his face - jaw slowly going slack, cheeks rapidly pinking, and his hands flexing at your sides. Hesitation blooms on his face, and he shifts away just enough for the dim lighting of the bar to catch the silvery words on the dog tags he never takes off.

When U Come Back.

It’s like water’s been poured all over you, leaving you shivering and wet with the realization of what just happened.

Of what cannot happen again.

You force yourself to laugh as you unwrap your legs from his waist, taking a quick moment to steady yourself before pushing him away so he can’t reject you first and the ever simmering longing you’ve felt for him since you first met in training all those years ago. Your hands burn from the effort and you shake them out, shaking your head and moving your body away from him.

“It’s fine, Xia.” Your words are bitter even with the influence of lethargic softness from the alcohol, and you avert your eyes from his as you cross your arms in front of your chest as a sort of protective layer. “We can forget this ever happened.”

You turn on your heels and walk away from his limp arms and slack jaw, forcing yourself to swallow his unspoken rejection because at the end of the day, you’re still squadron mates - you’re his operations officer, after all. You have a job to do, a base to attend to, aircraft to manage and ensure fly safely.

But when you sink into your bunk after taking a shower and washing your sins off of your body, you let yourself cry for a single second.

Gideon is onto you.

Which is awful, because Gideon is the least attentive man in your squadron - so you don’t know how the fuck you’ve managed to let yourself slip like this.

“This is Gideon, requesting approach and descent information from ____.”

“You’re supposed to use your callsign, you know,” you sigh - half in jest, but mostly serious as your fingers fly across your keyboard to type the time of approach and check the aircraft he’s piloting. “The logs will get too long if you constantly use your name and I’m going to be the one that has to fix it-”

“-I refuse to be called Trip after a stupid incident from our academy days, ____.”

“My professional callsign is Dizzy, just like your professional callsign is Trip, Trip.” Your voice is clipped, although a small smile graces your lips as you relay the following information to him. “I suggest you remember it because our superiors will drill it into our heads.”

A crackle comes in through the system, and the next sentence you hear has you nearly banging your head against your desk. “This is Patrick, requesting approach and descent information from ____.”

“Oh my days, not you too.” You rub your hand across your face, frustration building up at their relentless teasing as you relay the vital information, even in your annoyance. “For the last time, my callsign is Dizzy and I swear on the gods if no one uses proper protocol, I will be reporting the three of you to the higher-ups-”

“This is Caleb, callsign Apple, requesting approach and descent information from ____.”

Your mouth shuts.

You can vaguely hear them ribbing into Caleb, but you tune them out when you feel the hair on your arm stand at his soft, slightly rough voice. The way he turns your name in his mouth with such care and reverence, how his voice dropped the softest octave - making the inflections of your name sound even more intimate because of how it enters your head from your comms system.

How your breath catches when you think about it too hard. The last time he said your name like that in a dingy bar with his mouth by your ear before he kissed the daylights out of you.

“Ooo, ____’s silent! Caleb’s in trouble,” Patrick’s laugh is static-y over your comms system, but you can’t even deny him or blame nonexistent lag because it’s true. Still, you’re grateful for the reality check.

You sigh, forcing yourself to be clipped as you relay only the basic information needed before you finish with, “Apple, you’re good for landing. Dizzy out.”

Outside of your office from your floor-to-ceiling windows, you can see the jets from the mission zipping by the building and doing their customary loop to slow down before landing and rolling into the hangar adjacent to your building. It gives you approximately five minutes to calm down before they land and you walk out to the hangar for the post-mission debrief.

Five minutes to calm the tremors of your hands and quiet the feelings that have been threatening to spill over into your daily life since a shared kiss from…two months ago.

On the outside, you and Caleb have gone through the motions - pretending as if nothing happened as you let yourself indulge in the friendly and innocent touches the two of you have always done - even back in your academy days.

An intentional brush of the back of your hands as you walk into the office for a mission assignment, his hand settling on your shoulder as he steadies himself to pull up the legs of his g-suit, your fingers lingering on his as you give him his helmet, the way his lips moved against yours in that dingy bar-

-snap out of it, ____!

You give up on trying to calm your nerves as you stand up abruptly from your desk, smoothing the small crinkles of your uniform’s slacks before grabbing your laptop and the printed log of today’s mission. You scowl when you see your name pop up multiple times near the very end of the log, deciding to just correct it with correctional fluid and a pen before submitting all of the files to your higher-ups.

Your walk is brisk, shoes barely squeaking on the linoleum as you stride over to the hangar adjacent to the flight offices. You’re opening the doors just as Gideon and Patrick are disembarking, laughing about something unknown while they tie the sleeves of their g-suits around their waist to cool off a little bit.

“____!” Patrick calls sweetly, and you can’t hide your smile even when you roll your eyes as you approach them. “Our mission was a success, no?”

You nod quickly, although it turns into a scowl when he puts you in a sweaty headlock and ruffles your head in an affectionate, big-brother sort of way. And he’s exactly that for your squad of four - dependable, calm, and the cornerstone of your group.

“Get off of me!” It’s halfhearted as you push him off of you, smoothing the flyaways of your bun as much as you can while you frown at your watch. “Where’s Captain Xia?”

One of Gideon’s eyebrows quirks at your statement, mouth in a thin line as he assesses the way you ignore him while Patrick answers your question. “He needed to pilot his aircraft into another hangar for maintenance - he encountered turbulence as we were exiting the Deepspace Tunnel and he wanted to make sure nothing was wrong. Why? Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, fingers mindlessly tapping against the folder in your arms as you carefully choose your next words. “Just wanted to make sure he’s okay, I guess.”

“He’s good, ____, promise.” Patrick’s eyes soften at your supposed worry over Caleb, brushing a comforting hand over your arm as he plucks the files from your arms. “In fact, I can be the one to take these over to him and submit them, okay? Get some rest.”

He leaves no room for argument, simply turning on his heel and walking away with a wave of his hand.

“You guys really are like my big brothers,” you grumble, although you feel blissful relief at the idea of delaying seeing him until tomorrow. Your hand slips into your pocket, pulling out your phone so that you can begin to clock out. “I’ll see you around, okay Gideon?”

“____.”

Gideon’s voice stops you in your tracks, and you try your absolute hardest to straighten the grimace on your face as you turn to him slowly. “Yeah?”

“Are you and Caleb okay?”

You stop in your tracks.

“Why wouldn’t we be?” There’s a crack in wouldn’t, one that makes you wince because it’s so obvious - even to the most oblivious man. You hope that Gideon just lets it be so that you can go to your quarters for the evening and maybe read a book, but the universe decides you’re not lucky enough for today.

No, not when you see Gideon’s eyebrow quirk up at your supposed calm.

“That.” There’s an emphasis in the word that lets you know he’s caught you, and you sigh as you prepare for your pseudo-interrogation. “____, you and Caleb seem different these days. Did something happen between the two of you?”

“Everything’s chill, Gideon.” It sounds more stable the second time around, although you still fiddle with the hem of your shirt as your eyes dart to everywhere from his own. “Things have been fine since we went out at the bar a couple of months ago-”

“I never mentioned the bar, ____.”

Shit.

You laugh nervously, fingers tapping against the back of your phone as you try to think of your escape. “Oh, right! It’s just that it was the last time we all went out as a squadron, and-”

“-and does that not include the hotpot meal we went to literally last week, where you also decided to kind of ignore Caleb?”

Gideon knows he has you cornered by the way you freeze slightly, hands falling limply at being caught. Your breath escapes you in a heavy sigh and he takes it as an opportunity to approach you. He pats your head gently and asks, “Did something happen at the bar, ____?”

“We kissed and it’s been messing with my head.”

It spills out of your mouth before you can even register what you're saying, and you feel your spine stiffen at the fact you’ve just spilled your deepest secret and fantasy to someone who’s basically your older brother. Your head tilts up, scared of how he might react-

-but you can only see the relief on Gideon’s face, even when his jaw is set in a straight line as he folds his arms across his chest.

“Knew it was you.”

“W-what?” It’s a stutter, one that makes Gideon smile as you flounder for words. “Me? What do you even mean?”

“Caleb was groaning on and on how he kissed someone and it was the best kiss of his life after we got home from the bar. And his eyes have been lingering on your longer than usual, ____.” Gideon stops patting your head, simply moving his hand to your shoulder so he can give you a comforting squeeze. “He’s been thinking about you too, you know.”

“Doubt it,” you scoff. “He’s blissfully oblivious to the fact that I've felt like this because…”

Because of his childhood friend.

The taste in your mouth turns sour as you imagine her visage - Meilin Chu with her long, silky hair and genuinely kind eyes as she wraps her arms around your neck and thanks you for taking care of her silly best friend during your DAA graduation and the way Caleb’s eyes soften when she’s around, smile a little wider, stance a little more relaxed.

Something you’ve never seen for yourself…for you.

Gideon senses your discomfort, and the grip he has on your shoulder tightens. “Have you asked him that?”

“I don’t need to.” You shrug his shoulder off and return your eyes back to your phone screen so you can attempt to ignore Gideon’s burning stare. “I just know. He floundered after we kissed and he hesitated. Nothing else to it.”

“God, you two are impossible.” Gideon’s hum is amused, and you look up just in time to see him shrug as a sly smile spreads across his face. “Just talk to him, ____.”

“Nope. Bye, Gideon!”

You turn to walk away, finally submitting your clock out report as you think of all of the ways you can now avoid Caleb and Gideon. Surely Patrick will help you out, right? He’s always been like your big brother and maybe he’ll tell them to leave you alone!

“You’re avoiding the inevitable, ____.”

You freeze when you hear his statement but you simply shrug, deciding to keep cool and continuing to walk away even when you hear him click his tongue at your avoidance. “You guys could skip to kissing if you just talked to him!”

“Not a chance in hell of that happening! Bye, Captain Trip!”

With all of your bravado as you walk away from his shaking head, you certainly don’t feel it. No, you feel a quiet churning in the pit of your stomach as you submit your clock out time to the DAA’s system and let your feet wander to the mess hall so that you can eat before locking yourself in your dorm.

Safe from seeing Caleb physically, sure.

But not safe from the feelings that threaten to choke you with your affection for him.

You’ve never been this engrossed by a movie in your life until now.

Your face is awash in the bright scenery as you sit in your comfiest pajama set, enraptured by the scenes playing out in front of you on your computer screen. The way that the blond love interest spins the main character around in the air as they traipse through the sky before calling her his girl and leaving? The banter and the found family aspect of the movie?

The accompanying musical score? The romance???

Needless to say, you’re obsessed.

It’s almost enough to distract you from your own woes and Gideon’s words bouncing around in your brain.

Action word here being almost.

You reach over and rewind the movie to your favorite part (the scene right before they’re soaring across the sky to escape the henchmen) but you barely register what’s happening on your screen as you mull over what Gideon said to you.

Knew it was you.

He’s been thinking about you too, you know.

Just talk to him, ____.

They swirl in your head until your stomach roils with unease, making you flop back onto your bed as you think back to the past couple of months. You and Caleb have been pretty good at avoiding what happened in the bar - almost back to normal, if a little strained. You never look at him for too long because it feels hard to breathe or even think professionally if you stare at him for too long, but you’re okay with living like this if it means he’s still somewhat in your life.

But do you want to settle for this, ____?

A small voice filled with hope and romance in the back of your head betrays you and you scowl at its insistence. “I’m fine.”

But what if he actually wants you, too?

“Oh, this is impossible,” you grumble to yourself as you sit back up. You pause the movie (they’re beginning to float in the air right now) and walk towards the door, barely registering that you’re only in a thin camisole and a matching pair of sleep shorts. It’s not like anyone’s going to be awake at this hour, anyways. You’re just going to the mess hall to get some ice cream-

“Xia?”

He’s standing at your door, covered in a sheen thin of sweat and panting heavily while his fist still remains raised, about to knock on your wide-open door. He looks like he’s seen a ghost with how pale his face is, pupils blown wide as his shoulders shake slightly.

He looks utterly wrecked.

You sigh heavily, grabbing the first sweater you see off of your desk and pulling it on top of your thin camisole so he can’t see you in your state of basically undress as you beckon for him to come inside. He bursts through the door and barely perches himself on your bed as you close the door, making your way to your mattress and settling yourself a little bit away from his trembling body.

“Sorry, ____, I just needed to be here-” He’s breathing shallowly, hands pushing his sweaty hair back as you realize he’s in his workout clothes, his tank top drenched with sweat and grey shorts barely hiding the thick muscles of his thighs. But you can’t find it in yourself to feel desire - no, you only feel worry when you see the absolute devastation on his face as his shoulders shake.

“Is everything okay, Caleb?” 

Mentally you slap yourself for the redundant question. Of course he’s not okay. But it offers an avenue for him to tell you the issue, and it comes in the form of him holding out a slightly wrinkled stack of papers.

You take the papers from his hand, careful not to brush against his fingers as you feel the weight of the luxurious material in your palms. The cardstock is a thick, soft cream color with intentional texture and a wax seal that’s been cracked open. You lift the flap delicately, and the first couple of words your eyes scan over makes your breath catch in your throat.

You have cordially been invited to the wedding of Meilin Chu and Xavier Shen.

“Caleb-”

“She didn’t tell me until just now.”

It’s a bleeding confession and you’re quick to grab Caleb’s arm, dragging him deeper in your bed so that he can lay down on it heavily. You sit next to him and despite the unspoken tension between the two of you, you allow him to settle his head on your lap as you run your fingers through his slightly damp hair.

“I knew she was dating someone from the Hunters Association and that it had been going on for a while, but I didn’t know they were getting married.” It’s not angry at all, you can only describe his voice as shocked and hurt by the news he’s just received. “And they’re getting married so soon? ____, I just…I don’t know how to deal with it.”

“I’m sorry, Caleb,” you murmur softly. Your hand settles on top of his head and you take to patting him softly as you mull over your next words. “Did you talk to her about it?”

“No,” he scoffs slightly. Caleb shifts his body so he’s laying on his back, head tilted back as he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “We haven’t talked since I went home a couple of months ago for our scheduled break. Everything seemed normal, you know? I even hung out with Xavier and some of their Association friends because Mei insisted. Everything is…it was normal, ____.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, fingers gentle through his hair as he groans and rubs at his eyes.

“I just thought pips would tell me, you know, ____? We’re family.” His voice catches at the last word and you sigh heavily, resuming patting his head because what are you supposed to do in this situation?

Your eyes flash over to the dog tags resting on his chest, the soft glint of When U Come Back accompanied by the little apple charm flashing at you like a knife. You know where his official dog tags are - they’re with Meilin, a sign of his dedication and loyalty to her and only her.

Your chest aches, thinking of your own dog tags gathering dust in the little box somewhere in your desk drawers. The dog tags are something you’ve never been able to give to someone because you didn’t have anyone who gives a damn about you back home in Chansia City. It’s always just been you.

You can never be mad at the relationship he has with Meilin. No, you just ache because you wish someone would put yourself above all else, like he does for her.

You want to matter, too.

You’re drawn out of your stupor when you hear your name fall from his lips, and you look down at him in confusion. “What was that?”

“Come with me to the wedding.”

Everything stills and you look down at him, blinking in shock.

“Excuse me?” It’s a breathless heave of your chest as he pushes himself up off of your lap, looking at you with a pleading that nearly has you melting on the spot. But you hold out, instead crossing your arms because there’s no way you’re going to allow yourself to go through this without support.

Not when you’re still reeling from a fucking kiss.

“Please, ____,” Caleb says. His eyes turn down and you move your vision up to your cracked ceiling, wishing for something from the Deepspace Tunnel to smite you down so that you don’t have to see him turn golden retriever on you. “Gideon and Patrick already got invites from Mei and she said she wants you there, too. We called in our leave and we can just relax and I just need you there, star. Please.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Xia.” It’s a sure statement, and you see the way his face falls slightly. Still, you continue because there’s no way this wedding trip won’t end in disaster. “I didn’t even get a proper invitation anyways. Wouldn’t I be intruding on it? If the three of you got invited, it should be you three to go.”

His dejection smooths out slightly, and he looks at you in muted surprise as he directs you to look at the envelope once again. “Did you not see the back, ____?”

Your eyes wander to the envelope in your hands, seeing the “Captain Caleb Xia + One Additional Guest” printed in a neat script on the back.

Shit, your plan is falling apart and it didn’t even fully come to fruition yet.

“I don’t think our officers will say yes to all of us leaving at the same time-”

“They already approved the time off, ____.” Caleb’s face goes from dejected to slightly amused when he sees the way your eyes widen, words suddenly floundering as you register that he’s about to get you hook line and sinker into his insane plan.

“W-what?! They would never-”

“Already did. If that was what you were worried about, I already took care of it for you.” By now he’s smiling, slight indents on the side of his cheeks as you roll your eyes at him. He reaches over tentatively and your breath catches when you allow him to tilt your chin to look up at him. You’re cursing him in your head though - damn Caleb Xia and his beautiful amethyst eyes you would do almost anything for.

But then you think about the kiss, how you’re still reeling from his mouth on yours in the dim light of a bar you’re sure you can’t physically enter anymore. The memory entrances and haunts you all of the same, and you find yourself slipping as you say, “The kiss?”

Caleb stills.

Your eyes avoid him as you play with your sweatshirt, not wanting to see him and his sudden rejection of you going to this wedding. It’s for the best, you think somberly as he mulls over his options.

It’ll be no good for the two of you if you agree to go to this godforsaken wedding.

“I promise I won’t touch you, ____.”

Your eyes look up in bewilderment, suddenly shocked as you look at his rapidly pinkening face. He sheepishly scratches at the back of his head at your surprise. “We can put the kiss behind us, too. We don’t have to speak about it.”

“Oh.”

The thing is, you don’t want to forget your kiss with Caleb Xia. You don’t want to forget the way his breath washed over your face as you kissed him with increasing fervor, how the planes of his abdomen felt against the softness of your breasts, and how intoxicated he looked off of the taste of you.

You don’t want to forget how enamored he was by you, even if it was only for a moment.

But then you think about this impossible situation. You think about how you're about to be stuck with Caleb, your basically big brothers in the form of Gideon and Patrick, and Caleb’s extended family for a wedding you didn’t even know was happening until just now, in Linkon City of all places. You think of how things could easily fall apart between the two of you while you’re there, and is this really worth it? Is always being there for Caleb worth it?

Is any of this worth it, ____?

“Please, ____.”

There’s your breaking point.

“Yes,” you reply - practically signing the release to your ruin.

It’s almost worth it, though, when you see the way his smile overtakes his face.

The trip to Linkon City is…blissfully uneventful.

At least, it starts that way.

You and the three pilots you’re responsible for arrive at the airport bright and early to beat security lines and potentially get a light breakfast to eat. For three men who navigate the skies with general ease, they have a hard time navigating their way to a food court and your plane’s gate, so it’s up to you to split the four of you into groups of two - one to get food, one to find the boarding gate.

And since you’re responsible for team management…

“All right, Gideon can go with Caleb to find food while Patrick and I find our gate. Once you have food, we’ll come find you and take you to the waiting area.” Your voice is clipped and concise, and the three of them don’t have any arguments since they’re too sleepy to fight back. Gideon punches Caleb’s shoulder and nods his head to the direction of the food court as you flick your gaze to Patrick, pointing to where the numbered gates are.

It’s a peaceful silence as you and Patrick scan the numbers, and you sigh in relief when you see your gate and your flight’s designated number. You sink into the stiff cushions of the gate, ready to scroll through your Moments page for any fun event updates happening during Linkon City-

“-when did you start having a thing for Caleb?”

Well, that’s certainly one way to break your stupor.

“I don’t know what you mean, Patrick.” You’re as cool as a cucumber while you continue to scroll through your Moments page, having vowed to keep you shit together to ensure that this trip goes as smoothly as possible. But your hands betray your nerves - slightly shaky, finger tapping against the back of your phone erratically as you fight to keep your gaze on your screen.

Your eyes flick up to Patrick’s face, and he has his signature knowing smile that has you groaning.

Of course Patrick susses you out even with your cool facade. Out of the three of them, he’s always the one to analyze and bide his time, gathering intel before striking.

You just so happen to be the next target he wants to crack.

“Gideon slipped up telling me some things,” he discloses quietly, and you make a mental note to strangle Gideon the next time you see him as Patrick continues his musings. “But you and Caleb have always had an unspoken bond…when did that start?”

You look at Patrick’s face, trying to gauge him and his thoughts as you decide how much you want to disclose to him. He’s still looking at you with that infuriatingly patient look of his, simply waiting for you to go at your pace.

“We were both barely legal enough when we joined the Academy.”

“I know that much, ____-”

“No, Patrick,” you say forcefully. “We were barely eighteen, diving headfirst into the Academy so we could build ourselves up to be better. You above all people know that the program is ruthless, and after we got paired for flight sims with him as the pilot and me as his systems operations one-on-one, we just…stuck together.”

“So why not tell him that? Why not tell him the feelings you have for him?”

You hesitate at his words, hands floundering as you try to put into words why you can’t tell Caleb everything you feel for Patrick to understand. If you had been able to do it, you would have a long time ago. 

But then you see it - the way he gets protective when he mentions Meilin, swearing how he’ll always put her and his Gran first so that they could be comfortable - even before him and his own wants and desires.

How he’ll never look at another for as long as he’s supporting them.

You don’t feel any sort of bitterness and anger, just…quiet resolve. Maybe a little bit of appreciation. Caleb Xia’s many things, and a dedicated man to those he cares for the most is at the top of that list. And that’s something you could never hate about him-

-it’s the thing you love the most about him, his undying devotion.

It’s just that you know it will never be directed towards you.

“Because he has people at home and he can realistically pick any girl he wants. I’m just…me. I don’t really speak to my family right now and I’ve never been anyone’s first choice. I don’t think anyone in their right mind would choose me.”

“And how do you know that, ____?” Patrick’s voice is gentle, devoid of condescension as he bumps your shoulder with his. “I think you should talk to Caleb, ____. You might be surprised with what he has to say.”

“No.” It’s a little too forceful coming from your throat, and you straighten your spine when you see Caleb and Gideon walk towards the two of you with a brown paper bag. You avert your eyes and duck your head down, murmuring, “I’m here to support Caleb and to witness a wedding. I’ll do what I need to do and bury my feelings into the ground.”

With your final vow you stand, moving your carry-on so that you can settle next to an outlet and ignore the three of them. You miss the way Caleb’s eyes lingers on you as you scroll through Moments, and the way Gideon and Patrick share an unspoken look at Caleb’s intense gaze on you.

But they (very thankfully) do not bother you until it's time to board, the only interruption to your doom-scrolling being your favorite croissant sandwich Caleb settles beside you with an unspoken word. And you’re thankful, because you don’t think you can properly look at him and the devastating slope of his nose in the rising sun’s golden glow.

As you settle next to Gideon on the plane, you give him a halfhearted chop to the throat. He lets out an unholy squawk at your muted violence, clutching his neck as he looks at you in a scandalized manner. 

“What the fuck was that for, ____?!”

All you need to do is glare at him and he shrinks back into his seat, avoiding the heat of your stare as he suddenly fiddles with the seat in front of him in rapt fascination.

You sigh.

You’re barely on the plane, and you’ve already experienced developments to this situation that’s turning this trip into a train wreck of a romantic comedy at this point. You turn your head up to the vague direction of the Deepspace Tunnel as the plane begins to taxi and you think to yourself:

Please give me a mission so I can get out of this stupid romcom I put myself into.

“Caaaaaaleb!!!”

There’s a loud squeal when you and your squad finally make it out to the arrivals area and you see a head of long and glossy hair run up to your group, jumping up and hugging Caleb tightly. Caleb’s quick to catch Meilin, chuckling as he spins her around and whispers something frantically in her ear.

Behind Meilin is a silver-y blond man with bright blue irises, halfheartedly holding a sign that says Skyhaven Squad Pickup. You see his eyes flash with something possessive when Caleb pats Meilin’s back gently, but his posture quickly relaxes when Meilin lets go and runs to you instead.

Ah, that must be Xavier, you think to yourself, before a quiet oof escapes your mouth from the velocity in which Meilin runs into you.

“It’s! So! Nice! To! See! You! Again!” Each word is punctuated with an aggressive sway of your body as she rocks you back and forth in her hug. You remind yourself that Meilin doesn’t know about your feelings and that she’s done no wrong, and it makes it easier for you to relax as you wrap your arms around and reciprocate her warmth. 

Besides, her enthusiasm’s infectious.

The hugs she shares with Gideon and Patrick have the same energy, and they also laugh and tousle her hair as they hug her back. It’s a chaotic shuffle to get to the van Meilin and Xavier rented to pick the four of you up, but Caleb’s quick to take the key from Meilin while shuffling into the front seat. Gideon and Patrick’s eyes sparkle at you as they get into the back, leaving Meilin and Xavier in the middle row and you standing awkwardly by the passenger door.

“Get in, ____!” You shoot Patrick a death glare at his cheeky wink, yanking the door open and sliding yourself into the seat. You ignore Caleb’s heated stare on the side of your face as you buckle yourself in, going onto the navigation app and turning your head back to the four people in the back of the car.

“What are the plans today? Where are we going?” Your pragmatic self comes back out, drowning out your anxiety as you input routes and search the nearest restaurants so that you can all eat together. 

“We’re heading to the Bloomshore District! Caleb should know the way-”

“Got it,” Caleb says smoothly. He’s quick to pull out of the parking spot, easily transitioning into the busy traffic of Linkon City. The silence never abates, though - Meilin, Patrick, and Gideon talk animatedly about the wedding as Xavier hums along in response while you and Caleb continue to not look at each other as you wordlessly hold your phone out to help him navigate.

“Gran got reservations at a really nice hotpot restaurant before we take you to your accommodation!” Meilin’s rambling as she fills you in on all of the plans, her chatter a nice companion to the soft music from the playlist you put on before the drive started. “Actually, do you guys have clothes for the wedding? We allocated a budget for that too-”

“We have tuxes already, Mei,” Patrick says. But his eyes turn mischievous as he points at you, shaking his head. “Miss Serious over there doesn’t have a dress though-”

“Shut up, Patrick-” You seethe, but you hastily put on a smile as you shake your head and hold your hands out to stop Meilin’s train of thought. “It’s okay Mei! I’ll find something suitable in our time off! I saved for it too-”

“Nonsense, ____!” Meilin sounds offended at the remote thought of you refusing her and her ability to pay for your dress to her wedding. “We’ll go shopping together, after some of the wedding events! We also have gift bags and jerseys for the basketball game that’s happening next weekend-”

“Mei, there’s a basketball game? Seriously?”

The car comes to an abrupt stop, half from the sudden yellow and half from Caleb’s shock. He turns back briefly to look at her in disbelief, shaking his head. “There’s no way you organized a wedding basketball game, Mei.”

“Yes I did, Caleb! You’ll be competing, by the way!” Meilin’s tone is sing-song as she continues on with the subject. “We need an opposing team! Xav, his best man, and one of our friends from the Association will be competing on one team, and you, Gideon, and Patrick can be on the other-”

“You didn’t even tell us, pips!” Caleb’s voice is hot as his fingers clench the steering wheel while he starts the car once more, merging onto the road that leads to the Bloomshore District. “I would have appreciated a little heads up so we could train-”

“We don’t need to train for a basketball game, Caleb,” Gideon says. “We can easily beat the Association team’s ass, right ____?”

“Umm-”

“I still would have appreciated some sort of warning,” Caleb unceremoniously cuts you off, making you roll your eyes as you sit back and listen to the bickering happening. “Springing this on us all of a sudden is a little bit much, pipsqueak. And you’re wanting to do this too, Xavier?”

Xavier shrugs, but his eyes flash with a challenge as he regards him with a small smirk on his face. “Why not? And why are you so apprehensive about it? You scared you’ll lose, Xia?”

Caleb prickles in his seat, jaw ticking dangerously as he processes Xavier’s unspoken challenge. You shake your head at the chaos around you and, despite the lingering awkwardness from your avoidance earlier in the morning, run a soothing hand over his arm, pressing your fingers against his wrist to help him calm down. You feel Caleb relax under your touch, and he sighs heavily to himself before letting his right hand grab your fingers and squeezing them tightly, returning your hand back to your lap gently and refocusing onto the road in front of him. 

The action is quick, but you miss the way Xavier’s lips curl up in a quick smirk as Meilin’s eyes sparkle at the unspoken movement.

“Pipsqueak, no way.” Caleb’s protest isn’t as heated, but his fingers still clench the steering wheel as he drives into a parking lot. “I told you I’m retired-”

“And I’m bringing you out of retirement since I need a representative!” Meilin pouts at him, and you very well see his resignation and acceptance on his face as he pulls into a parking spot. “I’ll be rooting for Xav but Caleb, we really need an opposing team!”

The car rolls to a stop in front of a restaurant, and Caleb kills the engine before turning his body and staring back at Gideon and Patrick with an unspoken intensity you assume only the three of them know. “You two were in on this, huh?”

Patrick only shoots him a cheeky wink. “It’s been a while since we’ve played basketball, Captain Xia. It’ll be fun! Think of the glory!”

You see the exact moment Caleb cracks: the mention of winning. You’ve seen his extreme competitiveness first hand, and from the way Meilin talks about him playing basketball back in the day, he surely must have been even more so back then? Caleb looks at you pleadingly but you simply smile as you open the door.

“I think you’ll be good at it, Caleb.” Your voice is soft as you hop out of the car, stretching slightly. “Why not?”

You walk a couple of paces in front of you so you can get rid of the kinks in your body, trying to relax the tension you feel. But you hear the resounding cheer behind you in the car and you shake your head slightly with a light laugh, knowing he’s agreed to the basketball game.

One by one they get out of the car, eagerly filing into the restaurant where Meilin and Caleb’s gran is waiting for your group. Caleb pauses when he sees you moving back to the car, about to walk to you. Meilin stops him though, pulling him down and whispering something in his ear before he sighs and nods. As you lean against the car and breathe in deeply, you see Meilin and Xavier talking quietly to each other before Xavier nods, quickly jogging back and standing next to you as Meilin smiles in your direction before going into the restaurant.

There’s a companionable silence as Xavier waits for you to get ready, the two of your similar dispositions allowing for quiet to be comfortable instead of awkward. You simply nod to Xavier and you both walk to the restaurant. The smell of hotpot is so close you can taste it-

“Have you always had a thing for Caleb, ____?” Xavier’s voice is soft yet probing as he walks beside you. You turn to look at him in disbelief but he simply smiles, pointing at his eyes and then your hand as if that answers your question. “Saw what you did in the car.”

“Oh, come on.” You groan, shaking your head as the two of you approach the front doors. “I don’t need your interrogation too, Xavier. We barely just met, can you ignore whatever you saw? Caleb doesn’t need to know-”

“So you do have feelings for him.” There’s a subtle smirk on his mouth as he gestures for you to enter the hot pot restaurant, and you bristle at having slipped once again.

“I’m going to eat!” Your frustration gets the best of you and you march through the door in front of you so that you can finally eat after this hellscape of a morning. All the while, you hear Xavier’s soft laughter behind you, making you tempted to hold your middle finger up for him to see. You decide against it, though, on account that he’s the fucking groom of the wedding you’re about to attend. 

God, you’re not going to make it.

You successfully barricade yourself in your room under the pretense of work for three whole days before Patrick finally manages to drag you out of your self-imposed prison.

“Getting our higher ups to agree to our squad getting a three week break at the same time was near impossible, ____.” His voice has the edge of a disappointed father and you sheepishly duck your head as you pack your bag to go out. “Knowing you, you’ve completed everything flawlessly so I’m dragging you out and you cannot stop me.”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” you grumble softly, but you still give him an appreciative nod as you make your way out of the room. “What does Mei have planned for us tonight?”

There’s an air of hesitation as the two of you walk to the first floor of your accommodation, Patrick tight lipped as you pick up the shoes you’re going to wear. You turn your head when Patrick doesn’t respond, quirking an eyebrow at him in confusion.

“Just get in the car, ____.”

“Fine,” you mutter back, quickly sliding on your shoes and smoothing out the skirt and sweater you decided to wear before walking out, letting him lock the door behind you.

You scan the driveway, looking for Meilin’s personal car as you approach the rental vehicle sitting by the street. Usually everyone would be in their unassigned assigned seat by now, but you feel surprise brewing in the pit of your stomach when you realize that you don’t see Meilin and Xavier in the car - it’s just Caleb waiting by the middle seat as Gideon drums his fingers against the steering wheel.

“Are Meilin and Xavier not joining us?” You’re curious as Patrick slides himself into the passenger seat, sidestepping Caleb’s waiting hand and pulling yourself into the middle seat. “Or are they going to meet us wherever we’re going?”

Gideon looks back at you with a mysterious smile on his face. “Just wait, ____.”

Your focus is solely on the flashing lights that pass by as you drive through traffic and different parts of Linkon City, entranced by the different types of architecture and neighborhoods that flash by. After spending most of your years in Skyhaven, you’ve gotten comfortable with the scenery. Everything feels new here, and you almost feel bad for cooping yourself up in your room for the past couple of days.

But then you look back and barely catch the way Caleb’s eyes linger on you before he turns his head to his own window, and you sigh minutely to yourself as you twiddle your thumbs and avoid scrolling on Moments like a disinterested teenage daughter.

“We’re here!”

Gideon’s voice is cheerful, oblivious to the awkwardness you and Caleb share as he kills the engine and opens his door. You’re quick to open your own door and slide out, rolling your ankles slightly before looking at your surroundings.

A little bit of a ways away, you can see lanterns strung in the air, swaying gently in the cool summer air above the numerous stalls on the street. There’s an aroma of grilled meat and candied sweetness that blends together nicely as you turn back to them, eyes sparkling at the realization. “A night market?”

“Mhm.” Patrick practically looks like a proud father as he takes your arm, pulling you in the direction of the bustle with little resistance as Gideon and Caleb follow behind you. “Found one while searching through Moments so we figured why not?”

Your awe continues as your group dives into the chaos, Gideon already ordering skewers as Patrick gets his hands on some pan fried baos. The air is comfortable amongst the four of you as you split the food and taste everything the market has to offer, and you feel yourself loosening up with every laugh and elbow jostled.

It’s enough to get you to look at Caleb fully since this trip’s started.

The four of you continue on, trying anything and everything that looks remotely delicious or fascinating. The best thing about having three pilots is that they have large appetites, so none of the food goes to waste as they continuously tuck in.

Soon though, you unanimously decide to wander around the stalls laden with various goods and trinkets. You’re so engrossed in some dresses that you don’t register Gideon and Patrick walking away with a knowing look in Caleb’s direction, leaving Caleb with his hands in his pockets as he waits for your realization to hit you.

But when you turn to look at him, you simply smile as you beckon to another direction. “Wanna keep walking? There must be way more over there!”

“I- yeah,” he concedes. Your eyes narrow at his hesitation but you decide to brush past it, simply grabbing his arm and pulling him along the rows of stalls.

In these situations, your different personalities really shine. Caleb wants to dart back and forth to different stalls but you take your time, going up to a stall if something catches your eye and picking up items to feel their weight before continuing on. Caleb never rushes you, though - he watches and waits, holding anything in your hands if you want to feel something before taking your arm and gently guiding you through the throng of people to stalls he knows you’ll like.

The shared energy is amiable, silence comfortable as you let your eyes wander over Caleb’s frame. You’d be an idiot to not acknowledge how good he looks in the hazy lights provided by the lanterns, the gentle glow making him look softer as he scopes out your next location. The sleeveless shirt shows off the way his arms ripple as he reaches for you, helping you through a fast moving crowd and guiding you towards an assuming corner. If you gave in, you could almost imagine this as a date between the two of you, but the taste in your mouth turns sour because it most definitely is not.

“How’s your Gran?”

It slips off of your tongue as the two of you finally make it into a less busy part of the market, the stalls lining this street dedicated to craftsmanship. You stop in front of a live artist painting little chibis of people, and you examine their work as Caleb mulls over the question.

“She’s good.” His tone is softly tinged with tiredness as he moves to stand next to you, examining the drawing you’re currently focused on. “Her, Mei, and I went out to lunch and they took me to a fitting for a tux since they wanted me to walk with them down the aisle. I also went to a suit fitting before the tea ceremony tomorrow for Mei and Xavier.” Caleb turns his gaze to you, and you still slightly as he scans your visage. “Will you be coming?”

“Tea ceremonies are usually for immediate families and close friends.” It’s firm as you move down to another booth, this time with jade carvings. “I have their gift prepared for them, though. You’ll give it to them, right?”

“____.” Caleb tries to get your attention by grabbing at your arm, but you simply shrug him off as you peer closer at the intricate jade pieces in front of you. “You’re my guest, you should come-”

“I have DAA work to complete.” You decide that jade is not your favorite as you move to the next stall, your interest piquing when you see charms of all shapes and sizes in little wooden boxes. You lift one in the shape of a chubby star into your palm, tracing the smooth metal and the little yellow gem inlaid in the center.

A finger plucks the charm from your hand and your scowl rivals Caleb’s frown as he gently places it back into the box, eyes lingering on the little star before returning his attention to you. His hand grabs at yours and he pulls you into a shadowy corner, crossing his arms and blocking your path to escape. “Are you good, ____?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You can feel the tension between the two of you, simmering since you boarded the plane a couple of days ago. You realize now you must be like a petulant child, avoiding not just Caleb but Gideon and Patrick and you soften, deciding to maintain the peace for their sake. “This trip is about Meilin and Xavier, ____. I wasn’t even formally invited so I’m just…making sure the trip is enjoyable for you.”

“What would make this trip more enjoyable is if I had my friend going out as well, star.” It’s a quiet confession, and he reaches up as if he wants to touch your face before shaking his head and letting his hand fall. “I want you to have fun too, ____.”

“I am!” You try to insist on it, but even you find your words falling flat as you think of something. “Hotpot was great, and then…”

“And then you locked yourself in your room for three days to avoid me.” Caleb’s voice is deadpan, but you can still see a flare of hurt at the words he utters. “____, I told you I would make sure you were comfortable. Are you not?”

“I am,” you try to insist on it, but it falls flat. Frustration begins to eat at your mind and you feel a small corner of your brain panic at the situation beginning to spin out of control. This is the last thing you wanted - for an argument to break out. Your hands reach up, rubbing all over your tired face as you think of the facts right now.

The thing is, you’re having fun right now. The three of them dragging you out has done wonders for you, and you’ve already so much of what you’ve wanted the past few hours. You want to go to all of the little events Meilin has planned, scream as much as you want at the upcoming basketball game coming up.

But your feelings are stopping you. The crippling fear of accidentally spilling your love for him is making your head spin, and it’s mixed with the desire of wanting to spend time with him so much that you can’t find an out in this situation. You’re stuck between a rock and a hard place and you don’t know what to do which terrifies you because you’re always supposed to know what to do.

Hands cup your face, thumbs rubbing the temples of your head as you allow yourself to sink closer to Caleb’s comforting space. “Hey, ____…”

“I want to have fun, trust me Xia.” It’s raw, even with no tears as you try to stop the spinning of your head. “I just don’t want to get in between you and Meilin spending time together, you know? She’s your best friend and you guys still have a lot to talk about and why she didn’t tell you she was getting married in the first place-”

“-it’s fine, ____. I’ll talk to her soon, I just want you to enjoy yourself too.”

Silence descends between the two of you as you slow your breathing, letting the cool air bring you back to the present. You try to untangle yourself from his arms but he stops you, simply pressing his palms into your face as he guides you to look up at him.

“What if we just pretend, star?” 

“What?”

It’s a shocked whisper as your eyes widen, lip quivering as you look at his steadfast expression. There’s no hesitation on his face, only assurance as he moves his arms to wrap you in his embrace.

“Let’s just pretend nothing happened between us, okay? We’re just Caleb and ____, on vacation with our friends. We’re going to have a good time and it’s just you and I, okay?”

You slowly step back, eyes wild as you scan his face for any sort of hesitation on end. There’s nothing, though - only determination to make things somewhat more comfortable for you so that you can enjoy yourself too.

“Is that a good idea, Caleb?”

Your voice trembles because you don’t think you can pretend, not when your feelings are threatening to spill out of your mouth every couple of seconds. If you thought you wouldn’t make it out when the trip started, there’s almost no guarantee you’ll make it out of the trip unscathed if he’s asking you to pretend with him.

“I won’t do anything to make you uncomfortable, like I said.” It’s a promise on his end that you know he’ll keep, but it’s practically useless because that’s not the issue at all - the issue is that you’re so deeply in love with him that you’re beginning to think that this is your only option. “Can we try, ____?”

“What does pretending even entail, Xia?” There’s a bite in your tone as you cross your arms, looking up at his confidence. “How are we going to go about this pretending that you’re so sure of?”

Caleb senses your apprehension, and his eyes soften as he regards your face with nothing but sincerity. “Nothing happened between us, ____. No kiss, no anything. We’re just two friends who are on vacation, spending time together.”

“And this will work because-”

“-because it will remove the pressure and tension from you.” Caleb finishes your musings with a soft smile, and you almost feel yourself getting ready to go along with it because he sounds so sure about this going okay. “We’re just two…friends, star. We’re enjoying a vacation.”

“And you don’t see this ending in disaster, Xia?” You have to admit, it sounds pretty viable coming out of his mouth. There’s a little part of you that’s still hesitant, but you’re mostly curious to see what pretending means to him.

“Not at all, ____.” His tone is smooth, but his eyes are sincere as he reaches up to gently pinch at your cheek. You scowl and bat his hand away, but you can’t stop the small grin forming on your face at his teasing. “Not when I get to spend time with you.”

“Okay.”

The word slips out of your mouth before you’re even sure of what you said, but Caleb hears it all the same as a smile spreads across his face - making him look even more devastatingly handsome under the gentle glow of the lanterns above the two of you.

Oh, ____- you’re so screwed.

The day of the basketball game arrives with nerves.

Sure, you’re excited for the game to start, but it’s harder to feel that when you’re nervous about how the day will go. Not even if Caleb, Gideon, and Patrick lose - no, you’re scared because how are you going to continue pretending?

“What’s got you so nervous, ____?” Meilin’s sitting next to you, wearing a headband that has little heart cutouts of Xavier’s face that’s paired with her jersey that has his last name on the back. She looks down at the simple romper you pulled on, lips jutting out in a pout as she looks up at you with sad eyes. “And why didn’t you wear the extra jersey Caleb had?”

You eye Meilin, suspicion in your veins as you try to gauge how truthful she’s being. “I didn’t see an extra jersey, and Caleb was already wearing it when he went downstairs.”

“Damn,” she mumbles softly to herself, and you look at her in confusion before her slightly frustrated expression smooths out. Her smile peeks back out, and she elbows you friendly as you tentatively smile at her back. “How’re you liking Linkon City? Did you do anything fun?”

You nod as you focus back on the teams on the basketball court, Xavier and Caleb approaching the half court line to decide who has the ball first. After a lot of back and forth Caleb concedes the ball to Xavier, turning back with practiced ease as Xavier bristles slightly. The whistle sounds and the game begins with Meilin snorting beside you at the competition brewing.

“I knew they would be like this,” she says to you softly over the cheer of the wedding crowd. Xavier sinks a shot and points to Meilin, blowing her a kiss in her direction before tripping over his feet. You watch as Meilin’s cheeks bulge the tiniest bit, holding in her laughter even when she blows a kiss back.

“Oh God don’t laugh Mei,” she chants to herself but you elbow her, making a quick giggle escape from her lips.

“Stop, ____,” she hisses, but you merely smile devilishly sweet at her as you clap when Patrick makes a good throw into the basket.

For how competitive he is, Caleb is completely relaxed as he dribbles the ball before passing it to Gideon. You try not to focus on the way his sweat makes his body shine or how good he looks in his basketball jersey - a purple that matches his eyes with his last name emblazoned on his back. You swear he must feel your stare, though, because his eyes catch yours when he has the ball.

He dribbles the ball casually as he approaches the hoop, and Meilin elbows you back as she preens like a peacock. “Oh my God, ____, he’s about to show off-”

Your body flushes when he points directly at you, giving a small wink and smirk in your direction before focusing back on the hoop. The ball sails towards its goal-

-only to miss entirely. 

You burst into laughter when you see Caleb’s sheepish expression, hysterical to the point of tears at his cheesy attempt gone wrong. Meilin laughs alongside you, and you both have to clutch at each other as you both attempt to stifle your giggles while the game continues.

“Oh my God he looked so stupid-” you gasp, tears streaming down your face as another peal of laughter bubbles from your lips. “I don’t claim any of that by the way, Meilin.”

“At least Caleb can sometimes shoot properly!” Meilin’s catching her breath, eyes bright as you both shake your heads. “Xav nearly tripped over his own two feet a couple of attempts back and I felt something die in my chest-”

“Oh God,” you gasp, before the two of you burst out into peals of laughter once more.

For how much the two of you laugh at Caleb and Xavier, you have to admit that this game is surprisingly close. You’ve always known Caleb to be a powerhouse in whatever he does - physically adept and capable in anything he does with his competitive edge powering him to the end. But Xavier is more lithe, biding his time and waiting for an open before jumping up and sinking in neat three-pointers that has Caleb, Gideon, and Patrick gritting their teeth in frustration. You and Meilin feel the competitive spirit rising and you participate, goading and cheering them on as they trade shots back and forth.

Soon enough, it’s the last couple of seconds in a tied game. Caleb has the ball and his eyes are ultra-focused on his goal in front of him as he neatly maneuvers around Jeremiah and jumps up, aiming the ball towards the hoop with a flick of his wrist. Time seems to slow as the clock approaches zero…

Swoosh.

The basketball lands neatly in the hoop as the buzzer strikes, and the crowd cheers as Caleb pumps his fist in the air. The crowd of wedding-goers break out in enthusiastic chaos - snacks thrown all around as everyone shouts for Caleb’s winning shot. You can’t help but cheer alongside everyone else when you see Gideon and Patrick roar while lifting him up over their heads, jostling him up and down to parade him around the courtside so everyone can cheer him on. From the corner of your eye you see Meilin run up to Xavier before beaming up at him even when he pouts at his defeat, pressing a soft kiss against his cheek as he wraps her in his arms. Your eyes dart back to Caleb, wondering how he’s going to react to this scene-

-but his bright eyes and the massive smile spreading across his face are solely on you.

He hops off of Gideon and Patrick’s shoulders, running to where you stand on the courtside. His hands twitch with adrenaline and restlessness, going from swiping at the sweat on his forehead to the hem of his jersey before finally cradling your face in his palms and plopping a wet kiss onto your forehead. 

“Gross, Xia!” You’re laughing, though, a giddy feeling blossoming and spreading throughout your entire body as Caleb picks you up and spins you around. Your arms wrap around his neck, head buried against his throat as you screech and mark this memory down for you and you only.

Once he plops you back down you sway a little bit, waiting for your head to settle from the dizziness as he looks down at you with a quirk in the corner of his mouth. He lifts the hem of his jersey and uses the thin fabric to wipe at the sweat on his face with deliberate movements, and you fight to keep your mouth shut at the sight of his glistening abs above his low lying shorts, accompanied with the band of his boxer briefs peeking above the waistband.

He’s trying to kill you, you’re sure of it.

The happiness gives way to a heat burning you alive when he flashes you a wink, lifting his arms and pulling his jersey over his head by the back collar. He rubs his face against the fabric and your mouth dries at the sight of his chest heaving slightly with his breathlessness, biceps tensing and flexing as he moves the jersey to the back of his ruffled hair-

You need to leave, like right now.

You make a move to turn around but Caleb’s even quicker, hooking his pointer figure around the strap of your romper as he pulls you into his chest. You squeak at the sudden contact, his sweaty body pressed up against your shaking frame as you fight the moan that threatens to slip from your mouth at his easy dominance.

Fuck, everything about this is so hot - you shouldn’t be thinking like this.

“Everyone’s looking.”

His lips brush by your neck. “I don’t care.”

You gasp and feel Caleb’s responding smile by your neck as he settles his hands on your waist, spinning you around so you’re back to facing him in his sweaty, Adonis-like glory. His eyes dart from the jersey still in his hand to your face, expression flickering with mischief and something more before he makes up his mind, unfurling his jersey from his hands and positioning the opening above your head.

“Caleb-”

“Wear it, star.” His smirk softens into something smaller as he pulls his crumpled jersey over your head, surrounding you with the addictive scent of his sweat and a faint trace of the apple cologne he always wears. “It looks better on you, anyways.”

He grabs your hand and does a little twirl, making you miss the way his eyes darken when he sees XIA across your back - his name on you. But when you turn back around, his easy smile is on his face once more as he brushes a kiss against your knuckles before elbowing you playfully.

“You being courtside helped me win, by the way.”

You roll your eyes, elbowing him back even when his words make you glow like the sun. “I highly doubt that, Xia.”

“It’s true, ____.” He’s insistent, eyes softening when he hears your scoff. “You’re my northern star guiding me home-”

“-my callsign still isn’t Star-”

“Yeah, well,” he cuts you off, and he wraps his arms around your waist to pull you in, forcing you to look up at him as your hands land on his slightly sweaty chest. “You’re still my star. And more than that, you’re my lucky charm.” 

“And why is that, Captain Apple?” Your voice takes on a note of teasing, one that has his chest rumbling as he laughs against you. His chin rests on the top of your head as he contemplates his answer, fingers following the X I A across your back and making you weak in the knees all over again.

“Because when I’m with you, I always feel like I’m on top of the world. I’m able to push farther, explore more, achieve more because of you and your voice supporting me and being there for me.”

His words render you speechless and you look up at him incredulously, trying to gauge if he truly means it or if it’s just him continuing on with his playing pretend. But all you see is the same look of awe and yearning on his face.

The same look he’s had since he saw you after his game-winning shot.

“Caleb, are you pretending right now?”

It’s a complete juxtaposition from the celebratory mood, and you see the way his eyes dims as he processes your words. His mouth opens and he begins, “____-”

“____!”

Your eyes widen at the sound of Meilin’s voice, all but pushing her childhood best friend away from you as you move to smooth the goosebumps down from your arms. Your hands go to the hem of the jersey still on you, about to pull it off but a hand on the fabric stops you. You follow the arm, up past a gleaming silver necklace resting on an unevenly rising chest before landing on Caleb’s eyes once more.

His stormy, turbulent eyes.

“Keep it on. Please.”

And with the way his voice breaks on the last word you can’t help but loosen your hold on his jersey, instead smoothing the wrinkles on the fabric away as you turn to look at Meilin - who’s looking at you with a sparkle of knowing in her eyes.

Oh, you’re about to be in so much trouble-

“You’re so brave for having stinky Caleb’s sweaty jersey on, ____!” It's a playful chirp and you relax only slightly as she reaches towards you and links her arm around yours, sure that she’s not upset with you. “But enough of Caleb, I’m not taking no for an answer! I’m helping you find a dress for the wedding!”

“Wh-what?” You try to pull away, but Meilin isn’t having any of your protests as she drags you to where the rest of her bridesmaids sit. One of them (you believe her name is Tara) cheers when she sees you approaching, prompting the rest of the bridesmaids to cheer alongside her as they see your visage.

“You’ve been taking care of Caleb when we haven’t been able to, treating him with exceptional warmth.” Meilin’s voice is a soft whisper and she reaches down to squeeze your hand reassuringly as you process her words. “Gran and I agreed that it’s the least we can do for you.”

“Meilin, that’s too much-”

“No buts!” She declares as you finally stand in front of her bridesmaids. “Ladies! I'm going shopping with this hottie next week!”

You feel your body warm with shyness as they begin their gushing over you, but you can’t help but laugh at their antics while you let Meilin and her bridesmaids drag you away. You tilt your head back to look at him as they begin discussing the colors that would work best for your dress and your complexion, your heels and backup shoes, your purse-

Caleb watches as the jersey emblazoned with XIA disappears in the sea of people, feeling a twinge of…something light when he sees the way your eyes sparkle as you tilt your head back to laugh even harder. The evening sun bathes your body in an angelic glow, making the words unspoken thrum in his heart as he feels himself melt at the sight of you so happy.

He wants to keep you like that.

He wants to be the reason you’re always happy.

Caleb feels a body bump into him, and he turns around to see Gideon and Patrick wiggling their eyebrows in thinly veiled suggestion as Patrick tosses him a baggy black shirt.

“What are you thinking about, Caleb?” Gideon’s teasing him, he knows, but he can’t be bothered to be annoyed as he pulls his shirt over his head.

“Nothing much,” he says back jovially. He picks up his bag easily, swinging the straps over his shoulders as he beckons to his two best friends. “Wanna get street food before going back to the accommodation?”

They nod and rush ahead of him but Caleb lingers, steps easy as he mulls the words he wanted to say to you. Words that he will say to you, in one way or another.

You’re the reason why I come back.

You’re what guides me home.

There’s a pleasant sleepiness overtaking your body as the clock strikes ten.

You’re changing into your comfiest sweats and an oversized shirt following an impromptu dinner with Meilin and her bridesmaids, gleeful exchanges of social media and numbers shared over grilled bar food and cocktails. There’s still a light hum from the alcohol in your veins, but it’s nothing too intense. It’s a steady thrum of warmth that makes you feel just a little bit looser and more open, but you know with a glass of water it will go away easily.

You eye your laptop, debating on whether or not you want to watch a movie to help you drift off to sleep. You think back to the movie you’re still enthralled with: of curses the female lead couldn’t speak about and flower fields and a romance you find yourself yearning for, especially now. You decide that it’s the best course of action for yourself, so you settle yourself into your bed with your laptop and pull the movie up.

You’re about to press start when there’s a knock on your door, interrupting your cozy time. A sigh escapes your lips at how you’ll have to retuck yourself into bed but you’re still pushing yourself out of your blanket fort, padding over softly to the door and pulling it open to see Caleb standing by the threshold with a sheepish expression on his face.

“Hi, ____.”

“You’re being really thorough with this pretending thing.” It’s deadpan but you still step aside just enough for Caleb to come inside, and you turn and lock the door behind him as he settles himself on the edge of the bed. He eyes the screen of your laptop as you wiggle yourself underneath your covers before spreading the comforter flat and patting the newly formed space next to you.

“Come on,” you murmur softly. “I know you want to watch the movie, too.”

You can’t quite hold back your smile when he settles himself comfortably and looks at the movie with thinly veiled interest.

“I saw this on your screen when I invited you to the wedding,” Caleb muses as you tap on your spacebar. The score sounds tinny coming out of your laptop’s small stereo system, but the two of you still settle back and watch with rapt interest. “Why this one?”

“You’ll see, now shush.”

His mouth falls silent at your insistence, but he still smiles to himself as he relents.

The silence is broken with the occasional comment or bit of laughter - mainly in the beginning, when Caleb scoffs at how the two main characters float through the air as the iconic score plays behind them. He turns to you, and you feel your breath catch at how…handsome he looks in this light. The colors wash over his face, bathing him in the splashes of color thanks to the animated scenes before you. You can see the intrigue he tries to hide by setting his mouth straight but his expressive eyes betray him: warm and with a sparkle as he examines the scenes playing out in front of him.

“This is the movie you’re obsessed with?” He’s trying to put on all of his bravado for show, but his breath catches when he sees the way they float majestically through the air.

“Yup,” you murmur back, resting your head on his shoulder.

He freezes for a second, processing the fact you’re resting on him - so warm and akin to a cat with the way you unconsciously rub your head against his shoulder. You return your attention to the movie, barely hiding your shiver when he plops his arm behind you so that you can burrow further into his body.

Somehow throughout the course of the movie, Caleb finds his way underneath the covers and tangles his legs in between yours, settling your laptop on his thighs so that you can curl up next to him comfortably. Your head is fully on his chest now, hands gripping his shirt lightly while he idly traces something on the back of your shirt. His overwhelming warmth and the pleasant sensation of him running his fingers lightly up and down your body has you slowly nodding off, and he takes notice of it as the movie comes to an end.

“Star, you okay?”

“‘m sleepy,” you mumble back, and you feel his chuckle rock your head as he pauses your laptop and closes it shut. He moves the device onto the floor and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close while you hum in sleepy contentment.

“Did you like the movie?” It comes out as a yawn from you, and you can feel your eyes water as they slowly begin to drift shut.

“I did, actually.” He brushes his fingers against your forehead, slowly pushing away your baby hairs as you subtly push your nose into his neck. “Reminded me why I do what I do at the DAA.”

That catches your attention, but you still keep your eyes shut as you mull over your next words. “What do you mean by that?”

“It reminds me that I do what I do for my family.”

“Hmm.” It’s a sleepy hum as silence befalls the two of you once more, but you’re more awake as you mull over Caleb’s words. His heart thrums erratically under your ear, and you swear it beats a little bit faster when your fingers brush against his chest as you move your hand closer to you.

“You really love them, huh?”

There’s no bitterness on your tone, only soft curiosity as Caleb stills underneath you. His hands stop their tracks, resting on your waist as he chooses his next words.

“I do.”

Caleb’s voice is raw with honesty, and he only waits a beat before he continues on. “I felt a lot of pressure making sure to provide for Meilin and Gran. You know Meilin and I were taken care of by Josephine when we were young, and she made me promise to always look after her. Sure, I was happy when I saw the invitation because I just want Meilin to be happy, and Xavier does. God, he does and I’m so happy about it. But…but a part of me will always feel the need to take care of them, if that makes sense. It’s been instilled with me for so long I don’t know what to do myself without it.”

“Caleb,” your voice is soft yet firm, gripping his shirt tighter as you fight the sleep that’s washing over your common sense. “Meilin and Josephine are already happy and cared for because of you and all of your hard work from the past couple of years. You deserve to have happiness of your own, too.”

You feel it then, even when you’re about to slip into sleep. The way his body stills, a shaky breath washing over the top of your head as he lets your words sink in.

It stays that way up until you finally succumb to sleep, too tired to process or even register that he hasn’t left - that’s he’s still cradling you to his chest as he mulls over your words and the moments the two of you have shared and avoided these past couple of months- years, even. But when you finally drift off to sleep, you swear you feel the soft brush of lips ghost lightly against your forehead, accompanied with a soft, “Good night, my star.”

You’re lighter, happier the days leading up to the wedding.

The days blur past you in an enthusiastic chaos, mornings spent exploring every nook and cranny of Linkon City interspersed with wedding party dinners you and Caleb are invited to until you reach the day of your dress fitting with Meilin.

She’s a chatty, effervescent bubble filled to the brim with fabric ideas paired with potential colors that suit your complexion while you sit on the chaise lounge by the dressing rooms, eyeing the glasses of champagne that seem too far out of reach for you to grab without seeming rude in her eyes.

So you sit, twisting your fingers against your skirt as you nod minutely.

“Do you have any ideas of what you want to wear, ____?”

You whip your head up to her, shaking your head profusely. “I- uh, as long as it’s not too expensive, I guess.”

She tuts at this, sitting down next to you while gesturing towards the dress racks. “Nonsense! Gran and I don’t have a budget. Here, we’ll look through all of the dresses and you can try them on for me one by one, okay?”

She doesn’t wait for your response, simply picking up a glass of champagne you had been eyeing earlier and handing it to you before clinking her own glass against it.

“To dresses and friendship!”

You barely get a sip before she’s pulling you off of the couch with her Hunter’s strength and guiding you through the boutique.

One by one you and Meilin collect dresses, handing them to attendants stationed around the room. Your mind is nowhere near focused on the frills and lace, though - no, you’re thinking about her relationship with a certain purple-eyed fighter pilot and Captain of the DAA.

“Meilin,” you begin tentatively, unsure of how to start. She simply hums as she pulls a hot pink tulle ball gown from the rack before wincing and shoving it back in. “What are your feelings towards Caleb?”

You expect her to go rigid but she laughs instead, the sound airy and full of good-natured humor as she turns to you with a soft smile on her face. “Best friend, older brother figure who I know I can always rely on. Also my personal chef and a little stinky but overall? He’s someone reliable and all around just a good person.” She fishes out a navy blue silk number and she looks at you with a critical eye before nodding once and leaving the dress with an attendant.

You try to go along casually but something still prickles at your skin. Why is Caleb still so protective over her after all of this time? And does Meilin see it? Your stare must have been a little too intense because she turns to look back at you before reaching out and lacing her fingers through your own.

“Caleb and I talked for a little while after you guys got home. He asked me why I didn’t tell him about the wedding and…I’m going to be honest, ____, I told him I knew he would flip out on me. He’s always been someone who protects me but I don’t need that anymore, I just want my best friend- you know?”

She releases her hand and the two of you continue to rifle through dresses. But you feel a little more confident, so it spills out of you:

“Did you and Caleb ever have feelings for each other?”

Meilin fake-gags at this, and you feel a sheepish look grow on your face at your possible question. Her expression smooths out, though and she shakes her head empathetically at you.

“I maaay have had a teensy little thing for Caleb when I was younger.” Meilin’s voice is soft as she brushes her fingers across a floor-length dress. She pulls it off of the rack and you still as you let her peer at you - allowing for her to visualize the color and embroidered flowers against your skin while she mulls over her next words.

Hey eyes snap up all of a sudden, and you feel goosebumps prickle at your skin at the sudden wisdom flickering in her eyes.

“But that’s all in the past, ____. I love Xavier with every fiber of my being. He’s my guiding force, the one I want to see at the end of my days. Caleb will always be my best friend and someone I want in my life forever, but Xavier…”

She sighs dreamily, handing you the hanger. Her fingers brush past yours, squeezing softly as she gives you a steadfast smile. “Xavier is the reason for my being.”

You squeeze her fingers back, letting the motion and melancholic look on your face speak the words that you don’t trust yourself to utter in the face of her genuine kindness. She tuts at your expression and squeezes your hand tighter, saying words that render you speechless:

“I think Caleb’s on track to picking someone close to his orbit…someone intelligent, dependable, and extremely beautiful. And I’ll be pushing for him to make a move soon, because quite frankly I’m getting tired of him waiting around.”

Her words shock you to your core, and you surprise the two of you when you let out a watery chuckle at her sweet statement. Meilin is gracious to turn around as the two of you begin to walk back to the dressing rooms, and you let yourself sniffle and process the fact that Meilin knows.

Not only that she knows, but that she wants the two of you to be together - that she thinks it’s the best thing.

So you let yourself feel a little bit lighter, allow yourself to feel hope blossom in your body as she drags you back to your dressing room with your numerous dresses in tow. The heavy feeling is gone and in its stead are two girls just having a fashion show in a mirrorless dressing room - Meilin squealing about your beauty with every dress you walk out of your dressing room, no matter how much it clashes with your complexion. You do feel pretty, but none of the dresses feel like you.

You sigh as you near the end of the pile, none of the dresses speaking to you. Meilin’s nonplussed though, simply pointing to the last dress she had placed in the pile. “I think that one might be the one, ____.”

You eye the numerous ties on the back of the dress as you take in the soft tulle and the little embroidered flowers scattered across the sweetheart neckline of the top. Your eyes flicker from Meilin’s hopeful face to the ties before sighing once more, nodding your head towards the small dressing room. “Can you help me tie the back?”

You can’t suppress your smile when she cheers at your relenting.

As you slip on the dress, you marvel at the way it hugs your body and emphasises you in a delicate way you’ve never seen before. The thin lace straps resting on your shoulders have little white and pink flowers stitched onto the delicate material, continuing a sweet trail down across the sweetheart neckline and onto the bodice. The fabric shimmers and shifts with every bit movement - flashes of soft yellow fading to a muted pear green depending on the lighting of the room while the pearls stitched throughout the fabric add to your glittering illusion. Paired with the layered ruffles at the end of the dress barely brushing the floor and the silk green ribbon that Meilin ties around your neck, you can’t help but know that this is your dress - even if you can’t see yourself in the mirror just yet. 

“Oh, ____,” she gasps as she zips up the back, fingers beginning to tighten the corset. “I think this dress might be it.”

A buzzing breaks your star-struck wonder, and you tilt your head back slightly to look at Meilin in confusion. “Is that yours?”

“Oh!” She steps away quickly and darts out of the dressing room, leaving you to run your fingers along the diaphanous fabric as she takes her call. You swear you hear a muted whisper of “Got it, Trip,” behind you but you elect to ignore it, simply imagining you out in the town in this dress and dancing in the arms of a faceless figure with sparkling sunset eyes.

Look at you. You’ve practically grown foolishly soft with love.

But you can’t help but smile to yourself. You want this.

 “____!” Meilin calls. You turn your neck so that you can look at her panic, eyes darting back and forth as she looks at you. “I’m so sorry but my boss is having a meltdown over at the Association. I’ll send an attendant to tighten your dress so that you can see the full effect and help you take it off, okay?” 

“No worries, Meilin,” you say with an easy smile. You above all know how quick things can change at work, so you wave her off. “Thank you, by the way.”

She beams at you, about to turn back around before she stops and whips her head back at you. “Don’t you dare try to pay for that stunning beauty of a dress! I already put it in the wedding budget!”

You laugh at her cheeky wink before she dashes away, leaving you alone. Your fingers play idly with the ribbon in the back, wondering if you can pull the strings yourself. Surely it’ll work out if you just do it yourself.

You hear a rustle, though, stopping you in your tracks. You peek out of the dressing room, about to let the attendant in-

-only for your eyes to widen when you see Caleb standing before you, the shock you feel in your chest reflected on his face.

“I-”

“____?” He asks. “What are you doing here?”

You flounder for an answer, pulling the curtain closer to your body as if it can help you disappear. “I was trying on dresses with Mei but she left. But forget about me, what the hell are you doing in a dress shop?!”

Caleb’s eyes widen in disbelief before he points at the sign on the window. You swing your head to view it, groaning when you see Bloomshore Dress and Tux Shop in neat script.

Shit, ____, your observation skills are down the drain.

“Gideon and Patrick asked me to meet up for a tux fitting?” It ends in a question, almost as if he’s unsure of the situation he’s just been thrust into. “But, uh, the people said they didn’t have my tux quite ready yet sooo they told me to sit here for now.” 

“Dammit,” you sigh, running a hand over the top of your head to ease your nerves at this situation devolving to being just you and him. “I was supposed to get the back of this dress corseted up and then I was gonna take a picture for Meilin before taking it off-”

“You’re wearing a dress?”

It comes out as a dazed whisper from Caleb and you feel prickles erupt on your skin when you see his cheeks flush lightly. He swallows heavily, Adam’s apple bobbing thickly before he manages to get out, “Can I see?”

You hesitate for a second, and for a split second you wonder if this entire thing will end up crashing all around you. What’s going to happen when the two of you go back to the DAA base and you have missions to execute? Will you ever be able to get back to the way the two of you were before this- fuck, since before the kiss you shared all those months ago?

You scan his face slowly, looking for any sort of hesitation from him. There’s nothing, though. It’s just Caleb, looking devastatingly handsome like he always does as he stares at you like you’ve hung all of the stars in the sky.

Your fingers twitch before they loosen, letting go of the curtain with a soft swish.

And you see the exact moment Caleb’s composure slips: eyes widening, jaw clenching before his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip. His eyes follow a dangerous curve down your face to examine the way the dress flows around your body, and you swear you can feel the trail of sparks his gaze leaves tingling on your skin.

He frowns slightly, though, when he sees the way your hands clutch at the back of your dress.

“Come here.”

It’s soft, slightly hoarse as you tentatively approach him. He positions you in front of him so that you’re looking at the mirror while he stands behind you, and you loose a sigh at the vision of you in the mirror as you let your hands fall from your back for him to examine the ties.

Meilin’s right.

This is the one.

And by the way his breath is uneven against the nape of your neck, you know Caleb agrees.

“So I just…” His voice has dropped an octave, quiet as he pulls you slightly closer so that he can pull lightly at one of the ties experimentally. The corset squeezes you ever so slightly and you gasp, making him look up at you in panic as he settles his hands on your waist almost unknowingly.

“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?” His fingers flex at your sides and you reach out and slide your fingers in between his, giving him a soft squeeze.

“I’m okay,” you breathe out unsteadily. “Just uh…just a warning, okay?”

“R-right,” he stutters out, and when he moves his hands back to your corset, you duck your head so he can’t see your smile in the mirror.

You can feel yourself shiver when Caleb’s breath washes over your bare shoulders, though. His fingers barely brushing your spine as he threads his fingers along your corset ties. “Is this okay, star?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

You see him nod in the mirror, amethyst eyes flashing with something unknown before he begins.

For how calloused and big his hands are, Caleb’s exceptionally gentle as he tightens your corset. You hum when it feels too tight or too loose but for the most part he’s able to gauge your comfort just from how you breathe, loosening a loop if he hears your catch for even a second. Soon enough, he’s knotting the ties in a pretty bow as you look in the mirror, trying to reconcile the fact that this is you.

“All done,” he says softly. His hands move from your back, hovering slightly over your body before he lets them hang by his sides. You don’t have to look at them to know he’s shaking - you can feel the tremble of his chest behind you, brushing up against your back.

“Thank you,” you murmur, giving him a soft grin in the mirror.

Your eyes wander over your visage, turning so that you can see the shifts between pale yellow and pear green in real time. You feel a smile wash over your face as you turn, allowing for the dress to twirl around your ankles as you spin on your bare tiptoes. The feeling is so thrilling and you can’t help but laugh, tilting your head back at the pure happiness that envelopes your body as you miss the way Caleb’s jaw goes slack at your unbridled joy. It bathes you in an indescribable light, illuminating you from the inside out as he feels his stomach do flips.

You’re beautiful.

Every inch of you, overwhelmingly so.

You finally stop, your soft laughter fading as you finally see the way he looks at you. Eyes soft at the corners, the set of his jaw gentle as he gazes at you - everything about him defenseless. His hand trembles as he reaches up towards your face, but you still just enough for him to see the nod you give him before he allows himself to cup your face in his palms. He holds you reverently, thumbs brushing against every inch of skin he can reach and you reach up to circle his wrists with your fingers, pulling him closer so that your chests brush and he looms over you.

“You’re stunning.”

He says it like it’s a well known fact, just like the laws of gravity that dictate your universe and everything around you. But it steals your breath away from you all of the same, eyes flickering as you look at him in shock.

“Caleb,” you whisper, stepping back slightly. His feet follow you and before you know it you’re pressed up against the mirror as he lets his hands drift from your face to your waist, letting you wrap your arms around his neck to pull him closer - noses brushing, chests rising and moving with the same breath.

“You’ve robbed this room of all of the oxygen in it,” he says rawly, and with how shallowly he says it as he steals your own oxygen from your lungs you almost believe him. “Do you know what you do to me? It’s hard for me to compose myself or even breathe properly around you because you take my breath away, ____.” 

“Cheesy.” You try to sound brave, but your voice wavers just enough for him to know that you feel it too.

“Only for my star.” Unlike before, it’s steady with his conviction. His head begins to duck down and your lips almost brush, eyes never leaving each other as you each examine the other’s face. You’re floored by the sheer honesty and longing on his face, his eyes tracing the delicate curve of your cheek as your own gaze begins to flutter shut.

There’s a silent whisper though, a promise to make sure that things stayed normal between you reverberating through your brain with a vengeance. You return your eyes to his and you whisper:

“Are we still pretending, Caleb?”

His eyes turn soft, and his hand reaches up to cradle your cheek as he looks at you like you’re his universe. His mouth opens, and-

“-Mr. Xia, your tu- oh!”

If the air in the room had gone thin previously, it suddenly comes rushing back and fills the two of you with crushing clarity. Caleb pushes him off with quick precision, subtly adjusting the front of his baggy shirt to hang loosely above the front of his pants as you cough, brushing the creases of your dress away.

“I’m uh, I’ll just-” The attendant tries to begin, but you hold your hands out to placate them a little bit.

“It’s okay!” You exclaim, although frustration bubbles in your chest at being interrupted once again. You step forward towards them, willing for your hands to stop shaking. “I’m done with this dress if you’ll help me take it off. Only if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course!” The attendant chirps, practically sprinting to a dressing room and pulling open the curtain for you. “Right this way, Ms. ____! Once this dress is off I’ll package it and send it home with you!”

“Thank you,” you reply softly. You pick up the delicate fabric and walk towards the dressing room, although you can feel the way Caleb’s eyes bore into your back.

“____.”

You turn back around and cock your head, confusion on your face. “Yes?”

Caleb’s eyes trace your figure softly once more before he drags them back up to his face - his eyes honing into the plush of your lips as he swallows thickly. You hold back on biting your lip, wrapping your arms around your waist to wait for what he wants to say.

“I’ll see you at the wedding?”

“Yes,” you murmur with a small smile on your lips. You give him a nod before turning around, walking away with the frenzy of butterflies in your stomach being nearly enough to have you float away.

You feel like you’re floating on cloud nine and you never want to come down.

There’s an undercurrent of excitement when you step into the ceremony space with Gideon and Patrick.

There’s tasteful bits of greenery all throughout the room, lilies and moon-shaped designs incorporated throughout the space. Above your heads are curtains of the same greenery draped tastefully, lanterns illuminating the space and casting everything with a warm, romantic glow. Everyone’s dressed in their best finery, and you sigh blissfully to yourself as you, Patrick, and Gideon settle in your designated seats. Your eyes never stop wandering, though, going from greenery to lilies to Xavier, who looks like he’s about to burst into tears as Jeremiah pats him on the back while waiting for the processional to start.

“You think Caleb’s going to cry?” Gideon’s tone is gleeful as he elbows you and Patrick, and you roll your eyes as you brush a piece of lint off of his suit.

