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icarusignite · 26 days ago

Text

he leaves you out like a penny in the rain

Pairing: Zayne Li x Non MC Reader

Summary: You spent years orbiting Dr. Zayne Li, but when a careless comment shatters the fragile bond you thought you’d built, you walk away. Only then does Zayne realize what he's lost.

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, angst. slowburn. Zayne being emotionally constipated rip

Word Count: 4.3k

A/N: This is my first time writing for LADS, and Zayne is my bbygirl, so I wanted to give this a try, hopefully it came out alright. I love me a good non-mc angst, so that's why this is the way it is. Part 2 will include Zayne's POV, but it's up to y'all if you want a comforting/grovelling chapter or more HURT lol. Would love to hear yalls thoughts <3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | AO3

Dr. Zayne was an enigma of the most maddening, magnetic kind, and unfortunately for you, curiosity had always been your gravest sin. Nonetheless, it was a flaw you wore with something resembling pride. After all, not everyone could claim they'd managed to peel back even the faintest layers of the glacial fortress that was Zayne Li. But you had. Over the years, through careful observation and an embarrassing amount of persistence, you had glimpsed—just barely—the man who hid behind that frigid exterior. Not all of him, of course. He had never let you in entirely. But you liked to think you'd grown on him, just a little, like stubborn lichen.

Your fascination had begun back in medical school, the place where sleep went to die and energy drinks reigned supreme. Zayne was the kind of brilliant that made you question whether he was entirely human. The kind who could skim a textbook once and retain it with eerie precision, like his mind had never known the concept of forgetting. Meanwhile, you were a walking collage of colour-coded sticky notes, caffeine-induced tremors, and desperate all-nighters. A parody of a student, barely holding yourself together with mismatched socks and sheer willpower.

It wasn't fair, the way he always looked so composed. You'd catch sight of him walking into the exam hall, spine straight, slacks pressed to perfection, sweater vest unwrinkled and somehow smug in its neutrality. Meanwhile, you, in your hoodie that hadn't seen the inside of a washing machine in days, would feel something curdle inside you. Was it irritation? Admiration? You hadn't known back then.

At first, you'd approached him under the guise of academic interest. You told yourself you were merely studying the competition. A reconnaissance mission, nothing more. You wanted to see how he prepared, how he dissected practicals and diagrams with such mechanical ease. But somewhere along the line, observation turned into participation. You started joining him. Not officially, because Zayne didn't do invitations, but he didn't tell you to leave, and that was an invitation enough.

Were you friends?

You weren't sure. Not once in all those long years of shared library tables and late-night coffee runs had he properly smiled at you, but at least he let you stay. That had to count for something.

You suspected he only tolerated you because you came bearing offerings, carefully chosen pastries from the bakery three blocks away. Lemon tarts. Matcha cake. Anything delicate and within your meagre student budget. You'd Pavloved your way into his company.

Zayne's presence had a gravity to it, even in the silence, his attention never once straying from his notes. Watching him work made you want to do better as well. He didn't need to speak for you to learn from him. He just needed to exist beside you, head bowed over anatomy flashcards, long fingers ghosting over textbook pages like he was reading by touch alone.

It was enough for you. You'd learned long ago not to ask for too much. Life had a way of punishing the greedy.

It was a stroke of serendipity that after years of drifting through separate orbits, you and Zayne found yourselves working beneath the same roof again.

You hadn't expected it. The world was large. The medical world, larger still. Yet here he was, striding through the sterile white halls of Akso Hospital like a ghost from your past, just as distant and devastating.

You didn't expect your paths to cross often. As one of the hospital's new pediatricians, your hands were full with small patients and even smaller attention spans. Your pockets jingled with sticker sheets and crinkled candy wrappers, and your days were painted in primary colours. It was fulfilling, exhausting, and utterly chaotic work.

But somehow, you kept seeing him.

At first, you chalked it up to mere chance. But then a pattern began to emerge, and Zayne became a frequent fixture of the pediatric wing. Too frequent for someone whose field wasn't pediatrics. Too present to dismiss as a ghost.

Maybe you noticed because you were looking, or maybe the universe simply had a cruel sense of humour.

However, most surprising of all was his demeanour. Gone was the man who kept his emotions triple-locked beneath ice and iron. Or rather, he was still there, but softened in the presence of his smallest patients. You watched him kneel beside a whimpering five-year-old with a broken arm and distract her with the clinical grace of a magician. You saw him take time out of his rounds to bring puzzles and books to a chronically ill boy who refused to eat. And one morning, peeking around the curtain of Room 415, you caught him braiding a little girl's hair because she was weeping about not being able to do it herself post-surgery.

Your heart stuttered.

Admiration. That's what it was. That ache in your chest every time you watched him from across the room had to be admiration and nothing more. A professional curiosity and a desire to learn. You'd flourished under his shadow in med school, so it wasn't so strange that you wanted to do so again.

You told yourself that often, rehearsing it like a prayer.

Your own patients adored you, though your methods were far more chaotic than Zayne's methodical care. You bribed your way into affection with cartoon Band-Aids and fruit-scented stickers, offering jellybeans and lollipops like sacred talismans. The younger kids squealed when they saw you coming down the hall; the teenagers pretended not to smile while secretly pocketing the candy. You had always been this way—eager, perhaps too eager, feeding on approval like a deprived animal.

But there was one person whose approval you could never quite gauge.

After all these years, Zayne was still an unreadable cipher. You didn't know what he thought of you. Whether he remembered your shared study sessions or noticed your offerings. You carried forth the rituals from med school into the real world like a superstition you couldn't let die.

During late-night shifts, you'd sometimes find yourself hovering outside his office. You didn't knock to chat. You'd long lost the reckless bravado of your student days. No, you simply rapped twice on the door, cracked it open just enough to slip inside when he told you to enter, and placed a steaming cup of tea on his desk. Sometimes it came accompanied by a carefully wrapped dessert.

He never looked up right away, and his gratitude was an awkward mumble, but he never asked you to stop, either.

And foolishly, it was enough.

You never lingered long enough to chat, retreating with a bright, rehearsed smile and your usual farewell. "Make sure to take breaks, Dr. Li!"

You never got a response, but every now and then, you'd see expression soften the tiniest amount, which was akin to receiving a full-blown grin from a man like him. It made your heart hiccup.

You couldn't say how long this odd back and forth of yours continued like, but you began to catalogue your moments with Dr. Zayne like treasure.

There was, of course, that one time it was raining at the end of your shift, the vindictive kind that came down in sheets.

You stood under the hospital's awning, trying to muster the courage to open your umbrella and brave the trudge to the train station. But then you saw him, and all hesitation vanished.

Across the small stretch of concrete outside the side exit, beneath a narrow overhang, stood Dr. Zayne. His posture was immaculate as always, one hand clutching his phone, the other tucked neatly into his coat pocket. Water dripped in thin lines down the sleeves of his blazer, and you noticed—almost indignantly—that even in the middle of a storm, his expression was as unreadable as ever. His collar was damp, and his hair, though still neatly combed, was slowly giving up the fight.

You didn't think. You just acted.

You jogged across the short distance, the icy rain lashing against your legs. You flipped open your umbrella mid-step and thrust it up over both your heads, standing a little too close beneath its narrow span.

He looked up and blinked at you in surprise.

"Dr. Li," you greeted breathlessly. "You planning on standing there until the rain evolves into hail?"

"No."

You squinted at him, then angled the umbrella slightly more in his direction. "Lucky I found you before you melted."

His eyes flicked toward you, then back out at the storm. "I'm not made of sugar," he stated simply.

"Well," you replied, grinning, "you're certainly not as sweet."

Something in his expression shifted, like he wasn't entirely immune to the jab, and he stepped further into the umbrella's shade. Closer to you.

You adjusted your grip as the two of you fell into step. His legs were longer, and his pace brisk, so you had to hold the umbrella awkwardly high, your left shoulder slowly soaking through with rain.

Zayne noticed, but didn't say anything until you were halfway to the station.

"You're holding it too far left."

You glanced up. "I'm trying to keep you dry."

"You're getting wet."

You gave a half-shrug. "So? I'm replaceable. You're Akso's golden prodigy. Can't let you get drenched and catch a cold."

"That's a ridiculous hierarchy."

"Says the guy with the patent leather shoes."

"...They're waterproof."

You snorted. "Of course they are."

The silence that followed was companionable in a strange, off-kilter sort of way. Rain hissed around you, cars splashed by in the distance, but for a brief moment, the storm felt far away.

At the station entrance, you pressed the umbrella into his hands. "You need it more than I do," you insisted. "Your hair might actually un-gel out there."

In response, Zayne's brow creased like the suggestion had short-circuited a pattern in his brain.

"I'll return it," he said finally.

"I know."

He didn't reply, disappearing back into the crowd without a word, but the next morning, when you opened your locker at work, the umbrella was waiting for you. There was a thin elastic band wrapped around the handle, anchoring a packet of candy to its handle, and you felt a tentative smile tug at your lips.

You'd mentioned it once in passing during a night shift to one of the nurses—something about craving a very specific, obscure brand of citrus-flavoured hard candy your grandmother used to send you during your med school days. You had lamented about not being able to find in stores anymore.

Yet here it was, that familiar crinkled package winking at you.

You didn't stop grinning for the rest of the week.

Then there had been the incident with the wrist brace.

It had been a long week, an endless carousel of back-to-back surgeries, sleep-deprived consults, and aching hands from scribbling charts long past the point your fingers had gone numb. Everyone was tired, and even the invulnerable Dr. Zayne looked frayed around the edges.

You noticed his injury, almost instantly, a falter in movement as he flexed his right wrist after signing off on a file. It was expertly hidden, but you had spent years watching him, cataloguing every subtle shift in his expression like rare meteor showers. So, of course, you caught that wince.

"Overworked?" you asked mildly, leaning against the nurses' station as he passed by.

"Repetitive strain," he responded without inflection.

You hummed. "Do you want—?"

"No."

Of course not.

Still, when he left, you disappeared into the on-call lounge, rummaging through the staff med-kit you were fairly sure only you ever used properly. Thankfully, you found what you were looking for before he returned to his office. A soft, fabric wrist support brace in neutral grey. Nothing flashy, just something to ease the tension. You placed it on his desk without expectation.

He didn't bring it up the next day, or the one after that. There was no thank-you or acknowledgement, and you assumed that he'd thrown it out.

Until three days later.

You returned from rounds to find your usual patient folders neatly stacked on your desk, and beside them—perched so innocently it took you a moment to realize it hadn't been there before—was a box of your favourite pens. The ones you hoarded like treasure and had recently, much to your dismay, run out of.

There was a Post-it stuck to the lid.

"I assumed you'd prefer the 0.38mm ones. You always complain about ink bleed."

You stared at the note, and then at the hallway beyond the glass window of your office door, where Zayne was coincidentally passing by.

You stepped out into the hall and caught up with him. "Dr. Li!"

He turned and looked at you with an arched brow.

You held up the box. "You're not subtle, you know."

His gaze shifted to the pens. "I wasn't trying to be."

"Returning the favour, were you?"

"I don't believe in unbalanced exchanges."

You laughed. "I gave you a wrist brace, not a kidney."

He didn't smile, but his voice softened just slightly. "It helped."

Your breath hitched, but you tried not to show it. "I see...well, thanks for the pens."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Zayne calmly continued. "You should pace your charting. Your handwriting deteriorates after the fourth file."

You gaped at him. "Are you analyzing my handwriting now?"

"It's just always been that way."

"Wait. Always?"

Zayne's gaze remained fixed somewhere beyond your head. "Finals, third year. You wrote so fast during the pharmacology mock that your 'f's started looking like sevens. I wasn't sure if you were prescribing medication or unlocking a bank vault."

"You..." You squinted. "You remember that?"

"It was difficult to read your notes when we shared a study table."

"You remember us sharing a table?"

Zayne tilted his head minutely. "It was the only one near the east windows. You always took the seat closest to the outlet and claimed the light helped you concentrate."

"I didn't think you paid attention to any of that."

"You assumed I was unaware of the person sitting across from me for three years?"

"I assumed you were... indifferent."

Zayne's lips twitched in an imperceptible frown. "You used to rewrite your notes three times. All in pencil, because you said pencil was less threatening when you had to re-memorize everything from scratch. You also always sat cross-legged in library chairs and collected pens from every club's fair booth."

You let out an incredulous laugh.

"And," he added, still with that maddening calmness of his, "you muttered anatomy terms in your sleep during overnight study sessions."

"You—you heard that?" you exclaimed, horrified.

"You once said 'ischiocavernosus' so many times, I thought you were casting a spell."

You buried your face in your hands, groaning. "I want to dissolve into the floor."

"You seemed very dedicated."

You peeked at him through your fingers. "That's a nice way of saying I was completely unhinged."

"Also accurate."

You shook your head, but under the mortification was something else. He had remembered, and not just a few throwaway details, but every odd little habit you thought no one ever noticed.

"Why didn't you say anything back then?"

Zayne shrugged, as if he had no response.

You had been making progress. You were almost certain of it. Not in any obvious, sweeping way—Zayne wasn't a man of dramatic gestures or sudden declarations—but in the quiet consistencies, and the way he'd started waiting a beat longer in the hallway when he saw you approaching.

You were still careful not to be greedy. You never dared ask for more. What you had was already more than you expected: acknowledgement. A place in the periphery of his otherwise closed-off world. You orbited him the way the Earth orbits the sun—at a safe, unchanging distance. Warm enough not to freeze, far enough not to burn.

That was until she appeared.

No, not appeared. That implied novelty. You doubted she was new in his life. No, she seemed important, someone who had long ago carved out a space that had never been yours to want.

The Hunter. Dazzling and alive in the way people like you rarely allowed themselves to be. She was a presence that demanded space and then owned it unapologetically. You understood immediately why he who lived so carefully might have made room for her.

You hadn't meant to see them together. You were only there to return his charger—the one he'd left at your station after overhearing you grumbling to the nurses about your broken one. You hadn't even realized he'd been listening.

When you knocked on his door and he called for you to come in, you had smiled hopefully.

Only to find her perched on the edge of his desk like she belonged there. She was laughing casually, legs crossed, one hand braced behind her as she leaned toward him. She was telling a story, something fast-paced and colourful, her hands moving animatedly. And he was...

Smiling.

Not the faint, fleeting lift of his mouth he sometimes gave you on your most persistent days. Not the polite nod of acknowledgment.

No, this was a whole half-smile. Unmistakably soft and real.

You'd never seen him look like that. Not in all the years of having known him. Not even when you had once tried to make him laugh with horrible anatomy puns.

You'd barely stepped into the room when Miss Hunter spotted you.

"Oh!" she cried delightedly. "Look at this, what a coincidence!"

You blinked, caught off guard.

She beamed. "You work here? I had no idea you were at Akso too!"

You nodded numbly. "Pediatrics."

"Right, of course, silly me. All our conversations, and I didn't think to ask you where you worked," she apologized.

"It's alright."

"She's my neighbour, you know," Miss Hunter added, turning back to Zayne like sharing a favourite secret. "I haven't seen her come home in days! I hope you're not overworking her, dearest Zayne."

