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dollzstrology · 3 days ago

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⋆.ೃ࿔ 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐍’ ᝰ Smoke stops by your shop, coming to check on you and the baby. After he’s with you for a while you realize he’s here for more than a welfare check, he interested in what’s between your thighs.

𝑭𝑬𝑨𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮… Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore

𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑻… Explicit; smut + fluff, porn w/ plot, fem!reader, spiritual!reader [hoodoo], envisioned as black!reader while writing, half-canon & half non-canon, very similar to Annie x Smoke dynamic, established relationship [married couple], mom!reader & dad!smoke, pregnancy [second trimester], pregnancy sex, oral [fem!receiving], p in v, dirty talk. 1930’s time period. southern/country dialect used.

𝑫𝑼𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵… 3.5k words

𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑫𝑺 𝑭𝑹𝑶𝑴 𝑾𝑹𝑰𝑻𝑬𝑹… This is my first ‘Sinners’ fic and I’m soooo excited to be posting it! I’m already obsessed with Micheal B. Jordan but this movie made me love him 1,000 times more! All my Smoke lovers lmk how you like this fic! As always feel free to comment and reblog, I love reading y’all reactions! I hope you enjoy!!

𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑲𝑺… Sinners M.List ・Sinners Taglist ・Main M.list

It’s a slow day at the shop, the perfect time for you to catch up with creating some batches of fresh herbal teas and home remedies for your customers when they come by. You have your radio humming low in the corner, keeping you company as you sing along and work, grinding some dried yarrow in your mortar and pestle.

You’re about to reach for the peppermint to add into the blend when a quiet shift in the air makes your skin prickle. You feel a presence come behind you before it can even make its way into your line of sight.

Your hand slips to the straight razor beside your tray and you spin around, steel flashing in the light, holding it right under their chin. “Elijah…” you say slowly, drawing out the vowels as if you’re warning him. “How many times I done told you ‘bout sneakin’ up on me while I’m workin’?”

“Put that blade up, woman, ‘fore you nick me.” Smoke replies with his gold tooth gleaming in the sunlight, unfazed by the weapon at his throat, knowing you would never actually harm him, plus it’s not the first time you’ve had a razor blade to his neck. “I jus’ came to love on you a lil’ bit.”

You stare at him a second longer, eyes narrowed, then you huff through your nose and lower the blade onto the table. You set it down with a little clatter and let him gather you up in his arms. His hands cradle your small belly bump, lips pressing gently against yours. “You always sneakin’ around. One day I’ma really cut your ass.” You mumble in between kisses while still embracing his love, spewing out out a threat you know will just end up being empty.

“And you still gon' love me, jus’ like I love you with that fire in yo’ mouth.” He replies, referring to your slick tongue and the feistiness within you that’s always making an appearance. Before you know it he’s kissing you slow and tender, like he don't plan on leaving anytime soon.

You lean into it, breathing in his scent: woodsmoke, Irish beer, and gunpowder. You rest your hand on his chest, right over his heart, giving him one last kiss before pulling back. “What you doin’ here in the middle of the day? Thought you and Stack was gettin’ the juke ready for tonight.”

“We are. I just… wanted to check on you. And the baby.”

“We alright.” You say with a smile, loving how he’s become even more attentive since you told him you were in the family way. “She movin’ more lately. Likes when I sing to her in the mornin’.”

“She? You still holdin’ onto that?” Despite you having all the hoodoo abilities to tap into the spiritual and supernatural realm, your husband swears he knows the gender of the baby. “I’m tellin’ you, it’s a boy. Gon’ be just like his old man.”

“Lord, I pray that ain’t true.” You tease, laughing while walking over to where your candles are, grabbing a match and lighting the wick. Having to deal with Smoke and Stack everyday, trying to keep them safe, and make sure they stay out of trouble is enough to worry about, you can’t imagine having to deal with that times three.

While your husband watches you light a candle, his eyes wander to all the things surrounding you; herbs, mojo bags prepped like the one he has around his neck, and other things you use as a hoodoo practitioner, makes a frown appear on his lips. “I don’t like you doin’ all this magic shit while you carryin’. You don’t know what kinda spirits you callin’.”

Smoke’s never been able to grasp the in and outs of hoodoo, he’s never been the type of man to believe in things like that but it doesn’t stop him from supporting you and taking your word on everything because he believes in you. He’s always been fine with it and never interfered with your work but now that you’re carrying his child he’s concerned.

“I been doin’ this since before you even knew my name.” you calmly reply, understanding his point of view but wanting to reassure him everything is fine and the baby isn’t in harm's way. “I was born into this. My momma did it carryin’ me, and her momma ‘fore her. You know I don’t call nothin’ dark in here.”

“I know. But still, it makes me nervous.” He finds his way behind you again, wrapping his arms around your mid section, resting his chin in the crook of your neck. “You my whole heart and this lil’ baby too. I don’t want nun bad happenin’ to y’all.”

You lean into his embrace, letting his warmth wash over you like a river. You close your eyes a moment, feeling a sense of peace settle in your bones from his presence. “I’ll be alright. We both will.” You place your hand over his, gently rubbing your thumb against his skin. “I promise.”

Smoke turns you in his arms, kissing you deeper than he did earlier, this interaction feeling more fueled by lust than love. You feel the pull of him, the same pull that causes you to gravitate towards him when his body is calling for you.

Things with Smoke are always easy, you and him have the type of chemistry where certain things don’t have to be explained, like you and him don’t have to discuss how he yearns for you, how just you touching him makes him feel like he’s about to crumble. You’ve always been his safe place so when he comes to you needing comfort, to blow off steam, or some sweet lovin’, you’re always happily ready to provide.

Without breaking the kiss he takes off his jacket, throwing it somewhere on the floor before gently lifting you onto your work table, sweeping some of your jars to the side so they won’t get damaged. Your hands are already at the buttons of his shirt, and his mouth trails down your throat, his tongue swirling over the place where your pulse beats strong.

The ceiling fan above spins lazy circles above the two of you but it doesn’t cut down on the Mississippi heat or the fire burning between you and him. Smoke’s palms slide up your thighs, rough and warm, pushing your flowly dress up bunch by bunch ‘til he’s gets you exposed, your panties already damp from the way he's been touching you.

“You wet f’me already, mama?” he hums low, his thick fingers pressing against the wet cotton, a smug expression comes across his face that’s filled with pride. You bite your lip, nodding as he hooks his fingers in the waistband and pulls them down your legs, letting them fall to your ankles before taking them off.

“Always wet for you, ‘lijah,” you whisper, voice breathy and thick with need for what lies beneath his waist. “You know that.” He groans at the sound of his name on your lips, the only person on Earth who’s allowed to say his birth name, the only one who says it so sweetly it makes him want to hear it again and again.

He drops to his knees, kissing the inside of your thighs like he’s praying at an altar. The farther he moves up your body, slowly making his way to your sweet sweet center, you can feel your heart pounding with anticipation. Once he’s done teasing, his mouth meets your core, warm and wet, tongue parting your slit nice and slow, allowing your delicious taste to settle on his tongue before he starts to really ravish you.

You gasp when the warmth from his mouth comes in contact with your pussy, trying to control yourself before shoving his head deeper between your legs. His tongue gives your folds the most attention in the beginning, repeatedly moving up and down, giving you a nice warm up before he turns things up a notch.

Smoke’s starts giving your clit some love, the tip of his tongue gently grazing over it before applying pressure, causing your hips buck instantly and him to groan into your heat, making you moan from the vibrations. The more he eats your pussy, smearing your slick across his face, and him angling his mouth and sucking your clit so well it feels like your spirit is levitating, edges you closer and closer to releasing all over his face. “Mhm! Smoke, right there!”

If you could see the look on this man’s face there would definitely be a smirk across his lips, hearing those words from you, spoken in that needy tone you use when he’s hitting all those right spots, makes his dick rock solid. Of course with him being a gentleman ‘n all, his first priority is making sure his wife is taking care of, so he’s gonna make sure you get one off before he does… but not without making you work for it first.

Your fingers thread through his coarse hair, hips rolling up into his face to create more friction and help you chase your high faster. The moans that fall from your lips aren’t as soft as they were earlier. They’re raw, hungry, each one more whiny than the next. You can feel that pressure in your stomach beginning to build up and when you feel his fingers protruding the entrance of your pussy, you already know you’ll be cumming in a couple minutes or less.

When that feeling starts growing stronger and intense, about to take over your body and allow you that sweet release, Smoke pulls back making you glare at him as if he has two heads. “I know you ain’t gonna jus’—”

Smoke give you the smallest smirk as he stands up, licking your juices off his lips, already knowing how you’re about to finish that sentence. “I ain’t, baby. I jus’ wanna feel you wrapped ‘round me when I make you cum.” He undoes his belt, slow and deliberate, his predatory gaze looking at your body. You watch as he frees himself from his slacks, thick and undeniably hard, the sight alone making your mouth fill with saliva, wanting him to just fill you up already.

He helps you get off the table, lifting you by your waist and gently placing you on the ground. Once your feet hit the wooden floor he’s barking out orders. “Turn ‘round and put them hands on the table.” You obey without question, leaning forward and angling your ass in the air.

Once you're in position Smoke comes up behind you, pushing your dress up until it’s past your hips, giving him a full view of your ass that he’s practically obsessed with. He takes a moment to take in the sight in front of him, your pretty ass on display, your juices slowly dripping down your thighs, and your hole clenching around nothing, begging to be stuffed.

Your husband bites his lip, his dick twitching against his thigh in anticipation of what’s to come once he wrapped around your velvety walls. He gives himself a few strokes before gliding his dick across your folds, allowing your slick to gather on his tip and mix with his precum, using the fluids as a lubricant. He grounds himself in his stance and places himself at your entrance, slowly pressing himself inside you, stretching you wide open with his girth.

When he enters your wetness, a groan slips through his bared teeth, his hands wrapping around your full hips as he lowers his eyes and watches his dick begin to disappear into your heat. Even though you’ve had sex with Smoke a million times, every time he fucks you it somehow feels the first time. A sound flies out your mouth, something that’s a mixture of moan and cry when you feel him stretching you out every time he pushes another inch of himself inside you.

You’re not in pain, it’s just the delicious burn that comes with being with a man that’s well endowed. Your hands begin to grip the end of the table, needing to balance the pressure you’re feeling in your lower region. “I got you, baby. Jus’ relax.” Smoke whispers while placing a few soft kisses on your back, reassuring that he has everything under control.

Feeling his lips press against your skin makes you clench around him, so tight that he lets out sharp breath, trying to keep himself from busting on the spot. He's not even fully inside you yet and he’s already teetering on the edge of having his own orgasm. He allows both of your bodies to adjust, for both of you to become one flesh, slowly nudging his dick further and further into your pussy until he bottoms out.

After a few moments his pelvis is flush with your ass and he just holds there, waiting until you’re ready. Once you relax and he feels your body loosen up, he takes that as a green light to continue and start applying some real pressure. He slowly slides out, pulling out almost halfway before rolling his hips and pressing back into you, beginning a series of long strokes into your pussy.

Your mouth flies open, moans filling your small shop as Smoke thrusts into you with no plan on stopping anytime soon. He angles himself slightly upward, giving himself the perfect position to continually hit your g-spot until you cum around him. At this point you and him are both dripping in sweat, droplets traveling down your face and towards the spillage of your breasts and his trickling down his chest and torso.

You decide to not let your husband have all the fun and start throwing it back against him, meeting him in the middle of each thrust, creating an echo of your skin slapping together. Smoke groans, loving the sound of your skin colliding each time he pushes himself deeper inside you. “Pussy feels so good, baby. Makes me wanna get yo' ass pregnant all over again.” He mutters before throwing his head back.

Ever since you’ve become pregnant Smoke swears your pussy has become even better, which he didn’t think was possible. He doesn’t know if it’s because you’re more sensitive now, that you’ve been able to become so wet to the point he sometimes slips out, or your body is just preparing for the baby but either way he loves it.

“You talkin’ like I ain’t already carryin’ your baby.” you manage to pant between moans, lips curling up into a soft grin. “Lemme get this baby out first before we talk about another one.”

Smoke chuckles low, a sound that doesn’t come from him too often but when he’s around you it easily emerges. “Can’t help it.” he murmurs, breath hot on your skin. “You so damn good to me. Make me wanna keep you knocked up, full a’me all the time.”

He punctuates his words with a deep roll of his hips, hitting that spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyes. Your fingers curl around the edge of the table, knuckles white as you brace yourself against the slow, deliberate strokes that are unraveling you, thread by aching thread.

The scent of yarrow, rose, and the musk of your joined bodies hangs heavy in the air, brewing in the humid Mississippi heat. You feel like a woman possessed, bent and spread in the middle of your sacred space, lost in the kind of pleasure that only Smoke can provide.

It doesn’t take long before Smoke starts going harder and faster, his thrusts becoming relentless as tears of pleasure stream down your face. His pelvis slams against your backside with every stroke, the table rocking from your tight grip and his rough movements, causing a few jars of herbs to fall on the floor but you’re too fucked out to care. You cry out each time he hits the spot that makes your knees weak, your nails scratching at the wood while his balls slap against you.

“Say my name, baby.” he pants, giving your ass a nice hard love tap before his hand return to your hips. “Tell the whole Delta who fuckin’ you this good.”

Your breath catches, your body trembling with the raw fire he’s stroking inside you. You bite your lip, eyes squeezing shut as the waves of pleasure crash over you. “You fuckin’ me so good, Elijah.” Your voice trembling as the words spew out your mouth. “Can’t nobody fuck me like you can.”

He growls your name back, deep and full of hunger, sends a shiver straight down your spine. His hands dig into your hips harder, pulling you flush against him, every thrust driving deeper, more urgent. “You my woman.” he snarls low, voice rough like thunder, his possessive ways making an appearance. “Ain’t no woman on this earth meant for me but you.”

His words break through all your control and with a cry, your body collapses against his, your muscles convulsing in waves as you fall apart, every nerve ending going up in flames, breathes coming in sharp gasps as you let go. His name spills from your lips again and again, one of Smoke’s many weaknesses when it comes to you.

Smoke grunts as he continues to thrust inside you, repeatedly brushing against your g-spot until you quiver tightly around him again, your walls rapidly pulsing around his shaft. Your orgasm rips through you and a loud whine fills the air, your legs beginning to shake and your balance falter, causing your husband to tighten his grip around you so you won’t collapse on the hard wooden floor.

Soon after you Smoke’s body succumbs to its own pleasures, his orgasm washing over him as he releases his hot seed deep inside your walls, the thick sticky fluid reaching the depths of your womb, his body shuddering until his high levels out.

Smoke exhales a deep, satisfied groan as he gently pulls out of you, careful not to move too fast, not wanting to overstimulate you. Your body jerks slightly, a soft whimper slipping from your lips at the sudden emptiness. He leans down immediately, pressing a line of kisses along your spine like an apology, his strong hands gliding up your sides with a gentleness that replaces how rough he was just being.

“You okay, baby? I ain’t hurt you, did I?” he murmurs, voice low as always, but sweet, filled with a certain softness that only you are allowed to hear. He’s usually not rough with you, he hasn’t been since you’ve become pregnant but he’s been wound up, things with Club Juke and business deals, he needed this as an outlet for his issues but now that his brain fog has cleared he wants to make sure you’re alright because he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he ever hurt you.

You shake your head, resting your forehead against the table, lips parting with a small, breathless laugh, still trying to regulate your breathing. “You ain’t hurt me, ‘lijah. I’m doing good, real good.” you whisper, eyelids heavy, wanting to just go home and soak in the tub. “But I don’t think I’m gonna be able to walk right for a while.”

He chuckles at that, one that’s filled with satisfaction of his previous actions, that he once again fucked you ‘till you can barely walk. “Lemme help you out then.” Smoke easing you up into his arms, bridal style, like you don’t weigh a thing and placing you into the chair in the corner of your shop. He grabs a clean towel from the hook near the window and dampens it with some fresh water before he starts cleaning you up, making sure he's as gentle as possible.

When he finishes, he presses a kiss to the curve of your belly, whispering something low to the baby that makes you melt all over again. Smoke pulls up a stool and sits beside you, pulling you close until your head rests against his chest. “Think we scared off the spirits in here.” you mumble, giggling softly, knowing that your ancestors probably wouldn’t approve of you having relations on sacred ground.

Smoke chuckles at that, his hand stroking lazily over your thigh. “Well, they need to let grown folks do what they s’pose to do. Don’t need them watchin’ us no way.”

You hum softly, nuzzling closer, feeling his lips press against your temple and his hand making its way to your belly for the millionth time today, his thumb rubbing slow circles against your warm skin. “Gon’ be a good daddy to this baby.” he adds after a beat, his voice steady now, that rare, open affection in his tone. “Better than mine ever was.”

You lift your head just enough to meet his brown orbs, looking up at him with pure love in your eyes. “I know you will. You already are.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of the wind brushing against the shutters, the faint creak of the old ceiling fan above, and the gentle rhythm of your breathing syncing with his. “I love you, Elijah.”

“Love you too, mama. Always.”

𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻 — @Yungblud423 @nostlicions @loveabledovee @secretisme4 @pinkkycherrish @bl3ssyn @shamansha @queenofklonnie22 @rios-st4rs @Secretlifeofpreshap @bxrbie1 @t-wylia @bendoverboo18 @milesf4vg1rl @secret89sblog @gabbysbl0gg

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salemrph · 3 days ago

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Salt on your Skin

Summary: You’ve lived your whole life in a sleepy coastal village where nothing ever changes until he arrives. A stranger with silver hair. He shouldn’t matter. He’s just another tourist, just another passing face. But the way he looks you, the way he listens… it makes you feel seen in a way that terrifies you. Between the salt air, the mango-sweet afternoons, and his voice whispering promises you’re not ready to believe, you start to wonder: what if this forgotten place isn’t where your story ends, but where it begins?

Character: Sylus x f!reader / you

Gender — ☆ AU, romantic, fluff, intimacy, slow burn, slice of life, summer romance, sexual content (nsfw), smut with feelings, light angst, Hurt & Comfort

Word count: 19.7k | Reading Time: 77 min | AO3 Sorry that this thing is so fucking long.

🎧 "Salt on your Skin" Spotify Playlist -> A/N: You’ve waited long enough, I won’t keep you. I’ll be hinting at songs I listened to while writing certain scenes. If you don’t feel like pausing to click on each one, no worries—just hit play and enjoy. Sorry that it got so fucking long. It was my intention to create such long fanfic. *In this story, the character referred as "Reader" or "You" is from an unnamed cost village, the specific location isn't relevant to the story. While Spanish is the character's native language, and they mainly will speak it in the story, most of the dialogue will be presented in English for ease of reading. I just display thing in Spanish with translation, for funny moments and relevant emotional dialogue. Also I tried my best to catch the grammatical errors. (＞﹏＜)

Taglist: @blessdunrest @xxsyluslittlecrowxx @voidsylus @thechaoticarchivist @leftpoetrymoon @madam8 @stxrrielle @terriblesoup @mansonofmadness @leftpoetrymoon @jadeloverxd @nutshellera @zaynessdarling @sylusgirlie7 @mothlillies @deathrye @mansonofmadness @peascribbles @pdacex @eolivy

Salt on your Skin

🎧 "Salt on your Skin" Spotify Playlist

You grow up in a small fisherman village, south, nothing spectacular, nothing loud. Sun kissing your skin, salt tangled in your hair, the smell of the ocean was your everyday. Palms swayed lazily in the wind. Cactus grew wild by the roadside. The earth was dry, cracked in places, but always warm. Sand found its way into everything: your shoes, your sheets, your soul. Nothing ever really happened here. Nothing special, at least. Not many people cross this place, just the occasional wanderer and backpacker, drawn in by the silence, the stillness, the illusion of escape.

And it is beautiful. To the outsider, it’s paradise. A hidden postcard painted in blues and golds, for all who pass by and leave, carrying the souvenirs, the sand, and probably a peeling sunburn back to wherever they came from. But you? You never left. Maybe for college and for short trips not far away. You picked a degree because someone said it was practical—but what’s practical in a place where everything moves slowly and nothing ever changes? So you came back with a diploma in hand, a broken heart from some idiot and little by little, you buried your dreams. Right there beside the notebooks you used to fill with sketches of faraway cities and impossible futures. Right beside the plans you whispered under your breath when you still believed your life could unfold somewhere else.

Now you help your parents at the store or your work at the beach bar. You tell yourself it’s not so bad because it isn’t. This place raised you and cradled you. But sometimes… When the sun dips low and the air turns heavy with memory… You wonder what else your life could’ve been. You try not to want too much. Having dreams, in a place like this, is the first way you start to go crazy if they're too big. It feels so difficult to find the right way to break free.

Your days follow the rhythm of the tide. You wake with the sun, light slipping through the shutters in pale golden stripes, warming the terracotta tiles before your bare feet even touch the floor. Coffee first, always strong, slightly bitter, brewed in a tinny bialetti older than you. You sip it slowly in the kitchen where the radio was always on. The village is small enough that everyone knows your name, your business, and what you looked like in every awkward stage of growing up. You can’t walk five steps without a nod, a wave, or someone shouting:

“¡Dile a tu mamá que tengo listo su pedido” (“Tell your mom I have her order ready.”)

You smile and keep walking. You help out at the family store during the hotter hours. Selling sunscreen, postcards, cold drinks, cheap towels for tourists who forgot theirs. Sometimes you sit in the doorway fanning yourself with an magazine while your father tries to fix the old A/C and your mother swears in the background. And then there was your second job, unofficial but necessary. Since you've returned, you've been saving, for that eventual emergency plan, if your heart finally found the courage to leave. So you stand in that beach bar almost every day during the high season.

Plastic chairs half-buried in sand, a fridge that hums louder than the music, and drinks poured from memory. You know who likes extra lime. Who never tips. Who only comes to watch the sunset alone. It’s simple. Predictable. There’s comfort in that. But sometimes, when you’re rinsing out glasses or wiping sand off tables, you catch yourself watching the horizon. Something out there is calling you, something that still believes in the girl who once drew maps of cities she’s never seen. But then you shake it off. Because this is home. This is yours and if nothing ever changes…

Until that one afternoon.

Is hot like always, so you are wearing shorts and your bikini under the top. Ready to cool off whenever you need. Preparing some drinks, getting ice cubes and cleaning tables. That’s when you notice him. A tall man with sunglasses sitting at one table with an umbrella. He’s definitely going to get roasted with that skin color, you think. You know how tourists are so, you sigh but still you approach with cold iced water and place it in front of him. “If you stay long, please don't forget to use sunscreen. We have some here if you need.”

He just lifts his head slowly behind the lenses. And somehow, you feel like you’re the one under the sun now. He lifts the glass slowly, takes a sip, and sets it down and keeps watching the ocean. A moment later, you hear a soft, almost too quiet “Thank you”. That’s it.

Weird. You shrug it off. Tourists are strange sometimes. Some just want peace. Others… are well yeah just strange. You go back to refill the drinks fridge and emptying trash cans. Around this time of the year it can be a bit busy, but mostly on the weekends.

A breeze sweeps through, bringing the scent of seaweed and coconut sunscreen. You hum a little, a tune only half-formed, and focus on your tasks. Sometimes you dance behind the bar to some songs. Is a easy way to make the hours pass by and keep yourself busy. But today, a strange feeling doesn’t leave. That sensation that someone’s watching you. Not in a creepy way but more out of… curious.

Later, you bring drinks to another table, and when you glance back toward him, he’s still there. A notebook sits on this lap in front of him, he’s sketching or writing. You can’t quite tell. Odd choice for this heat. You observe him a bit longer, taking in the silver hair, the shape of his nose, the sharp jawline. The defined muscles along his arms; clearly a sporty guy. In the heat of the day, he’s wearing a black linen button-down shirt and long white pants. The view of him sinks deeper into your mind. One of the fancy tourists, no doubt. But… What does he do here?

A small smile appears on his face. Did he write something funny? You pause mid-step, pretending to adjust the tray in your hands, but your eyes flick toward him again. The pen in his hand stills for a heartbeat. It stirs something in you. Curiosity takes over you with persistent. You wonder what kind of thoughts live in that notebook. You’re about to turn back when he lifts his eyes from the paper and shifts slightly toward you, propping one elbow on the table and resting his head against his hand.

“¿Creciste aquí?” (“You grew up here?”)

It catches you off guard. Did he just speak your language?

“Sí” (“Yeah, I do,”) you reply, the words came out slow, drawn out by your confusion.

He closes the notebook, the pen slipping between the pages. His sunglasses stay on, but you can feel the weight of his gaze.

“Debe ser genial” (“Must be nice,”) he says, almost wistful. “Crecer con el océano como tu patio trasero.” (“To grow up with the ocean as your backyard.”)

The comment was harmless but… your eyes were still on him, searching for an accent you don’t hear. No, there wasn’t any. It was like he’d lived here his whole life, like he’d sat on these plastic chairs a hundred times, melting under the sun, playing cards with the elders, gossiping with the ladies, and running barefoot through the sand as a child. But you’ve never seen him before.

The air shifts. There’s something about him you can’t place. Maybe you should take a break and get some water. You cross your arms, standing your ground. “Are you just passing through?”

He smiles “Something like that.”

That wasn't an answer, definitely not a straight one.

“Honestly, you look more like someone who belongs at a luxury resort than in a remote place like this.” Ups… That was a bit too direct. You tilt your head, trying to be a bit more polite this time. “Well, there is not much to see here. I hope you enjoy the quietness though.”

He laughed, and finally takes off his sunglasses. You get lost in his eyes: red, deep, impossible. Like twilight caught in glass. The world seems to slow. The wind rises slightly, brushing against your skin like a whisper, stirring the salt and sunlight around you. You got trapped for a moment that felt more like an eternity. The intensity of his eyes. You blink a few times. You decide to ignore whatever is fluttering in your chest. Your shift just got a hell of a lot more interesting.

“You got a name?” you ask with an arrogant tone, your chin tilted just enough to make it a challenge.

He smirks. “Depends who's asking.”

You roll your eyes. Of course he’s flirting. You know how this goes, always some smooth-talking tourist thinking the local girl is part of the experience: “Wild, free and exotic women.” You could throw up.

Not going to insist if he is that kind of guy…

You huff and turn away as the manager calls you, yelling for more napkins or limes or whatever crisis the little storage shed has today. By the time you come back, the man is gone. A bit irritated, you finished your shift. You wanted to know his name, because those eyes will be hard to forget. But in the end, it's another tourist that comes and goes, so who cares?

Only… The next day, he’s there again. Same chair. Same sunglasses. Same notebook.

You try not to react. Just grab a tray of drinks and keep your head down. But you feel it, the burn of his attention. The strange, steady way he watches you without saying a word, like he’s reading a story only he can see written on your skin. You can’t exactly kick him out. To be fair, he’s not doing anything wrong. Just sitting there, quiet and scribbling in a worn leather-bound notebook. He never bothered you with more words than necessary, just with his simple order.

He returns the day after, and the next one too. Day after day.

You’d notice another group of girls, tourists with their bright bikinis and confident smiles, approach his table once more. Was it already the third time today? They'd lean in, their voices a little too loud, trying to flirt, trying to get his number.

Bored behind the bar, the clinking of glasses and the distant murmur of waves providing a dull backdrop, you'd watch the scene unfold. You'd find yourself absentmindedly munching on some salty peanuts, watching how the girls creatively or rather uncreatively tried to get from him some kind of reaction. But he never paid them much attention. He'd just offer a polite, almost distant smile, and then his gaze would drift past them, straight across the sunlit space, directly to you. It was as if he knew you were enjoying the theater.

This time, he finally gets up, placing the exact amount for his drinks on the counter. He could at least tip me… Asshole. With a casual wave, he said, “See you tomorrow,” before disappearing into the shimmering heat of the afternoon. You hate how that makes something flicker in your chest.

By the fifth day, it’s getting under your skin. You don't even know why it bothers you so much. More than one tourist has spent several days in a row at this bar, but he's different somehow. They can call you crazy, but you have the distinct feeling that he's coming to see you.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself after drying off your arms behind the bar. “What’s your deal, big guy?” you turn around to him. He catches your eyes. Notebook in hand walking toward you.

“I'm just enjoying the sunshine. Is that a crime, sweetie? ” His voice is smooth, playful. He’s testing you.

You straighten your back. “Don’t call me that.”

He grins, tilting his head. “Then tell me your name.”

You don’t blink. “No.”

He chuckles and shrugs, like that settles it. “Sweetie, it stays.”

“Does that line usually work on all girls?”

He raises a brow, leaning one elbow casually on the bar. “Which girls?”

“Like the ones from yesterday,” you scoff. “Bet you tell all of them they’re special.”

His smile falters for half a second.

“I don’t like wasting my time,” he states, a hint of challenge in his tone. “Are you jealous?”

You want to roll your eyes so hard they might get stuck. You want to mock his question. But the unexpected flutter in your gut throws you off. Instead, with a frustrated sigh, you toss a dish towel onto the counter and turn away. Organizing the glasses on the shelf. “Order something or move, I’ve stuff to do.”

“You always talk to your clients like that?” he asked casually.

You pause for a moment. Damn him. “Well, you don’t have to flirt with me to get your coffee.” You muttered, your tone as flat as you could manage. There’s a beat of silence. Then, you hear the faintest scoff, more breath than sound. You glance over your shoulder, just enough to catch the slow curve of his mouth. His eyes glint with amusement.

“Who said it was flirting?” He tilts his head. You were already regretting giving him a reaction.. “But…” His voice dips lower, velvet and sin. “...would you like to see the difference, sweetie?”

Your heart stutters. You scoffed and you pretended not to hear the pet name. And marched off to clean a nonexistent stain on the espresso machine before he could see the flush climbing up your checks. For the rest of the day, you cursed him. And cursed yourself most of all for almost wanting to ask what the difference would feel like.

On your day off, you try not to think about him. Really. You swear you don’t care. You’re just… curious. That’s all. Wondering, maybe, if he showed up again. You imagine him sitting there, legs crossed, sunglasses on, notebook open like always. Maybe he’s gone. Maybe he finally got bored of this sleepy place and your uneven service. That would be good, right? Maybe that means your brain can shut up now.

I shouldn't care.

You grab your towel, a bottle of cold water, and your favourite pair of flip-flops and head out. Not to the main beach where the kids yell and the old ladies gossip under their hats. No. You take the winding dirt trail, sun on your back, cactus needles lining the path like prickly guards. You duck under hanging branches and hop down the rocky slope, slipping once like always and catching yourself just in time. It's a longer walk, but getting there is...

...is, your little secret. The cove. Small, quiet, framed by cliffs and half-hidden by palms. It feels like a pool but big enough to swim. The ocean is glass today, turquoise and endless. You drop your towel on the warm rock, kick off your flip flops and remove your clothes. This… this is yours. No tourists. No bosses. No strange men with sharp smiles and too many secrets. You dive in, the water cold and perfect, wrapping around you like silk. You swim out until the world goes quiet. Just the splash of your limbs and the lull of the tide.

You turn toward the shore, slick hair clinging to your neck, water dripping down your back. You’re just about to wade out... You freeze. There he is. Sitting on the rocks, on your rocks. You grip the edge of a stone, still in the water. You can't be serious. Of all the places in this world, on this piece of earth, exactly at the same moment as you're here…

“How?” you demand, brows furrowed.

He barely moves, still perched like a damn king on your favourite spot, one leg stretched out, the other bent. White T-shirt and shorts this time, sea breeze tugging at the hem. Of course he looks good. Too good. Effortless.

“How what?” he asks, tilting his head just slightly so the sun hits the curve of his jaw. He doesn’t even take the sunglasses off.

“This place,” you snap. “How do you know about this place?”

“It’s easy when you can talk to people or…” He pulls out his phone and waves it lightly. “You know, you use social media.”

You click your tongue, annoyed. Probably some old tagged picture from a local, maybe even one of yours. Is it really just coincidence and bad luck?

“Fuck you,” you mutter, more at yourself than him. You can’t blame him. But gods, it stings. You embarrassed yourself yesterday, thinking he was flirting with you and now you have to see his face on your day-off. This is a punishment.

He grins. “I could leave, if it bothers you but you’ll have to say please.”

“You’re such an asshole.” You say without hesitation.

He laughed lazily. “I have heard that a few times.”

You climb out of the water, dripping and fierce, and march right past him, snatching your towel. Drying off your face. “You’re ruining my sacred space,” you declare.

“Sacred, huh?” he murmurs, still watching you. “Didn’t mean to trespass on holy ground. Either way, since I’m here…” He flips open the notebook. “Mind that I stay a bit more? It was a long walk.”

You pause. Half wrapped in irritation and a very dangerous, very inconvenient curiosity. In all the years finding a tourist here, in your place was extremely rare. Some of your friends and people of the village used this place as well. But in the end, most of the time, you're alone here.

“Do whatever you want,” you mutter, turning your back on him as you dig through your bag for your diver goggles. You don’t look at him again.

You slip the goggles over your head, adjust the strap, and wade back into the water. As soon as you dive, the world changes. The sun dims, the sea hums around you, and everything slows. Fish dart between rocks, flashes of silver and blue. You follow them deeper into the cove, letting the water strip away the heat of his gaze, the smugness of his voice. Down here, it’s just you. Every so often, you surface for air, and he’s still there. Legs stretched out, notebook resting on his knee, watching you like you’re some rare creature he stumbled across and hasn’t figured out if he should leave alone or chase.

The coral shimmered beneath you like a dream, sunbeams piercing the water in long, golden threads. Tiny silver fish darted between sea fans, and swaying anemones moved in slow, hypnotic rhythms. You floated there, suspended in the hush, arms outstretched, breath held tight in your lungs, letting the stillness soak into your bones. Being in the water makes you feel free. All these creatures can swim, leave, and be wherever they want. They migrate without fear, camouflaging themselves with the seabed. You are jealous of such a level of freedom.

Distracted by your own thoughts, you didn't notice the shadow approaching. You turned your head, and there, gliding just a few meters away, was a massive stingray. Its wings undulated as it passed, alarmingly close. You gasped for air. Big mistake.

Saltwater rushed in, burning your throat. You kicked upward, desperate for air, but your limbs felt slow, heavy, panic clawing at your chest. A strong hand wrapped around your arm. You broke the surface with a choking gasp, coughing hard as you ripped your goggles off. You barely noticed you were trembling, clinging to whoever had you, water spilling from your lips.

“Are you okay?” His voice was close.