“Patrick has a better chance of crying, honestly,” you shrug as you smooth out the nonexistent creases on your dress. You cross your legs, smiling as you see the shift from yellow to green underneath the romantic light. “And then you, and then me.”

“You’re lying,” he scoffs. “You’re much more of a softie than Patrick and I, ____.”

“I’m not going to cry,” you steadily declare. The lights slowly dim and you quickly sit up, casting them a glance as music begins to swell. “I’m going to keep it together.”

The music picks up and you watch as the procession starts, feeling your breath slowly grow uneven as tears begin to prick at your eyes. You blink rapidly as the bridesmaids begin to walk gracefully down the aisle, scolding yourself in your head because really, ____? Meilin isn’t even down the aisle yet-

Oh.

The entire venue stands as the music swells, Meilin standing arm in arm with Caleb and their Gran in front of the grand doors. She’s a vision as she walks down the aisle to the love of her life, the gentle tulle flowers on the long train of her dress giving the impression of her leaving petals in her wake. Your eyes flick up to Xavier and your heart warms at the sight of tears streaming down his face as he looks at her with all of the love in the world, nearly moving you to your own tears as she finally reaches the end of the aisle.

Meilin leans down to give Josephine a kiss on her cheek before she walks away, leaving her and Caleb standing at the end of the aisle as Xavier walks towards them. Meilin pulls Caleb down for a hug and he holds her tightly, a whispered word on his end making a tear slide down her cheek as she pulls back. Caleb and Xavier look at each other before Caleb holds his hand out, shaking Xavier’s hand firmly and finally pushing Meilin towards him before moving to stand beside the rest of the bridal party.

As the ceremony starts, you find your eyes wandering over Caleb’s form. The tuxedo he wears fits him like a glove, hair slicked back just enough to show off his forehead as he pays attention to the beginning. You vaguely register being instructed to sit down, and as you settle back to your seat you see Caleb’s eyes finally begin to scan the room around him.

You watch Caleb’s gaze scan the rows as he bounces subtly on his heels, perhaps looking for your group? His eyes widen when he sees Gideon and Patrick and he gives them a smile and a cheeky wink before moving his stare to you.

And the entire world stills, leaving just you and him.

Caleb's jaw goes slack when he sees your face, carefully done so that your natural beauty is still at the forefront. Everything in you stops as he carefully traces the delicately styled curls framing your face and the little flower and pearl pins holding your hair up before moving down, looking at the dress you’ve both grown to love so much.

All of a sudden, his eyes snap back up to yours and your breath catches in your throat. His gaze is full of longing and awe as his mouth forms a shape, and you realize belatedly he’s mouthing something to you as the ceremony continues. You flick your eyebrow up delicately, and you see him release a little amused puff of air before he mouths it again.

Beautiful.

Your body heats as you wait for Caleb to throw a wink in your way, maybe joking subtly to lighten the mood as you vaguely hear Xavier begin his vows. But he does none of it - he just looks at you with that same quiet intensity, eyes full of an unspoken feeling and yearning that the two of you share.

“____? Are you all right?”

You turn your head to the side when you hear Gideon’s whisper, and you bring your fingers up to your face when you suddenly register tears streaming down your cheeks. You delicately wipe them away before releasing a shaky breath, nodding and feeling yourself genuinely smile.

“I’m perfect.”

You direct your gaze back to Caleb, who’s face has a soft tinge of concern at your supposed pain. But you feel none of those negative emotions, only bubbling happiness that shoots up and down your spine as you finally, finally smile at him. His eyes widen and an emotion fills his eyes, soft and matching what you feel as Meilin and Xavier finish their vows, sealing themselves as a newly married couple.

Even when the ceremony space breaks out in cheers as Xavier dips Meilin down for a kiss, your eyes never leave each other, and you can’t help but giggle wetly to yourself as you wipe at the tears in the corners of your eyes continuously.

Oh, how you love Caleb Xia.

And oh, how you love the hope you’re allowing yourself to feel - the hope that he may love you, too.

That floating feeling doesn’t stop, even hours into the reception.

The space Meilin and Xavier rented out for the party is even more stunning than the ceremony hall, tables set up in neat rows on one side to accommodate the giant dance floor and buffet on the other side. The same greenery and moon bunny motifs are carried in here but it just feels more relaxed, leading to you chatting with some other guests before the wedding party showed up.

Meilin and Xavier enter the hall to cheers, smiles never leaving their faces as Xavier spins Meilin around to show off her silky reception dress before pulling her back in and dipping her down for a romantic kiss. You, Gideon, and Patrick cheer alongside the people at your table, and you can’t help but laugh when you see the dazed look in Meilin’s eyes after Xavier took her breath away.

While dinner was underway, Jeremiah gave a speech that had Xavier burning red while Meilin laughed at him, only for Caleb to turn the tables on her and make her sob with a sweet speech that left no eyes dry, Gideon’s and Patrick’s especially. You were quick to console them, but you were also dabbing away your own tears - especially when he looked at you during a tender moment.

Now, though? The tenderness has given way to a rager, and you laugh as Gideon executes a perfect worm with one of Meilin’s coworkers on the dance floor. You stand on the side of the dance floor, cheering when Patrick hops in at the perfect moment next to Gideon and they begin to execute their increasingly intricate dance routine to the enthusiasm of Hunter’s Association.

“____!”

Meilin somehow ends up beside you and she smiles widely at you, pulling you towards the middle of the dance floor. You laugh when you see her headband that has THE MOST LOVED MRS. SHEN in fluorescent letters above her head, and you let her drag you to the center as you both begin to dance.

“I! Love! This! Song!” She’s screaming above the music, moving her arms to the beat as you attempt to match her energy. You just end up laughing even harder, though, happiness overtaking your entire body as you pull her into your arms and give her a hug.

“I’m happy for you!” It’s soft, whispered in her ear as Meilin sniffles at your sweet sentiment. She hugs you back tightly and the two of you still, even as movement continues all around you. You’re happy that she’s your friend and that your apprehension on this trip has gone away, leaving you just warm and so fulfilled.

At one point, Meilin’s bridesmaids join in on the fray and they jump around you, screaming the lyrics to a cheesy pop song that has all of you giggling once more. Everything in this moment is electric and you can’t think of how it could possibly get better-

The music slows, and the crowd groans in good nature as a slower song comes on. There’s a tap on your shoulder, and you turn to smile at Xavier as he winks at you before pointing to Meilin behind you.

“Can I get a dance with my beloved wife, ____?”

“Of course.” You smile and tuck a stray curl behind your ear, letting Xavier scoop Meilin up in his arms. You turn around with a wink, marking your leave with a small kiss in Meilin’s direction as Xavier begins to sway her around.

You make your way to a small alcove by the refreshments stand, getting yourself a glass of water and drinking greedily to quench your thirst. You watch as the couple on the dance floor sway to the gentle song, lighting gone low to contribute to the romantic mood. 

“____.”

You don’t need to turn to hear who it is, but you still tilt your head to the side as Caleb approaches you. He’s long taken off his tux jacket, sleeves pushed up to his elbow and tie loosened as he pushes his hair up off of his forehead. There’s an easy charm to him that has your stomach flipping, and you place your glass on the table behind you as he settles himself next to you.

“You look like you’ve had fun.” There’s subtle teasing on your voice and it makes Caleb chuckle quietly as he shuffles a little closer to you, making your fingers brush lightly. Sparks run up and down your arm at the subtle contact, and you feel your eyes grow wide at the intense stare on his own face.

“You look like the most beautiful woman I’ve ever had the opportunity to see.”

He punctuates his statement by sweeping you into his arms, making you gasp and settle your hands on his chest. He slowly begins to sway you around to the song in the background, and you fist his shirt in your hands slightly while tilting your head up to look at him. There’s a breathlessness on Caleb’s face, awe and deeper emotions mixing in his eyes that causes your own breath to escape your lips unsteadily.

“Are we done pretending, Caleb Xia?”

The answer to the question that’s evaded you time and time again is finally said, but there’s no grief in it. It’s just a quiet murmur, a whisper to your desires that has his eyes softening as he reaches up to cup your cheek.

“Yes, ____.” 

He says it with absolute certainty, and he dips his head down to leave a tender kiss on your forehead pulling away slightly. He turns you in a slow circle and the lights shift around the two of you, bathing him with a hazy glow that has your heart beating just a little more erratically as you move to stand on your tiptoes.

“Good.” It’s steady leaving your mouth as you let your nose brush against his. “I’m tired of pretending, Captain Apple.”

“Yeah, star?” He dips down a little lower, his lips almost brushing yours as your eyes slowly begin to slip shut. “I-”

“Caleb!”

Meilin’s voice breaks the two of you from your stupor, and you feel yourself flush slightly as you put a little distance between the two of you before smoothing the creases from your dress. Caleb, however, looks like he wants to murder the teasing smile from Mei’s face as he steps away from you slightly.

“This better be good, Meilin. I was busy-” he begins hotly, but resignation blooms on his face as she grabs his arm and begins to drag him towards the floor, to his chagrin and your quiet laughter.

“I already danced with Gran!” She’s laughing, and you can’t help but smile at the infectious happiness as Caleb looks back at you in exasperation. “I need to do the cheesy slow dance with someone who’s basically my older brother! C’mon-”

Caleb, all the while, gazes back at you with a longing in his eyes that lets you know he doesn’t want to go. You simply shake your head and smile, nodding in the direction of the dance floor encouragingly. 

“Wait for me,” he says.

“I will,” you whisper back, more to yourself than to him. Still, he sees your relenting and finally eases, letting Meilin fully drag him to the dance floor with no complaints.

Serenity settles itself in your soul as you see the two of them dancing, Caleb and Meilin laughing as he spins her around in dizzying circles. You don’t feel any jealousy, though, only happiness that the two of them worked out the awkwardness and that they’re back to being childhood best friends who always stood side by side.

Your eyes wander the room before landing on an ajar door to your left, and you make your way out so that you can feel some cool air on your skin. You hum to yourself when you find yourself in a garden, and you’re careful to pick up your skirt as you look over the moonlit majesty of the shrubs and flowers lining the sidewalk you’re standing on. You can still hear the party from the scattered open doors, but it’s peaceful enough that you can soak in your happiness as you amble slowly.

The wind chills slowly as the moon rises higher in the sky, stars twinkling as you feel goosebumps prickle at your skin. You look down at your dress and sigh, electing to go back to the hall so that you can pick up a glass of champagne and get the thin scarf that came with your dress. You’re about to step inside-

“Caleb, you need to be honest with ____.”

Patrick sounds severe, cutting through the tranquility of the garden as you freeze. Somewhere in the fray you hear Gideon nodding in agreement and Caleb sighing in frustration, and you decide then and there to listen in on them.

This is pertaining to you.

Their words are muffled as you duck behind a column by an open door, the music blaring from the dance floor making it a safe place for you to duck inside quickly before stepping back outside, crouching by another column and straining your ears so you can hear the heated discussion happening right outside. There’s a lull in the words so you peek out just a little bit more, gripping the column as you fight to hear what they’re arguing about-

“-she’s not Meilin, not at all.”

Your heart stops.

Caleb’s voice continues hotly, and you feel your hands begin to tremble as he spills his emotions for you to finally hear. “I can’t keep pretending with ____. I just can’t.”

The honesty is painful but you’re thankful because it pulls you out of the bullshit fantasy you were living in. You fight to steady your breathing as you listen to him break your heart, unaware that you’re even here. You’re grateful, though, because you finally know how he truly feels about you - that his pretending was just a means to an end to him.

That you should just stop.

That you’ll never be enough for him.

“She’s never going to be someone like Meilin. Meilin is bright, bubbly- commands the room with every smile she throws around like confetti. She’s welcoming and talkative and…and ____ will never be that, you know?”

You can practically feel the uncomfortable silence that the three of them descend into before Gideon’s low voice cuts through the tension. “So why don’t you tell her that, Caleb?”

You’ve heard enough. More than enough.

You don’t need to hear what Caleb thinks about you. He’s been playing you this entire time.

You force yourself to push your trembling body through the door, and you see Gideon’s and Patrick’s faces light up in panic as they register that it’s you - you in this beautiful dress that suddenly feels too heavy and too light all at once - the numerous ties holding the dress closed strangling the air from out of your lungs while leaving you and your emotions naked for the two of them to see.

“____,” Patrick breathes, making Caleb’s head whip around in a frenzy as he sees you standing there.

His eyes widen but you shake your head once, twice, three times before turning around and running as fast as you can.

You step on the front of the dress heavily as you run back into the main ballroom, making you hitch up the slippery fabric so that you can run just a little bit faster. You can hear a frantic shout of your name but you ignore it, locating the front exit right by the dance floor where the party continues to dance late into the night.

You don’t think. You plunge into the crowd, effortlessly weaving and bobbing through the enthusiastic throng of people as you attempt to lose Caleb in the dancing bodies. Your vision blurs with tears but you blink them away, focused on your objective of getting as far away as you can-

-only to bump into a body draped in white silk surrounded by the telltale pale blue dresses of the bridesmaids, Meilin holding onto your elbows as she looks at you with worry.

“____, are you okay?” Her kindness makes your heart twinge and you know you should respond, put on a brave face at this unending warmth you do not deserve but you can only think about his words, of how you’ll never be her and how you will never be enough for Caleb-

“I need to go,” you gasp, and you all but rip yourself from her body when you hear the panicked yells scarily close to where the two of you stand in the middle of the dance floor. Meilin’s eyes widen at the sound but you don’t wait for her realization to hit her, instead electing to run as fast as your heels allow you to go.

“Caleb Xia, what the fuck did you do-”

Meilin’s voice is shrill - loud enough for you to hear even when you finally escape from the throng of people. There’s a small part of you that’s thankful for Meilin and her support but it’s swiftly drowned out by your brain screaming at you to keep going so that you don’t have to face the fallout. Your feet ache as you continue to run, toes pinched tight by the beautiful silk heels that you’re thankful have ties because you would have absolutely broken your ankle by now if it weren’t for them. Ahead of you lies the curb and the street where taxis would be, where your escape is. Your exit is so close - all you need to do now is get to the curb and wave for a taxi to take you away from this mess.

You’re almost there-

Gravity stops you in your tracks, making your heels stiffen as you try to move forward. You see the flashes of blue and orange traveling across your body before it lifts you up with a gentleness, spinning you around and guiding you back to the Evol user’s vision. You’re stunned into silence as you see Caleb’s plush lips pressed in a thin line, finger beckoning you closer before settling you gently onto the pavement. 

“That’s foul play, Xia.” Your voice is cold, hands clenched in fists as you try to maintain your icy composure. Caleb’s eyes widen at your facade and he goes to step closer to you but you hold your hand up, turning your head slightly so you don’t have to look at the supposed devastation across his face.

“____-”

“I know I’ll never be Meilin.” The words are acrid as you all but spit them out and you can’t help but laugh shortly at his audacity to look hurt. “But having us pretend? Did you decide that being honest wasn’t enough? You wanted to give me a consolation prize?”

“That’s not at all what I meant.” His voice wavers as he steps closer to you, but you simply turn your body and try to keep your body from shaking. “____, everything came out wrong and I need you to know that I didn’t mean it like that.”

“So what did you mean, Captain Xia?” Caleb’s face flashes with hurt at your usage of his title, but you can’t find it in yourself to care in the face of your breaking heart. “What did you mean when you said that I will never be Meilin, your perfect best friend?”

“____, please look at me.” You lift your head slightly to see his panic, never letting yourself fully gaze into those amethyst eyes as he steps closer to you, arms brushing as he tries to mend what he’s shattered. “You’re my north star, the one guiding me home-”

“-but I’ll never be enough to be the one you choose at the end of the day.”

It’s a lethal slice of words, silence enveloping the two of you once more as you finally turn your body to face him. He looks utterly forlorn, eyes darting back and forth across your face as he tries to say something to make it up to you, but you can only laugh as you fill the silence for the both of you instead.

“I get it, Xia, I do.” Your voice is a bitter whisper, wrapping your arms around your body as you shake from the cold and what you’re about to say. “Mei’s your childhood best friend and someone who’s going to be there for you forever. She’s perfect and bubbly and warm and so beloved by all while I’m just…me. Someone easy to pretend with.”

“No, you don’t get it, ____.” He’s desperate and your eyes widen as he staggers down in front of you, grabbing your hands so that he can press his face into your cold palms. “Everything I said about Meilin is true but ____, my star, you are the North that guides me home. You are the earth beneath my feet that keeps me stable and the air in my lungs whenever everything suddenly feels too overwhelming. You’re in my dreams and in the stars in the sky, in sunsets and in clouds and in flowers. I see your smile and I know I’m fucked because that’s the smile I would fight and bleed to death for, because all I want is for you to keep those smiles and laughs and breaths for myself. But it’s also the smile that makes me fly safer, the smile I keep in my mind when I go in and out of the Deepspace Tunnel and fuck, ____, I need you to believe me.”

Your heart sinks as his face searches yours, eyes wild for some sort of way to have you understand him, that he truly means every word he says-

“Where was this in the bar the first time you kissed me?” Your voice has softened at his start of a confession, but the words are still veiled with cynicism as you search his face for any sort of truth. “Why didn’t you tell me this the first time around? Or at the night market? Why did you hesitate to tell me these things until you thought it might have been too late? Why did you have us pretend in the first place when it’s never been pretend for me, Xia?”

Your vision wavers and a tear falls from the corner of your eye, slowly rolling down your cheek before splashing on his nose. The amethyst eyes you love so much widen at your pain, fingers reaching up to try and brush the droplets betraying your true hurt off of your face but you shake your head, quick to circle your fingers around his wrist to stop him.

“I love you.” It’s a quiet and teary whisper, yet it’s steady with conviction as you see the way his face crumples. “But I don’t think it’s enough for the both of us…is it?”

“I love-”

“No, Caleb Xia.” You push his shoulders away from body, sobs making your entire body tremble like a leaf as you point at him accusatorily. “You don’t get to say that. Not until you get me to believe that I’m not your consolation prize.”

You step away from his kneeling and rattled form, pressing your hand against your mouth so that you can try to stop the ugly sobs escaping your lips. Your vision is stilted and the words spill out of your mouth almost unwittingly, but they’re the only words that make sense in your head as you leave your bleeding heart crushed in between his calloused fingers.

“I'll get the last train to Skyhaven. Don’t bother following me.”

And you turn on your heels, leaving pieces of you on the sidewalk in front of him because there’s no way anyone will ever be able to help you patch yourself up again.

Not when you’ve been utterly shattered to your core.

You lied.

You didn’t end up going back to Skyhaven.

You ended up going to a hotel you booked at the last minute after furiously packing all of your belongings and leaving the dress and shoes you can no longer bear to look at on the bed. You hadn't let yourself shatter until you were safe in the hotel room, curling up on the bed and sobbing your eyes out as the hair you had so carefully pinned with the precious pins slowly came undone.

You’ve been here since, ignoring how your phone buzzes every five minutes as people try to contact you. Patrick in particular had blown up your phone after you had turned off your location, but you had simply texted him that you were safe and that you would be back at the DAA after you finished the rest of your allotted vacation leave.

Which gave you about five more days of quiet to pick up your heart before you returned to your harsh reality.

You’ve gone back to finishing up reports and scanning flight logs for upcoming missions, not giving yourself time to think about your disaster of a love life. Your phone buzzes once again and you allow yourself to pick it up just to see who it is, swiftly closing it and placing it back by your side when you see his name flash on the screen once more.

✉ [12:57] DO NOT RESPOND: please, ____. i need to see you and set things right, please.

Your heart aches even at your brave face, scanning your application for transfer. You don’t quite know if a person breaking your heart is grounds for a transfer to a different unit, but surely they’ll let you do it…right?

There’s a knock on your door and you freeze, wondering if you’ve been caught. You’re quiet on your feet as you approach the door, looking through the peephole and feeling your mouth drop open in shock. You open the door almost immediately, and their names fall out of your mouth in shock.

“Meilin? Xavier?” 

Xavier looks sad for you as Meilin’s eyes swell with tears, and you realize belatedly that Xavier’s carrying two bags. He catches you staring at them before he says softly, “Noodles since we thought you’d be hungry. And Mei wanted to return it to you.”

You have no idea what the it is they’ve mentioned, but it’s enough for Meilin to burst into tears as she pulls into a hug. You bite your lip as you hug her back tightly, staring up at the ceiling to quell your tears away. All the while, Xavier maneuvers himself into the room and places both bags on your bed before gently pushing the two of you inside, giving you a pleading look before closing the door behind him.

Leaving the two of you alone.

“I’m so sorry,” Meilin sobs as you both awkwardly maneuver into the room together, the both of you finally sitting on the couch by the window as you finally allow yourself to cry too. Twin sobs shake both of your bodies as you both cling to each other, but Meilin’s sobs stop quick enough for you to fully collapse into her as she hugs you tightly, stroking your back as you weep from the ache in your heart.

“I’m sorry about how I left your wedding, Mei.” You don’t know why that’s the first thing that pops into your head, but it makes your cries echo louder across the room as Meilin shushes you. “You’ve been nothing but kind to me and I leave like that-”

“Are you kidding me, ___?!” She pulls you away from her slightly, making you sniffle when you see the serious expression on her face. “You’ve been nothing but an angel and I’m so happy that we’re friends, I’m so sorry for what happened to you honey.”

“It’s okay,” you mumble. “I should have known he didn’t feel the same way about me. I was just a fool, Mei.”

“You are not a fool, ____.” Meilin’s voice is sharp as she stands up from the couch, pulling the curtains open and letting sunlight stream into the space. A sprawling view of Linkon City appears before you as she goes to your bed, grabbing the takeout bag and pulling out cartons of zhe jiang mian. She holds one out to you with the sternness of a mother duck and you comply, cracking open the lid and letting yourself soak in the smell of the savory aroma.

“I was a fool for thinking he’d love me too, Mei.”

Her hand freezes at your statement, chopsticks halfway to you. You feel a fresh wave of tears well up in your eyes but you blink them away, plucking the chopsticks from her hand and scootching over to give her some space on the couch.

“Caleb is so stupid.” Meilin grumbles it with vehemence as she settles down next to you, opening her container a little too forcefully. Her annoyance makes you crack for a single second, a small quirk of your lip that quickly vanishes with the searing hurt in your chest. “After I basically drilled into his thick skull to go after you? To tell you how he really feels about you? What a stupid idiot.”

“At least I know what he truly thinks of me now.” It’s resigned as you poke at a noodle. “Now I know how he really feels so I can squash whatever feelings I have.”

“____, no-”

Meilin grabs at the container in your hands and quickly stands, placing it on the dresser before sitting back down and pulling your head so that it rests on her shoulder. You don’t sob this time, but the tears still stream down your face in steady rivulets as you bring your hand up to clutch at your chest.

“I’m never going to be you.” It’s a trembling exhalation, words painted with hurt as you force them out for her to hear. “I just wish that I was enough for him, too.”

“God, he really messed this up, did he?” You can’t even find the energy to laugh, simply trying to keep your breathing even as she reaches down and grips your hand tightly. “____, he doesn’t need someone like me. We bicker and annoy each other all of the time. ____, he needs someone like you.”

“Mei, that’s not true-”

“Someone who can challenge him." She cuts you off, too engrossed in her ramblings to hear your protests as she continues on. “Someone who brings him happiness, who makes him laugh and is also someone who guides him down the right path. Someone he puts first because he wants to, ____, not because of the circumstances the two of us were forced into as kids.

“He really wants to, ____.” Her emotions are clear as day on her face as she looks down at you, eyes shimmering with honesty. “God, ____, Caleb wants you and only you and I support the hell out of him for that because you’re so wonderful inside and out.”

You duck your head as you feel tears gathering once more, making you annoyed as you mull over the words she’s said to you. Why can’t you stop crying?

“It hurts, Meilin.”

Her face crumples at your vulnerability and she pulls you in quickly as you begin to sob once more . “I’m so sorry, ____.”

Your tears never stop as you cling to her like a lifeline, trying your hardest to stem the flow but it never stops. No, it keeps going as you go through your stages of grief, processing every emotion until you’re ready to go on to the next one. All the while, she clings to you and brushes your baby hairs back from your face, not minding the tears staining her shirt.

“You know, ____, he asked for his dog tags back.”

It comes as a quiet confession after your sobs have mostly subsided, breath hiccuping in your throat as Meilin reaches into her pocket, pulling out the thin silver When U Come Back plate. It dangles on its chain, although you notice that the apple charm is conspicuously missing from the set.

“What happened to the apple charm?” You ask softly. Meilin’s eyes sparkle with nostalgia, but it’s not bad - it’s as if she’s reliving her shared childhood with the man the two of you love. Still, her smile is soft as she looks at you with a muted sadness.

“He said I was always going to be someone he views as his little sister and best friend, but that he needed his official dog tags back for someone important. He gave this back to me pretty easily. Said something about updating it to fit the current time, too.”

“Mei-” you begin, but she cuts you off with a tighter hug that you immediately reciprocate.

“Caleb- Caleb is rash and abrasive and he doesn’t think sometimes, ____. But I swear to you that he feels for you, so much more than you even know. I’m sorry for anything I’ve caused between the two of you, I- ____, he’ll always be someone I grew up with but I told him it’s time for him to put himself first instead of me and Gran, you know? He deserves to be happy too, and he’s happiest when he’s with you.”

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you realize you’re crying again. They stream steadily down your cheeks, but they don’t hurt anymore.

No, they don’t hurt at all. Not when you’re so numb now.

Meilin looks up, and her eyes are similarly red-rimmed as you let her hug you tightly once more before pulling away, looking at you pleadingly. “I mean it, ____. Caleb’s a good person, but he’s so much more when he’s around you. I’ve never seen him that happy before- you bring it out of him.”

“I love him, Meilin.” Her eyes soften at your statement, and she reaches up delicately to wipe some tears from your face. “I love him so much.”

“Wait for him, ____, my friend.” Your face crumples at her sweet sentiment, but the flick she directs at your forehead makes the moment feel less heavy as you instead reach up to brush away the numerous tear tracks on your cheeks. “He’ll go to you soon, I promise.”

You let your head settle on her shoulder as you finally, finally let yourself breathe slowly from the suffocating emotions you’ve felt since you’ve gone to Linkon. But in its wake leaves a steady reassurance that no matter what happens, you have support - a new family waiting for you at the end of the line.

All the while, Meilin pats your back as she soothes you. Her eyes are directed outside of the window to the floating speck in the distance: Skyhaven, where Caleb’s waiting for you.

“Don’t mess this up, idiot.” She grumbles lowly to herself.

She knows he won’t, though.

Not when he loves you.

Something in you feels a little less heavy when you finish organizing your stuff in your quarters.

It’s a metaphorical closing chapter to the trip as you methodically organize clothes you need to wash, your laptop back at its proper place as music blares softly from the speakers. You hum along to the beat, grabbing the last box Meilin had given to you when she and Xavier visited you and opening it.

Your dress is folded neatly inside, your shoes carefully packaged so that no dirt gets on the delicate material. You pull it up by the straps and let the garment unfurl to the floor so you can give it a shake before hanging it up in your closet. You frown when you see another purple bundle fall out from in between the folds, however, and you settle the dress back in its box gently before picking up the crumpled ball and letting it unfold for you to see what it is.

XIA.

Your heart skips a beat when you see the basketball jersey, slightly wrinkled and still faintly smelling of his apple perfume. Your eyes between your already overflowing laundry basket and the crumpled garment before you sigh, tossing it in with the rest of the load and picking the basket up.

You’ll just fold it back up and leave it at his door and then you can go back to avoiding him again. You approach your door and swing it wide open, ready to spend hours at the laundry room-

“Oh.”

Caleb stands in front of you, clad in sweatpants and a baggy white tee as his fist hangs to where your door used to be. Despite how comfy he looks, though, he looks utterly wrecked - heavy bags under his eyes hinting at his lack of sleep.

He still looks devastatingly handsome though, and his eyes shimmer slightly when he sees your face by your open door.

“Can I come in?”

It’s hoarse, full of pleading as he looks at you like you’re the air he’s been deprived of for a long time. You don’t speak, simply turning back around and making enough room for him to step inside and close the door behind him as you plop the basket back by the end of your bed.

It’s awkward as you eye the dress and its box on your bed, and you decide that the best course of action is to continue moving so he doesn’t see the way your frame trembles under his scrutiny. After grabbing a hanger from your closet you make your way to your bed, arranging the straps neatly in the notches and making sure that the fabric is smooth before going back to your closet and making a space for it amongst your uniforms.

“You were beautiful during the wedding.”

“This dress was a big part of it.” It’s a soft mumble as you give one more push to your uniforms, finally making enough space so that it doesn’t get lost in the clothes of your closet. You slot it in neatly and continue to avoid his eyes as you pick up the shoes, pulling them from the bag and settling them on your shoe rack. 

“Let me correct myself,” he says as the two of you approach your bed simultaneously. His hands beat you to the box, and he sets it on your desk as you finally allow yourself to look up.

And what a mistake that is.

His vulnerability is on show for you, nothing clouding his expression as he looks at you with a deep longing. You can feel yourself shake under the intensity of his gaze, so you fold your arms as you fight to stay neutral.

“You were correcting yourself?”

It’s bland, not giving away how your heart pounds in your chest as Caleb’s eyes light up at your quiet allowance. His hands slowly move out towards your arms and when you don’t shy back, he rests his fingers on your arms as he begins to untangle them.

“You’re always beautiful.”

It’s raw, almost unwitting as he finally untangles your arms. There’s no hesitation on his face as he pulls you closer, just enough so that you’re looking up at him as your chests brush with your breaths.

“Are you sure you’re not pretending, Xia?”

It’s resigned from your mouth, no bitterness or anger as your eyes dip down to avoid his face. But you find yourself captured by something, and something in you stills when you see silver tags resting on his chest.

He sees you go still when you catch sight of them, and he releases a puff of air as his hands move up to lift his chain for your eyes to see. “No, ____, I was never pretending.”

Caleb steps closer to you, fingers barely shaking as he holds out his chain for you to see. You can see the little apple charm on the chain, a subtle nod to his family and the childhood best friend he’s always going to protect. But there’s a new plate and a new charm, and Caleb delicately lifts and moves his standard dog tag off of the second plate.

There’s a small, old style compass etched onto the metal. You frown when you see something smaller at the direct north of the compass and you unconsciously move closer, making your bodies brush together slightly while you squint to see what the smaller letters are. 

Your heart stops when you see it.

Your initials, in your own handwriting.

Caleb’s shaky breath washes over your face but his hands are ever steady, lifting the second charm up so you can see it. It’s the same small star charm from the night market, but the gem matches the color of your dress from Meilin’s wedding.

“You were never second place, ____.” His hand reaches up to tilt your chin up, and you see every bit of truth in his eyes mixing something more as he settles his other hand on your waist, pulling you in so that you’re in his embrace. Your hands reach up to fist his shirt, pulling him closer as you let yourself breathe deeply so that you can continue to hear what he says.

“I wanted to support Meilin and Gran but you’re the reason why I keep going. You’re what I see at the end of the day- hell, ____, I see you and I feel you everywhere I am. You’re why I am. You’re my purpose, ____.”

“It was never pretend, Caleb?” It’s a quiet whisper as your eyes dip down, settling on his lips instead of his intense stare. “You were honest this entire time?”

“Yes, my star.”

“So why did you have us pretend then? Why couldn’t you have told me the truth from the start?”

“I was afraid,” he admits quietly. “I’ve been so accustomed to putting Mei and Gran first that when I saw the proof of their permission to let me live my life I was fucking terrified. I’ve never thought of myself and what I’ve wanted before, ____. I’ve always put them at the forefront. And being given that scared me but it also made me realize everything I wanted.”

“And that is?” You know the answer, feeling it bubble in your chest as the hope you thought was extinguished returns as a steady flame. Caleb’s hands tilt your chin up so you can look at him fully, and your breath catches in your throat when you see his expression.

Love. So much love for you and only you.

“You. All of you. Your happiness. Your steadfastness. Everything about you, star. I want you and only you, in this lifetime and the ones after that, ____.”

“Caleb,” it’s a gasp as he finally wraps you in a hug, almost lifting you up into the air as he holds you close to his chest. You bury your head into his neck as the moment swallows the both of you whole, never wanting to let go because it’s real.

“I’m sorry for everything I said.” It’s a whisper by your ears, and a tear slips from your eye as he kisses your temple. “I meant none of it and I will do everything in my power to earn your forgiveness if you decide I deserve it. I will work and get on my knees and beg for as long as I need to if it means I get to keep your smile in my life, my star, my ____.”

You pull your head from his neck and you look up at his shining eyes as he waits for your response. All of the hope in the world is displayed on his face, and you can’t help the smile that blooms across your face.

“That’s quite dramatic, Caleb.”

“I mean it,” he replies with all seriousness. “I will do it for the one I love, ____.”

Love. 

Caleb’s eyes widen at his slip but you angle your head up, letting your lips brush against his in a chaste kiss so he can feel your smile against his mouth. “I love you too, Caleb Xia.”

The world stops as he processes your words, realizing that you love him, too. A moment barely passes before he leans down and kisses you, stealing your breath away and making your eyes close.

“I love you, ____, my star.” It’s a heavy groan against your lips as he wraps your legs around his waist, walking to your bed and settling you down onto your mattress. Your hands are quick to grab at his body, pulling him down once more and pressing your lips against his fervently as his hands map the contours of your body - committing everything into memory so he can keep you in his thoughts for all eternity.

“Caleb,” you gasp as his lips move from your mouth to the rest of your face, pressing kisses into every surface of skin he can touch as his hands slowly caress every part of your body. Your fingers are no better, going from the baggy material of his shirt before your arms wind around his neck once more, sliding into his thick hair and tangling into his messy locks.

“God, I love you,” he groans before capturing your lips once again, stealing your breath from your body once more and making your head spin at the giddy pleasure coursing through your veins. Your hands travel from the back of his head to his shoulders, fingers twisting the loose fabric around his shoulders before you tug at the material insistently.

“Off, please- Caleb-” you gasp against his mouth when he bites down on your bottom lip. You feel a small smirk against your lips as he pulls away only slightly, reaching behind to pull his shirt off of his body from the back collar. You can feel yourself flush further at the sight of his abs as he tosses the shirt behind him, and before you can stop yourself your fingers trace a dangerous line along his pecs.

“Shit, star-” he hisses. Caleb’s hands find your waist and his fingers tighten against your side, flopping onto his back and pulling you up so that you straddle his hips. Your core presses against the growing bulge in his pants and you gasp, pulling on the chain around his neck so that you can kiss him once more as your hips begin to move on their own accord.

Caleb’s tongue slips out his mouth, swiping against your bottom lip to ask for permission in. Your mouth falls open in response, and he’s quick to dart in and tangle his tongue against your own as his hands continue to guide the pace of your lips. Your skin feels too hot as your actions continue, little whimpers and moans filling the air and matching his whispered expletives. His hands move from your hips to your waist, making a dangerous path up your abdomen before lightly pressing against your chest.

“Can I-” he tries, but your hands press against the back of his hands, letting his palms massage your breasts as you whimper with want.

“Touch me, Caleb Xia.”

His tongue quickly darts out to wet his lips, his pupils dilating as you continue to grind against his rapidly hardening cock. His hands move down to your side, long and calloused fingers sliding underneath your tank top before pushing the pesky fabric up and over your head. All you’re left in now is your pretty lace bralette and sweatpants, making Caleb's blood rush down south as he flips you back over once again.

“So beautiful,” he groans. His hands make quick work of both of your sweatpants, sliding the baggy fabric down your legs before the two of you are left in only your underwear.

“My star,” Caleb whispers reverently. His body slowly inches down until he’s kneeling at the foot of your bed, gently pulling at your thighs until they rest on his shoulders. His pointer finger slides against the front of your underwear, and you gasp as his fingers press harder against the wetness that soaks the lace.

“You’re so wet, ____.” There’s a teasing edge as he pulls the fabric to the side, groaning when he sees the way your pussy glistens under the light of the moon from your window. “Who made you this wet, hmm?”

“Caleb-” you gasp, half in answer and half pleading as he lets his fingers press just a little bit harder against your sopping slit. The tips of his fingers dip into your hole slightly, making your back arch as you gasp.

“Mmm…”

It’s the only hum you hear before he buries his head between your thighs, a finger pushing into your soaking hole as his mouth wraps around your clit and sucks just the tiniest bit. A wanton moan escapes your body, thighs about to close but he simply holds you open as he begins to feast on you.

“Caleb-” Your voice catches in a whimper as your hands travel down, pulling on his hair in a bid to get him closer. “P-please, more-”

He simply hums against your pussy, slowly retracting his thick fingers before moving his tongue to your weeping entrance. His tongue slides in and you cry out as his nose bumps against your clit over and over again while he eats you like a man deprived. Your head thrashes back and forth, the needy feeling filling your body until you’re hot all over - a single touch enough to hurtle you off to your end.

Even with your wanton pleasure, Caleb’s movements never cease. His tongue moves back up to your clit, and he presses two fingers gently into your cunt. The stretch makes you cry out, your sweaty hands grabbing at your sheets as he gently crooks his thick digits so that he can press against that spot in you.

“My beautiful star.” He pulls away just enough for you to hear it, the warm air hitting your clit and making you jolt in sensitivity. “Who’s making you feel this good, hm?”

“C-caleb-” You sob. You’re lost in the haze of pleasure, the only thing you can manage being whimpers of his name as he drives you closer to your precipice. All the while he continues to move his fingers inside of you in gentle movements, consistently pressing against your g-spot and making you gasp. The knot in your stomach unravels and you gasp. “Caleb, I’m-”

His mouth slots back against your pussy, tongue flicking against your clit in silent permission to surrender to your end.

And you do.

You cum with a silent moan, tears streaking against your face as the pleasure washes over you in overwhelming waves. His hands never stop, though - he’s still crooking his fingers against your g-spot as he kitten licks at your swollen pearl, making you almost scream as you feel pressure build in your lower abdomen.

All of a sudden you gush all over his hand and he moans, moving his tongue so he gets your taste straight from the source. Your hips move up and down as you gasp, little whimpers the only thing you can manage before you flop back onto your bed bonelessly.

Caleb’s careful to pull his fingers from your pulsing walls, and you gasp as you feel yourself tense around nothing. He moves back up so that he’s hovering above you, pressing a kiss to your forehead and rubbing his nose against your own. “You okay, star?”

“Please.” It’s a sleepy plea as you slowly push yourself up on your bed, settling your weight on your elbows as you look at him with a small smile on your face. Caleb looks utterly wrecked: pupils blown wide open and mouth shining with your slick as he breathes heavily, the silver chain against his neck rising up and down with every movement of his chest. Your eyes travel lower, past his pecs and his abs and down the feathery trail of hair leading into his boxers, where his cock strains heavily against the tight fabric.

Your fingers make quick work of your bralette, pulling it over your head and throwing it at him teasingly. He catches it with one hand, even though he’s distracted by the way your breasts sway slightly with your unsteady breaths.

“Fuck,” he groans. He’s quick to drop the flimsy lace onto the floor before making his way back onto your bed, hovering above you slightly as he kisses you once more. You whimper when you taste yourself on his lips, and he’s quick to pull your underwear down your legs as you push his boxers off of his hips impatiently.

“Is this okay, ____?” The tip of his cock slides through your silken folds, and he groans heavily against your mouth as you gasp. His hand grips his length, slapping his cockhead against your clit and making you jolt against his body.

“Please, Caleb-” It cuts off into a long-drawn out moan when his tip lightly catches against your hole, and you wiggle your hips in an attempt to pull him in closer. He’s quick to stop you, though, hand on your hip as he slowly guides himself into your heat.

“Patience, star.” His voice is low and gritty as he pushes himself in slowly, making your eyes roll back at the slow stretch. Your walls flutter around his length, slowly pulling him in until he’s fully sheathed in your soaking cunt - leaving you gasping at how utterly full you feel of him.

“-ngh.” It’s an incoherent noise from your mouth, and Caleb’s quick to check on you as he kisses the tip of your nose.

“You okay, beautiful?” There’s an edge of humor as he shifts slightly, making you gasp as he jostles slightly inside you. His hips still but you’re quick to wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer and making a moan escape his lips.

“Please move-” you all but beg. His eyes darken at your wanton neediness but he’s quick to comply, slowly shifting his hips until he settles a shallow rhythm; slowly rocking in and out in and leaving you begging for more.

“My star, my ____,” he murmurs reverently, capturing your lips in a heated and messy kiss as his hips begin to move in longer strokes. Your teeth clack together as his tongue fights yours for dominance, and you finally relent and let him win as your mouth falls open. His cock bullies your g-spot over and over as you whine, fingers raking down his biceps at the onslaught of pleasure he’s leaving all over your body. He pulls away slightly, and you feel your head spin at the string of saliva connecting your lips and the way his dog tags bounce on his sweaty skin at the thrusts of his movements.

“Look at you,” he groans. The obscene plap plap plap of his hips hitting his mark consistently fills the air, pairing with your whimpers and gasps of his name. “So beautiful and all mine-”

“-Caleb!” You’re sobbing at this point, arms wrapping around his neck so that you can pull him down towards you. His necklace dangles in the little space between the two of you, swaying above your face as your nails leave red marks down his back.

“Are you close, my star?” Your eyes cross when he angles his hips juuust right, consistently hitting your g-spot as his pelvis bumps against your clit over and over again. “Are you going to cum for me, ____?”

“Yes-” you gasp, head thrashing back and forth as your tears slide down your cheeks and soak into the pillow below you. “‘M gonna cum, Caleb-”

“Yeah?” His hips speed up even more, and you sob as you feel yourself begin to fall off your edge. “Cum for me, my star-”

“-ah!” It’s a little scream as the knot in your stomach finally snaps, and your final orgasm washes over your entire body as he continues to move inside of you. His rhythm grows stilted as he feels your walls pulse all around him, making him moan as his head falls to your neck.

“I love you Caleb-” you sob, nails digging into his shoulders as his hips stutter at your slurred words. “‘m so in love with you, Caleb Xia-”

“Fuck,” he swears, and his teeth sink into your skin as he cums in your warmth. You whine when you feel him filling you up, leaving you full and content as his hips slowly come to a stop - letting him relish in the feeling of your warm cunt soaking him as your walls pulse around him weakly.

There’s a comfortable quiet as the two of you catch your breath, your fingers tracing random shapes up and down his spine. Caleb slowly lifts his head, and you laugh softly when you see the dazed look in his eyes as he catches your gaze.

“Can’t believe you came when I said I love you.” You mean for it to be teasing, but you gasp when you feel his cock twitch in your sensitive walls. You look up at him in bewilderment, and he has the grace to look a little bit sheepish as his hips shallowly thrust almost absentmindedly.

“You’re incredibly beautiful and hearing you say that you love me in that tone of voice was incredibly hot, star.” This time you do laugh, rolling your eyes even when you feel yourself growing needy for him again.

“I love you, Caleb.”

It’s a sweet whisper, and you both ignore the way your pussy clenches around his cock as he leans down to kiss you.

“I love you too, my star, my ____.” He whispers.

Gideon and Patrick stand outside of your door, ears pressed to the thick wood so they can hear Caleb’s muffled confession. Alongside on Gideon’s phone are Meilin and Xavier, the line silent as they wait impatiently for any sort of update from them.

“Well?!” The pixelation and shit wifi of the DAA base hide little of Meilin’s impatience, making Gideon wince and lower the volume of his phone as Patrick continues to listen in for anything.

“It’s really quiet.” It’s a hushed whisper, and both Gideon and Patrick look at each other in resignation as Meilin sighs sadly.

“It’s over,” she weeps softly. “My ship is sinking…”

“Aren’t we supposed to be your top ship, my love Mei?” Xavier’s teasing cuts through the tension only a little bit as Meilin scoffs.

“Caleb and ____ are my top ship!” 

“Wait,” Gideon says all of a sudden. He presses his ear against the door and hears it:

I love you too, Caleb.

“Co-conspirators of Project Dizzy Apple, we have achieved our goal.”

Meilin squeals happily on the phone as Gideon and Patrick fist bump each other, relieved that the two of you are no longer tiptoeing around each other. Patrick shakes his head with a smile as he presses his ear on the door once more-

-only for his face to blanch as he grabs Gideon’s arm and begins to drag him away.

“We need to move, now.”

“What, why?” Meilin’s voice crackles on the line as Patrick tries to drag Gideon away from the door. “I want to hear more of their love confession! I need the romance!”

Patrick shakes his head vigorously, eyes wide. “They’re not-”

“Please- Caleb-!”

“Shit shit shit,” Gideon swears over and over when he realizes what he's hearing and he clumsily stands up with Patrick as Meilin fake-gags on the phone.

“Ew ew ew ew ew gross!” Gideon would usually reprimand Meilin for how loud she’s being but right now he’s inclined to agree, trying desperately to scrub the sounds of your shared sin from his mind as the two of them tumble into Patrick’s room.

“Why are we worried about it?” Xavier sounds confused. “You say much worse when I make love to you, Mei. You sound deliciously sinful, too.”

“Not the time,” Patrick grumbles, and Gideon winces once more as Meilin shrieks at Xavier.

Ah well, your friends may have gotten the two of you together but it cost them a little bit.

They don’t mind though.

Not when you and Caleb finally make yourselves known with wide smiles and held hands, slotting together naturally like the sunset over the horizon. 

a/n #2: if you made it this far i am giving you a bouquet i'm being so fr thank you for reading i truly appreciate it :')

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ taglist: @plzdonutpercieveme , @mantalray , @risagichi , @rjreins

[lynostalgi]

「What Came After Bloom」 Caleb

       ↳ Years after loss and war, Caleb returns to the village where love once bloomed, only to find the son he never knew and the grave of the woman he never stopped loving. In a quiet house filled with memories and unopened letters, he reads your final words and finds peace at last.

The cottage had gone quiet.

The kind of quiet that settles only when a child is asleep and the weight of grief has nowhere else to go but your lungs.

Caleb stood beside the bed, watching the soft rise and fall of his son's chest beneath the blanket. He looked so small in sleep. Smaller than he ever did awake. It struck Caleb then how little time ten years really was. A blink. A breath. And yet the boy already had your softness in the corners of his mouth, your stubbornness in the set of his chin, and something unspoken. Something his in the eyes that looked too much like his own.

He swallowed the knot in his throat and leaned down, pressing a kiss to Ash forehead. The boy stirred faintly, fingers curling into the worn fabric of his blanket and Caleb's hand lingered on the edge of it.

The box, that damn box sat unopened on the nightstand. Still shut tight. Still full of all the years he'd missed. Of all the things you must have tried to say in ink because you knew he might never come. And he couldn't bring himself to open it yet. Not tonight.

Tonight, he had somewhere else to go. So he stepped out into the cold. The wind rolled low through the trees, pulling at his cloak and stirring the lantern light like a memory that didn't want to be touched. But he walked, feet tracing a path he hadn't seen in years. And yet, his body remembered.

The tree was still there. Of course it was. Thick, knotted bark. Wide roots that twisted into the earth like the bones of something ancient and holy. The place where he'd kissed you the first time. The place where you made a promise he couldn't keep. And beneath it now, a stone.

He saw it from a distance and still... Still, his heart tried to lie.

Tried to pretend it was for someone else. That maybe it wasn't real. That maybe it was just a marker. Maybe this was just a nightmare. Maybe if he turned around right now and walked back to the cottage and he'll find you sitting by the fire. Maybe you'd look up at him with tired eyes and that dry smile and say 'Took you long enough, love.'

But the name was carved there. Your name. And once he saw it. Like really saw it. His legs gave out.

Caleb collapsed to the ground like the grief had cut his knees out from under him. Hands clawing at the dirt as he half fell, half crawled the last few steps. He reached out, fingertips trembling as they grazed the edge of the stone like maybe it would still be warm. Like maybe it could hold some trace of you if he just touched it gently enough.

It didn't. It was cold. Final. And he broke.

He didn't cry like a soldier. Not like a Duke. Not like the Commander of Crown's Guard forces. He cried like a man who had waited too long. Like someone who thought he still had time. Like someone who believed happy endings could just be postponed until the war was over.

His hands fisted in the grass. His breath hitched until it turned into sobs that sounded like someone dragging a blade across something already bleeding.

"I thought..." He choked, voice shattering mid word. "I thought it would be alright. That you'd be here." That you'd be waiting. Just like before. He pressed his forehead to the stone, chest heaving. "I was going to come back. I did. I fought, I ended the damn war-"

But the war had already taken you. Quietly. Without a blade. While he'd been spilling blood across foreign soil, you'd been fading. Alone.

"I should've come sooner" His voice broke again. "I should've never left." He cried. "I shouldn't have made that damn arrangement..." He didn't know how long he knelt there. He didn't know how long he cried there.

The moon had risen fully by the time the sobs quieted into a hollow silence, tears drying on his cheeks as he stared at the ground. The grave. The place where the only person he ever truly loved now slept, beyond reach.

The village lights were dim in the distance. And even though no one came near, he knew they heard him. He knew the way grief sounded when it wasn't polite anymore. When it tore out of you, loud, raw and humiliating. When it made you into something that no longer resembled a man. And they heard it.

But they shut their windows. Turned their faces away. Because no one wants to witness the man who once commanded armies. Who was said to be carved from stone, beg the dead for forgiveness.

The wind picked up, brushing through the leaves above like a lullaby too late. He stayed. Until the sky began to pale. Until the world reminded him it still turned. Even if his had stopped.

And when he finally rose, unsteady and broken. The only thing he took with him was a single dried bloom that had sprouted at the base of the stone. He held it in shaking fingers, cradled it like it was your heartbeat. And walked home to the son you left behind.

-

The scent of eggs and toasted bread clung to the quiet.

A pan sizzled lowly on the stovetop, and the kettle gave a faint hiss as it cooled beside him. Caleb stood at the stove, sleeves rolled past his forearms, hands steady even though he had barely slept. He moved with practiced familiarity, not from habit but memory.

The memory of you, in this same kitchen, moving between the cabinets barefoot and humming some half forgotten song. He tried not to look at the empty chair by the hearth. The one that still leaned a little to the left.

Instead, he focused on the task at hand. Cooking. Something simple, something warm. Something that might look like the life he was supposed to have if only for a few hours.

The soft patter of feet across the wooden floor pulled him gently from his thoughts. Ash stood at the threshold of the kitchen, his dark brown hair tousled from sleep, cheeks still creased with the shape of his pillow. There was no greeting. No yawn. No bright eyed curiosity. Just the still, unsettling stare of a child who had seen too much and said too little.

Caleb straightened slightly, brushing a hand down his apron like it mattered. "Morning." He offered, voice low, careful. "You hungry?" The boy said nothing, only moved slowly to the table and climbed into one of the chairs.

Caleb placed a plate in front of him, then one for himself. Eggs, lightly salted. Toast browned just a little too much. A small dish of berries. The ones Ash had picked with his friends in the grove just last week. Caleb had learned that from the headwoman. She doesn't want to tell him anything at first. But grief softened even the hardest lines.

He sat across from his son, watching as the boy stared at the food. "You don't have to eat it." Caleb murmured, trying not to sound nervous. "But I made it the way your mother used to." Ash blinked, then slowly reached for his fork. Still, no words. Just silence. Heavy and pulsing like a second heartbeat between them.

Caleb tried to eat. He managed two bites before the food began to taste like ash. He set the fork down carefully, fingers twitching in his lap. Then he cleared his throat, bracing himself against the chair's edge.

"I was thinking." He said, voice as even as he could make it. "That maybe… you might want to come with me. Back to the duchy." The fork paused halfway to Ash's mouth.

He looked up. Slow, unreadable and stared straight at Caleb with his eyes. "What if I say no?" Caleb met his gaze, trying not to flinch. "Then… I won't force you." He said. "But I wanted you to know the door's open." He added. "I'll stay here with-" Ash leaned back, chewing slowly. Then, quietly. "I'll go."

A rush of something. Relief? Hope? bloomed and then withered just as quickly in Caleb's chest. "But I have a condition." Caleb stilled. "Of course." "I won't call the princess my mother." Ash said flatly. "And I won't treat her like one. My mother is dead. She'll always be my mother."

The words hit like a blade. Caleb swallowed around the sudden tightness in his throat. "You won't have to." He said softly. "She's not- she never was. We were never married. It was a political arrangement. Nothing more." Ash didn't move. Didn't nod. His gaze was cool, distant.

"That's not what everyone else said." "I know." Caleb's voice dropped. "But the truth is... The only person I ever wanted to marry was your mother." There it was again, the flicker of disbelief in Ash's face. Not overt. Just a tightening of the jaw. A downward twitch in his brows.

You used to do that too, when you didn't believe something but were too tired to argue.

"I know it doesn't mean much now." Caleb continued, quieter. "But it's the truth. I never stopped loving her."

Ash didn't reply. He went back to his plate, taking a few more bites in silence. The weight of it. Of not being believed has settled in Caleb's chest like sand. He pushed back from the table after a while. Clearing some of the plates with a mumbled excuse. "I'll just- clean up."

But instead of heading to the kitchen, he headed to the small bathroom at the end of the hall. He shut the door behind him quietly, like if he made a sound, it would crack the fragile truce between them. And then he broke.

Silently, violently, with his back pressed against the door and his hand clenched over his mouth to stifle the sobs. His whole body shook with it.

Not just for the boy outside the door or the wife he never got to call that or the years lost to silence and war. But for the awful question that haunted him now.

Did you believe it? Did you spend your final days thinking he had chosen honor over you? Duty over love? Did you die thinking he let you go willingly?

His knees buckled and he sank to the floor, trembling. "I came back." He whispered, voice raw. "I swear I did. I just... I didn't know how much time I'd lost." He pressed his hand over his mouth again, trying to breathe.

In the other room, his son cleared the table quietly. And Caleb stayed where he was. Not just because he couldn't face him yet. But because he didn't know if he could survive the answer written in Ash's eyes.

-

Caleb didn't ask to join him. He just followed.

Ash didn't say much, didn’t offer directions. But he didn't tell him to go away either and that, in itself, felt like something. So Caleb walked three steps behind his son through the quiet village letting the boy's smaller boots set the rhythm of their day.

They stopped by the well first. Ash helped the older woman who always came too early and left too late, steadying her bucket without being asked. Caleb recognized her vaguely from years ago. She gave him a long, pointed stare but said nothing. The water sloshed once and Ash kept walking.

Next, they passed the small chapel at the edge of the hill. The priest sweeping the steps looked up sharply, paused mid motion and Caleb nodded politely.

Then came the bakery. A boy around Ash's age ran out and handed him a small bag. Ash muttered something too low to hear. Pressed a few coins into his friend's hand and kept walking, tearing off a piece of bread to share and only handing half to Caleb without a word. He accepted it with a quiet. "Thank you." And tried not to let the silence feel like punishment.

They continued down the lane. Caleb couldn't help but feel the stares. Villagers paused in their chores to glance over their shoulders. Conversations softened when he passed. He heard his name whispered once. Not Duke Xia, not the Commander. Just Caleb. The familiarity stung more than the suspicion.

He couldn't blame them. They had known you in ways he hadn't in seasons he had missed. They had watched you walk with swollen ankles and unspoken worry, raise a child with gentle hands and a quiet laugh, all while waiting. While hoping. And he hadn't come.

So now, they looked at him not with fear, or awe, but with something colder. You're too late. Ash didn't seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn't react.

He led Caleb to the riverside where the wildflowers grew. Sat cross legged beneath the tree. Caleb sat beside him, not too close. Just enough to be near. They didn't speak for a while. Just sat in the breeze and watched the water move.

It was peaceful, almost. Or it could have been, if not for the tension lingering in Caleb's chest. The weight of unsaid things, the dread that Ash might never truly forgive him and the deeper, quieter fear that maybe he shouldn't.

But Ash spoke first. "When are we leaving?" Caleb blinked. "Soon." He said. "I sent word to my army days ago. They should be near. Once they arrive and rest, we'll head out." Ash only nodded.

The sun was dipping low when the sound of hooves reached them. The unmistakable beat of trained horses, fast but disciplined. Caleb stood, instinct sharp, eyes scanning the road as familiar banners crested over the hill.

The army had arrived. And at their head rode a man Caleb trusted more than most, his first lieutenant, Sir Ryns, whose armor caught the dying light in silver glints. His expression shifted when he saw Caleb waiting by the road.

"My Lord." Ryns dismounted quickly, bowing once before speaking in a low voice. "We've arrived as ordered. The men are camped near the eastern ridge. We came straight when we received your last raven-" Then his gaze drifted past Caleb.

To the boy standing a little behind him, quiet and watchful. Ryns frowned. His eyes narrowed faintly, curious. "My Lord." He asked cautiously. "Is that…?" Caleb turned slightly. "Yes." He said without hesitation. "This is my son. Ash Xia."

There was a beat of silence. Many of the soldiers exchanged glances. Caleb saw confusion flicker in Ryns' eyes. Ash stood still, his hands in his coat pockets, his face blank but guarded. He looked like he expected the questions, maybe even the judgment.

One of the younger knights finally spoke, hesitant. "My Lord… Forgive me, but... We were told you came to this village to... See her. Is she-?" He didn't finish. The assumption hung in the air. You're alive, aren't you? Caleb's jaw clenched.

Ash looked up at the man and answered before his father could speak. "She's dead."

Silence fell. It wasn't a dramatic thing. There was no gasp, no collective outcry. Just a sharp shift like the wind had suddenly turned too cold. The soldiers' expressions changed. One by one, Caleb saw their eyes fall to him registering the tightness in his shoulders, the hollow in his face.

Only then did they truly see him. Not the Duke. Not the Commander. Just the man who had lost something he'd come too late to claim.

Caleb gave no explanation. There was nothing left to explain. He simply turned to Ryns. "We leave at dawn. Have a carriage prepared, one comfortable for a child. And make sure the escort is discreet. I don't want attention drawn on the road back." Ryns nodded, his voice quieter now. "Yes, my Lord."

The soldiers began to disperse, respectful in their silence. No one dared ask more. Caleb looked down at Ash, who still hadn't moved. For a brief second, their eyes met. Neither of them said a word.

But Caleb saw it. The question buried behind the boy's quiet stare. Why now. And though he couldn't answer it yet, he would spend every day trying to.

-

The carriage rocked gently over the dirt road. Its wheels cutting through the morning hush like a lullaby too tired to sing.

Outside, the house of Xia's banner trailed behind the lead riders. Catching what little breeze the early day allowed. The army rode in disciplined silence. A formation tight enough to shield but respectful enough to keep their distance. No one said anything. No one dared to intrude.

Inside the carriage, Caleb sat across from his son. He hadn't wanted to impose. Had considered assigning Ash a separate space. A smaller, lighter carriage fitted for comfort. But the thought of being even a stone's throw away from his boy made something inside him twist too tightly. So he stayed. And hoped it didn't make things worse.

Ash didn't complain. He didn't talk much either. He sat with his knees tucked close, arms loosely folded, gaze fixed on the passing trees. The morning sun painted his profile in soft gold. His silence wasn't hostile, not exactly. Just… Practiced. Like he'd learned to speak only when the world gave him a reason to.

Caleb watched him in the quiet. Noticed how his shoulders didn't quite relax. How his fingers picked absently at a loose thread in his sleeve. A nervous habit. One Caleb had once had himself.

Halfway through the ride, Ash finally spoke. "What are you going to do when we get there?" Caleb blinked. "To the duchy?" Ash gave a small nod. "Well." Caleb started slowly, choosing his words with care. "The first thing I'm going to do... Is declare you as my son."

Ash's brows lifted a fraction. Not in shock. More like he had expected it eventually, but hadn't thought Caleb would say it so plainly. "And then?" The boy asked, voice quiet. "Then." Caleb exhaled softly. "You'll live your life. However you want to. You'll have a room, a library, land if you want it. But mostly, I just want you to be a child. To grow up safe."

Ash tilted his head. "Don't I need lessons? Or etiquette stuff? Nobility things?" Caleb shook his head gently. "You'll have tutors, yes. But only the basics. No one is going to shove the whole court on your shoulders. I won't let them." He paused. "You've carried enough already."

Ash looked down at his lap. His fingers stilled. "… So I can just live?" "Yes." Caleb said firmly. "That's all I want for you." That's what you'll want for him too.

There was another stretch of silence, broken only by the soft clatter of the carriage wheels. Then Caleb smiled faintly and murmured. "Ash…" But the boy looked up. "Mavius." He corrected, tone neutral. "My name is Mavius Caelum Asher."

Caleb froze. The air left his lungs. He hadn't heard that such familiarity in years. Not since- He blinked once, twice, and looked at the boy more closely. Mavius. Caelum. Asher. "… You named him after her." Caleb whispered.

Ash didn't meet his eyes, just turned to look out the window again. "Yeah." He said, voice distant. "Mama said she named me after someone important. Someone you lost."

Caleb felt his throat tighten. He remembered now. MC, his little sister. Bright eyed, fever sick, too young to go. The necklace he had given you once had belonged to her. You had kept it, even then. Even when things were falling apart. You remembered. Of course you did.

He pressed a hand over his mouth. Told himself no. Not here. Not in front of the boy. But the tears came anyway. Slow and silent. He turned his face to the side, away from Ash, eyes shut tight against the sting.

He had told himself he had no tears left to shed. That he'd mourned enough for a lifetime. But then his son, your son, said that name. The name that came after hers. The grief returned like it had been waiting all along, patient and sharp.

Across from him, Ash said nothing. He didn't reach out. Didn't offer comfort.

He just stared out the window, his profile still and unreadable, as the Duke, the Commander of the Army, the man called a legend in five kingdoms quietly broke beside him.

Outside, the army rode in perfect formation. Inside, a father wept for the love he had lost... And the family he was only now learning how to hold.

-

They stopped in a modest trading town just near the duchy's border. One of the outer territories under Caleb's name, tucked between sloping hills and terraced farmlands. It was quiet but prosperous, the kind of place where news came late but pride came early.

Caleb thought it best to ease the transition here. To soften the sharp edges of what was coming. So he took Ash shopping.

It wasn't extravagant, not in Caleb's eyes. Just enough to ensure Ash had clothing suitable for court, for winter, for meals that didn't happen on wooden benches. But Ash moved through the shops with the same quiet expression he wore on the road. Unbothered, unexcited, composed in a way no child should’ve had to learn so early.

He let the tailor measure him. Nodded when shown fabrics. Said nothing when asked preferences. Caleb finally broke the silence. "I'm sorry." He said, standing beside Ash as a shopkeeper carefully adjusted a collar near the boy's shoulder. "About the suddenness. The change. I know it's a lot."

Ash didn't look at him, but his voice came out flat. "I'm used to change." Caleb's mouth went dry. He tried again. "I used to come here with your mother." He said quietly. "Before the war. Before… before the agreement. It was one of the few places we could go without anyone recognizing me." Ash blinked. Finally turned his head a little, just enough for Caleb to see him.

"She liked the old bookshop two streets down." Caleb added. "Used to complain that they never dusted the top shelves, then spend hours there anyway. I once had to drag her out with her hands and a whole bag of books she swore she'd return." He gave a soft, nostalgic chuckle. "She didn't."

Ash looked at him now, fully, and though his expression remained guarded, he asked. "Did she laugh a lot?" Caleb's breath caught. "She did." He said. "Gods, she did." And so he kept talking.

As they moved through the square and stopped by the cobbler and then a modest jeweler, Caleb told him stories. About the time you nearly got kicked out of a tavern for arguing with a chess hustler. About how you once braided a red ribbon into his hair and threatened to tell the barracks it was tradition if he took it out. About the stolen apples from a merchant's cart, the nights spent beneath a shared blanket, counting stars and whispering names for constellations that never existed.

Ash didn't speak much. But he listened. And for once, Caleb didn't mind the silence. Not when it felt like this, like remembering.

By the time the carriage rolled toward the duchy gates, the sun was beginning to dip behind the tall white towers that stood in the distance. The roads widened. The banners came into view.

And the people. They were waiting. The crowds lined the outer walls, nobles and commoners alike. Some carried flowers, others waved embroidered flags. There were children on shoulders, elders holding lanterns, merchants standing still in the middle of their trade stalls just to catch a glimpse.

Because the hero had returned. Their Duke, their Commander. The man who had come victorious at the war. The man who gain everything, power, status, honour. But he was also the same man who lost everything he had.

Caleb looked straight ahead but he could feel Ash watching him. He didn't wear armor today, but the weight of expectation wrapped tighter than steel ever could. He wondered, faintly, how long it would take before Ash felt it too.

The carriage slowed. Trumpets began to sound. Ash leaned toward the window, just slightly. "… They're here for you." He said, voice unreadable. Caleb looked at him. "No." He replied softly. "They're here for us." Ash didn't answer. But he didn't look away either.

And as the gates opened wide, letting them pass beneath stone arches and golden banners, Caleb let his hand rest. Briefly, gently on his son's shoulder. It wasn't much. But it was a start.

-

The duchy castle was colder than Ash expected.

Grand, yes. Its marble floors and soaring ceilings soaked in light, with chandeliers like frozen stars and banners heavy with heraldry. Every inch of it whispered of history, of victories won by men with unbending spines and names carved into stone. But still, it felt cold.

Caleb, however, moved through it like a man who had shed his armor but not his discipline. He walked with his hand resting lightly on Ash's shoulder, guiding him gently toward the entrance hall before leaving him with Sir Ryns, his most trusted aide.

"I'll be away for a few hours." Caleb murmured to his son. "There's something I need to settle. You'll be safe with him."

Ash didn't argue. He simply nodded and watched him go. Tall, cloaked in command, disappearing into the echoing halls where power liked to gather. Sir Ryns gave a respectful nod. "Shall we?" Ash followed.

In the court council chamber, the temperature was different.

Not the air. The mood. Stiff collars and older men, faces lined not by time but by caution. A place where no voice raised unless it had weight behind it.

Caleb stood at the head of the long table, straight backed, unshaken, in the same travel worn coat he arrived in. He didn't need titles or emblems today. He was the title.

"Mavius Caelum Asher Xia" He said, voice steady. "Is my son. By blood. By name. By will." He didn't smile when he said it. There was no softness in the way he spoke of it, only certainty.

It didn't take long for the murmurs to begin. "My Lord Duke." One of the elder vassals said, clearing his throat like it might buy him courage. "Surely such a proclamation should be delayed until-" "No."

Caleb's eyes didn't waver. "It will be announced before the week ends. The court will bear witness. The documentation will be sealed in my name." "But the boy." Another tried. "He's not been raised in noble society. He may not be-" "He's my son." Caleb said again, this time like it was a weapon.

There was a pause, brief and sharp. "And the mother?" A third man asked, cautious. "Will she be named? Brought forward?" Caleb's jaw tensed. "She died. Years ago." The silence thickened. "Your Grace." Someone dared again. "This decision... May unsettle the houses who've pledged their banners-" "Then let them be unsettled."

The words dropped like stone into still water. "I've served this duchy for years. Given it my youth, my loyalty, my blood. And I have buried every dream I once had for the sake of peace. But not this. I will not bury my son."

He leaned forward slightly, hands braced on the table. "Let me make this simple. I am not here to ask for your approval. I am informing you. As Duke, as Commander, as father, that Mavius Caelum Asher Xia is my heir. You will recognize him. You will show him the respect his name demands. Or you may leave your posts before sundown."

No one spoke after that. There was nothing left to say.

Meanwhile, Ash followed Sir Ryns down a quieter wing of the castle.

"This part of the keep isn't shown to most visitors." The aide said mildly. "But your father asked that you be given access. These halls are his private wing." Ash barely nodded.

He walked slower now, fingertips grazing the stone as if memorizing the shape of it. The rugs here were more worn. The windows opened onto smaller courtyards. It didn't feel like a palace. It felt like someone's home.

They rounded a final corner. And that's when he saw it. At the end of the hallway, tucked quietly across from the Duke's chamber door, hung a portrait. It wasn't regal. It wasn't formal.

You were painted sitting beneath a great blooming tree, one hand resting over your lap, a gentle smile dancing at the corners of your mouth. The sky behind you was warm with color.

Ash stopped. Sir Ryns paused behind him, then gave a small bow. "I'll give you a moment." He stepped away. And Ash stared.

You looked... Alive. Not like the worn memories, not like the soft dreams that blurred at the edges. This was clearer, sharper. He could almost imagine you laughing just out of frame.

And the way the painting was placed, nnot in a public gallery, not in the halls meant to impress but here. Here, where only Caleb would see it every time he passed his chamber.

Ash took one step closer. Then two. And just like that, something broke inside him.

Because all this time, despite everything you told him. Everything you left behind, some small, childish part of him had wondered if it was just a story. If his father had loved you less than duty. Less than legacy.

But this? This was not a thing done out of guilt. This was devotion. Frozen in oil and light.

And just for a moment, he let himself imagine what might've been. You, laughing down these halls. Your hand in his father, watching over him. The warmth of something that wasn't stolen by silence or time.

But it was only a painting now. And Ash? He turned away before the ache could swell too wide.

-

The garden had always been yours.

Even when the rest of the duchy bore the mark of lineage and strategy, marble and bloodline. This garden remained untouched by politics. It was a space you claimed not with words but by presence. By laughter echoing against the ivy. By your barefoot steps on wet grass at dawn. By the scent of jasmine clinging to the folds of your dress when you came in from the evening mist.

Now? It had grown wild in your absence.

The path was nearly swallowed by moss and wandering weeds. The lavender stalks bent heavy from months without pruning. The peonies, once carefully coaxed into bloom by your touch, were wilted. Their heads drooping as though even they were mourning.

Caleb stood beneath the worn stone archway, the sky already softening into late dusk. A breeze passed through, stirring the overgrown hedges, sending petals drifting onto the stones.

He didn't step forward just yet. Because there, between the tangled hedges and forgotten rosebushes, was Ash.

The boy moved slowly, quietly, his small hands brushing against leaf and bloom with an odd reverence. As if, instinctively, he knew this garden had once meant something. As if he could sense that someone, you, had once walked here every morning, humming softly to yourself, hands filled with shears, ribbon and soft flower threads you tucked into your hair.

Caleb swallowed hard. He couldn't bring himself to speak. He just watched, hand tightening around the edge of the pillar beside him, eyes following every movement like they were watching a ghost retrace your steps.

Ash crouched down near the base of the old stone bench. The very one where you had once curled beside Caleb with a worn book in hand. You always fell asleep midway through your stories, cheek pressed to his shoulder, your words slurring into nothing, warm breath fogging the pages.

It hurt. Gods, it hurt.

Caleb's throat ached from how tightly he clenched it. He hadn't stepped foot in this garden since the war began. It had been years. He had ridden out with armor and banners and men at his back, chasing glory that never filled the hollow parts of him. He never came back. Not until now. Not until everything else had already been lost.

How many things had he missed?

His son's first cry. His first steps. The first time he scraped his knee. The way he might have tugged at your sleeve and asked about the stars. The way you might have lit a lantern when he had nightmares, pulled him into your arms and told him stories about a man named Caleb, far away, fighting for peace.

Did you tell him you loved him for the both of you? Did you tell him he was worth all the waiting?

The wind stirred again. Ash turned his face toward the breeze and closed his eyes. The exact same way you once did. Caleb's heart broke in a quiet, restrained kind of way. No dramatics. Just pressure. Like something cracked deep in his chest and kept splintering.

He stepped forward. Ash opened his eyes at the sound of boots brushing against gravel but didn't turn. Just kept staring out over the garden. Caleb stopped beside him. "I used to come here with your mother." He said, voice low, almost too rough. "She always said this garden looked better wild."

Ash tilted his head. "She came here a lot?" Caleb nodded. "Every day. Before everything. She would talk to the plants. She hated when the gardeners trimmed too much. Said flowers should be allowed to reach for whatever they wanted."

Ash didn't respond. Just reached down and picked up a fallen peony petal, curling it between his fingers. The boy didn't speak for a long time. Then, softly. "Mother told me you were a hero." Caleb swallowed.

"Mother told me stories about you." Ash continued, fingers tracing a small blooming flower. "Said you were brave. That you were fighting for everyone, not just us. But some nights… I think she cried when she thought I was asleep." Caleb closed his eyes. "I'm sorry." He said. "For not being there. For not coming home sooner. For… Everything."

Ash looked down at the petal in his palm. Caleb crouched down beside him, fingers trembling as he rested a hand over Ash's shoulder, tentative, unsure. "I don't deserve forgiveness." He whispered. "But I want to try. For you. For her."

Ash finally looked at him. And for the first time, there was something softer in his eyes. A recognition. Maybe even… A beginning.

They stayed like that for a while, father and son, in a garden left wild by grief and time. And near them, the first bloom of the flower unfolded. Quiet, patient and unafraid to reach.

-

The halls of the duchy were quiet that night, save for the faint sound of torches flickering against the stone walls. The air held a kind of stillness that only came before something irreversible. Not quite dread, not quite anticipation. Just the soft weight of change, gathering like fog on the edge of dawn.

Caleb stood just outside Ash's door, hand hovering over the latch. He told himself to walk away. Let the boy sleep. Let him have the only peace he could offer before the court tried to take it away. But his hand moved anyway.

The room was dimly lit. A candle flickered low on the desk, half melted wax trailing down its base. The boy was curled on his side beneath a heavy quilt, not asleep. Just staring toward the window, as if the stars outside had something more comforting to say than Caleb ever could.