You felt something inside you crack at her term of endearment. And then you felt guilty. You hadn't done anything wrong technically, but the feeling took root anyway.

Had you been pining after a taken man?

Oh god.

The thought alone made your skin prickle with shame.

You'd never so much as look at him again if that were the case. You'd pull away completely and pretend you hadn't spent the past however-many months—years, even—watching his every glance like a starving thing. You would bury your humiliation deep, fold it into some quiet compartment inside yourself, and walk away with your dignity intact.

But was Miss Hunter really with him?

You remembered her laughter echoing in your kitchen last weekend when you had finally managed to crawl home after a particularly long shift. She'd come over with refreshments, and after one too many drinks, she had begun to ramble. Her cheeks had been flushed with wine, feet up on your coffee table as she slurred names and nonsense.

"He's so frustrating," she'd said, in that melodramatic tone she took when tipsy. "Like, emotionally constipated. But god, when he lets his guard down, it's like... ugh. It ruins you. He lives on the floor right above ours—you've probably seen him around. Tall. Blue eyes. Smells amazing."

"I don't go around sniffing my neighbours," you'd deadpanned.

"Well, you're going to have to trust me on this one, then," she'd insisted. "He's from the Association. I've worked a few cases with him."

You dragged yourself out of your reverie.

Surely if she were dating Zayne, she would have said something. You were friends. Not best friends, maybe, but close enough. She told you when she hated her lipstick. When she found a new favourite song. When someone from the Hunters' Association made a pass at her.

She told you everything.

Whatever had begun to splinter inside of you deteriorated even further when Zayne finally reacted to her words.

"I hope you're not overworking her," she repeated, "or yourself, for that matter."

"I'm not her boss," he replied curtly. "She makes her own hours. Maintaining a work-life balance is one's own responsibility."

"I—well, yeah," you tried to laugh. "That's rich coming from you, Dr. Li. Pretty sure you haven't slept in three weeks."

You looked to him, searching for the usual twitch of amusement and the barely-there softness he sometimes allowed when you teased him. But he didn't look up, and his jaw tightened like he was holding back a scowl.

"I have paperwork," he declared flatly.

Your hand, still holding the charger, hovered in the space between you. You hesitated before setting it on the edge of his desk. "Right... of course, I just wanted to return this."

You didn't let yourself feel the sting until the door clicked shut behind you, and you were alone again in the hallway, blinking at the linoleum floor as if it might give you answers.

You thought you were making progress, but maybe all you had ever been was a convenience. A background hum in the routine of his life. And now, suddenly, you weren't even that.

Over the next few weeks, a new pattern emerged, one that kept chipping away at pieces of your fragile heart. Perhaps it was your fault, too. You kept returning to the scene of the damage, stupidly hoping this time it would be different, but it never was.

You kept stopping by Zayne's office, in the hopes of regaining his favour. You'd even started doing the routine errands that should have been passed off to interns or residents. You told yourself it was more efficient to do it all yourself, but really, you just wanted to catch a glimpse of those elusive hazel green eyes, even if they now looked at you with disdain.

And every time you passed by, Miss Hunter was there too. She seemed to be always in his office, no matter the time of day, even at odd hours of the night. Sometimes you'd catch sight of her perched on the window ledge with her legs tucked beneath her, and other times she was just by his desk, leaning into his space. And most miraculous of all, Zayne allowed it.

He only allowed it for her, though. While in med school, he might have allowed you to share a library table with him, these days, he seemed adamant to distance himself from you as much as possible.

You wondered if Miss Hunter was working on a project with him. You couldn't really tell the true nature of their relationship, but that had to be the only explanation as to why she was always around. On your rare days off, she still came over to your apartment to keep you company and gush about her charming coworker, so you were still under the delusion that she wasn't dating Zayne.

It was the sort of delusion that was going to hurt you one day. And that day was today.

Tonight, when you stopped by the man's office, you fully intended to pass by without lingering. That is, until you heard your name.

Miss Hunter’s amused voice floated clearly through the door. “…I swear, she’s the only person I've ever met who doesn’t hate double shifts,” she was saying, chuckling fondly. “That girl is sweet. Like dangerously sweet. Even to you, and I know you don’t exactly roll out the red carpet.”

Zayne’s response was as dry as ever. “I didn’t ask for her kindness. She’s not helping anyone by wasting time with personal errands. If she spent as much energy on her department as she does playing nursemaid, maybe the pediatrics wing would run on schedule.”

"Don't you think that's a little—"

You didn’t stay to hear the rest of Miss Hunter’s reply. You didn't care to see if she would try to defend you or join him in his condemnation. The damage was already done.

Humiliation was the only word for how you felt. Humiliation and utter defeat.

You had done nothing but your best.

Day in and day out, you poured everything you had into your work—your time, your focus, your very soul. You had held the hands of anxious parents, wiped away the tears of frightened children before anesthesia dragged them under, and taken on shifts no one else wanted. You stayed late, came early, and went without sleep. You had practically bled for this job.

And now here he was, the man you admired so diligently, cutting through you with a few harsh words spoken in private. Words that struck you like open-handed slaps across the face.

You felt sick. Like something had lodged in your throat and was refusing to budge.

So that was what he thought of you.

When he wasn’t pretending to be nice. When he wasn’t lending you his charger or leaving pens in your drawer, this is what he believed. That you were incompetent and unprofessional. That your kindness was a distraction.

Zayne hadn’t just criticized your habits. He had questioned your calibre and your right to be here.

Suddenly, you were ten years old again, sitting in the back of a classroom while a teacher shook her head at your test score. You were fifteen, being told by your guidance counsellor that maybe medicine wasn’t for someone “with your academic record.” You were seventeen, crying in the school library after your chemistry teacher told you some people just weren’t “wired for science.” You were eighteen, slumped at your mother’s kitchen table, listening to your parents whisper that maybe it was time to pick something “more realistic.”

You were every failure, every disappointment, every bruise to your spirit, and now Zayne had joined their chorus.

His anger might have been easier to swallow than his indifferent dismissal of your abilities.

And the worst part?

You didn’t think your patients were suffering. In fact, you knew they weren’t. You were a good doctor. You had earned every stitch of your white coat. The day you took your Hippocratic Oath, you had vowed to devote your entire life to it.

So why did you feel like a fraud now? Why did one man’s brutal judgment make you want to pack up and disappear?

You weren't sure how you made it back to your office without breaking down into tears, but when you finally closed the door, you sank into your chair with a sharp inhale and buried your face in your hands. You could not find it in yourself to cry, so all you could do was exist in that suffocating space where shame and grief and rage all sat too closely together.

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cno-inbminor · 27 days ago

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zayne x non-mc!fem reader -- married, but you worry it's only because mc (emcee) had left and was never sure on when she'd return. six years later, emcee moves back to linkon, and you feel your worst nightmares start to fester. self-indulgent angst (tw: miscommunication) wc: 3.2k | part 2

In a fantasy-like dreamscape, with petals painted in hues of ivory and rouge, you amble down the concrete trail that loops around the park.

You ignore the feeling of being out of place – after all, you’re still in your work blouse, skirt, and heels that are very impractical for a long walk. But in your numbing haze and cloudy mind, you’re welcome to any ache and sore that could keep you grounded to this forsaken planet. The music from your earbuds rings with melancholic songs from some movie soundtrack, though coincidental and fitting for the situation at hand. Eyes glassed over, steps slow and laborious, and shoulders slumped, you walk defeated.

A gust of wind releases the petals from their branches and blooms, a flurry scattering into the open air before flitting, twisting, turning, and gradually falling to the ground beneath your feet. They make you remember a happier time, one that seems to be a waste after all these years. When you look towards the sky, you recall a similar view when you were snug in a wedding dress while making your way down an aisle, your lips curved in a smile as onlookers threw white rose petals into the air. But when you tilt your head down to look in front of you, there is no man in a tailored, pressed suit waiting for you.

He settled by marrying you, a faint whisper reminds you in the back of your mind. You did this to yourself.

Perhaps you did.

There was always the chance that she would come back – you had always dreaded the day, but Zayne was adamant that there was nothing to worry about. He had moved on, and he loved you. There was nothing you needed to fix about yourself, he insisted. He loved you for who you were, and you were grateful – grateful that he still thought of you late at night when stuck in emergency surgeries, that he would buy you pastries anytime he visited the bakery, that he would welcome you into his office during lunch breaks when you had time to step away from your desk.

You were happy to be on his arm at awards and annual galas. You would bask in the moments when you would come out in a new dress and he wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off you. “You look beautiful,” he would say with reverence and adoration, and it was those moments that led you astray from your worries and insecurities. He chose you, and you could tell he didn’t regret choosing you.

That didn’t change until after a few months she returned.

The reason she had been gone for so long was because she had been transferred indefinitely to a remote city that had a massive shortage of Hunters and way too many Wanderers to deal with. From the get go, she had been advised to officially move out of her apartment and was even given a stipend to help with relocation costs. It was for a good cause, and she had always wanted to travel and see the world. Zayne, in all his infinite charity and kindness, made sure to discuss every detail possible with her new physician that would be looking after her and her heart condition. He even went as far as having her sign a release of information to him specifically so that he could access her records remotely.

You understood. Really, you did. She had even made it out to the wedding and stayed afterward to help with cleanup efforts.

But after her return, the more you fell asleep in and woke up to an empty bed, the less sleep you were getting.

How do I bring this up without sounding like a clingy partner? You had wracked your brain for weeks. Zayne was stressed enough as it was, and you really didn’t want to add to it. You had vowed to be the solid ground beneath his feet – to support and keep him stabilized – and not the storm that could topple him over.

But it was so hard.

Fewer texts, fewer check-in’s, fewer notes left behind reminding you of the little things. Fewer reminders that he was ever a tenant in this house – much less, your husband.

Zayne ran on a routine and schedule, but so much spontaneity happens in his daily life that he probably wouldn’t mind a surprise visit for lunch from you. You had picked up his favorite lunch set from the cafe down the street, as well as one for you, and walked towards the hospital. Familiar nurses and doctors greeted you as you did them, quick hello’s and slight nods of the heads. Yvonne recognized you without missing a beat and flashed you a small, but tired smile.

“Long day already?” you softly asked when you stopped at her station.

“Unfortunately, but nothing uncommon,” she joked before taking a look at the brown paper bag in your hand. “Good timing actually, he’s in his office and is free for the next 30 minutes. Dr. Grayson is in there, but it shouldn’t be a big deal.”

“Thank you,” you said in a grateful tone and smiled before rounding the corner to your husband’s office.

You slowed and softened your steps to minimize the noise from your heels, wanting to maintain the element of surprise. From down the hall, you could see that his door was cracked open just the slightest, both his and Dr. Grayson’s voices muffled but much clearer once you were in front of it. Just as you were about to push it open, you heard her name and froze.

“--she comes by a lot.”

You heard Zayne reply, “It’s been good catching up with her and being able to check on her condition. Her doctor from her time away should’ve done a better job, but at least nothing major happened.”

“I haven’t seen your wife in a while. More often than not, I’d see her here on your lunch breaks, but it feels like forever.”

Keyboard clicks fill the brief silence. “She’s been busy.”

Have you now?

“You know,” Dr. Grayson starts before pausing. “Wasn’t Emcee your first love or something like that?”

The keyboard clicks stop. “Why do you ask?”

You could hear the shrug in Dr. Grayson’s voice. “I just wonder if anything has changed now that she’s back permanently.”

“...I don’t follow.”

“Do you think anything would’ve happened between you and her had she stayed six years ago?”

A beat passes. Two. Four.

“Perhaps, but there’s no point in dwelling on the what-if’s.”

Your heart sank.

In the very next second, the panic began to course through you, your heartbeat dangerously high. You had a moment of clarity – a miracle, honestly – to step out of your heels and let them hang from your fingers as you walked back to where Yvonne was at a brisk pace. Hospital floor, dust, and infections be damned. Otherwise, the clacking of your heels would’ve alerted them, and that was the last thing you needed. All you thought of in that moment was the need to get out, away from this hospital, away from your husband.

Yvonne had no time to question your sudden return – she hadn’t expected to see you again for at least another 30 minutes – before you set the bag in front of you.

“They seem to be having a really important conversation,” you started, clenching your fists to stop the tremble in your body and trying to maintain a calm voice. “C-can I just leave this here for you to give to him later?”

“Yes, of course,” Yvonne said, picking the bag up to put behind her. Her tone was agreeable, but you could practically feel her confusion between the syllables. “But are you sure you don’t want to wait? Dr. Grayson should be out in a few minutes, if that’s the case.”

“Oh, uhh, I actually just got a text from my boss,” you lied and held up your phone, though it was still a dark screen. “He needs a document at the last minute, so I have to head back anyways. Thank you though!”

With a quick wave goodbye, you left Yvonne no chance to respond and disappeared towards the elevator. Every second that passed was too long, and you almost tripped while trying to slip your heels back on. Your steps were shaky, your frame shuttering with each step, and you couldn’t help but feel embarrassed. You should be stronger than this. You should be strong enough to hold yourself together and make it home before you absolutely break and burst at the seams.

Your hands wrung together as the elevator descended towards the ground floor at a snail’s pace. Luckily you were the only one in the compartment, so as soon as the doors had opened, you bolted out of there like someone was chasing you. And in a way, something was chasing you – one of your worst nightmares: the realization that Zayne felt he had no choice but to settle for you.

You crossed the lobby as fast as you could, blinders on and narrowed to nothing but the main doors. They couldn’t slide open fast enough for you, but it granted you a second to call your boss.

“Yes, (Y/N)?”

“I know this is really sudden, and you know I never do this, but I really, really need to take the afternoon off,” you begged, words rolling off your tongue a mile a minute.

“Is everything okay?”

“Not really,” you said with all the bluntness in the universe before you could say anything better. “But it’ll be fine, I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

“Very well. Call me if you need help with anything.”

“Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night.”

“See you tomorrow, and you, too.”

Your thumb jabbed the ‘end call’ button as you stared at the street. Where should you go? What should you do? Do you go home?

And that’s how you ended up here, at the park, the skin on the back of your heels chafed horribly, and your brain at a complete loss of what to do now. You haven’t even cried yet because you were still in a state of shock, disassociation.

Aimless, unaware, and lost, you continue your endless journey and are unable to find it in yourself to even sit on one of the many park benches stationed around the path. Because if you sat, you would cry. And if you cry, you would think. And if you think, you would spiral. You would spiral down the black hole of questioning every single thing Zayne has ever done with you, if Zayne ever truly loved you.

Something in the universe says you’re not ready for that yet.

Your phone vibrates from your purse. You take it out with limp hands, slowly and unsure in every way possible, your heart pounding against your chest, as you read the notification on your lock screen.

Husband 💙:

Thank you for lunch. I’m sorry we couldn’t eat together.

Husband 💙:

Yvonne said you had some type of work emergency. Is everything okay?

Your feet scream in agony as you increase your pace in the direction of the main road. They were probably bleeding at this point, but that was an issue for another time. You flag down a taxi as soon as one appears, and you ask the driver to take you to that 24 hour bookstore-slash-library with the comfy chairs and a cafe attached to it. After all, if you couldn’t stand to be in this world, at least you could escape to another for a little bit of time.