You nodded through the coughing, breathing in hard, rough gulps. “Y-Yeah… yeah.”

When you finally look up, you don’t find the lazy smirk he always wears. Concern, drawn across his face like a shadow. His brows are furrowed, mouth slightly parted, as if he wants to say something but doesn’t know where to start. His gaze searched your face.

Your mouth parted, breath still shaky, and for a moment, you forgot how to form words. He tilted his head slightly, still holding your arm. You were too close. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on your lips. Close enough to see the drop of seawater sliding down his neck, tracing the sharp line of his collarbone. You almost lean in, just a little. The impulse hits you fast and stupid, heat rising too quick. You squirm in his arms, suddenly aware of every inch between you.

You clear your throat and pull away. He lets go without a word, and you swim back toward the rocky entrance with the energy left you had. You haul yourself out, grabbing your towel and slipping on your shorts. Your heart’s pounding, angry and confused. You want to leave. Double strike. Not only did you embarrass yourself, but he had also saved your life from drowning. If he hadn't showed up… You stopped.

Fuck… I owe him my life.

That makes you turn in the exact moment when the sun catches his skin as he walks out of the sea. He runs a hand through his wet hair, squeezing the water out with a slow drag of his fingers. In his other hand, he holds a pair of diving goggles. You were damn right, gods, were you right. Now that he’s standing there in nothing but swim shorts, there’s no doubt about it. His body is sculpted.

Shoulders broad, chest defined, muscles honed from more than just casual swimming. The drops trace delicate lines down his torso, catching the light, glinting like it’s showing off for you. You blink. Your eyes shamelessly are scanning him. He has such a big ass and if that's big, what about his...? You glaze dropped briefly over his crotch. Just a glimpse and then you drag your eyes back up to somewhere safe, somewhere less dangerous at least.

“Thank you,” you say almost too low “For helping me...” You hesitate.

“No need to thank me.” You started coughing again. He made you sit down and handed you your bottle of water. Having him so close, you realized he looked worried. So you hadn't imagined it before. You should worry about yourself, but your eyes couldn't stop scanning his features. Yes, his nose really was beautiful. The length of his eyelashes, the faint dark circles under his eyes. Was it because he didn't sleep well, or were they natural? What did he even do? Was he some kind of businessman? No, he looked more like a model. Thousands of questions crossed your mind…

It's not your business.

But still...

“How can I compensate you?” you asked, finally recovered.

He paused, then took his own towel, draping it around his neck. “Help me explore this place.”

“The village?” you asked surprised by such an absurd request. “There’s nothing to explore.”

“There is,” he replies, calm as ever.

You frowned. “What would that be? This place has like… three alleys and a very enthusiastic goat.”

“Sweetie, isn’t exploration what you do when you don’t know what you’re looking for?” There it was again, that smug little note in his voice.

“You always talk like that?”

His smirk sharpened, eyes glinting with mischief. “Do you always look at someone’s crotch?”

Your mouth fell open, he noticed. You straightened, refusing to give him the satisfaction to admit that you did it. “Fine, I’ll be your guide.”

He smirked, unabashedly pleased. “Good. So, should I stick with Sweetie or start to calling you Miss Guide now?”

You shot him a dry look, already turning away. “Try it, and I’ll kick you off a cliff.”

He laughed, unbothered. A beat passed, your steps crunching against the sand. “How should I call you?”

“Sylus,” he said simply.

You nod, repeating it silently in your head.

Sylus.

And for some reason, hearing it made something shift—this is like the opening page of a fresh new book. And you’ve never been great at turning down a good story.

Days pass like waves and a little too easy to get lost in.

At first, you meant to show him the typical tourist stops—the scenic overlook, the main plaza, that one beach every guidebook lists first. But after the second spot, he leaned close and said, “I’ve seen all of these before. Try harder, sweetie.” So you started to improvise.

You showed him the old boat wreck tucked behind the rocks, half-sunken, forgotten by time, but not by you. The kind of place only someone who’s grown up here would know. Then came the spot with the best grilled fish and amazing fresh fruit juice, and the owner who winked at you every time like she knew something you didn’t. You take him to the cliffs no one climbs but you, another one of your secret places to scream into the wind and feel free. He stands at the edge, hands in pockets, peering down like he’s measuring how far he’d fall. Asking if you were really going to kick off the cliff. “It’s still an option,” you muttered, but your lips betrayed you with a smile.

Both walked down to the pier, where the old fishermen had already settled in for the morning, as they always were, lined up with their tattered hats and leathery skin, smoking, drinking cheap beer, swapping stories that blurred the line between memory and myth. It was also one of the best spots to jump into the water when the tide was right.

Sylus seemed genuinely interested in their fishing; leaning in, asking questions, even tossing out a few jokes that made one of the men laugh. You watched him exchange words with ease. If he was one of those rich types, shouldn’t he have more expensive hobbies? Golf, yachts, or something with polished marble and champagne? One of the old men turned toward you suddenly, his voice rough with years and sea air.

“Me agrada tu amigo” (I like your friend!) he shouted, grinning through missing teeth and raising his beer in salute.

Sylus, just slips into your days without ever asking to. It was stupid how easily he fit into the cracks of your life. He starts waiting until your shift ends, arms crossed, a lazy smile on his lips like this is normal. It's definitely making your days more entertaining, if it weren't for the fact that the neighborhood is starting to notice. Of course they do; someone always does. You ignore the comments as best you can.

“¿Quién es ese muchacho tan guapo con el que anda?” (Who is that handsome boy you are walking with?)”

“He’s paying me to be his guide.” You said to the people every now and then. It’s not a lie. It’s also not the truth. You don’t explain more. You don’t want to. This town is small and whatever this is between you and him, it’s yours. Reacting too much to the gossip spreading like gunpowder, would only lead to more of them. You really don't want to start a fire.

“Who said I'm paying you?” he leaned closer, an amused murmur in your ear as he caught your quiet deflection.

“Be quiet and let me handle the gossip,” you hissed back, not breaking your stride.

“I'm fine with that, but under one condition.” You stopped mid-stride, your heart giving a nervous jump. He smiled and tugged you a bit closer. “You can't lie to me.”

“Why would I do that?” You tried for nonchalance, but your voice felt thin.

“Well, if you lie…” He stopped, turning dramatically toward the group of old ladies playing cards. They were perfectly set up in the shade in front of one of their houses, colorful hand fans fluttering against the heat, their eyes already on you.

Oh no.

“¡Señoras, soy su nov—!” (Ladies, I'm his boyf—)

“Shut up!” You lunged, grabbing his shirt, the fabric bunching in your fist. Panic flared in your chest. You could see your entire calm world shatter, crackling into chaos, if he blurted out something like that. “Fine, fine! I won't lie to you.”

“Smart decision, sweetie.” His smile widened, all innocent charm, but his eyes held a glint of triumph.

You let go. “Asshole,” you murmured back.

You pretended not to notice but it’s the little things. The flutter moments that sneak past your defenses and settle under your skin. The way he always calls you sweetie. He knows it annoys you, but says it anyway, just to watch that fire light in your eyes. How he's always too close. A finger under your chin, forcing your gaze when you try to escape his. You tell yourself it's annoying. You tell yourself you don't enjoy it.

You reminded yourself, every time he brushed against you “by accident,” every time he leaned just a little too close to whisper something entirely unnecessary. You reminded yourself of it especially when your heart started beating too fast in his presence, when your body began to crave that warmth. You were just enjoying the game while it lasted. A little spark. A little summer mischief. That was all this was. Because people like him… They didn’t stay. He was a tourist, and the charming ones always knew how to play his cards. They were all promises but vanished at the end of summer. And you? You wouldn’t be stupid about this. You weren’t going to fall.

...Right?

One night, you're sitting on the sand, barefoot, toes buried, only a small flame between you, driftwood fire crackling soft, heat licking your knees. The stars are bright, the kind of sky you only get in places forgotten by noise. You tilt your head and catch him watching you. The shadows from the fire dance across his face, making it harder to read his expression.

“Do I have something on my face?” you ask.

His lips twitch. “Yeah. Starlight.”

“Sure...” You shift a bit. “Are you ever going to tell me what you’re doing here?”

He exhales, slow, like he’s been waiting for that question. But instead of answering, he says:

“What do you dream about?”

It doesn’t surprise you. He always does this, twisting the conversation back to you. You stare into the fire. You think about it and somehow he has this calm way to let you pour out your heart. Without judgement, he listens or asks how you feel about everything. About how you wanted to leave, once. How you almost did. About books you read and lifes you imagined. About how sometimes peace tastes like salt… And sometimes, it tastes like regret.

You could talk with him for hours, discuss thousands of scenarios like you've never done with anyone before. It feels like the dirty gears of those buried dreams are being dusted off with each word he said. Sylus tells you some stories about what he has seen, eaten and experienced already. He points out the things you would like, places he would show you. The collection of vinyl he has, how he enjoys playing the piano. The familiarity he has with you is overwhelming. He teases you, makes you angry, he flickers his finger against your forehead when you say something stupid. He has been even helping you with everyday chores like the other day:

The market is buzzing. Colorful umbrellas flapping in the breeze, baskets full of delicious fruits and vegetables stacked in uneven towers, the scent of grilled spices and fish so rich it makes you hungry on the spot. You weave through it like you always do, with a tote bag swinging at your side. Sylus is less graceful, dodging kids with sticky fingers and getting bumped more than once by old ladies with strong elbows. He clearly doesn't like to be in the crowd.

“You sure you know where you’re going?” he teases, glancing at your bag. “Or are we just wandering until you collect enough mangoes for a year?”

“I always know where I’m going,” you reply smugly. “And don’t judge my mango obsession. They're better than whatever bitter fruit you probably grew up with.”

“I prefer oranges.” He plucks one mango from a pile and holds it up, golden and soft. “This one’s bruised.”

“Don't be so picky. That means it’s perfect,” you snatch it from his hand. “Bruised fruits are sweeter. You know nothing.”

He laughed. “Teach me, then.” He buys one cup with fresh cut fruit at the same stall and spears a piece with a toothpick. He chews, then nods thoughtfully. “You’re right. They are perfect.” Your stomach growls, loud enough to make you wince.

Sylus glances at you, then casually offers the cup, holding it out. “Do you want some?”

You hesitate for a second, somehow it feels more intimate than it should. But then you take the offered bite. Your fingers brush his and his gaze lingers, just a moment too long.

“You like it?” he asks, voice softer now.

You nod, chewing. You try not to smile as you pay for the mangoes. Before your hand even reaches your wallet, Sylus slips in, handing over the change to the vendor. You narrow your eyes, but he’s already walking. By the time you're heading back toward home, your tote is filled with groceries, the fruit cup now shared between you, and the sun is heavy over your shoulders. Sylus walks beside you, glancing at his phone for a moment, then back at you.

“I need a moment,” he says, stepping under the awning of a closed stall, voice already lowering as he answers a call. You nod and wait a few steps ahead, settling into the shade of a tree with a sigh, adjusting the straps on your bag.

Minutes later a tourist approaches, clearly lost, holding a map and trying to look confident.

“Hi! Sorry… Em… do you know how to get to Playa Baja?”

“Yeah,” you say, automatically switching into your helpful voice. “Go back to the main road. Take the bus from there, near the bakery. Is a 20 minutes ride.”

He grins. “Thanks! You’re local, huh? Makes sense, only locals are this kind.”

You laugh politely. “Sure.”

But before he could say more, the tourist glanced over your shoulder, and he caught Sylus’s stare. He backed off quickly with a smile faltering, then cleared his throat and stepped back. “Enjoy your day.” And disappears as quickly as it appeared.

Sylus stands there, phone now tucked away.

“Huh. That was fast,” you say.

He shrugs. “Wasn’t important.”

You finally reached your house and the family store below it, the familiar babble of domestic chaos greeted you before the front door even opened.

“Just buy another one, you stubborn old man!” your mother’s voice echoed from the back.

“No, this one’s fine!” your father snapped, followed by a loud Clank Clank, as he smacked the side of the ancient A/C unit again.

You sighed and pushed the door open. “Really? Still fighting over that thing?”

The store was warm, stuffy, and smelled faintly of dust and cleaning spray. You dropped the bags on the kitchen table with a loud thud before stepping into the shop. Sylus follows you silently, scanning the familiar chaos with calm eyes.

“¡No puedo más!” (“I can’t take it anymore!”) your mother snapped from behind the counter, wiping sweat from her forehead with a dish towel. “Tell your father to buy a new one before he sets the store on fire.”

You sighed. At the sound of another figure entering with you, both of your parents looked up. Your mother’s gaze immediately fixed on Sylus. She blinked, surprised, eyes traveling from his silver hair down to his clean, fancy clothes, pausing on his calm expression. A stranger in her home and he comes with you? Not common. But as always, she gathered herself fast. Her tone shifted.

“Excuse us for the shouting,” she said quickly, brushing her hair back. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Her eyes met Sylus’s, just for a moment, and something changed in her face. A flicker of quiet recognition, curiosity… Then she turned to you, wandered over with a little smile playing on her lips.

Oh no, she's already imagining things.

You rub your eyes. That mother smile. The one that knew too much and said nothing for now. Sylus very politely and kindly declined your mother's invitation, then he stepped closer to where your father stood grumbling beside the A/C unit.

“Mind if I take a look?” he offered casually, nodding toward the old machine.

Your father blinked at him, thrown off, giving space and the screwdriver. “¿De dónde sacaste a este muchacho?” (“Where did you get this boy?”) he whispered to you.

You smirked. “Me ha estado siguiendo como gato callejero. Creo que me ha cogido cariño.” (“He's been following me around like a stray cat. I think he likes me.”)

Your dad huffed a laugh, still eyeing Sylus like he wasn’t sure whether to be suspicious or impressed. He stays by your side, arms crossed, ready to judge every move Sylus made. The machine was old, rusted at the edges, and had a habit of rattling like it was possessed by a ghost. Most people wouldn’t dare touch it without at least cursing first. He knelt beside it, examined the wires and casing with quiet concentration, then reached into the toolbox without asking where anything was.

There was a soft click, a sharp spark, and then the hum. Not the loud, wheezing death-rattle it usually made. A smooth, low vibration and cool air drifted out. Everyone froze. Your father blinked and moved to press his hand to the front of the unit like he couldn’t believe it was real.

Sylus stood, brushing dust from his hands. “It’ll work for now,” he said casually, glancing at your dad. “But you should definitely buy a new one.”

Your father opened his mouth, probably to argue but stopped.

“¿Una cerveza, muchacho?” (“A beer, boy?”) he asked, already moving toward the fridge. “Por lo menos para agradecerte.” (“At least to thank you.”)

“And you’re staying for dinner,” your mother added before Sylus could respond, her voice final, already thinking about the menu she would display tonight. “Is there anything you don't like to eat?”

“Mamá…” you said in a tired tone, shaking your head.

“We need to thank him properly,” she chirped.

Sylus hesitated, looking between them, then over at you, as if silently pleading for a way out. But you just smiled, leaning against the counter with one eyebrow raised, thoroughly enjoying the moment. Your father was already asking for a detailed explanation of how the miracle worked. And if he also knew how to fix cars.

“Looks like you’ve been adopted,” you said sweetly. “Good luck.”

He narrowed his eyes at you, but there was a flicker of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You expected him to fumble—thought he’d slip up on the names, or get awkward answering your dad’s too-bold questions. You wanted him to flinch a little, if only for your own petty satisfaction. But somehow, he didn’t. He was smooth and polite. Your mother was enchanted in less than ten minutes, practically glowing every time he addressed her with a soft “señora.” And when he mentioned liking fishing? Your father lit up like it was Christmas morning.

You sat there in quiet horror as your dad leaned back in his chair, nodding thoughtfully. “Lo quiero como yerno.” (“I want him as a son-in-law.”) You nearly choked on your water. Your soul left your body.

“Papá…!”

Sylus set his glass down gently and said, perfectly composed, “We don’t have that kind of relationship” Then, with the faintest trace of dry amusement, he added, “She actually threatened to push me off a cliff earlier.”

Your dad let out a booming laugh. “That’s love!”

Your mother gasped and you slumped in your chair, face in hands, absolutely done.

Later, when the plates were cleared and your parents had gone off to debate which neighbour had the best tomatoes this year, you tugged Sylus out onto the back porch. The sky was a soft indigo now, stars starting to blink awake. Crickets chirped. The kind of summer night that made everything feel special.

You leaned against the railing, arms crossed. “Don’t listen to anything my dad said.”

Sylus leaned next to you, hands in his pockets, lips twitching with amusement. “What, about wanting me as a son-in-law?”

“Yes, that.” You groaned. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was... funny” His voice softened. “And... nice. Being around that much love. The way he looks at you. The way your mom knew you were lying about not being hungry.” He smiled faintly. “It’s loud, chaotic—and kind of wonderful.”

You glanced up at him, and something in his eyes made your chest ache.

“They raised you well,” he added quietly.

You tried to brush it off, but your voice cracked slightly. “How was your childhood?”

“Different.” He looked out into the trees. “I struggled to survive.”

You nodded, unsure what to say. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

"Don’t be." He patted you head, his voice was strangely comforting.

“Well, you can always come back,” you offered, suddenly nervous, removing his hand embarrassed. “They’ll be happy to see you again.”

He turned, eyes finding yours.

“And you?” he asked.

“Eh?”