Caleb stepped in and closed the door behind him. "Can't sleep?" He asked softly. Ash didn't turn but his small voice broke the silence. "Too much noise in my head." Caleb pulled a chair close to the bed and sat with a quiet exhale. "I know the feeling."

They sat in silence for a while, just the two of them, the gap between their pasts too wide to be bridged with words. But Caleb was learning that closeness sometimes started like this, not with conversation but with presence. With showing up and staying put.

Ash shifted slightly under the covers. "I don't know how to do any of this." He murmured. "You don't have to." Caleb replied. "Not yet. You just have to be yourself." Ash's brow furrowed. "That's not what everyone else expects, is it?" Caleb smiled faintly. "I stopped caring what they expect a long time ago."

Ash didn't respond to that. Instead, after a beat, he asked. "Do you think mother be proud of me?" Caleb's heart clenched. He reached over, gently brushing a bit of hair from Ash's forehead. "She'd be proud of you for waking up in the morning. For breathing. For surviving." His voice faltered. "She'd be proud of how brave you've been."

Ash looked at him then, eyes shinier than before and with some hesitation. "Are you proud of me?" "I've only known you for a short while." Caleb said, voice rough. "But yes. Every single day, I'm proud of you. And I wish I could've been there sooner to say it."

The boy blinked and turned his face away. But not before Caleb saw the wetness in his eyes. "You're not alone anymore." Caleb added gently. "I'm here. I'll always be here." And for once, Ash didn't pull away when Caleb tucked the blanket tighter around him.

The next morning came with ceremony.

The great hall was transformed into something out of legend. Tall banners unfurled from the rafters, tapestries lined the walls with the crest of House Xia. Black and purple, the colors of night and their eyes. Every noble family of note stood waiting, their formalwear glittering, their expressions carefully controlled.

Caleb stood at the head of it all. The Duke, Commander, war hero returned from the frontlines after uniting the warring kingdoms, take back some throne for the right ruler to lead. All for the sake of peace. And beside him stood Ash.

He wore a suit cut to fit, his brown dark hair brushed neatly though his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. Caleb placed a steady hand on his shoulder. And stepped forward.

"My people." He began, voice resonant through the hall. "I have led you through war. I have fought beside you, bled for your families, and returned peace to this land not through conquest, but through righteousness." Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"But I come before you not as a hero." He continued, eyes sweeping across the nobility. "I come as a father." The air shifted, tense, expectant. "I stand here today to name my son. The heir of House Xia. The rightful child of my blood." Gasps whispered down the aisle, hushed disbelief tugging at curious glances.

"He was raised far from the court." Caleb said, lifting his chin. "But not from love. His mother, though not of noble birth, bore the heart of a saint. She raised him with strength, compassion and grace. His name is Mavius Caelum Asher Xia, my son and my legacy."

There was silence. Then applause. Hesitant at first, then thunderous. But even as they clapped, the nobles whispered behind fans and under breath. A commoner. Was he conceived before the war? How could the Duke hide such a thing? Who was the mother? Was it that village woman from the old rumors? Caleb heard it. He always did.

"My Lord." One older vassal began. He must have missed the first meeting. "We mean no disrespect. But surely the title of heir must pass through... Clearer channels. The duchy-"

"Will be inherited by my son." Caleb interrupted. His voice cut cleanly through the chamber. "Not because of his blood, but because of what he represents. He is my future. That is not up for debate."

Another tried. "But his mother-" "Will not be spoken of with anything less than honor." Caleb said, tone sharper now. "She gave her life raising him. She gave me a reason to come back. If you cannot speak of her with respect, then you do not deserve to speak at all." That silenced them.

And in the shadow of his words, no one dared challenge him again.

That night, Caleb sat in his chambers. The old box you left him still untouched on the bedside table.

Ash had long since gone to bed. But Caleb sat quietly, the moonlight pooling across the desk, and whispered your name like a prayer.

"I'm doing my best." He murmured. "I don't know if it's enough. But he's here. He's safe. And I won't let him face this world alone."

The box remained closed. Not yet. He wasn't ready to open the past. Not until he could face it with something steadier in his chest than grief.

-

The duchy was never silent, not even in the early hours.

There was always movement. The shuffle of boots on stone, the hum of court gossip, the rustle of silks as nobility drifted through the corridors like ghosts dressed in gold.

But within one particular wing of the castle, one newly opened after years of being shut. There was a kind of hush that wasn't born of reverence, but of adjustment.

Ash sat stiffly at the edge of the chair, back too straight as though posture alone could hold him upright through this.

The tailor buzzed around him, muttering about hem lengths and shoulder seams, fussing over measurements like his thread held the fabric of the kingdom.

Caleb stood near the door, arms crossed loosely, a patient look on his face. Ash caught him watching. "I can do this alone." He muttered. Caleb only shrugged. "I know." "Then why are you still here?" A soft smile makes its way on Caleb's lips. "Because I want to be."

Ash didn't answer, just looked down as the tailor moved to adjust a sleeve. It was like that most days. Stiff, clipped responses. Ash kept his emotions guarded. His trust locked behind layers of survival. But Caleb didn't push. He stayed.

He was there in the mornings, walking Ash through the halls and introducing him to the staff. He was there at meals, quietly explaining noble etiquette while pretending not to notice when Ash refused to use the proper cutlery out of spite.

He was there during riding lessons. Though Ash already knew how to ride. You had taught him, after all. But Caleb still showed up, still walked beside the horse, still held the reins steady when the stallion bucked just slightly.

Ash never said thank you. But he didn't push him away either. That was enough.

At night, they played chess by the fire.

Caleb let Ash win the first few games. After that, he didn't need to. "You're holding back." Ash said during one match, brow furrowed. Caleb smirked. "Am I?"

"I'm not a child." "No." Caleb said, moving a rook. "You're my son." Ash stared at the board. "You don't know me." "I'm trying to." Caleb replied gently.

For a moment, Ash didn't move. Then he said, quietly. "You missed a lot." Caleb nodded. "I did." Ash made his move. "Why didn't you come sooner?" The words were like flint, soft but capable of sparking every buried grief between them.

Caleb met his gaze. "Because I thought I'd have time." Ash didn't look away. "You didn't." "No." Caleb's voice was barely above a whisper. "I didn't."

Ash stared at him a moment longer. Then, finally, looked back down at the board. "Your move."

-

It was small things, after that.

Ash asking him to join for tea in the afternoons. Caleb fixing the saddle on Ash's horse without being asked. Ash staying just a little longer at the dining table instead of retreating to his room. Caleb brushing his hand over Ash's shoulder when they passed in the hall, the way fathers do without thinking.

They didn't speak of love. Not yet. But it was there, beneath the silences. The kind that didn't need words, only time.

-

The snow had fallen without mercy that night.

Pale and soundless, it coated the roofs of the duchy and swept down the narrow roads like a silken veil. It blurred the horizon until the world outside the windows looked like something imagined. Soft, distant, dreamless.

But inside the west wing, there was no dream. Only fever. And the ragged breathing of a child calling out for someone who would never come.

Ash had not been well for days.

What began as a stubborn cold had twisted into a high, searing fever that clung to him like a curse. The court physicians had done all they could. Steam, broths, tinctures too bitter to keep down. But Ash fought them. Resisted, pushed away hands trying to help.

He was crying again. "Mama..." The boy whimpered, thrashing under the heavy blankets, eyes glassy and faraway. "Where's Mama…?" And then. "I want to go home..."

The servants wept quietly in the hallway. They didn't know which home the young lord meant. Be it the one made of wood and warmth tucked at the edge of the forest or the one now buried beneath the tree near the river side. Either way, neither could be returned to.

The physician knelt helplessly beside the bed. "He won't take the medicine." He muttered. "He won't-"

The door slammed open. Boot steps thundered against the stone floor. The Duke had returned.

Caleb didn't say a word as he stormed into the room, frost clinging to the edges of his cloak. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. His hands were still red from the reins, his shoulders dusted with snow. But none of it mattered.

Because his son was screaming for someone who couldn't answer.

"Mama-!" Caleb's heart twisted so violently he thought it might finally split in half. "I'm here." He breathed, crossing the room in a heartbeat. "Ash. I'm here."

But Ash didn't see him or if he did, he didn't recognize him. He was somewhere else. Somewhere safer. Somewhere warmer, where your arms still waited and your voice still sang.

The boy's body shook with sobs. "Please- I want Mama- I want- her-" Caleb sat on the bed and pulled Ash into his arms. The boy didn't resist. He clung. Like drowning. And Caleb, for once, didn't know what to do.

He held him tighter, rocking him gently as the boy cried and gasped and called for the one person neither of them could return to.

The physician hesitated. "Your Grace, the medi-" Caleb reached out, took the cup, and held it to his son's lips. Ash turned his head away violently, a sound breaking in his throat like a wounded animal. He trembled, gasped, cried. "No- no- no-"

So Caleb pressed his forehead to Ash's temple. "You want her." He whispered, voice cracking. "I know. I know." His eyes stung. He bit back the tears, but they came anyway, hot, silent and furious. "I want her too."

The boy hiccupped still half in delirium. "I miss her so much." Caleb whispered. "Every day. Every breath. You might not remember it, but I know she used to hum when you couldn't sleep. I know she'll kissed your forehead when you had bad dreams. I know she carry you when you wouldn't stop crying. I know she loved you more than the stars, Ash. She would've fought the gods themselves for you."

Caleb paused. Swallowed. "But I'm here now. And I won't let you go. Please- Let me stay. Let me take care of you. For her. For you. For us."

Ash whimpered. Then slowly like something inside him recognized the grief in that voice, he opened his lips. Caleb raised the cup. Ash drank. Not all of it. Not without difficulty. But enough.

The boy collapsed against him after, exhausted. And Caleb held him through it, through the shallow breaths and the sweat and the half conscious murmurs that still whispered for you.

He brushed the damp hair back from Ash's forehead. Kissed his brow. Wiped away the tears neither of them knew how to stop.

Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, time stood still.

Later that night, long after Ash had fallen into a fevered sleep, Caleb remained by the bed, hunched forward with elbows on his knees, your son's small hand still wrapped tightly around his finger.

He stared into the fire, eyes hollow. "I should’ve come sooner." He whispered to no one. To you. To the silence. "I should've given it all up. Just for one more year. Just to hold him like this, while you were still here."

The flames didn't answer. But your presence was everywhere. In the scarf folded on the nightstand, the lullaby Ash had murmured before sleep, the faint scent of lilies that lingered on the Ash's blanket.

You were gone. But you were in everything. He looked at the sleeping boy. Pale. Fragile. He was all that remained of you. And he was everything.

-

The fever had passed.

Ash was on the mend, stronger with each passing day, the heat of illness gone from his skin, the distant haze fading from his eyes. But the space between him and Caleb remained quiet, still slightly tense. Not cold. Just… Uncertain.

Ash didn't avoid him anymore. He no longer pulled away when Caleb adjusted his blanket or sat beside him during meals. But neither did he reach out. Not yet. There were no arguments. But no real conversations, either. Not about the things that mattered. Not about her.

He didn't hate his father. He kept telling himself that. But sometimes, when the shadows settled in just right, he remembered the years spent wondering why the door never opened. Why the man in his mother's stories never arrived.

It was easier to pretend he didn't care. Harder to accept that he did.

So one afternoon, while the palace was caught in the lull between meetings and duties and Caleb was tucked somewhere in council, Ash wandered.

Down the halls echoing with memories he wasn't part of. Past portraits he didn't recognize. Through rooms filled with polished furniture and untouched heirlooms. Until he found the door. It wasn't locked.

Not his father's main office, no. This was smaller. Tucked away behind a quiet hallway near the west tower. A study, maybe. Or something older. He hesitated, hand on the latch. Then pushed it open.

The room smelled of aged parchment and cedar wood, soft and worn. Bookshelves lined the walls, dustier than they should be. A map of the old provinces lay unfurled on a desk, corners curled from time. And on the far wall. A painting. He froze.

You, his mother and Caleb. Young. Laughing. Radiant. Your hands in his. His arm around your shoulders, a look on his face that Ash didn't think he'd ever seen in person. You were smiling at him in that painting. And Caleb. His father wasn't looking at the artist at all. He was only looking at you.

Ash stepped closer. His heart beat too fast. Beneath the painting, there were boxes. Not marked. Not sealed. He knelt, fingers trembling slightly, and opened the first one. Letters.

His breath caught. Dozens of them. Some torn at the edges. Some ink-smudged. Some wrinkled as if they'd been carried in the rain. He unfolded the top one.

At the same time. The west wing was quiet. Quieter than the rest of the castle.

Even the wind seemed to hush as it pressed against the high windows, like it, too, knew not to disturb what lay behind that half opened door.

Caleb hadn't been in that room for years. Not since before the war. Not since before everything unraveled and was never stitched back together again. It was a personal room, not the Duke's office, not the public study. It was a room only he had reason to enter.

And now, the door was open. And the silence inside was not the silence of emptiness. It was a silence full of grief. He pushed it open slowly.

Ash sat on the wooden floor, legs tucked beneath him, small fingers curled around a sheet of yellowing paper. Around him lay scattered envelopes, some torn open, some still sealed. The box that once held them had tipped onto its side.

The boy didn't look up. Not even when Caleb stepped fully into the room. Ash's voice was small when he finally spoke.

"You wrote her." Caleb's chest tightened. "I didn't know you ever did." Ash's eyes were red, but dry now. His throat worked as he swallowed. He glanced down again and began reading aloud voice trembling, fragile.

I still see you in my sleep. I wake up thinking I'm back at the old tree, and you're lying beside me with grass in your hair. I reach out, and you're never there. That's how I start my mornings now.

Ash picked up another.

They tell me to forget. They tell me duty matters more than anything. But if they saw you, just once, they'd know why I couldn't.

Caleb froze in place, unable to move, unable to speak. Ash kept going.

I heard rumors you had gone south. I spent a week riding with no name, no insignia. I searched every village. Every market. Nothing. No trace of you. I started to think you were a ghost, sent to haunt me just long enough to remember what love felt like.

Another.

I'm sorry I left you behind. But I would make it right. After the war I'll find a way back to you. I know we had more time ahead of us.

Ash's voice cracked. He reached for another. And paused. This one had your name on the front. Just your name, in Caleb's slanted, uneven script like he had written it in a moment of weakness and haste. He opened it, carefully. His voice dropped. Ash's hands trembled.

I know I wasn't enough. I couldn't protect you. I couldn't choose you. But gods, if I could turn back time, if I could see you one last time… I would give away this title, this honour just to hear you laugh again. To hold you. To say goodbye properly.

The letter slipped from Ash's fingers. And when he finally looked up, his eyes were brimming.

"You didn't know about me." He whispered. "You didn't know I exist." Caleb finally found his voice. "No." He said softly. "I didn't." Ash nodded slowly.

Then like the dam finally cracked, the tears spilled over, full and messy and childlike.

"But why didn't you try harder?! Why didn’t you come sooner?!" He shouted suddenly, voice breaking. "She waited for you! She told me you'll come back! Every year she said it, every year! And then she got sick! And you weren't there! She said you were a good man! She said you'd come back! But you never did! You never came!"

Caleb stepped forward, kneeling down, hands open. "I didn't know-" "You should've!" Ash cried. "She believed in you! And I did too! And you weren't there when she died! She died! She died before you came! And I was alone! I was- I didn't know what to do-!"

He hit him then, small fists pounding against his father's chest. Caleb didn't stop him. "She said you loved us." Ash sobbed. "She said you loved her! And I kept waiting and you never came!" "I'm sorry." Caleb said, voice hoarse. "I'm so sorry."

Ash's fists slowed. His little body trembled with the weight of grief he shouldn't have had to carry alone. Caleb wrapped his arms around him gently. "Everyone told me stories - stories about you- about how you married someone else- that you forgot us- and I didn't know what to believe-! I hated you- I hated you so much-"

Ash finally crumpled against him, the fight falling out of him all at once. "She always said you'd come back." He hiccupped. "I kept believing. I waited. I really… I really did." "I'm sorry." He whispered into his son's hair. "I'm so, so sorry."

"I wrote to her because I didn't know where to go." He whispered. "Every letter was a prayer. Every day I thought I could find her, I thought- gods, I thought I had time. I thought once the war ended-" He couldn't finish.

"I missed your whole life." He choked. "I missed everything." Ash hiccupped against his chest. "She always told me stories about you." Ash whispered. "She said you'd come back. That you were brave. That you had a good heart. But sometimes... I didn't believe her. I thought she was lying. I thought you'd left us."

"I didn't know I had a son." Caleb whispered. "But I knew I had a reason to live. I just didn't know it was you." Ash pulled back slightly, looking at him. "Do you still love her?" "I always will." Caleb said.

Ash hesitated. Then, in a tiny voice, asked. "Can I call you Dad?" Caleb's breath caught. He nodded, one slow, shaking nod. "Yes." He whispered. "Yes. Please." And Ash, still sniffling, wrapped his arms around his father.

"I don't hate you anymore." Ash said. "And I forgive you." He said quietly. "But you have to promise to stay this time." "I will." Caleb said burying his face in his son's hair. "I swear. I won't lose you too."

-

Time had softened the ache, but never erased it.

Years passed, as they do in places built from stone and silence. The Xia Duchy become prosperous from war given the fact that they played a big role taking the princess side who was now the queen of her own kingdom. It was rebuilt beneath its people's pride and their Duke's stern discipline.

And through it all, Caleb ruled with the quiet steadiness he had always been known for. Colder now, more distant perhaps, but respected without question. And beside him, his son.

Mavius Caelum Asher Xia, now older, sharper, taller than before. He had moved through the estate like someone born to its halls yet always with a piece of himself withheld. He was polite in court. Composed in lessons. Exceptionally bright in every diplomatic event or noble function Caleb took him to.

But he smiled less than most boys his age. And he trusted even fewer. His heart, after all, had already broken once. And while it had learned to beat again, it remembered. Always.

Caleb tried not to think about how many nights he had missed. How many birthdays, how many mornings, how many firsts. But in the years since he had brought Ash home, he had never spent another one away. He did not plan to.

Ash had become his world now and every day Caleb tried to become the kind of father you would have wanted him to be.

But grief did not stop time. And time did not stop society.

It started with a letter. Then a visit. Then three more. Ladies, noble blooded, marriageable, politically useful arriving with simpering smiles and folded hands, trailing daughters as carefully dressed as they were clearly rehearsed. They came with tea and embroidery, cloaks lined with lace and intention.

Each one mentioned Ash with practiced warmth, with concern, with a motherly tone none of them had earned.

And Caleb? Caleb refused them before they finished speaking. "I am not looking for a wife." He said coldly, every time. "But my daughter-" "Is not her." He cut in once. And that was the end of that conversation.

But then came the bold ones. The ones who sought out Ash. In the garden. In the stables. Near the training fields. With carefully measured smiles and low voices.

Once, a lady bent to place a hand on Ash’s shoulder and said softly. "You must be so lonely without a woman's care. A boy needs a mother to-" "I had one." Ash said flatly, stepping away. "She died. I don't need a replacement." And he walked off, back straight, face unreadable.

Another tried to invite him for tea. Brought a cake she claimed to have made herself. Ash took one look at it, smiled politely and handed it to the kitchen staff without taking a bite. "Looks heavy." He said. "Just like your expectations." The staff nearly choked on their breath.

By the time he was thirteen, word had gotten around the court. Mavius Caelum Asher Xia, the heir of the Duke was not a boy easily charmed. And if you approached him with pity, manipulation or anything less than honesty, you were going to walk away very embarrassed.

Once, someone tried it in front of Caleb. A highborn woman, twice widowed, always circling. Had the nerve to say. "Ash is such a thoughtful child. I've always dreamed of being a mother to a boy like that." Ash glanced up from his book. "You dream too much."

The silence was palpable. Caleb didn't hide his smirk. Didn't wven try to hide his chuckle.

Later that evening, in the privacy of the Duke's study, Caleb leaned back in his chair and looked over at Ash, who sat curled up in one of the armchairs reading. "You know." Caleb said mildly. "There are more diplomatic ways to discourage suitors."

Ash didn't look up. "You want me to stop?" "No." Caleb said. "Just wondering if you took more after me or your mother." Ash shrugged. "I take after her." "Clearly." There was a beat. Then Caleb added, quieter. "She would've liked that."

Ash looked up. For a long moment, they just looked at each other. Then Ash said softly. "Do you miss her even now?" "Every day." Ash set his book down, carefully.

"I don't want another mother." He said. "No one could be her." "I know." "Some of them think they can just… smile their way in. Like she didn't matter. Like they can take her place." "They can't." Caleb said. "And I won't let them."

Ash tilted his head. "Even if it helps the court? Even if people say it would be good for your image?" "I've never cared much for appearances." Caleb said, smiling faintly. "I let them say what they want."

"Even if it hurts your reputation?" "Even then." Caleb said. "Because you're my son, our son and has more sense than the entire court combined."

Ash blinked, not used to compliments. He looked away, pretending to read again. But Caleb could see the smallest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. That was enough.

And that night, as they passed each other in the hallway. Ash heading to his room, Caleb to his study and the boy, his boy paused, turned slightly, and mumbled. "I think she would've liked you now." Then he disappeared behind the door before Caleb could say a word.

-

The halls of the duchy were once again filled with light.

Banners fluttered from balconies and carved archways, catching the late spring breeze that danced through stone colonnades and across the open courtyard.

Servants moved briskly. Nobles arrived in their finest. And in the grand ballroom where years ago Caleb had once stood beneath a crown of duty, the people now stood for a different Duke. A younger one. One born of quiet strength and hidden roots. Of love, not arrangement.

Ash stood at the center of it all. Tall, sure footed, his features a blend of both memory and legacy. Dressed in a deep indigo regalia stitched with silver thread, he wore the weight of his title like it had always belonged to him.

But today was not just about ascension. It was also about love.

Because standing beside Ash, hands clasped in his, was a young woman in a simple cream gown. No crown, no courtly title, only a soft look in her eyes that said she saw him not for his name but for the boy who once cried for his mother in fevered dreams.

She was from the duchy. Not noble, not titled. Just kind. Clever. A girl with ink stained hands and warm laughter who had met Ash under an apricot tree, the one Caleb planted all those years ago, with you. And argued with him over books, not bloodlines. And somehow, she became his future.

From a distance, hidden in the far end of the courtyard, away from the clamor. Caleb watched it unfold. He stood in shadow, still in his formal clothing but without the heavy cape. Age had crept into his bones more fully now, silver threading through his dark brown hair like early frost. His posture remained dignified, but there was a weight in his gaze.

The quiet ache of a man who had spent his life carrying the consequence of choices.

But in his eyes… There was peace. Because Ash had done it. He had broken the cycle. He had chosen love. And Caleb, though it cost him years and memories and the warmth of you beside him was here to see it.

When the crowd erupted in cheers and the lovers were announced, Ash looked up. Searched the courtyard. And found him. Their eyes met. Ash smiled. So did Caleb.

Later, after the festivities had dimmed and guests wandered off into courtyards and wine drunk laughter, Ash found his father standing beneath the veranda near the old marble fountain. The air smelled of roses and old stone. His footsteps were soft.

"You're not staying the night." Ash said gently, already knowing the answer. Caleb smiled faintly, not turning. "No." "You really are going back to the village, father?" "That's always been the plan." Caleb said, looking out at the stars. "I kept a promise, once. That I'd live simply. Return to the roots where it all began. It's time I kept it."

Ash looked at him, expression unreadable. "And you're fine with that? Leaving all this?" "All this." Caleb echoed, gesturing around. "Was never mine to keep. It was only ever a placeholder for something I lost. Now… Now, it belongs to someone who still believes in it."

Ash was quiet. Then, quietly. "Will you be lonely?" Caleb turned, finally. "Not if you come visit once in a while." Ash's face softened. "I will." Caleb reached forward and fixed the clasp on Ash's cloak. The way you used to do for him. He stepped back. Nodded.

"You look just like her when you smile." Caleb murmured. "But you live better than I ever did. I'm proud of you." Ash swallowed hard. "She would've been too." They stood in silence a moment longer.

Then as Ash was called back to the celebration, he gave his father one final look, half smile breaking the serious line of his jaw. "Don't forget to water the tree." He said dryly. Caleb chuckled. "Brat." "Old man."

They parted with quiet hearts and full ones. And as Caleb left the duchy that night, cloak fluttering behind him in the wind, he felt for the first time in years. Like he was going home.

-

The house stood at the edge of the forest, just beyond where the village road curved and gave way to thickets of pine and soft grass. It hadn't changed much.

Still weather worn, still crooked in the corners, but sturdier now. As though someone had seen the cracks and mended them with care. The roof no longer sagged. The fireplace, though cold, was clean. The porch steps creaked less than they used to.

Caleb stood at the doorway for a long time, hand on the wooden frame, just... Stare. He had brought little with him. A trunk of clothes. A satchel of books. A few mementos he never quite had the strength to throw away. But most importantly, he brought the box, that box. Still sealed, still untouched after all these years.

He didn't open it yet. He didn't feel ready. He set it on the table where you once used to leave wildflowers in a chipped vase. For now, that was enough.

The village welcomed him quietly. They nodded, offered faint smiles, and went on with their lives. They knew who he was. What he had lost. What he was trying, quietly, to remember.

Caleb spent most mornings walking. Sometimes to the baker, who remembered still sell the kind of bread that you like. Sometimes to the tailor, who once helped stitch Ash's baby clothes. He didn't speak much but his presence was never unwelcome.

In the afternoons, he wandered down the path to the river, the same way you used to. The tree was still there, that same old tree, roots like fingers pressed into the dirt, still standing guard over the world the two of you had tried to build.

He would sit beneath it, right next to your tombstone as if siting right next to you for hours. Watching the way the sun reflected on the water. Listening to the breeze as it rustled the leaves. It was quiet, peaceful. The kind of quiet he used to hate when he was younger.

Now, he craved it. Because in that stillness, you lived again. He saw you in the way the river curved around the stones. In the way the light filtered through the canopy, golden and soft.

In the echo of children laughing in the distance. The same way Ash once did, toddling across these fields before either of them knew his name.

Sometimes, he would hum. A tune only you would remember. The one you used to sing when you were cleaning or when you danced barefoot by the firelight, coaxing him to join you even when he said he couldn't dance.

Caleb never responded to those memories with words. He just closed his eyes. Let them hurt. Let them stay.

Each night, he would return to the house, make tea the way you used to and sit by the window and write. Not letters, he had written too many. It was just thoughts now. Notes. Fragments. Pieces of love, tucked between lines of grief.

He wasn't waiting anymore. He wasn't chasing anything. But every now and then, he'd glance at the box on the table. The one filled with your handwriting. Your last truths.

And he would wonder if maybe, tomorrow, he would be brave enough to open it. Just not tonight.

Tonight, he would light the lamp. Pour another cup. Sit by the fire. And remember you as you were. Laughing, brilliant, alive in the only place you ever truly belonged.

Home. With him.

-

The fire had dimmed to embers.

Caleb Xia sat in the worn wooden chair by the window. The same one you used to claim on restless nights, knees tucked to your chest, voice soft with laughter. The air was still, the kind of stillness that only comes when life has slowed into memory. Even the wind outside hushed for him, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath.

He had lived many lives in one. Soldier. Commander. Duke. But none of them had ever felt as heavy, or as holy, as being yours. And then, being a father.

The box sat beside him now. Old, weatherworn, the latch loose from travel and time. He had carried it for years, across courts, across time, through years of frostbitten regret. A box he dared not open because some part of him was afraid that once he did, the last thread tethering you to this world would snap.

But now, he was ready. And the lid creaked open.

Your handwriting was the first thing that struck him. Still familiar, still you, the loops and softness of your letters holding time like pressed petals between pages. He read.

Caleb,

If this letter reaches you, maybe I'm gone. Maybe you're back. Maybe you're sitting under our tree again, pretending not to cry. You never did cry easily. Always so composed. Always carrying everything alone.

But I hope you let yourself cry this time.

He smiled faintly, tears already slipping past his lashes. Another letter.

Ash took his first step today. It was clumsy. Beautiful. He fell straight into the garden soil, laughed, and held his hands up to me like he'd just conquered the world.

He looks like you. But when he sleeps, he curls into himself the way I do.

I tell him stories about you. I call you his brave father. The hero who fights so no other child has to lose their home.

And sometimes, when I'm tired and the house is too quiet, I let myself imagine you're just late coming home.

He bowed his head, fingers clutching the edge of the parchment. His shoulders trembled. The words blurred.

Letter after letter, unfolding like spring after too long a winter. Telling stories of scraped knees and lullabies. Of hopes you never voiced out loud. Of a love you never regretted, not even once.

I never blamed you. You must know that. I chose this. I chose to keep him safe. I chose to stay hidden, to keep you from the shame and blood of scandal.

You always said love was dangerous. But I think ours bloomed because of that. It bloomed in the cracks between duty and longing.

It bloomed in silence.

His hand moved to the pendant at his throat. The one that used to be yours. The one he'd found around Ash's neck that day in this village. The moment that changed everything.

If you ever come back here... Tell him I'm sorry. For everything I couldn't be. For every night he cried and I couldn't stop missing you enough to smile.

But remind him, our son, that I loved him. And remind him you loved him too, even before you knew he existed.

I see you in him, Caleb. Every time he looks at me. Every time he stares off like the sky is whispering something only he can hear.

You don't have to carry guilt. Just love. That's what we leave behind, isn't it? What was left to bloom.

Caleb exhaled, long and slow, like his heart had finally been given permission to rest.

What was left to bloom. Yes. That had been Ash. A child born from love that never got to finish saying everything it wanted to. A child raised with stories, not presence. But still full of roots and meaning.

He placed the last letter back in the box. Closed the lid gently.

His eyes drifted toward the window. Beyond it, the tree stood tall. Your tree. Their tree. Our tree. Blossoms just beginning to peek out from its tired branches, defiant against the last bite of cold.

Caleb's breath came slower now. He leaned back in the chair, fingers curled around the box. And there, in the final quiet of early spring, with sunlight pooling at his feet like an old friend, Caleb closed his eyes and let go.

-

Ash arrived just before dawn.

He'd brought fresh bread. He was planning to convince his father to come into the village square for tea. Maybe watch the river again. Maybe talk, like they'd been doing more lately.

But when he stepped inside and saw his father still and peaceful in the chair, the box of letters on his lap, the quiet smile on his face. He knew.

He said nothing at first. Just knelt beside him. Held his hand. Then whispered. "She waited." His voice broke. "And you found her."

-

Outside, the river moved slow and sure. The breeze brushed past the blooming tree with a hush, as if the world itself was bowing.

And in the years to come, when Ash would walk through those woods with his own children, he would point to that house, that tree, and say. "This is where love once bloomed. And this is what came after."

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: not sure if this really hurts or I'm just being dramatic cuz I actually cried writing this. Also, the content of what actually happened in the war would be explain in the other guys fic. Bye.

[lynostalgi]

Moldable like clay

Synopsis: You weren’t supposed to look at your professor like that—not with heat curling low in your stomach every time his hands touched clay, not when his voice dipped low to correct your form, not when he stood behind you and murmured instructions and directions.

You tried not to imagine how those same fingers would feel somewhere else. Tried to stay focused on your work, on your final portfolio, on your future. But every time Rafayel leaned over your shoulder, every time that deep voice brushed your ear, your mind slipped somewhere else entirely.

And when the tension finally broke, he didn't just take you—he sculpted you, worshiped you, ruined you like you were always meant to be his favorite masterpiece.

Content warnings: Power imbalance, professor/student, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, inappropriate thoughts in academic settings, mutual obsession, teasing dominance, sexually charged banter, verbal teasing, oral fixation, possessiveness, praise kink, dirty talk, office sex, desk sex, marking (light), inappropriate fantasies, orgasm control, sexual overstimulation, exhibitionism (implied), mutual pining, light coercive language (consensual), pottery metaphors taken way too far, intensity kink, sensory overload, aftercare implied.

Pairings: Professor!Rafayel x reader

Word count: 19k

A/n: because I am insane about spreading Professor!Rafayel agenda, of course I had to write yet another delusional fantasy of mine where Rafayel is teaching reader pottery...and other stuff:)

part 2 here

Part 1

You hated the smell the moment you stepped in.

Wet earth. Dust. Something ancient, like the breath of ruins or broken statues left to rot in the rain. It clung to the walls, to your sleeves, to the faint pulse at the base of your throat.

The sculpture wing was colder than the rest of the building—bare concrete floors, wide steel sinks, long, pitted tables that bore the scars of students before you. And at the far end, rows of clay blocks sat in plastic wrap like sleeping beasts.

You hovered by the door for a beat longer than necessary, as if stepping fully in would admit something.

You didn’t really want to be here.

You were a painter—top of your class, rumored to have gotten a personal letter from the program director when your portfolio landed. Every instructor loved to say it: she bleeds light into her canvases. You worked in oils, ink, charcoal, acrylic. Control was your oxygen. Detail was your domain. You once spent fourteen hours straight rendering the curve of a mother’s knuckle as she held her child’s hand.

You understood control. Sculpture… wasn’t that. You were only here because Advanced Media Integration was a core requirement. And because, rumor had it, this year the program brought in someone new to teach it.

Professor Rafayel.

The name alone made half the studio majors lose their minds.

They whispered about him in the hallways like he was myth. That he had once exhibited in Paris, that he sculpted with his eyes closed, that his hands alone could make marble weep. That he refused interviews, hated praise, and once burned a gallery showing mid-exhibit just because the lighting was wrong.

You hadn’t seen him so far, but you’d felt something sharp shift when his name appeared on your class schedule.

Still, you hadn’t chosen this medium. And when you looked at the wrapped block of clay on your assigned table, a kind of dread settled in your chest like silt.

You dropped your sketchbook beside it and didn't even bother opening it. Your fingers were already cold.

Most students trickled in slowly—arms crossed, hoodies up, laughter echoing through the tall ceilings. You knew none of them by name. You rarely did. You kept to yourself, in the quiet corners of classrooms and studios, the places no one bothered you while you worked.

You could already tell this wouldn’t be one of those places.

The clay sat heavy on the table in front of you like a dare. Like it knew something you didn’t.

You pressed your thumb into the edge, experimentally. It didn’t give. Not right away. Not like paint. Paint obeyed. Clay resisted. It had weight. Texture. A body. And suddenly, you hated it even more.

You wiped your thumb on your jeans and tried not to stare at the empty desk at the front of the room—the one where your professor would be.

Would he be late? Arrogant? Obsessive? You weren’t sure which version of the myth to expect.

You opened your sketchbook finally, dragging charcoal across the page with more force than necessary. Circles. Repetitions. A breath, a heartbeat, the only ritual that steadied you.

You didn’t look up when the door opened again. But something changed in the air—subtle, electric, a shift that slid across your skin like pressure before a storm.

You didn’t bother looking. Instead, you pressed your charcoal harder into the page, as if daring the presence to speak first.

You only looked up when he finally settled at the front desk—slow, deliberate, entirely unbothered by the collective shift in air as every student in the room turned toward him. There was a flicker of amusement in the curve of his mouth, like he’d already seen the dread stamped across their faces and decided to enjoy it.

You didn’t bother pretending.

No forced smile. No eager notebook click or strategic posture adjustment to seem more engaged than you were. You weren’t. You weren’t excited about this class, this medium, or the idea of being reduced to a beginner again just when you’d finally earned your reputation as someone with control over your art. So you just sat there—arms crossed, expression flat—as your gaze drifted from the block of clay on your table to the man now unwrapping a bundle of tools like they were instruments in an operating theatre.

What you didn’t expect—what you hadn’t prepared for—was that he’d be young.

Not “adjunct-faculty-still-finishing-his-degree” young. Unsettlingly young. Early twenties at most, maybe younger. He moved with the relaxed confidence of someone who had already done enough to be bored of his own résumé, and he looked… well, far too beautiful to be real.

You blinked once and then again, trying to process it.

The rumors had called him brilliant. A prodigy. Not technically a professor, but someone the university had all but begged to teach this course—a guest artist-in-residence with too many awards and too little patience for mediocrity. You’d read the articles, skimmed the exhibit reviews, stared at photos of his work until your screen blurred from the light. But somehow, in all your research, you’d managed to avoid seeing a single picture of him.

Until now.

And now he was right there. Not a myth. Not a name on your schedule. Just a man in a half-unbuttoned linen shirt and charcoal-dark pants, sleeves pushed to the elbows, hands brushing over the edge of the desk like they belonged there more than anyone else in the room.

His hair was just long enough to fall into his eyes, the soft waves parted down the middle in a way that should’ve looked dated—but didn’t. The light caught on the subtle amethyst hue of his irises as he looked over the class, assessing without effort. Not in judgment, not exactly. Just watching.

“Right,” he said finally, voice smooth and inflected with something you couldn’t quite place—charming, amused, just the faintest bit sharp at the edges. “Welcome to Advanced Media Integration. This is the part where I give a speech about artistic boundaries and what it means to engage with material. But we can skip the theatrics, yes?”

A few students gave awkward laughs. You didn’t.

He continued, unbothered. “You’re here because someone somewhere decided you were capable of working with more than one form of expression. Some of you will prove them right. The rest of you will cry into your sketchbooks by week three.” Another pause, and that grin again. “Try not to make it personal.”

He paced as he spoke, weaving between rows of tables like he was strolling through a gallery, the space bending with his movements. Students sat up straighter as he passed, eyes wide, pencils forgotten behind ears and under sleeves. You didn’t try to hide your stare—but you didn’t lean forward either.

You were curious, not impressed. Okay, maybe a little impressed. But only where it counted.

Because despite your refusal to care, you’d looked through his pieces the night before. You remembered the sculpture carved from marble so pale it looked like it would bleed if you touched it. The hands he’d cast that didn’t just show tension—they ached with it. Paintings layered with impossible texture, as though you could scrape them and find more truth underneath.

You hated how much it made you want to see what he would do in your medium. What he might force you to do with his.

He clapped his hands together once, light and decisive.

“Clay is difficult,” he said, like it was a compliment. “It doesn’t want you. It doesn’t care about your intention, or your talent, or what school of thought you cling to when your project collapses for the fifth time. If you treat it like a canvas, it will humiliate you. If you fight it, it will break you.”

He smiles then—small, dangerous. “That’s what makes it fun.”

You stare, expression unreadable. His gaze doesn't meet yours. It slides right past, onto someone else, then someone else still.

You watch as he returns to his desk—fluid, unhurried, every motion precise like he’s measuring the room without needing to try. For the next twenty minutes, he speaks with the kind of casual authority that feels more like provocation than instruction. Not lecturing. Inviting. Daring the class to keep up.

“Pottery,” he says, folding his sleeves with the absentminded grace of someone who’s done it a thousand times, “is not about control. Not entirely. It’s about conversation. Between your hands and the clay, between the clay and gravity, between patience and pressure. It’s the one medium that won’t lie for you.”

He looks up, the corners of his mouth tugging slightly. “So if it collapses on you… well. That’s honest and purely intentional.”

He doesn’t teach like the others do—no rigid syllabus, no bullet-pointed slides. Instead, he talks. Spirals, provokes, challenges.

“For those of you hoping this class will be meditative,” he says, voice smooth with amusement, “I suggest herbal tea and a coloring book. Clay is not your friend. It will not soothe you. It will ruin your day if you let it.”

A few students laugh, but you don't. 

You’re trying to listen, you really are—but your attention flickers back, again and again, to the pale slab of clay sitting heavy in front of you like it knows something you don’t. It’s damp and cold and slightly cracked near the edges, already mocking you.

You’re not even sure you’ll get this right. And for some reason, that thought unsettles you more than it should.

You scoff under your breath and roll your shoulders back, mentally recalibrating. It’s just material, you tell yourself. It’s not smarter than you.

Still, your eyes stray to where he begins to demonstrate—nothing elaborate, just something simple with his hands and a slab. Something basic. Foundational. But the way he touches the clay… it’s like it was made to obey him. His fingers, long and smooth, coax it with effortless pressure—measured, graceful, without a hint of hesitation. It bends, it yields. It listens.

Yours does not.

You try to mirror his motion. Shape the same curve, apply the same force. The result is—well. Lumpy at best. Collapse at worst.

The rest of the class goes like that.

You grit your teeth and work in silence, the frustration building as your fingers slip too fast or press too hard, ruining the delicate wall you’d tried to carve. Every mistake feels like it’s underlined. You steal glances at your peers—some fumbling, others weirdly getting it—and then back to him, where the clay is forming something soft, elegant, alive in his hands.

It continues that way for weeks.

You stop noticing the way people stare at him, the quiet awe when he walks in, the gossip from girls who linger long after the bell rings. You don’t gawk. You can’t afford to—you're too deep in your own trench war with the medium. Every class leaves you with sore fingers and a sore ego. He makes it look infuriatingly easy, and you despise that about him.

Because how is it fair that the clay molds perfectly around his fingers, smooth and docile, and yet in your hands it twists and caves in and fights like it’s alive and angry?

You tell yourself he hasn’t noticed. That you’re one of many. Just another student with half-formed bowls and a dented pride. You tell yourself he’s too wrapped up in his own brilliance to care about your struggle.

Which is why, when the rest of the students start packing up one Thursday afternoon and his voice lifts quietly over the soft rustle of movement— “Stay a moment, would you?” —you freeze.

Your gaze snaps up before you can control it. He’s standing at the front of the room again, relaxed against the edge of his desk, arms loosely crossed. His head tilts slightly toward you, as if to confirm he did mean you specifically.

Your lips pull into a thin line. You nod once, uncertain, and try not to look too much at the mess you’ve left on your table. The clay still sits there, half-dried and half-collapsed. It looks like it gave up halfway through the battle. You sort of relate.

The room empties slowly around you. You force yourself to keep your chin up, to pretend this doesn’t rattle you. But when you glance back toward him, you find him already looking—not at you, but at your work. Quietly. Intently.

You hate how warm your neck suddenly feels.

You fold your arms loosely, unsure what to say, and wait for the criticism to fall like a hammer. But it doesn’t.

“That’s not bad,” he says, gently. “It’s… impatient. But not bad.”

Your brow twitches. “Is that supposed to be encouraging?”

“Would you prefer I lied?” he smiles, just a flash of it, sly and charming. “You’re rushing the form. Forcing the symmetry before the foundation settles. But your instincts aren’t wrong.”

You don’t respond right away. You’re still caught somewhere between wanting to be annoyed and startled by the fact that he’s actually paid attention to your process at all.

He steps a little closer, enough to gesture toward the clay.

“You’re trying to control it too early,” he continues, tone even. “Clay doesn’t like being dictated to. You have to let it meet you halfway. That takes time. And stubbornness.” he casts a look at you then, pointed but amused. “Fortunately, you seem to have plenty of the latter.”

You exhale through your nose, reluctantly amused. “Is that another compliment in disguise?”

“I don’t do compliments,” he replies, brushing his fingers clean with a cloth. “Just observations.”

You shift your weight, glancing back down at your poor, misshapen piece. The words settle heavier than you expect—not because they’re cruel, but because they’re true. And maybe a part of you wanted to be invisible. Maybe it stings that you weren’t.

He steps back, gives you space again.

“If you're open to it,” he says, voice softer now, more deliberate, “you could stay after class once or twice. Some students just need time with a medium before it stops fighting back. Maybe individual feedback would help.”

You blink.

Not pity. Not dismissal. An offer.

You cross your arms again, a little slower this time. “You’re offering extra help?”

“I’m offering an opportunity,” he says, lifting a brow. “What you do with it is entirely up to you.”

And with that, he turns away again, already moving back to gather tools from the demonstration table. Like the conversation never happened. Like he hadn’t just pulled the floor out from under you with the quietest act of attention.

You glance at your clay, then at his back. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be hell after all. 

Not if you learned how to make the clay listen. Not if you learned how to make him notice again.

————

For the next two weeks, you don’t take him up on the offer.

Not because you don’t want to—though you tell yourself that’s the reason—but because accepting help would mean acknowledging that you’ve hit a wall. A very specific, clay-formed, Rafayel-shaped wall. Still, the suggestion simmers at the back of your mind, rising with each frustrating attempt to make your pieces behave, with every collapsed curve and fissured edge that makes you want to throw your work at the nearest wall.

By the second week, your pride begins to feel less like armor and more like a bruise. And bruises, eventually, demand tending.

So after one of his late-afternoon classes—when the sky beyond the tall windows is tinged with gold and the scent of clay is thick and sun-warmed—you linger. You wait until the last few students filter out with lingering glances and forced laughter, until the quiet settles like a second skin around the studio.

Then you move. You cross the room and stop beside his desk just as he turns toward something on the shelf behind him, and for the first time since this class began, you catch him off guard.

His brow lifts slightly—just enough to register the shift—and then, as if reflexively, he chuckles. Soft. Warm. A real sound, not one of his usual breathy, entertained hums. Not the quiet smirked amusement he offered when students fumbled or said something predictably pretentious.

Your heart stutters.

He doesn’t laugh often. At least, not in class. You’d started to think maybe he didn’t know how.

But here he is—eyes crinkling faintly at the corners, expression curved into something undeniably real before it smooths back into that usual, maddening calm and infuriatingly charming.

“Well,” he says, folding his arms as he turns to face you fully, “I was beginning to think you were above asking for help.”

You meet his gaze. “I am.”

He laughs again—quieter this time, like it’s only for you. “Maybe, but you’re here, aren't you? Not hard to guess for what.”

You pull in a breath, steadying yourself against the sudden awareness of how close he’s standing. “I figured… maybe it wouldn't hurt. To accept the offer, I mean. If only to stop feeling like I’m being slowly dismantled by a brick of earth.”

He tilts his head, clearly pleased by your phrasing. “A noble cause.”

You shrug, trying to go for casual. “It might also help soothe my ego. Not that it needs soothing.”

“Of course not.” his voice dips with that familiar, playful lilt—half-sarcastic, half-sincere, entirely disarming. “Your ego’s perfectly intact. Just slightly limping.”

You huff, barely suppressing a smile, and he steps past you without another word, making his way to your workstation. The air seems to bend a little in his wake, like he brings a shift in temperature with him—warm and magnetic and impossible not to follow.

You trail after him, slower.

He doesn’t ask permission to examine your work. He simply rests his fingers lightly along the edge of the piece, turning it just enough for the light to catch on the surface. His eyes narrow—not in judgment, but focus. You watch the way his brow furrows in quiet concentration, how he tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear with an absent motion before he speaks.

“It’s not bad,” he says, surprising you again. “The form’s rough, but it’s improving. You’re thinking about the structure now, not just the surface. That’s something.”

You look away, uncomfortable with how that makes you feel—because it is something. More than you thought he’d notice.

Then he moves again, around the table this time, and slides the stool back with a dull scrape. “Watch.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’m going to adjust the lip here,” he says, already sitting, already wetting his fingers. “And I’ll show you what to do with the base. Nothing major—just enough to steer it in the right direction.”

You hesitate for a beat too long before pulling a chair from the next table and dragging it beside him. It screeches against the floor, much to your horror. You sit, trying to recover a shred of dignity as he begins to work.

Your eyes fix on his hands. They move slowly, precisely, coaxing the clay with small, deliberate gestures. Not perfecting—just refining. Showing. Teaching.

“See how it shifts?” he murmurs, not glancing up. “It responds better to pressure when you let it breathe here. Let it hold its own weight before you try shaping it.”

You nod slowly, trying to memorize the rhythm of his motions.

Up close, the details feel sharper. You can see where the clay glistens faintly under his touch, where it softens beneath the pressure of his fingers like it knows better than to resist. The movement is effortless—fluid, assured—his knuckles flexing with each shift, each slow, deliberate coaxing of the form into something cleaner. His nails are short, clean. His hands dusted faintly in grey, fine powder still clinging to the ridges of his skin.

You tell yourself you’re just watching the technique. That you’re learning. 

But your mind drifts—traitorous and quiet—and suddenly the wet sheen of the clay, the sound of it smoothing under his hands, the quiet scrape of his palm against the edge… it all conjures something else entirely. Something warmer, and so very inappropriate.

Your throat tightens.

You catch yourself almost immediately, blinking once—hard—as if that will knock the thought loose. You straighten in your seat, shift just slightly as if the tension in your back can be smoothed out like the sculpture in front of you.

From the outside, you look calm. Collected. Attentive.

He wouldn’t know. He can’t know.

Your palms feel damp. Your gaze flicks upward as he speaks again—another precise instruction, his tone unhurried, patient in a way that makes it harder to look at him without feeling seen.

You nod at his explanation, murmuring a soft hum of agreement, pretending your focus is intact. But when your eyes find his again, it’s not the clay he’s watching.

It’s you.

His gaze is steady—mildly curious, maybe, or maybe just coincidentally lingering—and it lands like pressure behind your ribs. He doesn’t smile or flinch, just tilts his head a fraction, as though registering something he won’t say out loud, then returns to the clay without comment.

He adjusts the base of the form with a gentle press, speaking low as he works. “Don’t rush the joints here,” he says, thumb tracing a subtle curve. “Let the weight distribute itself. You’re trying to fix it before it breathes.”

You nod again, maybe too quickly. “Right. Breathe. Got it.”

He doesn’t laugh, but there’s something like amusement curling at the edge of his voice when he adds, “You say that like it’s a foreign concept.”

You scoff, softly. “Lately, it is.”

He wipes his hands clean with a cloth, slow and methodical, and glances at you again—only briefly. “You’re not the first to take this medium personally. It happens.”

“I’m not taking it personally,” you lie, eyes darting back to the half-finished piece like it might contradict you.

“Mmm,” he hums, unconvinced and a bit amused, folding the cloth with casual precision. “Of course not.”

The exchange is light, harmless on the surface. But something in it lingers, unspoken.

There’s something about the ease in his posture, the way he speaks without condescension, that makes it difficult to look at him and not feel like the air is thinner somehow. Like he’s already a little more interested than he was a week ago. Not obviously and not enough to point to. But enough to notice.

You school your expression as he steps away from the table, attention drifting to another unfinished piece across the room. He doesn’t say anything else about your work. Doesn’t compliment or critique. Just moves on with a subtle nod and a murmur of, “Keep working. You’ll get it.”

And then he’s gone, just like that.

Your chest rises slowly as you exhale, finally letting your shoulders fall. The studio feels too quiet now, and your hands still itch with the memory of his movements. You glance at your piece and try not to think about his hands.

You fail miserably.

————

His advice helped.

You’d never admit it out loud—at least not in those exact words—but the shift was undeniable. The clay no longer fought you quite as viciously. It didn’t surrender, not completely, but it began to listen. Your palms remembered the pressure he’d shown you, your fingertips recalling the way his hands had guided them, not just with direction, but with intention.

And ever since then, your eyes had a habit of drifting. To him. To his fingers—those same long, deliberate ones that coaxed clay into curves and shapes you couldn’t replicate even on your best day. 

You told yourself you were watching for technique. That it was academic, that it was harmless. But then your breath would hitch, just slightly. And then your mind would begin to wander.

Not to the curve of the sculpture, but to the way his fingers moved—slow, exact, knowing. You’d catch yourself imagining how those same fingers would feel brushing over skin instead of clay. How they might smooth across your wet folds instead of sculpture, how they'd circle your clit with that same focused rhythm, dip into the heat and softness of your pussy with the same devastating patience.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Your cheeks warm, flush with something that has nothing to do with the heat of the studio. You blink hard and stare down at your own half-finished piece, willing your mind back into place. Around you, the murmur of your classmates fill the room—chairs scraping, someone laughing too loud, the soft slosh of water and clay.

Focus.

You don't mean to stay behind, not really. But the piece you’d been working on had finally started to take shape, and for once, it wasn’t fighting you. The curve was smooth. The edges held. It was imperfect, still, but it was yours, and it felt right in a way it hadn’t before.

The rest of the class filtered out slowly, their chatter echoing down the hallway, fading with the scrape of chairs and the soft thud of doors swinging shut. You hadn’t even looked up when they left. You were too focused. Too caught in the feeling of your hands actually knowing what to do.

And then you felt him behind you.

You didn’t need to look. You could feel it—that shift in the air, the quiet hush of his presence as it filled the space just a bit too completely. You stared at the clay and willed your body to stay still, to not tense or twitch or betray how your pulse had just doubled for no good reason.

“You’re still here,” came his voice, smooth and amused, low enough to feel more than hear.

“I was almost finished,” you say, trying to sound casual, your eyes still fixed on the shape beneath your hands. “Didn’t want to leave it halfway.”

“Good instinct,” Rafayel murmurs, stepping a little closer. “You’ve been working on this form for a while now. It’s finally listening to you.”

You don't respond. You can't, not with the way your mind is still trying to keep itself from unraveling. Because all class, you’ve been trying not to look at him. Not to watch the way his fingers moved. 

You curse yourself silently for every thought that wasn’t academic.

And yet, your hands tremble just the faintest bit as he steps around the side of the table, his attention narrowing on your work. His gaze sweeps across the piece with quiet focus, his arms folding loosely as he leans in ever so slightly—close enough to feel the brush of his presence along your shoulder, to catch the faint scent of whatever cologne he wears. Warm, woodsy, with something softer beneath it.

You swallow.

“Here,” he says, voice softer now, more thoughtful. “This curve—it's clean. But if you push just a little more into the base, it’ll hold better. Watch.”

You nod, trying to steady your breath, and move your fingers the way he indicated—but your focus is slipping, your movements clumsy. The clay gives too quickly under your touch, and the edge collapses slightly.

“Ah—” you wince, already annoyed with yourself.

He chuckles, quietly and warm. Right above you.

The sound ghosts over your skin, landing somewhere behind your ear. And before you can compose your expression—or your racing thoughts—his hands reach out, one from each side, settling gently over yours.

You go still. Completely, breathlessly still.

His touch isn't firm, just guiding. Light. His fingers curl around yours with deliberate grace, adjusting the angle of your palms as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re overcorrecting,” he murmurs, voice low beside your ear. “You’re trying to make it perfect when all it needs is balance.”

You nod faintly, but your mind had already started betraying you again. Because your heart is racing and your skin feels too warm, and his hands—his fingers—are gliding through yours and into the clay, slick and slow, pressing in just enough to demonstrate the motion.

“In and out,” he continues, shaping the movement without pause, his breath brushing your cheek. “Don’t force it. Let it guide you. Follow the pressure.”

And maybe it is nothing. Maybe it is exactly what it sounded like.

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to focus—on the sculpture, on the rhythm, on anything but how close he is or how dangerously gentle his hands feel over yours. You pray he can't feel the flush creeping across your neck. That he can't hear how your breath had shifted.

“In here,” he murmurs, his breath brushing your ear now, close enough that your body tenses before you can stop it. “Press, not too deep. Then smooth it outward… like that.”

Like what exactly, you aren't sure anymore.

Because with the way his fingers press and drag and guide yours forward, your mind doesn't feel particularly academic anymore. Your cheeks flame, skin prickling beneath your collar as heat spirales low and unwelcome—but not uninvited.

You swallow, your throat dry. He adjusts your hand again, gently dipping your fingers into the center of the clay. The movement is careful, practiced—entirely professional on the surface.

But your mind betrays you anyway. You are no longer thinking about sculpture. You are no longer thinking about technique.

And when he murmurs another quiet “Good,” the word slides down your spine like a caress, curling around something you hadn’t meant to stir.

You don't say anything, you simply let him guide your hands in silence, both of you focused on the clay. Or pretending to be.

His hands remain over yours—steady, precise—as he guides the clay beneath your touch, fingers layered lightly across your knuckles, your palms nearly aligned. It’s too much. The heat. The closeness. The quiet patience of his voice low beside your ear, explaining each movement like it’s the only thing that matters in the world right now.

And it should be. It should be.

But you swear, if he doesn't back off soon, he’ll see it—either the soft flush blooming up your neck or the tremble you can’t quite control in your hands.

He gives a few final instructions, head tilted slightly, breath brushing the edge of your jaw as he speaks. Then, as if nothing passed between you but art and instruction, his hands withdraw—quiet, unfussy. You hope the breath you let out sounds casual. You hope it doesn’t sound like relief.

“Better,” he says, wiping his hands clean on a cloth, and then extending it to you without ceremony. “You’re letting the clay speak now.”

You nod, barely managing a sound as you take the cloth from his fingers—warm, damp, slightly worn. You can’t even meet his gaze right now. 

He chuckles, soft and low. “I’ll expect something impressive next time, then.”

It’s meant to be light, teasing. But the way he says it—with that subtle trace of something unreadable behind his voice—makes your stomach twist.

You murmur something in response. You don’t remember what. His eyes are still on you, you can feel them even when you don’t look up.

And that’s precisely why you leave.

You gather your things too quickly, fingers stiff as you zip your bag, and you don’t glance over your shoulder as you leave the room. But your skin is prickling with heat and your heartbeat is crawling up your throat, too fast, too loud, and you need air—you need space.

The hallway blurs. The bathroom door swings open, and you’re in front of the mirror before you’ve even thought it through. The lights above are too bright, unforgiving, but you stare at your reflection anyway.

Your lips are parted, your skin flushed, your eyes wider than you want them to be.

You splash cold water on your face a few times. It drips down your jawline, into the hollow of your throat. You grip the edge of the sink with wet palms. But none of it helps. Because your thoughts are still there. 

He is still there.

The memory of his hands over yours, that gentle pressure, his voice barely above a whisper as he murmured instructions—dip here, smooth it down, let it hold you—it replays in your mind like a reel on loop.

You press your legs together.

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. But the ache blooming between your thighs feels impossible to ignore.

You glance once at the door—empty. Then turn, quickly, stepping into the nearest stall and closing the lock behind you with a soft click. The silence wraps around you like a secret.

Your breath hitches as your hand moves down.

There’s nothing graceful in it. Just need—sudden and pulsing as your fingers push beneath the waistband of your pants, dragging your underwear aside with a quiet, shaky motion. You’re already slick.

You press two fingers against yourself and exhale sharply, biting the inside of your lip as your body arches into the contact. Your other hand braces against the wall to steady yourself. You circle your clit slowly—testing, dragging your fingers in the rhythm he used, mimicking the pressure, the cadence of his touch as he molded the clay.

In and out. Smooth. Steady. Guided.

His voice fills the hollow space of your mind—not too deep... let it breathe... don’t force it, feel it—and your hips twitch as a soft sound escapes your throat. You stifle it quickly with your palm, biting back the sound.

When your fingers finally slip inside, the motion instinctive now, your body responds with a sharp inhale—one that trembles through your chest and settles low in your belly. You move slowly at first, mimicking the rhythm he used only minutes ago, the way his hands had guided yours over the clay with quiet assurance.

In and out. Smooth. Patient. Intentional.

Your breath stutters.

You hear his voice in your mind again—not quite memory, not quite fantasy—soft and unhurried as it had been beside your ear: “Don’t force it… let it guide you.”

You shudder as you curl your fingers, pressing deeper, your pace still slow but growing more desperate with every passing breath. It’s absurd, how easily your body remembers—not what he did to you, but what he showed you. His voice, low and careful, almost reverent. His touch, layered over yours, instructing without pressure. “Here. Just like that.”

You follow it now, replaying the instruction not for the sake of technique, but for the way it made your thighs tense and your mind spiral. You mirror the glide of his fingers, the way he smoothed and coaxed the clay into obedience. You think of how they would feel inside you instead—those same elegant hands, those patient strokes, drawing you apart with the same quiet precision.

Your other hand presses hard over your mouth as a moan claws its way up your throat—loud and helpless. Your hips jerk forward, meeting your own touch. You’re already too far gone.

You circle your clit with your palm still trembling, and the coil inside you snaps with dizzying force. Release floods through you, sudden and searing, your body arching off the stall wall as you try—desperately—to stay silent. You come hard, breath stifled against your wrist, his voice echoing in your head like a ghost made of silk and want.

When it’s over, you collapse against the door with a shaky exhale, sweat cooling on your neck, your hand sticky between your thighs.

You stare blankly at the wall. And you know—without even trying to lie to yourself—you’re in trouble. 

Because you want it to happen again. And next time, you’re not sure your imagination will be enough.

————

The fact that you’d gotten yourself off in the university bathroom over a momentary touch—just his hands guiding yours, just his voice soft beside your ear—wasn’t the issue.

No. The issue was everything that followed.

Now your progress was stalling, your focus fractured, hands trembling ever so slightly with guilt, or shame, or the unbearable awareness that your thoughts were no longer yours alone. They belonged to that moment. To him. To the feeling of pressure and breath and imagined heat, tangled with the truth of how easily you’d fallen apart for him—without him ever knowing.

It wasn’t what you did, or where. You didn’t mind a little danger. You weren’t embarrassed by the act itself.

It was the why. And who.

You sit at your table, posture rigid, eyes fixed on the block of clay in front of you as if it might forgive you for abandoning it mid-shape last class. You tell yourself to focus, to move past it. But your gaze flickers—traitorous and fleeting—toward the front of the room where Rafayel stands, sleeves rolled again, fingers working into the clay like it’s a conversation he’s fluent in and everyone else is merely trying to translate.

He’s demonstrating a new technique, but you only half-listen to it.

You don’t trust yourself to watch too closely. Not when you know how that story ends.

Your cheeks flush as the thought passes, heat blooming beneath your skin as you shift slightly in your seat. The motion is too abrupt. Your elbow bumps the side of your sculpture, and your fingers slip. Clay drags too far, smudging across a delicate edge you’d been shaping, ruining it in one swift motion.

You exhale sharply. Not quite a sigh. Not quite a curse. You toss the cloth onto the table and wipe your hands with stiff, irritated motions. No one seems to notice. Not the other students, not Rafayel.

You sit back, defeated, eyes drifting forward again—but not to his hands this time. You refuse to give them that power.

Instead, you watch him. The way his eyes glint when he speaks, how a smirk ghosts across his lips when someone asks the wrong question and he answers with a joke wrapped around a truth. He’s too graceful, too collected, too good at this for his age. It’s infuriating. It should be infuriating.

But the annoyance doesn't quite stick. Not when your thoughts are a mess, and your body still remembers the echo of his voice, soft and low and close.

The class ends too slowly and all at once. You’re on your feet before the chairs finish scraping the floor, already gathering your things. You don’t spare your sculpture a second glance. You don’t want to see what failure looks like today.

The students filter out quickly, voices still echoing faintly down the hall, chairs half-pushed in, the occasional thud of clay-covered tools being dropped in the bins. They have other classes. You don’t. Or maybe you’re just lingering. Again.

It’s become a habit lately—the slow gathering of your things, the unnecessary rearranging of brushes, the way your gaze flicks back to the front of the room even when you tell yourself not to.

The studio is quiet now, save for the faint hum of overhead lights and the soft scrape of your backpack zipper. The space between your table and his desk isn’t large, it never has been. But it feels smaller somehow when no one else is around to fill the air.

You reach for your backpack— “You’re really just going to abandon it like that?” his voice cuts across the stillness, soft but unmistakable—half curious, half amused, with the faintest trace of something that could be called surprise if it weren’t so entertained.

You glance over your shoulder and find him exactly where you knew he’d be. Leaning back against the edge of his desk, arms loosely crossed, glasses low on the bridge of his nose, a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth as he eyes your table.

You roll your eyes but there's no bite behind it. “I was hoping you hadn’t noticed.”

He straightens slowly, unhurried, unfolding his arms as he pushes off the desk. “Hmm. Tempting as it is to pretend otherwise, I notice more than I let on.”

You scoff under your breath, turning to face him fully. “Of course you do.”

He steps closer—not intrusively, not even within reach, but close enough that your pulse makes itself known. He carries warmth with him, like his presence bends the air just slightly. Like proximity is part of the game, and you’ve been letting him win without even realizing it.

You shift on your feet, subtly. You hate how aware you are of his nearness. You hate how last time you were this close to him, your mind went straight off a cliff you haven’t climbed back from since.

He watches the movement with faint amusement, head tilting, one brow rising behind the thin gold of his glasses.

“Skittish today,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

Before you can redirect or retreat, before you can wave off the whole interaction and promise to do better next class, he clicks his tongue softly—a quiet, amused ‘tsks’ that makes your stomach twist.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing toward your abandoned stool. “You’re not leaving it like that.”

His tone isn’t commanding. It’s almost indulgent. But there’s something in the way he looks at you—those sharp amethyst eyes gleaming beneath his fringe—that makes it hard to argue.

You keep your expression as neutral as possible, even as your body betrays you with another wave of heat you hope doesn’t rise to your cheeks. You scoff lightly but do as he says, dropping your bag and sinking back onto the stool like it wasn’t a reluctant surrender.

But then, it spills out. The frustration. The question you’ve been choking down for months now.

“How is it so easy for you?” you ask, eyes narrowing on your ruined sculpture. “You barely even think and it just… works out for you.”

He blinks at that—caught off guard for half a second—then lets out a soft laugh.

“Easy?” he echoes, stepping around to your side. His hair falls slightly into his eyes as he tilts his head, that smile deepening. “That’s generous.”

You glance up at him. “Oh, come on. You make it look effortless.”

“And you make frustration look poetic.”

Your brow lifts at that.

He shrugs, unfazed. “Everyone has a language that comes naturally. Sculpture’s just one of mine. You’ll find yours.”

“I had one,” you mutter.

“Then let it evolve.”

You stare at the clay again. You’re still annoyed, mostly at yourself.

He leans against the edge of the table beside you, hands slipping into the pockets of his slacks. His voice dips, a little lower now. Easy. Casual. Laced with something that feels entirely too knowing.

“An artist’s imagination is unmatched,” he muses aloud, almost lazily. Then, he glances down at you, his tone still playful, still light—but with just enough weight beneath it to make your stomach flip.

“In other words…” he says, “Do you want me to keep teaching you?”

Your head snaps toward him before you can stop yourself.

His lips quirk at your reaction—pleased, maybe—but not cruel.

And just when you think maybe he didn’t realize how that sounded, just when you start to convince yourself it was your own mind twisting things—he adds, “I’ll make sure to teach you well…”

The silence that follows is electric. His eyes don’t leave yours and you don’t even breathe.

You shift in your seat, spine tight, breath shallow as you try to regulate your voice before speaking. You ignore how that last line settled in your chest—low and heavy—and do your best to sound unaffected.

“Fine,” you murmur, not quite meeting his eyes. “Show me, then.”

You expect him to circle around and begin instructing like before, to speak in that calm, professor-like cadence that made you hate him and want him in equal measure. And maybe part of you already knew he would teach you hands on again. Still, when he steps behind you, wetting his hands and settling just close enough for his warmth to touch your back, your entire body stiffens.

You hesitate. And then his voice, low and amused, cuts through the thick air between you.

“Are you planning to sculpt it telepathically?” he murmurs amused, one brow lifting as he glances down at your idle hands.

He’s right, your hands haven’t even moved. They hover awkwardly in your lap like they’ve forgotten their purpose.

You fumble to recover, shifting in your seat as you reach for the bowl of water, wetting your fingers and dragging them across your palms in a practiced motion. Then you reach for the half-ruined piece you’d abandoned earlier, trying not to visibly wince at its shape.

He doesn’t say anything yet, but he doesn’t guide you either.

His hands remain just above the clay—close, but not touching. And for some reason, that’s worse. He watches you work, offers quiet instructions, but never corrects your movements, not physically. And your hands, traitorous and unsteady, fumble through every one.

You mess up again—a dip too deep, an edge collapsed.

He chuckles softly behind you. The sound is low and warm and far too close, brushing the edge of your hair like it belongs there. You don’t want to acknowledge the way your skin prickles in response, or how your breath slips just slightly from its rhythm.

Then, just beside your ear, he murmurs with amused suspicion, “Are you messing it up on purpose now?”

You bite your lip too hard.

He can’t see it, thank god. He’s still behind you, mercifully unaware of how hot your skin feels or how uneven your breathing’s become. You try to keep your voice level.

“Your advice just doesn’t work,” you mutter, doing your best to sound annoyed instead of unhinged.

“Mm.” he sounds entirely unconvinced. “That’s fine.” he leans in, lower this time. “I’ll show you instead.”

You barely have time to brace yourself.

His hands slide gently over yours, guiding them to the clay with a deliberate slowness that makes your pulse skip. This time, his grip is firmer than before. Not forceful, just sure. And then his voice returns, quieter now, deep enough that you feel it hum against the back of your neck.

“Relax your fingers,” he murmurs. “You’re holding tension in your knuckles again.”

You try to obey, but your thoughts are already dissolving. His chest brushes the back of your head, the air between you too warm, too tight. You keep your eyes on the clay, but all you see are his fingers, his wrists, the glisten of water and slip as he moves your hands in tandem with his.

In and out. Up, then down. Again and again.

His breath ghosts against your ear as he speaks. “Like this. Steady pressure. Not too much of it, just enough to feel it give under your hands.”

You nearly forget to breathe.

He adjusts your hands again, palms guiding yours in slow, coaxing strokes. Your heart stutters when he says, low and deliberate, “Keep your rhythm. Move with it, let it open before you press deeper.”

Your jaw tightens. You know this isn’t just about the clay anymore. You know he knows it too.

His fingers trace higher now—sliding gently along your wrists, dragging smudges of wet clay over your skin in slow, absent-minded strokes as he continues.

“When it starts to resist…” he murmurs, voice silk-drenched, “don’t force it. Slow down and let it adjust.”

His touch glides up your arm, unhurried, lingering at the bend of your elbow. You swallow hard. Your breath is visibly shaking now. And he doesn’t stop.

His hands climb, fingers painting along your forearms, leaving ghost-wet trails on your skin. He speaks as he moves, describing the motion again—in and out, when to apply more pressure, when to draw back—and every word feels like it’s aimed lower than your hands.

You’re not sure when his voice stopped sounding instructional. You only know what it sounds like now—something hushed, intimate, coaxing you further into the kind of thought you shouldn’t be having here. With him. At all.

His fingers reach your shoulders. You don’t flinch—can’t—not when your entire body is caught between stillness and fire.

Then, slower, more delicate than any movement before, his fingertips graze the side of your neck. They linger there, soft and devastating. The pulse there flutters beneath his touch.

He’s still speaking, calmly, evenly. “There. Like that. You feel it?”

You bite down a soft gasp and nod. You don’t trust your voice right now. Not when your hands are soaked in clay and your skin is soaked in heat and his voice is still in your ear, shaping your thoughts like wet earth in his palms.

And still, impossibly, he goes on.

"Good. Now keep going," he says—too quiet, too close. “We’ll see what you can make with just your hands and a little patience.”

You keep your hands moving, molding the clay with what little focus you can muster—though “focus” feels like a fragile thing now, a thread pulled too taut.

Because it’s not the clay you’re aware of anymore. It’s the way his fingers trail lightly up and down your throat, wet from the slip, leaving delicate smears of damp against your skin. It’s the way his breath hovers near your ear, soft and steady and infuriatingly calm, like he’s completely unaware of what he’s doing to you.

But you know better. And worse—so does he.

You gulp, hard. The motion drags against his touch. He doesn’t flinch. You think you feel the faintest press of his thumb at your pulse—not forceful, just curious, as if taking inventory of your heartbeat.

Your body betrays you. Your thighs shift, instinctive, helpless. Heat blooms between them, and your underwear sticks in a way that makes you clench your jaw. You're soaked—shamefully, undeniably—and it only takes the low rasp of his voice or the featherlight brush of his knuckles to make your hips press ever so slightly forward on the stool.

Professional, you tell yourself. This is still professional. But your body disagrees. Every second like this is another thread unraveling.

Your breath catches again. And then, almost without thinking, you whisper his name—the first time you’ve ever said it aloud. “Rafayel.”

It slips past your lips like a confession.

He hums against your hair, low and thoughtful. The sound curls around you like smoke.

For a moment, you think he’s going to step away. That he’ll draw back like he did last time, when your body betrayed you just as easily and he pretended not to notice. And maybe part of you wants him to retreat—not because you want distance, but because you’re not sure how much longer you can pretend this is nothing.

Because you are aching. Soaked and aching.

And if he doesn’t touch you properly, if he doesn’t say something, do something, you swear you’ll have no choice but to excuse yourself, lock the nearest door, and fall apart all over again.

You grip the clay too tightly, your fingers digging in. The structure caves in with a soft squelch.

You wince, the shame immediate and hot. Your shoulders tense, already bracing for his critique—or worse, your own frustration bubbling over.

But before the words can leave your mouth, before you can huff or apologize or make a fool of yourself again, you hear him chuckle—low, amused, entirely too close.

“It’s alright,” he murmurs. “You’ve got plenty of time to get the hang of it.”

His voice holds no frustration. No disappointment. Just something that feels like warm indulgence—like he likes watching you unravel. And all the while, his hands don’t move. They stay where they are, one still idly at your throat, the other brushing a slow, thoughtful line up the curve of your arm. His chest presses lightly to the back of your head, close enough for you to feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

You close your eyes for a second. Because you can’t look at the clay anymore. Not when you’ve ruined it. Not when your body is on the edge of something dangerous and trembling and undone.

“Your fingers are too tense,” Rafayel murmurs again, his breath dancing over the shell of your ear. “But I like that. It shows you care.”

He pauses. You can feel him smile—even if you can’t see it.

“Still,” he adds, lower now, silk-wrapped and unhurried, “you’ll need to relax them eventually.”

His fingers slide a fraction higher, brushing beneath your jaw now. Just the faintest ghost of a touch. “Unless you’d prefer I keep guiding you every time.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t answer, but not because you don’t want to. Because you can’t, and he knows it.