Several hours passed, in which you were able to acquire a couple of bandaids and alcohol wiping pads, nibble on a biscotti, and dive into a book that you had been putting off for months. Unwillingly, you hear your phone vibrate in your purse. Based on the pattern alone, you know it’s Zayne calling. During your years of dating, you had assigned custom vibrations and ringtones for him and him only. That way, no matter what, you would know it was him calling without having to look at the screen. If this were a normal situation and a normal day, you would’ve picked up without missing a beat. Unfortunately, today has been anything but normal.

You press one of the volume buttons to stop it from vibrating, though his contact information is still splashed across the screen. Your infinite wisdom advises you to let the call run, make him think that you were simply too busy to pick up. Again, an ultra rare occurrence, but not impossible. Your phone screen switches back to your lock screen with a notification of a missed call, and you watch it with wary eyes to see if there would be any follow-up.

There is one in the form of a text.

Husband 💙:

I called to see if you wanted to have dinner together. But as soon as it went to voicemail, we had an emergency surgery come up.

Bzz-bzz. Make that two.

Husband 💙:

Won’t be home til late. Don’t wait up.

Are you evil to think that the universe has kindly granted you more time to not talk to your husband? It would be appalling to be thankful that someone was hurt enough to warrant an emergency surgery that required your husband’s skills, therefore buying you more time to get your shit together. Diabolical and heartless, someone would probably describe you.

But you could only be in a blouse and skirt for so long, and as much as you want to spend the night here, it’s time for you to go home.

At 11PM, there is still no other text or call from Zayne. The house is empty and quiet, much to your relief. His shoes are nowhere to be seen on the shoe rack, so you must be safe. You should have enough time to change, brush your teeth, go to bed, and either actually fall asleep or pretend to be asleep when he eventually makes it home. His messages have been left unread, his call not returned. Once you’re ready for bed and tucked under the covers, the exhaustion of everything pulls you into a deep sleep in record time.

You’re practically dead to the world when Zayne comes home, slinking in like a thief in the night. He knows you’re usually asleep at this time, and he doesn’t want to wake you. Perhaps it’s his imagination, but in the few minutes that he can see you, you seem more tired, more haggard. It seems like you’ve lost a little weight, too, but he just doesn’t have the time to ask more about it. All the things that were changing seemed like it’d be best to have a sitdown conversation on a day off, but he’s been so bogged down by work and the return of Emcee that a day off seemed impossible.

As he slips his shoes off, he glances at your heels positioned astray from the shoe rack. The work emergency must have been bad for you to leave them that way. It takes nothing to bring them together and put them away himself, but then his eyes catch onto something that makes him freeze.

Why in the world is there that much blood on the back of your heels?

Were you hurt?

What happened that made you walk around so much to the point that you would let yourself bleed without any attempt to cover them up, or at least put a bandaid over them?

Why would you neglect yourself like that?

Had you already been bleeding when you dropped off his lunch? And if you had, why hadn’t anyone noticed, much less done anything about it?

The bedroom door creaks the slightest bit when he pushes it open, the force behind his fingertips so soft, so afraid to wake you. His eyes cannot help but travel to the foot of the bed where one of your feet sticks out. A small sense of relief fills his chest when he spots the bandaid stuck to the back of your left heel. The closer he gets to you, the more he sees that the bandaid wasn’t applied carefully enough based on the gap between the cotton pad and your wound. Gently, he lifts the blanket up to get a look at your other foot. A matching bandaid is present on your right heel. But at second glance, any relief he had felt disappears into thin air.

He sees the faint indentations of where the leather of your high heels had dug into your skin, a subtle arch decorating the space at the base of your toes. The beginnings of blisters have formed on the side of a few of them as well. It’s no secret to anyone how worn out they seem, that they’ve seen a harder day than usual today. He doesn’t know the cause, and he doesn’t understand why you didn’t even tell him. Zayne fishes his phone out of his pocket and stares at the empty lock screen, showing that you had never responded to his earlier messages. That, in and of itself, was already highly unusual.

He shifts the blanket back over your feet, making sure to cover them both before retreating into their bathroom. Brushing his teeth, rinsing his hair under the sink faucet, and washing his face all feel so mechanical as his mind refuses to turn off, the growing worry spreading like spilled cabernet on a white tablecloth. As he slides into bed, he suddenly feels like a stranger in his own home – like he’s not supposed to be here, to consider this bed as his safe space.

He’ll ask you in the morning, Zayne decides as he falls into a fitful sleep. No surgeries had been scheduled for the morning, which meant he could finally wake up with you for the first time in months. You two would get ready together – you’d tie his tie, he’d help dry the ends of your wet hair fresh out of the shower, you’d pack his lunch, he’d make sure that you leave with a fresh coffee in hand – a routine he has learned to love. The thought of that helps him settle into the sheets, and they feel soft and familiar again. Yes, everything would be fine.

But Zayyne gets a call an hour before your alarm goes off, and is, once again, robbed of one of his most cherished routines. He can’t help but look at your heels again as he slips into his dress shoes. They must be a sign of something to come, something that he may need to be afraid of. He’s not ready for what that may be, but inside, he knows that there’s a countdown.

Zayne doesn’t want to think about the stakes, or the fact that his first prediction – fresh horror and torture – is you leaving him. He cannot let it happen.

#lads zayne #zayne x reader #zayne x non mc #zayne love and deepspace #love and deepspace #lnds zayne #zayne lads #doctor zayne #zayne angst #zayne li #tw: miscommunication

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darlingsblackbook · 2 months ago

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Zayne x Crush-Ridden Nurse!Reader | Part One

Professionalism is Dead. I Have a Crush. Zayne Edition

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

I | You do not make eye contact with Zayne in meetings because every time you do, you forget what day it is and say “yes, Doctor” to everything, including when he once asked, “Did you get enough sleep?”

II | Zayne once asked you to assist with a minor procedure and you dropped the sterile tools. You apologized so many times, he calmly said, “The patient’s heart rate is more stable than yours right now.”

III | You once panicked and said “Love you—uh I mean... glove you— I mean I’ll get your gloves!”

Zayne: slow blink

“Take your time. I’ll wait.”

IV | Every time he stands too close while you’re charting, you forget how to type. Once you wrote “Dr. Zayne is so—” and caught yourself before you wrote “hot.” You turned it into “so thorough.” You don’t think he bought it

V | You stutter when you talk to Zayne. He never mentions it, but one time he handed you a cup of water wordlessly after you choked on your own breath during rounds.

VI | You overheard some nurses gossiping about how attractive he is and blurted, “He’s probably too focused to notice.”

You didn’t realize Zayne was walking by.

He didn’t even blink. Just said, “I notice more than you think.”

VII | You tried to bring him coffee once but labeled it with “For Dr. Zayne :)” and then panicked because the smiley face was unprofessional. You crossed it out. Then rewrote it. Then crossed that out.

He still drank it. Didn’t say a word.

VIII | One time you were called into his office and rushed into the room out of breath. Zayne looked at you, tilted his head, and said, “You don’t need to sprint through the halls. I’m not going anywhere.”

Cue you passing away on the spot.

IX | You asked him once, very nervously, “Do you ever, like… smile?”

He replied without hesitation, “Only on days you don’t trip over the IV cart.”

(The next day you almost made it. He raised an eyebrow in silent amusement.)

X | Once he handed you a file and your fingers brushed. You squeaked. He stared at you for a full five seconds before saying, “That wasn’t an electric shock, Nurse. You can relax.”

XI | You joked to another nurse, “I’d die if ZaynE ever praised me.” The next day during debrief, Zayne said: “Good job. Efficient, as usual.”

You almost fainted.

He added, “Should I call a nurse?”

You whispered, “I am the nurse…”

XII | You once had to bandage a patient while Zayne was observing and your hands were shaking like a leaf.

Afterward, he pulled you aside and simply said, “Your hands are steady when it matters. Don’t doubt that.”

XIII | He never raises his voice. Never gossips. But the one time another doctor tried to flirt with you a little too casually, Zayne just appeared beside you and said, “She’s busy. Let’s not waste her time.”

XIV | You once caught him looking at you when he thought no one was watching. Just for a second. No expression. But his gaze lingered a little too long to be clinical. And when your eyes met? He said, “You should take your break before I assign you one.”

Part two >

#love and deepspace angst #love and deepspace #lads x you #lads zayne #lads x reader #lads #lads x y/n #lads x non!mc reader #love and deepspace x reader #zayne x reader #zayne love and deepspace #zayne x you #zayne x y/n #zayne x non mc #love and deepspace imagines

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orphicmeliora · 3 months ago

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LETTERS UNSENT

SUMMARY: You have shared too much with Caleb— your childhood in middle school, your restless teenage years in high school, and the sleepless nights that came with training at the DAA. Through every phase of your life, you’ve loved him. Quietly. Desperately. While he loved someone else.

So you learned to endure it.

You swallowed your feelings and tucked them away in secret letters never meant to be read—letters inked with heartbreak, feverish longing, and fantasies too raw to speak aloud. From crooked handwriting to elegant script, each page was a confession of the love you hated to carry, the ache you never outgrew. And when Caleb vanished from your life after graduation without a word, you buried those letters in a box, and the box deep within yourself.

Years later, fate intervenes.

Caleb returns—broader, bolder, devastatingly handsome. And strangely focused on you. His touches linger too long, his eyes see too much, and his smile says he knows exactly what you’ve been hiding. He looks at you like you’re the one he’s been waiting for—and you can’t tell if it terrifies you or tempts you more.

You try to pull away. You’ve spent too many years surviving without him to fall now.

But Caleb doesn’t let go.

Because now that he’s seen the truth—every broken sentence, every filthy fantasy, every whispered ‘I love you’ you never dared say out loud—he’s not just here to catch up.

He’s here to chase you down.

And he won’t stop until you’re his.

WORD COUNT: 11.1k

NOTES: Takes place after the Main story supposedly ends. This happens far in the future. Caleb is older here, 28–29 maybe. Reader is NOT mc, keep that in mind. In this scenario mc is with another LI.

You used to love love.

Not just the idea of it—but the ache of it. The promise of it. The giddy, schoolgirl butterflies and the midnight hopes whispered into your pillow. Love was the secret language of your world, threaded through songs you hummed under your breath, the romance novels dog-eared to your favorite passages, the ink-stained pages of letters never sent.

You believed in love the way children believe in magic.

But you grew up.

And love? It grew fangs.

Now, you love to hate it.

You hate how it made a fool of you. How it made you wait and yearn and burn in silence, hoping he’d look your way and see you. Not as a friend, not as a childhood companion, but as someone worth reaching for. Worth choosing. But he didn’t. He never did. Caleb’s heart was always spoken for.

So you buried your own.

You’ve become good at pretending. You laugh at romance now, scoff at declarations, dismiss affection with a curl of your lip and a joke that lands just bitter enough to be believable. You’re not heartless—you’re just tired. Of hoping. Of hurting. Of wanting things that were never yours to begin with.

You fill your time with things that don’t require soft emotions. You keep your hands busy and your mind busier. You hum lullabies to yourself when the silence grows too sharp. You sleep with the light on sometimes—not out of fear, but because the darkness reminds you too much of waiting for someone who never came back.

And still…

Despite it all…

Sometimes, on quiet nights when your guard slips, you wonder what it would be like to be loved out loud.

To be wanted so much it’s terrifying. To be chosen first.

You don’t dare admit it aloud. You barely let yourself think it.

Because if love ever finds you again…

You’re not sure if you’ll run away from it—

Or straight into its arms.

You hear his voice before you see him.

Low. Smooth. A little deeper than you remember. It cuts through the background noise like gravity pulling everything toward it—pulling you toward it. You freeze mid-step, your spine going taut like a wire drawn too tight. You know that voice. You’ve heard it in dreams. In memories. In the echo of unsent letters you’ll never admit you still read.

You turn slowly.

And there he is.

Caleb.

Older. Sharper. Beautiful in a way that feels almost unfair. His body is broader now, sculpted with strength and silent discipline. His jaw is dusted with scruff. His posture, relaxed but alert. And those eyes—still storm-silver and searing, but steadier somehow. Knowing.

He sees you.

Really sees you.

And for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you standing there like a collision waiting to happen.

A beat passes.

“...It’s been a while,” he says, and God—he smiles.

That same crooked, devastating smile that used to undo you in a single heartbeat. But there’s something different now. Less boyish charm, more… reverence. Like he’s looking at a relic he thought lost forever and can’t quite believe is real.

You swallow, throat tight. “Yeah. A while.”

There’s so much you could say. So much you want to say. About the years. The distance. The versions of yourself that broke and rebuilt in his absence. But your mouth is dry and your thoughts scatter like startled birds.

Caleb steps forward—close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint scent of metal and pine and something unmistakably him.

He looks you up and down slowly, like he’s taking inventory of everything time tried to steal.

“You look…” His gaze softens. “You look like trouble.”

You scoff—too sharp, too fast, your defense mechanisms kicking in like old habits. “And you still talk like you’re trying to land a date in a bar.”

His grin flashes wider. “Would it work if I was?”

God, he’s flirting.

Like you weren’t just background noise to him once. Like you didn’t spend years trying to scrape his ghost off your ribs.

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you here, Caleb?”

He leans in, the air between you charged, crackling. His voice drops—lower, rougher.

“Because I missed you.”

You blink. That wasn’t the answer you expected. Not from him. Not with that look in his eyes—part hungry, part haunted, all real.

And just like that, the careful walls you’ve built start to shake.

You hear the door creak open behind you before the sound of his footsteps catches up.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Caleb says, his voice deeper, richer than you remember. “You look... different.”

You don’t turn around immediately. The skyline looks safer than his face.

“Yeah, well. Years pass. People change.”

“Some people stay exactly the same,” he murmurs. “You still lean to the left when you’re uncomfortable.”

You whip around, heart doing a traitorous little jump when your gaze lands on him.

God. He’s unfair. Broader shoulders, sharper jaw, that golden tan that makes his white shirt look criminally good on him. His smile has mellowed into something more potent—less boyish charm, more devastating man.

You cross your arms. “You’re observant now. That’s new.”

He chuckles. “I’ve always been observant. You were just too busy avoiding my eyes to notice.”

Touché.

He walks closer—too close—and you catch a whiff of his cologne, spicy and dark, like danger disguised as comfort. His gaze drops to your lips for half a second too long before returning to your eyes with a glint that spells trouble.

“How long has it been?” he asks softly.

“Since you ditched our entire friend group without a word? Or since I gave up hoping for a message you never sent?”

His jaw tenses. “I deserved that.”

“You did.”

There’s a beat of silence between you, thick with all the things you’re too proud to say and all the things he suddenly looks desperate to.

You retreat into the safety of the couch, motioning for him to sit across—but no, of course not. Caleb drops beside you, hip pressed against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What about Emcee?” you ask, biting the inside of your cheek. “You two live happily ever after or what?”

His brow furrows. “Emcee? God, no. That was over before it ever started.”

Your heart skips. “Oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not.” Lie. “Just surprised.”

“Good,” he says, leaning in, his voice a husky whisper. “Because I didn’t come here to talk about her. I came here for you.”

Your breath catches. You laugh, shaky and forced. “Wow, Caleb. You’ve upgraded your flirting. What happened to your legendary cheesy pickup lines?”