“If I leave… would you be sad?” Your stomach flipped. But instinct kicked in, and you played it off with a shrug. True... He will leave...

“Not unless you start tipping me at the bar.”

He chuckled. “Is that so?”

“And also, you shouldn’t drink every day either. You’ll die young.”

He turned to fully face you now, clearly amused. “Oh? So now you’re worried about me?”

You tried to hide your smile. Sylus laughed softly, but you could still see the warmth in his eyes.

Under all that tension. Your feeling is accumulating points of reward each time he leans in too close. When he hands you over a bottle of cold water. When he pulls out the chair before you sit in the restaurant or when he lets you use his lap as pillows to sleep on the beach. And in those moments when you see his smile, like now, under the flicking bonfire and his features are so soft as clouds drifting over the sky. You wish you had never met him because one day, probably soon… he’ll be gone. You should’ve known better.

The ache in your chest is already blooming. Not sure if you won’t be able to bury it after he leaves, you choose the only thing you can. Make the moment yours before it’s gone. You stand, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt, peeling off layers of doubt with every piece of clothing. The air is warm, soft against your exposed skin. The flame crackles behind you, but the sea calls louder.

“I’m going to swim,” you say, calm, even if your pulse isn’t. You glance back over your shoulder, half naked by now. “Coming?”

He blinks, just once, surprised. But that smirk; god, that infuriating smirk; returns quickly.

“You’re bold,” he says, shacking his head but his hand catches your arm gently, his glowing red eyes hold you in place. “Are you sure?”

You raise an eyebrow. “About swimming? Yeah.” You know he is not asking about that.

The last piece of clothing drops to the sand. You walk into the water, until it's covert over your naked body and you submerge yourself entirely. He follows, doing the same. You can feel him behind you before you even turn. His fingers, tracing the curve of your back, a feather light touch that sends shivers up your spine.

“What is your deepest desire?” You hesitate. You could lie. You’ve lied before but somehow, with him, it feels… pointless. He sees through it already. “Sweetie,” he says, his breath hot against your neck. “Don’t lie to me.”

“…I want to leave this place,” you admit. His hand holds yours beneath the water, while his arm wraps around your waist.

“Why haven’t you?” he asks.

You stare out at the horizon, the darkness of the night merge with the ocean, and the stars shimmer almost on the water. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m afraid.”

“What would you do?” His voice is closer now. Lips brushing your wet hair.

“I want to see the world,” you whisper, lifting your free hand toward the sky as if you could touch the stars. “I want to know what it feels like to really live.”

He presses his lips on your shoulder. “I can give you that.”

You huff, half a laugh, half a shield. “Yeah, sure. Is that a promise… or just another pick-up line?”

His fingers tilt your chin gently toward him. His lips graze your cheek, your ear. You close your eyes briefly enjoying the prickling sensations of him, of your feeling surfing over your skin.

“Don’t lie to me,” you echo back.

“I’m not,” he whispers, his thumb brushing your cheek, lingering as it slides over your lower lip with the faintest pressure. Your mouth parts instinctively, you feel the urge to chase his thumb with your tongue, but you hold back. His gaze locks onto yours. “I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

His thumb rests there a heartbeat longer, then trails down, tracing your jaw, your neck. You turn toward him slowly, pulse climbing, not sure if you're bracing for something or hoping for it. Sylus just pulls you a touch closer, fingertips resting at your waist, holding you steady. He leaned in, slowly, giving you a few agonizing seconds to pull away. You could still stop this. He’s giving you the chance.

The kiss it’s not like in the stories. It’s not gentle. It’s every unsaid thing burning behind your ribs. You melt into it before you even realize. Fingers gripping his shoulders, heart racing like it’s trying to escape your chest. You didn’t want this. You didn’t mean to want him. But his mouth fits too easily, and your resolve slips, undone by the sheer gravity of wanting. And your soul be damned, suddenly, all the rules you'd set for yourself over years: no feelings, no attachments, no hopes… Shatter with the fire inside your chest. Fuck. You don’t want him to leave and that terrifies you more than anything.

Sylus was hungry for you, that much was clear. He kissed you then with an intensity that doesn't match what you were expecting. You’ve met selfish lovers before. Men who touched you like a reward, a prize, like they earned your body just by showing up. Sylus let you lead. And when you kissed him deeper, testing limits, pressing your bare body against him in the water, feeling how hard he was. His grip tightened at your waist, drawing you closer until there’s no space left. Yet he still didn’t cross the line. He wanted to, you felt it. You reached out, your fingers brushing against his hard cock pressing on your belly, and your body burned with desire. Your hand wrapped around him, the impressive length and thickness of him filling your palm, even through the water. A soft gasp escaped your lips as you stroked him, pulling him further into the kiss. Your tongues met with a urgent dance as they swirled and tangled, exploring every curve of each other's mouths. His hand, now tangled in your wet hair, pulled your head back slightly, deepening the angle of the kiss even further.

Then, with a soft, ragged breath escaping him, he broke the kiss. His eyes were heavy with unspoken longing. “As much as I desire you. I want to give you more than just this…” His voice was low, aching with restraint, as he gently removed your hand from his length. Then he kissed you—deeply—like he needed you to know how much he wanted you, how much he was holding back. Yet, he still made you dress and walked you home in silence and left you at the door. He kissed your hands, then pressed another, lingering kiss on your temple, and whispered a soft “Good night”.

The ceiling fan carved the silence in soft, slow turns. Outside, the ocean whispered secrets to the rocks. A dog barked once, far off, then silence settled again. The air carried the scent of sea and distant charcoal fires into his room.

Sylus sat on the edge of the bed in his rented apartment, your kiss still ghosting his lips. The notebook lay open in his lap, pages filled with observations only he would understand. His handwriting wound through sketches, your fingers curled around a drink, the curve of your smile when you weren’t watching, the weightless joy that flickered in your laugh. He stared for a while at the half-finished line, heart heavy with a feeling he hadn’t expected to grow so fast, so deep.

“You kissed me with your whole heart trembling in your chest, and I felt every piece of it trying to crawl into mine.”

Sylus hadn’t meant to kiss you tonight. His fingers dragged slowly across his lower lip. He closed his eyes, replaying the moment in silence. Your skin against his, the sound you made when his hand slid to your waist. The way you leaned in, offering more than kisses. You would’ve given him everything if he’d let you. But he stopped it. He breathed through the tightness in his throat. He wanted more than just the heat of a passionate night. More than a fleeting moment tangled in sheets and whispers. He wanted your yes in daylight. He wanted your smile with no hesitation behind it.

The pen hovered. He turned to a fresh page.

“I wanted to give in. To drown in you, in that moment, in everything we both tried to silence. But if I touch you like that… if I let go… I want it to mean something neither of us can take back.”

His jaw clenched. His heartbeat had yet to settle.

“I don’t want to be a moment you regret. You deserve love that doesn’t ask you to run. So I’ll wait. Even if my hands ache from not holding you. I’ll wait, because I already know what I want. I want you.”

He set the pen down gently, running his thumb along the notebook’s inner spine. The ceiling fan is still slicing the dark above him. And though the bed was empty, every part of him was still holding you, still feeling the shape of your body against his. Sylus leaned back, letting the notebook rest against his chest.

[Notebook]

“You called me arrogant today but your face was all red. Later, you walked closer. Closer than you usually do. You’re so cute.”

[pressed hard into the paper]

“If I ever could taste the salt of your skin on my lips…”

[Margin note, stained with coffee]

“I tried not to watch your mouth when you called my name.”

[With a small cat sketch]

“Sometimes you act like a cat… Probably I can lure you with mangos and a feather. I should start to call you Kitten.”

He hadn’t planned to stay this long in your town. But his soul was already settled down to your side. He came here for a reason… Something he hasn't told you yet but he hopes to do soon. For now, you made the days longer in the best way. And the nights? They stretched on without you. His gaze drifted toward the dark window, where the reflection of his own silhouette blurred with the night beyond. How long could he stay here? Another week? Maybe two weeks? Could he pretend, just a little longer?

The phone buzzed softly against the table. Its glow carved a cold line through the room.

Kieran.

Work never stayed quiet for long. He looked down at the page again, absently tapping the pen against the margin. The light of the phone blinked again. He turned it face down. Let the darkness swallow it.

“Not tonight,” he murmured.

Tonight, Sylus wants to stay in the dream a little longer.

You didn’t sleep much that night. Your mind was racing, what a strange man. No, Sylus isn’t like other men. Since that night, not much has changed. He still shows up at the bar. He still ordered his usual, except that the amount of alcohol had decreased. He walks you to your home after your shift and takes you to some new corner of this forgotten coastline. Some days it’s a long lunch in a neighbouring village, sharing fried fish and watching old fishermen untangle their nets. Other days it’s a walk through ruins or abandoned train tracks where he tells you stories that feel like lies but you can’t quite call him out on them.

You'd spent afternoons together where he’d saved your life, snorkeling together in the cove. You'd watched fish drift by, swum alongside turtles. But beneath the surface of those moments, the intensity between you had grown, a horrible static electricity building, filled with desire and agonising restraint. Yet, you haven't kissed again or he hasn't tried it either. You really want to taste that fire once more on his lips, desperately, but the fear of getting hooked overwhelms you in those moments and yet, amidst all the tension, he keeps your close.

A few days later, just after you’d flipped the last chair onto the table and wiped your hands on a dish towel, you found him leaning against the counter. “I need to head into the city tomorrow,” he said, voice casual, but something in his tone tugged at your attention. “Just some business. A couple of hours' drive.

You look to the sides, confused.

“Do you need my bless to leave?” you joke.

“No. You said last time you haven’t been there for a while.”

“Yes, I did...” you say still moving from side to side, cleaning up. He takes out his phone and pulls up an image of a poster he saved from who knows where. Then he slides his phone over to me. You stopped what you were doing, and you look at the picture even more confused than before. “Looks interesting. That kind of vintage bookshop really suits you. Would love to see it.”

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped a little, almost hesitant:

“I’d really like your company...” he stopped. He didn’t look at you right away. Just tapped his fingers lightly against the counter, like maybe he wasn’t sure what you’d say. And for a second, your heart stuttered, wondering why that small invitation suddenly felt so big. “I want to ask you out.” You stopped what you were doing, and you look at him even more confused than before. You opened your mouth, searching for words. Are he...?

“I— We’d stay the night,” he added quickly, almost stumbling over the words. “Would be a shame not to enjoy the city.”

You didn’t answer. Can that be a good idea? Going alone with him somewhere else? Spending a night... together? Wait... You're not sure about anything right now. Did he asked your for a date?

“Can I think about it?” you ask, your voice softer than you intended. Your heart was beating a frantic thousand times per hour.

He nods once, a small smile tugging at his lips, as if he understands more than you’re saying. “I’ll be waiting for you here in the morning,” he replies.

You brought it up to your mother later that night, expecting a lecture, maybe a little Catholic guilt or dramatic sighing, or even a heartfelt monologue about reputation. Instead, she practically threw you out of the house. By morning, she’d stormed into your room, yanked the curtains and told you to get in the shower. Breakfast was already waiting, and by the time you were dressed. Your backpack was packed and waiting by the door. You stood there, speechless.

“Go,” she said, waving her hand like she was shooting a fly. “My beautiful and intelligent daughter… You’re a grown woman.” Then she gave you that nostalgic mom-look. The one that makes you feel like she’s seeing your five-year-old self and not the woman standing in front of her. “I’ve seen you around him. You light up.”

You gawked at her. She kissed your cheek and shoved two lunch boxes into your hands. “Just… be smart, okay? And use protection.”

“Mamá!” You laughed, heart pounding in that strange mix of nerves and excitement.

She winked, shoved you toward the door, and muttered, “And if he hurts you, I will find him.”

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the open window, sunglasses hiding his eyes, hair tousled from the coastal breeze. The warm air rolls through, that kind of afternoon that tasted like freedom. You tapped through his playlist, surprised to find a mix of old ballads and moody instrumentals, jazz and classic. An old soul.

“This is tragic,” you exhale. “Do you only listen this kind of music? Who are you, the Godfather?”

He shrugged. “It helps me think,” he said smoothly, as if brooding jazz was a requirement for plotting international deals or crimes.

With a small grin, you scrolled until you found something upbeat—something from your childhood that made your shoulders instinctively roll. The rhythm of the village, the kind of song that dragged you out of your chair whether you wanted to dance or not.

♫ Bachata en Fukuoka ♫

“You know this one?” you asked, teasing.

He didn’t answer. He sang. Badly. You burst out laughing because his voice was deep, slightly offbeat, and he only knew every third word. But gods, he was trying. Your chest ached in the strangest way.

“Please stop,” you gasped between laughs.

“I’m giving it soul,” he argued. “And you’re not any better.” You stick out your tongue and turn the volume up, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

When he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, grinning, you caught it—that angle of his jaw in the sunlight, the muscles of his forearm flexed against the wheel, veins drawn like rivers under skin. The line of his throat as he tilted his head back slightly, mouth curved around the chorus. His lips… again you felt your breath catch. Shit. You turned toward the window quickly, letting the wind cool the heat rising up your core and mind.

The city rose out of the horizon hours later. You hadn’t been here in a long while. You shifted in your seat, suddenly hyper aware of everything. Sylus pulled up to the hotel. You stepped out of the car and instantly felt underdressed. Marble floors. Velvet armchairs. Staff in suits. And the chandeliers were huge, golden things that looked like they belonged in a ballroom, not in a lobby. You wrapped your arms around yourself slightly as Sylus handed over the keys to the valet. At the reception desk, the woman behind the counter lit up the second she saw him.

“Mr. Qin. Welcome back.”

Welcome back? You glanced at him, but his expression was unreadable. Then she turned to you with a professional smile. “And welcome to you as well, Missus Qin.”

Your breath hitched. Missus Qin? You opened your mouth to correct her, but Sylus just smiled, clearly amused about your flustered expression with silent satisfaction. He didn’t correct her. Instead, he took the room key, slid your bag over his shoulder, and placed a gentle hand on your back, guiding you toward the elevator.

“Why did she call me that?” you muttered, trying to sound nonchalant. You weren’t sure if it worked. He didn’t answer. “Sylus?”

“Must’ve been a mistake, sweetie,” he said, voice rich with mischief. You gave him a look.

The suite was stunning. High ceilings, city view, modern decor with soft touches of luxury, everything immaculate.

“We’re staying in the same room?” you asked, half amused, half testing him.

“Since you’re Missus Qin today,” he said with a smirk, pulling off his sunglasses and setting them neatly on the table, “it’s only logical you stay here with me.” He gestured to the sofa, far too expensive to actually be comfortable. “I can sleep there, if it makes you more comfortable.” Then, almost teasingly, “Or I could book another room… if you’d prefer distance.”

You rolled your eyes, but the way your pulse stuttered was entirely unfair. “I will survive one night. Also you’re paying for the room.” Then, to break the tension threatening to tighten your chest, you added with a smirk of your own, “If you snore, I swear I’ll kick you off the bed.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “I’d expect nothing less.”

You turned away before he could see your grin. He checked his watch as you lounged near the window, sipping from the complimentary bottle of water. The city shimmered below, heat caught in the glass.

“I need to head to a meeting soon,” he said, checking his phone. “It won’t take long…” You looked up at him. “Would you like to accompany me?

Your brows lifted. “Why? Isn’t it a business thing? Nop. I’m not dressed for that.”

“That shouldn't be a problem.” Then, with a glint in his eye. “We can go shopping.”

Your mouth opened slightly. “I… I don’t—”

He stepped closer. “I asked you to come with me. Let me spoil you a bit.”

You blinked. “This feels like Pretty Woman… The rice guy who—” you avoid finishing the sentence, while you blush… You’re reading too much into it. He laughed but still he flicked his finger gently against your forehead.

“Hey!” you protested, rubbing the spot with a scowl that didn’t reach your eyes. “For what was that?”

“Don't overthink it.” He smirked. “Come on. Follow me.”

The hotel’s boutique was quiet and elegant, tucked just off the main lobby. Every item looked carefully chosen. Every mannequin poised. Every price tag… conspicuously absent. You picked a dress—fluid fabric, a cut that hugged you just right, something that made you feel both effortless and elegant. He plucked a pair of heels from a nearby display, held them up with a faint smile, and nodded once, like it was obvious they were yours. Even if you had insisted, even if your hand had reached for your wallet, you both knew it was pointless. The dress, the heels, probably cost more than your savings account held. At the counter, while the attendant folded the items with gloved hands, Sylus leaned in, the heat of his breath grazing your ear.

“Being Missus Qin,” he murmured, voice velvet-smooth, “means being more greedy. Can you handle it, my love?” That last word just rolled off his lips, and your cheeks instantly flared. You had to practically twist away to try and mask the grin threatening to take over your face. He chuckled softly, clearly pleased by your reaction. He carried the bag himself as you walked out, your heart still trying to recover from that one line.

“Go change,” he said, gesturing toward the elevator. “I’ll be waiting.”

By the time you returned, dressed and flustered, Sylus was already deep in conversation with two well dressed young men. His sentence slowed mid-syllable the second you stepped into view.

“You look…” His voice dipped lower. “…beautiful.”

The two men turned to look at you with perfectly timed curiosity. They introduced themselves as Luke and Kieran—identical down to the sharpness of their suits and the easy confidence in their smiles. But it didn’t take long to notice the difference: Luke had a warmer gaze and Kieran was quick-witted, his charm more playful, layered beneath sarcasm and quick glances exchanged between them.