He exhales, slow and deliberate, his mouth grazing your hair.

��We can take our time,” he says. “Art isn’t something to rush. You’ll get better… once you learn to let go.”

He could mean the clay. He could. But with the way he says it—that soft, confident murmur—you know he means something else entirely.

And gods help you, you’re not sure how much longer you can pretend you don’t want to let go.

You shiver—just barely—as the heat of his hand drifts up the nape of your neck, the pads of his fingers brushing like an afterthought until they settle at your jaw. With a subtle curl of his knuckles, he coaxes your head back until your gaze tilts upward, catching his shadowed eyes as he hovers behind you, too close, too quiet.

The air is heavy with the scent of clay and skin and something else—him. His breath fans near your temple, and when he speaks again, it’s in a tone designed to unravel, smooth and indulgent, dipped in that ever-present tease.

Rafayel murmurs, lips near your ear, his voice the kind of low that spreads like smoke through your chest. "If you force the shape, it’ll resist you. But if you guide it, ease it into form... it listens."

You try to listen—to anything but him—but then his other hand trails down, slowly, achingly slow, fingers ghosting over your throat like he’s mapping each tremor of your pulse. Your breath catches, but he doesn’t rush. Instead, he lingers just long enough for your skin to anticipate him, to ache when his fingers finally dip lower.

And then, without fanfare, he draws small, circling patterns just above the swell of your breast, his touch still above the fabric, maddeningly restrained.

Your whole body jerks with the jolt of sensation, a quiet gasp escaping you before you can stop it. Behind you, he hums—not mockingly, but as if pleased, like an artist admiring how the glaze catches the light. His tone shifts, deepening like the blue of the ocean just before it drowns you.

"Ah... there it is," he muses, the smile in his voice as palpable as his fingers. "Your body’s more honest than your mouth ever is, cutie."

You clench your jaw, swallowing hard, but he’s already leaning closer. The tip of his nose brushes against your cheek as his hand slips beneath the collar of your blouse—an inch, then another—until calloused fingers glide directly against your bare skin. His touch is featherlight at first, barely there, a whisper of contact as he circles the stiffened peak of your nipple.

"You’re trembling," he observes softly, not as an accusation, but as a revelation. His lips nearly graze yours when he speaks again, eyes half-lidded, voice so low it scrapes deliciously down your spine. "Just like the clay. Sensitive. Malleable. But only... for the right hands."

Your breath stutters, your thighs clench, but he doesn’t push further yet.

One hand keeps your jaw tilted up to him—gentle, firm—while the other toys with your nipple in patient, slow circles. Then a light pinch, and your knees nearly give. You can’t stop the sound that spills from your lips, a soft, aching moan that hangs between your mouth and his like a thread of molten glass.

"See?" he murmurs against your cheek. "I told you... it listens. You’re already melting for me."

You don’t remember closing your eyes, but now they’re shut tight, lashes fluttering as your breathing turns ragged. Every brush of his thumb sends sparks through your nerves, each pass more precise than the last—measured, knowing. As though he’s sculpting you, stroke by stroke, until there’s nothing left of your resistance but the gasp caught in your throat.

"Rafayel—" you try, but the name comes out broken.

"I know," he soothes, dragging out the syllables like he’s savoring them. "Shh. Let go."

His fingers rub firmer now, a little rougher, coaxing gasps from your parted lips. His other hand doesn’t leave your jaw, keeping you turned to him, open and bare under his gaze. You’re barely conscious of the way your hips shift, seeking friction you know he won’t yet give. Not directly.

And yet—it builds. The pressure climbs, blooming heat in your core, unbearable and sharp and spiraling. Your entire body hums, teetering.

"You’re squirming," he whispers, his smile audible now, satisfied and slow. "From just this? Oh, cutie. You are clay."

You barely hear him over the blood rushing in your ears. Your back arches slightly against him. You don’t know whether it’s the rhythm of his touch, the sound of his voice, or how close his mouth is to yours—but suddenly, the pressure breaks.

You gasp—loud and soft all at once—as your body clenches down hard around nothing, your release rolling through you like a tidal wave crashing against still rock. Your thighs quiver, your chest rising sharply, and your lips part in a trembling, helpless sound as your vision whites out at the edges.

Rafayel doesn’t stop. He murmurs something wicked and soft, but it’s drowned by the sound of your own breathing, your own helpless, drawn-out ohhh as your climax pulses through you. He only chuckles under his breath, a deep, rich sound that slides over your skin like silk and sin.

"Just imagine," he whispers against your jaw, his voice silkier now, almost reverent, "what I could do... if I really touched you."

You shiver under the ghost of his touch, breath catching like a thread pulled tight in your chest. Your eyes flutter open—glossy, dazed—and the moment your gaze meets his, it pins you where you are.

Rafayel doesn’t move right away. His fingers linger for one last second—one cruel, echoing second—before he draws them back, as if tasting restraint for the first time. And then, his voice, low and deliberate, curls around your ears like smoke. “Do you want that?”

The question isn’t crude. It isn’t even demanding. But it lands somewhere low in your belly, taut and dangerous, because you know he isn’t asking out of bravado. His voice is calm, maddeningly so, like he already knows the answer. He’s just giving you the chance to lie.

You blink, and it hits you. The classroom is still quiet, still empty, but the awareness blooms fast in your gut—how easily someone could walk in. A professor. A student. A click of the door and everything would shatter. You should say no. Should smooth your shirt and leave with whatever pride you still have.

But god, your body still hums where he touched you. And no part of you wants to lie to him. Not when he’s looking at you like that—eyes darker now behind his glasses, amusement flickering just beneath the surface of something more intense.

He hums under his breath, as if your silence is answer enough. Without another word, he steps back and withdraws.

The absence is immediate. Cold. You feel your skin tighten from the loss before your mind even catches up. Your throat tightens with something sharp, and you wince—visibly. 

A low chuckle leaves him, smooth and smug, but with just enough roughness to betray the restraint coiled in his frame. When your gaze finally returns to his, he's no longer behind you. He’s beside you now—close, too close. So you stand, on unsteady legs, the heat between your thighs slick and undeniable beneath your clothes. You see the subtle flick of his tongue over his lips. You see the flicker in his amethyst eyes, the quiet way he takes you in. His posture is relaxed, but his jaw ticks.

It got to him too.

You glance toward the door—out of instinct, out of panic. But you barely make it halfway before a quiet sound tugs your attention back. Another chuckle, much softer now.

"You didn’t seem to mind it," he murmurs, his voice brushing your ear like velvet, "when I was playing with your nipple moments ago."

Your breath catches again—sharp and audible this time. You glare at him, muttering a curse right into his neck as your face burns. The bastard just laughs, but it’s thinner now, a little too breathy at the edges. Not effortless. Not untouched.

And then, as if remembering himself, he draws back, fixing the sleeve of his dark shirt with casual precision. His tone shifts slightly.

"I should head back to my office," he says, but it’s not just a statement. It’s a test. A door cracked open.

His fingers skim the edge of your wrist as he passes by, pretending it’s nothing, but his words linger—low, coaxing. "Unless, of course... you’re still curious about molding clay."

His voice dips on the last two words, like they mean something else entirely.

You inhale, sharp and shallow, the inside of your throat too dry to lie again. “I... want you to show me more,” you manage, each word fragile but honest. “Of that technique.”

He pauses for just one heartbeat, then smiles. Not wide, not cruel. Just the barest curve of lips. But his eyes… they’re locked on you now, unreadable behind the sheen of his lenses. They glint with something quieter than desire, deeper than amusement. And it almost scares you how much he reads in you without you saying anything more.

But before the moment can unfurl—before you can make the mistake of moving closer—there’s a sudden noise outside the studio. A voice. Footsteps.

Your entire body stiffens, breath caught in your lungs like ice. You don’t move for a second. Neither does he.

Then he turns his head slightly toward the sound, slow and deliberate, and when his gaze slides back to yours, there’s something distant in it now. It’s not cole but it is knowing.

This can’t happen here. You know it. 

And the smirk that touches his mouth now doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. So you step back. You fix your blouse. You force your voice to sound calm even as you offer a short, tight smile. “See you next class, Professor.”

He says nothing at first, just watches you. As if committing every detail of this moment to memory.

“Don’t be late.” he says, voice low yet airy.

You’re almost at the door when he adds, quieter—just loud enough for only you to hear,  “You’ll lose the feel of it. And I’d hate to start all over.”

You refuse to look back, but his voice lingers behind you like the press of his fingers, and when the door clicks shut behind you, your knees very nearly give.

————

You don’t even know why you’re panicking.

His class only meets once a week. That should’ve been enough time—enough hours, enough nights—to let what happened blur around the edges. To soften the memory into something distant and vague. But it hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s sharper now.

And the worst part is that you know damn well he’s not going to do anything in class. That’s not what has you unraveling quietly in your seat like your skin doesn’t quite fit.

No, the panic sits lower. Deeper. Tied not to fear, but the memory of how good it felt to be touched by him—how little it took to send you spiraling and come undone. Only you know how desperately you’d curled into your sheets that night, biting your lip to silence your moans as your fingers worked between your thighs, fucking yourself fast and deep. Pathetic and greedy, chasing the echo of his voice. The feel of his fingers on your skin.

He hadn’t even done much—just teased. Just grazed your skin. But it had lit something inside you like a match catching dry paper. You hadn’t known you could come from that. From your nipples alone. From nothing else but the slow pressure of his fingers and the smooth, velvet murmur of his breath near your jaw.

Had you been that pent up? Or was it just... him?

You still don’t know. But you show up to his class anyway. You walk into the room like it’s any other Thursday and take your usual seat, the lump of clay waiting in front of you like a test you already know you’ll fail. You dread it—not because you’re terrible with clay (though you kind of are), but because you know your hands are shaking. Not visibly, but inside, beneath your skin.

You try, god, you try to focus. To mold. To listen.

But then he starts speaking. His voice. Warm, amused, teasing in the way only Rafayel can make sound completely innocent to everyone else. You know the students around you are nodding along, humming softly in that distracted, focused way—struggling like you are with the new technique. But they don’t hear it like you do. They don’t feel the hum in his voice travel down their spine.

They don’t know what it felt like to have those hands ghosting under a blouse.

You keep your eyes down the entire time.

You don’t let yourself look at him once—not even a flicker, not even to see if he’s glancing your way. Because you’re already thinking things you shouldn’t be thinking, and the fact that you haven’t even looked at him yet only makes it worse. His voice is enough. His voice and the memory of the way your pussy had clenched, useless and desperate, around nothing.

You’re almost sure—almost—that he’s looking at you.

It’s brief. Fleeting. A whisper of pressure at the back of your neck, like a thread being pulled. You shift in your seat before you even register the instinct, and you know you gave yourself away. Because the next time he speaks, his tone is just a little richer. Just a touch more indulgent. A trace of amusement so faint only you could catch it.

You bite your lip and mold the clay harder.

You don’t mess it up like last time—not entirely, at least. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s spite. Maybe it’s just something to focus on that isn’t the way his black shirt hugs his frame today, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his glasses catching the studio light and sharpening the amethyst glint of his eyes.

It’s a torment. Quiet. Lingering.

When class ends, you move quickly. You pack up your tools, clean your hands, and keep your gaze on the table like it might catch fire if you so much as glance his way. You refuse to let yourself look.

Until you do. Until the sound of a different voice—soft, girlish—makes your eyes flick up just once.

A student lingers behind. One of the newer girls, you think. She makes her way to his desk, hesitates with a sheepish smile, and leans in—just subtly, just enough to get closer. You can’t hear what she says, not over the shuffling of chairs and bags, but you don’t have to. You see it.

And worse—you hear his voice in reply. That same calm, quiet confidence. That soft tease laced under the surface. The voice he’d used on you. Or so you think.

It shouldn’t matter. It really, really shouldn’t matter. But it irks you. Low and hot, right under your ribs. And you hate how absurd it is, how irrational your reaction is, but still—you huff. Soft and frustrated, barely audible, but very real.

You swing your bag over your shoulder, teeth clenched, and walk past them without a second glance. You don’t pause. You don’t dare pause. You don’t give him the satisfaction of a glance or a word or a look.

Not even when your skin prickles like he’s watching you walk away.

You pace down the hallway, footsteps sharp, throat tight. And then finally, you duck into the nearest bathroom. The door shuts behind you with a muted thud, and you toss your bag onto the counter with more force than you mean to. Your breath leaves you in a heavy rush as you grip the porcelain sink and stare at your reflection.

Your cheeks are flushed. Your chest feels too tight. Your hands tremble slightly at your sides.

It’s ridiculous. It’s humiliating. It’s not you.

You squeeze your eyes shut and mutter under your breath, jaw tight. God damn him.

You roll your eyes at your own reflection, the blush on your cheeks refusing to fade no matter how many times you splash cold water over your face. The droplets cling to your lashes, fall down your neck, disappear under the collar of your shirt—and still, it doesn’t help. You dab your skin with stiff paper towels, inhale deeply, and try—really try—to pull yourself back together.

Just clay. Just a class. Just a man.

Your bag hits your shoulder with a quiet thud, and you swing the bathroom door open, nearly crashing into someone walking past.

You suck in a startled breath, already stumbling one step forward when a firm hand catches you at the base of your spine. Steady, seamless. Fingers spreading lightly at your lower back, holding you upright like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your breath stops. Your fingers clench around the strap of your bag. And when your gaze flickers up—of course it’s him.

Of all the people in the entire building, of all the times he could be strolling this corridor, it has to be Rafayel. Now. When you’re flustered and freshly raw and still vibrating with some unholy mix of irritation and embarrassment and—

"Seriously?" you mutter under your breath. You’re not sure if the word is for him or for the gods playing tricks on you.

His hand retreats just as easily as it came, slipping away like silk. He takes a step back, head tilted slightly, expression unreadable for half a second—before a flicker of amusement breaks through.

“Are you alright?” he asks lightly, though his tone is lower than usual. Calmer. Almost entertained. “You looked like you were about to swan dive into the floor.”

You give him a tight smile, smooth as your voice tries to be.

“I’m fine. Just… didn’t expect you to be here.” you keep it casual, detached. “Seemed like you were busy.”

That makes his brow lift. Just a subtle twitch, a raised arch like a question mark—and then the corner of his mouth curves.

“Oh?” he murmurs, taking a slow step closer. Not enough to invade your space, but enough to remind you what it feels like when he does.

His gaze stays on you. You don’t drop yours. And that seems to amuse him even more.

“I was just heading to my office,” he says, with the calm indifference of a man who has never once hurried for anything in his life. “Should I not be?”

Your smile twitches. You should stop here. You should nod, apologize for bumping into him, and walk away.

But you don’t.

Maybe it’s the heat still lingering beneath your skin, or the sharp coil of something unpleasant that hasn’t quite left your chest yet. Maybe it’s the way his voice sounds so light, so untouched, when you’re still recovering from your own silent meltdown. Or maybe—just maybe—it’s the memory of that student leaning on his desk, looking up at him like she didn’t mind making herself obvious.

You match his tone, keep your words smooth, distant, professional.

“Well, I just thought maybe you were offering some extra feedback,” you say, voice light, eyes still fixed on his. “She seemed very eager to ask you something. New student, I think. Looked like she needed… directions.”

Rafayel doesn’t laugh right away, but he watches you.

Then he chuckles. Low and slow. The kind of sound that unfurls in your stomach like warm ink. A flicker of something dances in his eyes—laughter, maybe. Or maybe he’s just impressed you played the game.

His gaze drops, briefly, to your mouth. Then rises again.

“Oh?” he murmurs. “Should I have said no?”

You clench your jaw. He doesn’t wait for an answer. He leans in—not enough for contact, but enough that his voice can drop, enough that it brushes your ears like a secret.

“Unless…” his head tilts slightly, tone soft and amused. “It bothered you.”

Your body goes still. You know what he’s implying. You know exactly what he's circling.

He doesn’t say jealousy. Of course he doesn’t say it outright. 

He just lets the word hang there in the silence between your bodies, unspoken but sharp. A blade unsheathed but not yet swung.

And then he smiles. Soft. Easy. A little cruel in how well it hides the heat just beneath.

“But that’d be strange, wouldn’t it?” he adds lightly, voice velvet-draped steel. “You’ve barely looked at me all class.”

You hate the shiver that moves through you at the sound of his voice. The worst part is, he feels it. He knows. He always knows.

You tilt your head, your gaze steady on his, not blinking, not budging. If he wants to play it coy—if he thrives on the kind of cryptic banter that skirts the edge of something more—then so can you.

So you lean in, just slightly. Not enough to touch, but enough for your breath to drift close to his ear, warm and soft as you speak.

“I didn’t look at you in class,” you murmur, tone smooth as glass, “because I didn’t have a reason to. I was too focused on molding the clay properly. Didn’t want to mess it up again.”

The air between you shimmers with tension, thin as wire.

His eyes glint. A smirk curls lazily at his lips—pleased, but not surprised. You can tell he likes this game, likes that you’re playing it now too. But instead of answering you directly, he shifts his weight slightly, voice dipping low as he pivots the conversation right back to the softest bruise.

“That student from earlier,” he says lightly, as if mentioning the weather. “She seemed very... engaged. Had a lot of questions about hand positioning.”

Your jaw twitches.

His eyes flicker down, catching it. And he smiles, slow, indulgent, cruel in the gentlest way. He lives for that kind of reaction.

“She wanted guidance,” he continues, every syllable deliberately slow. “Something about the wrist being too stiff, the pressure too inconsistent.” he hums thoughtfully, tapping one finger to his bottom lip. “I suppose some students need a more hands-on approach.”

You inhale tightly, biting down on your first response, already turning away on instinct—but his voice stops you.

“Wait.”

That single word. Soft. Calm. But edged with quiet command.

You pause.

“Wouldn’t want to leave in such a state,” he says next, stepping slightly into your path again, though not blocking it entirely. His voice dips even lower, quieter now—just for you. “You seem... tense.”

Your spine stiffens at the phrasing. He doesn’t elaborate, he just lets the word stretch between you, laced with implication.

Then, casually, he glances around the hallway. A few distant footsteps echo off the walls, but the corridor is mostly empty. His hand slips into the pocket of his slacks as he checks his watch with quiet indifference, and then flicks his gaze back up to you.

And that’s when he says it. “Come by the office.”

Your breath catches. The words are light. Innocent, on the surface. But his tone makes it anything but.

“Just a few things to go over. About the technique I taught today,” he adds with a soft smile, as if this invitation isn’t exactly what it sounds like. “Only if you’re free, of course.”

Your pulse thuds beneath your skin, warm and reckless. You don’t answer right away, but you know he sees the way your fingers curl around the strap of your bag. How your lips part slightly, then press shut.

And he doesn’t push. He just waits—quiet and unreadable, watching you with those amethyst eyes that sparkle behind his glasses, a man perfectly aware of how tightly you’re wound.

“Unless,” he adds gently, “you’d rather keep being distracted.”

It’s a challenge. Soft-spoken. Laced with heat.

And he’s already turning away, walking a few steps ahead, as if the choice is entirely yours. As if he didn’t just light a match and toss it over his shoulder.

You let him walk ahead.

You stand still long enough to watch his figure disappear around the corner, the echo of his footsteps fading into quiet. Only then do you exhale, sharp and shallow, your chest rising with the weight of something you can’t quite name — not fear, not guilt. Just the pulse of something wild and forbidden blooming low in your gut.

Your heart’s still racing.

You know how inappropriate all of this is. The lingering touches. The loaded glances. The innuendos tucked between casual sentences. The thoughts you’ve had about him that you’ve never dared speak aloud. Thoughts that come back late at night when your fingers roam places they shouldn’t, chasing the memory of his voice like it was a command.

And lately, it’s like he sees it. All of it. Like he’s looking straight through your carefully buttoned shirt, your polite smiles, your tightly wound composure—and finding the mess you are underneath.

You clutch your bag a little tighter and step forward.

You round the corner, and there he is—already in front of the door. Brown and plain, with his name engraved neatly on a small brass plaque. Professor Rafayel Qi. His hand moves lazily at the lock, flipping the keys through his fingers like he has all the time in the world. He doesn’t turn around to check if you followed.

He just opens the door and walks inside. And leaves it open.

Your feet slow. You stare at that door, open just enough to tempt. Your pulse skitters at your throat, and for a moment, your body stands perfectly still while your mind splinters in every direction.

You shouldn’t walk in there. You know what kind of trouble waits behind that door. What kind of things could happen inside that room, behind closed walls and shadows. The memory of his hand last week—on your jaw, in your blouse, circling your nipple the way he molded clay—burns hot beneath your skin. You'd gasped for him. Moaned. Shaken in his grip, undone by nothing more than touch and tone.

And now, with a single open door, he’s offering you a blank canvas.

You step forward anyway.

You don’t even know when your decision solidified. You just find yourself crossing the threshold, silent as your breath, stepping into the quiet, warm-lit space of his office. You don’t close the door. You don’t move further in. You just look at him.

He’s already watching. He stands by his desk, half-turned, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He tilts his head ever so slightly toward the door behind you, that glint in his eyes soft and amused. Questioning. Wordless.

He loves to play dumb.

You don’t answer. Don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. But your body is tense in the way that betrays everything—every nerve alive beneath your skin. He starts moving, slow and unhurried, walking toward you without a word. When he passes, his shoulder brushes lightly against yours—barely a touch, but you feel it everywhere. And then, with one smooth motion, he closes the door.

You hear the lock click. And god, it’s the sound that does it. 

Not the action. The sound. That quiet, definitive click that seals you inside this room with him, seals you inside the unspoken.

Your breath stumbles, but you school your features—smooth them over like wet clay, shaping yourself into something calm, unaffected. Your pulse betrays you. So does the heat rising beneath your collar.

He doesn’t speak right away. You can feel him behind you now, close enough that you sense the warmth of his body, the slow inhale of his breath. You half-expect him to break the silence with something sharp, something sly. But instead, he lets it stretch, lets the tension rise like steam under glass.

You speak first. Your voice is calm, just like before in the hallway. Measured. Even. “I thought you said we’d be going over technique.”

A breath of a chuckle. It ghosts against the shell of your ear, almost too soft to catch. “We are,” he murmurs. “Eventually.”

Your skin prickles. You force your shoulders to remain still. He moves past you again, slowly, and this time your eyes follow the way his hand trails along the back edge of the desk—not touching anything. Just tracing space.

“And?” you manage.

He looks back over his shoulder. His voice stays soft, smooth enough to slide straight beneath your skin.

“You seemed… distracted last class.” a pause. “Thought I’d offer you a more private setting.”

You narrow your eyes, tilting your chin. “To mold clay?”

He turns fully now, leaning back against the desk, crossing his arms. His smirk softens into something more curious, but no less dangerous.

“Among other things,” he replies. “But only if you’re ready to be handled properly this time.”

The double meaning isn’t even veiled. And the worst part is that he says it like it’s nothing. Like you’re the one choosing how to take it.

You breathe in, slow and careful, because you can already feel your self-control slipping. And he just smiles.

You glance around his office, pretending you’re examining the space, but really, you just need something to focus on that isn’t him. The room is neat, like everything he touches—clean lines, warm light, books stacked with too much care to be accidental. A faint trace of sandalwood and clay lingers in the air, familiar now, soaked into the walls like memory.

You drop your bag in the chair opposite his desk. It lands with a soft thud, and that’s when you feel it—his presence behind you.

You hadn’t heard him move, but his voice finds you easily.

“It’s a shame,” he murmurs, voice warm and amused, close enough to ghost across your shoulder, “I seem to have forgotten to bring the materials.”

You don’t turn to look at him, you don’t need to. The smirk in his voice is enough.

“And here I was,” he continues, casual and calm, “so ready to demonstrate... technique.”

You inhale slowly through your nose, grounding yourself. Because you both know the truth—there’s nothing in this room. No clay, no tools, no sketchpads or supplies. There was never going to be a demonstration.

Unless you count this.

You can feel him behind you like heat off a flame. Not touching, but present. Alive. Your skin prickles with awareness, blood roaring louder in your ears with every second of silence. You want him to touch you again, want it so badly your bones ache with it. But you can’t say that. Not here. Not yet.

It doesn’t matter that you’re close in age. That outside this building, he’d be just another man. In here, with that smirk and that voice and that mind that reads you like wet clay waiting to be shaped—he’s still your professor. And the location only adds to the madness.

It’s thrilling. And it’s driving you insane.

You close your eyes for a moment and try to breathe through it. But your thoughts betray you.

All you can think about is his hands—how they glide through water and clay in class, long fingers precise and slow, like they enjoy the process of control. How you’ve watched him sculpt with barely hidden fascination, and now you can’t stop imagining those same fingers sliding along the curve of your neck, trailing heat down your spine. Palming your waist. Spreading across your thighs under your skirt, just enough pressure to make you forget your name.

A quiet, aching exhale escapes you. You turn around, and your breath hitches. He’s already watching.

He stands just a few steps away, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed—but his eyes… those maddeningly beautiful amethyst eyes behind those glasses... they’re darker now. Focused. Lit with something soft and dangerous. And worst of all? He says nothing. 

You try to speak first, to ground the moment in something casual. But before your mouth can even form the words, he chuckles—low and quiet, like it’s just for you.

Then he steps forward.

You step back. It’s instinct. Not from fear. From something far worse—need. If he touches you now, you’re not sure you’ll survive it. And yet every part of you is begging for contact. For his hand. For his voice, close and lazy, purring against your ear like it always does when he wants to ruin your composure.

He hums. Not mockingly, just curiously. As if he’s reading your body language like a sculpture still in progress—wondering which angle will make you crumble. But he doesn’t move closer, doesn't reach for you.

And that’s what destroys you most of all.

Because now you’re standing there, heart thudding, skin hot, throat dry—and he’s looking at you like he knows. Like he sees exactly where your mind has gone. And chooses, deliberately, not to meet you there. Not yet.

His silence is a thread pulled tight between your bodies. And still—no contact. You swallow hard and try again.

“Rafayel,” you manage, barely above a whisper.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Mm?” his tone is infuriatingly light. “Something wrong?”

You grit your teeth. “You invited me here to go over technique.”

“I did,” he agrees, folding his arms slowly. “But now that you’re here… I wonder.”

You arch a brow, exasperated. “Wonder what?”

He smiles, and it’s soft. Wicked. “If you want to learn... or just feel.”

Your jaw ticks, and you hate that he sees it. Hate even more that he makes it happen.

He’s standing there like nothing about this moment is complicated—like his voice didn’t just crawl under your skin, like his presence isn’t already driving you to the edge. He speaks with the same maddening calm he always does, charming and unreadable, and somehow it only makes you want to shake him or pull him closer—or both.

You exhale, sharp and frustrated, arms crossing tightly over your chest. "I don’t have time for this."

It’s a lie. One you both know.

He chuckles—low and far too pleased—and the sound curls around you like smoke.

"You walked in here on your own," he points out, voice lilting with amusement. "Didn’t seem like I dragged you."

And god, that makes you want to scream. Because he’s right. You did come. You chose to. And yet he stands there, perfectly at ease, watching you squirm under the weight of everything unsaid. He’ll play with you all day if you let him, teasing out every reaction and giving nothing back.

So you turn away. Move to grab your bag from the chair, jaw clenched and heart pounding with something you can’t name.

And then you feel it. A hand—warm, steady—sliding to rest at the small of your back, right between your blouse and the waistband of your skirt. His fingers don’t move, just rest there. But the pressure is intimate. Undeniable.

You freeze. Your head turns before you can stop yourself, gaze locking onto his.

He’s close now. Just enough to tilt his head slightly, his expression infuriatingly soft. A quiet chuckle escapes him, lower than before, more indulgent. His eyes drift briefly to the bag, then back to you.

"If you're really here for technique," he murmurs, voice dipping into something silkier, darker, "I could show you with something other than clay."

You swear your lungs stop working.

His eyes glint behind his glasses, the edges of his mouth curled in that barely-there smirk. Still composed. Still maddeningly restrained.

You arch a brow, willing your voice to stay even, but he doesn’t let you speak. Instead, he shifts slightly, turning you with one hand until you're facing him again. That same hand stays on your waist, fingers relaxed but firm, while the other rises—so gently—to brush against your collarbone.

It’s not much. Just skin. Just brief contact.

But you blush anyway, heat blooming up your neck like rising smoke. You hate how relieved you feel to finally have his hands on you again—hate it, and want more.

He watches you with quiet focus, his thumb grazing your skin, eyes flicking between your flushed cheeks and your parted lips.

"You wanted it," he murmurs, voice almost too low to catch. "I just... wondered how you’d take it."

Your breath hitches. His hand shifts upward, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and your pulse stumbles as his fingertips graze the side of your neck.

"You’re pretty when you blush," he adds, almost absentmindedly. But you feel it like a lightning strike.

Your lips part, ready with some smart reply—but nothing comes out. You’re speechless. And he sees it. His gaze dips to your mouth, lingering, and then lifts again with a glimmer of something softer. But he still doesn’t close the gap.

You shift your weight, your thighs clenching with restraint, and he steps forward until you’re only inches apart. So close you can feel his breath against your cheek. Your whole body hums with anticipation, strung tight like wire. You swear he’s going to kiss you—finally—but he doesn’t.

Instead, he tilts your face and presses a kiss to your jaw. Then another—lower, just beneath your ear.

You gasp, soft and involuntary, your hands reaching instinctively to anchor on his shoulders. His lips are warm, slow, deliberate as they drag down the curve of your neck. A shiver runs through you as he walks you backward, his hand guiding you until your hips bump gently against the edge of his desk.

"Still tense," he murmurs into your skin, voice raspier now, each word punctuated by another kiss. His glasses brush your jaw with every tilt of his head. His other hand massages slow circles into your waist, and your knees threaten to give beneath you.

You can’t think. You can only breathe—and even that feels difficult.

And then, as if to twist the knife, he speaks again, voice velvet-wrapped steel, "This what you wanted?"

You don’t answer. He doesn’t need you to.

When he finally pulls back to look at you, your expression says enough. Your eyes roll—annoyed, but not really. He chuckles, clearly pleased with himself, and his hand slips lower, trailing slowly from your waist to your thigh.

And then—before your mind can catch up—you’re sitting on his desk.

He didn’t even ask. He just nudged you gently, and your body followed like clay under his touch.

Your legs dangle, your breath shallow. You look up at him, lips parted, heart racing, and he’s still so damn close without kissing you. You wonder—ache—for how his mouth would feel against yours, how his lips would taste, how it would feel to have him finally, finally meet you in the middle.

Your hands, still resting on his shoulders, slide up. One curves around the back of his neck, the other brushing against the line of his jaw. He hums—pleased, you think—and just as he’s about to say something probably too smug for your sanity, you cut him off.

You frame his face with both hands and pull him in.

The kiss steals his breath. And yours.

He groans softly, low in his chest, his body finally relaxing into yours, like this was all he was waiting for. He leans into the kiss, lips parting against yours, slow and exploratory—like he’s savoring the first taste after days of restraint.

And finally, finally, he touches you like you wanted.

His hand cups your face as if it were something fragile, something sculpted with care, while the other grips your thigh, firm and possessive. His mouth moves against yours with slow, deliberate heat, deepening the kiss until you're melting into it, until your mind blanks around the taste of him—warm, addictive, just the right blend of soft and hungry. You open for him willingly, aching for this, for him, the kiss you’d imagined a hundred different ways now finally unraveling your restraint.

Your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer as your fingers bury into his soft purple strands. He groans—quiet and low—against your mouth, before chuckling with that maddening, velvety smugness you’ve come to know all too well. His lips curve against yours, and he murmurs something into the kiss—playful, breath-warmed nonsense—and then begins trailing down again, carving a slow path along your jaw, down the column of your throat.

“I was wondering,” he breathes against your skin, pausing right at your pulse point, “how long it would take.”

You can feel the smile in his voice, feel it in the way his lips linger, ghosting across your skin as though savoring every tremble.

“And that student girl from earlier?” he adds, his tone casual and cruelly amused. “She didn’t need feedback, nor even a little. I lied.”

You stiffen slightly, but then he nips your neck—just enough to draw a soft gasp from you—and laughs low in his throat.

“She just wanted to know if I ever modeled before,” he continues, lips brushing over your skin as he speaks. “Said I had... ‘interesting hands’.” he continues, low and steady and a bit amused, “But it was interesting to see just how much you could manage to pretend that it didn't bother you—her approaching me.”

You exhale sharply, both from the heat of his words and the way his mouth curves wickedly against your throat.

Your hand shoots back to brace yourself on the desk, and he follows the motion easily, leaning into you, hovering above you like a wave just before it breaks. As you arch your back, he presses lower, lips dragging down to your chest, to the delicate skin above your neckline. His breath is heavier now, but his voice—when it comes—is still smooth, still annoyingly casual, like this is just another lesson.

“You know,” he murmurs as his lips skim your cleavage, “I’ve been thinking about last time.”

Your breath stutters.

“How responsive you were,” he says, voice a little lower now, a little darker. “How you came just from a little pressure. A little coaxing.”

He lets the word hang there—coaxing—before he presses another kiss just above your heart, his tongue flicking lazily as he draws another soft sound from you.

“Made me curious,” he continues, smiling against your skin. “If that was a one-time thing... or if I could manage it again.”

Your moan is quiet but helpless, spilling from your lips before you can stop it.

His mouth drifts back up your neck, slow and unhurried, but now one of his hands is sliding under your blouse, fingers dragging lightly against your skin, and you swear your whole body quivers at the contact. The anticipation tightens in your belly like a pulled thread, impossible to ignore.

You want him. Desperately. Painfully. And the worst part is—he knows.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in closer, and the movement shifts something between you. His hips press into yours, and suddenly the thick, hard bulge beneath his pants grinds right against your clothed heat. The pressure is too perfect, and your head tips back with a gasp that’s half-pleasure, half-surprise.

“God—Rafayel—” you breathe, unable to stop yourself, voice shaking.

You feel him groan against your throat, hips stuttering for a split second as if your reaction hit him harder than he expected. One hand slips beneath your skirt, slow and smooth, while the other works its way under your blouse again—thankfully loose enough to allow him access. Even with your bra still on, his fingers move with such knowing intent it makes your breath catch again, your body already yielding to him.

He hums, his voice raspier now, but still laced with that infuriating charm.

“Mm... perfect under pressure,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles against the swell of your breast. “Moldable. Responsive.”

His teeth graze your earlobe, and your hips roll instinctively into him, helpless at the sheer control he wields with so little effort.

“I could make a masterpiece out of you,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek. “A beautiful mess. But only with the right touch.”

You whimper, and his mouth catches yours again—hotter this time, needier. But still, somehow, he’s holding back. And that—more than anything—drives you wild.

You moan softly against his lips, the sound catching at the back of your throat like a confession slipping loose. Your voice is barely a whisper, barely there, laced with need you can’t hide.

“I want you to touch me,” you breathe, nearly pleading. “Please…”

Rafayel laughs under his breath, the sound low and sinful as his mouth dips back to your neck. His breath skims your skin, warm and teasing, right before his fingers slide deftly beneath your blouse, skillful and sure. You feel the looseness of your bra shift a second before his hand glides beneath the lace and silk, and then—a sharp gasp breaks from you as he pinches your nipple, rolling it between his fingers with the same measured care he used on clay—focused, precise, just enough pressure to make you writhe.

“Mmm… so sweet and responsive, just like last time,” he murmurs, lips brushing the pulse at your throat. “I knew you’d be like this.”

You arch into him, mouth parted, your hands clutching at his shoulders like you need something solid to hold onto. His teeth scrape gently at your skin, and his voice is nothing but smoke and satisfaction now.

“Pretty little thing,” he whispers. “You’re soaked, aren’t you? Just from this.”

His other hand slides up your thigh, pushing beneath your skirt until his palm settles against your bare skin. He doesn’t go higher—not yet. He massages slow, maddening circles into your inner thigh, close enough to feel the tremble of your anticipation.

The way your hips shift toward him betrays everything.

“Tell me something,” he murmurs, breath soft against your cheek. “What did you think about... during all those classes?”

Your breath stalls.

He hums again, amused. “Don’t lie,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. “You looked like you were concentrating so hard. But it wasn’t the clay, was it?”

“I—I didn’t,” you try, but your voice falters.

Another teasing pinch to your nipple, and you moan despite yourself, fingers tightening in his hair.

“No?” he drawls. “Not even once? You never wondered what my hands would feel like somewhere else?”

He pauses, leans back just far enough to look at you properly. His amethyst eyes are darker now, gleaming behind his glasses, his mouth curved in the faintest smirk.

“You do like my hands, don’t you?” he asks, tilting his head. “Always watching them work, trying not to stare.”

You swallow hard, heat rushing to your cheeks. You don’t answer. 

His fingers brush higher up your thigh now, slow and deliberate, inching toward the soaked fabric clinging between your legs. He doesn’t touch it—just gets close enough to make your muscles tense with anticipation. The lack of contact is worse than any touch.

But you finally crack.

“Yes,” you whisper, a moan tangled in the word. “I think about it. I wanted—”

You can’t finish. Not with the way he’s looking at you now.

He groans softly, head dipping again to your throat. “Of course you did,” he mutters, mouth hot and open against your skin. “God, you’re just how I imagined.”

Then finally, his hand shifts, brushing lightly against your panties, and your whole body jolts, a soft, broken sound escaping your lips.

He pulls back slightly, just to watch your reaction.

“Is this what you wanted?” he murmurs. “Me… sliding my fingers over every inch of you… between your thighs… along that soaked little clit of yours…”

You whimper—completely undone—and his hand moves again, stroking you once, slowly, over your soaked panties. Your body arches, your spine bowing into him, your eyes fluttering shut from the jolt of pleasure that races through you.

“Thought about this, didn’t you?” he breathes, lips against your cheek. “Me… inside you. Slow. Deep. Until you’re begging me not to stop.”

Your thighs clamp around him, desperate for pressure, for anything, and he laughs again—soft and wicked—before pressing a kiss just below your ear.

“And now?” he asks, brushing over you again, fingers ghosting like a promise. “Do you want it now?”

Your moan is the only answer he needs. 

You try to form words, but they come out broken—half whimpers, half breaths, chasing his touch with everything you have left. Your body arches toward him, desperate for the friction, for his fingers on your clit, in you—anywhere. You’re clenching around nothing, the ache coiled so tightly inside you it’s almost unbearable, pulsing with every shallow breath. Just the thought of him sliding his fingers inside you has your hips twitching, your thighs squeezing around him involuntarily.

You know what he wants. You can feel it in the way he watches you, still teasing, still just out of reach. And you’ll give it to him—because when you do, he’ll give you what you need. He always does, but only when he decides you’ve earned it.

Your lips crash against his in a kiss that’s all heat and desperation, messy and deep, your nails curling into his shirt as you gasp against his mouth.

“I wanted it then,” you whisper into the kiss, voice trembling with need. “And I want it now. So badly…”

You feel his mouth curve against yours, but before he can say something smug, your voice drops into a softer whine, and you give him one more piece of yourself.

“Please, Professor…”

His inhale is sharp. Subtle—but you feel it in the tension beneath your hands, in the way his eyes flash as he pulls back just far enough to see your face.

A soft, wicked chuckle rumbles from his throat. His fingers move again, dragging over your soaked panties like he’s just confirming what he already knows.

“Well, well,” he murmurs, voice raspier now, though still maddeningly smooth. “You really are such a diligent student.”

You tremble at his touch, and he smirks like it’s the best reward he’s had all day. “And here I thought you might just be shy.”

“I’m not,” you breathe, your hands sliding between you, fumbling with the buttons of his black shirt. You keep your eyes on his the entire time, pleading, burning, wanting.

And he watches you—silent, still, amused—but there’s tension in his jaw now, the way it tightens when your fingers brush his skin. You lean in, your mouth pressing to the warm curve of his neck, just beneath his jaw. You kiss. You suck. And his composure falters—just a little. You feel his hips stutter against yours, his breath catching low in his throat.

Then his hands move again—one sliding up under your blouse, pinching your nipple with unhurried precision, the other dipping into your panties at last, fingers brushing your clit.

Your moan is immediate. Loud. Helpless.

You bury it into his neck, your legs shaking as his fingers tease you—slow and slick, moving in those maddening little circles that are somehow both too light and too perfect at once. He strokes you gently, letting your wetness coat his fingers as he draws them back and forth, deliberately slow.

You need more. Need speed. Pressure. Relief.

But he gives you none of it—just enough to keep you suspended on the edge of it all, your breath coming faster as your body begs for something deeper, harder, real.

“Rafayel, please…”

He hums softly, entirely unhurried, like he could keep you there forever. “Mh,” he says against your skin, brushing his nose along your cheek. “That almost sounded like begging.”

You bite him. Not hard—just enough to make him groan, deep and rough, as your teeth graze the sensitive spot beneath his ear. His fingers twitch against your clit in response, and you whimper, voice a little broken.

“I am begging,” you breathe. “God, I need it. I’ve been like this in every class—wet for you, just watching you. Watching your hands…”

You barely recognize your own voice—it’s too raw, too honest—but you don’t stop. You can’t.

“I touched myself in the bathroom after one of your lectures, that's how badly I wanted it,” you admit, hips moving against his hand now, chasing every soft, maddening brush of his fingers. “You’d just given me some feedback, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you. I came thinking about you.”

That does it. He curses softly under his breath, and then he laughs—a low, breathless sound that curls through your chest and settles low in your stomach.

“You’re going to kill me,” he mutters. “Painting those pretty little pictures in my head...”

And then—finally—he pushes two fingers inside.

You moan, head dropping back as your whole body clenches around the stretch. He moves them slowly, gently, curling just right as he starts to stroke in and out, dragging against the spot that makes your legs shake. His thumb circles your clit at the same time, pressure increasing just enough to make your body arch into him.

“So wet for me already,” he murmurs, mouth near your ear. “So desperate.”

You nod, trembling, breath hitched on every moan.

“I need to see it,” he continues, voice a rasp now, heat behind every syllable. “Need to see how pretty you look when you come on the fingers you like so much.”

You moan beneath him, your voice a trembling whisper against his lips—promising you’ll give him anything, show him whatever he wants, just please, you need to come. The ache in your body is unbearable now, a thrum beneath your skin, and your hips grind helplessly into his hand with every slow thrust of his fingers.

He takes mercy on you. Or perhaps it’s not mercy at all, but a well-calculated indulgence—because just then, you feel the precise curl of his fingers inside you, stroking that maddening spot with practiced ease. Your head tilts back with a gasp, pleasure searing white-hot behind your eyes as your legs tremble around him.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, breath brushing your jaw as his voice sinks into a lower, raspier register—still teasing, still composed, but cracked just enough to betray how much he’s feeling it too. “Right there… you clamp down so sweetly when I do that.”

His thumb circles your clit with slow, delicious pressure, in sync with the fingers pinching your nipple again, dragging your pleasure taut like a wire straining to snap. You’re close—gods, you’re close—and he can feel it.

You hear the soft sound of his breath hitching, feel his cheek press against yours as he watches you unravel. His eyes are darker than before, half-lidded and gleaming behind his glasses, a faint flush blooming across his sculpted cheekbones. He licks his lips as though tasting every sound you make.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he coaxes, voice a velvet purr. “Show me how messy you can be. Give me those sweet sounds I like so much.”

Your body shudders—shatters—as the orgasm crashes over you, wet and intense, your panties soaked through, thighs quaking around his wrist. You cry out, loud and broken, but his mouth is already there, silencing you with a hungry kiss, swallowing the sound as though it belongs to him.

And maybe it does.

He fucks you through it—his fingers still stroking, still curled, coaxing every aftershock until you twitch and jerk from the overstimulation. You whimper against his lips, breath stuttering, voice cracking on a desperate plea.

“Too much—Rafayel, please—”

But he only chuckles, dragging his mouth to your throat where his lips graze your racing pulse. “Oh no,” he murmurs, smug but almost sweet. “You’re not done yet.”

His voice is still playful, maddeningly soft, like silk drawn across fevered skin. “I know you can give me one more. You’re so easy to coax when you’re like this… so warm, so wet… so moldable, however I want you.”

You let out a broken sound as his fingers start again, slower this time but deeper, more insistent. His other hand slides under your blouse, teasing your swollen nipple again, and you can’t stop your hips from rocking with him—chasing it, even when it’s too much.

You’re a mess beneath him now, and he loves it.

“You’re perfect like this,” he says, low and reverent. “Fingers deep and still wanting more. God, look at you, taking me so well.”

Your walls flutter around him when he slides in a third finger, the stretch delicious and dizzying, and your breath catches, your mouth falling open as another moan tears from your throat. He moves faster now, circling your clit with pressure just shy of cruel.

“So needy for my fingers,” he praises, whispering into your ear, “so good for me. I could keep you here all day, you know… right on the edge. You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

You nod, frantic, barely coherent beneath the pressure coiling inside you again. “Please… Rafayel—please—I need—”

“Shhh…” he hums, lips brushing your temple. “Just a little more.”

You tremble violently, body locking up as the second orgasm hits you harder than the first, ripping through you like lightning. He covers your mouth with the hand that had been teasing your chest, muffling the cry as your body convulses around his fingers. And as you shake, undone in his arms, he kisses your throat softly, reverently, a smirk curling on his lips between every whispered graze of teeth.

“You look divine like this,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue along your collarbone, “completely wrecked by my hands.”

You're still trembling, gasping softly as you try to come down from the high, your body shuddering beneath every aftershock like it’s forgotten how to exist without his hands on you. And just when you think you might be able to breathe again, his fingers brush your clit once more—lazy, coaxing circles that make your thighs twitch and your voice catch in a half-whimper against his throat.

He chuckles lowly, lips brushing your skin as he finally, finally withdraws his fingers, slow and deliberate, like dragging silk through honey. You're soaked through and achingly oversensitive, but your eyes—glossy and dazed—find his, locking on the amethyst gleam now darkened with hunger and satisfaction. His smirk is still there, of course it is, curved with maddening amusement, even as a faint pink flush dusts his cheeks and paints the tips of his ears. You know, then, that he needed it just as badly as you did. He just hides it better.

You pull him into a messy kiss, all tongue and teeth and heat. He groans into your mouth, responding like a man starved, gripping your waist as if anchoring himself. But before he can steady the moment, before he can trap you beneath that desk again and get drunk off your sounds, you unhook your legs from around his hips and slip down.

His brows twitch in question—until you guide him backward with a push that isn’t gentle. Still breathless, still kissing him between ragged inhales, you maneuver him around the desk, backing him into his chair. He lands with a grunt, blinking up at you through the haze, flushed and a little stunned. Then he smiles—smirks, of course—raising a single brow in playful challenge.

“Well,” he drawls, voice low and teasing, “that was rather assertive of you.”

But his smugness dies in his throat the moment you sink to your knees before him.

You see it—the way his composure flickers. His breath stutters. His pupils dilate as his eyes track the slow glide of your hands settling on his thighs, feeling the tense coil of muscle beneath your palms. He licks his lips, eyes sharp now, locked on yours like a man watching the fuse of his own undoing being lit.

“My, my…” he murmurs, throat tight. “Are you planning to ruin me, sweetheart?”

You smile, voice raspy, thick with intention. “I just think it’s time I had my turn.” you lean in, lips brushing his inner thigh. “Can’t have my little professor being the only one who gets to teach.”

He exhales sharply—almost a moan—and you feel his thighs tense again under your touch. You don’t move too fast. No, you tease the outline of his zipper with featherlight strokes, watching the way his hips twitch in anticipation. His cock is hard beneath the fabric, straining for contact, and you don’t give it. Not yet.

“Didn’t I do well today?” you whisper, nuzzling up higher. “Followed all your instructions… took everything you gave me.”

He groans, deep and strained, and his hand moves into your hair, not quite pulling, just holding. “You think you’ve earned a reward, then?” he murmurs, biting down a grin. “Is that what this is?”

“I’ve been very good,” you hum, brushing your lips just above the bulge. “You gave me directions, professor… now it’s your turn to follow mine.”

You unzip him slowly, deliberately, tugging his pants and underwear down just enough to free him—and then he’s there, hard and flushed, twitching under the sudden cool air. Before he can say something smug, you lean in and press a kitten lick to the tip.

He curses, hips jerking faintly, hand tightening in your hair.

“You're having fun, don't you?” he mutters, breath ragged.

You grin and stroke him with one hand, slow and measured. “I’m your student,” you purr, licking your lips. “Didn’t you say it’s important to practice techniques outside of class?”

That makes him laugh—gravelly and unsteady—but his jaw tenses when you lick him again, just enough to drive him crazy. You hear the breath catch in his throat as he tries to keep up that infuriatingly calm act. But his hips buck slightly when you don’t take him fully, and his voice drops even lower.

“You’re doing it on purpose,” he whispers, voice hoarse and dark. “Teasing me like this… all while knowing exactly what I want.”

You blink up at him through your lashes. “Then say it.”

He breathes out a broken chuckle, licking his lips again. “You want me to beg?”

“I want to hear you admit it,” you murmur, brushing your mouth over his tip, breath hot and deliberate. “That you want my mouth. That you need it.”

He groans, tilting his head back for a moment as if composing himself. Then his eyes return to yours—heavy, dark, almost reverent.

“Let me feel it,” he says, low and wrecked. “That pretty mouth of yours… wrapped around me.” his hand guides you just a little. “Show me what you’ve learned.”

You smile, wicked and sweet, and finally take him in—slowly, deliberately, watching him fall apart, one inch at a time.

He groans—a soft, guttural sound that sinks into your bones—as his head tips back against the chair, neck exposed, lips parted, breath hitching. You take him deeper, letting him hit the back of your throat with a slow, steady glide that has his thighs twitching beneath your hands. When you hum around him—sweet and deliberate—his body reacts instantly. A shiver runs through him like electricity, and he lets out a strangled sound that barely passes for a moan.

Your gaze never leaves him. And when his head finally drops down again, glasses slipping low on the bridge of his nose, cheeks flushed a stunning rose hue, lips glossy from parted, panting breaths—you know you’ve got him. Really got him.

He meets your eyes with a look that’s somewhere between wrecked and reverent.

“You’re… such a tease,” he murmurs, voice low and hoarse, but still trying for that playful lilt. “On your knees for me, taking my cock like that… no shame in the world.”

You smile—smile with your eyes, since your mouth is still far too occupied to answer. One hand lifts to cup him gently, your fingers stroking along the sensitive weight of him while your mouth begins to move in slow, patient drags. Not too fast yet. You feel him tense, hear the breath suck through his teeth.

He mutters a curse under his breath, voice thick with disbelief. “Cutie, if you keep doing that…” his hand finds your hair, not pulling, not demanding, just grounding himself—like he needs you as an anchor to keep from unraveling too soon. “You really want to see me lose it, don’t you?”

You let your pace stay teasing, even as he tries to guide your rhythm with gentle tugs and faint thrusts. You don't give in. Not entirely. You like the way he fights for control, the way his voice breaks when he tries to keep teasing you and fails.

“Fuck…” he breathes, almost laughing. “You're going to ruin me. Is that what you want?”

You hum again in response—your answer as much a challenge as it is a promise. His reaction is immediate. A ragged moan, followed by a chuckle that sounds strained, barely hanging on.

And then the praise starts. Low, coaxing, drawn out like a thread wrapping around your spine.

“Just like that,” he murmurs, fingers curling into your hair. “Always knew you'd have a skilled mouth… but this?” he groans again, hips twitching as you swirl your tongue along the underside. “This is… artistry.”

The compliment makes you ache—makes you want to please him more and tease him harder. So you pull back with a soft pop, leaving his cock glistening, your lips swollen and parted, breath warm as you gaze up at him.

His mouth falls open slightly at the sight. “You—” his voice cracks, eyes dark and glassy. “You look like a sin I’ve committed too many times in my head.” he pants, eyes half-liddled, “So gorgeous, swallowing my cock like that.”

You grin, just a little wicked, before leaning in and trailing a slow lick along the head of his cock, tasting him. His hips twitch again and his grip tightens in your hair, though still not rough. He’s trying to stay gentle. Trying.

“Please,” he breathes, softer now. “Be a good girl and don’t tease anymore, yeah? ”

That please is your undoing. You slide him back into your mouth, taking him with slow, wet strokes, lips sealing around him as your hand joins to work the base. You keep your eyes on his the entire time, watching every flicker of restraint, every hitched breath, every helpless twitch.

He moans—no pretense left now—and you feel the tension climbing, his thighs trembling slightly as his voice grows ragged.

“You need to stop or—” he pants, brows furrowing. “I’m going to—fuck—”

You hum around him again, letting him know without words that you’re not stopping. That you want it.

His body jerks once, hard, and his voice breaks as he lets go—hips pushing up slightly, his head thrown back again as he comes with a low, ruined groan. You take everything he gives, the weight of him twitching on your tongue, the salt and heat flooding your mouth, his fingers flexing in your hair as if he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or push you away.

When he finally opens his eyes again, breath shallow and chest rising fast beneath his unbuttoned shirt, he looks down at you with something feral and awestruck.

“…God,” he breathes, lips curling in disbelief. “What am I going to do with you?”

Your mouth curls into a slow, wicked smile, and you lick your lips, letting him watch. “Whatever you want, professor.”

part 2 here

© zaynessbeloved 2025

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

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taglist: @syluslittlecrows, @asiaticapple

[lynostalgi]

best part

synopsis: using the key Zayne gave you, the state of his apartment gives you an idea warnings: this is just fluff, mentions of cooking and eating pairing: Zayne x fem! reader wc: 2.2k

When Zayne gave you a key to his apartment, it wasn’t a test. Or a symbol. Or anything dramatic at all, really.

It was just a key, nestled in his palm like something simple. He’d handed it to you without preamble, voice low and even as he said, “This isn’t just for emergencies. I want you to come over. Whenever. Even if I’m not here.”

And maybe that was what startled you most, how casual the words were, how easily they slid into the world like they hadn’t rearranged your entire interior. A soft intimacy, not loud or showy, but felt everywhere. Like sunlight on the back of your neck.

Of course it was just like Zayne. Of course he’d express his feelings with something so simple, so functional. The man had a whole emotional language built out of gestures like that: hand-delivered coffee, a knit brow when you yawned too early, a charger in his bag just in case.

The key clicks into the lock, and you step inside. The quiet hits you first. A different kind of quiet, one that doesn’t hum with Zayne’s presence in the next room, or the familiar weight of his footfall on tile.

You’ve been here dozens of times. But never like this.

The lights are off. The windows cast the pale sheen of a cloudy afternoon across the living room. His coat is draped across the back of a chair, a half-empty mug on the coffee table. And the rest…

The rest is chaos.

Not dirty, not really. But cluttered in a way that feels deeply un-Zayne. Books scattered across the couch like they fell mid-thought. A handful of glass cups, each with varying degrees of forgotten water. Candy wrappers twisted into quiet spirals. A stethoscope hanging off the edge of a dining chair.

You set your bag down gently, almost afraid to disturb the mess.

Zayne was organized in the way architect's dream about, meticulous, methodical, even in the way he folded his laundry. He had once explained the arrangement of his bookshelf to you with a near-religious reverence, tracing spines with his fingers while your head lay in his lap, his other hand trailing slowly through your hair.

You hadn’t been able to keep your eyes open that night, lulled to the edge of sleep by his soft cadence, but you remembered the way his voice warmed as he spoke. The way he always lit up over order.

And so the disarray here doesn’t feel careless. It feels…tired.

Like something gave way inside him and never had time to settle back into place.

You hover awkwardly in the center of the room, unsure if this counts as trespassing or love. Probably both.

But after a few moments, your hands start to itch. And besides, if Zayne were here, you’d be tidying beside him without a second thought.

You find his cleaning supplies tucked away in the immaculate cabinet he keeps beneath the sink. You queue up your playlist on his speaker, start with the dishes, and let the rhythm carry you.

It’s meant to be quick. Just a sweep here, a wipe-down there. But you end up singing into the broom, dancing in socked feet over the tile. You linger over his books, reading the margins he’s scrawled in mechanical pencil, each note like a whispered thought left behind.

By the time you’ve returned them all to their places, according to Zayne’s preferred genre-then-author-then-title system, you feel like you’ve restored something sacred.

You scrub the countertops until they gleam. Stack dishes in the drying rack with care. Sweep crumbs into a neat pile and hum to yourself as you rinse out the sink.

By the time it’s all done, you’re glowing a little. Not just with exertion, but with pride. The kind that comes from loving someone in the language they understand best.

The kitchen is quiet when you check the time. It’s edging toward dinner. And Zayne’s fridge, unsurprisingly, is empty except for half a lemon, a bottle of hot sauce, and a single, forlorn cucumber.

You laugh softly and slip your shoes back on.

The grocery store down the street is still open. You shop deliberately, fresh vegetables for dinner, noodles, stock, a bulb of garlic because you remember how he always forgets to buy one. You skip the carrots that he had once told you, half-asleep, were his culinary nemesis.

You throw brownie mix into the cart without thinking too hard about it. And then you add chocolate chips. And a pack of microwave meals for the nights he’s too tired to boil water.

Back at the apartment, the grocery bags thump gently onto the counter. You start unpacking, switching the playlist to something softer.

The soup bubbles quietly. The scent of onions, miso, and ginger fills the space. You taste as you go, adjust, stir again. You let the brownies bake while you clean up the splatters and lean against the counter, eyes flicking to the door every few minutes.

He should be home soon.

But exhaustion creeps into your limbs before he gets there, and eventually you let yourself fold into the couch, the smell of chocolate clinging to your sleeves, your hair, your skin. Just a minute, you think. I’ll rest my eyes.

When Zayne reaches his front door, fatigue clings to him like a second skin, dense and inescapable. The ache behind his eyes is dull but insistent, the kind that seeps in after hours of standing still and thinking too hard. He’s just come from witnessing something remarkable, a cutting-edge transplant, the kind of surgery that makes all the sleepless nights worth it. But now, standing in the quiet hush of his hallway, he braces himself for the chaos he left behind. Dishes in the sink. Papers in soft piles on the floor. That chair with the jacket he never remembers to hang up.

Except...when the door creaks open, what greets him is not disarray, but the gentle gleam of light bouncing off clean countertops. The air is warm with the scent of something rich and homey, garlic, maybe, and fresh herbs. A slow-cooked comfort.

He stills in the doorway, blinking like he’s unsure he’s stepped into the right apartment. The transformation is startling.

And then he sees you.

Curled up on the couch in the low lamplight, one hand tucked beneath your cheek, the other slack on your stomach. The domesticity of it, the peace, hits him in the sternum. He lets his bag slide gently to the floor, shrugs off his coat, and crosses the room like he’s afraid to break the spell.

You stir at the weight of the couch shifting beneath him, eyes fluttering open. Your gaze softens when it finds him.

"Hi," you whisper, still drowsy, like the word costs you something.

He leans in, pressing a kiss to the apple of your cheek. It's feather-light, reverent. A silent thank you.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmurs, though there’s the faintest smile in his voice, like he’s secretly glad to see you awake.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” you say, blinking up at him. “Just…resting my eyes.”

His brow furrows, the beginnings of a scold he doesn’t quite commit to. You can see the protest behind his eyes, the part of him that wants to argue you should’ve gone to bed. But instead, he squeezes your hand, his thumb stroking slow over your knuckles.

“It’s late,” he says, voice quieter now, almost shy. “You should get some sleep.”

But your nap has left you refreshed, and the anticipation of seeing him like this, worn down but glowing with presence, makes you shake your head and stand.

“I made you dinner,” you say gently, tugging his hand. “Come on.”

He follows without resistance, a step behind you as you lead him to the kitchen. His arms slip around your waist the moment you stop moving, his chin settling atop your head like it’s the most natural place in the world to rest. His fingers tangle with yours, grounding himself in the warmth of you.

You can feel the weight of his day in the way he holds you, like if he lets go, the exhaustion might win.

As you move to warm up the food, he stays close, always touching, his fingers tracing lazy shapes on your hip bone, his breath ghosting over your shoulder.

When dinner is plated, he takes the dishes from you before you can insist, setting them carefully on the table and fetching cutlery without a word. You sit across from him, watching the way the tension in his shoulders loosens as he finally allows himself to be taken care of.

“Thank you,” he says, not even looking at the food yet. His eyes are on you.

You lift an eyebrow. “It’s nothing. Just dinner.”

His smile is faint but full of feeling. “Not just for dinner. You didn’t have to clean.”

“I wanted to. You’ve been working so hard lately. I figured…I’d lighten the load.”

For a moment, he just looks at you. Really looks, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you under this soft kitchen light, the gentle tone of your voice. Like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

Your foot nudges his under the table.

“Eat, Doctor,” you tease. “Shouldn’t have to remind you of the importance of proper nutrition.”

That finally pulls a laugh from him, quiet and precious. He reaches for his spoon with a fond shake of his head, and keeps smiling even as he chews.

You try to argue when he gathers your empty plates later, but he silences you with a single look, soft but firm, the way he is with stubborn patients. You follow him anyway, settling on the counter while he washes up, recounting the odd details of your day: the cat that tried to follow you home from the store, the old lady who complimented your scarf, the podcast episode that made you tear up in public.

He listens like it's the only thing keeping him tethered to the world, asking quiet questions, chuckling when appropriate, nodding at the right moments.

When he finishes the last dish, you shift to hop down from the counter, but his hands find you first, gentle yet grounding, resting just above your knees as he steps between your legs.

“Hi, doctor,” you murmur, and the nickname falls from your lips like a secret. Your voice is soft, a little breathless, caught under the quiet weight of his gaze.

He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Not rushed. Not demanding. Just a quiet, lingering brush of lips that feels more like a promise than a greeting, tender and full of meaning.

“Thank you,” he says again, low and sincere. His voice sounds different in this hush between you. Unarmored. “For everything.”

You shake your head, a small smile blooming as your arms circle around his neck, drawing him a little closer. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m happy to do it. Always.”

He kisses you then. Really kisses you. It’s slow and steady, a kind of coming home. His hands slide up to your waist, thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of your shirt. There’s nothing hurried about it. Just the warmth of him anchoring you, like he’s trying to speak in the language of closeness, of breath and skin and unspoken things.

When he finally pulls back, it’s with a soft sigh against your lips and a tired, crooked smile that still makes your heart stutter.

“Let’s go to bed,” he murmurs, the fatigue threading back into his voice, pulling at the edges of his body.

You trail your hand down his arm, fingertips skimming the inside of his wrist in a soothing touch. “Alright,” you say gently. “Though…I guess the brownies will have to wait till tomorrow.”

He stills at that, blinking once. “Brownies?”

You try to bite back your smile, feigning innocence as your fingers toy with the collar of his shirt. “They should still be warm from the oven.”

He makes a low, needy sound that you feel more than hear, and the way he leans in to press a kiss to your cheek sends heat blooming in your chest. His voice is a whisper against your skin.

“You’re the best.”

“I know,” you tease, lips brushing his jaw.

And even as he lets out a quiet laugh, you feel it, the love steeped in the way he looks at you like you're the one miracle he's been waiting all day to come home to.

[lynostalgi]

A BITE THAT HEALS

STARRING: vampire physician!zayne x sick countess! reader

synopsis: you've fallen dangerously ill and now your position to be countess is threatened by your family that wants to sabotage your claim. with the outbreak of vampiric attackers going rampant, alongside the challenges that come with not being able to see the sun, you seek refuge in your physician's care. and eventually give in to your deepest desires at a a cost.

warnings: porn with plot. angst WITH COMFORT. mention of death, murder attempts, depictions of murder, death, you both want each other, eventual smut, dry humping, body worship, fingering, cunnilingus, hair pulling, vampire sex, multiple orgasms, creampies, you are NASTY FREAKS!

wc: 13,6k

an: Vampire Zayne. VAMPIRE ZAYNE!!!! I promise the angst won't make you cry. I think.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

The skies have lost their taste. Its colour is as mundane as the mushed texture of expired fruit. In any glimpse your eyes can catch, the clouds cast the sun aside as a salute to you — and your illness.

Your skin is pinched by a sliver of warmth before the curtains draw closed by the gloved hand of a handmaiden; one of many that relentlessly serve you. You gingerly scorn at the shadowed warmth emanating from the gaps between your sanctuary and the outer world.

As your eyes reluctantly draw away from the dull specs of light, your hands subconsciously reach for your arms, half covered by the gown being fitted onto your person. The day has barely begun, and yet your duties as regent countess come first and foremost above all.

Even when the world pities you. Even when you must enshroud yourself in the arms of darkness. Even your body betrays you, weakening faster than you can possibly grow old.

The days had blurred into months, dragging the old beauties of life to become mundane and distasteful. The only true source of exhilaration that remains is a particular practitioner who directly tends to your wellbeing.

“You must avoid attending the evening mass tonight, my lady.” One of your most trusted handmaidens says, wrapping the strings of your corset around her palms. “There have been rampant attacks reported over the last few nights.”

“The same ones as those from last week?” 

“Indeed, my lady.”

“Ensure that funds are sent to support the injured and sickly— mostly to the church and infirmaries.” You mutter, feeling your throat become irritated, again. Another illness to add to your agitations. “If I cannot help those in need directly, send my regards through this service. Ensure the reverends respond by tomorrow.” 

Your handmaidens nod and work effortlessly, ensuring your undergarments are secure before fitting you into your tea gown. It is the purest representation of elegance, your clothing. Designed to perfect and accentuate your figure, you have donned some of the best gowns and accessories the ton has seen yet. Your every appearance before society — both high and low born — have always left an influential mark.

Many suitors have bent the knee for your hand, many ladies have scorned your ‘theft of their gentlemen’ with your beauty, mystique, and charm. Mamas and patriarchs of the highest families have sent calling cards to request an audience— all of which went unanswered. You truly are the embodiment of divine beauty in mortal form.

And yet, you can barely muster looking at your reflection.

Despite the encouraging words of your handmaidens— granted to you as you grew in training to be secondary to your elder brother should he fail to inherit the title as Count— you struggle to see the person you used to be. Before the illness. Before the pain.

It had begun when your skin prickled and seared under the glare of the sun, an entity you once relished in dancing beneath. 

It was a leisurely promenade on horseback with your brother in the peak heat of the summer months. You had come down with an intensive fever after spending barely an hour outside. It appeared your brother suffered the same illness but not as intensely. Only after months of close observation was it confirmed that you had caught a strain of an illness. 

One that runs cold and deep within the blood of your ancestors. It rarely appears, which potentially was why your parents had neglected to inform you before their disappearance just months after you came of age and came out to society. That was eight years ago.

Your brother passed on two years after the discovery of your illness, leaving you as the sole heir of your family’s great fortune, and the title as Countess for the lack of a next of kin.

Or so you believed.

Once word had flooded into society that you would be the sole heir to the fortune in your family’s name, your aunt— sister of your father— returned after years of silence to retrieve what she claimed to be hers.

Your incentive, despite your weakened and vulnerable state as young as you were, was to protect what remained of your family’s legacy and to drive your cruel aunt as far away as possible. Unfortunately, your argument was considered weak, for you are an unmarried woman. 

She has a son, despite the rest of her children being girls, almost of age and accredited amongst the ton as a well-esteemed man. That public favour only goaded your aunt in her attempts to swipe your inheritance and leave you to rot.

Years of holding back tears and biding your time wore you down. The endless quarrels and battles withered your confidence. Word eventually came to your attention that the bodies of your parents were finally found, and gruesome a discovery it was.

It tore you apart to the point of you being bedridden for months. Your breath had grown hollow for some solemn dark years, your hands tightly gripped by your handmaidens and trusted attorneys begging you to stay strong just long enough to win.

As stubborn as you are, even to this day, you cursed your aunt with every fighting beat of your slowing heart. When your health finally stabilised after years of confinement and grief, your heart locked tight and grew colder. 

Your skin is almost as fragile as glass. Your eyes are still sharp regardless of the hollowed gaze you use to terrify that damned aunt of yours. Your fortitude hardened like steel over endless nights of gazing into the darkened night— the only time your eyes did not taunt you with pain just as sickeningly riveting as your grief and rancour.

“You must be careful in your steps, my lady.” Your handmaiden tuts as she pulls the strings, tightening your corset just enough not to harm you. “You’ll only harm your skin and deal great pain upon yourself should you overexert yourself.”

“Would it compare to what I have already suffered?” You ask, not tearing your eyes away from your reflection. Eventually you would have to face what remains of you in the mirror.

Your body took a great surplus of damage over those years of emotional and physical torment. Even the slightest pinch would feel like hundreds of blades piercing your flesh. The best physicians became useless in aiding you. Your hope had begun to diminish as quickly as your health did. Until a spark pushed you back to your graces.

He was the unconventional type, this physician. He held no discrimination between the classes that the hierarchy of your society stood upon— the physicians that failed to treat you often scorned at the alleged scars that cicatrised his flesh, or mocked his methods for his lack of “discernment” on the people he ought to treat.

That alone was more than enough for you to have him be the one to bring you back to greater health.

His attempts, while valiant, did little to bring you to be in a fit enough position to walk without an attendee by your side or a cane to support you in case your muscles give in to weakness. That being said, you praise him generously for trying. For believing that you are capable of healing, even if there are parts of your health that you’ll never see again.

The mere thought of him alone makes your lips curve up just a little.

Your handmaidens complete the rest of your gown in the midst of your reminiscence, and the bell from outside your chambers announces the arrival of your physician. He’s here.

The attendants have definitely noticed the rise in your mood ever since the arrival of your trusted doctor. Despite his unsocial tendencies and his especially dry sense of humour, they’ve taken note of how your body loses tension and relaxes so long as he is within close proximity.

Your hushed conversations mid-observation stretched on for prolonged hours— longer than any standard check up should be. Your smiles were always visible in his presence and only returned to being a rare treasure after he left. 

They definitely saw you smiling just a little bit right now. 

The doors to your chamber split open, gushing a scent of jasmine and lavender into the room. Your eyes flutter shut, letting the soft breeze greet you with a gentle kiss on your sensitive skin. By the time your eyes opened once more, you could see his gaze on you through the mirror.

“Good afternoon, Zayne.” You smiled. You had long forgone formalities over the stretching months of him treating you to better health. To be fair, you had developed quite a warm friendship.

“You seem to have more strength today,” He glances at your figure, nodding to himself. “You’ve managed to stand still for longer. That’s an improvement.”

“With your support, it is only fair to assume I’d regain my vigour quickly.” With a sharp look to the head of the maids at your stead, they scurry off with excited titters, likely on their way to report of your joy to the rest of the staff. They could all see the growing interest you had in Zayne, and they grew to enjoy his presence too.

Every trip made to your manor involved you pestering your butler to ask the chef to prepare sweet pastries, knowing he had a taste for them. Your handmaidens dressed you in some of your best gowns — which is technically all of them — giggling amongst each other for the little dates you would have with him, even if you wouldn’t refer to them as such. 

And yet you go on promenade with parasols in the afternoon together to stretch your legs. Any yet you share meals together. And yet you have been caught resting beside him by one of your handmaidens which she eventually swore not to tell a soul.

It was the happiest you had been in years. Of course, your servants would do anything to see you smile. The housemaids had even prepared a chamber for him in the event where he’d be needed overnight. 

“Is it not dangerous for you to roam to recklessly out there?” You ask, draping your shoulders with a shawl for more warmth. “There have been attacks all over the place.”

“It’s my duty to tend to the wounded and ill, my lady, even if I put myself at risk.” Despite your longstanding friendship, he still opts to be so formal. “What have you heard?”

“They call the attackers vampiric.” You sigh, taking Zayne’s extended hand to help you move to your bed. “Canines elongated and sharp, skin cold yet potent to deceive others with the illusion of warmth. Apparently some are still warm to the touch… I’ve heard they also have a great affinity for blood.”

Zayne only hums as his hands hover over your exposed neckline, awaiting your consent. You absentmindedly nod and glance to the covered window in longing. “Some say they hide in the shadows during the day, as the sun harms them.”

“Almost sounds like they are rather similar to you.” Zayne pokes your cheek with a subtle grin.

“Are you accusing me of consuming blood?” You gasp, holding your hand over your chest. Directly above his own. You swear to yourself that it was not intentional. 

“Perhaps you are,” His grin only widens, glad to see you entertained by his jibe. He extracts one of his tools from his bag, placing the cool metal on your chest, moving it around until he hears the soft drumming of your heart. “You might just stalk your way around the streets of town in the dark of night, finding your next victim to extract their very essence.”

Your ears are burning at such close contact. It’s not the first time his hands have been so close to you but it always leaves a lasting affect, sending flutters to your stomach and burning heat to your ears and cheeks.

The way his hazel tinted eyes always flicker between your chest and your gaze shoots shivers down your spine. Sometimes you wonder if his gaze ever lowers to the cleavage of your bosom— but you ought not assume he would be so bold.

“I would only want yours.” You whisper. His hands roam over the expanse of your chest, gently poking and pressing on your skin. It brings your breath to catch deep in your lungs, your pulse slowly jumping. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“I— I would…” You quickly blink yourself out of your trance, glancing around the room to gather your thoughts. “I would only want the purest blood! Blood seeped in alcohol must have a nasty taste, no?”

“Perhaps,” Zayne pouts and leans away to store his medical tools in his bag. It takes all your energy not to make a sound, mourning the absence of his touch. “Or maybe you have a taste for the best blood the world can provide.”

“If I did,” You slowly gather your words as you lean closer to him. The way he is seated on your bed prevents him from leaning back. “Would you get it for me?”