He grins. “I could still use one, if you’re nostalgic. But I figured you’ve grown out of tolerating my bullshit.”

“Smart of you.”

And yet, the way his knee brushes yours every few seconds isn’t helping. Neither is the way his hand hovers just a little too close to your thigh when he reaches for his coffee.

You’re not sure what’s worse—that he’s this charming now, or that it’s working.

Later that night, after he leaves with a promise to “see you soon” and a gaze that lingers like heat, you retreat into your sanctuary.

Your room. Your old dresser. The box tucked under the drawer like a dirty little secret.

The letters.

Every one of them stained with years of aching want and unspeakable need. A catalogue of your descent into hopeless longing, from childish hope to fevered fantasy. The kind of thing no one should ever read.

Especially not Caleb.

But fate, of course, doesn’t care what you want.

The first time he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, it's under the guise of helping you with groceries.

“I’m perfectly capable,” you snap, snatching the bag from his hands.

Caleb just laughs, leaning in. “I know. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to help.”

His knuckles graze yours. You pretend not to notice. He pretends not to notice you pretending. Bastard.

—

The second time, you’re at your favorite café, the one with the uneven chairs and the cinnamon drinks he used to gag over. You’d brought him there as a joke, once. Now he takes you there seriously.

He’s seated too close, his thigh pressed against yours like a quiet claim.

“So,” he says, turning his head toward you. “No boyfriend? Fiancé? Star-crossed lover waiting in the wings?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s a no, then,” he says smugly, sipping his drink.

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “Why are you asking?”

“Just making sure I’m not stepping on any toes,” he murmurs, then adds, “when I kiss you.”

Your heart slams into your ribs. You scoff, rolling your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “You’re not kissing me.”

“Not today, maybe,” he says easily. “But eventually.”

You hate how warm your cheeks get. You hate him a little more for noticing.

—

The third time is worse.

You’ve both had a bit too much wine. Not drunk, but soft around the edges. He’s on your couch, lounging like he belongs there, like the time between now and then never happened.

He watches you over the rim of his glass. “Why do you keep flinching when I touch you?”

“I don’t flinch.”

“You do. Like you’re scared I’m not real.”

You take a sip of your wine and stare straight ahead. “I’m just trying to figure out what you want.”

His voice goes quiet. “You.”

The word hits you like a punch.

“You wanted Emcee for years.”

“I was stupid for years.”

You meet his eyes. They’re clearer than they’ve ever been—focused, almost painfully sincere.

“That’s convenient,” you say coldly.

He sets his glass down, leans in. “No. It’s fate finally letting me try again.”

His hand reaches up, brushes your cheek with maddening tenderness. He’s so close you can feel the heat of his breath.

You freeze. The ache in your chest roars to life again. This is everything you ever wanted—but you don’t trust it. Not yet.

You turn your head. Just barely.

Caleb’s jaw clenches, his hand falling away.

He sits back without a word.

—

The fourth time, it’s raining.

He brings you a coffee, his hair damp, his hoodie soaked at the shoulders.

“You didn’t have to walk in this weather,” you mutter, taking the drink anyway.

“I wanted to.” His smile is lazy, but his eyes are sharp. “You’re still not letting me in.”

“Would you trust someone who vanished for years without a word?”

His smile falters. Then, to your surprise, he nods. “I wouldn’t. But I’d want them to fight for the chance to be trusted again.”

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a familiar-looking charm—a bent paper star you made him in high school.

“I didn’t forget you,” he says, voice low. “I tried to.”

That might be the worst thing he’s ever said. Because it means he felt something. Because it means you weren’t the only one suffering in silence.

Because it means he’s telling the truth.

You excuse yourself before your throat gives way to the sobs you refuse to let him see.

He doesn’t follow.

But he waits.

He always waits now.

And that’s more dangerous than any of his old pickup lines.

You agree to go with him to the observatory.

Big mistake.

It’s late, the sky smeared with stars and promises, the air just crisp enough that Caleb offers you his jacket before you can even pretend to be cold.

You don’t take it.

So, naturally, he just drapes it over your shoulders anyway, like you’re his.

“It looks better on you,” he says, voice quiet as your fingers clutch at the sleeves that still smell like him.

“Don’t start,” you murmur, but there’s no real bite to it.

“Start what?” His smirk is all mischief. “Being nice? Can’t help it. You bring it out of me.”

You roll your eyes and turn your gaze to the sky, but he keeps watching you like you’re the constellation he’s been chasing all his life.

“I used to come here when I missed you,” you admit without thinking, and immediately wish you hadn’t.

The silence that follows is so sharp it could cut glass.

“When you missed me?” His voice is different now—serious. Dangerous. “How often did that happen?”

You laugh, tight and brittle. “Only every time I breathed.”

His head tilts slightly, like he’s not sure he heard you right.

Then: “Say that again.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll use it against me.”

He steps closer, slow and purposeful, until your back meets the cold railing. His hands cage you in, one on either side of your body, his expression unreadable but intense.

“Do you really think I’d take something that precious and weaponize it?”

“I don’t know what you’d do anymore.”

“Then let me show you,” he says, and for a terrifying second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

But he doesn’t.

His lips hover just beside your ear, the warmth of his breath teasing your neck.

“I dreamt of you too, you know. Every damn night.”

Your knees nearly buckle, but pride is a stronger drug than longing.

“Then why didn’t you do anything?” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes burning. “Because I was stupid. And I thought you didn’t feel the same.”

You snort. “Well. You were wrong.”

“I know,” he growls. “I know that now. And you’re still keeping me at arm’s length.”

“Damn right I am.”

His smile is tight, hungry. “Fine. You want to make me work for it? I’ll work.”

“I want to be chased, Caleb. Not collected.”

He steps back, hands raised in mock surrender, but his grin is pure trouble.

“Then run, sweetheart. I’ll catch up.”

You hate him for knowing exactly how to undo you.

And maybe you hate yourself more for wanting to be caught.

It’s late. The kind of late where even the shadows seem to sleep.

The old piano room is still your secret solace—dusty, dim, filled with forgotten echoes and dreams you never dared to say out loud. The acoustics are perfect. No one ever comes in here anymore.

Except for one person.

You don't hear him at first. You’re too wrapped up in the song, the way your voice trembles on the high notes, the keys trembling beneath your fingertips. It’s the kind of melody you never intended anyone to hear. Especially not him.

I didn't opt in to be your odd man out

I founded the club she's heard great things about

I left all I knew, you left me at the house by the Heath

Your voice breaks. You close your eyes, breathe, keep going anyway.

I stopped CPR, after all it's no use

The spirit was gone, we would never come to

And I'm pissed off you let me give you all that youth for free

Silence. One, two, three beats of it. Then—

“You always did sound beautiful when you were sad.”

You jump.

Caleb leans against the doorway like he owns the place. Like he owns the air in your lungs. Like he owns you.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he adds, smile lazy, eyes sharp. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

You blink. “You heard that?”

“I always do.”

Of course he did.

You feel your cheeks burn as he strolls in, gaze never leaving yours. “That song… it’s new?”

You clear your throat, try for nonchalance. “Just something I was playing around with.”

He hums. “Right. Totally not about anyone in particular.”

You bristle. “Did I say that?”

“Nope. But you don’t have to. You forget—I know your voice. I know when it’s for fun. And when it’s ripping you open.”

You glance away, fingers tapping nervously on the ivory keys. “You're being dramatic.”

He kneels beside the bench. Just like that, he’s too close again. Always too close.

“You used to do this all the time,” he murmurs. “Sneak away to sing where no one could find you. You didn’t know I followed.”

Your heart stutters. “You never said anything.”

“Why would I ruin it?” His gaze darkens. “Hearing you like that—it was the only time I ever got to feel like you needed something.”

“I didn’t sing those songs for you,” you lie.

Caleb tilts his head, eyes locked on yours. “Then why are your cheeks red?”

You shove away from the piano, muttering, “You're insufferable.”

He follows, not missing a beat. “You’re blushing, songbird.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You stop. He almost slams into you.

You glare up at him. “You think you’re so clever.”

He leans in, smirking. “No. I think I’ve waited too long to be this close to you, and now that I’m here, I’m not backing off.”

The worst part? Your hands are trembling. Your knees are weak. And still, somehow, you want more.

But pride wraps around your tongue like a noose.

“You heard the song,” you say, voice low. “That’s enough.”

His eyes flick down to your lips. Then back up. He’s not smiling anymore.

“No,” Caleb whispers. “It’s not.”

You should have locked the damn drawer.

You don’t even know what made you check—but something prickled at the back of your neck the moment you stepped into your apartment. Like something sacred had been disturbed. And when you see the box in Caleb’s hands, your heart stops cold.

No. No.

His head lifts as the door shuts behind you.

And your world implodes.

He’s seated on your couch like he’s carved from stone, the soft golden lamp beside him casting long shadows across the muscles in his jaw and the heartbreak in his eyes.

He’s holding your soul in his hands.

The letters—dozens of them, hundreds, years of ink and agony and lust and grief—you recognize the crooked childhood handwriting, the shaky, angry teenage confessions, the flowing script of your adult longing. Pages of you. Laid bare.

Your breath catches. Your throat closes.

“I—That’s not—You weren’t supposed to—” Your voice cracks. Your knees are trembling.

Caleb stands, the box still in his grip. He looks wrecked.

“I read every single one,” he says softly.

“Put them away,” you whisper, voice hollow. “Please, just… put them away.”

“I can’t.”

You turn to bolt, pure instinct.

And that’s when gravity betrays you.

A weight presses against your body—not crushing, but firm, immovable, inescapable. His Evol.

Your hands fly to the walls, to the floor, anywhere to push back, but you’re floating. Held in place. Suspended in the moment you never wanted him to witness.

“Caleb—!”

“I need you to hear me,” he says, moving closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal.

Your back hits the wall.

He stops just inches from you, eyes devouring every inch of your face. His expression is ravenous, pained, like he’s starving and terrified that the meal in front of him will vanish if he breathes too hard.

“I didn’t know,” he says, his voice ragged. “I never knew.”

You shake your head. “You weren’t supposed to.”

His hand lifts. Hovers near your cheek. “I’ve been walking around blind, thinking I lost you back then. But you never stopped… You loved me. You loved me so much it hurt.”

Tears gather hot and fast in your eyes. “Caleb—don’t—”

“And I was in love with you,” he breathes. “All this time I thought I was chasing someone else, but it was you. It was always you.”

You look away. “You didn’t want me. You wanted her. You chose her.”

“I didn’t choose anyone,” he growls. “I was a coward. I ran. I shut you out and let you carry all that alone. I thought I was protecting you.”

“You weren’t,” you whisper. “You were destroying me.”

The look in his eyes breaks something in you.

“I memorized your words,” he says quietly, his forehead leaning gently against yours. “Every line. Every wish. Every desperate, filthy, aching thing you wanted to say. I felt all of it. Like I was there with you, through every goddamn year I missed.”

You tremble, caught in his pull, aching with the need to believe—but terrified to let yourself fall.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you whisper.

“I’m not asking you to,” he murmurs. “Not yet.”

His fingers trail lightly over your waist, your hip, anchoring you. The Gravity around you loosens just enough for your feet to touch the floor again, but you don’t move.

His mouth brushes against your temple.

“I just want to earn you. All of you. Like I should’ve from the start.”

You don’t kiss him.

But you don’t pull away either.

You can’t.

Because suddenly, you're not cold anymore.

You’re burning.

He stays.

Even when you tell him to leave—quietly, then louder, then with trembling fingers pressed to his chest like a warning—Caleb stays.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, not meeting his eyes.

“I should’ve been here years ago,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get it? I’m not leaving again.”

You shove him.

He barely budges.

You shove him again.

This time, his hands catch your wrists mid-motion, fast, firm—calm.

You freeze. His skin is warm against yours, calloused where it should be gentle, familiar where it should feel foreign. Your pulse spikes in your throat.

“Let me go,” you say, breathless.

“No.”

Your breath hitches.

“No?” you echo.

His voice drops. “Not until you stop pretending you don’t want me to stay.”

You glare up at him, furious. “You think a few words and a couple of pretty promises erase everything?”

“No,” he says again. “But I’ll keep proving myself until they do.”

You twist out of his grip—nearly—before he suddenly pulls you in.

And for one terrible, brilliant second, your bodies align like they’ve been waiting for this moment your whole lives.

His eyes search yours.

And then, Caleb whispers, “Tell me to stop.”

You open your mouth.

But nothing comes out.

So he kisses you.

Not a soft, hesitant brush of lips.

It’s a claiming.

It’s all the years you spent alone, writing down your agony like confessions to a God who never answered. It’s every fantasy you denied yourself, every moment you watched him look at someone else and wished it were you. It's him—finally, truly, desperately—here.

Your fingers fist in his shirt like you’re angry, like you’re clinging to something you swore you’d never need again.

And when you break apart, gasping, forehead pressed to his, you say—

“I hate you.”

He smiles, soft and ruined. “I know.”

“I hate how much I wanted that.”

“I hope you did.”

“I’m still not making this easy.”

Caleb’s lips trail down your jaw, his voice a low rasp. “You’ve never made anything easy, sweetheart. That’s why you’re worth everything.”

And still—

Still, your heart trembles with the weight of old wounds, and you pull back just enough to see the truth in his eyes.

“You’ll have to fight for this,” you warn him.

His hand finds the back of your neck, possessive and reverent. “Then prepare to be relentlessly pursued.”

You never agreed to date him.

But apparently, Caleb’s taking “relentless pursuit” as a blood oath.

He shows up at your place the next morning with coffee—your actual order, down to the way you like the foam. He doesn’t say how he remembers. You don’t ask.

That night, he texts you at 2am.

Bastard: Thinking about that song you sang. Thinking about your lips too, but that’s not important (it is).

You throw your phone across the bed.

The next day, he’s waiting outside your building. Leaning against his hoverbike, all long legs and low-lidded eyes and that grin. You think he’s here for some kind of mission.

Nope.

Just here to take you to lunch.

“Don’t say this is a date,” you grumble.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, offering his hand. “But hold on tight anyway.”

You hate how your fingers slide into his like they belong there.

—

Caleb doesn’t just flirt. He weaponizes charm like he trained for it.

He gives you compliments with the kind of intensity that makes it hard to breathe.

“I love your voice. Especially when you don’t realize you’re humming.”

“You roll your eyes the same way you used to when I beat you in training. It’s kind of adorable.”

“You don’t have to pretend around me. I know what you sound like when you're honest. I miss that sound.”

He touches you too often. Hand brushing your lower back when he walks past. Fingers grazing yours when he hands you something. Sitting just a little too close on your couch, his thigh pressed against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You hold strong—for a while.

Until he stays over one night, after watching some late-night sci-fi re-run and falling asleep on your couch like a smug golden retriever with abs.

You try to nudge him awake.

You fail.

Hard.

He catches your wrist in his sleep, pulls you down half-on top of him, murmurs your name like it’s a secret prayer, and buries his face in your neck.

You don’t sleep.

Your body is screaming.

But your heart?

It’s terrified.

—

When morning comes, you wake to him cooking in your kitchen like he belongs there, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair a mess, singing your song under his breath.