Despite your confusion about who they were or what kind of business was Sylus doing with them. They treated you with quiet respect, never once making you feel out of place. Their ease around Sylus said more than their words, they trusted him. Completely. Which made you wonder again: what kind of man was Sylus really?

You sat together in a private business lounge. You stayed silent, hands folded in your lap, unsure where exactly to place yourself in their conversation. But Sylus didn’t miss a beat. Even while talking about contracts and acquisitions; about someone needing to sign off on a property, timelines, numbers that blurred together. And still, his attention didn’t drift far from you.

Without glancing, he reached out and pulled your drink a little closer, as if sensing you hadn’t touched it. A minute later while still speaking, something about closing dates and a stubborn signature, his hand slid the menu toward you with a gentle nudge. You looked up but he was still mid-sentence. The way his pinky brushed yours briefly. How, when your posture tensed just slightly, he shifted his knee until it touched yours. You weren’t sure if it made you feel more comfortable or more exposed.

At some point, a set of blueprints and renderings were spread across the table; floor plans, materials, and elegant, dark-toned interior designs. You leaned forward, tilting your head. It was sleek, yes. Sophisticated, expensive. But also… cold.

“Too much black marble,” you said, nose scrunching slightly. “Is it an apartment or a villain’s lair? Who is going to live there?”

The conversation paused for a breath. Sylus blinked, lips parting faintly. A beat later, Luke chuckled. Kieran raised a brow in amusement. Sylus turned his head slowly to look at you and the faintest smile ghosted across his lips.

He adjusted one of the pages, letting you see the whole layout again. “How would you distribute it?”

And after maybe other two hours, Luke and Kieran stood up, gathering their documents with ease and that lingering air of familiarity.

“When will you come back, boss—?” Luke started to ask, but was promptly elbowed by Kieran, who gave him a look.

“Dude! Don’t you check the situation?” Kieran hissed under his breath, nodding slightly in your direction with an exaggerated arch of his brow.

Luke blinked, then followed the gesture, finally catching on. “Oh. Oh. Ooooh…”

Sylus exhaled through his nose then replied with that measured calm that somehow still carried authority. “I still have a few things to take care of.”

Kieran bit back a smirk. Luke straightened, saluted poorly, and muttered, “Message received.”

The way they deferred to him made it obvious, they weren’t just associates. They were his employees. Loyal ones. And the way he held their respect without needing to raise his voice or assert control told you everything about the kind of leader he was.

And just like that, they were gone.

♫ Grecia ♫

You smile “I like them.”

Sylus laughed, already loosening his collar as he sank into the seat beside you, his shoulder brushing yours.

“That’s good” he said, with that familiar glint in his eye. He tilted his head, voice low and easy. “Now... what do you want to do?”

You didn’t have a plan, but Sylus seemed to know how to make the hours stretch. The city buzzed around you, alive but not rushed, soaked in golden light as the sun melted behind the towers. You’d already walked for hours, through markets full of spice and music, narrow alleys lined with vines and hidden bookstores, quiet plazas where street musicians played like they didn’t care if anyone listened. He bought you a tiny ring from a vendor who didn’t even take cards, “just to see if it fit”.

At a corner café, he ordered two lemon sodas and claimed the tiny mosaic table beneath a jacaranda tree. The breeze carried soft music from someone’s open window, and for a moment, everything slowed down. He tapped his glass to yours, watching you over the rim with a look that made your skin feel warmer than the sun. You laughed at something he said—something dumb and half-flirty. He leaned back with a smug grin, the corner of his mouth tugged higher with every note of your laughter. His eyes sparkled.

“Are you flirting with me, Sylus?” you asked, aiming for teasing but missing the mark.

His smile widened, then he tilted his head, one brow arched, a flicker of something triumphant in his gaze. “I told you you’d notice the difference,” he said softly.

Your heart jumped in your chest, as it had tripped over itself trying to catch up with the moment. You looked down, suddenly fascinated by the edge of your napkin. The heat in your cheeks gave you away, the quick breath you took, the smile tugging at the corner of your lips no matter how hard you tried to keep it in check. You felt embarrassed but also happy. So many emotions rushed through you at once it was hard to name them all. Something was clear as day, you wanted to hold onto this moment for a bit longer.

Sylus brought you to that small bookstore from the poster, and stepping inside, its quiet atmosphere and crooked rows of worn shelves immediately embraced you like a sanctuary. Dust floated in lazy golden stripes through the high windows, and the smell of old paper settled in your lungs. You wandered aimlessly, fingers brushing spines, pretending to read while your thoughts raced. You found Sylus in the poetry section. He hadn’t said a word, just stood there, back to you, his frame relaxed and strangely at home among the faded covers and soft silence. When he sensed your presence, he turned. His finger was pressed against the page, underlining a single verse in the middle of the poem.

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,”

“in secret, between the shadow and the soul.*”

You swallowed, something catching in your throat. Sylus finally met your eyes, reading the short poem in calm voice.

“So close, that your hand on my chest is my hand…”

“So close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.*”

*(Pablo Neruda - 100 Love Sonnets)

The book stayed open between you two, but everything else, the shelves, the world blurred around the edges. And then he added, softer still, “That’s what it feels like. With you.”

A few stray cats lounged on stone benches, and small paper lanterns had already begun to glow in anticipation of evening. You walked along the edge of a garden square after that. He slowed his steps to match yours. His fingers brushed yours once… then again… until, without ceremony, he reached down and took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. Your heart feels relieved when you feel his warmth.

A loud, unmistakable growl echoed between you, making you freeze. Your stomach betrayed you. “Dinner’s on me.” he said, thumb stroking across your knuckles in a quiet rhythm.

The restaurant he chose was tucked away, elegant without trying. Dim lights, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city’s slow descent into night. The staff greeted him with too much familiarity, calling him Mr. Qin with polite bows and smiles that told you this wasn’t his first time here. You looked around. Velvet booths. Every guest was a portrait of tailored wealth. But across the table, Sylus didn’t blink at the opulence. The waiter poured wine, announcing its origin with elegance. Sylus barely acknowledged him.

You didn’t know how to hold yourself here. How to sip the wine without second-guessing the angle of your wrist, how to sit without wondering if you were taking up too much space. What am I doing here? The thought came uninvited. This wasn’t your world. You never imagined sharing a table with someone who ordered without glancing at the prices.

“Do you want to leave?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Umm?”

He leaned in slightly, elbows resting against the tablecloth, eyes still locked on yours. “You’ve gone quiet,” he said. “You always get quiet when you’re overthinking.”

You hesitated, then offered a small, breathy laugh. “Is that so obvious?”

“To me? Yeah.”

“No, it’s fine,” you said, lifting your glass. “It’s just new. That’s all.” You took a sip, then smiled, a little crooked but warming. “And you did said you were going to spoil me… so I’m taking advantage. I plan on eating a lot of dessert.”

That finally made him smile.

The food was exquisite. The wine had begun to soften the edges of your nerves. He made you laugh and in that moment, you let your guard down. You reached for your glass, felt the soft weight of his gaze settle over you, and let yourself believe it was okay. If you can stay in this fantasy a little longer, so be it. You've spent too much time avoiding long-term love affairs. Only short encounters with those who weren't going to call you when they left. After college, that jerk broke you into a thousand pieces, and since then, your heart has become an icy shell. Yet, Sylus had found a way to chip at it, digging into the ice and creating a space within the cracks where he'd slipped through.

Yes, maybe it was time to let down all the defenses, and let someone like him... really in.

And then she walked in. A woman who looked like she belonged on a billboard: long hair, perfect lashes, crimson lips, and the kind of curves sculpted by some cruel god. She paused near the bar, eyes scanning, and landed too long on Sylus. Your heart twisted, a sharp, unwelcome knot of something you refused to name. She didn’t glance at you once. Why would she? You could still feel the ocean in your hair, the faint scent of sunscreen still on your skin from earlier. You felt small. Ordinary. Like a summer girl dragged into a winter party.

Sylus was… He was someone in this world. You were someone who worked at a beach bar. Who folded towels. Who knew every corner of a sleepy coastline but had never walked in shoes like hers. You knew it was stupid to feel that way. You knew it. But that didn’t stop the doubts from crawling into your mind. Or the whisper in your ear that said: You don’t belong in this story. You’re not special.

If he wanted to be with someone else, you knew he'd just do it. He was too honest, too direct for anything less. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t made a mistake with you. Even if he had asked you to come with him. Planned this trip. Bought you a dress. Treated you like you were someone important to him.

You forced a smile and took a slow sip of wine. Pretended like nothing inside you was shifting and unraveling. Keep it together, you told yourself. Don’t let him see it. But deep down, the quiet part of your heart was already breaking off into questions you didn’t want the answers to.

What if I’m just temporary? What if I’m not enough?

And across the table, Sylus’s gaze lingered on you. That scared you even more. Because if he saw all that insecurity in your eyes and chose to walk away… You weren’t sure you could blame him.

Sylus noticed it the moment your smile shifted. The way your shoulders dipped just slightly, the flicker behind your eyes as you reached for your glass. He followed your gaze and found her. The woman at the bar.

When you stood and excused yourself, your smile polite but paper-thin, he waited only a moment before rising too and walked over. The woman blinked up at him as he approached, lips already parting in a smile. She clearly thought she’d won. After all, a man like him didn’t just glance at someone like her and do nothing. In her mind, men like Sylus always fall for her.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said smoothly, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to be polite. She offered her name like a gift, tilting her chin, lashes fluttering with well-practiced charm. Sylus was already typing with one hand in his pocket. A quick search. That’s all it took. Her name wasn’t just a pretty label wrapped in lipstick and entitlement. It came with strings. Connections. Family ties woven through business and media. An old-money name known for its reach, and also its scandals.

He nodded once. “Let me get straight to the point,” he said, his tone smooth but sharpened at the edges, “I find it hard to enjoy my dinner when someone is making my wife very uncomfortable.”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed and with a scoff masked as a laugh, she tilted her head toward your empty seat. “That little thing is—”

“I’ll say this once,” he said, still polite but his eyes were already burning with a cold fury. “Don’t ever look at me… or my wife, again. If you want to keep your status intact.”

She adjusted her hair so that it fell over her back, and grimaced in disgust. “Who do you think you are?”

Sylus stepped in slightly, just enough to tower, casting a shadow that wasn’t there before. The soft light caught in his eyes, turning them darker. Crimson heat cooled into something unholy. His stare sharpened, he changed to a wolf, ready to kill. “I’m someone you don’t want to challenge,” he said quietly.

And in that silence, she took a step back. Sylus walked away and sat back down, sending a quick message to Luke. He replied with a thumbs-up emoji and an Already on it, boss.

But when you returned, something in you was still pulled taut. And so the rest of the evening unraveled almost in silence. Now, walking through the winding streets back to the hotel, the heat of the day had faded into a softer warmth. The city hushed beneath golden streetlights. A tinny vendor’s radio spilled music into the night.

♫ Qué se siente que me gustes tanto? ♫

The lyrics landed first in the air, then in your chest. Sylus didn't wait long to bring up the subject. He couldn't leave it like that.

“You really think I’d look at other women when you’re across from me?” His voice was low.

You stiffened. You kept your gaze fixed forward, on the uneven cobblestones, refusing to meet his eyes. “Don’t know what you mean.”

Silence stretched, and it made you squirm. You didn’t want to admit it, that spark of fear, the ache of never being enough. You were proud. You’d never ask to be chosen.

His voice dropped even lower, “My beloved…” he called you, the words were softer than the fading music and gentler than the evening breeze that just barely stirred your hair. The sound wrapped around you, and made your heart be even more confused. You stopped walking, rooted to the spot. This was bad. Really, really bad. If you let yourself fall for him now, truly fall, there’d be no way for you to untangle yourself from his beautiful, complicated world.

And yet, when he reached for your hand, you didn’t resist. He pulled you into his arms, and pressed your face into his shirt, soft cotton that smelled like a special mix of wood, spices and leather. Is the first time you really noticed it. Is intoxicating. The music still played behind you. Your eyes stung. Sylus felt your breath against his chest, the tension running through your spine, so he pulled back just enough to look at you.

“Dance with me,” he said, not really asking.

“Now?”

“Why not?” he murmured. His hands found your waist, pulling you close as you swayed in place gently with the rhythm. The world around you blurred.

Warmth settled between your rips, your hands finding his with ease. For a moment, there was no one else. Just the hush between lyrics and the quiet longing. His thumb moved in lazy circles against your lower back. He could feel the tremble in your body and he held you tighter. You didn't know where to pour all the overflowing feelings. You wanted to lean in, to taste the comfort of his lips again. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then shot back to yours, holding you captive. In that moment, you wondered if, behind those intense crimson eyes, he also carried his own silent insecurities. And if he, like you, knew the fear of giving his heart away.

Sylus leaned in, hummed low with the melody, his mouth brushing near your ear. The verse slid back in, whispering as he echoed the lyric:

“¿Y si te doy mi vida?” (What if I give you my life?)

The words melted into your skin, and with them, the fear grew bigger. What if, for a moment, you put your fear aside? What if, for a moment, you dared to give in to all your emotions?

Please...

What would it feel like if your feelings were reciprocated? Your heart were hammering in your ears, beating so fast you hadn't felt like this in years.

Don't hurt me...

The moment stretched. You stepped a breath closer, and his hand pressed you more firmly against him. You had stopped dancing. Your eyes darted all over his face, searching for an opening.

Kiss me...

His phone buzzed loudly in his jacket pocket, shattering the moment. He didn’t move at first, his forehead nearly touching yours, but then he sighed and stepped back with a quiet, frustrated sound. The sudden space between you felt colder than it should have.

“Give me a moment,” he murmured.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly chilled despite the warmth of the night. Your mind is a mess. Even with the overwhelming urge to kiss him, your mind, predictably, had already strayed, lost in its own labyrinth of thoughts. Tonight was beautiful, but what did it mean tomorrow? And what if—what if this was just how he made any girl feel special? That thought struck harder than you expected.

By the time you reached the hotel, your mood had changed. The heat between you had been replaced with the chill of doubt, creeping in from all sides. You stand in the middle of the room. Barefoot, feeling small. You look over to the bedroom, then to him. You see your reflection and notice how the joy you felt this morning just disappeared with the day. You feel pathetic.

“Are you upset?” You shake your head. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t lie to me.” he said softly, removing his watch, and placing down his phone on the table then opening a few buttons of his shirt. “Say whatever's on your mind.”

Your heartbeat echoed in your ears, louder than the silence between you. The distance wasn’t physical space; it was the weight of all the words that still hung, unspoken, in your chest.

“¿Y si te doy mi vida?”

His hand brushes yours. Your fingers twitched, desperate to reach for him. Your throat feels tight, as if you were suffocating. You're actually terrified. Because you want him, desperately. Not just the heat of his kisses, not just the easy laughter or the wild, thrilling mystery that he is. You want to actually love someone for once, truly. And it’s him. Fucking God, it’s him. But if he leaves… If he goes back to wherever he came from, with his smirk, his rich laugh and silver hair… Your heart will shatter and go straight back to that frozen, numb place. And you’ve only just started to thaw. You flinch. You meet his gaze in the low light. His expression is serious, no, even worse… Disappointment, sadness or something in between.

“I’m not… lying.” You lie.

He watches you a second longer, then slowly moves even closer to you. His movements are careful. His fingers wrap gently around your wrist, and he guides your hand to his chest, on his warm skin. A fast, steady rhythm beneath. His parted lips hover just above yours. The same lips you kissed a few nights ago, when you told yourself not to care. When you whispered: Let’s just have fun. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

But now…

Now, your thoughts are overflowing with him. Mornings, nights, in the quiet moments between customers, between dreams, you think of him. In his presence, somehow, you found the courage to admit out loud that you want to leave your home. The paradise with its palms and sleepy routines. That you want more. To go somewhere, do something, be someone. And still… even if he’s offered you all that, you’re terrified. Terrified he could simply use you. Terrified that things won't work out between you, and you'll be back to square one, heartbroken again.

“What do you really want?” he murmurs. His gaze is piercing you, you want to avoid him. If you let him… if you let yourself. The knot in your chest seems to struggle your heart to death. It hurts so much. You blink fast, trying to clear the sudden blur in your vision. Your throat tightens, making it impossible to swallow. “Why aren't you saying anything?”

“I—” You take a deep breath, trying to reduce the growing anxiety in your chest. “We should sleep,” you whisper, you’re one breath away from breaking.

“Don’t—” he starts, his voice rough, as if he’s about to say something that might shatter the last bit of distance between you but he stops. He swallows whatever it was, a visible effort, and just hugs you for a long time.

The silence settles again, but this time it’s louder, pressing in on you. And for a long while, neither of you sleeps. You want to cry out all the pain, and ironically, let him comfort you, wipe the tears from your face, and promise you that everything will be okay. The bed feels too big and far too small at the same time. You close your eyes, trying to ignore how closer Sylus was.

After that, every passing day carves the question deeper into your mind: What happens when he finally leaves? It gnaws at you more with each sunset. You keep telling yourself not to get attached. You’ve had flings before. Summer heat, wandering hands, promises made in the dark that vanish with the morning sun. You’re not new to that rhythm.