Was this dangerously inappropriate? Of course it was!

Did you care? Well…

It did take a lot of courage for you to move so subtly. His reaction only makes your efforts more fruitful. His ears have a slight red blush creeping closer to his face and his eyes— those ethereal eyes— have already glanced off in another direction to avoid your gaze.

“I ought to remind you that this is purely hypothetical.” Zayne gently pokes your forehead. “What occasion requires you to dress so formally?”

Your smile slowly fades. Your aunt had decided to grace you with her presence for luncheon with her eldest son and daughter. In her letter, she referred to it as a moment for you to all bond as a family. As 'true kin’ meaning to support one another.

You hadn’t heard from the woman in almost two years ever since she left you in such a damaged state. You laughed hysterically when your butler reported it to you. Letting bygones be bygones is beneath you.

The rejection letter was halfway through being written when you remembered that any sign of resistance, knowing your aunt and her devilish ways, would only be met with corrupted legal pushback— and you were not in the mental state to handle such strain again.

You had no choice. You have to protect what remains of your family, even if it kills you.

“Luncheon.” You stiffly respond, feeling the icy chill spread through your body. The warmth once shared between the two of you slowly becomes overpowered by pure resentment. “With my aunt.”

Zayne’s lips purse into a straight line. “I see.” He shares your sentiment against your aunt. After all, it was her consistent harassment over the years that drove you to your illness being dramatically exacerbated. It took him threatening her with summoning your attorneys to drive her away, but the damage had already been done.

“When is it?”

Like a sick joke, the bell rings overhead, indicating the arrival of a guest. But you don’t need your butler to tell you who it is.

“I suppose now.” You slowly push yourself to your feet, rejecting Zayne’s caring hands to support you. You return to the cold, resenting tone that held you before his arrival. “Am I to assume you shall remain in the manor until dinner?”

Zayne curtly nods. “I’ll right beside you during luncheon. I just need to clean up here.” 

His heart tugs as he watches you leave your chambers, supported by a wooden cane. He has no need to pity you, for he has seen your strength. But he burns to help you in any way he can just to see that cold scowl disappear once and for all.

The luncheon goes as you expect it to.

The formalities pass through smoothly, your aunt pulls you into her embrace and squeezes her grip on you with her knowledge of your physical weakness. Fortunately, it was brief. She still reeks of strong floral perfume, only this time it’s far more potent.

Your cousins were more stiff with their greetings, giving you sneers and subtle jabs about your appearance.

“You still look so sickly,” The younger cousin snickered. The frills on her gown made her look like a peacock. “Perhaps I should send you my stylist to create a new wardrobe for you. One that won’t make you seem so… rude.”

The elder cousin, although younger than you, was silent and devoted more of his energy observing the interior of your manor. Almost as though he was planning what he wished to do with it.

The meals were delectable, as expected of your chefs. They are the best of the best, after all. When you began to host again, once your heath improved just enough to interact with others, your guests— mostly being close family friends— often commended the food provided and asked for recipes so that their chefs could make something similar.

You have always taken great pride in your staff, and always extended your gratitude for them being by your side in the most difficult time in your life. They stood by your side, fed you, bathed you, spoke stories of the current affairs in society to keep you up to speed, and treated you and each other like family to substitute for the one you lost.

Without them, there would barely be anything left of you. Without them, your fortitude to fight would have shattered. 

“This is quite the mediocre meal you have provided, dearest.” Your aunt tuts as she waves for your butler. “Take this scrap away. Even a cow would eat better.”

Your jaw ticks but you keep your gaze on the plate beneath you. You finished your plate, and considered the main course rather divine. Perhaps your aunt’s palate was not yet accustomed to more exotic meat.

“I see you haven’t ventured out beyond our country’s bounds.” You comment, seething each word with long-brewing venom. “Your taste buds have likely dulled from all the pork you eat.” One of the things your aunt resents about you is your sharp tongue. It’s why she is so persistent on pinning you down hard enough to legally overwhelm you.

You could see her brows knit together from your peripheral. Just as you intended. The elder of your two cousins merely snickered while the younger scoffed.

“Who is to say this foreign meat is even good?” She sneers, despite having stuffed her mouth with the very meat she insults moments ago. 

“You have too much confidence for one who barely interacts with society. Not to mention how dark it is in here, there’s barely any direct light here. I feel sorry for your staff, especially that practitioner.” Her eyes flicker to Zayne, who stands beside your staff.

He occasionally joins you while you eat just to keep close in case your agitations harm you. It isn’t uncommon for your illness to strike you at random, so he must have attended to keep an eye on you.

“Honestly, with the way you brood, I doubt anyone would want to be in your presence.” That would have struck a nerve if it was the first time she had mentioned it.

Your eyes grew painfully delicate in the presence of the sun— constantly burning or drowning in tears or drying up completely if you were outside for too long. The same applied to your skin. It began to physically ache to feel its rays on you. The only solution was to reduce the light exposed to you as much as possible. 

“Such a shame, indeed. I truly am not like you, dearest cousin.” You taunt as your gaze strikes her with contempt. “I believe it is only fair you dance around the public grounds under the sun while you cozy up with all the lords of the land. You ought to give them a visit on a promenade. I am sure one will be mad enough to raise your skirts.”

Just as your butler coughs back a chuckle from your callousness, she slams her hand on the table with faux tears brimming in her eyes. “You foul—“

“Now, dearest,” Your aunt cuts in, tilting her head in that same condescending way as she did all those years ago. “You ought not be so cruel to your cousin. After all, she is the closest you’ll ever have to a sister.”

“She is not my sister.” You are quick to interject her, silently cursing yourself for reacting so quickly. That only seems to fuel your aunt more.

“She is your kin.” Those eyes of hers twinkle, making it known that she’s seen you break just enough to poke at your pride even more. “You are the last of your father’s legacy, and yet you are barely fit to claim a dowry.”

From the corner of your eye, you see your butler, footmen, and maids twitch in agitation. You subtly raise your hand beneath the table, keeping them at bay.

“You are just moments from breaching the territory of a spinster, my dear.” Her false concern is slowly shifting into jeers of spite. Almost as if she waited those eight years to pin you down. “You have no match, no suitor. You cannot possibly think you can claim what remains of the fortune. You are a woman and your brother is gone.”

Your eye twitches at the mention of your brother, but you force yourself to maintain composure. “As a woman, your duty is to get a husband so that he may take over the title. So that you may pass down your forefathers’ legacy. Though that may not be a present option. Not when you can barely walk on your own without a cane and a maid by your hand.”

Through gritted teeth, you force yourself to speak. “You have no privilege to discriminate me for a hereditary illness. I had no involvement in living this way.”

“Oh yes, dearest.” Your aunt coos in that damned sneer. “We have all been praying for you all these years for your speedy recovery. But it does not seem that you have fared any better.”

You can feel yourself getting stiff with agitation. Your chest squeezes in tight, your breaths constrain and become shallow enough for the rise and fall of your torso to be visible and quick. You can hear the snickers from your cousins but they drown out into a buzz of noise.

You can see your aunt’s lips move but you hear no words. Her eyes narrow, her brows raise in pity as her smile widens just enough to see her gums so harshly pink that it feels unnatural to see. Her hands follow her words, flicking with each intonation of her voice, all so condescending, all so vile.

The pounding in your chest grows louder and louder, thumping into your head so harshly that you can feel it. Pulses of pain spread through your mind as hot flashes surge beneath your skin. It’s too much. Your corset feels tight around you, your shawl sets your skin ablaze in discomfort with every breath you take. But you can’t move your hands to take it off.

You’re trapped to only listen to your aunt break you down to pieces, just as she had all those years ago. To embarrass you, to harm you, to shatter you again and again and again until she is sure there is nothing left but a hollow shell that she can steal from.

“You are the blood of your father’s blood. But your father was strong. Like your cousins are.” Mentioning him so crassly brings your hand to tighten around the sharp knife beneath you. She has no right to even utter his name. None. “Our blood gives us the powers to wield such a privilege of the title Count. And you ought to have the same too… if it weren’t for those sickly genes from your mother—“

Before you can comprehend it, your body moves for you in spite of the inferno of agony driving you to crumble. Your hand tightly grips the knife as you charge to your aunt, vision blurred with tears and her neck being the only clear sight before you. One single cleave will silence her torment forever.

Your tea gown flows as you glide to her like a vengeful ghost, arm raised just high enough for the blade to glimmer in the air. “You shall speak no word of my mother, you wretch!”

Everything from that moment happens so quickly. The screams from your cousins, your aunt and the staff reign chaos in the dining hall. Clamouring footsteps and scraping chairs thunder on the floor as hands reach out to you, desperate to hold you back from committing an act you may well regret.

Tears fall from your eyes as you draw closer to your aunt, whose face is completely distorted with absolute fear and terror. Her hands shield her face and turns away, granting you full access to the veins surging beneath her skin.

One cleave. 

Just one cleave and that crone is dead.

All of a sudden, air fills your chest and snaps you out of your homicidal daze. Your head is tucked securely into a broad chest, while strong arms wrap around you tightly engulfing you in his scent. Zayne’s hold on you does not hurt as much as your body does from the overexertion devoted to murdering that woman. 

You can just barely hear her cursing you, panting and screaming for the staff to call for her carriage. You can hear your cousins, one wailing for her mother while the other curses you to damnation. You couldn’t care less.

Those gulps of air shiver into sobs as more tears flow from your eyes, from the pain of your muscles constraining and the grief of your beloved family.

You hear your name whispered to you in a hushed voice. “Breathe. Breathe, my lady.” Zayne’s voice brings back the warmth you shared just hours earlier. Just enough to soothe you, but not enough to silence your fury.

“I’ll kill you.” You pulled your head from his embrace to face your aunt once more. “You vicious dog, I will kill you if it is the last thing I do in this mortal body!”

You watch your aunt and cousins scurry towards the doors leading to the entrance and follow them with as much strength as your weakened body can allow. You watch them trip over each other, ignoring the guiding hands of your butler and physician in case you lose your balance. They don’t try to stop you.

“I will tear you limb from limb and end the bloodline by this very hand, I swear it! You will never claim the title of Count, and you will never claim this manor so long as I live!” As they enter the carriage, your aunt turns to you with a scornful smile on her face. The luncheon may not have ended as she desired but there is at least satisfaction from rousing you to anger. 

You collapse into Zayne’s arms once the doors completely close, shielding you from the light and the eyes of your kin. Tears blind you in agony, the surging throbs of your body spread until you can barely feel him lift you into his arms.

Your sobs are the only thing you can hear until his voice calls out to you once more.

“I’m here, my lady.” Only then do you realise that you have been returned to your chambers, enveloped in his arms. His scarred hands, both rough in texture and gentle in touch, stroke your skin lightly just to soothe you.

“I need— I must—“

“You must do nothing.” Zayne hums, pressing his cheek on top of your head. Your handmaidens silently entered your chambers to leave a comfortable dress for you to wear instead of the tea gown constricting you and overstimulating you. Once they have settled your garments, they leave as quietly as they came.

“I acted out of turn—“ You turn to face him, only to be stricken with more agony from such a quick movement.

“You were provoked.” Zayne urges with an unusual strain to his voice. His attempt to suppress his anger somehow brought comfort to you. To see him care so immensely for you was heartwarming. “She had tapped into the most sensitive topics to harm you. Of course you responded that way. You were hurt.”

“The manor is bound to fall into her hands from that reckless act alone.” You shivered, almost seeing that smug look on her face should she stand victor in the battle that has lasted a decade. “I am only left to pray that those vampiric folk consume them, or worse.”

Zayne can only listen to you cry as he holds you. As much as it would satisfy him to handle them himself, you are his priority first and foremost. 

“My lady—“

“My clothes,” You murmur, feeling the discomfort of your flesh being tied up so uncomfortably in your garments. You were just fine earlier, why do you feel so constricted now? You tug your shawl off your shoulders and reach for the silk strings at your waist to tug out the knot. “I need to take it off, it’s too much.”

“I’ll call for a handmaiden.”

“No!” You shriek, harshly tugging away but it just won’t budge. Your body still aches with the need to free yourself from the constraints, bringing tears to your eyes once more. “You have touched most every part of me from my bosom to my ankles, you have seen it all. I need you Zayne, pray, I need your help.”

It is truly difficult to resist you when your eyes brim with tears and pure desperation scorns you. He has to help you. He has to. Even if it is ungentlemanly. He is a gentleman, don’t get him wrong, but you come first.

His hands rest on your shoulders and push your gown slowly until he reaches your waist where the knot is securely tied. He tries as best as he can not to listen to your frustrated pants and instead concentrate on the task at hand. 

He smoothly undoes the knot, eyes fluttering at the sound of your relief. He can only imagine how hard it was for you to sit through such a horrid luncheon like that. If it weren’t for his logic, he would have dealt with them before you lost your temper.

Zayne slides your gown further down your body until it reached your hips. “Stand for me, my lady.” You slide off your bed without question, allowing for your gown to slip off your form and pile on the floor.

Still too overstimulated to care, you turn around and gesture for Zayne to help you with your corset and the rest of your undergarments. Upon the glimpse of your back, he immediately feels a familiar rise of arousal burn within him. Damn it.

Something about how delicate yet strong your back looks just riles him up. Each muscle is so defined yet soft in the way you move, your posture is always so poised, even the way you’re turning to glare at him right now is attractive.

“If you cannot assist me further, please summon my hand—“ Nope, nope, nope, he won’t allow it.

“I can do it.” He clears his throat and adjusts his pants to conceal the tent.

Zayne scoots closer to you, ensuring his growing erection remains hidden enough for him to undo the strings of your corset outside of your sight. He works quick and smooth, gently pulling at the knots to ensure you aren’t hurt. Piece by piece, he helps you remove your garments until you stand nude above him. He can only pray that his precum doesn’t leak into his slacks.

He reaches for your looser gown and swiftly slides it over your head. He watches the smooth fabric slide down your collarbones, down your breasts, covering your waist and hips until it reaches the ground with a gentle tap.

Only then can he exhale the air caught in his throat. Only then can he swallow the urges surging within him from your scent alone. A scent so rich that he had to clamp his tongue with his teeth.

“That should do it,” He grits, smoothing out the fabric around your waist. He can’t help but keep his hands on you there. It just feels right.

“Thank you.” Silence stretches between the two of you before you sigh. “I shall have to summon my attorney to make a plan. That woman will surely use that event against me.”

“I am sure you will be able to find your way to victory.” He assures you. “You’ve fought battles worse than one to claim a title.”

“I am a woman, Zayne.” You scoff. “Unless I am able to outlive them all, there is little I can do without entering criminal territory. It seems I have already acclimatised myself to that path.”

He hums in agreement, swallowing the laugh that almost escaped his lips. His thumbs gently massage your waist, ignoring how dangerously intimate the gesture is. You seem to ignore it too, fully engulfed in need to feel secure. To engulfed in the desire you have fruitlessly tried to keep at bay.

You are attracted to Zayne. How could you not be?

For a man so handsome, so respectful, so empathetic and devoted to seeing you return to better health, it is only fair that you have begun to dream of him. That you have begun to feel your core ache and burn for him, to leave you soaked in desire so much so that you’ve spent nights moaning his name into your pillow.

It is an impulse you do your best to ignore, but with the way he holds you so gently, with so much reverence, it truly is hard to ignore the growing heat in your core. You can only pray he doesn’t notice. 

“You ought to get some rest.” He advises, not as your companion but as your medical advisor. He glances out the covered windows to see the light filtering into your room. It’s much warmer. It must be dusk already. “I shall be leaving soon as well.”

You immediately step away from him touch, swiftly turning to show your shock and fear. But it’s always been that way. 

In daylight, he is yours. Confined with you in the manor so that he can ensure you are well. The only reason why he only arrived at noon today was because he had other patients to attend to. Once the sun sets beneath the horizon, the night claims him. And you can never understand why.

You hated that.

You were able to handle your time beyond dusk well, you had your own tasks to attend to as the regent of your household— the title being temporary due to the special nature of your case. You had a society to attend to, people to care for and fund. You had a life ahead of you.

But it was at risk of being taken from you. Your life nearly slipped from your hands if it wasn’t for his skilled assistance. Your motivation and discipline was dwindling before he gave you a reason to keep going. He reminded you of your compassion. He reminded you of how strong your bond with your staff was, and how that devotion extended to the people you were raised to uplift.

His presence in the daylight’s torture was your solace and his absence in the night’s embrace was your silence. But you want no more of that exchange. 

You want to be selfish. You want him. In both dawn and dusk.

“And if I suffer from any pain?” You spoke in a hushed tone, anointing your words with distaste. You understood his duties and his need for rest, but he could do it here. With you. “Where will I receive the help I need?”

Zayne merely gifted you a small smile as he took his bag. “The night is yours to claim, my lady. You can send for me.”

“The night is dangerous to roam these days.” You scowl at the growing distance between you. The shiver of ice hardens over your flesh once more. You hate how your comfort and warmth comes and goes with his presence. But without his service, his care, his companionship… what would you be then?

“Then I shall see you tomorrow morning.” He bows his head and turns to the hallway before him. Keeping his gaze ahead, Zayne’s voice drops an octave. “Don’t go outside tonight.”

Without another word, he stalks into the candlelit hallway leaving you alone once more.

The night is silent after he leaves. You’re antsy, brooding, on the verge of tears— not because he isn’t with you, no. Because the scandal of a luncheon you had is now plaguing your mind. You have been blaming yourself through tears, trying to find reason in your spur of madness. 

Your butler and handmaidens struggled to calm you and soothe you, but the teas they brewed and the stories they told of similar situations they had seen somewhat put your nerves at ease. Just enough to keep you out of harm’s way. 

Staring at the fire pit, you lounge in the sitting room. Your mind is racing with ways to cover up your sins. You know your aunt is losing grip on her finances and yet still splurges to satisfy the whims of your cousins. You could bribe her. But then she would blackmail you and demand more until she’s sucked your accounts dry.

You could actually kill her. But you cannot do it directly, you may not have the physical strength. To even out the hypothetical grounds, if you did, your persecution would drive your family name across the mud. And you’d be stripped of your assets regardless.

Each and every plan you concoct results in you ultimately losing or being forced to sacrifice something too vital to you. The only logical option would be to outlive at least the elder cousin. But since he is five years your junior you have your doubts, especially when you take your illness and physical weakness into account. 

The painting of you, your parents and your brother hands high above you. Their gazes were so warm back then. You would often see them in your dreams in your weakest hours, urging you to keep going. To fight. You have to keep going. You just have to.

You can’t let them win. You have to honour your family and claim what is yours.

The clock loudly chimes, indicating it is now midnight. Your butler swiftly collects your empty cup and bows. “I shall be taking my leave, as will the rest of the staff, my lady. Need I assist you to your chambers?”

“No, thank you.” You smile at the family portrait, gesturing to the cane beside you. “I have more than enough help right here.”

Glancing at the portrait, your butler smiles. “Rest well, my lady.”

You listen to his footsteps fade into the manor, and once there is complete silence once more, you rise to your feet. Your grip on your cane is tight from your body still being in shock. Your conviction, however, is stronger.

Your plan is both reckless and dangerous, you know. But you have no other choice.

You pace to the main entrance of the manor, sharply glancing at the footman by the door. 

“I trust that you will keep this to yourself?” You whisper and he nods affirmatively. He opens the large door, welcoming the nightly gust to kiss your skin in greeting. You can almost smell the eery musk in the air. The scent of danger. Regardless, you step out, tugging fiddling with the sleeve of your overcoat.

“Safe travels, my lady.” The footman mutters as the doors close once more. Your plan is unfolding perfectly.

What plan you ask?

Locating Zayne, of course.

Well, to be fair, it was not just that.

You intend to keep an eye on the process of your funds being sent off to infirmaries, churches, schools, and other places that require it. The transaction on your end has been successful from the report of your maids but there is something interfering with the receiving end in the town.

So you opted to investigate it yourself, outside of their knowledge. It puts you at a great and dangerous risk, but that is what you have Zayne for should you find him on time. You have also stored some of your medication in your purse as well, just in case things do end up going wrong but you plan to leave it in your carriage since the trip should be brief.

The carriage speeds into the town, illuminated by lanterns and candles radiating from the windows of the townhouses along the road. From what you recall during your occasional visits, it should be bustling with people, whether to attend festivals or for the more secretive ventures to the brothels.

The streets are empty and quiet. One thing you have never seen before in all your years.

Your carriage awaits your return outside the main church. You had letters sent to the reverend, informing him of your incoming presence so he would be expecting you. 

You push the arcane wooden doors open to be greeted with an eery quiet. Familiar to the holy silence you would hear whenever you visited to donate funds to support those in need, but far more disorienting.

“Reverend.” You call out, only to hear your voice echo through the walls. Your shoes click on the wooden floor with each step as you get closer to the altar. You had seen many of the ladies around your age marry here. You now scoff at the idea of ever getting married. You’re too old and you’ve lost the taste for entertaining suitors. 

“Reverend?” You call again to receive not silence, but a scream. 

A loud shriek that could be mistaken for one that a debutante would make if her dress were soiled. To your surprise, the very reverend you were waiting for stumbles into the hall both petrified and disheveled, doing what appeared to be adjusting his pants.

“I condemn you, devil!” He cries before he notices you. He pauses to catch his breath and straightens his robes. “Ah, my lady, now is truly not the time—“

“What is going on here?” You ask, scrutinising his panicked state. “What are you running from?”

“Vampire, my lady!” He shouts, gripping your shoulders to push you away. “There is a vampire that has breached these holy grounds, it just cannot be—“

In a flash his hands fall with him to the floor, pinned by what looks like a sharpened crucifix. He screams of agony make your ears ring. “Damn you, you demon!”

You turn to see who he curses, with slight fear rising up your spine. Adorned in black with specks of blood staining the fabric with eyes as green as an ember and as brown as the soil, the vampire stops in his tracks fully gazing on you.

“Zayne,” You exhale, unable to recognise the feeling behind your heart punching your bones. Your palms are getting clammy, your breath is growing more ragged, and yet your core burns with unsanctioned desire.

“My lady.” He sounds breathless, as if he was looking at you for the first time. Just as he parts his lips, his gaze averts to the reverend behind you. 

“So this is what’s gotten you so distracted.” You hear him chuckle before he clasps your wrist with his bloodied hands and drags you outside.

The cool winter wind sends shocks of ice cold shivers down your spine as snowflakes flutter onto your skin. You had almost forgotten it was the middle of winter. The harsh wind blows your overcoat open, exposing you loose gown to the freezing elements.

“Revered, unhand me!” You tug at his grip only to struggle as he pulls you down the stairs. A sharp jasmine scented gust rushes past you at the force dragging you away severs completely. You glance down to see his hand still on you but completely sliced from the rest of his body.

Utterly shocked, you shriek and fling your arm to force the hand off of you. A trail of blood drips into the snow, growing bigger and bigger until you see Zayne’s form hunched over the reverend, loud gnawing noises being the only thing you can hear.

“Zayne,” You whisper, only for your voice to fall upon deaf ears. “Zayne!”

His movements stiffen completely as he turns to face you. Blood is stricken across his face and dripping from his abnormally sharpened canines. His skin almost glistens in the cold dead of night, and those divine hazel eyes just look brighter.

Could it be?

Zayne always leaves the manor at night. He rarely eats when he’s with you and when he does, it is just barely enough to keep him satiated. He sometimes refers to himself as a vegetarian even though he consumes animal meat. He never sets foot outside without something to give him shade, almost like the sun harms him.

It could not possibly be. You’ve seen his ears turn red when he gets flustered. Although his hands are mostly cold, you’ve felt his warmth. But some vampires don’t become as cold as ice. It is rare but it’s possible.

The roads all lead to one answer. He is a vampire.

“My lady, it isn’t safe for you here.” Zayne wipes the blood off his lips onto his sleeve. He slowly reaches you, his steps crunching marks into the snow. You hadn’t realised how overpowering his height actually is until now. Until now, you didn’t realise how terrifying his gaze is, how almost obvious it was. 

You can hear the reverend gurgling behind you, clearly still clawing at what remains of his liveliness. Zayne did that much in just seconds. He could have consumed you at any given moment. Whenever he checked your pulse. Whenever he nursed you. When he drew blood from your flesh. Whenever he saw you bare before him. Whenever you shared the most intimate looks and touches.

And yet he never did.

“I—“ Your chest squeezes harshly, like hundreds of pins stabbing at your heart continuously. You gasp, watching your gaze reach the black moonlight sky as you fall to the ground. 

You can’t feel your body. You can barely hear Zayne calling your name. Your eyes dart around his face as he cradles you in his embrace, his blood stained canines glistening as his lips frantically move in a repetitive pattern.

Your vision slowly blurs and darkens, moment by moment. It’s almost peaceful. You can’t possibly allow it. You must fight on. But you feel so warm in his embrace. So safe.

With the waning remnants of strength left in you, your hand gently cups his cheek, staining your fingers with the blood that struck his face. 

“You…” The whisper is hoarse and thick with gratitude for him, fear for the future of your home, and resentment for all that could be taken from you. “So, so beautiful.”

“My lady, please.” Zayne’s voice cracks as he begs, his eyes welling up with tears. “You must stay strong. Maintain your strength. Overcome this shock, I beg of you!”

The pain only engulfs you more. “If I cannot avenge my family… if I cannot outlive them…” You worry as your grip tightens on his cheek. It takes only seconds before a perilous idea strikes his mind. 

It is risky, truly, it is. But he is running rather short for time. He knows of your ambitions and your deepest desires. He can give that to you. He can. But it would only give you something similar to the illness you already face. You may never be able to step into the graces of the sun again.

If your grit stays true and strong, Zayne may have no other choice.

“My lady, you can.” He whispers, canines revealing themselves with his deluded smile. So long as he restricts himself from taking too much, you will live. He just has to hold himself back just a bit longer. “You have to choice to live. Eternally. With me. We can outlive your relatives. Or kill them if it fancies you. You can keep your title. But only if you are willing. I don’t want to take your life from you.”

You slowly blink as his eyes become the only thing you can clearly see. Your heart drums against your chest as you weigh the options. You could live forever. But you’d never see the sun again. You may just outlive your staff too. But to protect your family name, to avenge yourself, and to have Zayne be yours eternally… to be like him would not be much different from how you are now. 

You were never going to truly recover. You’d always be a fraction of who you once were. Your aunt was right. But this? This is an opportunity. A chance to truly heal, even if your only connection to your family will be the legacy you live through. You had a shot and setting things right once and for all.

With a weakened smile your eyes fluttered as you whispered your final words as a mortal. “Give me the tools to avenge my blood.”

The following seconds are pure agony. The last thing you see is Zayne apologetically smiling with you. The last thing you feel are his lips gently pressing on your forehead. The last thing you hear, that gives your heart the sharpest twinge, “I love you.”

Once his teeth sink deep into your neck, your vision darkens completely. 

There is silence. And then there is pain.

Your body burns like it’s caught up in flames, white hot and striking your every nerve. Your lips tear open to scream but no voice or air comes out. Your nails claw at his flesh, to ground whatever sinking life is in you. It's endless, loud, and violent until it quiets down completely.

And then there is a new form of silence.

You can hear distant bells chime while they flow with the winter wind. You can see the smallest, most intricate details of a falling snowflake. You can smell the scent him. You can feel his grip on you tighten, gently shaking you to see if he didn’t go too far. You can hear his honeyed voice call your name in fear and worship.

You blink and see those hazel eyes, now more beautiful than before.

“My lady?” His voice is as clear as the morning serenade of the birds. He looks even more handsome now. It shoots pulses of need straight to your core. Along with that, comes a fresh sense of confidence like a coat of skin over your strengthened skin. You no longer feel pain with every movement.

Your hand squeezes his cheek to test your strength, pinching harder and harder until he yelps. “My lady, you must tell me if you’re alright—“

Ignoring your inhibitions, you pull Zayne down to your embrace, pressing your lips right onto his. His lips are soft like pillows and, if not for the taste of your blood, you’d assume he tastes sweet. It barely takes seconds for him to respond with equal fervour, wrapping his arms round your waist.

Your tongue pokes between his lips and he grants you access with a hushed moan, leaning forward to push you deeper into the snow. The cold is no longer as biting as it use to be. It doesn’t bother you at all now. The pain in your body has silenced. It’s been so long since you felt so at ease.

Is this what pleasure feels like? Is it the burning feeling in your chest? Is it the way that your hands rush to feel more of him like you won’t get the chance again? Is it the way you both move together in a lustful dance, sharing your hushed noises of pleasure and need together?

Perhaps it’s all of it. Perhaps there’s even more.

“Zayne.” You pant as you pull away, strings of saliva connect you to him. 

“My lady.” He whispers with reverence laced in his tone. His hands caress you with care. He must be in heaven. That kiss… not only did it send signals straight to his cock to rise harder than it has ever been before, leaving him near shaking. 

In the quiet cold, he can’t help but desire you now more than ever. To taste you, to feel you above him until you drive yourselves mad with pleasure. It’s an insatiable desire and yet he wants it. He needs you.

You can definitely feel his erection. And that only makes your arousal deepen for him. You were already grinding on him the moment your kiss had deepened. You press wet kisses all over his face, reaching for his jaw and neck as your hands explore the expanse of his clothed back. 

“My lady,” Zayne whines, but tilts his head just enough to give you the access you need to torment him with your affections. It seems his neck is rather sensitive to your ministrations. “You must contain yourself. We are still outside.”

You can feel your canines, now sharper than before, prodding your lower lip. It feels so unfamiliar yet so beautifully natural. You would grow accustomed to this change eventually, you’d go accustomed to this new strength that makes you feel so alive. You could do anything, be anything. Have anything. You starved for it. And now you can get it.

“The only person close enough to spread word of our misbehaviour is already dead.” You whisper in a tone all too erotic for Zayne not to moan at the sound of. “I cannot hear his pulse.” You are correct, the reverend had long taken his final breath before Zayne had bitten you. 

Before he had turned you into a stronger version of yourself. A vampire, if you will.

The scent of the reverend’s blood sets off a deep, voracious craving within you to hunt down any person you can find and consume them. You wanted to devour every damned member of society that wronged you. It cannot compare, however, to the ravenous desire for him. 

“I must return you to the manor,” Zayne tuts, bringing your lips to his for another lascivious kiss. Your tongues dance frantically, hands slowly reaching lower to your chest before he pulls away. “Your bloodlust will drive you to attack innocents.”

“But what about the reverend, I can—“

“You won’t consume something as tainted as that.” He cuts in, pressing a peck on your nose. “He has been manipulating people, and embezzling the very funds you so graciously donated. You don’t deserve something as vile as that.” 

He attacks your neck with kisses, pulling gentle sighs from you as his hands venture to your waist. “After all, I can only give you the purest blood. The most delectable, nourishing blood that world can provide. Come now, my lady, we must get you home.”

You’re surprised he remembered that little joke you shared earlier. You’re more surprised of how it unfolded to become your fate. Consuming the blood of others to satiate yourself. You can only hope that your staff will still keep you close and care for you and let you return the favour now that you’re stronger.

“The carriage is just nearby,” You eventually give in, pointing in the direction of where you should go. Zayne wastes no time in picking you up in his arms as if you are his bride and venturing to get you to safety. 

The trip is not long. It does not take long to return to the manor. It does not take long to sneak past your staffs chambers, all of them still being asleep. It does not take long for you to reach your chambers. It does not take long for his lips to be on yours once more.

The coats and shoes had long been abandoned on the floor. Your fireplace had been vigorously been prepared by him to keep you as warm as possible, still treating you with care and affection as he always has.

Hushed moans fill the crackling silence of your bedchambers with rustling clothing and wandering hands reaching to all the places that would be deemed scandalous to touch. But your concerns for poise are long gone.

You pull away from his embrace, gliding your tongue down his neck to suckle your mark onto his flesh and lean back only to see the mark fade as quickly as it got there. 

“We tend to heal rather quickly.” He sheepishly smiles. “For example,” He takes your wrist and suckles hard on your skin. You can feel his tongue glide over your skin as his eyes pierce yours, arousing you all the more. Once he pulls away, you can already see the bruise starting to fade.

“You strength has dramatically improved, along with your agility and endurance.” He explains as he presses hot kisses on your skin. “You can run faster, you can protect yourself in any situation of danger,” His hands squeeze your waist harder than before as he nuzzles his nose into your skin, inhaling your scent.

“You can last much longer in more intimate experiences too.”

Your eyes almost twinkle at the sound of that. You aren’t ignorant of what you’re about to do. You’re more than old enough to have invested in the tools necessary to give yourself pleasure in the absence of a person to do it for you. But now you wanted to get a taste of pleasure with him.

“I want to test that out.” Your voice comes out sultry and dripping with need. He can’t even resist you if he tried. You turn around, gesturing to the gentle knot tied at the back of your gown. “I may need your assistance.”

Zayne moans at the sight, his cock violently twitching and leaking in the confines of his pants. “Of course, my lady.” His patience draws painfully thin as his pulls the knot apart to allow your gown to flow, still accentuating your figure.

His hands gently pull at your neckline until your gown falls to the floor. He rushes to pull off his garments, piece by piece until you both stand nude together, warm and vibrating with need. His hands subconsciously reach to cover the scars running up both his arms, having forgotten they were there.

“Those scars,” You whisper, reaching for his hands. “May I?”

Zayne rarely allows anyone to look at his arms. But for you? He trusts you to be gentle.

Your fingers touch each and every one, grazing over the bumps and roughened skin and feeling the contrast between scar tissue and skin. There is no pity in your eyes, only wonder and care.

“You don’t think they’re unsightly?”

“No,” You shake your head, bringing his forearm to your lips. You press a gentle kiss onto one of his scars, ensuring his gaze holds yours. “I think they’re very beautiful. In fact, if we had met when we were younger, I would have drawn birds and leaves on them every single day just to show how pretty they are.”

That makes Zayne laugh, releasing the tension held tight in his shoulders. You always knew how to grace him with your charm when he least expected it. He would let you draw on his scars any moment you wanted to, kiss and admire them whenever you needed to. 

“You can draw on them if you’d like.” He offers, guiding you to your bed before he gently lays you down.

“Please, I’ve outgrown that passion.” You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck. You peck his lips. “I’d like to try other things with you.”

“Oh?” He teases, returning your peck with a longer kiss. “Like what, my lady?”

“Perhaps this.” You gently pull him to your lips, grinding your hips against his erection. His moans softly muffle in your mouth as he moves in tandem with you. His tongue glides over your lips as his hands gently knead at your breasts, pulling sweet moans from your lips.

Your bodies fit so close together like puzzle pieces, it would be a crime to let go. Drops of precum drips and spreads around your skin, making you very much aware of how needy he is for you. He’s just so big, so hard, he’s dripping and twitching just desperate to feel you in every way he can.

“My lady, please.” Zayne sigh on your lips, eyes squeezing shut. You just appear so much more lively, he has never seen you smile so much before. He has never seen such serenity in your eyes. He wants to give you more, and ensure you never suffer again. 

“What’s wrong?” You grin, ghosting your fingers down his back. From the way his cock twitched again, more aggressively than the last time, he definitely enjoyed it. “You seem so flustered.”

“Don’t be a tease.” He rasps, averting his gaze from you. Perhaps he ought to give you the same sensation. He bares his fangs, sharp and glistening with drool from his hunger for you. 

His lips explore your neck, tasting your skin, whining at your taste. He licks a stripe of hot saliva down your collarbones right to your breasts. He latches to your hardened nipple, swirling his tongue around the bud while his hand massages the other.

“I want to show you how much pleasure you can have,” He nips your breasts with his canines, burying his face deep in your cleavage. “I want to give you everything I have. May I?”

Open mouth kisses trail your skin in a pattern down from your breasts right to your hips. His hands reach down to your thighs, caressing you gently. He must know just how much it riles you up from that smirk plastered on his face.

Your face feels hot. Perhaps it’s because of the fire burning on the other side of the room, maybe it’s your arousal spreading so far around your body you can barely think. You’re practically dripping, you can feel it start to soak the bedding beneath you.

Your desire for him only intensifies the further down he goes until he rests his head between your legs. His nose dips close to your entrance, slowly inhaling deep as if the most heavenly scent was within you. A soft moan escapes his lips as his hands stroke your thighs with unconditional adoration.

“May I pleasure you, my lady?” He asks again, eyes glistening from the shine of the flames illuminating the room. How could you deny yourself such joy? You deserve to give yourself everything.

Your hands find purchase in his soft black locks and push his head closer and closer to your soaked cunt. “Of course you may,” You sigh, leaning back on the silk pillows behind you. Just for a better view. “Don’t hold back.”

My, oh my, does he take that seriously.

Zayne’s tongue slides up both sides of your folds just to get a light shiver out of you. His fingers knead your thighs to soothe your nerves while he teases you. Is it to get you trembling with need? Of course not, he would never torment you that way. Yet. 

His tongue circles your entrance, gathering as much of your dripping slick as he can, relishing in his tastebuds awakening to savour you completely. “Goodness, my lady, you taste divine.” He groans from between your legs.

You can’t help but sink your teeth into your arm to withhold the noises threatening to come out. All that teasing is just so stimulating. He’s barely doing anything and yet it feels so good. 

“Is that so?” You huff. He nods frantically, swiping his tongue up and down, sliding gingerly over your throbbing clit, spreading your arousal all over you. It’s utterly riveting, your legs instinctively twitch in his grip and close in on him only to be pushed back open.

Zayne tuts to your legs, pressing hot, wet kisses on you, mouthing and spreading your slick all over your skin. “Don’t move, my love.” He murmurs, licking long lines up to your knees. The sight is so erotic that you can feel more of your arousal gush from within you. Has he always been this lewd?

“Continue teasing me and I might writhe.” You struggle to bite back, shivering and whimpering from his ministrations. His fingers circle your entrance like his tongue did, occasionally pushing inside bit by bit before pulling away. 

Those hazel eyes glance up to admire you, despite your disheveled state. So beautiful, so much more powerful now that you feel so much better. He’s most grateful that the made the call to turn you, consequences be damned.

His lips curl as he takes your clit in his mouth, gently flicking his tongue at your bud. His fingers tease and swirl over your entrance before pushing his fingers inside, slowly spreading them open to stretch you out.

“O-Oh, god,” Your eyes flutter shut as your fingers tug at his hair. That only fuels Zayne to do more. His fingers push in and out of you, moving faster in his pace. Your slick gushes out of you like a waterfall, overwhelmed by the pleasure being amplified by your newfound strength.

Zayne hums into your pussy, slurping away at your clit. As your thighs tremble, potentially indicating your climax, he pulls away with a soft kiss. He can feel your slick dripping down his chin. It’s all too good to be true. Devouring you, pleasing you, seeing you so healthy and well after years of bearing witness to your suffering.

To see you so joyful and pleased just gets him harder. He can’t help but grind his hips into the bedding, losing the last of his composure and discipline. 

“Does it feel good?” He already knows it does. He just wants to hear it from you. You nod, panting out soft moans, but that isn’t enough. 

You yelp from the pain of him nipping your inner thighs with his sharp fangs. “I need you to tell me, my lady. Does it feel good?”

He’s such a tease. You always knew he had a flirtatious streak but you never knew he’d be a tease like this. “Damn you, Zayne, it feels wonderful.”

“I’m glad.” He muses, pressing kisses onto your skin. He moves closer and closer to your weeping pussy, fingers still deep inside curling until he finds just what he’s looking for.

One push is all it takes to have your head thrown back with the loudest, most melodic moan he’s heard from you. You tug his hair hard, bringing his hips to buck right into the sheets. Electric currents shoot up his spine, just strong enough to make him so so close that he could cum on the spot.

But he can’t. He must get you to cum first. He has to bear witness to you unwinding to pure pleasure. 

His fingers slip out of you to be replaced by his tongue. He just has to taste the source. His tongue curves just right, slurping up your juices as if it is holy water, licking up whatever falls down his chin and attacking your cunt like a man starved.

He would rather consume you like this on his knees for eternity. Your taste alone satiates him more than blood ever would. 

His fangs gently prod your swollen folds, only adding on to the relentless stimulation from his tongue fucking your hole and his fingers rubbing calloused circles on your clit. The bed rocks from his body working to please his own desperate needs, his moans go straight into you relentless and desperate to give you more.

“Zayne!” Your cries bounce of the walls of your bedchambers as you tug and pull him closer, so much closer. It just feels so divine. Just as divine as all the stories you’d read if not better. A tight coil stretches within you, growing hotter and tighter by the second. “It feels so good, I’m about to—“

“Cum?” His honeyed voice is literally seeped in arousal in such a lustful rasp.”By all means, my lady, give in to your desires.”

He just keeps moving so fast and so intensely you can barely think. Switching between his tongue and fingers, the overwhelming pleasure pulls your back into a feline arch as your climax rushes over you like a storm.

Despite your cries, Zayne takes it as a signal to give you more. He does not stop his relentless ministrations, slurping all your juices, nuzzling his face as deeply as your body will allow him to.

It’s too much. Your clit just stings from the overabundance of pleasure and yet you keep pushing him closer to you to get more. You tug and pull at his hair, moaning his name like a prayer and it might as well be if it means this satisfaction is eternal.

Still, you want more.

You pull him away from you reluctantly, empathising with his whines to continue. “Come to me.” You don’t have to tel him twice.

Zayne crawls atop your form, dropping wet, cum-slick kisses along your skin. He stops at your neck, where the bite marks have almost healed completely, and licks his way up slowly, slowly, until he locks onto your lips once more.

You can taste your essence fall onto your tongue, exploring his taste and inhaling his scent like air. You’re still vibrating from the aftershocks of your climax, so warm and open to receive much more.

Your hand reaches for his cock, hard and throbbing from his neglect to satiate himself. It’s so hot to the touch, so large in your hands that you wonder if you’d ever be able to take him in your mouth, let alone your pussy despite how much it soaks for him.

“My lady, you don’t have to worry about my needs.” Zayne whimpers right into your ear as your grip on his shaft tightens. With the movement your position will allow, you stroke his length and memorise each detail you encounter with your fingers.

You count two veins running from his base and joining before they kiss his reddened tip. His thickness alone makes your mouth water and your cunt soak with even more arousal as if you hadn’t just cum moments ago. You press your lips on his cheek as you stroke him, grinding your hips against his cock, soaking him in your desire.

“I want to.” You whisper, licking his lower lip. “We ought to please each other, no?”

Your eyes, damn you, your eyes draw him in and hold him captive in your embrace. If not for your charm and luring voice, your eyes alone would bring him to his knees and have him willingly deliver the world to your hands.

Zayne is utterly spellbound and he would not want to be anywhere else.

“Are you sure, my lady?” He cautions, taking your hand in his to kiss. “If you say yes, I am not sure if I’ll be able to stop.”

That alone makes your walls clench. “Good. I’m very sure.” You find new comfort in his lips. The manner in which he moves in tandem with you seems as though you were made for each other, like two pieces fitting into one. It’s hot, it’s passionate, it’s perfection seeped in desire.

He aligns his tip with your pussy, gently tapping it to tease you once more. Your cunt almost sucks him in completely, grabbing at his length upon him pushing himself in just until you swallow his cockhead completely.

You both sharply inhale from how tight and warm you feel together. Zayne’s head falls into the junction between your neck and shoulder, mouthing your flesh with kisses and moans. Your arms wrap around his back, fingers digging into his muscles.

You spend seconds like that. Suspended, just barely beginning to experience such divine pleasure. Just absorbing how good it feels before it gets much better. 

“So beautiful,” His muffled voice whines into your skin as if he’s inscribing his affirmations deep into your soul. “So intelligent. So generous, so kind, so divine, my lady.”

Before you can muster a response, his hips push deeper into your cunt with impatient speed until he’s completely bottomed out inside. The silence in your room is disturbed with your joint moans and the slick squelch of his hips beginning to move in a pattern, in and out and in and out, until your skin claps from his thrusts.

You grind your hips into his, following his growing speed as the pleasure between you builds like pressure boiling over. Still overstimulated from his tongue and fingers, your walls clench and squeeze on his girth, sucking him deeper and deeper inside with the sole intention to milk him of all he has.

Your moans sounds like a symphony to him. To hear you so profane and relishing in your own needs, clawing his back with your nails, digging your heels into his hips while your legs wrap tight around him… he’s so grateful to be the one to grant you this pleasure. 

Loud clap clap claps echo and bounce off the walls, accompanied by the obscene squelches and plaps of his hips pounding into yours. Your lips travel around his neck, biting deep into his muscles to channel the orgasmic pleasure building up from the penetration and friction driving you up the wall.

“S-So good— harder, Zayne!” You whine in his ear, clawing his scalp as you tug his head back. His cock twitches inside you from the ravenous ache, which urges him to pound his hips harder and harder until his tip pokes your most sensitive spot, pulling pleasure cries from your kiss-swollen lips.

“So tight, my lady,” He moans into your ear, so graphic with his words. “It feels— fuck— I’m so close.”

His grip on your hip tightens as he coils his arms around you to keep you close, so tightly bound together that you become one in your pursuit to drown in this satisfaction. He has to get you to cum again. He must. To feel you squeeze and clamp down so tightly on his cock may just bring him to see stars. He must bring you to your climax more strongly than before.

You can feel your edge teetering by with even more intensity than the last. You can barely concentrate from how his relentless ruts drive your eyes right into your skull. You’re both slick with a coat of sweat making you move smooth and wet together. 

You his face up in your hands, kissing him to taste him once more. You’re addicted. You are the way he feels inside, the way he tastes, how his devotion knows no bounds. It’s just too good. Tongues overlap, spilling and mixing your spit together while your teeth clash recklessly as your core screams for release, so tight that one more thrust will make it snap.

Zayne quickly pulls himself out, leaving your cunt pulsating and dripping from his unexpected absence. Before you can react, he sits on his knees and pulls you closer by the hips. Those muscular arms gently push your legs back just enough to hook them on his shoulders.

His hair lays drenched on his forehead as he pants on your skin, licking lines as far as your ankles while keeping his gaze on you. His cock gently rubs up and down along your folds, teasing his tip in just a bit only to pull out and rubs against you again. 

The stimulation from his cockhead kissing your clit brings you to claw the sheets beneath you, tears brimming in your eyes from how good it all feels. 

“What game are you playing?” You keen, both intrigued and irritated by his teasing.

“You must be so hasty, my love.” That grin of his is soaked with titillation, fangs glistening over your skin to graze and nip. “I want you to come undone from my cock as you did with my tongue. The only way to do that is to heighten your senses as best I can.”

His tongue slithers a trail of spit around every part of you he bites. His head nuzzles your legs, watching your gaze glaze over from how turned on he’s making you. He has no shame in sounding how good it feels to tease you like this, even if it drives him insane to withhold both your climaxes just a bit longer.

“Zayne,” You whine, thrashing your head into the pillow. “Zayne, I beg of you, cease your teasing!”

As much as he loves to tease, he cannot bear seeing you struggle so much. “Of course, my love,” He pushes your legs further back until they meet your chest. “I would never deny you of such a pleasure.”

He slides in smooth and fast, his cockhead instantly hitting your sensitive gummy spot in a better, more intensive angle. Your vision goes completely white for a fraction of a second, almost, almost enough to make you cum there and then.

You sink your teeth into his flesh from the intensive stimulation. It’s all so deliciously good. You can barely think. You can barely perceive anything outside of his face scrunching from the pleasure of you squeezing around his cock, of his eyes rolling back, of his moans and profane praises slipping through his lips right into your ever listening ears.

“So fucking divine,” He blabbers, completely losing all rational thought. There is only you. Only your desires. Only your pleasure. His mind is going completely numb and his only thought is you. You. You. “So tight. You feel absolutely perfect, my lady, I want to please you, make you feel so good.”

And that just does it.

Your eyes roll and cross completely, your toes curl and your nails claw at his scalp as that string finally snaps and tips you over the edge. Your throat goes hoarse from your cries as waves of your climax hit you like waves, pulsating and squeezing so tight that it brings Zayne to his climax as well.

Hot, thick ropes of cum shoot into you, coating your walls completely white as he fucks his seed deep inside. His voice cracks between each moan, singing your praises for the night to hear. His hips keep moving, pushing his cum in as deeply into you as possible, plugging it inside with his throbbing length regardless of the sting of overstimulation.

It takes just moments from you to cool down from the pleasure burning deep within you. Your moans fade to breathless gasps for air, your ministrations finally halt until you rest in each other’s arms with the crackles of the fire pit being your ambiance.

Zayne slowly presses soft pecks on your cheeks, your forehead, your temple, worshipping you in the afterglow of your unwinding, whispering words of affection to you as exhaustion starts to overcome you.

“Are you alright?” His voice is hoarse and raspy, yet as soft as a whisper. Barely able to move, considering you are both still very much snug in your mating press, you hum with a smile. He swiftly eases your legs, turning you both over so that you may rest more comfortably.

“Very much so.” You could be like this forever. Comfortable and safe in his arms. But when daybreak arrives, you will have to deal with your newfound fate.

Zayne can tell you’re deep in thought. He nuzzles his nose on your cheek to grab your attention. You rather enjoy his act of affection. “What is plaguing your mind, my love?”

“We have to find a way to disarm the tension.” You grumble. “I can outlive them all now, but that would dwindle my aunt’s persistence. And the staff… how will they respond to seeing me in this state?” Your recent act of devotion shared with him slowly dawns upon you. “What will my handmaidens think when they find us in the morning?” 

A twinge of doubtful worry pokes Zayne. His lips curve into a pout as his eyes widen like small balls of light. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Absolutely not.” You cut him off. How preposterous of him to even think that way. “My concern is not their opinion. I would be more than happy to have you by my side for eternity. It’s the giggles and teasing looks they will give me that I worry about.”

“I think I can handle that,” He laughs, nuzzling you again to ease your tension. Let your servants tease you, he thinks. It’s an open signal that you have found joy again. He assumes there will be initial concern and shock considering he never informed them that he is a vampire, but they will soon grow accustomed to it.

If not for the sake of acceptance, then they would for the sake of their Countess. Which you will soon be, by all means necessary.

“Worry yourself with it when the sun rises.” Zayne pecks your lips once more. His cock slowly rises between you as you snake your arms around him.

“The night still has pleasures for us to indulge in.”

[lynostalgi]

it isn't midnight yet

pairing: caleb x reader

summary: when you realise the shift in your feelings for Caleb isn't as new as you thought and nowhere as fleeting as you hoped, wanting him turns unbearable. now, it's fifteen minutes to midnight, his birthday is almost over, and all you know is that you don't want to spend any more time avoiding what could be.

themes: childhood friends to lovers, complicated relationship dynamincs, fluff, explicit smut, so much sexual tension and build up, yearning, canon compliant, petnames, profanity, lots of making out, implied first time but whatever, nipple sucking, fingering, oral (fem receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, floor sex like seriously they fuck all over it lmao, a smidge of edging, multiple rounds, yapping during sex, praise kink, mentions of events from farspace deprivation and references to his other cards, mc is painfully desperate which is accurate for this card, they match each others freak

wc: 16.3k (don't look at me i'm ashamed)

playlist: why by shawn mendes, i wanna be yours by the arctic monkeys, dress by taylor swift, ride by somo, birthday dance by josh levi

lyns notes: IGNORE HOW LATE THIS IS PLEASE AND THANK YOU. remember when this was supposed to be short? yep. this is my very self-indulgent adaptation of no-return night! i've watched the kindled so many times it should be considered shameful and needed to be insane about it. i've unlocked levels of down bad previously unknown to man, and i have channelled those exact vibes into mc. happy birthday caleb. god bless.

For as long as you could remember, Caleb had always been just out of your reach. 

In a literal sense, that was completely incorrect. Growing up with him under the same roof meant that all your earliest memories had him embedded in them in some way or another. He had always been around, always ready to catch you if you fell or show you the way back home if you ever got lost. Older, dependable, constant; there was no end to the number of ways you could describe his presence in your life. 

But for the past couple of months, the one you’d say fit the best would be confusing.

“Sooooo, when are you going to be in Skyhaven?”

You gripped your phone a little tighter, pressing a finger to the scanner of your door and pushing it open. “Who said I was coming to Skyhaven?”

“You’ve asked me about my schedule, and my birthday is this week. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.” Caleb’s voice took on that teasing lilt you were so familiar with, and you knew the face he was probably making right now: a knowing grin paired with a raise of his eyebrows. 

“So much for trying to surprise you,” you muttered, kicking off your shoes by the doorway and walking into your apartment. “Can’t you let me at least think I’ve succeeded for once?”

“No can do. Let me know when you’re arriving so I can pick you up.” You could practically hear the smile in his voice. You unzipped the front part of your hunter uniform and tossed the corset into the laundry basket, rolling your shoulders to release you had been carrying around. 

“No.”

A pause. “No?”

“The least you can do is let my arrival be a surprise.” 

He chuckled softly, and for some maddening reason, the sound made you stop whatever you were doing and listen. “Alright.” He relented, light and airy, “I can’t wait to see you.”

The drop in his tone, the way he stressed the word, something about it all made you bite the inside of your cheek hard. “Me too,” you admitted after a second, ignoring how your throat had gone dry. “I uh….gotta go. Bye, Caleb.”

“See ya.”

Ending the call, you heaved a sigh of relief and collapsed onto your couch. You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes and stayed like that for a couple of minutes, trying your hardest to calm the hammering of your heart. The feeling was similar to when you were running high on adrenaline while facing a particularly dangerous wanderer.

But why on earth were you experiencing that now? 

Well, it wasn’t just now. He’d say something sweet, or stare at you for a beat too long, and it would feel as if all the air had been knocked out of your lungs, which confused you to no end. You had always known Caleb was a charming person; it was pretty obvious from how popular he had been in school as well as during his university days, but for the most part, you had been fairly immune. 

Lately, however, it seemed like that immunity of yours had worn off, and with it, the rose-tinted glasses you had been wearing your entire childhood when it came to him. As a child, you had thought that his tendency to hover around you and need to always be by your side was simply because he was fond of you. He was the older kid who had to take care of you, and for a while, you had assumed he looked at it as some sort of duty.

But now….

Caleb was the most important person in your life. When the explosion took place and he had been ripped out of it, the grief you felt was insurmountable. You could hardly process the fact that the boy you had turned to for everything was gone, leaving you with a gaping void in your heart that you couldn’t fill, no matter how much you tried. Even throwing yourself into your work hadn’t helped soothe the pain of losing him, because he was so intertwined with everything that made you you, from the way you carried yourself to how you held your gun. 

And then he returned from the dead, except he hadn’t ever actually been dead. The light in his eyes had dimmed, and he donned a uniform that turned him into someone you hardly recognised, but it was still him. The very same Caleb who faced danger with you now tried his hardest to keep you from it, terrified that he’d lose you. He held you tighter, kept you closer, and the way he looked at you was the same as it had always been, but there was something much more intense about it. Less subtle.

It wasn’t like you were any better. All the secrets he seemed to be keeping drove you crazy, and even when he was right in front of you, it still felt like he was worlds apart. You did everything you could to keep him as close as you could, to understand him better, even when it consisted of putting yourself in danger. The fiasco with the chip had been impulsive and risky, but he had gotten you out of it and still didn’t know you remembered everything that had happened. 

Perhaps it was the shock of losing him and then getting him back that caused something to shift inside of you. Now, you noticed how he lingered, feeling it in your bones every time he was around. His touch would have you freeze and hesitate in ways you never would have before. It wasn’t just innocent admiration you held for him anymore; it was much deeper than you thought it could be. At first, you told yourself it was just because you were so relieved to have him back, but as they grew more intense, you knew that those feelings were here to stay.

The territory you were navigating was so unfamiliar, and as a result, you shied away from your feelings time and time again. He’d get closer, and you’d take three steps back, forcing yourself to turn a blind eye to what was right in front of you in order to avoid messing up what you already had. You so badly wanted him to let you in, but constantly stumbled back whenever you felt yourself getting too close to the truth.

And Caleb never crossed the line. It didn’t matter how long he stared or how close he’d pull you, the moment you hesitated, he’d let you go. 

You weren’t as hopelessly oblivious as you let on; you were aware of how he felt because his feelings were a mirror of your own, even if you refused to look at them. You could see it in his eyes, how they’d narrow and go slightly hazy when he looked at you for too long. How his jaw would clench and his throat would bob, like he was fighting a war with his mind. 

Being with him was the most natural thing in the world to you, but it was moments like those that made you feel greedy for more. Your feelings for him weren’t platonic anymore.

And maybe they had never been platonic in the first place. Not really, anyway. Just friends didn’t use your body wash because it smelled like you, or promise not to get a girlfriend because you and Gran were all he needed. Friends didn’t pretend to date each other to ward off other people, and they definitely didn’t get jealous when the other paid attention to someone else. 

Opening your eyes, you aimlessly stared at the ceiling as thoughts of Caleb rolled around in your head. Thinking of him like this had originally filled you with immense guilt, considering the history you shared and how fragile everything had seemed when he reappeared. It felt almost forbidden to want more, a fruit you desperately wanted to taste but were instructed never to touch. It hung from a tree whose branches were much too high for you to reach, even when you stood on your tip-toes.

Just out of reach. 

Sitting up, you pulled yourself together and decided to focus on the task at hand. Caleb’s birthday was in less than a week, and you still had absolutely no idea what you were going to give him as a gift. Frustratingly enough, Caleb was the type of person to never talk about the things he wanted. The two of you had spent almost every birthday together, so you had pretty much given him every gift you could think he’d like, and you didn’t think he needed another three thousand-piece model to put together.

Your life would be so much easier if he were straight with you and just said what he wanted.

About gifts, of course. Nothing else.

“Should I call Gideon?”

Caleb sighed, leaning back in his chair as he examined the hologram reports in front of him half-heartedly. “Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why’? He’s your friend, that’s why.” You snickered on the other end of the call. He could hear you shuffling around in your apartment, knowing how you could never stay still for more than ten minutes. 

“And?”

“I’m trying to plan a party for you.” You said, so obviously exasperated by his demeanour. “Can you not make my job harder?”

He smiled to himself at your grumbling, “Where's the fun in that? Besides, I don’t even want a party. Who else would I even call? Liam?”

Your silence spoke louder than your words ever could. “Right, but I still want to do something big for your birthday.” The pout that was undoubtedly on your lips was audible in the way you spoke, stubborn and insistent. “I want it to be special. It’s the first time we’re celebrating your birthday after… you know.”

Of course, he knew. 

“Have you considered that I only want to celebrate with you?” 

The statement was reckless, but he couldn’t help but indulge in that selfish wish. His twenty-fifth birthday had been one he spent up above the clouds in Skyhaven, alone, and supposedly dead to all who knew him. Honestly, he couldn’t have cared less about other people, but not having you by his side was the thing that hit him the hardest. Now, most of the people he had once called friends still thought he was dead, and his old life was nothing more than a distant memory.

You were all he had.

“Are you sure?” 

You sounded uncertain, like you couldn’t fathom the idea. When you were younger, he always had a party of some sort, and with his high school popularity, he was constantly surrounded by friends, but none of them ever held a candle to you. At the end of each birthday, it would always just be him and you, sneaking off to be away from the crowd and only with each other. As time went on, this tradition dwindled until the chance to get away from it all disappeared.

Even now, it sometimes felt as if he was running out of time; every second with you felt fleeting and precious. He wanted so badly to make up for the ten months he had been out of your life for, because when he found you again, there was so much he realised he didn’t know anymore. 

“It’ll be special if you’re there,” he swiped the reports away. “That’s all I want.”

There was a time when he was sure he’d never be able to let himself want more, even when he subconsciously let himself have it. Every time he pushed against the boundaries he had set for himself, you let him through without a single complaint, even pulling him closer when you didn’t quite understand what you were doing. 

“You’re always so greedy when it comes to my time.” The affectionate lilt in your voice made itself known even through the forced annoyance. He smiled

“You always let me be.”

To say you were frustrated would be an understatement. 

Caleb’s birthday, on all accounts, should have been considered a success. He wore the outfit you had gotten him, he loved the cake, and even the movie screening you had planned worked out pretty well, even if the movie was pretty boring. He seemed overjoyed at every little thing you had done, but to you, the day had felt like a repeat of every other birthday you had celebrated in the past. 

And as a result, as any well-adjusted person would, you had acted like a total lunatic the entire day. 

Instance number one: When he hugged you and said that the new outfit needed your scent on it for people to know you were together. You heard those words and instantly froze, your brain running at a mile a minute at the implication of it, even when you knew that the two of you weren’t actually together. 

Number two: “Eyes on the road.”

Getting caught staring at his chest had to be one of the top ten most embarrassing moments of your life. Honestly, who could blame you when that robot had announced it so loudly? Curiosity was a natural thing, and you were simply fulfilling that, but you were sure he hadn’t missed the follow-up glances you had taken, even if you had done your best to be subtle. Perhaps he hadn’t called you out those times for your sake. 

You didn’t even want to think about the way you shivered when he confessed he was always jealous. Pathetic. Mortifying. You were sure you were going insane, or something along those lines. 

Number three: your incessant questioning. Asking if he was enjoying his birthday, if it had all been to his liking and if he was having a good time over and over again, so anxious. He even asked you if the answer to that question was important to you for some reason. 

Damn him for being able to read you so well. As always, he was right, but it wasn’t the question that you felt was important, but rather the answer that would follow. You desperately wanted to know if he was content with how his birthday was going so far, or if he wanted more. 

But then you glanced at his shelves and caught sight of all the frames, each one having pictures of him and you. You on his back, another with you kissing his cheek at your graduation, him holding the back of your head as he looked down at you with a look in his eyes so achingly familiar that it made you snap out of it. You recalled how, instead of telling him why the question was important, you began talking. 

“Before…” you trailed off, swallowing the knot that appeared in your throat every time you spoke of the explosion. “I took you for granted. You were like the sun, and the sun is just in the sky, always shining. It’s a part of my life, so I assumed it would always be there.” In all honesty, you weren’t sure if you were making any sense, but you couldn’t exactly stop now.

A half smile laced his lips. “I see we’re talking about a very serious topic now.” 

You did your best to appear as casual as possible, ignoring the way your heart hammered in your chest as you shrugged slightly. He instantly saw through the facade, and in typical Caleb fashion, poked your cheek playfully, leaning down just a little bit. “The sun doesn’t cease to exist just because you forgot to look up. It’ll always shine wherever you can see it.”

You stared at him when he said that, taking in everything about him. The reassuring squeeze on your shoulder, the gentle way he said it, and in that moment, you saw the Caleb you grew up with. The boy who did his utmost to protect you at every corner, the one whose hand you held onto whenever you had a nightmare and couldn’t go back to sleep without him crawling into your bed and holding you. Admirable, dependable, something worthwhile looking up to. 

“But back then, I never thought about how the sun might feel a little lonely, up there all by itself.” Always waiting on you to catch up, but never making it an expectation. You glanced down at your lap as he exhaled in surprise at your revelation, thinking of how even now, just like the sun, he felt so out of reach, even though he was right next to you, forbidden for you to touch. 

“Maybe what drew me in was never the sun or its light. It was just you, Caleb. Even if you’re a dim white dwarf, a supernova, or a bunch of ruins….I wouldn’t care.”

Everything you said felt wrong. Too heavy on your tongue. A confession that would burn your tongue if you ever stripped it back and spoke the truth of it out loud. You didn’t even know if it was okay for you to say all this, however much you draped it in metaphors and flowery language. 

He seemed to be stunned into silence, and taking advantage of this, you forged on. “No matter what happens in the future, I just want us to stay like this.” You wrapped your arms around him, settling into the familiar cocoon of his embrace. “To be able to hold you close.”

There was something so painfully delicate between Caleb and you. A fault line of sorts that you usually tread on as carefully as you could, but today, you had stomped all over it without any grace whatsoever. 

“Y/n.” He breathed out your name after what felt like ages, leaning down until his mouth was just by your ear. “Time and time again, you’ve always allowed me to want more than what I thought was possible.” You could feel his breath on your skin, making your mind go completely blank with its warmth, your own breath hitching as he hugged you back. 

It still wasn’t enough.

That conversation replayed in your head, frustration churning around inside of you until it felt like it was at a boiling point. How else were you supposed to explain any of that behaviour, other than chalking it up to utter lunacy?

Freshly showered, you now stood in front of the mirror, feeling more ridiculous than ever. A sense of restlessness simmered in your veins like an itch you couldn’t quite reach, warming your skin with an insatiable heat. Moonlight streamed through the windows of your room, illuminating the space enough for you not to have to switch any lights on as you inspected your reflection. 

The dress you had on right now was a gorgeous baby blue number that stopped a little above your mid-thigh, made of tastefully shimmery fabric. The straps were black ribbons, tied in pretty bows on top of your shoulders and wrapping you up like a present, deliberately chosen by you for that very detail. It matched the outfit you had picked out for him, but you hadn’t dared to wear it earlier. You even had shoes on, a pretty pair of black Mary Janes that tied the look together.

So there you were, all dolled up after showering and feeling like a total idiot, because what insane person made themselves a gift for someone they weren’t even with? The decision to purchase it had been an impulsive one, the result of another night filled with pent-up yearning and a need for your best friend that you still didn’t dare acknowledge.

Because he was Caleb,  those violet eyes you’ve grown up being watched by and that mischievous grin you had imprinted in your mind, completely impossible to forget. Your Caleb, but not exactly.

If Caleb was the sun, then you were Icarus.

And now, it was eleven forty-five p.m.

Fifteen minutes to midnight. Fifteen minutes until his birthday was over, and as the seconds passed, you could feel yourself being pulled away from the magic of the day. Your cowardice had won, keeping you from acting on all the feelings you had for him out of fear of ruining what you already had. 

Perhaps this was how it was meant to be. What you were so afraid to want was an idea you had only ever let yourself entertain in your dreams, and dreams belonged to the shade of night. Tomorrow would come, those dreams would be forgotten, and everything would go back to normal. Briefly, you allowed yourself to wonder if he was thinking of you right now, like you were thinking of him. When he closed his eyes tonight and fell asleep, would he dream of you too?

You turned away from the mirror and looked around the rest of the room, feeling extremely foolish. Crouching down, you began to unbuckle your heels when–

Footsteps.

You stilled, knowing that the only person the footsteps could have belonged to was Caleb. You had thought that you were the only one awake, but it seemed like he couldn’t sleep either. 

Was there a chance that he was awake for the same reasons as you? Momentarily, you wondered if he was just as frustrated as you were with how today had gone; exactly the same as all the years that had come before– all except for one little thing.

He hadn’t called you Pipsqueak. 

All your life, you had been his Pipsqueak, Pips, his one and only.  You couldn’t remember where the nickname had come from or when he had started using it, but it was a constant in the same way his presence was. You didn’t think you’d tolerate it from anyone but him, but now that you thought about it, he hadn’t called you that for a good while. It had just been your name, plain and simple.

Shutting your eyes, you let yourself be pulled back into that moment from an hour ago, with him holding you in his arms like letting you go would be a crime. You could still feel the warmth of his body through the layers of his clothing, and his heart beating in his chest. You could smell his cologne, and feel the sensation of his breath on your cheek as you held you close, so painfully aware of him as he overtook your every sense. 

The memory wasn’t enough, and right there, with fifteen minutes left for his birthday to be over, you knew that it would never be. 

Greed was a sin, and you were guilty. You wanted more than just the fleeting stares and charged tension that drove you crazy with anticipation for something you knew was never going to come. You were sick of waiting around when it was so clear he wanted what you did, too: to cross that line you had been balancing on for so long now. You wanted to feel his skin underneath your fingertips and sink into your emotions instead of hiding them. 

You wanted him.

The moonlight reflected off the candy tin that sat on your bedside table. Refusing to let yourself overthink this any longer, you picked it up and made your way to the living room.

Caleb was leaning back on the couch, legs spread, one arm draped over a cushion as his fingers drummed against it, and the other toying with the dog tag of his necklace. He hadn’t noticed you standing in the doorway just yet, his eyes trained on the tag pendant with something akin to reverence. He hadn’t even changed yet. 

The sight made your breath catch.

How many nights had he sat like this, looking at that necklace the same way he looked at you? You didn’t want it to be the only part of you he thought he had, because you wanted him to have it all, just as you wanted all of him. 

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you padded over to him. Immediately, his attention snapped to you as he let go of the pendant, a faint smile tickling his lips at your intrusion. 

“Is this the post-credits scene?”

Of course, he’d make a movie pun. Typically, his goofy one-liners would soothe any frayed nerves, but nothing of the sort happened this time.

“I just….remembered I haven’t given you your gift yet.” You said, mentally chastising yourself for how awkward your voice sounded. His eyes trailed over your figure appreciatively, taking in the sight of you in the dress that so obviously matched what he wore. 

“Right.” He sat forward, rested an arm on his knee, and looked away from you to collect himself, before that easy-going demeanour of his resurfaced once more. The switch was so subtle that if you weren’t so well-versed in every little thing about him, you might not have caught it.  “Well, I’m here.” 

Biting your lower lip, you took another step forward and held out the tin of candy. A minute ago, using it as your excuse had seemed like a good idea, but not anymore. More than anything, you just felt silly. 

Caleb blinked, taken aback at the way you thrust the tin in his direction. Scepticism bled into his expression as he stared at it, and then up at you, trying to figure out what you were playing at. He knew you like the back of his hand, and that included your tells for when you were hiding something, all of which you were currently exhibiting. From your shifty eyes to the way you were biting the inside of your cheek, he had seen it all before. 

He took the candy tin from your hand but kept his eyes on you. The intensity of his stare made that hesitation you were fighting against surge back, and suddenly, you were once again questioning if this was a good idea at all. What if it was too soon? 

“Now that you have your present, I should get to bed.” 

You stumbled over the words clumsily, wanting to get them out as quickly as possible so you could leave and abandon what you had started. Honestly, why on earth did you never think turning yourself into his gift would be a good idea? More importantly, where the hell did you get the short-lived confidence to go through with it? Spinning on your heels to leave the room, you felt an embarrassed flush of heat curl up your neck and travel to the apples of your cheeks, ashamed of yourself. 

He caught your wrist.

All these years, and nothing had changed about you when it came to wanting something but being too shy to ask for it. He had played dumb the whole day, despite being well aware of why your behaviour was so erratic. You were a language he was fluent in, and if there was one thing he was well-versed with, it was wanting you, and from the familiar look in your eyes that reflected what he so often saw in his own, he could only assume one thing. 

But he didn’t do a damn thing about it. At the end of the day, assumptions were just that, no matter how glaringly obvious the answer might have been. He held you close, but he had the patience of a saint and would wait as long as you needed him to.

For a moment, he loosened his grip on your wrist, giving you an out. The silent question was crystal clear through his actions: you could leave if you really wanted to and go to bed….or you could stay.

The two of you had spent your lives running after one another, pulling and pushing, locked in a stalemate of your own making. This was the first time you had ever tried to break free from it, and the first time he had ever tried to keep you there with him. Every other time, he had taken a step back the moment you were spooked, but now….

You didn’t take another step.

When he sensed that you had made your decision, he tightened his fingers around you and pulled you back, closer, until you were perched on one of his legs. You flailed for a second, steadying yourself by placing a hand on his shoulder, the sudden closeness making your mouth go dry.

“You used to always watch me open your gifts.”

He was too close. He wasn’t close enough. The low, knowing timbre of his voice made your head swim, and you barely even noticed how he wrapped his right arm around your waist until he tugged you even closer while he spoke, “And say how much I like them.”

Suddenly, your nose was right by his, almost brushing against each other. Your sharp intake of air wasn’t lost on him, nor was the way you rushed to compose yourself, readjusting your position on his lap so that you weren’t all up in his face. His arm remained secure around your waist, helping you maintain your balance on his thigh. 

Caleb popped open the lid of the tin and held it out to you, pinning you in place with a single look. “It’s not midnight yet. Don’t leave me, not until my birthday’s over.”

Keeping you close had always been of utmost importance to him. You had grown accustomed to him asking you to stay, not to leave, as if he lived every day thinking that you might. 

You were determined to prove him wrong. Picking up a yellow piece of candy from the scatter of other colourful ones inside, you pressed it to the seam of his lips and fed it to him, not daring to break eye contact even for a second, lest it break the spell both of you seemed to be under. Caleb winced once it was on his tongue and narrowed his eyes at you playfully, but there was no mistaking the heat that lay just under the surface of his gaze.

“Lemon flavoured,” he scoffed, equal parts disbelief and amusement, placing the tin on the coffee table. “Whenever you give me candy, it's always the sourest one.” 

Hand back on his shoulder, you succumbed to his gravitational pull and leaned a little closer. “Don’t you like sour things?”

Growing up, you had watched him always grab the sour-flavoured things, from candy to even the sodas he had. Every time he needed to concentrate on something, he’d chew on a lemon slice. He had even suggested that little trick to you several times, insisting that it worked, and you watched and took it all in, just like you did for everything about him. You tucked the information away in your mind and subconsciously made use of it. 

So now, with the way he called you out, you found yourself wondering if he even liked sour things. Caleb saw through your misconception immediately, biting back a smile at your evident uncertainty. The tartness of anything sour helped him focus and grounded him to the moment, but it was by no means a preference. If anything, it was a reflex, one he had developed over the years of denying himself anything sweet.

And the sweetest thing of all was you.

“I think I’ll look forward to more changes after we celebrate this birthday.”