You freeze in the doorway.

He sees you.

And smiles.

Like you’re not the one who spent ten years hiding a love that almost broke you. Like he’s not here to crack it wide open.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Caleb says softly. “Stay.”

You almost do.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

You think you're doing a good job keeping him at bay.

You’re not.

Because Caleb is everywhere now.

He’s in your kitchen again, humming off-key as he steals bites from your cooking. He’s draped across your couch like it’s his favorite place in the world. He’s in the way he looks at you like you invented gravity, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

You keep your walls up.

But he keeps coming.

Like he knows you’re lying every time you act unaffected.

—

One night, after a long mission and even longer silence, he shows up unannounced. Eyes shadowed. Mouth grim. Shoulders tense with something unspoken.

You open the door.

He doesn’t say a word—just walks past you, breath ragged.

You follow him into your living room. “Caleb?”

“I thought I lost you again,” he says, voice low.

Your stomach drops. “What?”

He turns to face you, and it’s like the air shifts. Thickens.

“I heard your name over the comms. Brief moment of static. No confirmation you made it out. Just radio silence.”

You cross your arms. “I made it out fine.”

“I didn’t know that,” he snaps. “And for a second, I thought—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight.

You exhale. “I’m used to people not checking in.”

“I’m not people.”

He stalks closer.

You step back.

He follows.

“I don’t care how many times you push me away. You don’t get to disappear on me.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” you throw back. “Pretend like none of this hurts? Like I didn’t bleed for you in silence for years while you played hero somewhere else?”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Your voice cracks. “Because I can’t let myself fall again, Caleb. Not if you're just gonna walk away when it gets hard.”

He grabs your wrist.

Not rough. Just certain.

“Look at me.”

You don’t.

So he tips your chin up with two fingers.

His eyes are burning.

“I am not going anywhere. I don't care how long it takes. You can scream, you can run, you can tell me you hate me. I’ll still be right here.”

“Why?” you whisper, eyes glossy. “Why now?”

“Because I’ve loved you longer than I even understood what that meant,” he breathes. “And I’m done pretending I don’t want every single part of you.”

His other hand slides to your waist, slow and reverent.

Your breath hitches.

You can feel his heartbeat through your palm. Fast. Desperate.

The heat between you is unbearable.

One tilt of your head and you’d be kissing him again.

You want to.

God, you ache to.

But instead, you whisper, “This changes nothing.”

He leans in, nose brushing yours.

“Wrong,” Caleb whispers, his voice rough with restraint. “It changes everything.”

But he doesn’t kiss you.

Not this time.

He lets you go.

And it’s infuriating—because now you want him even more.

The first thing you notice is the light—soft gold spilling through your curtains, catching on floating dust motes, warming the edges of the sheets tangled around your legs.

The second thing you notice is the heat.

Not the weather. Not the blanket.

Him.

Your breath stills.

Because Caleb’s wrapped around you like he owns you.

Which—he doesn’t.

He shouldn’t.

And yet here you are, cocooned in his arms, his entire body molded to yours like you were sculpted to fit him. Your head is pillowed on his chest, right over the steady, heavy thump of his heart. One of his hands is buried in your hair, fingers gently tangled, the other gripping your waist in a possessive clutch that hasn’t loosened even in sleep.

You remember falling asleep with your back to him.

You do not remember signing up for this full-body cuddle trap.

Then there's his thigh—wedged between your legs like it lives there.

Your cheeks burn.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “Time to get out before you completely lose your mind.”

You try to slip away quietly.

You wiggle.

No movement.

You nudge his hand.

His grip tightens.

You try prying his fingers from your waist. It’s like wrestling a bear. A warm, unfairly smug bear.

You let out a frustrated sigh and attempt to roll away—but the second you shift, Caleb lets out a low, sleepy groan. His body shifts with yours, tightening the hold, his thigh sliding higher. His lips brush your neck, parting slightly—

And then he nibbles.

You whimper.

It betrays you instantly.

That quiet little sound. The one that escapes before you can swallow it.

Caleb hums. The vibrations rumble through his chest, into your cheek.

And then—

“Mm... morning,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and delicious.

You go still.

“Caleb,” you say, your voice a warning.

His lips find your pulse point. “You smell good,” he slurs, still half-asleep, tone thick with something dangerous.

His thigh rocks just slightly forward. Pressure, heat.

You squeak.

His arms tighten like steel bands.

He’s caging you in.

“C-Caleb, get off—this is—this is not appropriate!”

Another sleepy groan. His lips ghost along your jaw. “You’re so warm.”

Your brain short-circuits.

“You’re dreaming,” you say, trying desperately to breathe like a normal person. “This is a dream. You’re dreaming. Let me go.”

He chuckles—chuckles. A deep, lazy sound against your neck. “If I’m dreaming, I’m never waking up.”

Then his hips shift. Just barely.

But enough.

“Caleb!”

His eyes snap open.

You expect guilt.

What you get is heat.

Raw, focused, and dangerous.

He blinks once. Then twice. Then—

His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back. His nose brushes yours.

“I was trying to be good,” Caleb murmurs. “You have no idea how hard it’s been.”

You do, actually.

Because it’s been hell for you, too.

You’re seconds from giving in—completely, helplessly—when you shove at his chest with both hands and scramble out from beneath him.

You’re standing, heart racing, cheeks flushed, breathless.

Caleb just smirks from the bed, messy-haired and golden in the morning light. “What? You gonna pretend you didn’t enjoy that?”

You throw a pillow at his face.

“Out,” you snap.

He catches it effortlessly. “No breakfast first?”

You march to the door.

“Fine, fine. But next time?” He swings his legs over the edge and stands, gaze searing into yours. “You’ll beg me to stay.”

You slam the door in his face.

It doesn’t stop your knees from buckling.

It happens fast.

Too fast for logic. Too fast for the walls you’ve spent years constructing around your traitorous heart.

One moment you’re arguing—again. Another stupid quip from him, another reckless flirtation that turns your blood to fire. You’re trying to hold on to the last shred of distance between you, snapping something half-hearted and defensive—

And then Caleb moves.

He grabs your wrists, spinning you with dizzying ease, and slams them gently but firmly against the wall. Your back hits the cold surface. His body follows.

You gasp.

His eyes meet yours.

They are ravenous.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Caleb says, voice low, feral, shaking with restraint. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t want to devour you.”

Your breath catches.

And then he kisses you.

Hard.

Not sweet. Not tentative.

Possessive.

Like he’s claiming what was always his.

Your body jerks with the force of it, your wrists still caged in his hands above your head. You try to twist free—not to escape, but because it’s too much, all-consuming, desperate.

He doesn’t let you go.

He presses closer instead, chasing your mouth with his own, drinking in every gasp, every shuddering moan you try to swallow.

You break away for air—just for a second—and he follows, mouth trailing your jaw, nipping your throat, sucking a mark into the skin just below your ear.

“Caleb—” you manage, but it comes out a whimper.

His pelvis grinds into yours, deliberate and aching. The friction draws a strangled sound from your throat.

“Oh god—”

“That’s it,” he groans against your skin. “That sound. I’ve imagined it every night. Every. Damn. Night.”

His hands leave your wrists—only to slide down your arms, your sides, until they’re clutching your hips like he might fall apart if he lets go. He lifts you onto the wall, thigh pressing between your legs, grinding again.

Your fingers tangle in his shirt, yanking him closer even as your brain screams to stop this.

But your body?

Your body is already his.

“Tell me to stop,” Caleb breathes, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving.

You don’t.

You can’t.

There’s no pretending anymore. No wall to hide behind.

Because the truth is—he touches you like a man starved, but worships you like you're divine.

His lips return to yours, slower this time but no less intense, and it feels like every missed moment, every unsent letter, every buried ache is burning through the kiss.

His self-control shatters.

And you let it.

Because there’s no going back now.

There’s a moment—barely a breath—after that kiss.

His forehead presses to yours, both of you trembling, not just from adrenaline but from something deeper. Something that feels like standing on the edge of a cliff after running your whole life just to avoid the fall.

He whispers your name like a secret, like a vow. It breaks you a little, how he says it. Like he’s tasting the weight of it for the first time.

Then he moves.

Your legs wrap around his waist without thought—instinct meeting inevitability. You're holding on to the only thing in the room that feels real. He lifts you as if he was made to, the heat between you palpable, a pulse that beats beneath your skin, echoing every missed chance and quiet longing.

The kiss deepens. Desperate, molten, tasting of years swallowed down and swallowed whole. His hands are everywhere—anchoring, memorizing, shaking just slightly from how hard he’s holding back.

He carries you through the house like a man possessed. Not with lust, but with ache. The bedroom door shuts with a thud behind you, and suddenly the air is full of promises, unspoken but heavy. When your back meets the mattress, he follows—solid and unyielding. Not crushing, but overwhelming in the way only someone you've loved for too long can be.

His weight is warmth, his gaze all hunger and reverence. His hands slide beneath your clothes, not to strip, but to feel. His palm over your heart. His fingers brushing your ribs like counting the years apart. Every touch says: I missed this. I missed you.

“You still gonna pretend you don’t want this?” he murmurs, his voice low, scraping over the tenderest parts of you.

You try to breathe out a laugh, but it catches on something in your throat—emotion, maybe. Want, definitely.

His mouth presses to your skin in a trail that’s less possession and more devotion. His touch follows, mapping you slowly, like he's rediscovering a land he once called home. You feel yourself arch into him, answer him without words, because words were never big enough for this.

He whispers things you’ll remember later—soft confessions and raw need laced with regret for every year wasted. You shiver when his breath touches your skin, when his fingers slide across bare inches you didn't mean to offer but couldn't deny.

And then... silence. Not because the moment ends. But because it begins.

Everything else fades.

There are no sharp lines, only sensation—heat and trembling limbs, quiet gasps, and the way your fingers fist into his shirt like you’ll fall apart without him there to catch you.

You lose time in the haze of it. In the rhythm of closeness, of skin against skin, of hearts beating so loud they drown out thought. You feel unraveled. Revered. Completely undone. Not by action, but by intent.

After, when the quiet stretches between you and your breath finally slows, he doesn’t let go. He stays draped over you, face buried in the crook of your neck like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he opens his eyes.

“This isn’t over,” he says. His voice is hoarse, a whisper etched with everything he’s never said aloud. “I’m not letting you go. Not this time.”

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

Not because of what just happened.

But because of everything that didn’t need to.

You lost track of how long ago the sun set.

The air is heavy with heat and sweat, your skin slick against the sheets. You’re boneless, trembling, lips swollen from kisses too deep, too desperate. Every nerve is raw. Every breath you take shudders.

And Caleb?

Caleb is still going.

He hovers above you, eyes dark with something starved—like he’s been waiting his whole life for this and now that he has you, he doesn’t know how to stop. His hands roam as if relearning the shape of you again and again, like the memory alone will never be enough.

“We’re not done,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your damp forehead. “Not yet.”

You try to protest, but all that leaves you is a soft, aching sound.

He smiles—soft, wicked, reverent.

And leans in to kiss you like it’s the first time all over again.

You're floating.

Barely conscious, held together by the fragile thread of Caleb’s body wrapped around yours, his breath a soft rhythm against your neck.

Your limbs are jelly. Your thighs ache. Your lips are kiss-bitten and bruised, and you're so sensitive that every inch of you shivers when he so much as adjusts beside you.

And yet—even now, even after hours—he won’t stop touching.

Not in the same feral, frantic way as before. No. Now it’s worship.

He kisses the curve of your shoulder, the back of your neck, your spine. His fingertips trace lazy, possessive patterns into your hips. He murmurs things—some unintelligible, some far too intimate.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers against your skin.

“I missed you.”

“I’ll never let you go again.”

You’re too tired to reply. Your voice is hoarse from screaming, from moaning his name over and over, but your heart responds like a bell rung too hard. It throbs.

Eventually, he gets up—only to return with a warm towel, water, a fresh shirt. He tends to you with gentle hands, murmuring apologies each time you flinch from how sensitive you are, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temple, your knuckles.

When he finally slides into the shower with you, your body instinctively leans into his. The water is hot, soothing, washing away the sweat, the stickiness, the evidence of your complete and total unraveling.

But not the ache. Not the possessiveness.

He sits on the tiled bench and pulls you into his lap, your legs straddling him, head tucked under his chin. You’re exhausted, wrecked—and he’s still hard beneath you.

You give him a look that’s half horror, half disbelief.

He smirks, eyes dark and gleaming. “I told you, I’m not finished.”

“Caleb—”

“I owe you,” he says, voice dipping low. “For every year I didn’t touch you. For every time you cried over me in silence. For every word in those letters I should’ve read sooner.”

Your breath hitches.

And then his lips descend again—slow, tender, reverent. As if he’s trying to memorize this version of you, water-slicked and trembling in his arms, yours at last.

Back in bed, you collapse into his chest, body boneless, heart hammering.

And just when you think he’s finally done—

He shifts again.

Rolls you beneath him.

“You’re not going to let me sleep?” you rasp.

His fingers trail down your body, between your thighs, making you jolt.

“No,” he breathes against your ear. “You’re not sleeping until I’ve claimed every inch of you. Until you can’t think of anything but me.”

You should tell him to stop.

You don’t.

Because the truth is: every part of you belongs to him already.

And now?

He’s going to make sure you never forget it.

The morning after feels… dangerous.

Not because you’re in any real peril—but because it’s blissfully quiet, and the man who wrecked you within an inch of your life is humming softly in your kitchen, shirtless, wearing nothing but sweatpants slung far too low on his hips, looking like the devil himself in domestic drag.

You barely make it through the doorway, each step a careful negotiation with gravity and sore muscles. Your thighs ache. Your back aches. Everything aches. But the moment Caleb glances over his shoulder and smirks at your limp?

Oh, you want to punch him.

Or kiss him.

Or both.

“You’re up,” he says, voice as smug as the day is long.

“I tried to stay asleep,�� you deadpan. “But someone kept me up all night.”

He chuckles—low and wicked—and sets a mug of coffee on the counter for you.

“Consider it payback.”

You squint at him. “For what?”

His eyes drop to your hips, the curve of your throat, the faint marks blooming on your skin like war medals.

“For every letter you wrote and never gave me.”

Your stomach drops.

The mug clatters slightly when you set it down too fast.

You’d almost forgotten. Almost managed to push aside the mortifying knowledge that he read everything.

And yet, here he is—utterly unbothered, possibly turned on, casually flipping pancakes like he didn’t spend the night wrecking you with the very fantasies you'd penned in lonely bedrooms and late-night heartbreak.

“You read them all,” you say, not quite a question.

He looks at you over his shoulder. “Memorized. Studied. Jerk—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Caleb.”

He only grins wider.

You try to be casual, sip your coffee, lean against the wall like you’re not reliving every desperate, depraved word he’s now got locked and loaded in that beautiful head of his. But he’s already watching you too closely. Reading you like one of those letters.

“There's one you missed,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.

He freezes.

Slowly, slowly, he turns. “Where?”

You bite your lip.

“The drawer by my bed. Bottom one.”

He’s gone before you even blink.

Your heart is pounding.

By the time you stumble after him, he’s already sitting on the bed, letter in hand. It’s the last one. The one you wrote when you thought you’d never see him again. It was raw, feral—filled with longing so thick it could drown you.