However, Sylus remembers the way you like your coffee. That you hate papaya. That your first kiss wasn’t anything magical, just wet and awkward behind a middle school building. That you used to get bullied for being too loud, too intense, too weird. He knows that you chew your straw when you're nervous. That you hold your breath during horror movies. He knows you have a birthmark between your shoulder blades you pretend to hate but secretly hope someone finds beautiful. That you’ve never told anyone the exact moment you stopped believing love was safe.

By now, it’s been fifteen days since you met him and in that time he knows more than you ever told anyone. Tonight, he’s sitting on his usual spot, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he skims a finger across the rim of his whiskey glass, he hasn't touched. You’re closing the bar tonight. There isn't anyone left on the beach. You join him wordlessly, sinking into the chair in front of him. You glance over. His eyes are fixed on the ocean, jaw tight. Something’s off.

“…Sylus?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales through his nose.

“I’m leaving…” he finally says. There it is. Your stomach knots. You knew this was coming, didn’t you? You swallow hard.

“When?”

He looks at you then, and his eyes, those burning red eyes, look tired. No, they look unexpectedly sad. “Tomorrow afternoon.”

The silence that follows carries the heavy weight of all the unsaid things. You nod, pretending it’s fine. You’re fine. This is how it should be, how it always ends. You swallowed the bitterness of the coming farewell, the pain that had flooded your entire body, and the crushing sadness of never seeing him again. Maybe you'd screwed up.

“At least I have one less customer to serve,” you quip, a thin attempt at humor.

He huffs a breath, a sound that's a tired mix of amusement and resignation. “I… didn't expect to stay so long.”

You nod again. He reaches for your hand, his fingers wrap around yours.

“I told you I’d give you everything,” he says, and his voice is serious.

“What does that even mean, Sylus?”

Why me? Who are you really? What happens after this?

He lifts your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“It means,” he says slowly, his eyes holding yours, “if you want to leave this place. If you want to see the world, say it.”

You stare, breath caught in your throat. “You’re asking me to just… go with you?”

“I’m offering you a way out.” He smiles then, soft and utterly unreadable. “Your choice.”

The smell of herbs and something baking fills the air. You hear the soft clatter of your mother’s steps as she moves from counter to stove. You sit there in the dim light of the kitchen, elbows resting on the table, the ghost of Sylus’s offer still echoing in your chest. You want to ask her, but you can’t put your words together.

She passes behind you, then stops. Set something down gently on the table. You glance at it. A photograph. Slightly bent at the corners, colors a little faded with time. You are in a yellow swimsuit with flowers, front tooth missing, two uneven braids. One hand gripping a tiny shovel, the other clutching the hand of a boy, frowning, clearly not thrilled to be holding yours.

“Do you remember that summer?” your mother says, her voice light, amused. You don’t answer. Just stare at the photo like it might rearrange itself if you look long enough.

“You met that boy,” she continues, “and I remember you told everyone you were going to travel the world with him.” She chuckles under her breath. “You always wanted to go beyond the horizon. I don’t know what happened to that dream but…” she pauses, and her voice softens. “You know... Your father and I—we can live alone.”

You look up. She’s already turned her back again, kneading something, hands working like they always do. You huff. You even haven’t said anything but she already knows what is oppressing your heart.

“I just thought it was cute, how serious you were,” she adds. Then, quieter—like she’s saying it to the dough. “Who knew he’d grow up to be so handsome…”

Your breath catches. You look down at the photo again. At the boy. You hadn’t made the connection. Same frown. Same eyes. That stubborn, restless energy in his bones.

Sylus.

No wonder he could speak your language so well. You stare at the picture, fingers tracing the edges. Was that why he was here? If you have forgotten about that, has he too? Could it be...?

You lay on your bed, eyes wide open, ceiling fan spinning slowly above you, offering no peace. How did you forget him? How did he slip through the cracks of your memory? You remember the summer, vaguely. You remember falling, scraping your knee, building sandcastles. But him? Not really. Maybe your brain, like your heart, had tucked it away for safekeeping.

You throw off the sheet when the first rays of sunlight appear behind your curtain. You take the photo and slip it into your pocket and walk out. The path is still etched into your bones, even after all these years. Past the old mango tree, down the narrow stretch of dirt between fences, and through the tall grass that tickles your legs until the world opens up.

The beach. You find the spot. The place where your little hand held his. You sit down in the sand, cool grains sticking to your legs. The sky is bruised with the first light of morning, deep pinks and soft golds stretching across the horizon. The ocean glitters just for you. You pull the photo out, staring at it again.

You don’t hear his footsteps at first.

“I wondered if you’d remember.” You look over your shoulder. “You kept the picture,” he says, sitting beside you.

You hold it up. “Why didn’t you tell me?” The ocean murmurs beside you, waves licking the rocks with that slow, lazy rhythm that feels almost too intimate for this moment.

“Would you have looked at me the same way, if I’d said it on day one?” His gaze lingers on the horizon. His thumb brushes over his knee, slow and distracted. “You didn't seem to remember me at all.” He paused. “I thought… if I added more weight to all of this, you'd pull away.”

You stare at him, lips parted, heartbeat louder than the sea.

“I didn’t want to overwhelm you,” he finishes, finally turning to face you. “But I think I might have, anyway.”

You look down at the photo in your hand then at the man beside you. Maybe you stayed because some part of you was waiting. Hoping. Hoping he'd come back. And then it clicks. Like a lock turning after all these years. You did make a promise. You both did. You remember the salty wind in your hair, the scraped knees, the laughter. The little boy frowning at the sun, then reaching for your hand and whispering something like:

“When we’re older, let’s explore the world. You and me. I’ll came back.”

You huff. Then laugh, low and disbelieving.

“So you came here to find me?” you ask, glancing at him.

“No,” he says, eyes still fixed on the horizon.

You squint at him. “Then what was it?”

He’s silent for a moment.

“I’ll tell you. But first… I want to here your decision.”

“Does my choice change your secret?”

“No,” he repeats.

You press your lips into a fine line. A choice. Yours. The word echoes through your chest. Panic rises in your throat, a quiet flutter of fear. You’re not sure what you’re waiting for, some sign or burst of clarity, but maybe the truth has been there all along. Leaving because of some old promise would be stupid, but... you had waited for an excuse, for something that would finally pull you out of your comfort zone. You’ve been scared. Of leaving, of staying. Of wanting something too much. But this… him. It hasn’t felt temporary in a long time. You exhale. The nerves are still there, fluttering like butterflies wings under your skin. But somewhere deeper inside of you, already knows the answer.

“I want to leave and see the world,” you squeeze his hand. “But also... I want to be with you.”

His head turns slowly, and he looks at you with tenderness. His hand closes over yours. With the sun rising and the sea singing low beside you, you realize you’re choosing something that feels like destiny.

“I'm glad to hear that.”

“Now…” you whisper, “your—”

Sylus laughs under his breath, then draws you in. His mouth meets yours with a softness that steals the air from your lungs. You feel the tremble in his exhale, the way his fingers tighten slightly. Your hands find his chest. The world narrows to the taste of him, familiar, new and everything at once. He barely parts from you, his forehead brushing yours, his nose nudging yours.

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “All these years. I wanted to find you.” A pause. “Coming here wasn’t planned, I almost gave up,” he admits. “I was just taking a few days off. And then… I found you.”

There’s a softness in his expression, an openness that makes your soul leave your body. For you, he’s not just a visitor anymore. Not just a beautiful man passing through. He’s the ache in your chest that finally has a name. He’s the silence that felt full instead of empty. You grip his shirt, holding onto him like he might vanish if you let go.

The sun crowns him in gold, dawn spilling across his skin, catching in his lashes, turning him into something you could never explain to anyone else. You kiss him again, this time with everything you’ve been holding back. He answers with equal fervor, hands cradling your face. The world tilts, and for a moment it’s just breath and warmth and the ache of something too big for words. The kind of kiss that means yes. He breaks the kiss with a soft, disbelieving laugh, eyes impossibly bright as if he can’t quite believe this was happening. Without warning, he rises, sweeping you into his arms effortlessly. Your laughter bubbles up, wild and breathless, muffled against the curve of his neck as he spins you around.

The door barely clicks shut before you’re on him again, tangled in each other. Clothes fall in a trail behind you. His fingers slide under your shirt, tugging it over your head as his lips find your neck, dragging a sigh from your lips. The trail of clothes grows behind you, scattered and forgotten, urgency pulsing beneath every touch.

The relentless desire for the feel of your bare skin against his, already warm and damp with your rising heat, was getting both of you into an intoxicating high. A thirst as overwhelming as hours without water in the desert.

You kiss him slowly. First his lips, a deep, soft sigh shared between you, then lower, down the sharp line of his jaw. Your mouth drifts to the curve of his neck, tasting the warmth there. His breath hitches,when your tongue traces the hollow of his throat. You can feel the tension building, a taut wire humming through his body, every muscle pulled tight…

Sylus tilt your head, eyes burning in desire. You just smiled, making him sit on the bed. You knelt before him. He exhaled sharply. You kept going, placing soft, wet kisses down his chest, over each ridge of muscle, pausing to press your mouth against the places that made him twitch, and made him whisper your name.

“You don’t need to…” he started, his voice thick with unspent lust, but your lips had already closed around his leaking cock. His head fell back with a low groan. Your mouth moved with intention. You wanted to savor this—him. You hollowed your cheeks just enough, letting your tongue glide along his length, feeling every small shudder ripple through him. His hand drifted to your hair only holding, enough to ground him as he unraveled.

“S-sweetie…” he murmured, his voice roughened, broken open by pleasure.

You didn’t stop. You owned this moment, every agonizing, beautiful second. The taste of him was rich, musky, utterly intoxicating, a flavor that filled your mouth and settled deep in your throat. The way he fought to keep control and still offered it to you completely, without reservation. He was yours like this—silent except for the sounds you pulled from him, the way his hips shifted with restraint beneath your hands.

Your lips wrap around his thick cock, feeling the slick heat. You split over him, taking him deeper in. Tears pricked at your eyes, because of the sheer effort and the overwhelming sensation. Yet you enjoyed it so much, you wanted more.

Sylus can barely breathe, every nerve ending screaming. He feels his control fraying, a thin thread about to snap. His hips twitch, wanting to thrust into your mouth, but he holds himself rigid, a strangled sound catching in his throat as the pleasure threatens to overwhelm him entirely. You pull back, and a thin line of breathless laughter escapes him, as if he can’t believe what you were doing to him.

You wiped your mouth delicately, lingering for a moment to lick away his taste still on your lips. Then you kissed your way back up his body, over his taut stomach, up his chest, hovering just above his lips.

“Still think I’m not greedy enough?” you whispered, your voice husky. He looked like he wanted to worship you and surrender at the same time. His answer was a kiss that made the whole room spin.

He didn't give you time to continue. Sylus made you lay down on the bed, his knee nudging between your legs, creating a space just for him. His eyes, dark with fervent hunger, scorched your flushed skin as he leaned in. He kissed your collarbone, then the hollow of your throat, his lips playing with your breath, before his mouth drifted lower. He took your nipple between his lips sucking on them, making your back arch and a gasp in response to that. You felt the sudden gush of your own wetness, a hot, insistent tide rising, your whole body with a pulsing need to have him.

“Let me... return the favor,” he murmured and then he disappeared between your legs.

Your eyes rolled back in your head. His hot tongue danced over your swollen, damp pussy. The taste of you, sweet and musky, filled his mouth, a heady rush he craved more than air. It felt so terribly, impossibly good. “So wet...” he purred, the words vibrating against your sensitive skin. Your whole body tensed, an electric current shooting through you. He gorged himself on your wetness, every lick, every suck deepening his own hunger.

He kept you firmly in place, his hands on your thighs, devouring you with an intensity that stole your breath. Your moans grew louder, and uncontrollable sounds ripping from you. You grabbed fistfuls of his hair while your other hand clenched the sheets, twisting the fabric. “Sy— Fuck...!” Your breath was a mess, short-circuited, ragged gasps. You were going crazy, right on the edge, especially when he pressed his tongue deep inside you.

“Sy— I'm… aahh… mm…” Your words were broken sounds, lost in pleasure.

The vibration of his own moan against your dripping pussy was the cherry on top. You were about to cum on his face when he pulled back. You let out a small, frustrated whine.

“What…” he murmured, his tongue flicking hard against your clit. “...Do you…” again, a deeper, swirling lick that made your hips arch instinctively. “...Need..?” You couldn't form coherent thoughts; how could one man be so impossibly good at this? “Tell me.” He pressed a hot, claiming kiss to your inner thigh, sending a shockwave through your entire body. You couldn't even articulate if you wanted him inside you, or if you simply needed more of his impossibly talented tongue.

“Be honest,” he whispered, the words punctuated by tiny, insistent bites on your inner thigh. His nose then brushed against your clit, drawing a sharp gasp from your throat. "You smell so good," he purred.

He kept you on the edge, pushing you further with every lick, every suck. You writhed beneath him, your fingers twisting in the sheets, desperate to articulate the overwhelming need. Sylus continued to feast, drawing out your pleasure until your pussy screamed for something more, for him.

“I... want.. you…” The admission ripped through you.

“As you wish” he breathed, and the certainty in his tone was an aphrodisiac, sealing your fate.

Every breath, every motion feels etched in starlight. When he finally thrusts into you, the wet, full slide of him ignites a deeper fire, driving even further, lost in the vast extent of your desire. A whimper tears from your throat, your nails drag burning trails down his back, and then, without quite thinking, you sink your teeth gently into his shoulder, desperate, loving bites that pull a gasp from him. You murmur something incoherent against his damp skin, something silly that dies on your tongue. He chuckles, breathless.

His entire body is on fire with the profound pleasure of being inside you, feeling you stretch around him, so wet, so impossibly tight. Sylus pressed harder, deeper inside you, with the urge to bury himself completely, never wanting to let go. His warmth floods you, mingling with your own burgeoning sweat, dissolving the last threads of hesitation. “Fuck,” he rasps, a rough, breathless sound against your ear, his voice full with his own spiralling pleasure, "you feel so incredible.”

You feel every inch of him: solid muscle, steady breath, the faint shiver that betrays his own restraint. Letting out a long breath, you fully surrender to his embrace. Your legs wrap around him almost instinctively, drawing him in tighter. His mouth devoured yours, tongues tangling, wet and insistent, mixing tastes of hunger and the lingering salt from his skin, a flavour of absolut, undeniable devotion. You move together, slow at first, building a rhythm that pulls you both under.

He moans your name against your ear. The world narrows as the heat of his skin grows. The sound of your breathing tangled together is getting louder, and the steady rhythm he finds between your hips makes your vision blur. He feels you clenching around him, demanding more. His thrusts are smooth, sensual, purposeful. He’s trying to memorize the shape of your body from the inside out, imprinting himself onto you.

Each movement sends sparks up your body, makes your chest arch, your breath catch, your thoughts dissolve into nothing more than him. “Sylus…” you whimper against his neck. Sweat glistened and rolled over the planes of his chest, catching in the silver hair that trailed down his lower stomach to the base of his cock.

The wet slap of skin echoed the deep, rhythmic thwack of his hips meeting yours, and the raw longing burning in his eyes is almost too much to bear. You cling to him, your hair sticky against your own body, as well as the weight of all your feelings: your fear, your yearning, your surrender, everything coiling tighter into every powerful roll of his hips.

His mouth brushes your ear as he promises you things you can’t quite hold yet, but desperately want to believe. “Please…” you gasp, the word lost in the rising tide of climax. “Sylus…”

“If… you keep saying my name like that...” he moaned, so shaky and broken it barely sounded like him. “I’m not… ah… going to last long.”

The desire rised between your bodies like a storm about to break. You couldn't hold back; the dam of all your emotions was seconds from bursting. And with a few more relentless movements, you came, shuddering violently over his cock, gasping for breath as if you’d been drowning. You cried out with a wild, untamed sound you'd never made before, a full-body surrender that spilled into a rush of shared liquid.

Your body trembled beneath him, and still he didn’t let go, maintaining the rhythm, anchoring you both in the eye of the storm. He presses his forehead to yours, breathing hard, his fingers brushing your cheek with tenderness. He could feel every tremor in your frame, hear the racing beat of your heart, echoing his own.

Sylus pulled back slightly, only to thrust in harder. His cock, already thick, hardened further, pulsing with a fierce demand inside you. He needed more. His own climax, so close just moments ago, was now a conscious chase. Each powerful plunge was a desperate claim, a primal need to consume and be consumed.

He felt the nails of your fingers digging into his back and it only drove him further. The way your face twisting in pleasure, of your body arching in that first, explosive climax coursed through him, intensifying his own need. He hadn't expected to go so fierce with you the first time. But your tongue, your hands, your raw surrender had provoked him beyond anything he’d anticipated. He sighed. He needed to come. You were pushing him past every limit.

You felt him hit your sweet spot, driving you wild again. Your body arched up to meet his every brutal, perfect demand, instinctively answering the raw desire in his every thrust.

“Sylus...” You cried out, and the sound of his name on your lips was a direct path to his soul.

“Relax. You can handle it,” he choked out, his hips driving relentlessly. The wet, furious slap of skin against skin became the only sound in the universe. Your legs clamping again around his waist. His muscles bunched and flexed beneath your fingers, shimmering with sweat, as he hammered into you, faster, harder...

Just as his body tensed for release, he pulled back a fraction, you hear his choked question against your ear: “Can I come inside you?”