Emboldened, you brought your hand to his mouth, gently brushing the pad of your thumb over the plush of his lower lip. “You can give it to me if you don’t like it.” 

This was as explicit as you were going to get when it came to asking for what you wanted so bad, and he knew it. The ball was in his court, and there was no turning back from here, not anymore. You watched as his gaze sharpened, peering into his horizon coloured eyes as his pupils dilated at the invitation concealed in your words.

His palm found your jaw with such gentleness that it astounded you, causing you to stiffen under his touch. It wasn’t as if he had never touched you before – your relationship (or lack thereof) had always been pretty physically affectionate, so the proximity should not have made you so nervous, but this was so starkly different from every other time he had invaded your personal space. This felt far more intimate than anything you had ever experienced before, and your breath hitched in your throat when he leaned in, a quiet sound escaping him. 

Helpless, frantic even, needing you like he needed air to breathe. It encompassed everything you felt for him and more. For a brief moment, the world seemed to stand still. Time wasn’t real and didn’t have any impact on either of you as your breaths mingled and a heavy silence settled. His gaze, dark and telling, dropped to your lips, ones you had swiped lip gloss on in naive hope of this, his own parting as he looked into your eyes once more. 

And then, when the clock of life resumed its course, Caleb dipped his head and pressed his mouth to yours. 

You had imagined this happening dozens of times, even before you fully understood the depth of your feelings for him, but your little daydreams didn’t come close to the real thing. Your mind screeched to a grinding halt the moment it happened because holy shit, Caleb was kissing you. 

But the rest of you? The rest of you acted on instinct, all that pent-up yearning for this exact moment coming out all at once. His lips were slightly chapped, but you didn’t care. There was an unmistakable sense of tentativeness to the way he kissed you, only going so far as to press his lips to yours over and over.

You could hardly believe he was actually kissing you, after all the times it had almost happened, only for him to pull away last minute, and that disbelief translated into your body language. Hesitantly, you lifted your hand from his shoulder, letting it hover there awkwardly for a couple of seconds as you kissed him back. Your scattered thoughts slowly came back to you, coalescing until all you were thinking of was him.

When you were sure it was real, you curled your fingers around the nape of his neck and pulled him closer.

Something shifted in that moment, something that neither of you could ever come back from and didn’t particularly care to. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he slanted them over yours, before pulling away just enough to be able to look you in the eyes, half-lidded and swirling with longing. He dragged his thumb over your cheekbone, caressing you like you were a work of art, a marble statue that he was lucky enough to touch, and tilted his head to the other side, capturing your lips once again.

There wasn’t a single trace of his earlier hesitation in this kiss, and the contrast made your head spin. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you melted into him, hyperaware of every little thing he did, and how he tugged you into him. Caleb sucked your lower lip in between his, his tongue sweeping across the plush of it and chasing after yours. You could taste the sour aftertaste that lingered as he plundered your mouth with a desperation that mirrored your own and was still, somehow, controlled. His grip on your face tightened ever so slightly, and you faintly registered him gulping. 

Did he just–

Did he just swallow the fucking candy?

When the two of you broke apart, you knew right then and there that everything had changed. One glance at him revealed to you just how wrecked he was from the kiss, breathing heavily and eyes burning with an intensity that had your lungs empty themselves of all the air inside them.

“Y/n.” Caleb’s voice had gotten lower, huskier.  “I know that’s not your gift.”

Of course, he had figured it out. It wasn’t like you had been subtle about it, but you felt caught nonetheless, cheeks flushing with tell-tale warmth. Your flustered state only seemed to egg him on further, with him tucking a lock of your hair behind your ear as he continued.“I’ll twist your words on purpose and use them to catch you.” 

Although he phrased it like a confession, it wasn’t like this was the first time he was doing it. You were well aware of his habit of driving you into a corner to get you to speak your mind, after all, he had done it all day today, and yet you still indulged him. He and you were two sides of the same coin, crazy about each other in ways that others would never be able to understand, but unable to let it show outright for the longest time. Now that it was all out in the open, a newfound sense of confidence surged through you.

“Go on then,” You pushed him onto his back by his shoulders, your hair falling around your face and framing it like a halo as you gazed down, savouring the surprise that flickered in those all-consuming eyes of his. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Caleb’s earlier self-assuredness seemed to fade at your assumption of control in that moment as he stared up at you, wide-eyed and wanting. You took advantage of the moment, for it wasn’t very often that you left him tongue-tied, your palm cradling the side of his face. 

“Wherever you are, what I always want is for you to be drawn to me…” The words left you in a delicate whisper, like a sinner confessing to her wrongdoings, kissing him chastely as if you were trying to imprint the moment into your memory. “With the weakest gravitational pull.”

Now that was a real confession, one that he had spent most of his waking moments wishing for but never expecting to happen. One edge of his mouth curled upwards in a half-smile.

“Gravity can’t be held responsible for people who fall in love.” The statement took root in your very soul, and it was like a weight had rolled off your shoulders at the acknowledgement. You loved him, so deep and true, and had spent what felt like an eternity fighting against those feelings. In this moment, however, you felt as light as a bird, as if that gravity he had so rightly accused you of blaming had vanished. He reached up, tracing the side of your face with such devotion that it made your chest ache. 

“I’ll remember more than just this.” A promise that he sealed by pressing your knuckles to his lips affectionately. “I’ll always remember that these things came from you.”

You, who were his every dream and wish for as far back as he could recall. All those years of wishing for you on his birthday, hoping that he’d one day have you like this as he blew out the candles, had turned into reality. When morning came, he wouldn’t have to hold onto rapidly fading memories of that fleeting dream anymore. 

You descended upon him eagerly, resuming getting lost in him before he even had the chance to hold you properly. While Caleb had years under his belt when it came to practising restraint and keeping his feelings in check, yours were painfully fresh, effervescent in ways you couldn’t control just yet. They bubbled over the top, bursting forth like soda from a thoroughly shaken bottle.

When the two of you inevitably rolled off the couch, you almost laughed at the absurdity of it, but he didn’t give you the chance with how demanding his kisses were. One hand cradled the back of your head to make sure that you didn’t get hurt, because he was your protector first, and everything else came after. You barely registered one of you hitting the edge of the coffee table, causing the candy tin to fall off, all its contents scattering around on the floor. 

Nothing else mattered, just you and him. 

Caleb braced himself over you, pulling away from the temptation that was your mouth to look down at you. Fingers intertwined with yours as he pressed the back of your hand against the floor, he couldn’t stop doubt from rushing back in, because how could this be real? It felt too good to be true, even though the warmth of your hand under his told him that he was wide awake. He focused on how your hands looked when interlocked, thinking back to all the times he had only let himself hold your hand in secret, when you were asleep and none the wiser.

A single piece of hard candy rolled over to where your hands lay – lemon flavoured, because of course it was. A scoff escaped him at the irony, but its clattering pulled him out of his scepticism-addled mind. 

“See?” He lifted your other hand and pressed it to his chest, the spot right over where his heart lay. “This is how you draw me in every time without fail.” 

He took your chin between his index finger and thumb, not allowing you to respond as he kissed you again, but it was different this time. It was slow, like he was taking his time to memorise how you felt against him. The pendants of his necklace clinked against each other and grazed your collarbone, the cool metal serving as an anchor and keeping you somewhat grounded.

There really wasn’t much space between the coffee table and his couch, which resulted in the position both of you were in right now, with him in between your folded legs. The realisation made the temperature in the room go up several notches, and you squeezed his hand before whispering against his lips. 

“Happy birthday, Caleb.”

His breath hitched as he pulled away, making a show of leaning back to sit on his heels and rubbing a hand over his face. “Y/n….” 

The heat in his voice was not lost on you, making you grin. You propped yourself up on your elbows, batting your eyelashes innocently, as if you were completely unaware of what you were doing. “What? I can’t wish you now?”

But Caleb was well-versed in all your little games, having been the one to play them for the majority of his life. “You can,” He murmured, resting a hand on your knee. “You know very well you can do anything you want to me.” 

What the hell. How could he say such a thing so casually? You felt positively insane at the combination of his words and his palm on your skin, your dress riding up your thighs just a tad. He knew what you were playing at, and if the air between him and you had been heavy with unresolved tension before, it was borderline electric now. 

“This is more about what you want. It’s your birthday.” You reminded him of the fact, waiting with baited breath for the choice he would make. It was probably past midnight at this point, but you didn’t care, and the sentiment remained the same.

He hummed, his hand slipping down your leg to your calf, over the thin fabric of your knee-high socks. “I think I want to kiss you all night.”

An indignant sound from your end. “Thats it?”

You were pouting. He couldn’t help but chuckle at how adorable you looked right then. 

“You underestimate how long I’ve been waiting to kiss you,” He said earnestly, before his tone switched into something much more patronising. “What? Were you expecting something more?”

You sat up properly, pulling your legs to yourself and levelling him with a glare. “You’re so–”

Caleb tutted immediately at your withdrawal, knowing fully well he was pushing your buttons and enjoying every second of it. He reached out, hands on your waist as he pulled you towards him once more– and you let him, quickly adapting to his lap. “Play nice. Can’t be mean to the birthday boy, now can you?”

“The birthday boy is annoying.”

“And you’re still here, aren’t you?”

As if you’d rather be anywhere else. As if you’d choose anyone else to be with. You huffed, spreading your hands out over his chest as you tried to tune out the impatient voice in your head that wanted you to take his jacket off. You settled for straddling him instead. “I can leave. Go to bed.” 

“You won’t.” The smirk that decorated his mouth, a mouth that you had just kissed, was nothing short of devilish. If you were standing, your knees would have buckled at the mere sight of it. “You don’t want to.” 

Well. He got you there. 

Caleb let his fingertips wander, slipping under the hem of your dress and caressing the skin there with a maddeningly light touch. Leaning forward, he turned his head to your neck and let his lips brush against your earlobe, delighting in the shiver it sent through your smaller frame. 

“Do I get to unwrap my present now?”

Any smart retort you had about wanting to leave flew right out of your mind at his question, the smooth cadence of his voice having anticipation thrum through your veins. It was the way he sounded so sure of himself that riled you up even more, that previous heat rushing back and dancing in the minimal space between both of your bodies, present even with his incessant teasing.

All you could manage was a sharp nod, your desperation for him returning with a vengeance. The heat emanating from your skin was like a drug to him, one that he couldn’t help but indulge, his lips brushing against your pulse point and breathing against it, making you feel near feverish.

“Words,” he instructed, like they were an easy thing to form while he slowly made you lose your train of thought. “I need you to say you want this, pretty girl.”

He was insane to think that you didn’t. You wet your lips, flustered. “I want it.” 

You could feel his lips curl upwards against your skin, one hand sliding up your side and to your shoulder. He then paused, simply toying with the ribbon there for a couple of excruciating seconds, before finally tugging and undoing the bow you had tied. One side of the top of your dress slipped a little lower, and all you could do was bite down on the plush of your lower lip as he repeated the action on the other side, simultaneously loving and hating how he was taking his time. 

The shimmery blue fabric dropped to your midriff, revealing your second surprise: a pale blue lacy bra adorning your skin, a pretty thing you had purchased for the sole purpose of driving the man you were currently sitting atop crazy. He pulled away from your neck, his eyes widening by a fraction as his gaze turned smouldering, his entire form stiffening as he took in the sight of it. 

“Fuck,” he rapsed out, “Are you trying to kill me?”

“You don’t like it?” You cocked your head to the side, knowing damn well the opposite was true and acting coquettish to cover up just how violently your nerves were acting up despite that fact. 

“I like it too much. That’s the problem.” He pulled his gaze away from your lace-clad chest, forcing himself to look you in the eyes and allowing you to see the depth of the emotion that lay in his. It felt as if you were looking right at the heel of a fire as it consumed everything in its path, molten and heavy. To call it desire would have been a disservice, because it was clearly so much more than just that. It was barely concealed longing and awe, and the very thing you had been fighting for as long as you could remember. 

It was love.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he repeated, his hand coming up to cup your jaw with tenderness that had your heart stuttering. “God, you have no idea how long I’ve been imagining this for.” 

Vulnerability cut through the haze of lust that had enveloped him and you, and you were struck by just how quiet his voice had gotten. How he looked at you like you were some divine being he had the blessing to be in the presence of, devoted and mesmerised all at once. Had he always stared at you with such reverence?

“Caleb…” He shook his head as you trailed off. 

“I just–” he swallowed thickly, struggling to get the words out. You recognised the look in his eyes, that barely concealed restraint they always possessed when you got too close, just before he’d pull away and shut down. “I don’t want this to be just–”

“It won’t be. It isn’t.” You caught wind of where he was going with this and shut it down immediately. “Caleb, I don’t just want this, I want you. All of you.”

Exhaling slowly, he let his hands drop to your waist, squeezing lightly. When he spoke, his voice was gravelly. “I’ve imagined you saying that too.”

You wrapped your fingers around his tie, tugging him closer until his nose brushed against yours and you were almost kissing again, but not quite. He was in his head, and you were determined to pull him out of it and bring him back to the present moment. “Show me what else you’ve imagined?”

He didn’t have to be asked twice.

Caleb met you halfway, kissing you like he was making up for all the times he couldn’t. His lips travelled down your jaw and to your neck, every little nip he gave your skin sending sparks shooting down right to your core. You squirmed in his lap, tipping your head to give him easier access, your obvious eagerness earning a groan in response.

Like a flip had been switched, he lifted you off of him, resuming his earlier position of him being on top as your back met the carpet on his floor once more. His kisses turned hot and open-mouthed, leaving trails of warmth along your fevered skin as his lips moved lower, teeth grazing the junction where your neck and shoulder met. The simple, barely there contact had a shudder run through your body, and you gripped the lapels of his jacket, needing something to hold onto you. 

“Can I touch you?” He asked softly, never wanting to cross any lines you weren’t comfortable with. The thought of him touching you made your head spin, and at your dazed nod, he slowly pushed the skirt part of your dress up, letting it bunch up around your waist. Arousal pooled in the pit of your stomach, hot and sticky, its tendrils spreading through your lower body and leaving your panties damp. 

Panties that, upon seeing, had him cursing under his breath. They matched the bra you wore, telling him just how much you had thought about because– shit, you were in a matching set of lingerie. 

“Yeah, you’re trying to kill me,” he muttered, dropping his head to your chest. You couldn’t help the breathy giggle that left you, the strands of his inky hair tickling the skin of your collarbone. “You’re stunning. Is this all for me?”

“Do you see anyone else around?”

“Good to know you still insist on sassing me even like this,” he muttered wryly, his hand wandering up your thigh and dipping onto the inner side of it. Before you could think about refuting that statement, he began kissing the swell of your breast, trailing downwards and then wrapping his lips around your clothed nipple. Wetness from his tongue seeped through the lace as he swirled it around the already-stiff peak, and as if on instinct, your legs fell further apart, eyes screwing shut. 

He hummed, evidently pleased at your reaction, tugging the bra cup holding your other breast down, exposing the pillowy flesh underneath. Shifting his attention from the one he had been teasing, he gave your other nipple the same treatment, licking, sucking and teasing until you were writhing underneath him, breathing shaky and uneven. 

Caleb dragged his fingertips up the tantalising expanse of your inner thigh, inching closer to where you wanted him most as he continued his ministrations on your breasts. Running his teeth over your nipple, he gently bit down on the sensitive peak, catching you off guard and drawing out a needy whimper from the back of your throat. 

“Caleb,” you barely recognised your voice with how whiny you sounded. “Please just–”

But the rest of your impatient plea would never be heard, because he chose that exact moment to slip his hand up the rest of your thigh and press his fingers against your clothed core. You sucked in a sharp breath, your hips jerking into his touch desperately. 

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he mumbled against your overheated skin. “Have you been like this the entire time?”

“Yeah,” you admitted, far too turned on to be embarrassed by the fact. “Please hurry up and do something.”

He shot you a wolfish grin at your whining, rubbing the pads of his fingers against your covered folds and gaining a feel for just how desperate you were for him. You looked so fucking pretty like this, spread out and wrecked even when he had barely done anything to you yet, and still begging him for more. The sight was something straight out of a wet dream to him, every bit as sinful and perfect as he had imagined. “So impatient. Won’t you let me take my time with my gift?” 

“We have the whole night for you to take your time,” you shot back, and the implication made his eyes darken considerably. Without wasting another second, he pushed your soaked panties to the side and dipped two fingers in between your folds, letting out a disbelieving puff of air now that he could feel how wet you were directly. Slick collected on his fingers, he swiped it through, bringing it up to your already sensitive clit and applying just the right amount of pressure to make you mewl. 

“The whole night, huh?” Caleb kissed the hollow of your neck, and then higher. “Showing you everything I’ve imagined might actually take that long.”

You scrambled to grasp at his arms as he began to rub your clit, your entire body reacting to the touch it was programmed for him and him alone. He watched in fascination, drinking in every lovely sound you made, from delectable sighs to restless moans. It wasn’t like he intended on being a tease, but he couldn’t help it, drunk on your reactions and wanting to see how many he could draw out of you. 

Caleb let his finger wander back down your folds, swiping it up, down, and through your wetness over and over until you were squirming. The wet sounds had your cheeks burning, nails digging into the stiff fabric of his blazer as you whined. 

“Stop–”

“Stop what?” he taunted, his nail pressing into the underside of your clit. The sound that evoked was one you didn’t even think you were capable of making, eyes going wide and desperate.

“–teasing,” you breathed out. “Stop teasing. I need more.” More of this. More of him.

That was all it took. 

He slid a finger in, almost hypnotised by how smooth the glide was, a disbelieving scoff leaving him as he once again acknowledged just how wet you were. Your mouth fell open, a satisfied gasp escaping it as he buried said finger knuckle deep inside of you. Around him, you were warm and wet and so unbelievably tight that he felt himself grow harder, straining his pants but not caring about it for a second, so transfixed with you. 

His finger was longer than yours, brushing against spots that yours never could. He moved it slowly, pumping in and out of you at a pace that was both dizzying and infuriating before easing in a second one. 

Just when you were about to complain again, he crooked his fingers inside your cunt, and you moaned, “Oh fuck.”

“Feel good?” he pressed a kiss on the spot under your ear, breathing the words against it. “This what you wanted, baby?”

The new nickname had you clenching around him as you nodded furiously. He smirked triumphantly against your skin, increasing the motions as he finger fucked you, revelling in how your body responded so compliantly, truly made for him.

“Yes, yes. Please don’t stop.” You hiccuped, too lost in the sensation of his fingers dragging against your walls to form a coherent thought. It was the way you were looking right now, half-closed eyes caught between intense desire and a certain drowsiness only pleasure could bring about, dress all bunched up around your midriff– a mess, but a beautiful mess regardless.

Caleb had always been terrible at refusing you, so why should he start now? If you asked for something, he’d do anything to get you ten of them. Spoiling you was his favourite pastime, but he was starting to realise that he loved it even more like this, when you were begging him for something only he could deliver. 

When your legs began to tremble, his resolve steeled further, wanting more than anything to push you over the edge. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he mumbled, greedily mouthing at your breasts again. “Love making you feel good.”

His thumb found your engorged clit, rubbing deliberately heavy handed circles onto it. The squeal you let out was so cute, and he angled his fingers a little bit, watching as a shiver spread over your body and your eyes widened. 

A broken wail of ecstacy made its way past your lips as you tumbled over the edge, gushing around his fingers and growing so tight that it had his cock throb at the thought of being inside you. Your pussy was like a vise, sucking his fingers in deep, and he shamelessly indulged you, helping you ride out your high. Once he was sure it was over, he pulled his fingers out and nearly groaned at the sight of your release coating them.

Suddenly, the heat was unbearable. He shrugged off his jacket and grabbed at the knot of his tie, holding part of the fabric between his teeth and yanking the other end until it came undone. 

Witnessing this had two things happen to you at the same time: the first being your sharp inhale, and the second being the rush of desire that flooded your system all at once, shocking yourself with the magnitude of it all. Entranced, you watched as he discarded the tie and popped his collar, only snapping out of your reverie when you felt his fingers curl around your ankles and tug you closer. 

Fuck. 

Within seconds, his shirt was off, allowing you to unabashedly stare at the definition of his abs. You let your eyes wander because, wow, Caleb had always been extremely attractive, but the effects of it seemed to be hitting you all at once.

Having rid himself of part of his clothing, he turned his attention back to you, taking note of the appreciative glint in your eyes. You were perfect, so perfect for him in every single way, and he was going to make sure you knew it before the night was over. He found the mess of your dress and tugged it up and over your chest, uttering a single instruction.

“Up.”

You obeyed immediately, sitting up and letting him pull the material off of you, letting it join his discarded clothing without another care. After all, it was always meant to be peeled off of you, the perfect wrapping paper. Your shoes came off next, and you didn’t know which end of the room they landed up in. Left in only lingerie that barely left anything to the imagination, you had never felt so exposed and somehow still in control at the same time, because being vulnerable with Caleb was like second nature to you. 

“You look so pretty,” he cradled your face in his palms, voice soft and sincere. “I almost don’t want to take it off.”

“Almost,” you noted, teasing. He smirked down at you, snapping the strap of your bra against your shoulder.

“Almost,” he repeated, confirming that he was going to take it off anyway. He knocked your knees apart and settled in between them, resulting in you being eye-level with his chest, the silver of his necklace glinting in the dim lighting of his living room. 

And oh my god.

“Holy shit,” you muttered, a little awed. “It actually has gotten bigger.”

Caleb laughed, flicking your forehead as he gently pushed you back down, climbing over you and planting a kiss at the place he had just struck. 

“Did you think the robot assistant lied?” Amusement coated every syllable, a little muffled as he kissed your cheek, and then your lips, propping his index finger underneath your chin to angle your head better. 

“No,” you finally responded when he shifted his attention to your neck, sucking at the skin and leaving pretty little marks that would turn purple all over it. “Just confirming. You didn’t exactly let me check earlier.” You could feel his lips curve into a smile as he kissed down the valley of your breasts.

“Been thinkin’ about that all day, have you?” He glanced up at you from where he was, eyes alight with mischief. Caught, you decided to evade that question, sighing blissfully as he continued his path down your body. 

Until you realised where he was heading. 

“Wait, what are you–?”

“You have no idea,” He whispered reverently against your skin, methodically working his mouth over every part of it he could, like your body was a map he was attempting to commit to memory. “Just how long I’ve wanted this, wanted you.” His tongue flicked out occasionally, grounding you to the moment every time you felt yourself fall deeper into a daze. “Was sitting here and thinking of you, cravin’ you so bad. I do it almost every night.”

Every night. The idea made you positively woozy, cementing the fact that all the insanity you had felt in your apartment back in Linkon– it had been mutual. On some level, you had always known it had been, but hearing it like this, in such an intimate setting, made you feel braver. 

“Me too.” A breathless admittance, and it was the truth. It had always been the truth, even before you knew it.

Caleb looked up at you, both his hands slipping underneath your shins and gripping lightly. “I’ve wanted to hold you for so long, to kiss you and hold you and taste you–” he said in a manner that made it seem like he didn’t quite believe he was doing so now, rambling earnestly. “–fuck, can I taste you?”

He paused, letting the question weigh down on you. His path down your body made sense now, and you swallowed, trying to ignore how your pussy ached at the thought of it as you meekly whispered.

“You don’t have to.”

“Have to? Baby, I want to,” he kissed the spot just above your hip. “I’d beg if you asked me to.”  

You were so incredibly shy all of a sudden, overwhelmed by the sheer level of power he constantly loved placing in your hands. You recognised this was his way of ensuring you knew he was unequivocally and absolutely yours, and it set your blood on fire. Before you knew it, you found yourself surrendering.

“Okay.”

Without wasting another second, he pulled those pretty panties of yours off of you, albeit a little regretfully, and tossed them to the side as he settled in between your legs. Faced with your bare pussy, Caleb was convinced that he had died and gone to heaven already, unable to get over just how pretty it was, all flushed and glistening with need. You felt intimidated by how intently he was looking at it, trying to squirm away, but he held you there, large hands keeping you nice and spread out as he began peppering kisses over the expanse of your thighs. 

Then, without so much as a warning, he positioned your legs over his shoulders and licked a stripe up your cunt. Your gasp rushed straight to his head, much like how all his blood seemed to rush south. The taste of your slick made him groan, the sound so uncharacteristically filthy that you could feel yourself flush at hearing it, flattered and scandalised all at once. 

His tongue was tentative in its exploration of you at first, lapping at the wetness that seemed to trickle out of you uncontrollably like it was the finest of wines. He dragged over your entrance and up to your clit, flattening against it. 

“Oh,” you mewled, fingers tangling in his hair and tugging lightly. “Oh, fuck.”

The sensation of your nails lightly scratching against his scalp sent a delighted shiver down his spine, and he tightened his hold on you. He stroked his tongue over the bundle of nerves, once, twice, and continued doing so until you were whimpering uncontrollably. You were still sensitive from your previous orgasm, and this was almost too much too soon, but it felt too good to protest.

Caleb looked at you from where he was, as your fingers carded through the front of his hair and pushed it back, giving him the perfect view of you. Maintaining eye contact, he wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked harshly, a deep sense of satisfaction spreading through his chest when he saw how your eyes snapped shut in pure ecstasy and your jaw fell open, crying out his name so loud.

Your back bowed off the ground, heels digging into his shoulder blades, torn between pulling him closer and attempting to push him away. He was determined to make sure you knew how much he was enjoying this. He groaned, and the vibrations from it elicited a moan from you in return, the two sounds coming together and forming a harmony of pleasure. 

“Caleb,” the way you whined his name was so perfect and breathy, he nearled cummed right there and there.

His wicked mouth continued to work you over the edge, and when you felt his finger prod at your entrance again, you squealed. The sounds coming from your pussy were borderline obscene with how wet you were, your slick mixing with his spit, coating your inner thighs as well. You felt that tug in your gut again as the coil pulled tighter and tighter, on the precipice of shattering.

It was so, so good, but greedy as you were, you wanted more. 

You tugged at his hair, gently at first and partly out of your need to hold onto something tangible to grip onto to stay grounded, before pulling harder, guiding him away from your cunt. 

Amusingly enough, it looked like he was offended at being parted from it, but maintained his gentle tone. “Somethin’ wrong?” 

“I think I’m close again.”

Caleb raised a singular eyebrow. “Sounds like everything was right then.” The pout on his lips would have been kind of adorable if not for the way your arousal coated his lips and chin, a sight so erotic it made you wish you could capture it somehow. 

You let your hands drop to his neck, pulling him back up from between your legs. “I want to come with you.” 

A hungry look entered his eyes, and he tongued his cheek. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you echoed, trailing your hands down his chest and abs, your nails grazing his skin with just the right amount of pressure to get him to shudder lightly. You stopped at his waistband, toying with it as your gaze flickered between it and his eyes, silently asking for permission. The ability to have an entire conversation with a single look was something he and you had mastered a long time ago, and this was no different. 

Caleb swallowed and nodded. “Okay, okay. Yeah. I want that too.”

You pushed him to the side, catching him a little off guard as he settled on his back. Sitting up, you straddled him once more, busying yourself with unfastening the button of his dress pants and unzipping them. He caught the slight tremble of your hands and smiled softly, pushing your hair out of your face and pressing a shockingly tender kiss to your forehead. Considering the situation, the contrast of it coaxed a nervous laugh out of you. 

“You’re distracting me,” you mumbled, turning your face into his hand and leaning into his touch. He played coy, thoroughly amused.

“Am I?”

“You know you are,” your hands were splayed out on his lower torso as you took a breather, overwhelmed. He didn’t care in the slightest, pulling you closer and resting his forehead against yours.

“I love being your distraction,” he hummed. “That’s how I know you’re paying attention to only me.”

A kiss to the side of your mouth brought all that confidence back. You straightened, pushing his pants down past his hips and repeated the action with his boxers, revealing his erection.

Flushed and painfully hard, it stood up against his stomach and made your eyes widen, because – holy shit – he was big. Your mouth went dry at the mere sight of it, and he tilted his head to the side, continuing in that soft cadence. “You okay?”

Shit – maybe you should have been the one asking that, because being that hard for presusmably this long had to have been extremely uncomfortable for him. Still, there he was, checking in on you instead. 

Your sweet, perfect boy. The man you loved. 

“I’m good,” you wet your lips, meeting his eyes and finding out just how much he was holding back right there, the purple of his irises almost entirely gone with how blown out his pupils were. “Can I– can I touch you?”

You caught his Adam's apple bob and wanted to bite it. 

I’ve only ever been yours to touch, his thoughts screamed back at him as he watched you wait for his response, but his tongue seemed to have trouble catching up to his mind at the moment. Everything about this was surreal to him, with you reciprocating everything he felt and showing it for the first time. “Yeah, you can.” He said after a beat, and then, as an afterthought, he added, “Please.”

Gently, you reached out and wrapped your fingers around his cock, feeling the weight of it in your hand. You didn’t miss the way he inhaled sharply, sucking air in through his teeth at the touch. His eyes fluttered shut, long eyelashes that you envied kissing the skin under his eyes as he tipped his head back. 

Seeing him like this spurred you on even further. You moved your hand a little, up his length, teasing his tip and the slit that leaked precum, spreading it around with your thumb. It made a mess on your palm, but made it easier for you to glide back down his cock, relishing the way he hissed in pleasure. 

Caleb jerked his hips into your fist instinctively, evidently trying his hardest to hold back his sounds, only letting the slightest of moans slip past his lips. You were having none of it, tightening your hold on him as you moved your hand, suddenly feeling playful. Leaning forward, you brushed the tip of your nose along his neck before pressing a kiss against his heated skin.

“Let me make you feel good,” you mumbled, syrupy sweet in your manner of speaking. It was the same tone you used to use with him every time you wanted to get your way, but instead of your usual puppy eyes, you settled for planting lazy kisses on his neck. 

“God–,” he sounded so strained, “Wait, I– fuuuuck”

You were aching for him at this point, now that you could feel him and imagine how he would feel. You ran the pad of your thumb over the vein on the underside of his cock teasingly, sucking on his pulse point, tasting the salt of his skin on your tongue. Briefly, you entertained the thought of lowering your mouth even further, until you had his tip in your mouth and–

Caleb caught your wrist, panting heavily. “Okay. Stop. No more.”

“I barely did anything?!” You protested, and he chuckled airily.

He breathed out your name, and it was completely intoxicating, an octave lower than usual and rough. “If you do anything more, I’ll come.”

“But–”

He turned his face, nose brushing yours as he breathed against your lips. “I’m not coming on your hand the first time we do this.” 

Assertive. Firm. Your train of thought came to a sharp halt, puddling into a mess of incoherence as lust took over. You nodded eagerly, crashing your lips to his again in a messy kiss, all tongue and heat and a desperation for each other that somehow hadn’t burst at the seams yet, but was about to. 

Another roll over, and the two of you were so far away from the spot you started in. Caleb was on top again, both of you caught up in your feverish lip lock. Your hands were in his hair as you pulled him as close as physically possible, and he reached behind you, finally unhooking your bra and letting it fall off, joining the rest of your discarded clothing. 

Caleb lifted your legs and hooked them over his hips, his fingers pressing into the flesh of your thighs as he licked into your mouth. He pushed his hips forward, pressing his cock against your dripping folds and rocking aimlessly, coating himself in your slick. The feeling of the head of his length rutting against your clit had you make a keening sound, one that he swallowed greedily, echoing with his own moan. 

This was real. It wasn’t a dream, your nails scratching against his biceps told him as much. You bucked your hips up against his, and the feeling of you, so wet and soft, was enough to make him feel delirious. 

“You’re perfect,” he said drunkenly. “My perfect girl.”

Oh.

Hearing him say it like that was something else. Calling you his, speaking it into existence to remind himself of the fact as much as it was to remind you, not bothering to ask the question first because there was no need to. Asking you to be his was trivial, especially when both of you knew you already were. 

He hiked your legs even higher as his tip caught at your entrance, nudging at it but not pushing in just yet. Those few seconds were torture, almost what you wanted but not quite. Not yet.

One more kiss. A dulcet whisper of ‘yours’ falling from you.

When he finally sank into you, it was slow, and you could feel it everywhere, your nerve endings on fire. The stretch burned deliciously, a momentary flash of discomfort that he distracted you from with another intense kiss, until it melted into pleasure. Your pussy eagerly welcomed him, hot and velvety around his cock as he inched his way in, even when taking his time was proving to be a difficult task. You felt unimaginably good, and when he glanced down between the two of your bodies, the sight of him half buried inside of you was enough to make him go a little light-headed. 

Caleb buried his face in the crook of your neck, deeply inhaling your scent as you pawed at his arms, producing pitchy little whimpers that sounded like music to his ears. A particularly impatient rut of his hips later, he was finally all the way in you. All you could manage were shallow breaths, feeling so full that it made it hard to think straight. 

“Y/n,” there was that drunken lilt to his tone again, muffled against your shoulder. “God, fuck, you feel incredible. I could do this all night” 

His words came to life in your mind, and you moaned, positively high off the praise, your walls pulsing around him happily as you adjusted to his size. “Yes.”

“Yes? You like the sound of that?” He encouraged you to elaborate, even though he knew how your state of mind had to have been then, reduced to nothing more than a puddle. Your entire body was impossibly flushed, and he massaged your hips soothingly, feeling how tense you had gone, clenching hard.

Caleb moved his mouth to your ear and whispered, “Relax for me, baby, you’re squeezin’ me so tight.” 

You forced yourself to let go of some of that tension, breathing deeply to keep yourself at least a little bit relaxed. He kissed your pulse point, feather light, as he pulled all the way out until only his tip remained inside of you. The loss made you whine pitifully, feeling uncomfortably empty now that you knew what it was to be full of him. Lifting his head from your neck, he couldn’t help but smirk when you wiggled, silently begging for more. 

“So impatient,” he tutted condescendingly, squeezing your waist. The glare you threw his way was weak.

“You–”

He promptly shut you up with a deep, measured stroke, ensuring that you felt every single inch of him as he did. Whatever scathing quip you were about to fire at him flew right out of your head, replaced with a humilatingly wanton cry of his name, nearly sobbing in relief when he repeated the action. He had always been like this, pushing your buttons until they were completely undone. 

“I…I don’t think I’ll last long,” you warned breathlessly as he rolled his hips into yours, arching off the floor when you felt him even deeper than the last thrust. Your previously building climax had resumed its course, all that sensitivity coming back all at once. 

“I know, I can feel it.” His hand slipped down your thigh to the curve of your ass, lifting your hips slightly and leaving absolutely no space between the two of you. 

As if to prove his point, you felt yourself clench around him again, getting even wetter when the head of his cock briefly brushed against a spot inside you that had you seeing stars. You lolled your head to the side, shutting your eyes as you focused on how he was fucking you. He dropped back down, his body dwarfing you as he buried his face in your hair, hips rocking against yours. The space between you, or lack thereof, felt heavy with your mutual need and something else.

Bodies flush against each other, chest pressing against his– suddenly, this wasn’t about pleasure anymore. Your breaths and heartbeats converged into one, skin to skin and connected in the way both of you had longed for, all that waiting and wanting coming to a head in this fragile, beautiful moment. Every gasp was a proclamation of your feelings, spilling clarity over them in a way that words never could. He was yours just as much as you were his, two souls melding into one. 

You would never be separated again.

The words sat on the tip of your tongue, a mere eight letters forming all three of them. They should have been easy to say, but you found yourself holding back, not wanting them to come out like this. Caleb's fingers found yours, intertwining with them and squeezing as he pressed the back of your hands into the carpeted floor. Heavy emotion mixed with the sheer levels of bliss coursing through your veins as he moved inside you, steadily climbing to the peak of its crescendo.

When you came, it was much more intense than the first time, your mind dissolving into a jumbled mess and a ragged moan of his name leaving your throat. You got so tight around him, causing his pace to stutter, and then slow down a little bit, switching into shallower thrusts. For your sake, you realised.

“We– we can stop if it's too much,” he muttered, but the desperate rutting of his hips against yours told you a different story. He hadn’t come yet, and though you were so sensitive to every little movement of his now, it felt too good to want it to stop. You felt insatiable, wanting him to fall apart just as you had and to be the one he fell apart for. 

So you choked out hoarsely, “More.”

“Fucking hell,” his voice had taken on a tone you had never heard before, “Are you sure?”

Instead of responding verbally, you locked your legs behind him, dragging him deeper into your soaked cunt and mewling at the feel of him. 

And then, because you could never resist pushing his buttons, you purred, “Didn’t you say you could do this all night?”

Caleb’s eyes snapped to yours, narrowing slightly at the taunt. The air crackled with a newfound intensity, contrasting the sweet intimacy that you had just shared with him, slipping into darker territory. “I did,” he drawled, pulling out completely before snapping his hips to yours again, the roughness of the move a stark difference from his previous gentleness. You were helpless to the intense waves of pleasure washing over you while he fucked you, succumbing to them with an enthusiastic groan. “You want that, huh? Want me to fuck you all night?”

The way he phrased it was filthy and so wrong in all the right ways, a dark lilt injected into his tone. Seemingly knowing the effect it had on you, he let go of one of your hands, cupping one of your breasts instead. Instinctively, you arched up into his touch, and he grinned, rolling your nipple under his fingers before pinching it. He savoured the way you whined, wishing he could permanently imprint the sound in his memory as he continued to tease the pebbled bud, tugging and flicking it. His ministrations only amplified the ache between your legs, despite you being quite literally stuffed full of him.

“Come on,” he taunted playfully. “Say it. Say you want me to fuck you all night.”

A rush of shame curled around you, the vulgarity of the statement having you exhale sharply. You reached up and pulled him back down into a kiss, hoping it would distract him, and for a couple of seconds, it seemed like it did. He hummed contentedly, but then broke away and pinched your nipple again, this time harsher than before. 

“Say it, or I stop.” 

That was wholly counterintuitive, especially since that meant he would essentially be blue-balling himself. However, your ability to think logically had flown out the window a long time ago, and you shook your head desperately when he actually began to slow down a little, rolling your hips upwards and babbling.

“I want it– want you to fuck me all night.”

“Good girl.” 

Oh, you definitely liked that, judging by the way your pussy fluttered around him so eagerly. His messed-up hair fell into his eyes as he set a punishing pace, groaning at how silky smooth the glide was. At how you fit together so perfectly. 

And god, you looked absolutely debauched, a vision with your flushed skin and red marks littered all over your neck and chest. The sight of you like this had to have been the very definition of sin, glossy eyes and pathetic little whimpers falling from kiss-bitten lips that encouraged him to fuck you even harder. He forced himself to look away, glancing down at the spot where the two of you were connected and watching how his cock disappeared in you, your cunt hungrily gripping and sucking him back in every time he rocked away. 

“Look at you,” He crooned, notching himself in you completely and staying still for a few, cruel moments.. “Look at your pretty little pussy taking my cock so well. It’s like you were made for me.”

Your sensitivity from the overstimulation had circled back to pure need by now, and an agonised moan left those swollen lips of yours at the stilling of his movements. Your nails dug into his skin, the sting making him hiss. His cock throbbed inside of you, so, so close to coming undone. When you curved off the carpet, he splayed a hand over your stomach and took a moment to admire how large it looked against you, before pressing down firmly. 

“Caleb, please,” the look you threw his way was addictive, so desperate and wanting. How could he ever refuse you, especially when you were looking at him like that? 

“Anything,” he dropped his mouth to yours, breathing out against it and pinning your hips down. His hand on your stomach slid lower, dipping into your folds, dragging your slick up to your engorged clit and rolling it between his fingers. Your shriek of surprise and pleasure was nothing short of delightful. “I’ll give you anything and everything you ask for.”

Caleb began rutting into you again, angling his hips slightly differently now, going even deeper. As a result, he brushed against that spot that had you seeing stars once more, and you cried out. 

“Oh my god, right there– please don’t stop, please, please–!” 

His grip on your hips turned bruising, sure to leave marks, but neither of you cared in the slightest, lost to the overwhelming pleasure. He fucked into that spot over and over, lewd, wet sounds echoing through the living room every time his body met yours. Your vision blurred as you clawed at him, so far gone. 

“Won’t stop,” he groaned, reassuring you that he was now done teasing. “Y/n I– god– stay with me, okay?” He was borderline frantic with his thrusts now, his composure having crumbled away completely and leaving you with a frenzied man, chasing his high and determined to give you another, drowning in the depths of his own emotions. “Don’t ever leave me.”

It was a statement he had spoken several times before, between the lingering stares and tight embraces that lasted a little too long. Constantly asking you to never leave him, holding on so tight in fear that he’d lose you. Somehow, in the midst of the haze of bliss you were caught in, you managed to catch on to what he was saying. 

“Never,” you whimpered, cupping his face and holding him close. “I’m never leaving you, I’m yours.” 

Caleb nuzzled into your touch and pressed his forehead to yours. “And I’m yours.” 

He littered burning kisses over the expanse of your neck, pressing them to your chin and cheeks as well, spilling his affections onto every bit of you that he could. Your fingers found purchase in his hair once more, tugging and using your hold to angle his face so that you could kiss him again.

With one final pass of his fingers over your clit, your third orgasm slammed into you. You sobbed out his name through the waves of euphoria that crashed through your body, setting your entire body alight from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. Caleb helped you ride through your high, grinding into you and drawing out the white-hot pleasure that licked at you so tantalisingly. It felt as if you were falling into the abyss, but as always, he was there to catch you.

Caleb came shortly after, unable to hold off any longer with the way your pussy clamped down on him, tight and hot and demanding in the most delicious way. His thrusts slowed down as he lazily rode his high, pumping into your trembling form slower. Your walls spasmed, and he grunted, pressing his lips to yours and muffling your whines. 

The kiss veered into something much softer, just a breathless brush of your lips as you calmed down, head descending from the clouds. He pulled out gently, humming softly when you hissed and pressing his lips to your forehead in lieu of an apology. 

“You’re incredible,” he said quietly. Silence ruled the room for a couple of seconds; the only thing you could perceive was the quickened beating of your heart, and every spot where his skin touched yours. Nothing but him existed in the little world you had created for yourselves, and the two of you stayed like that for a bit, basking in each other's warmth. 

“Caleb,” you murmured his name, the syllables feeling heavy on your tongue. The words you wanted to say so badly stuck in your throat, and your vocal cords refused to cooperate. Those sunset eyes of his found yours, captivating in every sense of the word, and he lifted your hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it tenderly. 

“I know.” He whispered. “I know.”

But he didn’t. How could he, when you had taken so long to figure it out yourself? He looked at you so lovingly that it made your chest hurt, and you let out a shaky sigh, overwhelmed by how ardent your feelings for him were, how real and messy and intense. You felt like a lone ship out at sea, but Caleb was that lighthouse in the distance, leading the way back home. He was the sun high up in the sky that brightened your days, coaxing you out of the dark and into the light, and you’d gladly burn just for the chance to stay close to him.

And so when your lips met and your thighs straddled him once more, there wasn’t any teasing. He smiled into the kiss and cradled the back of your head as you descended further into the darkness, into your feelings and into him.

The sun was rising. 

Early morning breeze slipped through the gaps in the windows of his balcony, but you barely felt the chill, focused on the way the glass reflected your figures. The slowly brightening sky made it seem as if both of you were bathed in a warm glow, and with how you were leaning back against him, you felt that glow within, too. You traced the outline with your finger, feeling the condensation catch and drag, dripping down the window panes. 

Caleb pulled you back into his arms, lying down with you, his hand rubbing soothing circles on the small of your back. You settled on your stomach and propped yourself up on your elbows. In the hazy morning light, you took a moment to study him.

“It feels like a dream.”

His gaze was steady when it found yours, his voice soft in an almost awestruck manner. “You dreamed about me before?”

“Of course. I dreamed you called yourself a dummy and promised to follow me around like a little tail.” You couldn’t help letting a quip slide now that the heat from just minutes ago had subsided. Now, you were clad in his shirt, the very same one he had discarded so eagerly, and he had on pants, but was shirtless. You reached out and touched the dog tag pendant of his necklace, toying with it between your fingers. 

Caleb was a man of his word; you always knew that, but you had learned just how determined he could be that night. As promised, he remained entangled with you all night, until your joint gasps and moans of pleasure had imprinted in your memory. It was the culmination of all those years of waiting, hoping, and wanting so hopelessly, and he showed you all of it. You let him, digging your heels in the dirt and refusing to run away anymore. 

He scoffed in amusement, trailing his touch upward and gently massaging your shoulder blades. He looked so lovely like this, dishevelled hair and cheeks flushed pink from the exertion of your earlier activities. A choked-up feeling invaded your throat as you got serious, dropping the pendant.

“I also dreamed that your signal was lost in a tunnel. There was only darkness, nothing else…” Your eyes hardened as you thought back to your fear of losing him and how badly the explosion had shaken you. Part of you didn’t know why you were bringing this up again, but the other half made it crystal clear: all that grief and fear was a fundamental stepping stone in your relationship with him. In order to admit it, you had to let it all out. “And then….I couldn’t find you anymore.”

Your voice was small and unrecognisable. You interlaced your fingers together and swallowed the lump that was steadily building in your throat. You felt him shift a little closer, closing his larger hand around both of yours and squeezing.

“That day will never happen.”

His touch was comforting, the motion of his thumb rubbing against the back of your hand bringing you an inexplicable sense of peace. “Losing signal, not being able to see what’s around me– none of that matters.” He dipped his head closer to yours, his lips curving upwards just slightly. “My flight path is in your hands, and I already know my destination before I take off.”

His voice was soft, like he was afraid to speak any louder lest it break you. Your breath caught, lower lip quivering at how sweet he was. You were speechless, but that was okay, because he wasn’t done. “There’s only one place I want to reach. It doesn’t matter what obstacles stand in my way.”

Caleb lifted one of your hands, pressed a kiss to your knuckles, and you almost fucking cried from how tender the action was, the emotion in your chest practically bursting out of it. Then, he pressed your palm against his heart and whispered, despite him and you being the only two people around, so reminiscent of the way he’d let you in on secrets when you were children.

“Its coordinates have been recorded here a long time ago.”

How had he dissolved all your lingering anxiety so easily? It felt as if he had caught it and tucked it out of your sight. Suddenly, you felt light again, and everything you had been trying so hard to say burst forth. Keeping those feelings to yourself for any longer would drive you crazy, and you needed him to hear them coming from you straight. 

“I love you.” 

The three words tumbled out of you gracelessly, but that imperfection made it real. Your vulnerability made your voice tremble, but you didn’t care, and neither did he. You saw the light in his eyes brighten and his grin widen as he pressed your hand against his chest harder, letting you feel how his heart sped up. 

You had called him the sun, but if he was the sun, then to Caleb, you were the moon. Incandescent, radiant, beautiful and for the longest time, it truly did feel like he had been chasing you through the skies, only to have to settle with glimpses at interludes and intervals when the evening reigned. Having to keep his love for you to himself during the day and letting it breathe during the night, when no one could see it in the dark. Now, those two celestial bodies collided, and the result was a supernova.

And it was as easy as breathing for him to say: “I love you, too.”

A watery giggle left you as you leaned forward and rested your head on his shoulder, nuzzling against him. He turned his face, resting his cheek against your forehead for a couple of seconds.. 

“I didn’t get to make a wish before blowing out the candles at the restaurant. Can I make one now?”

A perplexed look took over your features, and he had to resist kissing the furrow of your eyebrows away. “You had your eyes closed for so long, but you didn’t make a single wish?”

Although you were making fun of him for it, you got to your feet and padded to the kitchen, ignoring the soreness between your legs as you grabbed a cupcake. Finding a candle, you inserted it on top and lit it, before making your way back. As you plopped down, you asked, “Do you want me to sing ‘happy birthday’ again?”

He sat up and shook his head. “No, it's okay. I already know what I wanna wish for.”

Caleb cupped your hands that held the cake, leaning forward. The flame on the candle flickered as your only witness to this precious moment, and his infectious smile spread to you. You could see yourself grin in the reflection of his eyes, and it only made you smile wider, subconsciously leaning in as well. 

“I wish we’ll always fly under the same sky and be in each other’s lives.” He glanced at the candle. “And I’ll wish that every year, I’ll follow these coordinates on this day as I venture through the darkness. All because they’ll lead me back to you.” 

You were beaming when he blew the candle out, eyes shining with how deliriously happy you were. It was a look that, up until this point, he had only ever seen in his dreams. Placing the cupcake down, you drew closer and settled into his arms again. It was a new day, his birthday was over, and he was a year older, but none of those changes were the ones that mattered. This was the only one that did.

“In that case,” you whispered, nose brushing against his as you looked into his eyes. “I’ll wait for you to find me every year.”

The sun had risen, and for the first time, Caleb didn’t have to wake up.

fin.

[lynostalgi]

: THE GRASS IS WARMER ON YOUR SIDE :*+ﾟ

in which: you hate okhema. it's too loud, too busy, too many bad memories associated with home. until phainon shows you otherwise.

or, in which you really were not expecting to fall in love with your friend, but fate has always been particularly funny, especially when you agree to be his fake partner for the upcoming kephale festival.

warnings: 20,000 words, slow burn, fake dating!au, modern!au, university!au, gn!reader, fluff with a good dash of angst, familial issues and toxic home environments, happy ending, two idiots in love, PINING, he falls first and harder, aglaea as a mother figure to both phainon and reader

a/n: more detailed notes here, this fic was a monster to write but is my new magnum opus. i hope you enjoy. if this flops, i'm cancelled both my mydei long fics that are in progress.

You don’t like it back home. 

The city of Okhema is a metropolis haven with beautiful architecture and lush outdoor spaces, but, the streets are too busy, the people too obnoxious, and the memories you have there are dull and uninteresting. You don’t like it, you don’t like going home every summer, you don’t like leaving the Grove of Epiphany and returning to the lackluster life of your growing years, forced to spend another summer with your nose pressed in books.

People who aren’t from the Holy City like to proclaim it as a dream destination as it is beautiful, a lush paradise of bustling markets, expansive bathhouses, theatrical performances. It welcomes people from all corners of Amphoreus, and will be especially busy with the upcoming Kephale Festival.

While you’ve avoided going home for the past two years, you might be pushing your luck too far now for your parent’s pleasure.

“Y/n, are you alright?” Hyacine’s sweet voice snaps you out of your reverie, and you realise now that perhaps you’ve been staring down at the wooden table for a bit too long to be considered normal. 

“I’m fine,” you wave your thoughts away, suddenly feeling very scrutinised under everyone’s gaze. “What was the question?” 

“I just asked if you were going back to Okhema for break,” Castorice asked from across the table. “You don’t normally go back during the holidays, right?”

“I have to this time, it’s been a while since I’ve seen my family, they’re kind of… demanding I come back,” you rest your chin in your palms, trying to mask the displeasure that churns in your stomach. “Why’d you ask?”

“Oh, what a shame. I’ll be staying behind for once, I was hoping we could spend some time together, but I guess not.”

“Aw, that’s such rotten luck, I would have loved to spend the holidays with you, Cas!” You visibly deflate in your seat. Spending time here with a close friend would beat out anything Okhema has to offer, and suddenly it feels even harder to go home. You wonder if you could conjure any kind of excuse that would suffice for your absence. However, given long it has been since you last saw your family, they’d be severely displeased if you flake out this last minute.

The wrath of your parents is not one you’d want to induce.

“Hey, while you’re in Okhema, will you be at the Kephale Festival?” Phainon’s chipperness cuts the conversation like a warm knife through butter, his bright smile stealing your attention. 

The Kephale Festival was an annual celebration and one of the more important dates in the Holy City’s calender. To celebrate, the entire city comes alive with games, banquets, and performances from human dancers to chimeras alike, turning into a spectacle to behold. So much so, that people from all corners of Amphoreus come just to witness it, wanting to partake in the celebrations themselves. After all, no other city knows how to celebrate like Okhema.

Despite being such a distinguished event, you’ve historically kept to yourself during it. Friends would invite you, but you’re not particularly enthused, maybe at most traversing through the streets a little to find some food to indulge in. The more vibrant celebrations, however, you’ve kept up a streak of avoiding them throughout the years.

Surprisingly enough, this isn’t even Phainon’s first time asking. This was your third year at the Grove of Epiphany, and for the last few times, you’ve said ‘no’ each time whenever he asked.

“I don’t have plans for it,” you admit. 

“What? You’re in Okhema for once and you don’t attend the Kephale Festival? That’s unheard of.”

“Not everyone is a socialite like you, Deliverer,” Mydei chips and you laugh underneath your breath. Phainon pouts at you, as if pleading for you to come up his defence when you know very well there’s a myriad of smart retorts he could respond with.

“In all fairness, it is a huge yearly celebration, I even think my family has plans of going.” Hyacine intervenes. “Are you maybe too familiar with the festivities?” 

You shrug. “Maybe, but if you’re in Okhema this year, then we should hang out!” 

“That sounds great! Would you like to join us, Phainon?”

“Of course!” He nods enthusiastically, “We should show you around!”

The conversation flows onto something else, which you’re grateful for. Eventually, the group splits when Castorice and Hyacine head to a class together, and Mydei follows, leaving just you and Phainon.

You two move to a different section in the expansive gardens of the Grove, seeking shelter from the bright sun by sitting under a large magnolia tree. The dirt surrounding you is littered with droppings of the white petals, Phainon idly fidgeting with the blooms and grass, even making little knots and threads of them.

Sitting with your knees tucked and a book resting on your legs, you can’t help but get the feeling that the white-haired man wants something from you, his gaze flickering over to you and lingering for a few seconds before he turns his head away.

There’s a question he wants to ask but doesn't know how to approach it, like the words won’t roll off his tongue in the way he wants it. There’s also a furrow in his brows, and you know that determined look all too well. You saw it when he was failing Professor Anaxagoras’ classes during the first half of the semester and worked hard enough that he managed to scrape a distinction from the scholar. Whilst his efforts were fuelled by him desperately wanting to prove himself, you gave him the push to really go for it. 

So, exactly like you did then, you nudge him in the right direction.

“Something on your mind, Phainon?” 

His bright blue eyes widen, flickering back to you as he straightens his spine, clearly being caught off guard by your question. “How’d you know?”

“You’re fidgeting.”

He laughs in that boisterous way of his, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You speak as if you know me like the back of your hand.”

“Well, I wasn’t wrong, was I?” You turn your attention back to the pages. “Fine, don’t tell me if you don’t want to.” 

“No, that’s not it, I do have a favour to ask of you, I’m just afraid it’s a bit embarrassing.” His hand goes to scratch the back of his neck and he refuses to meet your eyes. 

It’s amusing to see Phainon, who’s exuberance is larger than life and unapologetic about it, suddenly become as shy as a small child asking for extra sweets from Okheman vendors. However, for how long you’ve known Phainon, you’ve learnt that whenever he displays this quieter side of his, he’s trying to express a concern that worries him, so you wait patiently for him to answer. 

“You know how I asked if you were going to the Kephale Festival this year?” Asks Phainon. You nod. “Well, I… was hoping to also ask if you could be my date.”

“Date? People need dates for the festival? I thought it was just games and performances and food.”

“It is! However, my mother is invited to lots of galas in celebration, and she always drags me along, somehow landing me a date every time. She has done this since I was fifteen, and honestly, Y/n, I can’t take it anymore,” he grimaces. “I don’t want to have another awkward festival experience, so I was hoping you would be able to accompany me this year?”

It sounds easy enough, maybe a little awkward. What you know of Phainon’s home is that he was adopted by a lady in Okhema who, from the stories he’d tell you, seems like a lovely woman, so you’re not entirely opposed to the idea of attending a gala and potentially meeting her.

Besides, this is Phainon. You may prefer to stay away from galas when you can, but he always has a way of making things fun. Where’s the harm?

“Being your date sounds easy enough. All I have to do is attend, right?”

Phainon laughs awkwardly. “Yes, but that’s not all. My mother believes in chivalry above all else, she will do unspeakable things to me if I’m bringing just a friend. So… we have to pretend that we’re in a relationship.”

“What?” 

Suddenly, he’s on his knees and his hands are pressed together. “Please, Y/n, I’m begging you to help me out here. I’ll treat you to a lifetime of meals, just don’t make me suffer through another festival with someone I hardly know!” 

“I-It’s just a festival…”

“After years of suffering through awkward scenarios with people I hardly know, it feels like torture. I just want to bring someone who i will actually enjoy spending time with.” With the way he was pleading, you don’t think there is much room to intervene. It’s an odd request, you’re not even sure if you wholeheartedly believe his reasoning because of the many flaws in his logic.

Regardless, this issue seems serious to him, and it truly seemed as if he needed the help, and you’re willing to cast aside reason for someone reliable like him. If it were anyone else, you would have rejected, but Phainon? Who has always been there for you? You don’t have the heart to say ‘no’. 

“O-Okay, I’ll do it.”

“Really?” 

“Really.”

Suddenly, he brings you into a hug so tight that it feels like your ribs are being pressed together. He’s basically proclaiming a series of ‘thank you’s right in your ear, leaving you with barely any oxygen or brainpower to wonder if you’ve made a grave mistake, or if this will just be another funny story to share with your friends.

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

Pie-non: I’ve arrived at Okhema!

Pie-non: Good to be back

Pie-non: How about you?

Y/n: i’m only heading back this afternoon

Y/n: good to know you made it home safely :)

Pie-non: Hehe 

Pie-non: Safe travels :D

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

“Welcome home.”

Traditionally, it is a phrase meant to be said with warmth, a phrase of love and care that after being away from home so long, you can not help but feel like you’ve finally returned to where you belong, where you’re forever safe from the anguish and hardships of life. It is meant to be a warm greeting, but the words are so icy it creeps up your spine.

In a cruelly familiar way, you feel your muscles tense, concealing a shiver to let it simmer beneath your skin instead, lest you be scolded for improper behaviour.

“I am home,” you say.

“After all those years spent in the Grove of Epiphany, I had assumed you abandoned us.” There is no humour behind your mother’s words, no lightness underneath.

You thought you would have forgotten the cold edge of your mother’s voice. 

You steel yourself. “I have been furthering my studies.”

“At an underwhelming pace, yes, that would be correct. You may go to your room first and put all your belongings away, however, return to the living room within half an hour, your father will have returned by then.”

“Of course.”

“Dismissed.”

Within these walls, everything is constructed perfectly. From the furniture, to where it’s placed, to the floor boards and its distance from the ceiling, everything was made to be precise and perfect, and not an inch out of place. Within these walls, there are clocks everywhere, and they are all set at the exact, same second, ticking at the exact same millisecond so you are reminded to not waste a single tick. Within these walls, goosebumps crawl stubbornly all over your skin, trailing along your forearm, back, and neck, making your hair stand up.

Within these walls, you always feel cold, despite the bright Okhema sunlight that shines through routinely-cleaned window panes.

Within these walls, is your least favourite place in all of Okhema.

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

Pie-non: Are you free today?

Pie-non: Let’s hangout :0

Y/n: sure!

Y/n: i have a few errands to run, but i’ll be done before 1pm

Y/n: is that okay?

Y/n: we can get lunch or something together

Pie-non: More than

Pie-non: Do you need an errand buddy? I’m great entertainment :p

Y/n: it’ll be quite boring though

Pie-non: It’s ok, I like spending time with you! 

Y/n: alright

Y/n: meet me at marmoreal markets at 11am

The list of errands to complete your parents left you seemed longer today, and you scrutinise the additions that definitely were not there yesterday– just thinking about retrieving everything is making your head ache. Additionally, given how expansive Okhema is and how there are businesses all over the streets of the city, this errand trip is going to be exhausting. 

You stand up straighter and exhale a deep breath. It’s nothing unmanageable, no need to feel so frustrated over something so minute.

If anything, you feel bad that Phainon has to endure it with you. 

Your father had returned home yesterday exactly the same as you last saw him, perhaps with more wrinkles on his forehead and less hair on his head, but with the same distaste for the world he’s heralded for decades. 

They dropped you a series of tasks to complete, and you immediately resigned to your fate of being an errand runner. 

Couples, friends, and families pass by as you wait for Phainon. The markets are a notoriously busy and overstimulating space, leaving you to continuously glance left and right for any indication of his arrival. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t keep you waiting for long, appearing with two cups of iced drinks in his hands and that usual, easygoing smile of his.

“Hey, Y/n!” He waves at you, his other hand occupied with a carton holding two drinks. “Sorry if you’ve been waiting long, I got us some drinks to keep us cool!” He hands you one of them.

“What’s this?” You ask, eyeing the drink and the way it was presented. There are plenty of famous cafes around the markets that go viral all the time on the web for their cute aesthetics and unique drink combos that oddly mesh very well together. 

“I got you a pomegranate cream latte!” He stabs his straw into his drink, “you do like pomegranate, right?”

Incredible, it’s like Phainon knew you haven’t had your caffeine fix yet. “Yeah, I do. What did you get?” 

“A fig iced tea, want to try some?” He tilts the cup’s straw to your mouth and you hum at the fruity flavour that explodes on your tongue, nodding in approval of his choice, saying something about how you’ll get that next time. 

Then, you take a sip of your drink and hum in approval at his choice again. “This actually tastes pretty good, I would never have tried this if I saw it, thanks a bunch.”

He makes a sound of satisfaction, pleased with your judgment. “I’m glad, otherwise I would have had to drink it for you.”

“No thanks, we don’t need you to be caffeinated today.”

“Aw, why not? I did promise I’d be an exciting errand buddy today.”

“You don’t need caffeine to be exciting, Phainon.”

He laughs, the corners of his eyes creasing. “I’ll take that as a compliment! So, partner, what kind of date do you have planned for us?” 

You roll your eyes. “Unfortunately, this is going to be a date between me and this list of errands to get through, so let’s see how long you last before you regret tagging along.”

It’s like he takes that as a challenge, following along with every task you complete so obediently that you begin feeling bad for putting him through this, even if he’s not complaining or showing any physical weariness. Instead, he’s making small talk with the vendors you visit, asking about business, their days, what they’re selling. They’re far more receptive to him than you, but you’re certain that’s just part of Phainon’s charm and how effortlessly he can draw people in and keep them there.

Eventually, when you’ve finally completed the last task on the list, you and Phainon settle for a restaurant nearby.  

“Thank you for accompanying me today,” you watch as he pours water into both your glasses.

“No problem! It was fun, we talked to so many cool people like that fabrics owner!” Phainon exclaims. “Who knew that deep colour of red could only be achieved with pomegranate wine?”

“Speaking of which, I didn’t realise you knew so much about tailoring and garments and all that, where’d you learn?”

He waves his hand dismissively, “my mother, actually! Of course, I am nowhere as skilled as her, but after watching her weave for so long, I’ve picked up a few things along the way. I could never actually make anything, though, I’d be stuck threading the string through the needle.”

“Wow, so your mother is a seamstress?”

“Yeah! She actually runs a business in it. I really should know more about it, but fashion has never been my strong suit. She’s always picked out my outfits for me and burned the things she didn’t like.” There’s a twinge on embarrassment on Phainon’s features as he recalls the story and you laugh.

“Did she dress you for today?” 

He crosses his arms. “No! I’m not that aesthetically challenged anymore.” 

“I’m kidding,” you take a sip of your water. “Either way, having you around made the day a little more bearable.”

“Just a little?” 

“Just a little.”

“Are you sure it’s not a whooooole lot more than just a little?”

You roll your eyes. “Whatever.” 

He grins. “By the way, lunch is on me. I do owe you a lifetime of meals.”

“What? No, it’s fine,” you insist, “I thought you were just kidding!”

“I wasn’t, you’re my saviour, really.”

“That’s an exaggeration, come on.”

“I’m paying. That’s final.”

Phainon beats you to the register later, successfully covering your portion of the meal before you can do anything about it, smiling smugly at you when he’s successful.

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

Pie-non: Do you want to come over to mine?

Pie-non: Mum wants to meet you c:

Y/n: omg actually

Y/n: i’d love to! what day were you thinking?

Pie-non: How about Saturday? I’ll come pick you up. 

It dawns on you in Phainon’s car that you actually have to play the role of a loving partner. You knew what you were getting into, but it only hits now that the act has to come alive as you sit in his passenger seat, a box of fruits from Janusopolis in your lap.

When he pulls up at, what you assume has to be, his house, you have to stop and admire for a bit. It’s really nice, and you wonder how on Amphoreus you didn’t know that Phainon might have come from an affluent background. Maybe because the air of arrogance that rich Okheman kids carried around was not present in him- either way, you suddenly feel a lot more nervous for what his foster carer might be like. 

You have had your fair share of unpleasant run-ins with rich people.

He unlocks the front door and calls out a loud “We’re home!”. His voice booms through the expanse of his home and in response, someone exclaims a ‘welcome home’, the voice hypnotising and mature as the sound of heels ricochet down the walls. 

You had an image of what Phainon’s guardian might have been like, but you definitely were not expecting the face of your parents’ number one business rival to turn and greet you.

It’s like the universe is playing a grand prank because you’re certain half the colour has drained from your face, and you’re utterly speechless as Aglaea, the infamous ‘Goldweaver’, gives Phainon a small hug. You’re sure you look like a fool when she turns to greet you. Intimidatingly beautiful and beautifully intimidating, she is every part as terrifying as you were expecting her to be.

The first thing to note is that she is far more beautiful in person, carrying an air of dignity that will take your breath away. The second thing to note is she has an extremely kind smile, and you’re unable to see the villain that your parents have relentlessly painted her out to be.

They say that eyes are the window to the soul, but it seems that Aglaea has boarded hers shut with wooden planks, because you can not sense what she is thinking at all. She regards you incredibly neutral, like you are just another person in the threads of her life, and in a sense, you are. However, you were expecting more scrutiny, more hostility concealed by over-honeyed words, and a piercing gaze that would scan you up and down, considering Phainon just introduced you as his other half. 

You expect her to be like your mother. Instead, she smiles like she has known you her whole life.

“It seems that my boy has met his match,” she approaches you with a dignified air to her, as if all the dust particles in the atmosphere part with each step she takes, never obstructing her perfect appearance. “Y/n, it is an honour to meet you.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you as well, Lady Aglaea.” You tense when you realise you’ve addressed her too properly, feeling a grim jab of embarrassment to your gut. Quickly, you recover. “I brought some gifts for your household to enjoy! These are fruits from Janusopolis.” 

“That is very thoughtful of you, and please, drop the formalities, no need to be so polite.”

You relax your shoulders a little. 

“Phainon has told me some stories about you, you’re from Okhema as well, correct? Will you be here for the Kephale Festival?” 

“Yes, I will be.” 

“Good.” She smiles at you, and the gesture alone feels like a pat on the back, despite the fact that you have done nothing but be present before her. “What is it that you study at the Grove?” 

Some small talk is made, you answer each question she fires your way flawlessly, strategic with the tone and language you choose to respond to her with. 

However, unlike most ‘interrogations’ from recognisable members of society, this one with Aglaea feels less daunting and more like she’s genuinely getting to know you, each question not meant to disarm or test you. Rather, her curiosity stemming from interest and careful consideration of all you say. 

You were not expecting that from the most successful businesswoman in Okhema. Maybe even all of Amphoreus. 

After a few minutes, the conversation flows to a close. “Regrettably, I cannot stay to chat- Phainon, do take good care of Y/n. Y/n, you may tell me if he misbehaves, I’ll spin him back into shape.”

You laugh. “I will. It was lovely meeting you!”

“Make yourself at home, Y/n.”

The door closes behind her with a resounding click, and you feel like a massive weight has been lifted off your shoulders. From all the anecdotes you receive in passing from your parents, Aglaea is hardly as devious as they make her out to be. Frightening? Perhaps, but she is not a spawn of malice and evil. 

Still- a little warning would have been much appreciated.

“Why didn’t you tell me your caretaker was Aglaea?” You ask.

A few days ago, when Phainon said his mother owned a business in garment making and tailoring, you assumed it was on small scale, not an enterprise worthy of toppling over her competitors’. You’re pretty certain she runs a tailoring store for fun, external to the rest of her conglomerate. 

He blinks at you. “Would you have known who she was beforehand?”

“Yes! Your mother is the most successful businesswoman in Okhema, some warning would have been nice!”

“Does it matter? Would that have changed how you perceived her?”

You shut your mouth. 

“To me, she is the woman who I am eternally grateful for, without her, I do not know where I would be. That is the only version of her that matters to me.”

Shame crawls up your spine at the realisation you were accusing Phainon under his own roof.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I got ahead of myself, she seems like an incredible woman.”

“It’s okay,” he nods, an understanding look in his eyes, “would you like any food or water?”

“A glass of water is fine, thank you,” you say quietly and he leads you deeper into the pristine abode of his. You pass by pictures hung up on the wall that you merely glance at, not wanting to pry for too long. Despite how neat Phainon’s house is, it feels lived in. Like a space that is clean, yet welcoming, like the decorations and furniture were chosen for beauty and comfort, not just to show off endless vasts of wealth. 

“You’re fine with pets, right?” Next thing you know, he whistles loudly and you hear several, little claws resounding through the halls, pattering against the marble floor. Eventually, a pack of five or so chimeras round the corner, clearly excited by the call of their owner, who bends down to their height so they can all jump onto his lap. 

They’re all over him, rubbing against him excitedly and jumping around like the exuberant creatures they are. The sight is so cute, it almost makes you coo.

(You are, however, not above sneaking a photo that you will definitely send to Hyacine, Castorice, and Mydei later. The latter is going to laugh his ass off at the sight but you know incredibly well that he would love the pack and let them jump all over him too.)

“Hey guys! I missed you too, yeah, I know, I know, but we have a guest!” Almost as if they can understand him, they immediately stop their assault on Phainon to glance at you instead, five pairs of bright, beady eyes staring right at you. “Everyone, this is Y/n!”

It seems like that opens the floodgates, because they are suddenly jumping all over your legs, hoping to knock you down like they did with Phainon. They howl and whine, quietening down when you scratch their ears, keening at your touch. 

“They really like you!” 

“I think they like everyone.”

“Sure, but they like you the most, look! They’re so happy!” Then, you feel a smooth graze against your ankles, as if something was rubbing against it. When you look down, there’s a blue chimera already gazing up at you with sparkling eyes and it mewls when you make eye contact, tail wagging in excitement. “Especially Bubbles! He’s super fond of you.”

You bend down to pick it up and it sits comfortably in your arms, leaning against your shoulder as you cradle it. “He’s cute.”

“I’m glad you think so!”

“Where did you get all of them?” You ask, staring at the litter that was now playing amongst themselves, tackling, laying down, even stepping on each other. 

“I found them abandoned in a cardboard box in a back alley. I was coming home from school one day when I was 16, then I saw baby Bubbles’ nearby, as if waiting for someone to come by. He led me to the rest of the pack and Aglaea allowed me to keep them, it would be cruel to split them up, they deserve to grow up together.” 

“That’s really kind of you.” You suppose it makes sense for someone like Phainon to be so kindhearted that he couldn’t stand the idea of stranding defenseless animals, especially in a city as bustling and busy as Okhema. They would not have survived long without a home.

Fortunately, neither of you need to think about a scenario where that is reality. 

“Bubbles is a smart cookie,” you murmur and the creature in your arms looks at you as if it knew it was being complimented.

You nuzzle your cheek against Bubbles’ head, and he reciprocates by rubbing his against your chin.

(If you squint, the likeness between Phainon and Bubbles is uncanny, the both of them even wearing the same innocent smile with gentle eyes; ones that make you feel like nothing is wrong with the world.)

When you return home, you call out ‘I’m home!’ and hear nothing but silence in response. Moments later, your mother pops through the hallways and informs you of an email your father has forwarded to you– internal documents that required calculations and he expected them finished within the coming days.

You’re in no position to decline, so you grit your teeth and get to work. 

A few days pass since you last saw Phainon. He’s been texting you consistently about a variety of things, sending photos of his chimeras, the views he sees while on his runs, or other miscellaneous things like the dromas-shaped pancake he got from a food stand.

Meanwhile, you’ve been cooped up in your study, the hours passing by nonstop as you work through the pages of financial information forwarded through. 

Pie-non: What are you up to today?

Y/n: nothing fun

Y/n: just finishing up some reports for my parents

Pie-non: Sounds super gross :(

Y/n: the good news is that i’m almost done and can treat myself soon!!!

Pie-non: Yay!! Pie-non: We should hangout then :0

Y/n: hmm

Y/n: i have the day free on sunday! just need to return by curtain fall for a charity event

Pie-non: Lets meet then! Pie-non: The weather forecast is looking nice, how about a picnic?

Pie-non: We should go near the lake!

Y/n: haha okayy sounds good

Y/n: talk more soon, gotta get back to work. 

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

Your legs are shaking, and no matter how hard you try, they won’t stop. 

The discomfort serves as a sufficient distraction to the disappointed look in your parents eyes as they sit across from you, the low lighting from the living room lamp only highlighting the creases in their forehead and the downturn of their eyebrows. They’re berating you. You have to maintain eye contact as they berate you, forced to watch all the changes in their expression as they vocalise just how disappointed you’ve made them.

From a young age, they have drilled this into you; that you need to look your failures in the eye, that you must maintain their gaze as they ‘tell you how to improve’, but it’s never grown easier over the years. 

Everytime it feels like there is a small child inside the cavern of your chest shaking uncontrollably, its legs are curled to its chest, fighting to preserving what little warmth is left. You feel it trying its best, but you’ve learnt and accepted that one’s ‘best’ is sometimes just not enough, and failure is in the form of a pile of papers smacking the coffee table loudly. 