He reads it silently. His jaw tightens. His Adam’s apple bobs hard.

When he finishes, he just looks at you.

You’re not sure what you expect.

But you do not expect him to throw the letter down and stand up like that.

“I’m going to ruin you again,” he says, voice low. “And this time, it won’t stop until you beg me to believe you’re mine.”

Your knees buckle.

But he’s already crossing the room.

Already crowding you against the wall, hands gripping your thighs, lifting you effortlessly until your back hits wood and your legs wrap around him like muscle memory.

“Caleb—” you gasp, but he silences you with a kiss that’s pure possession.

“No more running. No more letters.” He grinds against you, voice rasping. “You want to scream my name? Do it now. Right here. Where I can answer every word.”

And you do.

God help you, you do.

—

You don't know how you made it through round... whatever number that was. Your body's a puddle, your skin still humming, but Caleb is finally calm. Sated, for now. The hunger in his eyes has simmered down into something deeper—something dangerous in its quiet intensity.

He’s seated now, bare chest gleaming faintly in the afternoon light, legs spread with an unmistakable air of ownership. You’re half-draped across his torso, wearing one of his shirts that swallows you whole. He holds you with one arm looped securely around your waist, the other hand delicately unfolding that last letter. The most intimate one. The one you never meant anyone—especially him—to see.

You try not to squirm as he reads it again, slowly, as if committing every line to memory.

You can feel his eyes on the page—but his attention is on you.

“You wrote this two years ago,” he says softly, thumb brushing idle circles against your inner thigh. “I was at the edge of the solar belt. Couldn’t sleep that night. I felt… off. Like I was missing something.”

You glance down, ashamed. “Don’t romanticize it.”

“I’m not,” he replies simply. “I’m aligning timelines.”

Your heart stutters. His hand stills.

“Do you want me to stop reading?” he asks, genuine this time.

You consider it. Swallow. Then shake your head.

He nods, kisses your temple.

Another beat of silence. The room smells of skin and paper and sunlight.

Then, quietly, with a low chuckle, he murmurs:

“I should have known,” he mutters, “you liked being chased. You always did, even as a kid. Remember all those games of tag?”

You remember.

And you remember how he’d always let you win—just enough—before pulling you back into his arms with that sly smile of his, the one that made your heart race and your stomach flip.

You squirm, face heating. “That’s different.”

“It was always you,” he says softly. “Even when I didn’t know what I was looking for. I’d follow you through fields, parks, school halls. You’d run, I’d chase. Every time.”

His voice dips, husky but no longer carnal. “You were never hiding from me. You were waiting for me to catch up.”

Your throat tightens.

“And I did.” He sets the letter aside. “Finally.”

The intensity softens into something almost unbearably tender. His fingers curl beneath your chin and tilt your face up.

“No more letters,” he murmurs. “If there’s something you want… tell me. If you need something… I’ll listen. If you feel too much—good. So do I.”

You try to look away, but he won’t let you.

“You’ve already stripped yourself bare,” he whispers, brushing your hair back. “Now let me carry the weight.”

And just like that, your defenses crumble—slowly, quietly, like a dam leaking at the seams.

You rest your forehead against his. His lips ghost over yours. There’s no urgency. No fire.

Just heat. Banked and waiting.

And when he pulls you closer, tucks you against his chest, and lets out a slow breath—you swear you can feel his heartbeat echo your own.

The world outside is quiet, but inside your home, chaos reigns.

“Hey! Give that back!” you shout, laughing breathlessly as you chase after Caleb, who’s casually sauntering around your kitchen—your kitchen—holding your favorite coffee mug high above his head like a trophy.

Bastard.

“This?” Caleb grins, the morning light making his messy hair look unfairly golden, like he just strolled out of a dream. “You mean our mug now. Community property.”

“That’s not how this works!” You make a wild grab for it, but he just shifts it higher, smirking like he’s enjoying this a little too much.

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s only in a loose pair of joggers, the drawstring barely tied, his chest bare and warm and still a little damp from his earlier shower. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you—like you’re the only thing in the world worth teasing, worth chasing. Whatever it is, your heart flutters violently in your chest.

“Caleb, I swear—” you lunge for him again.

He catches you effortlessly, laughing as he spins you around until your back is pressed against his chest, trapping you in his arms. The mug dangles in front of you tauntingly. His scent envelops you—fresh soap, coffee, and something that’s just him.

“Say please,” he whispers into your ear, his breath warm, sending a shiver racing down your spine.

You wriggle in his arms, only managing to grind yourself back against his hips in the most scandalous way. Caleb’s arms tighten, his low groan rumbling against your back.

You freeze, heat flooding your cheeks. Damn him.

Caleb chuckles, feeling the way you stiffen. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re playing with fire this early in the morning.”

“You started it,” you mutter, glaring over your shoulder.

He grins lazily, shameless. “I’ll finish it, too.”

Before you can retort, he finally, finally relinquishes the mug, setting it gently on the counter. You think you’re safe—until he sweeps you off your feet in one effortless move, carrying you bridal style toward the couch.

“Caleb! Put me down!” you yelp, pounding your fists against his chest, but he’s unbothered, humming a tune under his breath like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Shhh. We’re doing Sunday properly,” he says, plopping down onto the couch and settling you firmly on his lap, caging you in with his arms. “Coffee. Couch. Cuddles. Mandatory.”

You open your mouth to protest, but his hand cups the back of your head, gently guiding you to rest against his shoulder. His touch is slow, deliberate, almost reverent.

You can feel the tension humming between you—thick, electric—but somehow, it doesn’t feel urgent. It feels… safe. Warm. Like you could fall asleep right here and Caleb would keep the whole world away from you.

You sigh, feeling your body relax against him despite yourself.

“This isn’t fair,” you grumble.

“What’s not fair?” he asks, voice low and teasing as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“You being so… so…” You gesture vaguely, words failing you. How do you describe this? Caleb being infuriating and sweet and annoyingly perfect, all wrapped up in one stupidly handsome package?

“So what?” he presses, feigning innocence. His hand strokes lazily up and down your spine, his touch feather-light.

You groan into his chest. “Everything.”

He laughs—really laughs—and the sound rumbles deep in his chest, vibrating against you. You can’t help the small smile that creeps across your face. You hate how easy it is to be soft with him. How easy it is to fall harder when you promised yourself you’d be careful.

“You’re stuck with me now, sweetheart,” Caleb says, dropping his forehead against yours, his eyes shining with something raw and unspoken. “Might as well get used to it.”

Your heart thuds painfully against your ribs, and for once, you don’t have a snarky reply. Just this—this impossible, chaotic, beautiful morning. His arms around you. His laugh in your ears. His heartbeat steady beneath your hand.

Maybe you are stuck with him.

Maybe you want to be.

And when Caleb presses a soft, lingering kiss to your lips—tender, warm, unbearably sweet—you know you’re completely, hopelessly, irreversibly his.

And judging by the way he smiles against your mouth, he's known it all along.

Your lunch is burning.

You know it is—because you can smell the faint scent of charred vegetables—and yet, you can’t do anything about it.

Because Caleb.

Because Caleb, who has one arm lazily wrapped around your waist, caging you against the counter, a spatula abandoned nearby. Because Caleb, who keeps murmuring absolutely mortifying things against your ear in that deep, smug voice of his, his lips brushing your skin with every word.

Because Caleb, who somehow—somehow—has memorized every single humiliating word you ever wrote to him.

You try not to die of embarrassment right there.

“You know,” Caleb drawls, his voice a slow purr against your ear, “you were really dramatic back in middle school. I believe it went something like—” he clears his throat exaggeratedly, clearly having way too much fun, “‘Dear Caleb, I hate you so much I hope you trip and fall into a mud puddle in front of the entire school. Maybe then you’ll stop being so full of yourself.’”

You groan, shoving your sleeves over your face, mortified. “Stopppp.” You’re basically trying to melt into the counter at this point.

But Caleb’s laughing, warm and delighted, peeling your sleeves down to expose your burning face. He lives for this now, clearly. Every time you squirm, he looks like he’s won the lottery.

“And then—then,” he continues gleefully, ignoring your protests, “in high school, when I got a little popular… You wrote, ‘Congratulations, Prince Charming. Maybe one day you’ll notice the loyal commoner you left in the dust. But no worries. I’m totally fine. Totally. Absolutely fine. Not like I ever cared anyway.’”

He recites it with dramatic flair, clutching his chest like a wounded lover. You are dying inside.

“Oh my God, Caleb,” you hiss, trying to hide your face again. “Shut up! I was, like, fifteen! I didn’t know anything about anything!”

He laughs again, low and fond, his chest vibrating against your back. “You knew enough to break my heart, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and you feel the serious undercurrent beneath all the teasing—the raw affection.

You twist in his grip, attempting to shove him away, but he just effortlessly manhandles you into his lap instead. One strong arm loops around your waist, the other sneaks into your hair, stroking it slowly, tangling his fingers through the strands.

You pout at him, cheeks still on fire. “You’re so annoying.”

His grin softens into something devastatingly tender. His eyes burn bright and molten as he stares at you, like you’re the only thing in the entire world.

“Not done yet,” he murmurs.

Your stomach drops.

You already know what's coming. The worst part.

Caleb leans down, nuzzles against your temple, and in a low, sinful voice, whispers, “And then there were the ones where you couldn’t stop thinking about me at night.”

You jerk, mortified, but he tightens his hold on you, trapping you snug against him. His lips graze your ear.

“You had so many thoughts about me,” he says, voice dropping impossibly lower. “About what you wanted me to do to you. About what you wanted to do to me.” He chuckles darkly when you squeak and try to wriggle away.

“I can quote those too, if you want,” he teases mercilessly. “Maybe I should start with the one where you described me tying you up with my DAA-issued tactical belt—”

“CALEB!!” you shriek, smacking his chest as he throws his head back laughing.

You bury your face in his shoulder, absolutely vibrating with secondhand embarrassment, whimpering, “I’m going to die. I’m actually going to die.”

“No, you’re not,” he says, pressing kisses to your hairline, your forehead, your temple, over and over again until your trembling subsides into quiet giggles. His arms are warm and unrelenting around you.

You risk peeking up at him—and freeze.

He’s staring down at you with a look so filled with adoration it physically steals the air from your lungs. His hand cups your jaw so gently it makes your heart ache.

“You’re my life,” Caleb says, voice rough with feeling. “You’ve always been my life. You just didn’t know it yet.”

You blink up at him, stunned, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest.

Slowly, shyly, you rest your forehead against his, your hands sliding up to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palms.

Caleb exhales shakily, as if the moment is too big even for him.

The smell of burnt food lingers, the sun pours golden light across the kitchen, and you sit there, tangled up in him, the most chaotic, beautiful, utterly yours thing you’ve ever had.

“Guess I’m stuck with you, huh?” you whisper, a teasing glint in your eye.

Caleb’s smile turns crooked, boyish.

“Forever, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

And then he kisses you, slow and deep and soft, like a promise he’s waited a lifetime to keep.

—

Later that night, you're curled up on the couch together, tangled in a heap of limbs and fluffy throw blankets, a low movie playing in the background.

You’re half-dozing, feeling deliciously warm and safe against Caleb’s chest, his heartbeat lulling you into a haze. His hand strokes lazily through your hair, fingertips dragging slow, lazy patterns against your scalp.

You’re just about to slip under completely when—

"Sweetheart?" Caleb’s voice, deceptively casual.

You hum in response, not even bothering to open your eyes.

"What's this? Another letter?"

You tense immediately.

No.

No no no.

Your eyes snap open in horror just in time to see Caleb, that absolute devil, pulling out one of the more battered, worn pieces of paper from somewhere.

You gasp, trying to grab for it, but he holds it way above your head, smirking like the cat who caught the canary.

"Caleb!" you shriek, flailing. "Put it away! You can't—!"

He just laughs and pins you down easily with one hand on your waist, straddling your thighs to trap you in place.

“I think the people deserve to hear this one,” he teases, that wicked glint in his eye. “Specifically, me.”

He clears his throat dramatically while you writhe helplessly beneath him.

"‘It’s not fair,’" Caleb reads aloud, smirking as he drags his gaze down your squirming body. "‘It’s not fair how he fills out his uniform. How his gloves tighten around his fingers. How I can’t stop thinking about what those hands would feel like on my skin. How I dream about him tying my wrists, whispering filthy promises against my neck—’"

"CALEB!!" you wail, smacking your hands against his chest in a feeble attempt to stop him. Your face is boiling hot.

But Caleb, the menace, the absolute menace, just grins wider, loving every second of your humiliation.

"And it goes on," he says gleefully, ignoring your mortified whimper. "‘How I'd let him do anything to me. How I'd beg him to lose control. How much I crave him, every breath, every heartbeat, like I'm dying of thirst in a desert and he's the only water I'll ever want.’"

Your soul tries to physically leave your body.

You slap your hands over your face, wishing for death.

"Please," you moan into your palms, "Caleb, please stop—"

But he just chuckles darkly, leaning down until his nose brushes yours, his voice dropping to a sinful murmur.

“You really should have mailed this one, sweetheart,” he says, eyes smoldering. "Would’ve saved us a lot of time."

You whimper, still hiding your face. He peels your hands away from your burning cheeks gently but firmly, making you meet his gaze.

Caleb’s smile turns unbearably tender as he cradles your flushed face between his palms, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones.

"I memorized every word," he says softly. "Every single one. They're engraved into me now. Just like you."

Your heart stutters painfully in your chest.

You can't look away from him—those devastating sunset eyes drinking you in like you hung the stars.

He dips his head lower, kissing the corner of your mouth, slow and reverent.

“You’re mine,” Caleb murmurs, voice rough with possessiveness and love. “You always were.”

You melt completely, boneless in his hold, helpless against him—as you’ve always been.

"Caleb..." you whisper, voice trembling.

He smiles that slow, infuriating, dangerous smile—and promptly starts tickling you, laughing when you shriek and try to wriggle free, your earlier mortification forgotten in a burst of chaotic laughter and flailing limbs.

You scream his name, half furious, half in love.

Caleb just laughs like it’s the happiest sound in the world.

It’s late.

Not the deep velvet of midnight, but that quiet hour when the world seems suspended in hush. The city hums softly beyond the windows, and the room is awash in the muted amber of a bedside lamp. You're tangled together beneath the sheets—not in passion this time, but in something far more dangerous.

Vulnerability.

Caleb lies on his side, propped up on one elbow, watching you with that look again—the one that's too tender, too knowing. His fingers trail lazily across your arm, like he can’t stop touching you even now. Like he’s making sure you’re still here.

“I should’ve reached out sooner,” he says.

You stay quiet. Not because you're angry. Because you're afraid of what might come next.

“I didn’t date her,” he adds, so casually it nearly slips by.

You blink.

“What?”

“She wasn’t mine,” he says. “Never was. I thought…” He hesitates. “I thought she might be the only person who could understand what I was becoming. The training. The pressure. But it was never romantic. Not even close.”

Your throat feels tight. You shift, pulling the blanket up like armor.

“Then why didn’t you call? Or message? Or—anything, Caleb? You just vanished.”

He exhales, slow and jagged.