“Mmm-hmm... yes!” you whimpered, your body arching. “ ’m taking... the pill...”

His body tensed with renewed power, and he slammed into you, picking up a new tempo with a desperate urgency. He was rock-hard inside you, pushing you toward a second climax even as your head spun with the intensity.

Until a desperate moan tearing from his chest as he poured himself into you, filling your core. You let out a load moan, your own climax exploding through you, pulling you violently with him into the sweet oblivion. He collapsed against you, heavy and spent, his breath ragged against your neck, his fingers digging into your hips, still clutching you.

After, your bodies remained impossibly tangled, bathed in the hush of the room, slick with shared heat. You felt weightless and pinned at the same time, his leg tangled with yours, Your heart still raced a frantic rhythm barely believing what just happened. The sheets are a mess, but neither of you moves. His arm is heavy across your waist. His breath fans gently against your temple. You stare at the ceiling, too full of feeling to speak.

Then, his fingers found your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with feather-light care, he turned you toward him. You looked at him and found no trace of the usual smugness in his face but rather a profound softness you hadn't seen.

“I hope you know…” he said, his eyes flickering side to side, almost vulnerable. “…this wasn’t just for fun.”

You stared at him, the unexpected softness in his gaze disarmed you. The overwhelming tide of emotion swelled within you, a chaotic mix of the shattering intimacy you'd just shared, the fierce longing that had coiled inside you since that trip to the city, and the startling realisation that Sylus had been holding back too. You felt it now, in every inch of your body, lingering on your lips…

“Yes, I know, but—” you blurt, your thoughts instantly slipping out in a rush. “But I’m also a disaster! I overthink everything, and I say stupid things. I’m going to ruin this, I know it, even though I don’t want to. I’ll probably just cry and then analyse every breath we’ve shared because I can’t stop myself—and I won't be enough!”

Sylus blinks once, then twice, clearly caught off guard by the sudden rush of words.

“And maybe I’ll run or say something stupid because that’s what always happens when something actually matters and this... You... You matter so much I can’t even breathe right and I— I love you so much…” Sylus’s eyes widened, freezing on your face. You haven't realised what you just said. “...and it’s terrifying because if you leave I won’t know how to be okay again. And I don’t think I’ll even know how to want anything else after this... after you... and, and...”

Then, his hand finds yours beneath the sheets, firm but gentle. He laces your fingers together and pulls you slightly closer, grounding you with his gaze.

“Leaving me is not an option,” he says, eyes steady. “I won’t accept that.” The intensity in his gaze sends your heart stumbling all over again. You feel your face heat up so fast it’s like someone struck a match across your skin. “After all,” he murmurs, and there’s the faintest ghost of a smile on his lips, “you love me…”

You froze. Did you say that…? The words echoed, loud and clear in your mind, burning with the fresh memory of the confession torn from you just moments before. Mortified, you yanked the covers up and over your head like a kid hiding from a nightmare. “God, why am I like this?” you mutter from underneath.

He laughs softly, leaning over the mound you’ve become. “Don’t hide under the blanket, Kitten,” he murmurs, leaning over the mess of linen you’ve become. “I remember everything you said.”

“I’m not hiding,” you protest, voice muffled and absolutely unconvincing.

“Oh?” His tone tilts into that familiar, playfully smug edge. “You’re not hiding. Enlightened me then…” his fingers pinch a corner of the blanket. “What exactly are you doing?” He gives the covers a tug, but you cling to them tighter.

“And why are you calling me Kitten, now?” you protest, struggling with him.

“It suit you” he laughed.

A brief, silly struggle ensues and before you know it, he’s won. He slips beneath the blanket with you, pinning you down, his bare chest warm against yours. You yelp as his mouth finds yours again in the dark, laughter caught between kisses.

“Don’t be so fussy, Kitten,” he murmurs against your lips, smug and soft all at once. “You already said it.” You turn into his chest, breathing in his scent, your hand clutching the fabric of the sheets between you. He wraps his arms around you tighter. “Now let me show you what that means to me.” He murmurs, and before you can respond, his lips find yours.

A kiss that speaks in quiet declarations: I heard you. I see you. I’m not going anywhere. His mouth brushes over yours once, then again, softer, slower. His hand cradles your jaw, thumb tracing your cheek, and you melt into him, the warmth of his chest, the strength of his arms, the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your palm. The moment stretches between heartbeats, soft and suspended. Then you sigh, the weight of reality pressing lightly on your chest.

“It’s a shame we can’t stay like this too long.”

“We have plenty of time” he said, pressing his again hard cock against you.

“You’re not leaving today?” You lift an eyebrow, already suspicious. He keeps kissing your neck. “Sylus…” you warn, your tone dropping.

He pulled back, hovering over you. “I guess you can say I lied.”

“What?”

“Leaving today was… an option.”

Your mouth falls open in disbelief, you push him from you, scandalized. “Liar!”

“But,” he drawls, he caught your wrist effortlessly, tugging you back against the bed with ease. “I still need to get on a plane this week. Which means, my beloved…” he kisses your knuckles with infuriating calm, “we have the whole day to ourselves. And enough time to pack your things.”

Your heart skips, a flustered mess between outrage and joy. “You’re assho—”

“I know,” he smirks, utterly shameless, pulling you into a kiss that tastes like victory and sweet devotion.

The days after, the sun rose just like it always did—but everything felt different. You packed quietly, folding memories between cotton shirts and worn-out sandals, tucking away pieces of your old life with a strange sense of calm. Your mother hugged Sylus tightly at the door, laughing as she told him, “You always were handsome, even back then as a boy.” He smiled, a little shy for once. Your father gave him a few heavy pats on the shoulder, nodding solemnly. Take care of her.”

And just like that, you left. With nothing more than a suitcase, enough to pack everything important to you. You had always known this place wouldn’t hold you forever. Your heart had been beating against its walls for years, aching for something just out of reach. But it was also a cage, painted in soft colours and built from everything you loved and yet couldn’t stay for.

Sylus didn’t rescue you. He gave you a reason, an option to leave. Before your courage could shrink back into doubt, before the weight of comfort could drag you into settling. He was a spark, and you were dry wood pretending not to be waiting for the flame.

You found out later, that the blueprint you once saw, the one that made you wrinkle your nose and tease him over his terrible taste in dark interiors… was a real apartment. A place he had already bought. For both of you. Just in case you said yes. He had designed it with the quiet precision only he possessed. Room for you to make it yours.

You slowly began to accept every piece of him. His shadows. His impossible expectations. His infuriating smirk. His softest silences. And he, in turn, accepted yours. Your doubts. Your fear. Your stubborn heart that had always longed to run.

Months passed. Then years. And with each one, your love with Sylus deepened. He never tried to clip your wings, instead, he helped you build them stronger. He stood by you, through every new city, every strange adventure, every late-night doubt. He pushed you when you forgot how powerful you were. With him, you became the woman you were always meant to be: strong, radiant, free.

One day, when you were ready—truly ready—he knelt before you, eyes bright with unshed tears. You said yes, the word trembling from your lips like a vow the universe had always been waiting to hear.

The bell of the church rang across your small village, echoing through palm trees and sun. Rice flew through the air, laughter danced on the breeze, and petals rained down on two people irrevocably in love. You stepped out in white, hand in hand, heart in heart. When he kissed you under the sun, tears mixed with sweat and ocean memory, and he whispered against your lips: “I love you.”

A/N: If you’ve reached this part — congrats! I hope you enjoyed the story. I did my best to portray Sylus as true to character as possible in this scenario. It’s quite a challenge to take him out of the whole LADS universe.

Depending on how The Taste of Apple and Pomegranate evolves, I’d love to write an epilogue. I honestly feel like this story could easily have two parts.

But, well… work and life exist, so we’ll see.

Still — I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comment section, and I hope to see you in future stories!

What If "Salt on your skin" were a movie?

Want more Sylus in your life >> MASTERLIST

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velvetvisionsaurora · 2 days ago

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Alpha ATEEZ x Assistant Omega Reader

Warnings: omega reader, alpha ateez, scenting, heats, ruts, slow burn, eventual smut, forced command, more to come!

When Y/n accepts a position as assistant to alpha K-pop group ATEEZ, she's prepared with professional skills and scent blockers to hide her omega status. What she's not prepared for is the immediate, inexplicable connection she feels with all eight members—a resonance that defies her careful boundaries.

As Y/n becomes eerily attuned to their needs, her suppressed omega nature begins to emerge: purring for the first time in years, responding to alpha growls, feeling safe in ways she never has before. When a protective incident reveals the depth of the members' attachment to her, Y/n must confront the possibility that what binds them together is something ancient and profound.

<<Previous Next>>

Masterlist Ko-Fi☕️

Chapter 20: Hidden Pages

The afternoon sun cast dappled shadows through the trees as you and Yeosang made your way down a narrow side street in one of Seoul's older districts. The buildings here were different from the gleaming skyscrapers and modern structures that dominated most of the city—older, with character etched into their weathered facades and stories hidden in their architectural details.

"It's just around this corner," Yeosang said, his voice carrying a note of anticipation that made you smile. You'd never seen him quite this animated before, his usual quiet composure brightened by genuine excitement about sharing this special place with you.

As you rounded the corner, he gestured toward a narrow building squeezed between a traditional tea shop and a small art gallery. The bookstore's exterior was understated—a simple wooden door with glass panels, a modest sign in both Korean and English that read "Hidden Pages," and large windows that offered glimpses of towering bookshelves within.

"This is it," Yeosang said, pausing at the entrance. "It doesn't look like much from the outside, but..."

"But the best treasures are often hidden in plain sight," you finished, looking up at him with warm eyes. "Just like some people I know."

The compliment made color rise to his cheeks, and he ducked his head slightly before pushing open the door for you. A soft bell chimed as you entered, and immediately you understood why this place was special to him.

The interior was a book lovers dream—floor to ceiling shelves packed with books in multiple languages, cozy reading nooks tucked into corners, and that distinctive smell of aged paper and ink that seemed to permeate everything. Soft classical music played from hidden speakers, and warm light from vintage lamps created an atmosphere that felt more like a private library than a commercial bookstore.

"Welcome back, Yeosang," came a gentle voice from behind the main counter. An elderly man with kind eyes and wire-rimmed glasses looked up from the book he'd been cataloging. "And you've brought a friend."

"Mr. Park, this is Y/n," Yeosang said, his hand finding the small of your back as he guided you forward. "Y/n, this is Mr. Park, the owner. He knows more about books than anyone I've ever met."

"A pleasure to meet you," Mr. Park said with a warm smile. "Any friend of Yeosang's is welcome here. He's one of our most valued customers—always finding treasures that others overlook."

"I can see why he loves this place," you replied, already enchanted by the atmosphere. "It feels magical."

"Books have a way of creating magic," Mr. Park agreed. "Please, explore as much as you'd like. The poetry section is upstairs, along with the café. And Yeosang knows where to find all the hidden gems."

As Mr. Park returned to his cataloging, Yeosang turned to you with an expression that was both proud and slightly nervous. "Where would you like to start?"

"Show me your favorite section first," you suggested. "I want to see what draws you here."

Yeosang's face lit up as he led you deeper into the store, past sections of contemporary fiction and bestsellers, toward a quieter area in the back where the shelves held older, more eclectic collections.

"Philosophy and poetry," he explained, gesturing to the carefully organized shelves. "But also some rare editions and first prints. Mr. Park has a talent for acquiring books that you can't find anywhere else."

You watched as he moved through the stacks with the easy familiarity of someone who'd spent countless hours here. His fingers trailed along the spines of books with gentle reverence, and you found yourself captivated by this side of him—passionate, knowledgeable, completely in his element.

"This one," he said, pulling a slim volume from the shelf, "is a collection of translated Korean poetry from the early 1900s. The translation work is incredible—it manages to preserve the emotional resonance of the original while making it accessible to English readers."

He opened the book to a page he'd clearly marked before, his voice taking on a different quality as he read a few lines aloud. The words were beautiful, but it was the way he spoke them—with such care and understanding—that made your heart flutter.

"That's beautiful," you said softly when he finished. "You have a lovely reading voice."

"I used to read to my sister when we were younger," he admitted, closing the book but keeping it in his hands. "She said poetry sounded better when I read it aloud."

The small personal revelation made you want to know more about his family, his childhood, all the experiences that had shaped the thoughtful man beside you. But before you could ask, he was already moving to another section, eager to show you more treasures.

"And this," he said, reaching for a higher shelf, "is a first edition of—"

His words cut off as he stretched upward, his shirt riding up slightly to reveal a strip of toned stomach. You found your eyes drawn to the lean muscle there, the way his body moved with unconscious grace. When he noticed you looking, a different kind of heat entered his gaze.

"Sorry," you said, not sounding sorry at all. "You're just... very nice to look at."

"Y/n," he said quietly, your name carrying a warmth that made your pulse quicken.

"What? I'm just appreciating the view while you reach for books. It's called multitasking."

Yeosang laughed, a genuine sound of delight that transformed his entire face. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Among other things," you replied with a playful smile, stepping closer to him. "But please, continue. I'm very interested in... rare books."

The way you said it, with that slight emphasis and the mischievous glint in your eyes, made his breathing catch. There was definitely a new energy building between you, something flirtatious and charged that made the quiet bookstore feel intimate and full of possibility.

"Well," he said, his voice dropping slightly as he pulled the book from the shelf, "this particular volume is quite... special. It requires very careful handling."

"I can be very careful," you assured him, moving close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "When something is worth taking care of."

Yeosang's eyes darkened as he caught your meaning, the book momentarily forgotten in his hands. "Are we still talking about books?"

"Are we?" you countered, looking up at him through your lashes.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the air between you crackling with tension and possibility. Then Yeosang cleared his throat softly, glancing around the store.

"Perhaps," he said, his voice slightly rougher than usual, "we should continue exploring. There's so much more I want to show you."

"Lead the way," you replied, though you made sure to brush against him as you moved, enjoying the way his breath hitched at the contact.

The next hour passed in a delightful haze of literary discovery and increasingly bold flirtation. Yeosang showed you rare manuscripts, beautiful art books, and hidden alcoves filled with volumes on obscure subjects. You found yourself drawn not just to the books, but to watching him—the way his eyes lit up when he found something particularly interesting, the gentle way he handled even the most worn volumes, the quiet passion in his voice when he explained why a particular work was significant.

And he seemed equally captivated by you—your genuine interest in his explanations, your thoughtful questions, the way you laughed at his dry observations about some of the more pretentious literary critics whose works lined the shelves.

"You know," you said as you browsed through a section of vintage travel guides, "I never expected to find book shopping this... stimulating."

Yeosang, who had been reaching for a volume on the top shelf, paused and looked down at you with raised eyebrows. "Stimulating?"

"Intellectually stimulating," you clarified with mock innocence, though your smile suggested otherwise. "All this talk of rare bindings and... careful handling. It's very educational."

"I see," he said, climbing down from the small step stool he'd been using. "And here I thought you were just being a diligent student."

"Oh, I'm very diligent," you assured him, stepping closer as he descended. "I always pay close attention to my teachers."

The way you said 'teachers' made his eyes flash with something that was definitely not scholarly, and you found yourself backed against the bookshelf as he moved closer.

"Is that so?" he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "And what have you learned so far?"

"That you have excellent taste," you replied, your voice equally quiet. "In books and... other things."

"Other things?"

"Places," you said, gesturing around the intimate bookstore. "Atmosphere. The way you choose to spend your time with someone special."

Yeosang's hand came up to rest against the shelf beside your head, his body creating a small cocoon of privacy around you. "Someone special?"

"Very special," you confirmed, looking up into his dark eyes.

The moment stretched between you, charged with possibility. You were acutely aware of how close he was, the way his scent—clean and warm with hints of bergamot—surrounded you. His eyes dropped to your lips for just a moment before returning to meet your gaze.

"The café upstairs," he said softly. "Would you like to see it?"

"I'd like to see everything you want to show me," you replied, the words carrying layers of meaning.

Yeosang's smile was soft but held an edge of something more intense. "Then let's go up."

The narrow staircase to the second floor was tucked away in the back corner of the store, barely wide enough for two people. As you climbed ahead of Yeosang, you could feel his presence close behind you, the warmth of his body and the way his breathing had become slightly uneven.

The upstairs café was even more intimate than the bookstore below—small round tables scattered among more bookshelves, soft lighting from table lamps, and large windows that looked out over the quiet street. Only a few other patrons were present, all absorbed in their own books and conversations.

"Corner table?" Yeosang suggested, nodding toward a small table tucked between two tall bookshelves that would offer relative privacy.

"Perfect," you agreed, following him to the secluded spot.

As you settled into the comfortable chairs, Yeosang caught the attention of the café server and ordered tea for both of you—something called "poet's blend" that he assured you was exceptional. When you were alone again, the atmosphere felt different. More intimate, more charged with possibility.

"This place is incredible," you said, looking around at the combination café and library. "I can see why you love it here."

"It's peaceful," Yeosang agreed. "A place where you can think, or read, or just... exist without the noise of the outside world."

"Is that what you do here? Just exist?"

"Sometimes," he admitted. "When the schedules get overwhelming, or when I need to process something complex. I come here and let the quiet settle into my mind."

You reached across the small table and took his hand, enjoying the way his fingers immediately intertwined with yours. "Thank you for sharing it with me. For letting me into this part of your world."