“Not only that, but you have calculated all of the ratios wrong, our team can not start on the reports otherwise for the quarter,” your father repeatedly jabs the file, to a point where you think it might dent from his actions. He spits “such foolish mistakes.” 

Your mother is no help. She never is against your father’s wrath, instead, she strokes the flames. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I have no excuse,” you murmur, “I’ll get it fixed.”

“By 9 am tomorrow. Do not dream of sleeping until it is done. Dismissed,” your father waves you off and that is your chance of escape. 

With insurmountable amount willpower, you stand and try to conceal the wobble in your legs as you trudge out of the living room and up the stairs to your designated office. 

Sitting down in front of your laptop fills you with dread, your vision is persistently blurry as you open all of the files, and doom is a wet droplet that flows down from your eye to your chin. It’s followed by another, and another, until there are puddles on the mahogany desk below you. 

Crying is a burning feeling you have not felt in years, not since you’ve arrived at the Grove of Epiphany, but this is a dance you will never forget the steps to. Too accustomed to the way your retinas burn, how your nose stings, how it hurts even more to push down the evidence and forcefully collect yourself. 

In Kephale’s name, all you want is to be back in your dorm at the Grove. You wonder what Castorice is doing right now. If things were different, you could be spending the holidays together, sharing drinks or snacks together, laughing. You think about what Hyacine is doing with her family, how they should be preparing for their trip to Okhema soon– you should really text her about it soon. Mydei’s probably back in Castrum Kremnos winning every wrestling competition there is, at least, that’s what he said he was doing when you last asked, showing off the many gold medals he’s won since he’s gone home.

You miss your friends. You hope they’re happy and well and not crying quietly by themselves late at night in front of a fluorescent screen, losing against a set of numbers. 

Your phone buzzes.

Pie-non: [ image attached ]

Pie-non: Bubbles misses you!

It’s a photo of the chimera curled up on Phainon’s lap, and it looks like he’s in the middle of watching a series, having a far more comfortable and cozy night than you. Despite the tears in your eyes fogging up your vision, you laugh at the text, typing back a response in between sniffles and small hiccups.

Y/n: aww :( he’s so cute

Y/n: i really miss bubbles, too

Pie-non: You’re welcome to see him anytime

Pie-non: Sticker

Pie-non: [ image attached ]

Warmth blooms in your chest, a stark contrast to the decrepit sense of loneliness that was settling in your chest mere moments ago. 

Wiping your nose with a tissue, you set your phone down, and turn back to the gruesome folder of spreadsheets your parents have ordered you to look through and fully correct before tomorrow.

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

The weather is nice today. Okheman summers tend to be incredibly dry and hot, with scorching rays that beat you down and dry out your skin if you stand under it for too long. Here, however, sitting under a tree whose foliage filters out most of the sun, leaving patches of light to decorate the ground and your skin, you think this is the peace summer is meant to bring. Especially whilst by the waterside, where the wind carries its coolness and kisses your face with it.

You’ve missed this part of home, and the natural beauty of the Holy City.

There’s a shriek behind you and you turn around to see where the source of the disruption is, but the sight is more wholesome than you anticipated. A little girl being chased by an older brother, both of them looking no older than seven. There’s dirt on their hands, knees and clothes, and their parents chase after them with noisy concern, pulling out handkerchiefs and water bottles like their lives depend on it.

Eventually, the two children stop and listen to the whims of their parents. The father dabs the streaks off his daughter’s face, saying something you can’t hear before pressing a kiss against her forehead. The mother stops and scolds her son for not drinking enough water on such a hot day, leaving him to go run after his sister again with a ruffle of his hair. Your eyes are glued on the couple, how they look proud and content with their children, the warm day like a blessing. 

(In another life, you’ll receive the love you feel indebted to own, but in this one, you’ll get by chasing the approval of people who may never grant it to you, who may never love you like you deserve.)

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting!” A familiar white-haired companion sits down on the picnic mat beside you, an apologetic smile on his boyish features, paired with a bakery box in his hands. 

“It’s alright, I haven’t been here long,” your gaze lingers curiously on what he’s holding. He opens the lid and inside sits a little, charming cake, seemingly the same size as your hand but with three layers of height. “How cute! What’s the occasion?”

“It wouldn't be right to turn up empty-handed, so I picked this up on my way here! Looks good, right?” 

“How thoughtful of you, very picnic-esque. How should we eat it?”

“I just grabbed two forks and thought we could… just go at it.”

Phainon is kind enough to let you have the first bite, watching you struggle to find the right place to take the first stab with a small smile of amusement on his face. Cakes are delicate and the first ‘slice’ should always be handled with care, you reason, and he just chuckles when you successfully extract a piece.

“Cheers,” your forks tap against each other and watch each other’s expression when the dessert melts in your mouth.

A look of delight flashes in his eyes. “That’s really good!” 

“Delicious,” you reach for another bite. “I don’t remember the last time I had a cake from Okhema. They really bake it differently at the Grove.”

“Must have been your birthday or something, right?”

“I haven’t been back here in years,” you murmur, “and I never really celebrated. I think the first time I got my own cake was when Castorice and Hyacine made one for me.”

You don’t know what compelled you to share that tidbit, or why you had to bring the atmosphere down on such a lovely and warm day, but now you’re stuck pretending like that bittersweet fact doesn’t haunt you as much as it does. 

“If that’s the case, then let’s think of this one like a… welcome home cake,” he says. “It’s good to be back, right?”

“Sure.”

The rest of the afternoon is spent talking and slowly chipping away at the dessert. Summer has a particular ability to make life more magical with sunlight flickering through the dense leaves overhead. The two of you are content with watching the water, gazing out into the distance as you chat about a variety of things, the atmosphere comfortable and friendly like always.

“This time of day is perfect for an afternoon nap,” Phainon muses, “I’m feeling quite drowsy.”

“You can take one if you’d like,” you offer.

“It’s alright,” he laughs sheepishly, scratching the back of his head, “I’ll manage, besides, I’m here to spend time with you!”

“You would take naps all the time back at the Grove. I brought a book with me, anyways, I can keep myself entertained.”

He presses his lips together. “A nap does sound really good right now… are you sure it’s fine?”

“Of course.”

After some small adjustments, you find the weight of his head resting on your thighs– something you’ve gotten used to with how fond of afternoon naps he was. He has accompanied you enough that a sacred routine between friends developed; you reading under the waning afternoon sun of the Grove, and him resting with you under the thick shade of the trees that grow there. You have dropped a book on his sleeping face a few too many times, and he has made it even by drooling on your clothes as he rests soundly against you. 

“You were born in Aedes Elysiae, right?” You murmur, watching your fingers that thread through his snow-white hair, one that has gotten long enough for you to curl your fingers around at least three times. “When did you arrive in Okhema?” 

He hums in contemplation, white eyelashes catching the gleam of the sun every time he blinks, fluttering gently. He is resting on his side, giving you a clear view of his side profile.

“I don’t think I was any older than fourteen, nearly fifteen,” he murmurs, “but my hometown was beautiful. The wheat that grew there was so long, I have fond memories of running through it with my friends, and the crops were the best. Something about them was different, fresher, maybe it’s the soil or the way the farmers planted it.”

He continues his spiel excitedly, hands moving animatedly, matching the enthusiasm in his words and tone. 

“That sounds dreamy,” you muse. 

“Right?” Then, there’s a melancholic shift in his futures; a droop of his eyelids, a small downturn of his lips. “I wish there was an Aedes Elysiae to return to, it’s been abandoned since the Black Tide took it all away. My parents, they- they managed to send me to Okhema in the nick of time.”

“Phainon-”

“-it’s okay,” his hands nervously fiddle with the hem of your clothes. “I’m grateful to be where I am now. If it weren’t for a magnificent stroke of luck and Aglaea finding me, I don’t know where I’d be today, she took me under her wing and loved me unconditionally. That’s why I’ll always do what I can to make her happy.” 

Then, he turns his head and cranes his neck to look up at you. 

“If it weren’t for everything that happened, I wouldn’t have gotten to meet you, either.” 

Sincerity shines in his eyes, and your breath gets caught in your throat. Not once in your life have you thought someone would be grateful to have known you.

“Somehow, you still manage to find a way to me, even though I’m the most irrelevant aspect of the story,” you chuckle whilst untangling your fingers from his hair to cradle his face instead, chill palms resting against warm skin. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up bitter memories.”

“It’s fine! Really, I’m fine. If anything, I’m happy you asked, I love my hometown and telling others about it, it means a lot that you were curious in the first place. Phew, all that talking’s got me even more tired now, I think I’m gonna take a nap now.”

You nod, reaching for the book you brought in your bag. “Alright, sleep well, Phainon.”

He shifts around a bit afterwards, finding a comfortable position to rest in, but after a few moments, his breathing evens and he falls still save for the rise and fall of his chest. 

Still, you think about the uncharacteristic glumness in his eyes, how it looks like he was on the verge of tears despite the evenness in his voice. There’s a lot behind Phainon’s story that you’ll never know– after all, they say the kindest souls are the ones who have faced the greatest challenges, and you wonder if he’ll tell you about all of them someday.

For now, you play with his hair and read your book, waiting for him to wake up.

Later that night, you’re sat alone, dressed in an outfit picked by your mother that does not match your style, paired with beautiful gems that weigh down your chest and wrists.

There are people mingling away from where you are, and it is a crowd you must return to, but for now, you need a breather and a moment to recollect yourself.

You’ve talked to too many people tonight, smiled for too long that your cheeks ache now, and you’re still nursing the same drink you’ve had since the start of the night. There is no desire to drink it, the champagne merely for decoration so people do not ask you if you would like another and invite you to drink. 

In your hand, your phone shakes with a notification. 

Pie-non: How’s the charity event going?

Pie-non: I hope you’re not having too much fun without me ;0

Y/n: lol it would be so much better if you were here

Y/n: it’s going fine

Y/n: i can’t wait to go home

You open your camera and send him a photo of your barely-touched champagne glass, followed by a silly selfie. You wish he were here with you, the night would be infinitely more bearable.

Pie-non: You look great!!

Pie-non: I’ll be praying that the time goes by faster

Pie-non: Btw Aglaea gave me tickets to a play and suggested we go together

Pie-non: Would you like to go with me? :p 

Y/n: sounds great, i’m keen

Y/n: tell your mother i say thank you!

Y/n: i need to go back now, ttyl

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

“At the charity ball last night, there were a few offers made by sons of reputable businessmen,” your mother mentions over breakfast the following morning, and you halt your chewing, looking up from the news tablet. 

The idea of being negotiated is revolting, you have to force down the food that is in your mouth as you slowly lose your appetite. 

“Don’t you think it is about time you find a partner? Many of your classmates from high school have, your class president was engaed recently.” Your mother continues, not even glancing up from over the rim of her glasses.

Your thoughts drift over to Phainon. He’s… he’s not exactly your committed partner, but you are playing the part of being one to him, and you’re merely doing him a favour because you’re friends.

Why does calling him that feel like you’re choking over your own words? Why is your heart beginning to rebel, when did it have autonomy to do whatever it wants? Why is it doing flips as you think about yesterday, how he laid on your lap, how he gently played with the hems of your clothes as his voice fondly recalled vulnerable moments of his youth?

“No, I- I’m seeing someone!” You blurt without thinking and she finally looks up at you, an eyebrow raised.

“Is that so? And you did not check to see if this… someone is suitable for your father or I’s standard?”

“He is! He comes from a wealthy background and studies veterinary science at the Grove. I… didn’t want to tell you about it yet because I wanted to make sure he is perfect, you’ve always taught me to bide my time.”

“Oh? Fine, but you need to bring him to us soon for our approval. We would hate for you to be with a hopeless suitor who will merely waste your time.”

“Absolutely. Yours and father’s approval are very meaningful to me.” 

She sighs through her nose. “Very well. Don’t let us down.”

“I won’t, mother.”

The rest of breakfast is silent, leaving you room to dwell with your thoughts. 

You don’t actually like Phainon, do you? Maybe the mirage of dating him has gotten to your head, convinced you to see him in a new light- but nothing has changed since you were just friends. He’s always been kind, made you laugh, invited you to events, bought you your favourite drinks, showed you unconditional support, he’s always been all of these things and more, so why does your heart beat erratically now thinking about it? 

You fall back on your bed, the weight of these thoughts making you toss and turn against the comforter. You think about his kind smile and dig your head further into your sheets, you think about his gentle eyes and scream a little. It feels as if you’re living a scene straight from the romcoms you would watch when you were younger. Maybe… you’ve always liked him?

You’re going insane. 

(Since when were you the type of person to overthink about how someone perceived you? You stand hopelessly in front of your wardrobe, scanning through the pieces, the growing pile of clothes you deem unsightly sat atop your comforter. Titans, all of a sudden, nothing looks good or sits right, one outfit was too revealing, another not revealing enough– you’re going to go crazy!)

Later that evening, you meet Phainon outside the theatre. He’s dressed in a button-up with black slacks, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show off his forearms (and the veins– stop looking so damn hard!). 

He grins widely when he sees you, pushing off the wall to meet you halfway. 

“Hey! I’m so glad you could make it!”

“I’m glad I could make it too, thanks so much for the invite, I’ve heard good things about the drama we’re watching tonight, all the tickets are sold out though, how did Aglaea manage to snag us some?” 

“Oh, you know,” he waves his hands, “friend of a friend, either way, someone couldn’t make it so these tickets are ours. How was the charity event?”

You hug the spare jacket you brought closer to your chest, murmuring “it was fine, honestly, the most fun part of the night was when you texted me.”

“That boring, hm? Well, at least you’re here with me now!”

“That I am. We should probably go inside now and find our seats.”

“Good idea,” then, he jokingly bows and offers an arm to you, like they do in old movies. You giggle before threading your arm through his. “Shall we?”

“We shall.”

The play was great- magnificent even, enthralling during some scenes and humorous in others, the audience clearly reacted well to it when the actors received an outstanding ovation during the bows, but the greatest comedy was your internal conundrum. 

For it was difficult to focus when all you could think about was how his hand was right next to yours, resting on the armrest of his chair. When he leaned in to say something funny or share commentary, your heart skipped a beat every time you caught his gaze, the stage lights reflecting in his aquamarine eyes. It overwhelmed you with an undeniable urge to break free and destroy all boundaries of friendship, a feeling you had to suppress before you did things ‘fake partners’ would regret. 

When you finally left the theatre, he offered to get dessert together before heading home.

As you walked, you were discussing the play together (or what you could remember). However, you were keenly aware of how your hand kept grazing his, fingertips brushing against each other every so often.

To your surprise, he grabs your hand with his and interlaces your fingers. 

“We are supposed to be dating, right?” Phainon scratches the back of his head sheepishly, “I hope you don’t mind.” 

“No… no it’s fine,” you murmur, shaking your head. 

“Hey, actually, that reminds me; you know how to dance, right? It’s expected of the ball’s attendees.”

You blink at him. A ball that requires its attendees know how to dance? Just how formal is this event? “I know the basics. If anything, I’m more surprised that you know how to dance.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know I am quite excellent, I promise I won’t be stepping on your toes.”

“I was messing with you. With how many years you’ve been attending, I expect you to be the best dance partner I could ask for.”

He turns his face away, hand creeping up to scratch his neck. “Aww, now you’re just making me nervous.”

“I’m looking forward to the gala, it’ll be fun.”

“Me too! It’ll be so much better this year with you coming!” 

“Tell me more about the gala.”

He begins what he’s best at: talking your ear off. While you’ve always loved hearing him tell stories, it’s even better now, listening to his anecdotes as he waves a dripping ice cream cone around, your hand still in his.

On Kephale’s light, this man is not good for your heart at all, matter of fact, he’s merciless without even realising it, but you’re uncertain if this will result in a happy ending. 

When all is said and done and the gala is over, the two of you will return to your normal routine as friends and nothing more. You will continue reading under the shade in the Grove and Phainon will be nearby, either resting, studying, or fiddling with a stray basketball he picked up. You will continue going for snack runs together, picking up the requested items of your friends. You will fall back into normalcy with these feelings devouring your insides, heart forever attuned to a boy out of reach.

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

Pie-non: Sooooo Aglaea wants you to come over for lunch one day

Pie-non: Would you be able to?

Y/n: that sounds great, i’d love to

Y/n: when?

Pie-non: How about this Saturday?

Y/n: i’ll mark it down on my calender

Pie-non: Yay!

The second time meeting Aglaea feels less daunting. It’s Phainon who opens the door, grinning widely as he greets you with a hug. There’s specks of flour on his face, along with smears of other ingredients, and only then do you smell the aromatic smell of whatever he is cooking. 

“Come on in! Make yourself at home,” he ushers you in, letting you set your things down before leading you to the dining area. Adjacent to it is an expansive kitchen with windows that welcome in generous amounts of Kephale’s light.

“Y/n, how lovely it is to see you again,” Aglaea’s melodic voice chimes and you stand up straighter, hugging the big bouquet of flowers close to your chest.

“Thank you so much for having me! I’ve been looking forward to today, so I brought some flowers to express my gratitude.”

“That’s very thoughtful, thank you. Just set them down on the kitchen counter.”

You do as your told, eyeing the plates of delicious-looking food. “Would you like my help with anything?”

“If you could set the table, that would be great.”

“Of course!” You take the plates and cutlery that Phainon hands you, setting them in the exact way you’ve been taught growing up, in the order that befit dining. Aglaea sees this and leaves a harmless remark that you’ve been taught well, and you graciously wave off her comment, saying there’s more for you to learn.

Phainon carries all the dishes, setting them down on the table. Then, he turns to you with that same excited smile, beaming.

“I’m so glad you could make it, Y/n!” Radiant. He’s so radiant you think his teeth could work as flashlights in the dark.

Still, your heart skips a beat. “I’m very happy to be here, thank you for inviting me. Also, Phainon, you have something on your face.”

“Oh, where?” He rubs his face but it only worsens it, smearing more flour on his face. 

“It’s fine, I got it.” You grab a napkin from the table and wipe off the excess from his skin, trying your best to be gentle whilst he stands incredibly still, letting you do as you please. “There. All good.”

“Thanks!”

Neither of you are aware of the softness in Aglaea’s expression as she watches. It’s only with a clap of her hands do the two of you break out of the little world you were lost in and you jump away from Phainon like he’s burned you, embarrassed as Aglaea laughs.

“Come on kids, lets sit down now or the food will get cold.”

Lunch goes by easier than expected. You had been prepared for another feast where you would sit with your spine straight and shoulders tensed, echoing rehearsed laughs over dry jokes and unfunny remarks. Instead, your mirage has, once again, been completely disarmed by Aglaea’s questions; she seemed genuinely interested in what you had to say, like your hobbies and passions, or the little anecdotes you’d share when talking about different topics. 

Naturally, she shares stories as well. Phainon asks her if there’s been any interesting business deals, and she responds with a flippant sigh, vaguely detailing a client that’s been driving her up the wall, which both of you have animated reactions to. 

Meanwhile, Phainon keeps coaxing you to try more dishes, especially the ones he made, watching your expression with keen intensity while his mother smiles fondly from across the table, retopping your glass of water whenever it emptied. By the end of lunch, your stomach is full and your heart even more so. 

When Phainon goes to feed the family of chimeras, you’re left alone to talk with Aglaea while washing the dishes. However, the tranquility of the moment is ruined by a buzz of your phone, soured when you realise it’s your father who didn’t even write a message, just sent two files and a link, no doubt thrust upon you to complete. 

“Who is it?” 

You quickly shut off your phone, taming the agitation gnawing at your ribcage. “Excuse me, it was just my father.” 

When Phainon returns to the room, Aglaea suggests something about taking you to the riverside. “You shouldn’t stay cooped up inside on such a lovely day,” she had reasoned and the next thing you know, he’s pulling you out the door like an overexcited chimera, eagerness dripping off him in waves. 

You yell at him to slow down, heart hammering from physical exertion and the feeling of his hand tightly squeezing yours. He apologises with a sheepish smile but does not drop your wrist, guiding you to a carved path covered by thick foliage and the end of it was a clearing that gazed over a vast river. 

It’s beautiful. Fluffy clouds drift by overhead, following the downstream current. Your feet take you along the direction of the current, the rock and sand crunching beneath your footsteps as the waves roll by.

“It’s so peaceful here.”

“I know right?” Phainon rolls his sleeves up and sorts through the pile of rocks underneath your feet, picking up each one and inspecting them carefully, discarding any he deems unsightly. You don’t quite understand what his criteria is, but when he has a handful of sizeable ones, he throws one out.

It skids along once, twice, many more times before finally dropping into the water. 

He looks at you like he’s expecting a congratulations, so you give it to him and he beams. Next thing you know, he’s instructing you on how he did it. 

“You want to angle your body and hit the surface at a lower level, make sure you’re using the flatter side of the rock, then, with a flick of your wrist…” he throws the rock and it skids across the surface level seven- eight- nine times before silently dropping into the water, and you stare blankly at the dissipating ripples.

He made it look so easy.

“Here, try skip a few stones!” 

You try your best to abide to his instructions. Angle the body, get lower with the water level, and flick of the wrist and it… plonks into the water without so much a hop.

“Aw,” you murmur, but instead of berating or ridiculing, Phainon hands you another rock, similar to the one you just threw.

“That’s okay! It’s pretty hard to get on the first try, have another go.” 

Maybe it was the sun, but the stone in your hand felt nicely warm, and you let your gaze linger on him for a moment, waiting for the disappointment to appear in his eyes. Yet, it never comes. All he does is beam at you with a thumbs up for encouragement. 

This time, when you flick your wrist, it skips across the water surface one, two, three, four, five times before halting, and the only evidence that you’ve succeeded are the ripples fading away. The only witness claps, softly cheering.

He’s applauding because you skipped a stone on the surface of a river. 

It’s so silly and simple it makes your heart skip a beat. 

You manage to hit a high score of seven, while Phainon manages to go into the double digits, and you find yourself clapping for him too, occasionally high fiving in celebration.

(This is the sense of belonging you’ve been chasing after your whole life. The love you’ve craved for so long but always thought would be out of reach, yet, these two have somehow proven that caring for someone is not a Herculean task.)

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

If there’s one thing Okhema has taught you, it’s that happiness is fleeting and there will always be those who want to stomp out your light. 

“We didn’t even know you had friends in Okhema. You left all the people you knew behind the second you went to the Grove, disappeared from the face of Amphoreus like some runaway child,” your mother quips, metallic spoon clinking the tea cup she was stirring.

You stiffen. “I thought a change of environment was what I needed.”

She taps the edge of her cup twice, the sound resonating through the room. “If you were more capable, you would have been able to balance both. Unfortunately, not all of us are, you should have been grateful your friends from high school gave you the time of day. They were all such valuable connections to have.” 

You want to defend yourself, tell her about how horrid and small they made you feel, but you suppose she would never understand, not when she treats you the same. Unfortunately, one group is far easier to run away from than the other.

“Do you even have friends at the Grove?” 

“Of course,” you insist, trying to keep your tone levelled. After years of living here, you’ve grown to understand that any display of emotion would be weaponised against you, but it never gets any easier trying to suppress them. Not when the snarky words of your mother are said with the intention of wearing you down.

She raises her teacup to her lips. “Are you sure they even like you?” 

Does she drink poison to stay hydrated? Her toxicity truly knows no bounds. 

“Yes, I’m sure.” 

Your tea finally finishes steeping, and before you can raise it to your lips, your father, who finally decides the conversation is worth entering, chimes up. “I’ve heard some of the people in your grade have started finding success in life, one’s even managed to get a booming startup off the ground.”

“Off the back of his father’s money,” you retaliate. 

“So what? Does that change the fact that he’s operating a successful business and a respectable entrepreneur?”

Rich, you think. Where’s your support, then? They can’t even give you the time of day.

“You finally have a rare break back home, and instead of working, you spend everyday out and about and falling behind. Time is the most valuable resource one can have and you insist on wasting it by going out everyday.”

He smacks his lips together and shakes his head.

“Ridiculous.”

You try to stand up for yourself. “I’m on summer break, I’ve been working hard the last three years to maintain honours with top grades-”

“-We expect you to do better.”

Frustration boils in your chest and clogs up your throat. Defending yourself is never productive in this household, and trying to have the last say only leads to a thundering chest that feels like you’re one breath away from caving in.

As soon as dinner was over and you could leave, you’re out the front door before you can think twice, putting on the most comfortable pair of shoes you can find before darting out. 

You couldn’t stay in that house a minute longer, otherwise your agitation would have boiled over and stained the pristine floors.

The sky overhead bleeds a multitude of warm hues with orange clouds drifting by. The beautiful sight cheers you up minimally, but it’s not effective against the swirling cauldron of emotions sitting in your stomach and the fumes that stick to your throat. You’re so frustrated, you don’t know if you want to scream and kick something or cry.

When will this game end? When will this dance cease? When will this symphony of turmoil finally diminish?

Pleasing them doesn’t change them, rebelling against them just makes things worse, and running away and avoiding them for two years did nothing. 

What did you do to deserve this?

Deep breaths. Inhale… exhale… the breeze of summer infiltrates your senses, and you realise that your feet have taken you to a familiar park. One that, whenever explosive arguments occurred, you would come here to calm your racing mind and turbulent emotions. It has been your routine since young, and after two years of not seeing this natural scape, a bittersweet ache of nostalgia returns. Time may pass but old habits die hard.

“Y/n?” 

You freeze.

Your stinking luck. Why now?

“Phainon!” You choke out, along with an awkward laugh that comes out as a pathetic garble instead. Oh Titans, you’re crying. You didn’t even realise you were crying, the dried-up tear streaks staining your skin an incriminating sign that you immediately hurry to wipe away. 

He can’t see you like this.

Scrambling to stand up, you steady yourself with the trunk of the birch tree you were previously sitting under. You frantically wipe at your cheeks with your shirt, the cotton like steel wool against your skin as you scrub and scrub and scrub, ridding the evidence of your emotional display. 

You can’t even look at him, too ashamed.

There’s a warm pair of hands wrapped around your wrists, and you flinch at his touch, “Y/n… what’s wrong?”

“Nothing! Nothing at all,” the words are a jumbled mess of syllables that get jammed in your throat as you pull yourself away from him, stumbling backwards. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t think you are.” 

“I swear I am.”

“You can tell me if something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong, everything’s fine!”

“It’s clearly not-”

“-It clearly is.”

“Y/n, it’s pretty obvious something’s wrong.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Stop pretending-”

“-Phainon, please.” 

He’s silent for a few beats before conceding pensively. This time, his tone is softer. “Okay, but you know I’d never judge you, right? So if you need someone to talk to, I’m here.”

Unconcealing your face, you still refuse to meet his eyes, gaze glued to his shirt instead. The first thing you notice is that he’s wearing merchandise with the Grove’s logo printed in the centre, along with the words ‘sport and athletics’ underneath. 

“Thank you.” 

“I’m serious. You don’t have to be alone, you believe me right?”

You’re silent for a few beats. “Yes,” you lie.

“Then say it.”

“I…” your swollen eyes flit up to meet his. There’s a steady intensity in his expression that almost makes you cower, so you glance away and find the trees behind him far more bearable. “I believe you.” 

It’s awkwardly silent for a few beats afterwards, neither of you knowing what to say to lighten the mood, but it was him who was dragged into your unfortunate mess, so you squeak a very meek “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”

Phainon blinks. “Why are you apologising? If anything, I should be apologising to you for almost scaring you off.”

“It’s only because you snuck up on me!”

“My bad, my bad,” he scratches the back of his neck.

It falls painfully awkward again, a gust of wind brushing against the back of your legs. You shiver. 

“Are you cold?” 

“No- I’m fine, it was just a chill. What brings you here?”

“I was out on a run, this park is on my normal route.”

“It’s so far from your house!”

He tilts his head, ivory locks swaying with the action. “Is it?”

“Well, I guess this wouldn’t be too hard for you, Mr. Top Athlete.”

“Oh, stop it,” he waves off your compliment. “Would you like to get a bite now that we've bumped into each other? My treat.”

The scalding words of your father echo in your head. “I would but I think my family’s expecting me, I shouldn’t keep them waiting too long, sorry.”

He frowns, dejection glossing over his features. “I understand. When can I see you next?”

“To be honest, my parents were scolding me earlier for going out so much so I might need to stay home for a bit. I’ll text you when I think it’s better.”

“Alright.” 

“Well. Guess I’ll see you later, Phai-”

Without warning, you’re engulfed in a warm embrace, Phainon’s fleece shirt pressed against your chin as you crane your neck to meet his towering height. His arms are wrapped tight around your torso, one wrapped around your shoulder, the other around the back of your lower ribs, pressing you securely against him. His cologne smells like cedarwood and bergamot.

(The setting Okheman sun casts golden rays that illuminate his sky blue eyes gorgeously, but you will never forget the unfamiliarity of how he looked at you, and how even the light did nothing to hide it. He regarded you like something that needed fixing, like you were an antique vase that lay shattered on the floor, like you were his favourite mug, like you were something that took love and intention to create.

Instead of sweeping you aside, he held you close to his chest and cradled you there, determined to piece you back together.

You return his embrace.) 

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

The coming days are mundane. As always, your parents excel at sweeping tension under the rug. Breakfasts are silent, and you’re trying to appease them so you can make it to Phainon’s gala, careful not to stroke their (delicate) tempers. 

You’ve successfully managed to let them know of your plans with Hyacine. Given that she was in Okhema, you didn’t want this chance to slip out of your grasp, so you’re relieved you’ll get to hangout with her for a day or so. 

Other than that, you don’t have much to occupy your time outside of reading, taking occasional walks, and texting your friends, so your mind drifts back to the white-haired man more often than not. 

You’ve been in constant contact, active on both the groupchat with your friends and private chats, but you think back to what he said to you days ago. By the power of unfortunate timing and coincidence, he had caught you at an incredibly sensitive moment– you’re not embarrassed about that anymore, but you can vividly recall the fire in his eyes. How he seemed… angry at your sorrow, like it was unfair that you were feeling upset, like it was his responsibility to fix it. 

‘If you need someone to talk to, I’m here’. 

Would he even want to hear what you have to say? There’s no worth bothering him with problems as mundane as yours… but you can’t say you haven’t been tempted to tell him.

During hours late in the night, when your psyche was tired and rationality worn down after a long day, you were one word away from spilling it all on a late night video call, but the sentence never came out. Instead, they’d crawl right back in your throat and settle uncomfortably in your heart, deciding that someone like him should not need to worry about you. 

What if he is curious, though? He wanted answers, he wanted to console you, wanted you to talk to him, but all you did was jump away when his hands touched yours and refused to speak like some sensitive child.

If you try hard enough, you can feel how hard he squeezed you in that hug, the ghost of his embrace pulling you tight against him. You can remember how he felt in your arms, how the fabric of his shirt felt bunched up in your fists, how grounding it was.

To you, Phainon will always be untouchable, on par with Kephale’s light that beams its warmth on everyone and will always be loved by all. Meanwhile, you’re a puppet tugged along by frayed strings, still trying to discover what it means to be loved and cared for. You are the dust that sits gathered on the windowsill, staring up at the sky outside, yearning for a way out.

Sighing, you savour the sun for a few moments longer. When you cast your gaze downward and see the specks of grey decorating the window frame, you frown, descending to get something to wipe it away with. 

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

Pie-non: The gala is in 13 days from now :0

Pie-non: Aglaea said that she can help you get ready if you’d like!

Y/n: really?? it won’t bother her?

Pie-non: Nope!

Pie-non: Believe or not, she likes this kind of stuff

Y/n: well, if she’s okay with it, then yes please!

Aglaea gently runs her fingers through your undone hair, classical Amphorean music softly humming in the background from an old record player. The open window welcomes in a warm draft, one that hits the bottom of your neck.

You love the outfit she has picked for you. It’s lightweight and hugs your figure at all the right places but isn’t too tight that moving is a struggle. Most importantly, you still feel like yourself and comfortable in your own skin.

She truly is a tailoring expert.

“I take it that you like the clothes I picked for you?” Aglaea asks, and you glance up at the mirror, unaware of how wide you are smiling.

“I love them,” you announce unabashedly, cheeks beginning to hurt. “They’re gorgeous.”

She laughs, the sound gentle and honeyed as she begins brushing through your hair. “So is the wearer.”

Your gaze flickers back to your reflection. “Thank you.”

It’s silent save for accessories jingling as Aglaea decides which ones best suit you, testing a variety of necklaces, bracelets, arm bands, and more hair pieces. The quiet is comfortable, as if you are more than the (fake) partner Phainon has brought home for the holidays, like you are someone worth a reserved seat at her dinner table.

However, when you leave Okhema at the end of summer, you’ll have to shatter your plate and end this make believe. In the midst of all your new-found feelings, when you and Phainon return to the Grove, he will have to find an excuse as to why you may never return to visit her again. You already feel guilty for wasting her time and energy like this, you can’t fathom how disappointed she will be when it’s time to throw it away. 

“Phainon has been looking forward to today for a long time,” she tells you, a warm look in her eyes when your gazes meet. “Before, he’d be grumpy and petulant whenever I had to get him ready, complaining about all the dates I arranged him, but recently he’s been bouncing off the walls with excitement.” 

You giggle. It’s easy to picture a younger Phainon pouting and huffing, sat in the exact chair you’re in now, throwing a tantrum before Aglaea would straighten him into shape, but you can also imagine current-Phainon eagerly counting down the days to an event he used to dread. Maybe you really did him a favour by agreeing to accompany him. After all, going to big galas with a friend was far more enjoyable than going with someone you did not know.

“Of course, he was never ill-mannered to those I chose, he is far too kind for that, but every year I wondered when he’d finally bring someone of his own choosing.”

“Really? But he’s so popular and well-liked.”

“Phainon is very particular about the people he surrounds himself with. When he first told me that he had a date for this year’s Kephale Festival, I was curious who it was that finally caught his eye. Then, I met you and understood why he liked you so much.”

Your heart skips a beat. “Really?”

She nods. “Admittedly, he has told me about you before and shared pictures you took together from the Grove, along with the group of friends you share. So I have heard about you from all the stories he’d share with me.” 

“It’s a really incredible group, we’re all great friends.”

“I’m grateful he has you all.”

Aglaea smiles fondly. “I’m grateful to have him, too.”

A few beats of silence pass. This time, you’re compelled to speak up. You say “my parents are business owners too. They specialise in a similar industry to you.” 

“Yes, I am vaguely familiar with them. To be successful, you have to know your competitors, but I get the sense they’re not very fond of me.”

“They regard everyone who is not in their circle as rivals and therefore, don’t care about maintaining politeness. I apologise if their aloofness has offended you.”

“Nonsense, I am not holding you accountable for the actions of two different people, not when they should be far more mature. It is baffling that the child they have raised has far more decorum than the supposed role models.”

A feeling of satisfaction settles in your stomach when you hear Aglaea’s remarks, and you don’t even want to defend them, giggling behind your hand. “Did you know of my status before you met me?”

“I know everything in Okhema, so naturally, I recognised you the moment Phainon sent me a group photo.”

You glance up at her, her golden eyes focused on your hair. “I assumed you would herald the same distaste for them and by extension me.”

“Darling, there are a few things we should clear up,” she reaches for a bobby pin, body hovering close to your head for a second. “Apathy is a better suited word than distaste. Business has progressed far beyond a game for me, I do what I do to keep my work afloat, not interact in elaborate mind games with my competitors. Has it turned out that way? Perhaps, but unintentionally. I do not harbour ill intention toward people I have never met, not even when I recognised you for the first time.” Finally, she meets your eyes. “All I discerned about you was that you were a treasured companion to Phainon, and for as long as you make him happy, you will always have a place here in my home.”

Kephale’s light cast her in an angelic light, illuminating Aglaea’s silhouette as she pats your shoulder reassuringly. Your stomach churns at her honesty, the adoring way she speaks about Phainon– would your parents speak of you like this? Have they ever regarded you with this much love and light in their eyes?

Gaze flickering away, there is dust gathering on the edges of the windows.

“Besides, when I see you, I see a powerful individual who has yet to step into who you really are, and that is above the fact that you are also the love of Phainon’s life.” 

Her honesty, the kind way she’s smiling at you– you feel horrible for deceiving her. 

“Phainon and I aren’t really together,” you blurt out without thinking, and you’re immediately covering your mouth with your hands, eyes blown wide as you gauge her reaction in the mirror. 

However, she doesn’t seem the least bit surprised. Instead, she laughs, so animatedly that her shoulders shake, her eyes shut as elegant smile lines crease her skin. 

She inhales deeply with a hand on her chest. “As I said earlier, I know everything in Okhema, and I know that you and my boy aren’t actually together.”

“What? Did Phainon tell you?”

“No, but my intuition is imperceptible, darling. Nothing escapes my eyes. While I could tell you two were upholding a fake relationship, I can also tell that you genuinely like him, don’t you?”

“I do,” you admit softly. “I really do.” You declare it louder the second time. “Is it stupid of me to?”

She shakes her head. “While my guess is that he used me as an excuse to ensnare you, I trust that there is a genuine reason behind his actions, but that is a conversation reserved between you and him. It is not my place to comment on it. However, I can offer you this: when the time comes, know that I am in full support of the both of you.”

“Thank you, that- that means a lot.”

“All you do is thank, thank, and thank people when all they do is show you the basic care you deserve,” she says as she clasps a necklace together.

You fall unnaturally still, eyes stinging as tears begin welling up in your eyes. If Aglaea picks up on your change in behaviour, she is kind enough to not comment, instead, she keeps working on your appearance, pinning and brushing and curling.

After a few minutes, she pats your shoulder and tells you she has finished. So you stand and admire the masterpiece she has styled you into, your hair falling down beautifully, accessories clinging together each time you so moved; you feel ethereal.

“He’ll be speechless when he sees you,” Aglaea smiles at you approvingly.

“Thank you,” you whisper. You hope she knows that you’re grateful for more than just the styling. 

“You’re quite welcome, dear. You shouldn’t keep him waiting, Phainon may be patient, but something tells me he’s downstairs, eager to see you.”

True to her prediction, Phainon is already waiting for you by the bottom of the staircase, fixing his traditional Okheman outfit. When he hears the sound of your footsteps, he looks up but his wide smile falters, shrinking into something more shy and bashful. You carefully descend the steps, holding onto the railing with a gentle grip as fabrics sashay and gold bangles sound against each other, indicating your arrival.

Your date is uncharacteristically quiet, eyes wide and unblinking as they follow your every movement, unable to glance away, even when you come to a stop before him. You anxiously wait for a reaction from the usually-expressive man.

“What do you think?”

He snaps out of his reverie. “I– uh, you- you look incredible.” 

“Thank you. It’s all thanks to Aglaea.”

“Not all, I’d argue,” he wipes his hands on his pants before extending one. “Let me help you down.” 

It felt nice to have his warm palm in yours; how he barely put any pressure on your fingers as his gaze was stuck to the stairs, ensuring you wouldn’t misstep. 

When you reach the bottom, you give him a once-over, keeping your admiration lowkey and refraining from ogling at his biceps. “You look good, Phainon.” 

“I’m glad you think so, I have something to prove tonight.”

“What are you proving?”

“That I’m worth standing by your side.”

Your heart, it’s doing that uncomfortable thing again. You have no idea what to say in response as your face heats up uncontrollably, heat creeping up your neck.

Thankfully, Aglaea saves the day, her heels clacking as she descends the stairs. “Let’s head out now, we’re already running a little behind.”

“Yes, Aglaea.”

A small tug on your hand reminds you that Phainon has yet to let go, and he beams with satisfaction when your attention returns to him. Aglaea comes to a stop beside you and you feel heat creep up your neck at the knowing look she gives you. 

“Was he speechless?” She asks.

“He couldn’t speak for a minute,” you shyly confess and Phainon splutters in protest, causing his mother to laugh, an affectionate smile tugging at her lips when she looks at her son.

Her hands reach over to fix a small part of his outfit. “We were simply teasing. Let’s leave now, the car should be waiting outside.”

The ride to the gala is longer than usual due to closed off roads, but sometimes, you could catch a glimpse of people celebrating. Phainon would point out scenes he found funny or entertaining, delighted by all of the stands with dromas merch, vaguely mentioning how ‘Prof Nax would really like them’. He points to the families who have dressed up, circles of people dancing, and the food stands that he’d like to try sometime soon.

Eventually, the detour ends and you arrive at the steps of the gala. After driving in through the gates, you admire the architecture and construction of the venue. It’s exterior and interior were all thoroughly decorated, and someone guides you through the hallways to arrive at the correct room. 

Before Aglaea can be whisked away by a crowd, she mouths ‘go have fun’ to the both of you. 

“You seem excited, Phainon,” you face him.

“It’s cause I get to spend time with you!”

“Why? We spend a lot of time together regardless.”

He tilts his head. “I always enjoy spending time with you, do I need another reason to be excited about it? Do you want to get food first?” 

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

“Maybe, so please?” he pleads with his eyes. 

“Fine.” 

You’re glued to Phainon’s side for the rest of the night. Occasionally people come up to talk to him, greeting him with a big hug and asking how life has been. Then, their curious gaze would drift over to you, wondering who the ‘lucky’ date is.

He’d introduce you enthusiastically, telling you names of people you don’t remember as soon as they turn around and leave. 

Uncharacteristically, it seems like Phainon does not have a lot to say for once as you’re the one to do most of the small talk, asking the partygoers about themselves and showing interest in everything they say. He, on the other hand, is practically too eager to see everyone leave before turning to you with a big, innocent smile, his arm tugging you even closer to his side. 

Then, when it’s the two of you again, he’ll talk your ear off once more. 

“Are you enjoying yourself so far?” Phainon asks.

“Of course, this has probably been the most fun I’ve had at an event,” you tell him. “Everyone we’ve met seems pretty nice so far, and the food’s good! Are you having a good time?” 

He nods enthusiastically, taking a big mouthful of a fig cake dessert. You use your napkin to wipe the crumbs away from the corners of his lips. 

“I’m incredibly grateful for you and Aglaea. This is my first Kephale Festival in a while, and it’s been really enjoyable.”

“You don’t know how happy it makes me to hear that, and it makes me infinitely more happy seeing you get along with my mum. You’re my two favourite people, it means a lot to me.” 

When the night is halfway through, there’s a sudden announcement through the loudspeakers, calling for the crowd to prepare the floor for the partner dances. You raise your eyebrow, it really was true, what kind of events still have formal dances these days?

“You weren’t lying,” you murmur to him.

“Can’t say I didn’t try to prepare you.”

“As long as you don’t step on my toes.”

“Oh come on, I’m trustworthy enough, aren’t I? I promised you I wouldn’t.”

You find a space adequate enough, coming to a stop as Phainon grabs your hand, raising it to shoulder level to prepare. Then, the music kicks in, a lively three-four piece being played by the live entertainment. 

Shaking the nervousness out of your system, he sets the rhythm and you easily follow along. Historically, special dances with their own significance were made in Kephale’s honour, and almost every Okheman learns it either in school or by watching people on the street given how important it is to the Holy City. 

It is said that partner dances are important because Kephale is capable of holding the world on his shoulders alone, so one should rejoice in his benevolent sacrifice and celebrate the gift he gave with another. Furthermore, the steps of the dance follow a circle, as if replicating the world on his shoulders and honouring him.

Mentally, you thank Kephale for his sacrifice, because you get to see Phainon’s joyfully handsome expression as you dance around, following each other’s steps perfectly. He even twirls you around while you move, causing you to throw your head back and laugh, the fabrics you wear twisting and dancing with you. 

You want this moment to last forever. You want to engrain the excited thrum of your heart and the bliss that travels through every vein in your body into memory. You want to be in this moment, under the lights of the dance floor, with him, forever.

He looks at you like you’re something marvellous, turquoise eyes never straying from your face, hand holding yours tightly so you don’t hop too far away from him.

Then, the band builds up to a crescendo, and the dance ends with a final pose. Your chests heave and stray strands of hair stick to sweaty skin, but neither you nor Phainon can think about the fatigue in your muscles. 

People scurry off the floor as new couples take their places. So, you curtsy with a dip of your head, and he bows in return.

“I have somewhere to show you.” He whispers. 

“Let’s go.” 

You find yourself in this familiar situation once again: your hand encased by Phainon’s as he leads you along, this contact an unspoken safety net as you walk through hallways, up staircases, until eventually, you reach a door.

The isolation of this area is not lost on you, there is not another soul in the nearby vicinity as all of them should be downstairs, dancing. You can faintly hear the live band from where you stand. “Are we allowed to be here?” 

He shrugs, “we’ll find out if we get caught.”

“Phainon!” 

“I’ve been here every year so far and no one’s caught me. Just trust me, okay? I’ll cover for you if anything bad happens.”

You look into his eyes that swim with sincerity and brace for the dive. “Fine.” 

He pushes open the door and you gasp, hand covering your mouth. This balcony overlooks the horizon of the Holy City, providing a perfect view of all the festivities occurring beneath. The light of carnival games, the illumination of flower garlands, a ferris wheel that sits in the distance, it looks so alive and vibrant; a warm reminder of all the life and happiness and commemorations that occur in Okhema, something you have taken for granted over the years.

You step out first, stopping just before the tall, stone railings and gazing out at every speck of light you can see, as the wind gently weaves through your hair. It’s so pretty, you can’t tear your eyes away. 

A heavy weight drapes on your back and arms wrap around your waist, bringing you into a warm embrace that you recognise to be Phainon’s. You lean back against him, holding his hands with yours as he rests his chin on the juncture of your shoulder.

You pray he can’t feel the way your heart hammers in your chest, so you fake nonchalance as you gaze out at the horizon instead, content to simply stand and admire… until you feel a pair of eyes staring at the side of your face. 

So, you turn to look at him and almost flinch at how your noses brush. He doesn’t move away.

“Hey, you,” you whisper. 

He smiles, the corners of his eyes creasing. “Hi.”

“It’s so… breathtaking,” you look back at the view and ignore the way his grasp tightens around you. “This is a new perspective I’ve never seen of the Kephale Festival.” 

“Then, I’m honoured to be the one to show it to you.”

You feel his chin retract from your shoulder, but his hand then snakes up, obstructing your view of the city as you feel cool fingers on your cheek, gently guiding your face to look at him. “Phainon, what-” 

“-You’re beautiful,” he interrupts, breath fanning against your lips. “I… I don’t think I’ve told you enough.”

“That’s unnecessary.”

“It’s not, I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you all damn night” his fingers lightly tremble against your face, but his gaze is resolute and firm, never straying from yours. The intensity alone compels you to maintain it, to see where this moment will lead, and if the buildup of anticipation in your gut is correct. 

His gaze flickers to your lips and your chest crumbles. What you want is so close, literally breathing down your face, yet he is still so unreachable because you ache to close the gap but fear the unknown of the other side. 

“You’re unreal,” he whispers as his face slowly inches towards yours. Your hammering heart impatiently beats against your ribcage, aching to feel the–

Boom!

You jump away from Phainon in surprise, shocked by interruption, only for you to sigh in relief when you realise it was a firework that is now fizzling out. Then, because you can never just set one off, a barrage of them follow, lighting up the night sky with a series of colours and patterns. One explodes in the shape of Kephale bearing the world, another in the shape of a chimera head– and oh, a purple dromas firework!

Throughout the display, your partner is uncharacteristically silent, his commentary minimal as you point out fun ones.

After a few minutes, it was finally over, and silence settles over you like a heavy blanket. You’re still held tightly in Phainon’s arms, but his lacking eagerness does not sit right, a sense of anxiety creeping in as you think of something to snap him out of this displeased gaze.

“Is something wrong, Phainon?” 

He blinks to look back at you, subtle frustration softening into a gentler expression. “Everything’s fine!”

“Really?” 

“Really.”

You scramble through your brain in search of something appropriate to say. What would he even want to hear? 

Kephale, You can’t even think straight, not with the way he’s holding you so… possessively, so close to him that it makes your stomach flip helplessly. This, paired with the gentle way he held your cheek, and the sweet words he said to you- you need ten business days to process it all.

But tonight seems to be the day of badly timed interruptions, because there’s a small ding notification from your phone. Fishing it out, the reminder ‘be home before parents get mad!’ is written very clearly on your screen. 

Sighing, you turn it off.

“Do you have a curfew?” Phainon asks, resting the side of his head against yours.

“It’s not necessarily a curfew. It’s just the latest I can get home without triggering my parents. My dad’s a gentle sleeper so he wakes up at any kind of sound I make, especially on nights where he has work the following day.”

He frowns, then his hands grip you even harder, fingers digging into your flesh. Not enough to make you uncomfortable, but enough to dent your skin. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask, and I’m sorry if this makes you uncomfortable but… do you… have a good relationship with your parents?” You freeze in his arms, visibly tense. He’s looking at you- no, analysing you for any kind of changes in your expression that will say what words can’t.

But silence is already a powerful answer and suddenly, your vision of the nightline grows blurry, the lights stretching out into indiscernible lines. Your breathing grows more laboured and the pain that’s accumulated from the last few days come crashing down on you. 

The disappointed look in your father’s eyes, the complacency of your mother who really could not care twice about you, the love you’ve been begging for, the acceptance you may never receive- 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry!” He frantically dabs at the tears gathering at the corner of your left eye, trying to catch them with his fingers. Then, he begins fanning your face. “Happy thoughts, happy thoughts! I wouldn’t have asked if I knew it’d make you this upset!”

You erupt into a fit of giggles and he halts, gauging your reaction once again. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes. “I… I think I’m okay to answer your question, as long as you genuinely want to know.”

“Of course, but I’m not forcing an answer out of you.”

You inhale deeply. “My relationship with my parents aren’t the best, it hasn’t been since I was young. They’ve always wanted me to be the best version possible, but it feels as if they don’t… view me as their own child. If anything, our relationship is more transactional; someone they can use to further their position in society,” you tighten your grip on Phainon’s wrist. “If I make any mistakes, they’ll eat my head off because everything that goes wrong is my fault even though they never listen to me. If I don’t fit their own personal image of perfection, then I’m a disappointment and a charity case, they hate that I’m at the Grove, they hate that I haven’t graduated early and started a business, gotten married– they hate that my classmates from high school are… better. They hate raising me without benefits.”

The words are tumbling out freely now and Phainon doesn’t interrupt, giving you the space to be completely honest about these feelings that have been bottled for too long.

“You must wonder why this is my first year returning to Okhema ever since the Grove, right? I don’t want to be here because this city is just a reminder that I will never have a proper home. That I won’t be loved like I am by our friends, or the people I’ve met outside the Holy City. This place brings painful memories of youth, of never being good enough, of keeping my mouth shut and going along with everything my parents wanted because I could handle any challenge as long as it made them happy. I still can- I still just want them to be proud of me.” Your chest shudders with the weight of your confession. “Yes, they’ve given me so many opportunities I am grateful for, and I’m… I wouldn’t be as accomplished as I am without them.” 

You crane your neck to look back at him. He’s beautiful, even when your eyesight is all blurry. 

“I want to be loved unconditionally.”

It’s quiet for a few moments, your words marinating as silence settles like the fizzle after a sparkler diminishes, after a fire has crackled its last ember, like the last trails of smoke disappearing from a freshly snuffed candle. 

Unexpectedly, Phainon turns you around in his arms and pulls you into a hug, one strong arm wrapping around your shoulder, the other around your waist.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to, this is enough. You return the hug, wrapping your arms around his waist, finally exhaling all of the frustrations you’ve been holding to yourself for years.

“Thank you for listening,” you huff, taking a step out of his embrace.

His expression is achingly soft. “Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me.”

You leave the balcony after a while, deciding it was for the better before security discovered and escorted you out. Going back inside wasn’t appealing enough, so you both take a quick detour to check out one of the markets you passed by on the drive, perhaps get some food after a long night.

Eventually, when the moon is high in the sky and the number of attendees at the festival is finally dwindling, Phainon calls for a driver to send you home together. When you arrive at the gates to your home, he helps you out of the car. 

“Wait–” Phainon looks at you as if he has something to say, but you see in real time the way he shuts down his thoughts and closes his mouth. Instead, he reaches for your hand and holds it gently, like a delicate flower he plucked from a garden bed.

He leans down to press his lips against your knuckles.

“Thank you for accompanying me tonight,” when he looks up at you, there is nothing short of earnest candidness gleaming in his eyes as his thumb rubs the back of your hand. The faint glow from the full moon illuminates his features, makes him look younger despite his already-lively appearance, and you take a good look at the man who has shaken your world. It’s unfair that he is breathtaking in the moonlight, too. 

“Thank you for the night,” you whisper back.

“Sleep well, Y/n.”

“You too, Phainon.”

His hand lingers on yours a little longer before finally dropping it. You wave his car off before retiring for the night, fatigue clinging to your bones like honey, eager to pull you under. 

As you undress and peel back all the accessories on your body, you think about the day, about the tenderness Phainon showed you all night, how his hand felt on the side of your face, how he twirled you around, the conversation you had with Aglaea how she said you were the love of Phainon’s life–

Your hands pause. 

What?

· · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

The mystique of the night is over as soon as morning arrives, because your parents are already waiting for you. This time, however, the atmosphere feels thick and heavy with tension and you eye them cautiously before sitting down on the couch opposite them, trying to prepare for what they might weaponise against you.

There’s a tablet in your mother’s thin hands and she drops it in front of you as soon as you’re seated.

It’s a photo taken of you and Phainon from last night, dancing, obviously meant to be taken from an angle where neither of you would notice. Both of you look terribly happy, your hands interconnected as he spun you around. Interesting, you don’t remembering seeing anyone  from your parent’s circle of friends last night, but news and gossip travel fast, there is no point wondering who the culprit is. 

“When you said you were attending a gala with someone, did you hide it purposefully from us that it would be with the Goldweaver’s adopted son?” Your mother begins, her sharp eyes boring into you as she spits Aglaea’s business name like it was poison.

You glance up at her, tucking the tablet under your arms, already preempting where this conversation will go. Except, unlike other times, there’s a fiery determination to fight back, to not let their words break and infiltrate your walls and destroy you from the inside out. This time, there’s something to prove, people to defend. 

“No. I didn’t think it was important to mention.”

“Did you know that he was her child?”

“Yes. Not at first, but I learnt over time.”

“And you met her?”

“I’ve ate with her, she has welcomed me at her table, she is the one who dressed me for the gala.” 

Your mum brings a hand over her chest. “No wonder why you looked so horrid.”

You narrow your eyes. “And yet, it received more compliments than any of the pieces you have dressed me in.”

Your father points an accusatory finger in your face. “Watch your tongue.”

“Watch yours.”

“What is wrong with you? That wretched woman is our rival, the one who has sabotaged our business for multiple quarters, have you no shame?”

“Yes, I’m sure she did it purposefully when in actuality, she simply played her cards better.”

There is steam coming out of your father’s ears. “You insolent, ungrateful brat! After everything we have built for you, you whore around behind our backs.”

“Not just with any vermin, but the Goldweaver’s son, have you no shame?” Your mother’s unempathetic voice grows pitchy; her characteristic nonchalant tone displaying a sound of disbelief that you’ve never heard before. 

“His name is Phainon, and you will address him correctly.” 

Your mother’s eyebrows raise slightly whilst your father’s head seems seconds away from popping off his shoulders. “Pardon?”

“He is not a vermin, nor undeserving of your respect, call him by his name.”

He laughs, and it sounds more like a guffaw, or maybe that’s how he laughs because you have never heard it before. It’s foreign, and atrocious, and like nails on chalkboard and you wish for your ears to bleed before you have to listen to it again. 

“The boy has taught you how to talk back to us! You’re losing it! Our child is losing it! After all of these years of raising you, giving you the best opportunities we could, our child is losing it! Dear Kephale, let this be a mere prank!”

You sigh at the tantrum your father is throwing, pushing yourself up to your feet as you begin to walk out of the room. 

The voice of your mother stops you in your tracks. “Y/n, was Phainon the boy you were telling me about? The one you were waiting before your father and I could approve?”

“...Yes,” you lie.

“You had said our approval is important to you, what changed?”

You frown. “I realised I don’t deserve to be chasing your validation for the rest of my life.” 

“If you walk out of that door, say goodbye to us forever, don’t even think about turning around,” your father spits, and you ignore the way your mother slaps his shoulder, as if reprimanding him; a sight you have never witnessed in your life. 

“All the times you didn’t show up, all my achievements that gather dust in a forgotten box below the stairs, I can not lose people who were never there in the first place.”

You leave after that, closing the door to end the only conversation where you had the last word. 

Phone, phone, where’s your phone? Titans- your hands are shaking, they’re shaking so much, calm yourself, breathe, stop the jitters, you can’t find Phainon’s contact like this, this is unbearable, no, please, stop shaking, pull yourself together.

By some miracle your finger presses the ‘call’ button successfully. It only rings two times, but it feels unimaginably long before you hear Phainon’s voice on the other side.

“Hello?”

You exhale a breath of relief. “Phainon, are you free?”

“Of course, are you okay?”

“Please, just meet me at Marmoreal Park.”

“Y/n,” he demands, and you press your phone closer to your ear. “Breathe, you’re safe, okay?”

His voice gently talks you through your panic, six, five, four, three, two, one. Your vision stops creeping in on the edges, you can feel the shake in your hands cease, rationality slowly seeps back in. You just need to get to Marmoreal Park. Phainon’s insistent on staying on the line until you arrive, even if it’s spent in silence as you sit powerless at the back of a taxi, trying to avoid thinking about what just happened like your life depended on it. 

You… you just defied your parents for the first time in your life. Finally severed the reliance you had on appeasing them, all because they slandered Phainon, the friend you’ve relied on like a rock since you arrived at the Grove. The person who always makes you feel wanted in every scenario, who will always save you a seat at every table, who is willing to stay on the line just because you called him in a frenzy, and won’t put it down until he knows you’re safe.

The person you love, and will inevitably lose because he doesn’t feel the same.

Was it worth the hellfire you ignited?

It’s all a mess, your head hurts, and worst of all, you’ve arrived at Marmoreal Park. You pay your driver the fee and leave, nerves running rampant as you hear Phainon’s voice come through your phone. 

He’s here and waiting for you, but you see him and start running without thinking. 

“Phainon!” You yell and he turns around, eyes widening when he sees you but he opens his arms. You barrel straight into them, needing nothing more than to ground yourself against something physical, to feel the presence of another because you think you just lost everything.

“Y/n…” his hand rubs circles on your lower back. “What happened?”

After a deep inhale, you take a step away and glance away to admire the blooms in the park. There were Crape Myrtles all around the perimeter, the tree’s special pink blossoms beautifully decorating the space, even littered all over the grass. 

“I… I had an argument with my parents.”

His gaze darkens, eyebrows furrowing. “What?”

“This might be my last one, though,” you murmur. “I… I think that was the last straw. It’s fine. I’ll survive.”

“What happened?”

“I-It started because of you,” you notice him tense in the corner of your eye. “Someone saw us last night and took a photo for my parents. They didn’t like that I was with you because Aglaea, they despise her, refuse to be associated with her in any way, and that includes having their child be friends with her son.”

“Y/n…”

“They were slandering you, Phai, saying some incredibly disrespectful stuff and I couldn’t stand it.” You sigh. 

“You didn’t have to,” he murmurs, “it’s fine if they hate me, I’m not worth this fight.”

“I would have done the same for any of my friends. Castorice, Mydei, Hyacine, wouldn’t you do the same for me?”

“I would.” There’s no hesitation in his voice. 

Suddenly, you feel a droplet land. Is the weather was against you today as well? Really? When the weather’s been exceptionally clear for the last three weeks? What is this soap-opera level of pathetic fallacy? There’s another drop, and another, until they come bucketing down, beginning to soak through your shirt.

Using a hand to shield your eyes, Phainon grabs your other one and leads you to a nearby gazebo. Thankfully, the park was reasonably vacant for a weekday morning, so you two were the only one taking shelter. Maybe everyone else but you knew about the incoming summer downpour.

It all feels so ironic. A chill passes up your spine as you listen to the percussion of raindrops hitting the brick roof of the pavilion, watch the torrential downpour grow with no end in sight. 

“So… what now?” He asks. “Where do you have to go now?”

You shrug. “I’ll figure that out after this shower passes. Realistically, they can’t be mad at me forever, but now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t say I regret it. It felt good to stand up for myself at least once, and even better to have the last word.” You laugh quietly, shoulders shaking as a decrepit sense of satisfaction creeps up on you. “If anything, I think it’s taught me that I should speak my mind more often.”

“Does that mean you have more left to say?” 

You huff. “Is that a bad thing?” 

“No. Not at all. In fact, I think you should get it all out.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

“Even if it may be for the worse?”

“The worst’s already happened, what else could go wrong?” 

“Fine.” You turn to face him square-on, steading yourself. “Phainon, of Aedes Elysiae, I like you. There, now I’ve really fucked everything up- mmhg!” 

The words are stolen from your mouth by a pair of lips sealing against yours. Your squeal of surprise is muffled, devoured by him as big hands cradle your cheeks, tangling in the tresses of your hair. 

Warm. So warm, despite how drenched he is, Phainon feels so warm. His hands are warm, his body pressing up against yours is warm, his lips that are moulding with yours are so warm. Adoration spreads in your body, as if he’s injecting it like the oxygen you need to breathe, letting it trickle like warm, sticky honey that will refuse to leave as it coats your bones.

He’s pulling away and taking the warmth with him too soon. You miss it. You miss it more than you thought you could, which is ironic, because Phainon is right in front of you.

“I’ve waited too long to hear you say that,” he whispers, stealing shorter kisses from your lips by squeezing your cheeks together. “You’ve made me the happiest man alive,” kiss, “I’ll be the best boyfriend ever,” kiss, “I am so happy right now, I could take down an army of Titankin.”

“Wait- wait, let’s talk about this!” You intercept his lips before he could get anymore carried away. “You like me?”

“Holy Kephale, I’ve loved you since I first laid my eyes on you, let me have this moment,” he pulls you in again, bending his neck to meet you halfway. This time, you melt into his touch, letting him lead as he moves his lips against yours. 

Faintly, Aglaea’s words ring in your mind: ‘The love of Phainon’s life’... ‘genuine intentions’. You unwillingly smile against his lips, and he takes that as a sign to part but not without a lick against your nose.

“What… what was that?” You stammer. 

“Nose kiss.” 

“That wasn’t a kiss, weirdo,” you wipe the wetness off as he smiles affectionately at you, not at all apologetic or regretful. It makes your heart flip. 

“Your weirdo.”

“It’s too early to pull out that corny line. Plus, we have a lot to talk about: what do you mean you’ve liked me since you first saw me? I… I thought you didn’t like me.”

If it were possible, question marks would have materialised on top of Phainon’s white hair. “I don’t think I could have made it any more obvious. I tried kissing you last night and you thought I didn’t like you?”

“It- it could have been friendly?”

“If you kiss all of your friends then I’m gonna go wrestle Mydei and tear his face off.”

“Phainon!”

“Just kidding!” 

You narrow your eyes at him before sighing, leaning against his shoulder. You stay like this for a while, neither of you speaking as the downpour continues, encasing you in your own little bubble.

“And I thought this trip home would be the same as always, a torturous three months that I’d have to endure by a hanging thread,” you muse, scoffing at the unexpected turn this holiday has taken. “This city is the furthest thing from beautiful, or eternal, or holy, but you have shown me that maybe… there are many things to love about it,” you glance up at him, and he’s already looking at you. “Maybe, it was all worth it in the end, the grass is warmer on your side.” 

The weather clears not too long afterwards.

 · · ─ · ☼ · ─ · ·

“This photo of us is so cute!” Hyacine exclaims, scrolling through her photo album as you and Castorice peer over her shoulder. “I think I want to post this one, thoughts?”

“I like this one a lot, you look so pretty,” Castorice comments. “I’m jealous, I wish I had gone to Okhema as well now, it would have been so incredible exploring the city with you.”

“Hyacine and I had a blast, but at least your sister came to visit, that must have been good,” you try your best to console her. 

Your pink-haired friend pipes up with an idea: “we should definitely plan out a trip sometime soon, that would be so fun!”

They both look to you. “Well, I probably will be going home now more often,” you admit sheepishly, and await their reactions.

Before Phainon, Castorice and Hyacine were the only ones with a general understanding of your home life as you would vaguely talk about it with them during late nights spent in each other’s dorms. They knew surface-level information; that you hated going home because of strict parents, so their shock was reasonable.

“What!” Hyacine’s eyes widen and Castorice’s hand comes to her mouth. 

“You told me you had to be on your best behaviour for a week so your mum could agree to hang out with me, what changed?” 

You barely get a word out before the reason himself comes behind you and unceremoniously drapes himself over your shoulders. The two girls gasp loudly, the second shock of the day arriving in the form of a clingy boyfriend who is loudly proclaiming that he ‘missed youuu’ while wrapping you in a hug so tight, you think he’s squeezing the air out of you.

“I mean, we both had a hunch based on the pictures you’d send in the groupchat, but… Y/n!” Exclaims Hyacine as Phainon presses two very loud and dramatised kisses against your hairline.

“Phai, please,” you feel heat creeping up your neck at his bold displays of affection. While you don’t necessarily hate it and actually quite like his attention, all of your friends were staring, and they didn’t need to watch you receiving it.

He gently tilts your chin so you look up at him, white hair falling down and tickling your forehead. “Hi angel,” he greets like nothing is wrong before rounding the bench to sit down on the opposite side, beside Mydei, who is very unbothered, expression as neutral as ever as he eats a protein bar.

Castorice speaks up. “Y/n, why didn’t you tell us earlier?” 

“There wasn’t a good enough time…” 

“Anytime is a good time!” Hyacine squeals, pigtails bouncing. “You can tell us anything, especially something as important as this!”

“I know, I know, I promise I was going to, but there-” you try to explain before your boyfriend interrupts you.

“-tell you what?” He asks innocently. “What’s up?” 

“That you and Y/n were dating,” the purple-haired explains calmly.

“What!” Phainon’s gasp is probably louder than both Castorice and Hyacine’s combined as a look of pure shock and betrayal sets on his expression, “why didn’t you tell them?”

You wave your hands defensively, trying to fight a losing battle. “I was going to, I swear, but there was just never a good time, and I’m shy and hate talking about myself for too long and-”

“-I’ve told Mydei three times by now!”

The man in question agrees. “He has. In excruciating detail.”

“Guys!” You whine, “I’m sorry!”

“Wait,” Phainon visibly perks up, like a dog who was just thrown his favorite treat. “If you haven’t told them, then can I tell them?” 

“I don’t trust your commentary!” 

“What? My commentary is a flawless retelling, you don’t trust your own boyfriend?”

“Let me tell them first, okay?”

He deflates. “Okay.” 

After a nice lunch with your friends, all of you catching up and chatting about what you did in the holidays, you and Phainon find yourselves alone once again, sat under the shade of a magnolia tree. He is, as always, laying on your lap, trying to find a comfortable spot for his ‘optimal time of the day’ nap, happily wrapping his arms around your legs and manhandling them as he pleases, while you’re subject to his whims.

“Happy?” You ask when he finally finds a favourable position, which happens to be his head on your thighs while his arms are wrapped around your stomach.

With the way he hums, you’re certain he’s quite content. So, you thread your fingers through his hair and begin playing with the strands; a habit you have after he told you that it helped him fall asleep faster.

As he dozes off, you take the time to think about everything that transpired over summer.

As soon as your feelings for each other were confirmed, Phainon practically dragged you home to tell Aglaea, who was certainly delighted with the new status of your relationship. She was hardly surprised, though, giving you an ‘I told you so’ look before welcoming you as a new member of the family. The hug felt so nice and warm, it was your second best memory from that day.

It is still complicated back home. Your mother has grown more amicable with the idea over time, so much so that she has suggested the idea of bringing Phainon over, but your father is stubborn and refusing to relent. He has always been too preoccupied with work for you to care, though. As long as you did what he was told, he never got in your way. 

As a magnolia blossom falls from the tree and lands perfectly in his snow-white hair, you giggle at the placement, threading it to sit behind his ear as he sleeps peacefully. 

© EARTHTOOZ 2025, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[lynostalgi]

⊹₊⟡⋆ gravity hurts (you made it so sweet) 🤍 caleb 以昼.𖥔 ݁ ˖

⋆˙⟡pairing: caleb x nonmc! reader

⋆˙⟡word count: 17.3k (i wrote a book lol)

⋆˙⟡summary: the three of you have been the best of friends ever since you remembered, and although your love for Caleb wasn’t exactly the friendly kind, you were more than happy to have him close. But who would’ve thought that one night by yourselves would end this way? The warmth of acceptance and the sting of the heartbreak that came after, and among all of it—a lost boy desperate to make it right.

⋆˙⟡tags: 18+, mdni!!! NOT a love triangle!! mc is treated as a caleb’s sis in this one, the reader and mc and caleb are friends!! best of friends!! unrequited love!! but not really, angst, angst with happy ending, misunderstandings, or more like lies, love confessions obsessed caleb, kinda pathetic caleb, insecure caleb, he cries, we cry, everyone literally cries, first times, but the scene is quite short, they love each other so much, my babies, please read it.

⋆˙⟡writer’s note: my first ever commission for my wonderful stella 🥺 i hope you like it baby and i hope all of u will like it too, despite the length. i wanted to stretch it in time so that the reconciliation at the end wouldn’t be forced. i hope you’ll read it and like it, i loved writing for caleb 🤍

!!likes, reblogs and comments, pls comment, would be appreciated ♡ let me know what u think!

* 20+ unread messages from [ my miss hunter!<3 ]*

✉︎ baby what happened, where are you?

✉︎ you don’t pick up and even read my messages, i don’t know what’s happening, are you okay?

✉︎ caleb’s going totally ap(pl)eshit pun intended god i hope if you’re reading this you laughed at least. PLEASE write back or i’ll join him.

✉︎ he’s actually going insane, does he know something? he refuses to tell me anything, what happened between you guys? i was absent for literally one meeting, did you throw hands or something? he seems really unstable, like, much more than usual and he already had issues before, that’s for SURE.

✉︎ i’m so sorry for joking. i’m just really worried. it’s been a week. please respond to me, i don’t know what to do. i need to know you’re safe.

✉︎ what did he do? now i know that he’s at fault here, he’s acting insane.

✉︎ he’s not sleeping. i don’t think he’s eating either? he looks like a walking corpse and he’s still looking for you everywhere. i’m not sure who’s managing the fleet now but for sure not him.

✉︎ he’s not saying a single word. i know now that he must’ve done something, he’s not just worried, he’s fucking terrified and to be honest i am too. it’s been almost two weeks now, please answer me.

✉︎ i swear i won’t tell him anything. just please respond.

It was supposed to be a day like any other.

You, her, him—sitting together, eating your favorite food, maybe watching one of the movies MC somehow always managed to convince you to watch. Such nights always ended in the same way: with you sleeping next to her, right on Caleb’s bed. The gruesome scenes replayed behind your closed eyelids, your body nearly sprawled on top of your friend, your hand gripping hers—too tightly to just be affectionate. Caleb’s laugh echoed through his apartment, jokes and jabs aimed right at you, spoken in soft tones from his usual spot on the couch, where he always slept during your sleepovers.

And while you were pouting and trying to defend yourself from his absolutely false accusations of being a scaredy-cat, it was always his little sister who defended you like a lioness. Her clever comebacks always softened his teasing nature towards you. But it was all just a silly little game—the truth was you didn’t mind being teased, you knew Caleb long enough to realize that it was just the way in which he showed affection. It just so happened that MC showed hers by protecting you and attacking Caleb right back, every time his teasing seemed to be endless.

“Easy, pip, I’m just tryin’ to get her mind off of that spoooky imitation of a movie.” He answered between quiet laughs, and a quiet scoff left your mouth, quickly followed by a small smile. “Besides, if she really was scared, she would sleep here with me. She would be much, much safer, right?” His question followed by your name, and you immediately sprung upwards to sit on your legs.

“As if! You would probably maul me in your sleep before any monster would even get a chance to reach me.” You answered quickly, your body turning toward the salon where he slept, your eyes meeting MC’s, shining with mirth in the darkness. You heard an exaggerated gasp from him, and you imagined how he probably looked right now: gripping his shirt right on top of his chest in a gesture feigning hurt.

“You wound me. I would protect you with all I have, my Evol, my Fleet, my annoying little sister—”

“Jerk!”

“—From any harm the flying sharks would want to cause you.” You laughed quietly, and you felt the tension in your shoulders slowly dissolving. MC’s faux-offended expression, along with his soft voice were doing a great job at melting the irrational fear you felt in your chest after the movie.

A second passed; then two, maybe three, while your eyes were looking through the huge glass walls, following the clouds that were drifting languidly outside. A sigh left your lips, and your hand squeezed that of MC, who was laying beside your sitting body, her eyes already closed. And when their laughs died down entirely, their breaths slowly evening out, preparing for a good night’s sleep, that’s when you decided to add one more thing.

“Laugh at me all you want, but it’s your fault for living so high up in the clouds, where all the flying sharks in the world have us literally handed to them on a silver platter. But fine, I don’t care anymore, eat up you little motherfu—”

“Oh my god—”

His bubbly laugh echoed loudly, bouncing off of the walls, filling the rooms, breaking the tranquil atmosphere that had fallen not so long ago. His sister’s body shook with laughter right next to yours, wide smile now present on your lips. Your silly joke landed exactly how you wanted it to land—concealing the fear still nestled inside you, simmering delicately just beneath the surface of your smile. Which was, despite their assumptions, not only caused by the abominations presented in the movie.