“I was afraid,” he admits.

You glance up, surprised.

He stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched. “Not of the missions. Not of the fleet. I was afraid that if I talked to you, really talked to you, I’d drop everything just to be near you. I was already teetering. One video call and I would’ve been done for.”

Your heart twists painfully.

“You idiot,” you whisper. “I would’ve taken you. In any form.”

“I didn’t want you to take less of me.” He looks at you then, eyes bare, voice rough. “I wanted to be worthy of what you wrote in those letters. Of the way you looked at me when we were kids.”

You want to scream. Or cry. Or maybe just bury your face in his chest until the years melt away.

“You were worthy, Caleb. You just… didn’t believe it.”

A silence settles. Not heavy. Just real.

He pulls you closer. One hand cradling your head to his chest, the other tangled in your fingers beneath the sheets. You listen to his heartbeat again.

Stronger now.

Steady.

“For the record,” he murmurs, “when I read the one about the lake—when we were sixteen—I nearly lost it. I remember that night. I didn’t know what to do with the way I felt back then.”

You squeeze his hand. “You pushed me into the water.”

“You screamed my name so loud, half the neighborhood heard.”

You smile despite yourself.

Then softer, quieter:

“I used to dream about that moment, you know? If you ever found the letters. If you ever came back.”

“And now that I have?”

Your smile fades. You tilt your head up and find him waiting. Bare. Present.

“I don’t want dreams anymore,” you whisper.

“Good,” Caleb says, leaning down until his lips barely brush yours. “Because I’m not leaving this time. And I don’t need letters. I have you.”

And when he kisses you, it’s not a claim.

It’s a promise.

The shuttle touches down with a soft hiss, and before the hatch even fully opens, you're hit with the scent of your hometown—familiar, grounding, sweetened by nostalgia. The air is different here. Softer. Like time slows down just enough to let you breathe.

Caleb steps out behind you, his duffel slung lazily over one shoulder. His eyes sweep over the old landing port, the cracked pavement, the overgrown grass curling at the edges of fences long forgotten. He doesn't say anything for a moment.

Then, quietly: “It’s smaller than I remember.”

You huff a laugh. “Because we’re bigger now.”

He looks at you—really looks. “You are.”

There’s a weight to those words you don’t touch yet. Not here. Not now.

The town unfolds before you like a photograph—faded but warm. You walk the familiar streets side by side, shoulders brushing, passing your old school, the corner store where you used to pool pocket change for sweets, the park where you’d play tag until dusk.

“I remember this tree,” Caleb murmurs, stopping beneath the one with the warped trunk. “You used to climb it like a gremlin.”

“You fell out of it once,” you remind him. “Cried for hours.”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “And you didn’t leave my side.”

A beat of silence.

“You always stayed,” he says.

You glance at him, the late afternoon sun haloing his profile. “You just didn’t always notice.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, his hand brushes yours. Then lingers. Then takes it fully.

You don’t let go.

The path takes you past your childhood home. Your heart kicks up. The windows are still the same. The porch swing still crooked. You half expect to hear your mother calling you in for dinner. Caleb pauses beside you.

“I remember sneaking out through your window,” he says with a crooked grin. “You made me carry that squeaky chair so we wouldn’t get caught.”

“You always stepped on the wrong floorboard anyway,” you mutter. “We always got caught.”

“Worth it,” he murmurs. “Every single time.”

You don’t speak again until you're standing at the edge of the lake—the one you wrote about. The one where you screamed his name across the water. It looks just like it did then.

The sun dips low, painting the surface gold.

You watch the light scatter across the waves, lost in thought.

“I didn’t know you loved me then,” he says, voice quiet. “But I felt it. In every laugh. Every fight. Every stupid dare. I felt it. I just didn’t have the words.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t either,” you say. “So I wrote them instead.”

He turns to you slowly. “No more letters,” he whispers.

Then, gently, reverently, Caleb cups your face.

You close your eyes.

The kiss is soft this time. Not a promise or a possession. Just a memory, coming full circle.

Just two people who finally stopped running.

NOTES: guys I'm so embarrassed, I can't believe I posted the unedited version!!! I didn't like how instead of talking through their issues these two went to bang instead, AHHH this is so embarrassing!!!

#meliora writes #love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #caleb x reader #lads caleb #caleb x you #reader is not mc #non mc reader #lads fluff #lads fanfic #xia yizhou #xia yizhou x you #yearning hours #lads smut #xia yizhou smut #love and deepspace caleb #lads angst #fic: letters unsent

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erisnxxi · 4 months ago

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Love and Deepspace Non-Mc Fic Recommendations (1)

Check out the second Lads Non-Mc Fic Recs here!

Sylus

☆ Angel of Her Own Making - by bwennie (link here)

☆ Mister Dragon, Let Me Love You - by clairewritesfanfics (link here)

☆ Heartbreak Anniversary with Sylus - by mephisto-reporting (link here)

☆ Sylus with non!mc reader - by yukithestar (one, two, three, four)

☆ enough - by captivating-flavors (link here)

☆ away (loosely part 2 of enough) - by captivating-flavors (link here)

☆ wilted promises - by shaiyasstuff (one, two, finale)

☆ delayed beginnings - by shaiyasstuff (one-shot, sequel, epilogue, bonus)

☆ The Great (Unnecessary) Divorce Incident - by mangooes (link here)

☆ The Winner Takes it All - by misshuntereevee (one, two)

☆ one in the head, two in the chest - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

☆ hurst so good - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

☆ The Sin & The Sinner - by saintobio (link here)

☆ Calm and Serenity - by blueivyy99 (masterlist)

☆ Impartial Hearts - by ladsonlads (link here)

☆ A Blooming Predicament - by subliminalwish (link here)

☆ merry christmas, mr. sylus - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

☆ merry christmas, mr. sylus (aftermath) - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

☆ sylus x non mc reader - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

☆ Lonely Birthday - Sylus - by i-messed-up-big-time (link here)

☆ BY NAME, ON PAPER - by ryusjwks (link here)

☆ OUT OF BOUNDS - by novthirty - (masterlist)

☆ unspoken - by vellihor (link here)

☆ second best - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

☆ Ikigai - by lighting-and-shadow (masterlist)

☆ ever, ever after - by kannady (link here)

Zayne

☆ Nocturne of Twilight - by chuluoyi (part one)

☆ Dawn's First Light - by chuluoyi (part two)

☆ pit-a-pat - by shaiyasstuff (one-shot)

☆ Heartbreak Anniversary with Zayne - by mephisto-reporting (link here)

☆ Heart of Glass - by szarina (masterlist)

☆ My Wedding Vow Is To Divorce You - by kira-loves0905 (link here)

☆ Claiming Something That's Not Yours - by authorssmc (link here)

☆ evermore - by shaiyasstuff (link here)

☆ Lonely Birthday - Zayne - by i-messed-up-big-time (link here)

☆ You Will Never Be Her - by mischivousvoid (link here)

☆ Imagine being Zayne's non-mc significant other - by dark-night-hero (link here, part two, part three)

☆ Evermore - by orphicmeliora (link here)

☆ THIRD PLACE TO A TWO-PERSON HOME - by a-casxandra (link here, part two, part three)

Caleb

☆ Rotten Apples - by rcvcgers (masterlist)

☆ mine - by captivating-flavors (link here)

☆ The Colonel's Keeper - by saintobio (link here)

☆ The Colonel's Saint - by saintobio (part two)

☆ The Terminator's Curse (spinoff of The Colonel Series) - by saintobio (link here)

☆ weightless paradise - by huxhsz (masterlist)

☆ back to friends - by hxlxnaaa (link here)

☆ Heartbreak Anniversary with Caleb - by mephisto-reporting (link here)

☆ Lonely Birthday - Caleb - by i-messed-up-big-time (link here)

☆ even when there was rain, sunshine came - by yuansie (masterlist)

☆ seven years - by cosmoszyn (link here)

☆ eighth year (part two of seven years) - by cosmoszyn (link here)

☆ a decade (part three of seven years) - by cosmoszyn (link here)

☆ LETTERS UNSENT - by orphicmeliora (link here)

☆ Backburner - by a-casxandra (link here, part two, part three, last part)

Xavier

☆ glass half full - by shaiyasstuff (drabble)

☆ 3:07 a.m. - by shaiyasstuff (one-shot, sequel)

☆ we can't be friends - by kitimeq (link here)

☆ Duty's Cruel Embrace - rcvcgers (masterlist)

☆ Lonely Birthday - Xavier - by i-messed-up-big-time (link here)

☆ Realizing Something You Shouldn't Have - by authorssmc (link here)

Rafayel

☆ Heartbreak Anniversary with Rafayel - by mephisto-reporting (link here)

☆ Ocean Memories - by yuansie (masterlist)

☆ fate - by shaiyasstuff (one-shot, sequel)

☆ Loathe To Paint You - by rcvcgers (masterlist)

☆ You Were Meant For The Ocean - by sapphirexsolarium (link here)

☆ Lonely Birthday - Rafayel - by i-messed-up-big-time (link here)

☆ You're losing Me - by a-casxandra (link here, part two, part three, last part)

☆ Imagine being Rafayel's non-mc significant other - by dark-night-hero (link here, part two, part three)

Multi

☆ to you - by calebsluvr (link here)

☆ Bitter - by whosashan (part one)

☆ Sour - by whosashan (part two)

◇ Hello, I won't be updating this list anymore because I can't add more links BUT I will be making a new list soon!

◇ Made this list to keep track on the fics that I am reading and to find these fics easier.

◇ To the authors mentioned THANK YOU FOR YOUR AMAZING WRITING/WORKS AND I LOVE YA'LL 🙈💗

◇ All links are up to date!

Last Edited July 08, 2025 11:30 am

♥ dividers used is made by enchanthings ♥

#erinas fic recommendations #lads fic recs #lads x non!mc reader #sylus x non!mc reader #zayne x non!mc reader #caleb x non!mc reader #xavier x non!mc reader #rafayel x non!mc reader #lads x non mc #sylus x non mc #zayne x non mc #caleb x non mc #xavier x non mc #rafayel x non mc

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ryusjwks · 4 months ago

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yapping abt nonmc

Non-MC reader fanfics are always written by authors who know exactly how to hurt a person. The pain is so intense and so well-crafted that, dear God, sometimes I find myself rereading the same paragraph over and over again. And after a while, I start to see myself as that woman—waiting to be loved but never receiving it in return.

Imagine loving someone. Looking at them with the most fragile, the most human part of your heart. When you hear their voice, everything inside you comes to a halt, and your entire existence shifts toward them. But they… they don’t even notice you. Or if they do, their recognition is not with the powerful grasp of love, but with the light touch of mere acknowledgment.

To you, they are a star, the very center of the universe. But to them, you are just another speck of light in the sky. If you were to disappear, they wouldn’t feel your absence. You turn back, realizing your hands are empty, crushed under the weight of your love. And they? They continue revolving around another world, another sun.

You are a meteor, trying to rise and shine, but unable to enter their orbit—shattered by the gravity of a planet that was never meant to hold you. You dissolve into dust, fading into silence. And they move on, as if nothing ever happened.

This plays out differently for each character, but the ending remains the same.

In Zayne’s case, you are either his fiancée or his wife. He is always cold and distant. His words are measured, his presence heavy yet quiet. Even if storms rage behind his eyes, his face remains unreadable. He has always been this way, and you have accepted it.

But then, he smiles—at her.

That smile is like spring breaking through the ice, subtle, warm, and gentle. As if, for just a moment, the layers of frost within him have melted. And in that moment, you realize he was never truly like this—not for everyone. He is not just a distant man; he is only distant toward you.

And that’s when it sinks in. A weight settles inside you, stealing your breath for just a second. Because you have seen it now—he can be affectionate, he can be warm, he can smile. But that smile was never meant for you.

You are likely Sylus’s assistant, though in rare cases, you might be his wife. Sylus has always been indifferent—to everyone. To you. You walked in his shadow on the battlefield, threw yourself in front of bullets for him, but to him, it was merely necessity. A duty. Your presence was nothing more than part of the mission. Until she came along.

With her arrival, Sylus changed. His face softened when he looked at her, the sharpness in his voice faded. He made sacrifices for her, and when he spoke to her, the rigidness in his posture eased. Sylus was no longer the man you knew. Everyone questioned if he was still the same person, but you already knew the truth.

He hadn’t changed. He had simply never been yours.

With Xavier and Rafael, the pattern is almost identical. You are nothing more than a companion who has traveled through centuries with them, defying time itself.

As time weaves its path, they always take the lead—making decisions, guiding, fighting. And you? You are merely a shadow beside them. A witness. While they sacrificed their homelands for love, you were the one who heard the cries of the people they left behind. On one side was their passionate devotion, and on the other, your quiet grief.

For them, time had stopped. But for you, the world kept turning, though it no longer resembled the place you once knew.

And then there’s Caleb.

Caleb was always by MC’s side. He was her protector, her shield, her most trusted person. And you were there too. You grew up in the same house, sat at the same dinner table, shared the same stories. But his eyes always sought only MC.

Through the years, you watched how he looked at her. How he stepped forward at the slightest sign of danger, how every word he spoke to her carried an unshakable certainty. You bore witness to his protection, his sacrifices, his unwavering love—but never once was any of it directed at you.

You were there too. You lived those same moments. But you were never the center of his world.

Some see her as a mistress, a backup, an extra wedged between the main character and the LI. As if she were a mere footnote in someone else’s story, placed there by mistake. But she’s not.

She is not just someone trying to insert herself where she doesn’t belong. She was there from the very beginning. She walked the same path, fought the same battles, gazed at the same sky. She was never a stranger lingering on the edges of the story—she was a part of it.

The difference is that her name was never written into the main plot. Her words never echoed, her presence was never at the center. And yet, she was never just a replacement. Because love isn’t a competition, it isn’t a role to be filled, it isn’t about winners and losers.

She simply loved. With everything she had, without expecting anything in return. Her eyes were always on him, but his eyes were never on her.

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whenstarsundress · 9 days ago

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“my angel is unable to orgasm…” —sylus

your legs were shaking. your back arched off the bed, slick soaking the sheets beneath you. his fingers moved in slow, steady circles, and his mouth—god, his mouth—was hot on your neck, whispering, “just a little more, baby, you’re almost there.”

but it wasn’t happening. you were so wet it was obscene, so turned on your whole body buzzed, but the edge kept slipping just out of reach. frustration began to creep in, making your eyes sting.

sylus noticed. of course he did. he pulled back slightly, brows furrowed, fingers still gently working between your thighs.

“hey.” his voice was low, grounding. “you okay?”

you nodded, lip trembling. “i—i want to come. i need to, i’m just—my body won’t…”

he studied you for half a second before cupping your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “you’re not broken,” he said softly. “you’re overwhelmed. that’s okay.”

you tried to look away, but he caught your chin.

“look at me, sweetheart.” you did. his eyes were impossibly soft, just for you. “we’re not chasing a finish line. this isn’t a goal. it’s you and me.” he kissed your lips once, then again. “i love how wet you get for me. i love how your body trembles. you don’t have to come to be perfect.”

you swallowed hard. “but i want to.”

he nodded. “then let’s try something else.”

he slid down between your legs without another word, shoulders anchoring your thighs apart. his mouth replaced his fingers, tongue slow, unhurried, worshipful. you whimpered, head pressing back into the pillows as his fingers laced with yours, holding you open like an offering.