"Thank you for wanting to see it," he replied, his thumb tracing gentle circles across your knuckles. "I wasn't sure if you'd find it interesting."

"Yeosang," you said seriously, "watching you talk about something you're passionate about is one of the most attractive things I've ever experienced. The way your whole face lights up, the way you handle the books like they're treasures... it's beautiful."

Color rose to his cheeks again, but he didn't look away. "You make me feel like the things I care about matter."

"They do matter. You matter."

The server arrived with your tea, providing a brief interruption to the intensity building between you. But as soon as you were alone again, the charged atmosphere returned.

"This is delicious," you said after taking a sip of the aromatic blend. "Complex. Layered."

"Like you," Yeosang said quietly, his eyes holding yours over the rim of his teacup.

The simple compliment sent warmth spreading through your chest. "Is that your professional opinion, Professor Kang?"

"My very professional opinion," he confirmed with a slight smile. "Though I may need to conduct further research to be completely certain."

"Research?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "What kind of research?"

"Extensive research," he said, his voice dropping to that low register that made your pulse quicken. "Thorough investigation. Very... hands-on methodology."

The academic language delivered with such obvious double meaning made you laugh, but it was breathless laughter that carried heat. "I do appreciate thorough research methods."

"I thought you might," he said, his gaze dropping to your lips again. "I'm very dedicated to my research."

"How dedicated?" you asked, leaning forward slightly.

"I believe in exploring every possible angle," he replied, his own body language mirroring yours as he leaned closer across the small table. "Leaving no stone unturned."

"Very admirable," you breathed, acutely aware of how close your faces were now, how his eyes had darkened with unmistakable desire.

"Y/n," he said softly, your name carrying a question and a promise.

"Yes?"

"I think," he said, his gaze flicking around the café to confirm that your corner table was relatively hidden from view, "that I'd like to begin my research now."

"Here?" you asked, though your tone suggested the idea was more thrilling than shocking.

"Just a preliminary investigation," he assured you, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek. "To determine if further study is warranted."

Instead of answering with words, you closed the remaining distance between you, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that was anything but preliminary.

Yeosang's response was immediate and intense. His hand tangled in your hair as he deepened the kiss, the careful control he usually maintained slipping away in the face of his desire for you. The small table between you became an obstacle as you both strained to get closer, the need for contact overwhelming rational thought.

"This table," he murmured against your lips, "is very inconvenient for research purposes."

"Terrible design flaw," you agreed breathlessly, your hands fisting in his shirt to pull him closer despite the physical barriers.

Yeosang glanced around quickly, then stood and held out his hand to you. "There's a section in the back," he said quietly, his voice rough with want. "Poetry. Very quiet. Very... private."

Without hesitation, you took his hand and let him lead you away from the table, leaving your tea forgotten as you moved deeper into the maze of bookshelves. The poetry section he mentioned was indeed tucked away in the back corner, surrounded by tall stacks that created a sense of complete seclusion.

The moment you were hidden from view, Yeosang turned and pressed you gently back against the bookshelf, his body caging you in as his mouth found yours again. This kiss was different from the tentative exploration at the table—hungrier, more desperate, full of all the desire that had been building between you throughout the afternoon.

Your hands roamed over his chest, feeling the lean muscle beneath his soft sweater, while his fingers traced along your jawline, your neck, everywhere he could reach. The taste of tea lingered on his lips, mixed with something that was purely him, and you found yourself addicted to the combination.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered against your mouth, his hands framing your face as if you were something precious and rare. "I've been wanting to touch you like this all afternoon."

"Then don't stop," you breathed back, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, pulling him down for another deep kiss.

Time seemed suspended in your hidden alcove among the poetry books. Yeosang's mouth moved against yours with increasing urgency, his careful composure completely abandoned as he lost himself in the taste and feel of you. His hands had found their way to your waist, pulling you closer against him, while yours mapped the strong lines of his shoulders and back.

"Y/n," he gasped against your neck, having moved to trail kisses along the sensitive skin there. "We should... people might..."

"Let them," you replied recklessly, your head tilting back to give him better access. "I don't care."

The declaration seemed to snap something in him. His mouth returned to yours with renewed intensity, and you could feel the full force of his desire in the way he held you, kissed you, breathed your name like a prayer.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing hard, your clothes slightly disheveled and your lips swollen from kissing. Yeosang rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed as he tried to regain some semblance of control.

"That was," he started, then seemed to lose track of his words.

"Research?" you suggested with a breathless laugh.

"Very thorough research," he agreed, opening his eyes to meet yours. The heat still burning in his gaze made your pulse quicken all over again. "Though I think I need to collect more data."

"I'm always willing to contribute to scientific advancement," you said solemnly, though your smile was anything but serious.

"Good," he said, leaning down to press one more soft kiss to your lips. "Because I have a feeling this research is going to require multiple sessions."

"I look forward to it," you whispered back.

Reluctantly, you both began the process of making yourselves presentable again—smoothing rumpled clothes, finger-combing disheveled hair, trying to look like you'd been innocently browsing poetry rather than making out among the verses.

"Should we head back downstairs?" Yeosang asked, though he seemed reluctant to leave your private alcove.

"Probably," you agreed, equally reluctant. "Before Mr. Park wonders what happened to us."

As you made your way back through the café and down the narrow staircase, Yeosang's hand found yours, his fingers intertwining with yours in a gesture that felt both intimate and claiming. When you reached the main floor, Mr. Park looked up from his work with a knowing smile.

"Find everything you were looking for?" he asked innocently.

"And more," Yeosang replied, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. "Thank you for the recommendation on the poetry section. Very... inspiring."

"Poetry has a way of moving people," Mr. Park agreed with a twinkle in his eye that suggested he wasn't entirely naive about what had transpired upstairs. "I hope you'll both come back soon."

"We definitely will," you assured him, meaning every word.

As you and Yeosang stepped back out onto the quiet street, the late afternoon sun painted everything in golden hues. The air felt different somehow—charged with new possibilities and the lingering heat of your encounter among the books.

"So," Yeosang said as you began walking back toward the main road, "how did you find your first visit to Hidden Pages?"

"Educational," you replied with a mischievous smile. "I learned a lot about... poetry."

"Poetry," he repeated with a laugh. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Among other things," you said, echoing your earlier flirtation.

Yeosang stopped walking and turned to face you, his expression serious despite the heat still simmering in his eyes. "Y/n, I want you to know that this—today, sharing this place with you, being with you like this—it means everything to me."

"It means everything to me too," you replied sincerely, reaching up to cup his cheek. "Thank you for trusting me with something so special to you."

"Thank you for making it even more special," he said, turning his head to press a soft kiss to your palm.

As you continued walking, your hands linked and your hearts full, you couldn't help but think that Hidden Pages had given you more than just a glimpse into Yeosang's world—it had given you both a perfect afternoon of discovery, connection, and the kind of romance that belonged in the pages of the poetry books you'd been kissing among.

"Next time," Yeosang said as you reached the main street, "I'll show you the rare manuscripts section."

"Next time," you agreed with a smile that promised more adventures, more discoveries, and definitely more research among the stacks.

–––

The ride back to the house was thick with tension that had nothing to do with Seoul's evening traffic. Yeosang sat in the driver's seat with white-knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel, his usual calm composure nowhere to be found. You could feel his alpha energy radiating from him in waves—controlled but barely, like a carefully banked fire that was threatening to break free at any moment.

Every time you shifted in your seat, his eyes would flick to you and then quickly back to the road, his jaw clenching with visible effort. The afternoon at the bookstore had awakened something in both of you, and the confined space of the car was making the sexual tension almost unbearable.

"You're very quiet," you observed, your voice coming out softer and more breathless than you'd intended.

"Trying to concentrate," Yeosang replied, his voice rougher than usual. "On driving. And not pulling over."

"Pulling over for what?" you asked innocently, though the heat in your gaze suggested you knew exactly what.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Don't tease me right now, Y/n. I'm barely holding on as it is."

The raw honesty in his voice sent a thrill through you. This was a side of Yeosang you'd never seen—his careful control slipping, his alpha nature more prominent than his usual thoughtful restraint. The combination was intoxicating.

You reached behind your ear and slowly, deliberately, peeled away your scent blocker.

The effect was immediate and devastating. Your natural jasmine and vanilla scent flooded the small space, but now it was laced with something else—the unmistakable sweetness of arousal that had been building all afternoon. The combination hit Yeosang like a physical blow.

His foot pressed harder on the accelerator as he sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes flashing gold for just a moment before he forced them back to brown. "Y/n," he said, your name coming out like a warning and a plea. "What are you doing?"

"Letting you know how you make me feel," you replied simply, watching as his alpha senses processed the full impact of your unfiltered scent. "How the afternoon made me feel. How right now, sitting next to you, knowing what your hands feel like, what you taste like..."

"Fuck," he breathed, the curse unusual coming from his typically composed lips. The car swerved slightly as his concentration wavered, and he had to grip the wheel tighter to maintain control. "You're going to make me crash."

"Then drive faster," you suggested with a smile that was pure temptation.

Yeosang's response was to press the accelerator further, the city blurring past as he navigated the familiar route home with newfound urgency. His alpha scent was getting stronger too—musk and cherry blossoms now mixed with something darker, more primal. The combination of your scents in the enclosed space was creating a feedback loop of desire that had both of you breathing hard by the time he pulled into the driveway.

He'd barely put the car in park before he was turning to face you, his eyes blazing with intensity. "Inside," he said, his voice carrying unmistakable alpha command. "Now. Before I do something very inappropriate in this car."

You didn't need to be told twice. You were both out of the car and moving toward the house with quick, purposeful steps, the tension between you so thick it was almost visible. Yeosang's hand found the small of your back as he guided you to the front door, the possessive touch sending electricity through your entire system.

The moment you stepped through the front door, Wooyoung bounced up from the couch where he'd been sprawled with a gaming controller, his face lighting up with excitement.

"You're back! How was the bookstore? Did you find anything good? Did Yeosang bore you to death with poetry quotes?" He was already moving toward you with his arms outstretched, clearly intending to pull you into one of his enthusiastic hugs.

But before he could reach you, a low growl rumbled from Yeosang's chest—playful but unmistakably possessive.

"No," Yeosang said firmly, his arm sliding around your waist to pull you against his side. His voice carried an authority that none of them had heard from him before, alpha dominance bleeding through his usual gentle demeanor.

Wooyoung stopped mid-step, his eyes widening with surprise and interest as he took in Yeosang's protective posture and the obvious tension radiating from both of you. "Oh," he said, a slow grin spreading across his face as understanding dawned. "OH. Well then."

Without giving anyone time to comment further, Yeosang was guiding you toward the stairs, his hand firm and possessive on your hip. "We'll be upstairs," he announced to the room at large, his tone suggesting that interruptions would not be welcome.

"Have fun!" Wooyoung called after you with barely contained glee. "Don't break anything important!"

"Wooyoung," came Seonghwa's exasperated voice from the kitchen doorway, clearly having witnessed the entire exchange.

"What? I'm being supportive! Very encouraging!"

You could hear the others beginning to gather in the living room, drawn by Wooyoung's dramatic commentary, but Yeosang was already pulling you up the stairs with single-minded determination. His room was at the end of the hall, and he led you there with the focused intensity of an alpha who had finally reached the end of his restraint.

The moment his bedroom door closed behind you, the atmosphere changed completely. Gone was the careful politeness of the bookstore, replaced by something raw and hungry that made the air itself feel electric.

Yeosang turned to face you, his back against the door, his eyes dark with desire and something deeper—possession, claim, the need to make you his in every way possible.

"Do you have any idea," he said, his voice low and rough, "what you've been doing to me all afternoon?"

"Tell me," you replied, stepping closer to him with deliberate slowness.

"The way you looked at me in the bookstore. The way you listened when I talked about the books, like what I had to say actually mattered. The way you let me kiss you among the poetry..." His hands clenched at his sides as if he was fighting not to reach for you immediately. "And then in the car, removing your blocker, letting me smell how much you want me..."

...Yeosang barely got the words out before the last of his restraint shattered. He surged forward, hands catching your face and waist at once, yanking you into a kiss so fierce it stole the air from your lungs. It wasn’t gentle—wasn’t even patient anymore. After an entire day of holding back, his need seared through every motion.

He tasted every gasp, every whimper, his scent filling the bedroom now that your own was free—jasmine and vanilla tangling with the deep, heady undercurrent of his alpha arousal. His hands slid into your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head and expose your throat.

“Yeosang—” you breathed, but your voice broke as his lips traced the line of your jaw, down your neck to the fluttering pulse there. He grazed his teeth lightly over your skin, drawing a shudder from you.

“You know what you do to me?” His voice was hoarse, barely more than a growl in your ear as he pressed you back until your knees hit the edge of his bed. “You turn every word, every look, into a promise I can’t keep—unless I have you. All of you.”

You flushed with heat, arousal sparking sharp and urgent through your veins. “Then take me, Yeosang. I’m yours.”

That, apparently, was the last thread holding him together.

He gripped your hips and lifted you easily onto the mattress, his body caging you. Your hands slid beneath his shirt, eager to touch, to feel the racing heart and tense muscles beneath. “Too many clothes,” you muttered, and Yeosang was already stripping his sweater off, baring pale skin and lean strength.

He helped you tug off your own shirt, pausing only to dip his head and press open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, your shoulder, wherever he could reach. His hands were everywhere—urgent and reverent all at once—thumbs brushing the curve of your ribcage, fingers splaying at your back.

Your scent was thick in the air now, sweet and unmistakably needy. Yeosang paused, just for a heartbeat, and buried his face along your neck, inhaling deeply. A shiver ran through him. “God, you smell perfect,” he whispered. “Drives me out of my mind.”

You arched into him, whimpering when his mouth latched onto the sensitive skin below your ear. “I want you to lose control,” you admitted, voice trembling. “I want you to show me what you feel.”

He growled again, edging on feral. “Be careful what you wish for, Y/n.”

There was no more patience then. He pushed you gently but insistently down onto the bed, shedding his own clothes with quick, deft movements while peppering every bare inch of you with kisses—soft at your throat, sharper across your hip, soothing at your stomach as your breath came in panting gasps. His scent—cherry blossom and something spicy, something only you could coax out of him—wrapped around you, dizzying.

His hands found the waistband of your pants, hesitating just enough to flick his eyes up and get your breathless, urgent nod.

“Yes. Please, Yeosang, I want—”

He slid them off in one smooth motion, his palm following, caressing down your thigh, tracing upward until he found the heat between your legs. His fingers brushed your slickness, his eyes darkening further when he realized just how badly you needed him.

He spread you open, gentle but relentless, gaze raking over you as if committing you to memory. “You’re so wet,” he murmured, voice full of awe and something primal. “All for me?”

“All for you,” you gasped, hips canting toward his touch.

Yeosang leaned down, mouth hot and insistent as he kissed you again—capturing your gasp as he finally slid a finger inside you, then another, curling just right as his thumb circled your clit. You spasmed against him, back arching, and he groaned, the possessive alpha edge unmistakable now.

“I’m going to make you come for me,” he promised, voice thick and desperate. “Right here, before I claim you. Before you feel all of me.”

All you could do was nod, already spiraling—his fingers, his scent, his everything making your body vibrate with need. You clutched his biceps, nails leaving marks as you chased the edge. Yeosang’s free hand fisted in your hair, holding you steady as his touch grew rougher, more insistent, dragging pleasure out of you.

“That’s it, princess,” he encouraged, breath hot against your ear. “Let go for me. Show me you’re mine.”

You came hard, a rush of heat and light flooding your senses as you choked out his name. The noise Yeosang made was almost a snarl, and he kissed you through it—deep and hungry. His hand gentled, easing you down, stroking you as your body trembled, melting under his touch.

When the aftershocks faded, you opened your eyes to see him watching you with tender, worshipful awe—and desperate, unspent hunger. You reached for him, pulling him down, needing him closer.

“Your turn,” you whispered, voice hoarse with want. “Claim me, Yeosang. Make me yours.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. With a swift, sure movement, he positioned himself over you, pausing just long enough to look into your eyes—searching, pleading for any flicker of doubt.

There was none. You lifted your hips in invitation, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He pushed into you, slow but deep, a groan dragged from his chest that sounded like relief and possession and reverence all at once. The fullness of him, the heat, the feeling of being connected in every way—body, scent, heart—was almost too much.

Yeosang pressed his forehead to yours, shuddering as he bottomed out, holding still to let you both adjust. Then he began to move, hips rolling, every thrust pushing you tighter together, your scents mingling until the entire room felt heavy with belonging.

You clung to him, hands in his hair, his breath stuttering against your lips as he whispered your name—over and over, words breaking, dissolving into animal need.

He fucked you with abandon, claiming each gasp, each moan, as his due, marking your neck and chest with his mouth. As you knotted together, bonded in sensation and want, Yeosang finally surrendered, losing himself in you, in everything you offered.

And when you shattered beneath him again, he followed, his body locked against yours, his heart pounding out a rhythm that perfectly matched your own.

Afterward, Yeosang just held you—arms wrapped tight around your trembling form, his forehead still pressed to yours. His scent was all over you now, and yours on him, and there was nothing left hidden between you.

“Mine,” he whispered, voice still ragged, dizzy with love and shock and awe.

“Yours,” you breathed, smiling, blissfully.

Next>>

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