The enormous clouds, surrounding you from everywhere—that was what truly bothered you. The vastness and uncertainty of the sky which stretched out before you, visible through the glass walls, its eerie silence making the little hairs on your nape stand straight.

Sleepovers at Caleb’s place, which had happened occasionally ever since he moved to Skyhaven to study—and continued even after he became a Farspace Colonel—were something you had already got used to and looked forward to. But the location of his apartment, the surroundings and their quietness, the strangely uneasy privacy and stillness, especially at night—that was what made you so scared every time you were here.

You never told them about your little fear; you didn’t want to cause problems, especially when they were both so happy whenever the three of you found enough time for a sleepover, and Caleb’s place was perfect for accommodating all of you. Besides, you had your best friend, a literal Hunter, close to you, and Caleb’s presence right behind you, just a wall away. Your mind knew that you were safe, it was just your body that was having second thoughts in a form of occasional shivers and quickened heartbeat.

That’s why it always striked you whenever he seemed to notice your concealed discomfort, which this time happened an hour after you said your good night’s. Mc’s breath was already calm and steady, yours far from it, unwanted thoughts and the feeling of uncertainty making you lose your precious hours of sleep.

You heard him first: his calm steps, quiet breath. You saw him second: his head peeking through the door frame, eyes wide open, not clouded with sleep, landing straight on yours. His body approached the bed frame, and he crouched slowly by your side, a small smile adorning his lips. And you felt him at last: his huge, warm hand searched for yours under the covers, and proceeded to hold it gently, his thumb caressing the back of your knuckles in a comforting gesture. You were familiar with such touches, both him and his sister were touchy-feely ever since you remember. So you reciprocated his smile, tiredness clutching to your lashes, yet mind still refusing to rest.

“Are you okay? I heard you tossin’ and turnin’.” He whispered, whether to avoid waking his sister up or to not disturb your precious moment, you weren’t sure. You met his beautiful, sparkling eyes, which always made your stomach twist with longing, and you already started to feel better. His gaze was so gentle, so earnest that your heart decided to switch the reason of its rapid beating from fear to a complete adoration.

You were laying on your side, a pillow warm underneath your cheek, and your hand squeezed his in an answer to his worry. You noticed that his hands were dry and rugged, but so pleasantly warm. And so were your cheeks, their color fortunately hidden from his watchful eyes behind the curtain of the darkness.

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’m just a little uneasy, that’s all.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie, but his eyes were giving you skeptical signals as if he knew exactly what you were hiding.

The truth that the sky and space scared you, when he was the one who was constantly covered by the clouds, was always embarrassing to admit out loud. And thankfully, he never pressed you to do it.

Instead, he hummed, his chin resting on the edge of the bed, his eyes landing on your clasped hands, thumb sliding through your fingers back and forth. You knew he had no idea, but that slight touch was enough to make you shiver, your heart filled with unspoken, overwhelming emotions towards the one who was supposed to just be your best friend.

“But you know you can always come to me, right? The couch is really cozy and maybe you would feel safer there, somehow. Aaand, I’m much bigger than her. More comfortable too, I’m sure.” Your lips turned up in a smile, and your eyes closed for a second, trying to focus on calming your heart down. When you finally opened them, he was looking right at you with an unreadable expression. His face seemed to get closer to yours too, most likely unknowingly.

From such proximity you could see the freckles that covered his face like small specks of cosmic dust, that you have always longed to trace with your fingers. His eyes were also a sight to behold, even in the darkness they shined so brightly, violet mixed with a hint of a sunset, always so full of wonder and awe, looking right back at you. He was so handsome, even covered only by the moonlight, when you always thought that a warm sunlight suit him best.

“We’re not kids anymore, Caleb. Sleeping in the same bed would be a little bit weird, don’t you think?” He scoffed under his breath, and you bit your lip, not wanting your true emotions to appear on your face. Desperate to not let him know how much you’d like to join him, to fall asleep resting in his embrace.

“I don’t.” His reply instant, a sure whisper, accompanied by a slight shift of his head. His hair looked so soft, the strands falling into his eyes, making you want to reach out and fix them. His faint freckles seemed to flicker, once again catching your attention, teasing you to give each one of them a small kiss. But you knew that you didn’t have the right to. “Besides, we’re friends. You know I would never touch you or anything. You’re safe with me.”

These exact words echoed through your mind months later, a memory fresh and vivid, the only one you could think of when your heart wanted to beat straight out of your chest.

I would never touch you.

You remembered him saying, on that day that was supposed to be like any other, yet MC cancelled on you at the last moment. You were already drinking boba next to the relaxed Caleb, leaving you two alone for the first time in what felt like forever. An emergency mission, was her excuse, and although you were upset that she couldn’t make it, the happiness of finally being able to spend some time with Caleb, whom you missed just as much, was enough to raise your mood back up.

I would never touch you.

That sentence swirled inside your head, hours after you both went out for a hotpot, sharing a meal filled with laughter, catching up on nothing and everything all at once. You always had fun together, the years of friendship formed thanks to MC made you comfortable with one another, the banter teasing but affectionate, the atmosphere warm and familiar. Later you went for a walk in the park, searching for squirrels, and sending MC pictures of every single one you managed to spot with a short caption ‘You’. After that, you also stopped at the arcade to play with claw machines for some time: you managed to win a small cat plushie for MC, while Caleb gave you a similar one he got for you when you weren’t looking. And then, after the sun had long since set, you went back to his place—in the same way you always did when meeting up in Skyhaven. But this time, you two were completely alone.

I would never touch you.

And yet, by heavens, you thought that after that night there wasn’t any place on your body he left untouched. Not when he was paying such a close attention to you, his hands wandering absolutely everywhere, accompanied by his shaken breaths and whispers full of worship and wonder.

You weren’t sure who kissed whom first, your mouths connecting unexpectedly, meeting right in the middle, the movie you put on a while ago still playing in the background. The flakes of popcorn scattered everywhere around you; the bowl had fallen from your hands, so desperate was he to pull you to himself the moment he dared to push his tongue past your lips—uncertainly at first—only to feel how quickly you accepted him.

You were almost dizzy with happiness of finally having him this close, touching at his hair, neck, shoulders, waist. He was holding you in his arms tightly, squeezing your waist, while you sat comfortably on his crossed legs, lips sealed to his. But suddenly, your head became heavy the moment the gravity of the situation pulled you down. You pushed him away, pressing your hands to his broad shoulders.

You parted with a gasp, your breath uneven, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

He didn’t look any better, if his equally red cheeks and tousled hair were any indicator. His slightly chapped lips chased after yours, eyes lidded and brows furrowed when he felt the loss of your warmth.

“C—Caleb, wait, stop, what on earth are we doing—” You tried to reason, your legs struggling to stand, your heart uncertain what it truly meant to him. A panic overtook you, your true feelings suddenly out in the open, composure lost in a moment of weakness. You remember meeting his eyes in the room lit only by his TV, his head already turned your way, closer than it ever was before. That’s all it took; the sudden closeness, his intense, lingering gaze and hand reaching your way, for you to start making rush decisions.

He didn’t let you escape. In one quick motion you were grabbed by your arms and pushed back into his chest. His hands softly squeezed the flesh, his head fell onto your shoulder listlessly. Dark hair brushed at your neck when you heard his shaky breaths, his body trembling under the touch of your fingers, which now rested on his torso. They were the only barrier keeping you from melting entirely into his embrace.

“No, please—please. Don’t go.” He choked out, his voice pained, his forehead nuzzling up to the juncture between your shoulder and neck. His lips touched your neck, and you gasped. “Don’t go. Don’t run away from me. Please.” A quiet plea, which made you close your eyes in an attempt to finally think; think of the reason it happened, think of the ways in which it would affect your friendship, think of what it truly meant for him.

Afraid that the answer would hurt you.

Your head suddenly felt too heavy for your body, mind spiraling with possible answers, when you heard his voice once again, loud and certain against your heated skin.

“I dreamed of this—Of you—” He nuzzled at your neck, sending a shiver throughout your whole body, your chest squeezing, the implication slowly uncovering into something crystal clear. “Of holding you. Touching you, like this—” His fingers started a gentle trial up your spine and you pressed your body closer to his on impulse. His left hand buried in your hair, softly touching your scalp, and he finally lifted his head to meet your gaze. He looked ruined; eyes glossy and eyebrows scrunched in an image resembling an anguish. His eyes were shifting between yours and your lips, which you were biting in uncertainty. “For so, so long, you have no idea how I—”

“Caleb—”

“Let me. Let me kiss you one more time, just once.” The last word a desperate whisper, his eyes stuck on your lips, his head getting closer and closer with every second, as though he psychically couldn’t help himself. He cupped your cheek and placed his thumb on your bottom lip, pulling it from the confines of your teeth, his touch feather-light. A quiet grunt left him and he met your eyes again, your hands going to grab him by the shoulders to gain more balance. You were getting dizzy, his proximity maddening, his touches and honeyed words overwhelming. “I was always scared to be alone with you like this, and this is the reason. I knew that the moment you let me, I will continue to take, take, take…” He closed his eyes, his forehead falling onto yours, your heavy breaths already mingling. The hand on your cheek started shaking, but a calloused thumb never stopped caressing your skin. “You can say ‘no’ to me. You can say ‘no’ alright? Just—please. Please say somethin’. Anything. You’re so quiet and it’s killin’ me here—”

“I—I want the same thing. Caleb, I—” You finally breathed out, your eyes half opened, lowered to look at his chest, where laid a necklace you and MC gave him quite a while ago, before his first trip to Skyhaven. That memory appeared behind your lashes, along with MC’s face, the image making you halt momentarily. “Oh God, but what about MC? Wouldn’t she be weirded out when we suddenly—” You flinched again, and this time he caught you instantly, his big hands reaching for yours, pressing them into his forehead like a prayer, then huffing out a low laugh.

“She knows. She figured me out ages ago.” You didn’t hide your surprise, your heart beating so quickly you thought it will beat straight out of your chest. “You don’t have to worry about anythin’, alright? If only you feel—You fell the way I do, then I—”

“Ages…?” The word stuck inside your head, the implications making your eyes sparkle. He lowered your hands to rest flat on his chest, and you felt it—the thump of his heart matching yours, a rapid, uneven beat that could only mean one thing.

“Ages.” He answered surely, his violet eyes glued entirely to yours, his hand covering your palms. And when he nudged your nose with his, silently asking for permission, you found that you didn’t have any reason to refuse him anymore.

Not when you wanted him just as passionately.

Your lips met his again in a kiss so intense it was nearly bruising, your hands going over his neck, your mouth swallowing down his sigh of contentment. His hands quickly found their way under your t-shirt; grabbing and holding, caressing and squeezing everywhere he could touch.

I would never touch you.

And yet he did. He did and continued throughout the whole night, his hands never leaving your body, his lips almost permanently sealed to your soft skin, the quiet laughs and whispers of reassurance filling the entire room, your body almost floating even without his Evol, lifted by the feelings of finally being accepted. Of loving and being loved in return.

“You’re perfect. Perfect for me. I have seen countless sunsets above the clouds, and you are far more beautiful than any of them. Absolutely—” He choked out, his slow thrusts making you see stars, his sculpted body covering yours completely, mindful not to crush you in the process. His movements slightly awkward at times, totally inexperienced but you didn’t mind—it was your first time too, after all.

You had boyfriends before, but the relationships never lasted long. He was the first one you managed to open up to. The first one you were able to trust fully, the only man you ever loved. So how could you ever think of doing it with someone else?

“—magnificent. I can’t believe I get to have you like this… I—Ah—I still think that I must be dreamin’, what if I wake up and you’ll disappear? That’s how it always was. A lucid dream, a cry for even a scrap of—of your attention, and now you’re—” Your hands were gripping his biceps, leaving half moons in the glistening skin. Soft sighs were escaping your lips, along with the tears streaming down your cheeks, whether from the intensity of your feelings or the tight way he fit inside you, you weren’t sure. You closed your eyes and let him press more kisses along your shoulder and neck, cheek and lips, the very same ones to which he continued to speak his praises. “And now you are beneath me, f-fuck—Utterly beautiful. The best thing that ever happen’ to me, I knew that I was doomed ever since I met you—” You moaned his name and he smiled, his lips landing on your wet eyelashes, kissing the tears that had yet to come out. His lips were softer now, entirely covered in your chapstick, tasting of sweet apples and something that you already recognized as undeniably him. There was a hand placed under your back, bringing you even closer to his body, his hips moving more steadily, mouth attacking your breasts, making you shiver in pleasure. His hands were going up and down the sides of your body, a gentle touch, meant to bring comfort.

“Caleb—please. Faster, I can’t, I need—” Your hands went to grab his hair, pulling at the strands, making him moan, his body shaking. He looked at you as with so much adoration you thought you were dreaming.

“Okay, okay—Mmm—I got you. I—I got you, darlin’, I always got you. But if it was up to me I would have you like this the whole night long.” He lifted you up in a way that you were now straddling his thighs and sat down, not stopping his thrusts, his hands resting on your waist. Every single indication of inexperience he made up in passion, desperation and enthusiasm, always putting your pleasure above everything else. You opened your mouth in another gasp, his hips rutting into you without stopping, his arms circled around your body, refusing to let you get away even for a second. Not that you ever wanted to leave the safety of his hold. “I got you, my sweet girl. And will never let you go, never. You’re so adorable, so clever, so so kind and precious, you are—”

“—Annoying and too clingy to be honest. When you get to know her better, that is. Sooo, going after her would be a total waste of time, then.”

A quiet gasp, torn out of you suddenly, violently.

Unexpectedly.

You froze, your heart stopping, along with your hand which was already raised to push open the door to Caleb’s room. His voice, even though muffled by the door, was still perfectly distinguishable to you, having heard it even in your dreams by now.

You only came back for your makeup bag, which you had hastily left at his place this morning, the night after your moment of closeness, having overslept for work. You only managed to kiss his adorable sleeping head goodbye, wear the clothes from the day before and run through his door, smile not coming off of your face the whole day long, despite the slight soreness in your limbs.

It was reminiscent of your night together; that’s why it didn’t bother you. The night that was supposed to change everything for the better, the night that your feelings turned out to be reciprocated.

Or so you thought.

You knew that he was having a boys’ night—he told you during your hangout the day before, how excited he was to finally reunite with some of his college friends, after Gideon managed to get a hold of everyone. But you still hoped to quickly collect your things, maybe steal a small kiss or two.

You just hoped to see him again, even for a moment.

A second, nothing more.

You only wanted to—

“And she’s kinda afraid of flying, sooo not exactly a good girlfriend material for a pilot, guys.” His laugh, although a little nervous, made the crack in your heart spread further. “If she weren’t my lil sister’s friend, I wouldn’t wanna pay her any mind—”

Crash.

Loud and echoing, pierced through the living room where you were standing, your hands shaking. One hand went straight to cover your mouth, which opened in utter disbelief.

At first you thought it was the sound of your heart breaking; exploding into millions and millions of pieces, from the way it squeezed painfully in your chest upon hearing the words undoubtedly coming out of his mouth. You nearly screamed in anguish, the scenes from the night before appearing in your mind, the wonderful things he said to you reverberating inside your ears, the ghost of his touch still lingering on your skin—his rugged hands so soft, so gentle, the touch loving, worshipping so why—

“Who’s there?” His uncharacteristically harsh voice reached your ears but you had no idea what was happening. You felt as if you were underwater, all sounds quieted down, your body moving in slow motion.

You looked at your feet and saw your makeup scattered before you, the actual source of the crashing sound, coming from the small bottles hitting his apartment floor. Your hands apparently too shaky, too numb to hold the makeup bag after hearing his words. A dagger to your heart would hurt less, you thought, your vision getting blurry, your legs taking a few steps backwards, the movement awkward, your body suddenly too heavy for you to move.

Why did you come back? Why were you here? Why did you need to hear such things coming from the same mouth that had whispered sweet nothings to your ear for hours on end, not even a day before?

You raised your head abruptly, tears staining your cheeks now, when you heard rapid footsteps coming from the other side of the door. The ones you would recognize absolutely everywhere.

You choked down a sob and bolted straight for the door, your shaky hands fumbling with the lock for a second—enough to give him time to process the situation at hand, to connect every single dot, to notice your makeup sprawled on the floor and maybe your pathetic little teardrops lying among it.

That’s what you were. That’s who you made yourself to be. A pathetic little fool, for kissing him, opening up to him, giving so much to him in such a short amount of time when in reality all he thought of you was—

“No. No. Oh, no, no, no, no, fuck, fuck, please, wait, no!” You heard him shouting your name the moment you opened the door and bolted for the elevator. You did not bother closing the door, he already knew that you were there just a second before. He already realized what you heard, even though the true meaning of his words still felt like a fever dream, a nightmare that was unfolding right before you, painful and so, so, unbearably cruel you feared you will pass out the moment your eyes met his face.

You needed to get out of there. You needed to go outside, to breathe, to find the air he stolen from you so suddenly.

Fortunately, the elevator was waiting for you, a spec of light in the darkness of the situation, and you jumped right in, your hand frantically pressing the close button over and over again, even faster now that you heard him running down the hallway to reach you.

Ironically, this time, the luck was on your side.

His shadow was the only thing you could see before the door closed, cutting him off completely. The echoing thump of his fists hitting the surface of it made you flinch.

“No! Fuck! No, no, please!”

Your name reached your ears, desperate, panicked.

But you were already on your way down, tears falling freely, your hands squeezing at your collar, at the material covering your chest, at anything you could reach just to lessen the pain of your heart breaking. Your knees shaky, threatened to give out but you were holding onto the knowledge that he was still following you, and you absolutely couldn’t let him catch you. That’s why, you refused to let yourself break before you were sure that you were somewhere safe.

And it paid off. You miraculously managed to ascape from him, that day.

And many, many days after that.

* 50+ messages from [ ur caleb!<3 ] *

✉︎ please, let me explain myself. I can only imagine what youve heard and I need you to listen to me, please.

✉︎ what I said wasn’t true. everything youve heard was a big fucking lie and I need to tell that to your face, you have to believe me.

✉︎ please don’t do this to me, I know that I deserve it but you have to hear me out, please.

✉︎ answer me.

✉︎ I beg you, give me anything. I need to know youre safe. I can’t locate your phone is it turned off? I don’t know if youre safe. please.

✉︎ its torture. its my fault I need to see you and tell you everything just let me see you. let me find you.

✉︎ I need to find you.

✉︎ I miss you.

✉︎ I need you, don’t leave me in this loneliness any longer, I will do anything. anything to earn your forgiveness, even if i have to work my whole life for it I will, even if you say that you don’t ever want to see me anymore I will stay out of your sight, I just need to tell you the truth, I need to see you and tell you what I really feel, not that awful lie youve heard me saying I wish I could turn back time and scrape these disgusting words out of my mouth.

✉︎ I will do anything for you. I will do anything for only a second of seeing you, I will fulfill your every wish, every desire and unspoken craving just for a second of your time, for a chance to say that I’m sorry.

✉︎ It ruins me, the thought that you may still think that what you heard me saying was true, you are not reading my messages and you probably still think that I meant it. I’m going insane, I’m losing my mind, I need you. I need to see you.

✉︎ I searched for you everywhere and I still haven’t found you, but I won’t stop, I will never stop searching for you even if it kills me, even if you will be the last thing I see, I will find you.

✉︎ baby, please. sweetheart. my treasure. please let me explain myself. where are you? where haven’t I searched yet? how did you manage to escape me?

✉︎ you know me too well, that’s how. you knew where I will be looking for you and you took advantage of that, my smart girl.

✉︎ but this one time, I wish you made a mistake. even a small one, a millisecond long. because I’m waiting and I’m ready to find you. and I will find you. you know me and how stubborn I am. I will never stop looking, you have to come back at some point. and i will get to you before that. I promise. wait for me.

Three weeks have passed since you last saw Caleb—the memory of his betrayal still fresh, and the wounds he inflicted on your heart with his cruel words still open and bleeding.

But the tears were no longer staining your cheeks, and a mere thought of him didn’t make you panic anymore. At least, not when you knew that he wouldn’t be able to find you here.

After you left his apartment that day, you knew that he would search for you, taking into account his desperation to catch you when you were running away. Yet you couldn’t bear to look him in the face, not after what happened between you, and how humiliated he made you feel.

You thought that he felt the same, that maybe he loved you, but it seemed that he was just playing with your feelings. That you must’ve been an easy target. And you just couldn’t believe it, no matter how frequently you repeated the things he said in your mind, both to you during the night and the to his friends during the day. You knew him ever since you were children, his presence constant in your life, even if you were not seeing each other that often after he relocated to Skyhaven. He was always there for you, and for MC, no matter what happened, his care and friendship something you got used to long time ago.

If she weren’t my lil sister’s friend, I wouldn’t wanna pay her any mind.

Was your friendship always only a huge lie? Were you unknowingly only a burden, a nuisance that he had to put up with, because of your friendship with his sister?

And that night, when he was holding you so gently, treating you with such kindness and devotion, whispering the things you dreamed about hearing from him for so long, was it also something he did just because you were easy to manipulate? The easiest choice, a familiar body to satisfy his needs with?

And God, did he know about your true feelings before all of it went down?

You shook your head, trying to stop another train of thoughts, fighting with yourself not to break down in tears again. You came here not only to temporarily run away from him, you also wanted to take your time and relax, to calm the storm brewing inside your head, to survive that heartbreak and breakdown on your own terms, without anyone’s nagging or judgmental stares. Without others telling you what you were supposed to feel.

You fixed your sunhat, the slight wind making your hair gently caress your face, and you went down from the ladder, a basket full of fresh cherries hanging from your arm. You sighed, the fresh air and the smell of fruit filling your nose trills, reminding you that you were far, far away from Skyhaven and Linkon, the places that held too many painful memories.

Here, you were safe, because no one knew about your little, peaceful gateway, which was long ago introduced to you by one of your distant cousins. It was a peaceful little plot of land, belonging to one of your family members, a place they visited occasionally, usually in the summertime. And now, that small house in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by the trees of fruit, fields of flowers and tranquil atmosphere were exactly what you needed to get back on your feet.

You took a sick leave from work for a whole month, and you were planning to use that time to soften your dark thoughts and harden your skin before the gravity of the situation and its consequences met you upon your return to Linkon. Before you would have to inevitably face Caleb—the one you were trying to avoid at all costs.

“Here you are, auntie.” You approached her crouched figure, her hands paused in their strawberry picking, and she looked up at you with gratitude in her eyes.

“Thank you sweetie, you helped me so much.” She answered and stood up, taking off her gloves and stuffing them into the pocket of her baggy jeans, covered in strawberry juice and grass. A huge smile lit up her face, and you couldn’t help but return one just as bright, shaking your head.

“Oh, please, that’s the least I can do. I should be the one thanking you for letting me stay here.” You fixed your hat once again and went up to a bucket filled with rainwater, so that you could wash the cherries from your skin. “I haven’t known such peace in a long time, really. The air is so refreshing, the scenery so beautiful, and I’m visiting the orchard everyday. I probably ate half of your crops by now, like some kind of a pest.”

“Oh, stop it!” She playfully swatted your butt with a rug, and you giggled, snatching it from her to use it to dry your hands. “You’re always welcome here, you know that. Besides, you are a huge help with harvesting fruit each week. I always bring my boy with me, but as you can see, he’s nowhere in sight.” You laughed and picked up the basket with cherries again, as well as the one she was holding before. You peaked inside it and noticed that it was filled with strawberries and raspberries, a perfect amount for a snack. You opened your mouth and let her place one small strawberry inside it, the sweet juice filling your mouth, making you momentarily forget about your worries.

Everything here was just so peaceful and easy.

“It’s that age. He’s more interested in exploring than in sitting around and picking fruit. I was a chaotic kid, too.” You answered and she sighed, your walk to her truck much shorter than you wanted it to be. You placed the baskets inside the vehicle and saw the boy’s hair from where he sat in the passenger seat. You ruffled his hair, and he appeared startled, his hand immediately reaching up to fix it, a blush spreading to the tips of his ears.

“Chaotic and addicted to gaming, that’s what he really is.” She answered as you stepped back from the truck to hug her goodbye. She offered you a ride back to the house but you decided to stay in the orchard. The sun was still far from setting, and you wanted to read under the tress and snack on the fruits for a while longer.

You also remembered to thank her for delivering your letter to MC last week, in which you told her that you were safe, and apologized for not reaching out to her sooner, explaining that you will be back after some time alone. You decided to restrain from mentioning that you had to turn off your phone the moment you escaped from Caleb’s apartment, knowing damn well that if you didn’t, he would be able to track your location without any issue. You knew him and his little tricks like the back of your hand, or at least, that’s what you thought before everything that happened recently.

You were already waving goodbye to them, when it happened.

The boy opened the car door and handed you something, his small hands quick and secretive. Your eyes opened wide, and your smile faltered instantly, recognizing the weight.

“Sorry for taking it, mom never lets me take mine and I get so bored here… But I charged it for you!” He said your name and looked at you apologetically, his round eyes shining excitedly. You gulped, your mouth opening slightly, struggling to find your voice. “You can delete the game now. Oh, and you got a loooot of messages, are you, like, famous?” He asked in a hushed tone, then flinched when the aunt called out to him. He hugged your waist tightly, clearly thankful for your unintentional lending of possession, and went back to the truck, his small hand waving at you through the window until they disappeared from sight, turning onto the main road.

Leaving you by yourself, speechless, your hands full of something you avoided like fire throughout your stay here. The only thing that could betray your location.

A phone.

The one you intentionally turned off and left on the bedside cabinet inside the house.

Your phone.

A device that was Caleb’s only way of tracking you, now lit up after weeks of lying unused, for the purpose of your escape.

“No way, no, no, no, no.” You mumbled, your shaking hands going straight to turn it off, the device turning black again, your panicked gaze staring back at you from its small screen. You closed your eyes and hugged the phone to your chest, praying that it hadn’t been turned long enough for him to track you. For him to notice. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Not now, please. Not yet.”

You weren’t ready to face him yet. You didn’t know if you ever would, but you definitely weren’t ready right this instant, your heartbreak still fresh, your heart too weak to feel this much again.

You looked around slowly, taking in the the sight of the orchard and the endless expanse of the field, calm, steady and sunny, just the way it was during the weeks you’d been here. A gentle wind carried the strands of your hair behind you, the sunhat protecting your head from the light of day. You put the phone slowly inside the pocket of your shorts and began the long path back to the house, your plans of a leisure reading session long forgotten.

It was completely quiet, almost too quiet, but there was no one in sight. You had no idea if he had managed to track your location, or if he was even still looking for you. Maybe he decided to let go, you comforted yourself, even if you knew him well enough to realize how stubborn he could be. You just hoped that maybe if he truly didn’t care for you, he would leave you alone.

The wind intensified, and so did your steps. The house still not yet visible, the long way back made you anxious. You wanted to be inside already, lock yourself up, just in case he really waited for your slip up.

You huffed a small, nervous laugh under your breath the moment you felt the wind biting into the exposed skin of your arms, the temperature dropping, making goosebumps appear on your skin. You bit into your bottom lip and quickened your pace, your heartbeat already pulsing inside your ears, your mind trying to convince you that it was just a coincidence.

But when the wind blew away your hat, you didn’t turn back to fetch it.

Instead, your stride broke into a full-blown run, your legs moving in a panicked frenzy, your hair flying behind you freely. Your lungs and eyes already burned the moment the aircraft appeared in your peripheral vision, its shape and size so unmistakably matching those from the Farspace Fleet that you wanted to laugh at your brain for still hoping is wasn’t.

You heard it now—the deafening roar of it descending onto the field not far from you—and you cursed under your already ragged breath, knowing he must’ve already seen you. There was no one else in sight, after all.

You hadn’t stopped running. The house was twenty minutes away on foot, and if you were fast enough, you could make it before he caught up with you. The plane had already landed, and you didn’t have the courage to look back to see if—

“Hey! Wait!” The shout of your name pierced the wind in your ears, and a weak groan escaped you. He was close, too close if you were able to hear him, his voice bringing back all the memories from that day. Of comforting closeness, then cruel confession said so surely behind your back.

Every single muscle ached, but you didn’t stop running, you couldn’t stop running. The house was already there, peeking from behind the trees, and if only you could reach it in time, you would just lock the doors and regain your false sense of freedom for a while longer.

“Stop runnin’ away from me! Please!”

“Stop—Stop chasing me!” You screamed, the emotions built up inside of you finally having their outlet. “Leave me alone, I don’t—I don’t want to see you, I—I don’t—”

“Just talk to me! Let me explain—” He was getting closer, and your body was growing weaker, your legs moving seemingly only by the sheer force of your will.

“I don’t want to talk to you!” A sob almost escaped your lips, the knowledge and fear that he was this close to you again making panic squeeze at your chest. You were not ready to see him yet, not ready to look at that irritatingly handsome face of his, and hear him lying without batting an eye.

“Baby, please—” Closer. He was so close, just a couple of steps and he wouldn’t have to shout through the wind anymore, but you didn’t stop, couldn’t stop.

“Oh, fuck you!” You shouted right back, tears already forming in your eyes, your legs burning with extortion. How dare he call you this way, as if there was something between you, as if he cared about what happened, about the kiss, your first night, you. “Don’t call me that, don’t chase me like some kind of an animal—Ah!”

Your run stopped abruptly, your chest heaving as you desperately tried to catch your breath. Sweat stuck to your forehead and neck, your limbs tensed, grasping for something, anything, to keep your body from floating up in the air.

Naturally, you failed. His Evol too powerful, holding you gently up in the air, your body too weak to fight back against the invisible force, so you did the only thing you could do at that moment.

You took off your shoe and threw it at him, groaning pathetically when you heard it landing in the grass.

“Let—me—go!” You shouted, your breath heavy after the run, body refusing to calm down. You kept your head turned away from him, unable to look even at his shadow. The knowledge he was this close to you was enough to fill your eyes with tears.

You heard his footsteps close now, his breath heavy. You closed your eyes, tears instead of falling down your cheeks, drifted away from you, the temporary lack of gravity around you taking them away.

First your heart, then your sorrow—what else could he steal away?

You didn’t see how he stood below you, only few steps away, still wearing his Fleet uniform, looking up at your struggling frame with awe and relief. His hand reached out to catch your teardrop with his hand, the sign of your pain staining his fingers now. He brought it to his lips slowly, itching for any part of you, his brows furrowing with anguish.

“I can’t. I let you escape from me once and I won’t make the same mistake again.” His breath was already calming down as he crouched to pick up your shoe, not expecting the other one flying his way, catching it with his Evol right before it hit his head. He scoffed, his laugh sad and full of disbelief, as he let it fall right in front of his face.

“You coming here was a mistake.” He grit his teeth as he heard your poisonous words, spoken in a teary tone. He looked up at you again and his breath hitched. Your drifting body was surrounded by your teardrops, swirling around you and reminding him just how much pain he caused you by his own selfishness. “Me believing in your sugary words was a mistake. Me kissing you was a mistake, God, our whole night together was a—”

“Don’t.” His harsh voice cut through the air, silencing you at once. “Finish that sentence. I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Why? You said you wanted to talk so let’s talk.” With your back still turned to him, your hands swatting at your flying teardrops, his audacity to use his Evol on you making you see red. “Let’s talk about how you tricked me. How you made me believe that we were friends, that I could count on you—”

“Please—”

“That I maybe, maybe meant something more to you. Because it turned out that you were feeding me lies for years—”

“That’s not…”

“You—You made me believe you liked me, and then you… You took advantage of—”

“Quiet!” He nearly growled, his harsh voice echoing in your ears, the tone unfamiliar, instantly making you flinch. The Evol with which he held you up faltered, shaking your body, making a quiet squeal come out of your mouth. For a second there, you thought that he will let you fall right into the ground, but the impact never came.

You finally looked at him, scared and stunned by his outburst. He stood there, eyes clouded and distant, arms hanging loosely at his sides— one hand gripping his hat—both of them shaking equally.

And just when you thought you had imagined his expression darkening, you noticed the clouds shifting faster, the sky growing darker.

A thunder stroke in the distance, forcing the hair on your nape stand straight.

“T-That’s how you think you’ll solve this? By force? By scaring me?” Your voice wavered, your fear slipping right through your confident facade. “I—I don’t take orders from you, Colonel. You will not intimidate me into anything. I don’t—I don’t—” More tears floated around you, your vision blurred, fear mixing with the feeling of helplessness.

He whipped his head, finally grasping the reality upon hearing how you addressed him. And when your eyes finally met, both equally red-rimmed, tired and pleading, he felt as if something in him broke.

Because while he was pleading for a chance to be redeemed, you, on the other hand, for him to stay out of your sight.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice. Please, don’t be scared, I’m—” Another plea, another apology, another way for him to mess with your mind, you thought. And you were scared, tired and hurt, lacking the energy for that conversation. Not knowing how to go about this, not being sure if there was anything that he could say that would fix this.

You were too shaken to listen—let alone react logically. Too unprepared to see his familiar face again so soon, to hear the voice that once offered you refuge for years, but now hurt you more deeply than you ever thought it could. Even the touch of his Evol—once used to help you, to ease your burdens, to cheer you up with his silly little teasing—was now a weapon. A way to trap you. To make you feel small. Helpless beneath the weight of his power.

It was not going well at all, both of you clearly too emotional, incapable of having a normal conversation. You weren’t prepared, but you noticed that he wasn’t either, his mental state unsteady, mind locked on one thing and one thing only—to catch you and never let you out of his sight again.

It was no way of resolving anything. And you really didn’t want to get hurt even more—not by his words, nor by the things you wanted to scream at him, rage tangled with fear, creating a poisonous mix that placed the most hurtful of things at the tip of your tongue.

You didn’t want to use them. Saying them out loud to him would break your heart in the process too.

“Let me go. Please. I’m not ready yet, I—” You closed your eyes, and the first drops of rain fell onto your warm skin. “I don’t want to talk. I can’t talk. Just—let me be. We will have to have this conversation at some point. And I know that. B—But for now just. Please, Caleb.” Your eyes full of tears met his, and he opened his mouth just to close it again, the sight of them rendering him speechless. The pleading, hurt look in them seemed to get him out of the trace. “Let me go.”

His breath hitched when you didn’t break eye contact. There was pain in your eyes, but also unwavering resolve. You kept looking at him with those radiant, exquisite eyes of yours, and that’s when he knew: he had lost this battle.

He slowly lowered you down, holding back tears when you refused to accept his hand to steady yourself. Then he bit his lip, his hands shaking, clenching into fists while he was forced to watch you run from him again, battling his desire to chase after you.

You said that you will have to talk at some point, and he believed you. He took your words and cling to them like a lifeline, a reason for him not to lose his hope. He would be patient, he could be patient, he had already waited for you for so long, he didn’t mind waiting some more. At least now he knew you were safe. Now he could protect you.

And he knew that the war to win you back had only just begun.

The heavy rain spattered against the windows, its sound echoing through the house, easing your shaken nerves and slowly lulling you to sleep.

A lightning struck in the distance, brightening the whole room. You rose quietly, waiting for the sound of thunder. Eyes closed, breathing evened out after what felt like eternity.

More raindrops hit your window, pushed violently by the wind as you stood, wrapping yourself in your huge, knitted cardigan, sinking your cold, shaking fingers into the thick, soft material.

He came here, for you.

A fact that you couldn’t shake for hours now, the weather outside an embodiment of what was happening inside your head. He came for you, the moment he managed to get your location, desperate, oh so desperate to talk, to explain, to repent, and you were left absolutely torn.

Because in your mind, you had already started seeing him as the bad guy, that thought a constant companion through these long weeks, your main coping mechanism. And now? He came here, looking anguished and miserable, his face thin and eyes red—a picture of a man in despair—and he was ready to drop everything just for a second of your time.

Which you didn’t give him. And that’s what kept you awake.

Your hand reached for the light switch but in vain. The storm that had lasted for hours must’ve cut the power some time ago, and you accepted it quickly. Your eyes had long since adjusted to the darkness, and you didn’t want to give any sign that you were awake either. You didn’t want to give Caleb false hope, knowing his aircraft still stood on the empty field, exactly where he had landed it hours ago.

You knew he wasn’t asleep either, not if he was as apologetic as he seemed to be. You should’ve listened to him, maybe. And if he hadn’t scared you so much, if he hadn’t used his Evol or raised his voice, maybe you wouldn’t have been so afraid, so defensive. Despite everything he said that fateful night, a large part of you was still curious about what he wanted to say and how he intended to explain himself.

Your deep infatuation with him, your huge soft spot for his expressive puppy eyes, his gentle, playful voice and soft dark hair, were his real weapon. You saw him, looking so devastated and your first thought was to comfort him, despite everything he had done. And you hated yourself for it, hated how much power he held over you unknowingly.

Because was there anything to explain, really? The things he said sounded pretty self-explanatory, and even the simple recollection of them made your heart squeeze painfully.

You knew you’d have to have this conversation sooner or later. He was your best friend’s brother, he used to be your best friend and you had to return to Linkon soon. He would find you then, and the conversation would have to happen either way. So wouldn’t it be easier to just get it over with now and try, slowly, to move on? If moving on from that kind of heartbreak was something you were even capable of.

That was what scared you most about all of this. Caleb had been your friend—the man you loved more fiercely than life itself—and it had taken everything in you just to get out of bed after what you heard from him that day. And now? He had shattered your precious, tranquil solitude so suddenly, and even though you knew that you were supposed to hate him—you should hate him, because that was the easiest way, the only way to survive the heartbreak and reclaim the part of your soul he’d so cruelly taken when he betrayed your trust—You also knew, the moment you saw him running after you like his life depended on it, that what you felt deep inside wasn’t even close to hate.

It was relief.

That he searched for you, after all. A longing, for him to somehow fix this, to tell you that it wasn’t him who said these things despite the fact that it was indisputable, because you would recognize his voice everywhere, even from thousands of miles away you once thought, because of how his timbre made you feel inside. When you saw him, dressed in that stupid, stupid Colonel uniform you felt nothing but love. Love, excruciating love for someone who did not deserve it.

You were stupid, so stupid for being like this, so stupid for still thinking so fondly over the man who lied to you for years, who created a false safe space for you to drown in, who slept with you, even though he thought you were not enough for a wonderful pilot like him.

A sudden crash came from the window downstairs, making you jump in place.

You quickly ran down the stairs, your fingers brushing the wooden railing, your footsteps blending with the sound of falling rain. A cold breeze seeped through the widow, now flung wide open. The wind must have been strong enough to burst it open, and as you rushed to close it, something outside flashed in the corner of your eye.

And your heart almost stopped at the sight.

Your head turned, leaning from the window, the cool droplets hitting your skin harshly, reminding you that you were still awake, and that your eyes didn’t deceive you.

Caleb was sitting right there, on the porch, leaning against the wooden beams, his head hung low, arms crossed on his chest.

And he was soaked to the bone.

Rain dripped from his hat onto his crossed arms, his posture nearly curled in on itself. His body trembled every few seconds from the cold, and the moment you realized he must’ve been standing there ever since you left him—hours ago, just before the storm rolled in—you felt the blood rush into your head.

You left him, but he stayed right there, sitting, waiting patiently for you to come out, not knowing when it will happen. He let you go, but he never left.

“Caleb!” A sudden shout tore from your throat, laced with dread and disbelief, your hands instead of closing the window, reached for one of the blankets lying nearby. “God, Caleb, you—” The front door bursted open and you reached him in no time, falling onto your knees before him, taking off his hat and throwing it to the side in an attempt to wake him.

He wasn’t asleep. Startled, his head shot up the moment he saw you, alarmed by your sudden appearance. His eyes immediately fell to your bare legs, your sleeping shorts far too thin and short to stand against such weather, and he reached for you in a rush of panic.

“What are you—go back inside, you’re goin’ to be sick!” He said alarmed and you scoffed in answer, taking notice of his wet uniform, clinging uncomfortably to his glistening skin. His hair was completely soaked too, streams of rain tracing paths down his temples and nose, the sight making you furious.

“You—absolute—hypocrite!” You barked back, your hands tugging at his wet arms in an attempt to make him stand. You threw the blanket over his head first, his hand grabbing at the material, and then you began pushing him into the house. “I had no idea you—Why did you—?!” He raised quickly, letting you push him past the doorway, and you already felt the cold biting at your skin, the seconds spend outside enough to make you wet.

And he was sitting there for hours.

“I—” He started, but you didn’t let him finish, his posture slightly slumped under the weight of the drenched uniform.

“You—you have a literal plane nearby, why didn’t you hide in there? It’s been raining for hours.” Words escaped you faster than you were able to form them in your head, your hands already working to remove his soaked clothes hastily. He fell completely silent, letting you ease your frustration, his eyes glued to your face. “I thought you were safe in there, I thought you already left, I—I thought—” The heavy material hit the floor with a loud thud, your shaking hands trying to take off the shirt he had underneath, horrified by how cold his skin was underneath your palms.

You bit your lip and sniffed, tears already streaming down your face, whether from the cold piercing at your skin, the thought of him sitting for so long, freezing outside, or from his closeness, which you were deprived of for these weeks, you weren’t able to tell.

You grunted quietly, your fingers slipping from one of the buttons of his shirt, shaking too violently to take it all off. Suddenly, through your blurred vision, you saw his hands reaching for you. You felt their warmth the moment he covered yours, pressing them against his chest. His heart pounded so violently you could feel its rhythm through the wet fabric, sending a shiver down your spine.

A broken sob escaped you, the weight of reality pressing you down hard. His hands stroked your trembling arms, trying to soothe you; but it wasn’t working. The stings or remorse cut through you one by one, haunted by the image of him sitting there, drenched, and cold, and shaking—

“I didn’t want you to—to—I had no idea you were there this whole time, I thought you left t—to sit in your—” Another sob came out stifled, because he brought you in for a hug; his hard, wet chest strangely warm and comforting. You didn’t return the embrace, but stayed there, sobbing quietly, letting him drape the blanket over you both, the material somehow still dry enough to bring comfort.

“Shh… Easy. Don’t cry, okay? It was my decision to stay there.” His soft voice reached you, and another sob came out, this time right into the shirt still clinging to his chest. “I had to stay there. I couldn’t leave you again. I didn’t want to leave you. I’m sorry.” He leaned down and rested his chin hesitantly on top of your head, bringing you even closer to himself. He released a long, heavy sigh, followed by a whisper of your name and another apology.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered right next to your ear, and you trembled in his strong arms.

“I’m sorry.” His hold tightening, and you hated how good it felt to have him this close again.

“I’m sorry.” His words no longer held just one meaning, and you shook your head as best you could, restrained by his tight embrace. Yet you stayed, your eyes closing, heart heavy with the knowledge that you were too weak to run away from him anymore.

The sound of the rain intensified, a thunderstorm still raging outside, and you both stayed close, Caleb cradling you to his chest, swaying gently side to side, almost lulling you to sleep. You took a deep breath, the scent of rain and him washing over you, and realized that you were ready to at least hear him out.

After you both calmed down your breaths and beating hearts, and after your bodies started warming up again, that is.

Because how can someone so warm have bad intentions? The feelings inside you were messing with your head again, and you let them, hoping you won’t regret making that decision.

Wishing, that this love won’t bring you to ruin.

The kettle began to whistle the exact moment he stepped out of the bathroom, candlelight casting his shadow across the room. Every movement danced on the walls, creating the illusion of him surrounding you from all sides. Ironic, because that’s exactly how you felt ever since you let him back in. Your body cautious not to relax in his presence, caged by the unfamiliar weight of broken trust.

You bit your lip and began pouring hot water over the tea, waiting for the pleasant scent to reach you, hoping that it will calm your racing heart—if only for a second. Its rapid beating didn’t slow down since you brought him in here willingly—the very man you’d successfully avoided for a whole month, dreading your next encounter, having no idea how you should act upon seeing him again.

And now there he was—standing behind you nervously, thinking so loudly you were almost able to hear it. Yet you stayed silent, believing that you had every right to. The awkwardness in the air wasn’t your fault, after all.

Letting him inside, not being able to stand the thought of him sitting out there in the storm—that was your doing. And you hated yourself for how easily you let your guard down, and for failing to hide the pathetic trace of love you still carried for him, even after he hurt you so deeply.

Your first encounter several hours ago didn’t exactly end in the way you wanted it to: him using his Evol on you and you breaking down in tears could hardly be considered a peaceful reunion. You were both not ready to talk yet, too shaken by being in each other’s presence after all this time. You, stubborn in your hatred. He, desperate and unraveling at the thought of loosing you again. An explosive combination, a disaster waiting to happen.

So you ran, as fast as you could from him.

And now, because you couldn’t stay indifferent to his discomfort, you had nowhere to hide.

“The clothes fit. They’re even a bit loose.” Caleb’s light tone finally broke the silence, though the slight tremble in his voice betrayed his stress. He was as nervous as you were. “Phew, I’m lucky your uncle isn’t here today, he would totally take me in a fight. To him I would probably look like… a walkin’… A walking stick.” Voice grew quieter with every word he spoke, and once he noticed he was rambling, he clamped his mouth shut, cussing internally.

He had always made a fool of himself when you were near, ever since the day he met you, all those years ago. Even just the sight of your turned back, the knowledge you were listening, made his head heavy with the need to impress you, and now, to make things right. He was terrified that at any moment you might lock yourself away in one of the rooms, somewhere he couldn’t reach you again—and he had no idea how he’d handle it if that happened.

Suddenly, you turned to him, your eyes glued to the mugs of tea you were holding. You placed them carefully on the table in front of you—the only piece of furniture that provided a bit of a distance you so desperately craved to have. From the corner of your eye you noticed he wasn’t exaggerating—the black sweatpants and a white shirt seemed to be a bit loose, and you realized that his homely appearance actually made you feel a bit more at ease. Now, without his Colonel uniform to hide behind, he seemed more approachable, if not more lost.

The air of authority vanished the moment his wet suit hit the floor, leaving only an uncertain man in its wake, one who knew he’d been walking on thin ice the moment you let him into your space again.

And you just couldn’t bring yourself to make him feel more welcome—the words he said still ringing in your ears, despite the time you spend to forget about them entirely.

“Thanks for letting me stay here. And for the clothes.” He was still standing in the same spot and you still refused to meet his eyes. Your hands grabbed one of the mugs and you started blowing air to cool your tea down, thankful for that little distraction, for something warm to hold when your heart was freezing cold. “And I wasn’t sitting there to make you pity me. If you were wondering. I wasn’t tryin’ to manipulate you into anything, I just—”

“I know.” Your voice rusty from the uncontrollable sobbing from before, hands gripping the mug harder. The light from the candles was too low for you to see your reflection on the surface of the drink. Maybe it was for the best, you must’ve looked like a trembling mess, eyes puffy and lips bitten red, still shaken by the storm of emotions that had torn through you during the day. “That, I know.”

You slowly sat on the nearest stool while he processed the meaning behind your words, still standing motionless few steps before you. You took a sip—and the warmth of the drink did nothing to soothe your nerves.

So, you waited. For something. Anything. Feeling his intense gaze on your frame, almost drilling a hole in your head, a silent prayer for you to look back at him.

You couldn’t, and that broke him all over again.

“You run away from me.” His voice trembled and your hands grabbed the mug tighter, the rain outside intensifying—or maybe you just became aware of its sound again. “I’ve searched for you everywhere. Every day. And I was loosing my mind every minute I couldn’t see you.”

“Did you?” You couldn’t help the venom spilling out of you, the tone mocking if it wasn’t so weak. “Why? Because of guilt? Pity? Out of obligation for—”

“Guilt? Pity? Is that what you think?” He took a step forward, and you didn’t move, head held high, still not meeting his eyes. “Everything I did for you, everything I ever said to you was out of—Shit—” His hands ruffled his hair, tugging at the strands. A pause, heavy, followed by a thunder, and then—“Out of love!” The last word nearly a growl, ripped out of him suddenly, as if holding it inside brought him pain.

You froze.

A thunder roared in the distance.

And the tears filled your vision once more.

You stood abruptly, putting down the cup on the table with a loud thud, its contents spilling out, nearly burning your head. His voice calm and sure now, so sure it almost made you choke.

“Out of overwhelming love, that I have felt for you for as long as I can remember—”

“Stop.” You choked out, your head dizzy, hands shaking in fury. What was he saying? What was he even—

“—Out of desperation to make things right, because I couldn’t bear the thought of you sitting somewhere alone, and hurting because of me, the things I said, the things I fuckin’ despise myself for—” He heard you, so he spoke much quicker, words spilling one after the other, hurting you more than you could imagine. He was getting closer to you, and you flinched, one leg already taking a step back.

He wasn’t serious, he couldn’t be. If he were, he wouldn’t have said those things, especially not after he got to have you. It wasn’t what you were prepared to hear, he was surely just messing with—

“Caleb, please.” Not more than a whisper, a calm before the storm, your head shaking, legs feeling weak.

“I lied. I lied that day and you need to believe me. I lied because I was a coward, and I didn’t know what to do, I panicked and I lied, because I love you, and they—”

“No, please, stop, I—I can’t listen to this, it was a bad idea, I—” With tears in your eyes you turned away and passed Caleb quickly, wanting to go back upstairs and hide: hide from his lies, from the hurt of his sudden confession, and from the way his voice sounded, so anguished and outright mad.

He didn’t love you, he couldn’t love you, because if he did he would’ve told you that night, when he held you so close and whispered broken praises into your ear. He would’ve said it then, not now, when you’d already made up your mind to cut him off, to forget the warmth of his body and the cold sting of the words you overheard.

You expected an apology, not a confession, which made and your whole facade crumble with his every word.

“No! Please—” He grabbed your hand, his touch frantic and secure, the contact and the memories it reignited made you gasp. And before you could realize what was happening, he fell down on his knees in front of you, his hands grabbing your arms, the hold strong but gentle, meant to slow you down, rather than cage.

You looked at the bare skin of his back, sticking out of the shirt, speckled with faint freckles, and noticed he looked thinner than you last saw him. Then your eyes landed on his dark hair, falling into his face freely, strands damp after the shower, but still looking so unbelievably soft.

“Please, I’m not lying, I’m—You have to believe me. You have to—Fuck—”

You eyes met and the time seemed to slow down.

Because you saw his beautiful, violet orbs, that always made you feel as if you were looking at the eight wonder of the world, flooded with tears for the very first time in your life.

His lips were trembling and you noticed how chapped they were, his teeth biting into them to stop himself from sobbing. You could hear the humming of your heart in your ears, your whole body shocked to stillness.

He looked absolutely torn.

And you couldn’t look away; your eyes traced the path of the first tear that slipped out of his eye, down to his chin, landing in front of your bare feet.

Like an offering. A statement. The last prayer of a man who lost hope.

“I’m not—I’m not lying to you. You have to believe me, please, please.” Tears. One after the other, tracing paths on his flushed cheeks, eyes burning with sincerity, lashes wet and shiny.

You nodded slowly, a lump forming in your throat, eyes filling with tears upon the sight, but you were trying so hard to keep them at bay.

And after a sniffle, he continued, warm hands stroking your shaking arms, eyes glued to yours like a lifeline.

“I lied that day. Everything I said was a fucking lie, okay? A big, pathetic lie to save my skin, to buy me more time. I said the first things that came into my mind—”

“But I heard you, Caleb.” You cut him off, your brows furrowing, unable to contain your confusion. “I heard you. If you really didn’t mean it how could you sound so sure? You said these things without even a single thought, and you expect me to—”

“I didn’t have to think! I just twisted—I think I just twisted the truth—”

“Wow. T—That’s low Caleb. That’s really, really low—” And when you started to back out from his hold he grabbed you harder, his arms going to circle around your waist, his face pushing into your stomach. You gasped and before you managed to push him away, his next words made you stop.

“No! Wait, shit, that’s not what I meant. Don’t go.” A sob escaped his lips and you took a deep breath, your hand almost reaching to caress his head. You’ve never seen him so broken and the need to comfort him was overwhelming. The sight of his tears excruciating. “I said you were clingy and you are—” Another sharp tug, but he refused to let you go. “You are. You are clingy and that’s okay, that perfectly fine, that’s perfect. And I love that about you. Every time you were holding my sister’s hand, I wished, God—How I wished you would hold mine instead. I wished, I prayed you would cling to me instead. Just as much as I wanted to cling to you.” He raised his head and you saw that he was telling the truth in the way his eyes gleamed, and his cheeks burned red, body trembling against yours.

And you felt your legs nearly bucking under your weight, his words making your head spin, not knowing whether you should stay offended or let him take your breath away once more.

“But—but what about me being annoying? You said—”

“You loved to push my buttons ever since we were kids, you are trying to annoy me all the time, just how I try to annoy you back. But for me, every jab, every joke, it was always to catch your attention. A pitiful attempt for you to just look at me, even for a fleeting second. And it worked—MC always called us annoying because of it, remember? That’s why it came to me so quickly. That’s the only reason I said it so surely.”

He was talking so fast he nearly lost his breath, his chest heaving against you, arms still holding you close to his chest. You took a deep breath and wanted to think, to have a second to process it, the burn in your cheeks intensifying, his words actually starting to make sense, because of your usual dynamic.

But it wasn’t all. It wasn’t what hurt you the most.

“You told them about my fear.” Caleb’s huge, red-rimmed eyes never left yours, and you fought with yourself not to fix the strands of hair that were slightly blocking his vision. His lips formed a straight line and turned slightly downwards, making him look like a kicked puppy. And you felt your anger slowly slipping, hope filling the hole in your heart. “And you listed it as my fault. You took my biggest fear and embarrassed me for it, made me feel like I wasn’t enough. I didn’t even—I didn’t even know you noticed how scared I was when—”

“I did. I notice everything about you. Of course I noticed.” His strong hands hugged you tighter, and a single tear slipped out of your eye. He was still kneeling before you, showing no signs of raising. “Just how I noticed that it didn’t keep you from visiting me at my place, even though the stillness of the clouds terrified you to the point of loosing sleep. But it’s okay. It doesn’t change a single thing for me. I only dreamed of showin’ you the view from the clouds, I hoped that I would take you up there with me one day, to show you that it doesn’t have to be scary. That it’s actually beautiful, and freeing, and calm up there. Cause I would protect you, always. And if you didn’t change your mind it would be fine—It would always be fine. I would just share with you the stories ‘bout the things I saw. And I would be the happiest to do it.” His shaking hands reached to touch your face and wiped the tears from your cheeks, ones that you had no idea you even shed. “I never thought about it as your flaw. Never. For me, you are nothing but a wonder.”

His touch was feather-light and comforting, his hands warm and so painstakingly familiar, bringing you back to the night that changed everything. How he held you back then, as if you were something fragile, something precious.

A wonder.

A sob tore through your body and he shook his head, hushing you quietly, his hands taking a hold of yours, bringing them to his lips, pressing a kiss to every single one of your knuckles.

“Then, why? Why did you list it as one? I just—I just don’t understand why, Caleb.” You cried out, one of your hands leaving his to cover your face from him. The past month of running away flashed before your eyes, making you even more tired. And although you wanted nothing more than to believe him and let yourself be held, he still didn’t give you the reason for saying such things. “Why did you even say that? If you lied, why did you do that? Why, Caleb, why did I have to hear—?”

You were crying again, and Caleb looked at you from his knees in panic, his hands caressing your arms, spine straightening so that his head could rest against your chest. The way he hugged you so tenderly made you want to hug him back, your head fighting with your heart. Yet he still didn’t give you all the answers, no matter how better the situation seemed now. You still had doubts about believing him at all.

There was a beat, or two, and he let out a deep sigh, hands gripping you tighter.

You sniffled, the word around going completely quiet, just to be disturbed by his quiet groan.

“I’m even—I’m even embarrassed to say.” He stood up slowly, and you gulped, his size all-consuming, making him be the only thing you could see. You took a careful step back, and he took one of your hands in his hesitantly. From this position he was too stressed to hug you, opting for less intense contact, especially when your hand was still limp in his, not reciprocating the hold. He scratched at his neck, his eyes meeting yours, an anticipation visible on your features. “And I know that won’t make the situation better.”

“Caleb—”

“Yes. Yes, I know—They—” A squeeze of your hand, the orange spark in his eyes shining beautifully, making your breath hitch. His hand went up to gently touch your face, fingers tracing patterns along your cheek. “They started talkin’ bout girls that day. The boys, my friends from college.” His brows furrowed, eyes looking at your face as if searching for something there. You listened patiently, his earlier words still ringing inside your head, the gravity of them almost crushing you. “Asked me if I knew someone they could go out with. I said ‘no’. They didn’t believe me, though.” His eyes narrowed, chin went down slightly in annoyance while recollecting the conversation. “They started teasing me about MC first. Asking if I would like to have a brother, too. But then one of them mentioned you.” His eyes darkened, the hand on your cheek stopped its caress. “Said he liked you. And that he already had your number. He was pretty confident, said something ‘bout you two having a connection. He said he talked with you that one time you and MC were visitin’ me in my dorm, and I—I started sweating right then and there.”

Your frown deepened but you already knew where this was going. You closed your eyes and swore under your breath, one hand covered your mouth in shock. You couldn’t even remember the guy.

“And—And we just slept together that night, and I finally got to hold you, caress you, kiss you—I was on cloud nine. Wasn’t thinking clearly. And I wanted to tell him about us, that you were mine, but I realized that we haven’t talked about it. And you weren’t there when I woke up—”

“Caleb, I overslept for work, I had to leave quickly—”

“I’m so, so sorry, but I wasn’t sure. I haven’t confessed to you either, I was just too—too overwhelmed, I felt too much, I thought too much and I realized that I couldn’t tell them you’re mine because you weren’t. Not yet.” You bit your lip and looked at him in disbelief, his face getting closer. He put a strand of your hair behind your ear, and his jaw tightened. “And when he asked me what I thought ’bout you I couldn’t tell him the truth. If he knew what I felt he wouldn’t let you go. They wouldn’t let you go, it would only make them want you more.”

You felt your hands shaking, your mouth opening and closing, not knowing what to say. His hands were still holding yours, feeling the tremble, caressing them with his thumbs in an attempt to bring you comfort.

“But you knew that what happened between us wasn’t a one time thing. You knew how I felt about you, and if you felt the same why didn’t you just—”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d pick me, if you had a different choice. And at that moment, I wanted to make sure you would. That they wouldn’t take you away from me. And that they would never want to again.” His hands cupped your cheeks, and you felt how rough and warm they were, your hands immediately going to hold at his wrists. He closed his eyes for a moment and you couldn’t believe what he was saying.

It was all a misunderstanding. And all of this happened because he was jealous? He hurt you so much just because he didn’t want others to reach out to you?

“So you had to say all these things about me? And that was supposed to be a better alternative than lying about us being together? Caleb, it really doesn’t sound—” You pushed his arms away, legs taking you further away from him, craving some space to think things through, but he followed suit, hands already reaching for you again.

“I panicked. I’m so, so, so sorry, I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know where we stood, and I had no idea if that would make a difference for them. I had to say something to discourage them. So I did.” His hands went to tug at his hair and now he was the one who took a step back, breathing louder, obviously distressed. “And I hated myself for it. It felt so wrong the moment it came out of my mouth and I wasn’t even sure if they even believed me. And then I heard you. Fuck, when I heard you—”

A loud crash, making every single doubtful look from the boys leave Caleb’s face. Grateful for a distraction, his head heavy, heart burning with the weight of his lies. But when he opened the door and noticed your makeup scattered across the floor, his heart sank to his stomach. A wave of terror froze his body for a short while, until he heard you fumbling with the front door.

He didn’t even think about using his Evol, your beautiful frame running away from him enough to make him panic, the things he said hanging above his head, the knowledge that you had heard them becoming his worst nightmare.

And later, when he returned to his empty apartment after hours spend searching for you, calling you in hope you’d pick up, even by accident—he finally broke down. He screamed, throwing his phone against the wall, making it shatter. His Evol spiraled out of control, shifting the furniture, crashing the plates, the entire place left looking as if it had been broken into.

He lost you on the day he finally got to have you. And ever since that day, he hadn’t known peace, until your phone lit up again, a single red dot glowing on his device, revealing your location.

He left the Fleet right then and there in the middle of the meeting, everything else forgotten. Every duty postponed, every shout of his name ignored.

There wasn’t anything more important than you.

And now you were standing before him, as beautiful as the day he lost you, with tears in your eyes and your heart no longer open for him to take solace in. The eyes which used to look at him with mirth and affection—now uncertain, scared of him hurting you again.

And he felt that he was at his limit—one more second away from you and he thought he’ll burst into flames, the intensity of his feelings will turn him to ashes.

So, he begged.

“I’m so sorry. Please. Believe me. Take me back. Give me one more chance. I’m so sorry I hurt you. I swear I will never to it again, as long as I live.” You flinched when he fell onto his knees again, your arms trying to catch him before his knees hit the floor, but it was useless, his body too heavy for you to hold.

“Caleb! Caleb, stop doing that—” You grabbed his arm in an attempt to pick him up, but he was too strong, his bicep not even tightening. Goosebumps appeared on his skin under your palms and his head fell onto your arm pathetically.

And you just couldn’t look at him when he acted this way, your anger dissipating, the situation although still not ideal—him lying, then saying such things behind your back, whether he meant them or not, wasn’t something you could forgive him after one conversation.

Yet you couldn’t bear to look at him like that—on his knees, begging for forgiveness, crying and shaking, words slipping uncontrollably from his lips. In all the years you’d known him, this was the most vulnerable you had ever seen him—and the sight made your eyes sting. The image of the man you loved—once an unshakable, controlled pillar of strength—reduced to a broken mess before you.

You now knew why he did it. And that he didn’t mean it, not in the way you thought he did.

And you understood the jealousy, the anger, and the selfishness, because you had times you felt such way about him too. The image of him with another making you nauseous, the possibility of him loving someone else like a dagger cutting through your chest.

You took a deep breath, and glanced at him again. His shaking back, hands clinging to your body in an attempt to keep you close.

And you had made your decision.

“Oh, Caleb…”

To believe him.

“Caleb, please stand up!”

To build your relationship back up again, no matter how long i’ll take. And you just hoped you were making the right one.

“N—No, you have to understand. Please. I love you. I’m sorry. And I’ll do anything to earn your forgiveness, no matter how long it takes.” He breathed into your arm, his face snuggling into it, his head slowly rising, eyes meeting yours.

And you gasped at the anguish displayed all over his pretty eyes, two eternal sunsets clouded with misery.

“I love you. So much. I am in love with you, and I’ll do anything to prove it, I’ll spend my whole life trying to make it up to you. You want me to give you more space? I’ll do that. I will try to do that. You want me to leave the Fleet? Just say a word. I will. I will follow you to the end of space and time. You like it here? I can build you the exact same house with my own hands, brick after brick, and it would be the most beautiful, peaceful of places, you own private sanctuary. I will—”

Your knees hit the floor, joining him and you grabbed his wet cheeks in your hands, yanking his head down to meet your lips, effectively shutting him up.

And he melted.

Putty in your hands, leaning into your touch instantly, his chapped lips warm against yours, his soft sigh vibrating between your mouths. And when you broke the kiss and met his sparkling eyes, round with surprise and hope, you send him a small smile, holding back the tears that threatened to fall.

You wouldn’t let them. Not anymore. Not when for the first time in weeks you finally believed that you will be okay.

It was all a huge misunderstanding. A big mistake, fueled by insecurities, secrets kept for far too long, his desperation to keep you near, no matter the means. When he spoke so rapidly, afraid you’ll leave him again, you realized that wanting to keep you to himself might have been one of the few times in his life he had ever done something purely for himself—even if his methods were far from right.

You could see now, that behind his thick skin, and the air of countless of responsibilities, he was still just a boy that had to grow up too quickly. For MC. For you. For all of you to live as comfortably as you could, the burden of all your issues and failures always spoken to him, knowing that he will be able to help and find a solution for all of them.

And yet, he never confessed when something bothered him, his feelings and desires always bottled up inside, kept hidden and threatened to spill when it got too much for him to handle.

And that one time, when faced with the threat of someone taking you away from him, the threat of loosing you, the one he loved, he acted on instinct. He chose the option that wasn’t fair, and certainly wasn’t healthy, but he truly believed it could work to keep you beside him for a while longer.

He wasn’t used to being selfish, so he had no idea how to start, and how to do it right.

He looked down at you through half-closed eyes, taking you in and memorizing your small smile—one he felt he hadn’t seen in ages. Then he dove in for another kiss, his arms wrapping around your frame, pulling you tightly to his chest. He couldn’t believe that you kissed him, his brows furrowing, wanting to make this moment last forever.

And you reciprocated every single one of his hasty kisses, your head finally freed from the questions that dragged you down.

You will work this out. You will fix this, together. And you will make sure he’ll know how you feel, so that he could finally realize that he doesn’t have to fight dirty battles just to keep you close. Because you would never want anyone else who wasn’t him.

“Caleb-mmmh. Caleb, oh God, wait.” He reluctantly let your lips go, your lungs filling with a deep breath, and you hugged him around his waist, feeling the fast beating of his heart under your ear. He placed his shaking hand on your head, stroking your hair, placing a chaste kiss on the crown of your head.

“Sorry, can’t stop. Come back here, you kissed me first.” And he took your cheeks in his palms and dived in, wanting to capture your lips in his again, but you blocked his mouth with your hand, making him frown.

You giggled softly, eyes still teary, making his eyes sparkle—mesmerized by the happiness finally breaking through the walls you’d build around yourself over the past month. He kissed your fingers once, twice, his arms resting at your waist as he lost himself in the warmth of your body, and the pleasant fragrance of your skin.

He felt as though he had returned to where he truly belonged. He had finally come home.

You opened your mouth, your cheeks flushed and eyes sincere, and nothing could prepare him for what you said next, your tone soft, slightly unsure, a melody only for him to hear.

“I believe you, Caleb. But you hurt me that day so badly, I thought I would never get over that heartbreak. I thought I lost you, my best friend, the only boy I ever cared so deeply for. I thought you really hated me all this time. And I couldn’t face it, couldn’t even think about it, that’s why I fled.” He nodded quickly, eyes holding so much hurt and regret. You slid one of your hands into his hair, stroking the soft strands gently. And thats when you both sat down on the warm floor, bodies relaxing, hearts slowing down. “But it’s okay. I understand you now. And I’m sorry too, for not letting you explain yourself sooner. I was just so focused on trying to hate you to somehow cope with what I’ve heard—”

“Stop, it’s my fault, don’t—”

“I shouldn’t have run away. I should’ve faced you, even if I was scared of what I’ll learn. But it will take some time for me to forget about it, okay? It really—It really messed me up. The thought you put up with me only because it was convenient.” You bit your lip and he groaned softly, his head lowering, a symphony of apologies falling from his lips once again. You hushed him gently, taking his cheeks in your hands and wiping away the wet trails of his tears. He sniffed quietly, making your heart squeeze. “But it will be okay. Because I believe you. So you don’t have to be scared anymore, I won’t run away again.” His body shook as he kept nodding, biting at his lips, trying so hard not to interrupt you. You leaned over him again, the movement slow, and you looked deep into his eyes, silently asking for permission. Once his eyelashes fluttered, eyes looking at your lips expectantly, you placed a soft kiss on his swollen ones, red from his constant biting, still salty from the tears he shed. “And you have to promise to be honest with me. No more tricks. No more lies.”

“I promise.” Your name escaped his lips like a prayer. “I promise. I will never hurt you again, I swear. I promise. I love you more than you could ever realize.”

He groaned into another kiss, a quiet “mmm” followed by the touch of his hands on your cheeks. He brought you to himself closer, one kiss turning into three, four, five and still counting, yet all of them gentle and reassuring, meant to anchor, not escalate. One of his hands landed on your hip and tugged, touch meaningful—he wanted for you to sit in his lap, and although you were still shaken, you craved the closeness as much as he did.

You climbed onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips as he deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing at your lower lip.

You let him in, slowly, unhurriedly, your ears catching the sound of the falling rain, the storm coming back with the same intensity as before—but this time, it didn’t feel like a bad omen anymore.

You parted with a quiet pop, Caleb’s head instinctively following yours, unwilling to let the distance linger. His large hands caressed your arms and thighs, his expression love-drunk, looking as if he couldn’t believe you were really here with him again.

His eyes met with yours and you swiped the pads of your fingers below his under eyes, tracing the faint freckles.

A whistle of the wind, a spatter of rain against the window, the sound of your beating hearts, and then—

“I love you too, Caleb.” His breath hitched, hands clenching on the material on your shirt, eyes big and shining with disbelief. “I love you. So much. You’re the only boy I’ve ever loved.” His eyes closed and he rested his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses touching in a gesture so gentle your eyes stung.

“Again. Repeat that for me.” He whispered in awe, and you obeyed, another confession spoken into the night. One of the candles burned out, marking the end of a chapter, and, hopefully, the end of your separation. “Hmm, again.” He probed and you did, watching as a soft smile spread on his lips, his thumbs swiping circles into the exposed skin of your thighs. “Wanna hear it again.” Caleb’s voice unbearably soft, his touches even more so, and you put your hands on both sides of his neck, putting more distance between you. “And again. And again. I never want you to stop saying it.”

He opened his eyes and studied your face, eyes closing when you pressed a lingering kiss on one of his eyelids, his breath shaky, hands warm against your skin.

“I love you. Have been for so long I lost count ages ago.” His lips formed a line, happiness squeezing at his chest, and he nodded once, eyes opening slowly to bore into yours and don’t stray.

“Ages?” He repeated, partly mimicking your words from weeks ago, but still visibly shaken, chest filling with the warm ache of being accepted. Of loving, and being loved in return.

He cursed himself internally, eyes nearly filling with tears, dread rising in his chest at the thought that he had almost lost you, because of his selfishness and insecurities.

You kissed his lips again and he almost sobbed right into yours, his head falling onto your shoulder, kissing the soft skin, feeling the way in which it warmed up under the contact. He hugged you to his chest, kissing your neck, wanting to be even closer, to get under your skin, to merge with you for evermore and never let go.

“Ages.” Your answer sure and final, your arms returning his embrace, hands tracing patterns into the skin of his strong back. His necklace rested right next to your heart, where it should always be.

You began to hum a lullaby,letting your soft voice replace the harsh sounds of the rain and thunder. The melody drifted through the house, seeping into the walls, and into Caleb’s memory.

And when he whispered more confessions, his lips marking your skin with them, you exhaled a long, steady sigh, marking the end of this cruel storm.

And later, as you fell asleep in a tight embrace, listening to each other’s heartbeats and imagining the life ahead of you, neither of you noticed the objects gently floating around the room—silent signs of Caleb’s excitement. The heavy stone of guilt had finally lifted from his chest. He had won you back, and he wasn’t going to let you get hurt again—not by him, not by anyone else. He swore to protect you, and he would keep that promise for as long as he lived.

And if the sound of plant pots shattering, books tumbling, and your things scattering around woke you up from your slumber hours later, his puppy eyes, a kiss to your cheek and a promise of a breakfast in bed was enough to make you melt. You could always clean it up later.

This time, together.

*bonus!*

3 years later

* 15+ unread messages from [ my miss hunter!<3 ]*

✉︎ hii babey, why is caleb being so weird today??? he literally called me earlier, asked me to freaking pray for him and hung up on me that menace.

✉︎ did u like fight or smth? u never fight what did he do this time

✉︎ the last time he acted so weird was when he ate his bday cake day early cause he didn’t realize what it was for, remember that? what do u see in him i cant quite understand we’re like, losers trapped in hot bodies istg

✉︎ wait he just send me a pic

✉︎ OH MY GODDDSSG???? BABY CONGRATULATIONS!!!!! THIS SECRETIVE LITTLE SHInzsn

✉︎ you look so happy in that picture!! im literally bawling, the ring’s so pretty and you both look gorgeous. im so so so happy for you (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ)♡ ♡ ♡ i love you guys sm please INVITE ME TO THE WEDDING IN CASE CALEB FORGETS TO TELL HIS SIS SOMETHING THIS IMPORTANT AGAIN

✉︎ im so happy for you, can’t stop looking at ur lil happy faces. U both deserve the world. NEXT UP!! picking a wedding dress!!!!! Im already on it, you’ll look like a PRINCESS!!! ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ gorgeous little b caleb’s a lucky maaaaan

✉︎ call me when you’re done with kissing!! or u know, other stuff. u guys can be pretty gross.

✉︎ i love you. both. can’t wait for the wedding!!!!!! AHH!!!

thank u for reading!! 🤍 if u managed to that one’s LONG. I hope it was worth ur time 🥺

if u want to support me, u can do it here!!: https://ko-fi.com/kitimeq

every like, comment and reblog would mean the world to me 🤍

[lynostalgi]

god I would be UNSTOPPABLE if I was capable of consistently initiating tasks. just you wait. you'll be waiting a while but just you wait

[lynostalgi]

GOD i can't fucking do ANYTHING WRONG (throws beer bottle at the wall but it bounces off and lands perfectly right side up)

[lynostalgi]

being depressed and resentful is so embarrassing I feel like a cartoon villain

[lynostalgi]

every game is an otome game if you selfship hard enough

[lynostalgi]

[lynostalgi]

"don't let it bother you" first of all, everything bothers me

[lynostalgi]

you met me at a very mentally ill time in my life

[lynostalgi]

sorry i never replied. everyday is blending together and im losing sense of time