“sylus—”

“shh. let go,” he murmured against your heat. “just feel. no pressure.”

his tongue moved with surgical precision, finding every sensitive spot, teasing the edge without pushing. his other hand gripped your thigh tight, grounding you, keeping you tethered.

it built slowly. gentle waves of pleasure—soothing, warm, safe. then it hit hard, all at once. you cried out, body locking as your orgasm slammed through you like a breaking dam. sylus kept going, tongue dragging you through the aftershocks until you were gasping for breath, shaking all over.

when he finally pulled back, his mouth was slick and his eyes so damn proud. “you did it,” he whispered, crawling back up and wrapping you in his arms. “told you i’ve got you.”

you buried your face in his neck, body still twitching. “don’t let go,” you whispered.

“i won’t,” he promised, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “even if it takes all night.”

#sylus #sylus x non mc #sylus x you #sylus x reader #sylus smut #lads sylus #lads #lads x reader #lads x you #lads smut #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #lads x non!mc reader

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velaenam · 12 days ago

Text

dirty diana (smut)

colonel!caleb x lieutenant!reader (non!mc) synopsis: after a brutal mission, there's nothing caleb wants to do more than to mate press you. tags: NSFW (18+) RAW. NASTY. SMUT!!! creampie, penetration (p to v), clit stimulation, overstimulation, really REALLY rough sex, groping, swearing, use of gravity evol during sex, praising, pet names, aftercare, smut w/ sorta plot notes: title is this cuz idk i was really inspired to make a sensual fic after repeatedly listening to michael jacksons dirty diana instrumental. it sounds like sultry sex n so here is just that — reblogs comments & likes are appreciated.

the base is still humming with tension as you and your colonel make your way down the dim corridor, boots echoing sharply against the reinforced floors. the mission had been brutal. losses, near failures, bodies too close to the line– and yet, you both walked out of it standing. everyone who passes by offers stick and respectful salutes, their eyes filled with awe with a touch of fear. caleb, towering besides you, doesn’t flinch. his expression is unreadable, all sharp angles. you don’t say a word either. your voice still caught between exhaustion and restraint. you feel the weight of the day settle heavier in your chest with every step as you near.

it wasn’t until you’re both inside his office, the door shutting with a soft hiss behind you, that the chill in the air begins to melt. caleb exhales slowly, shoulders dropping.

his clouded and stormy eyes find yours– and suddenly, they weren’t so cold anymore.

he doesn’t speak right away. he just stands there, watching you with those sharp and unreadable eyes. then slowly, he steps forward, the space between you shrinking with every unhurried stride. his gloved hand lifts, gently brushing along your cheek before cupping it, tilting your face to meet his. the touch is so careful it almost doesn’t match the man everyone else saluted minutes ago. his thumb grazes your skin as his voice lowers into something only you ever get to hear:

“are you hurt?” he asks softly and unguarded. like you being in pain meant more to him than anything.

you offer him a small tired smile. warm, despite the blood and dust smeared across your skin. his breath hitches. of course it does. especially when you smile like that. caleb leans in, slow and hungry, drawn to you like a marn starved. his nose brushes along your temple as he inhales deeply, like hes memorizing your scent, anchoring himself with it, “you shouldn’t be putting yourself in the line of fire like that,” he murmurs, voice rough with something deeper than frustration. his other hand finds your waist, fingers flexing slightly, tugging your closer, “i don’t care what the mission is, i’ll protect you, always.” the vow whispered against your skin, his lips brushing just beneath your ear as his hands begin to roam.

you giggle softly, the sound light and teasing against the weight of his words, “but then whos going to watch your back, colonel?” you murmur, your fingers slipping up to toy with the front of his uniform, eyes twinkling with mischief, “can’t have you gettin’ all heroic without me.” the look you give him is so soft, so trusting that it’s almost cruel…to him– like you don’t even realize how easily you’re unraveling him. caleb pulls back just a little, blinking as if you’ve short circuited something in him. his jaw clenches, breath uneven. you can see it in the way his throat bobs when he swallows. the faint flare in his nostrils indicating how just one sweet smile from you sends his heart into overdrive.

his eyes darken with intent as he closes the space again, gaze flicking from your lips to your eyes– hungry and determined. his hands slide up your back, guiding your closer, and he dips his head, just barely brushing your mouth with his.

but before he can claim the kiss, you slip out of his grasp with a little laugh, circling behind him with that same infuriatingly sweet tone you always use when you’re being cheeky, “debrief time, sir.” you say over your shoulders, already moving toward his desk, your voice so bright and bubbly all the sudden, “enemy contact confirmed at the north sector. hostels down, one injured. we extracted and secured the point.” you shoot him a quick glance as you speak– eyes wide with innocence, lips quirking in a grin you know drives him crazy. caleb turns slowly, watching you like a hawk, stunned that you had the audacity to tease him now, of all times.

he slowly walks past you. the soft click of the door locking echoes louder than it should. you freeze, heartbeat tripping. caleb doesn’t say a word. his gloved fingers move to the collar of his uniform jacket, unfastening it with deliberate slowness– eyes never leaving yours. the moment the fabric slides off his broad shoulders, your knees threaten to give, heat blooming fast in your core.

you barely manage to make it to the chair beside his desk, sitting down more to steady yourself than anything else. he notices and his lips curl just slightly, dark amusement flashing in his gaze. “didn’t even touch you..” he murmurs, voice low and smooth like velvet dragged over, “and you’re already trembling..”

you barely have time to breathe before his hands wrap around your wrist and pulls you to your feet. the next moment, he’s turning you around, guiding you forward until your hands brace against the cool surface of his desk. his body follows, chest pressing just close enough to feel the heat of him at your back, but not close enough to touch. one hand glides slowly up your spine, trailing heat with every pass of his fingertips, while the other settles low on your waist, thumb stroking over the edge of your belt, “look at you…” he mumbles, voice husky and commanding, lips brushing the shell of your ear, “so so obedient…” his hand skims up your side, fingers grazing just beneath your uniform top before slipping away again, “you turn into this sweet little tease…” he doesn’t touch where you need him the most. he’s savoring this, drawing it out like a canvas.

you try to play it cool.. truly, you do. your voice lifts, breathy but defiant, “y-you’re the one getting all w-worked up caleb..” you mutter, hoping the words land sharp, like the tease you intended. but the second his lips press to the nape of your neck, your breath catches in your throat. his hands are everywhere— sliding over your hips, up your ribs, fingertips brushing just under your bra with sweet restraint. another kiss lands just behind your ear, followed by a soft bite that makes your knees wobble again. you try to speak, to stay in control, but your words dissolve into a shuddered exhale, “c-caleb” his name slips out like a confession, and he chuckles low, already knowing what he’s doing to you, “not so mouthy now..” he whispers against your skin, every syllable thick with an underlying promise, “what happened to that sharp tongue, lieutenant?”

his hands keep exploring every inch of you like he’s memorizing the shape of you (by ed sheeran) the weight of your exhaustion, the parts of you only he’s allowed to touch, but then just when you think he’s going ot keep teasing, his tone shifts. his lips find your shoulder, brushing softly against the fabric of your uniform as his hand settles just above your heart. “you were incredible out there..” he whispers, voice lower now, almost tender,

“every move.. every call.. i was watching you the whole time…. you want that promotion right..?”

a pause

“sorry. just kidding” he chuckles and you roll your eyes, “then i’d have my own lieutenant. do you reallllly wanna share?” you muse, and this time he shuts up. he smiles against your skin as he lets out a muffled but soft laugh

another kiss, slower this time, pressed just below your jaw, “so composed. so precise. you kept the group alive. you kept me alive.” his hand comes up to your hair, tipping your head just enough for him to kiss your temple, “i’ve never trusted anyone the way i trust you.” the praise sinks into your skin like warm sun. it spreads from the inside out, making your breath hitch. from the arousal to the weight of his words. it was heavy with respect, laced with his undying love for you.

his fingers move to your collar next, slow and steady, tugging at the fastenings of your uniform jacket, “you don’t even know what you do to me..” caleb kisses the back fo your neck as the fabric begins to slide from your shoulders, “i don’t just respect you.. i adore you.” the word lands heavy and raw. stripped of all the control he usually holds, “the way you move.. the way you think.. the way you smile..” he peels your jacket away, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud, exposing the warmth of your skin to his touch. his palms glide along your bare arms now, “i could spend the rest of my life learning every inch of your and it still wouldn’t be enough.”

each kiss that follows is slower, more sensual– along your shoulder, your spine, the space between your ear.

you gasp softly as the cool air of his office brushes over your newly exposed skin, his fingers now working with delicate precision as he undresses you piece by piece. your breathing quickens, a soft moan slipping past your lips when he brushes his thumbs along your lower back, just above the curve of your ass. goosebumps rise in waves. you feel his gaze dragging over every inch of you like it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever seen. like you were a goddess and he was your follower.

when he lowers your panties, he exhales slowly behind you, then gently– he presses down on the small of your back, guiding you to bend slightly over the desk. his hands find your ass, palms kneading with a touch both greedy and worshipful, pulling you apart just enough to make your breath hitch. “you’re beautiful.” caleb mutters and you whimper when he leans in, hips pressing against you, hard and deliberate. “are you ready for me..?” his voice is low, hoarse with restraint.

caleb rolls his hips against you, deliberately slow, his cock grinding against your slick entrance without pushing in– just enough to make your breath come out in broken gasps. each teasing pass sends a jolt of heat spiraling through your core, thighs trembling as you grip the edge of his desk tighter. he’s murmuring again, voice thick and low, like he’s drunk on the feel of you. “so wet for me.. and i haven’t even started yet..” he groans, dragging his tip along your folds, savoring your every twitch and whimper.

but you’ve had enough.

with a frustrated moan, you shove your hips back into him, forcing him inside you in one slick heated push. both of you grasp- his hands immediately clenching around your waist, yours flattening harder against the desk as pleasure crashes over you in a hot, staggering wave. “fuck–” caleb breathes, eyes fluttering shut as his head drops forward, dizzy from the sudden depth, the way you took him.

but you don’t stop there. you start to move, rolling your hips, throwing it back tinto him, with a purpose. a messy hungry purpose. his grip tightens, his control slipping with every thrust you give him, “g-goddamn it-” he grows, breath running ragged, “you’re gonna fucking milk me dry-”

he tries– god he really tries– to hold on, but the way you moved against him, the filthy sound of your bodies meeting, the way you were taking him so willingly. it shreds the last threads of his discipline.

with a growl, he grabs your hips and slams into you, burying himself to the hilt with a sharp snap of his hips that make you absolutely cry the fuck out, your hands scrambling for any sympathy from the desk, “no.” he pants, voice ragged with lust, “not like that. you don’t get to take control then pretend nothing happened.” his hand tangles itself into your hair, yanking your head back to expose the curve of your throat. his mouth is on you immediately– biting– sucking. branding your skin with hickeys.

he’s fucking you now with no hesitation,each thrust punishing and deep, his other hand landing a hard smack on your ass that echoes through the room. you whimper, clench, and he groans, low and guttural, at how tightly your body reacts to him, “like that?” he hisses against your neck, biting down just enough to make your eyes snap shut, “you want it harder, lieutenant? use your words.”

caleb doesn’t let up. he doesn’t let you speak. if anything– he fucks you harder– slamming into you over and over with a feral pace, the sound of skin meeting skin raw and obscene in the still air. you’re crying out his name like it’s the only owrd you remember, each syllable, a desperate moan, a plea, a praise, “c-caleb! f-fuck! c-colonel–” you’re sobbing, voice breaking, eyes glossed and unfocused. he grits his teeth, hips pistoning with brutal rhythm, his groans low and wrecked.

and then, with a strangled growl, he drives deep and stills– cumming hard inside you, his grip bruising around your hips as his dick throbs, filling you to the brim, his cum coming out of you and dripping everywhere. you follapse forward onto the desk, chest heaving, legs shaking

but he wasn’t done.

you barely register the sudden shift in weight before you’re lifted– gravity bending to his will. your body floats, slick and trembling, as he pulls you upright against his chest. his arm warps right around your middle section, grounding you, while the invincible pull of his evol drags your hips back down– right onto his still hard cock.

you scream, fingers clawing at his forearm as he starts fucking you again, this time, midair, each thrust powered by the impossible push-pull of his body and his grav. manipulation. you’re weightless but locked in place, taken over and over without a single inch of escape. your eyes roll back, mouth falling open as you babble- no words now– just broken breathless sounds.

your body is trembling, completely at his mercy– suspended in the air, stuffed full of him, stretched and used and loved in equal measure. calebs thrust keep coming, unforgiving and deep, his cock grinding into you with mind numbing precision. your cries are wrecked now– high and desperate sounds that echo off the office walls. your eyes rolled back, mouth slack, drooling between stammered gasps, “you’re doing so good for me.” he whispers into your ear, voice suddenly so tender but shaking with restraint as he feels your walls fluttering around him, “my good girl.. taking me so perfectly.” his free hand slides between your legs, and the moment his fingers find your clit– you shatter.

you scream his name as your entire body tenses, then convulses violently in his arms, squirting around his cock with a gush that soaks him, “fuck– look at that.” he groans, rutting into you through it, watching with wide wild eyes as your body gives him everything, “s-so beautiful.. so f.. fucking perfect..” you’re shaking, twitching in overstimulation, subbing into the air as your legs jerk and your muscles seize, but he holds you tight, grounding you with one strong arm while his evol keeps you just where he wants you.

and then it hits him. with a deep broken moan, caleb buries himself one last time, cock pulsing hard as he cums inside you again– hot thick and deep. his hips grind to a stop as he lets out a ong trembling breath, his chest heaving against yours. slowly, gravity softens. he releases the pull, cradling your limp soaked body in his arms before gently laying you back down on the desk like you were porcelain. his fingers brush your cheek, his touch so achingly soft now it almost makes you cry again, “you were amazing, my perfect girl.” he whispers against your temple.

your limbs feel like jelly, every nerve still buzzing from how completely he wrecked you. but caleb doesn’t leave you there undone and trembling. he gathers you into his arms without a word, holding you close against his chest. you hear the soft hum of the door sliding open behind you– it leads to a small private bathroom attached to his office. he carried you inside with care, settling you gently on the counter.

he runs warm water into the basin, soaking a soft cloth as you watch him with hazy, adoring eyes. calebs expression has changed completely– no longer dark, no longer ravenous. just open and loving. devoted. he kneels in front of you and with a slow careful move, begins to clean you up, the rag warm and gentle as he wipes between your thighs. every so often he murmurs soft things under his breath: praise, affection, things he’d only ever said in quiet moments. “i’ve never wanted someone like i want you.” he brushes your cheeks again, “you don’t even know what you mean to me.”

when he finishes, he helps you back into your clothes one piece at a time. hands steady.

once your jacket is fastened again, he pulls you into his arms and slowly kisses you. his hands cradle your face, lips pressing to yours, like a promise.

when he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, and he whispers, “you’re mine. always.”

taglist — @rcvcgers @miffysoo

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