#may have gone a little too overboard with this one ^^;; | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aleksatia · 3 months ago

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❄️Zayne - Seven Years Later

The fourth in a series of stories exploring MC’s return after five years of silence. Others are coming soon — links will be added as they’re published.

⚠️ Important

This story is different. It’s for adults — not just because it contains an intimate scene, but because it deals in gray morality, layers, and choices that aren’t clean or easy. There are no clear heroes here, no black-and-white answers, no simple characters to love or hate. It hits hard. I’m more than aware this won’t be for everyone — and it’s definitely not a light bedtime read. Please take a moment to read the CW/TW carefully before diving in. Proceed at your own risk. The structure might feel a little odd at the beginning — I may have gone overboard, and Tumblr wouldn't let me post it with that many paragraphs, so I had to compress things a bit.

Original ask that sparked this continuation.

Sylus | Rafayel | Caleb | Xavier (coming soon)

CW/TW: emotional trauma, unresolved grief, morally gray relationships, abandonment, guilt, forgiveness, explicit sexual content (consensual, emotionally intense), medical trauma, physical injury, parental estrangement, bio-child created without consent through stored genetic material, complex mother-daughter dynamics, identity crisis, ambiguous morality.

Pairing: Zayne x ex-lover!you Genre: Cold-burn angst, medical intimacy, slow unthawing, grief-forged love, second chances carved from ruin. Summary: Seven years ago, you left without a word. Now, in a snowbound mountain town, fate hands you a child with your eyes, a man with your pulse, and a wound that never really healed. What begins with a lost glove and an impossible resemblance ends in a cabin, a scar, and the kind of truth that doesn’t ask for forgiveness — only a place to stay. Word Count: 16K

Snowcrest

You hadn’t meant to stay this long.

The wind is starting to pick up, curling around your ankles, stealing the warmth from your coat sleeves. The sun has dipped just behind the ridge, casting a deep, bruised blue across the snowbanks. Below, the valley falls away into a soft blur of pine and frost. Somewhere down there is the road you took seven years ago. Somewhere down there is the part of yourself you buried like contraband.

You cradle the paper cup tighter in your hands, now lukewarm. A snowflake melts against your knuckle.

Behind you, the wooden rail of the overlook creaks gently, just once. You don’t turn. Not at first.

“Your eyes,” a small voice says beside you, bright and matter-of-fact, “look like my mommy’s.”

You glance down. A girl — maybe five, maybe six — stands a few feet away, all pink puff and wool layers. Her beanie is lopsided, a ridiculous pompom tilting to one side. Her cheeks are wind-bitten, her boots dusted white.

“Do they?” you say.

She nods seriously, then frowns a little. “But you’re not her. Mommy’s not here. I came with my dad.”

“Where is your dad?”

“He went to get hot chocolate. I wanted to see the mountains first.” She says this like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Her mittens are too big. One slips halfway off as she points toward the café.

You smile, soft and automatic. “You shouldn’t wander off. He might get worried.”

She considers this. Then, very formally, she reaches out and takes your hand.

“Okay. Let’s go find him.”

The café’s windows glow faintly, gold against the evening blue. The inside is all timber and condensation, the kind of place that always smells like cinnamon and wet gloves. You push open the door with your shoulder, usher her in.

He’s there.

You see him before he sees you. A tall figure in a charcoal coat, leaning casually near the counter, one gloved hand curled around a paper cup. His posture is the same. That impossible stillness, like he’s already factored every variable in the room. Like he’s never been caught off guard in his life.

And then he turns.

The girl drops your hand without hesitation and runs to him, shouting, “Daddy! I found a friend! She has eyes like Mommy’s!”

He bends to meet her. His hand cups the back of her head automatically, instinctively. Not roughly, not tenderly either — just with a kind of understated precision, the way he does everything.

You stand frozen. Your lungs forget what to do. Your spine loses temperature.

Zayne looks at you. The moment lingers exactly three seconds too long.

Then he nods, once, like a man seeing a stranger on the street who looks faintly familiar.

“Thank you for helping her,” he says. His voice hasn’t changed. Smooth. Controlled. Every syllable clipped clean.

You open your mouth. Only a whisper makes it out.

“She was alone. I thought — her parents might be worried.”

He inclines his head. “I wasn’t. She doesn’t wander far.”

He reaches for the girl’s hand. She looks between you and him, confused but not frightened. Her chocolate sloshes slightly in his free hand.

You stand there, a full seven years collapsing in on themselves. Every hour, every unanswered question, every night you thought about him without letting yourself say his name. All of it rushes into the hollow space behind your ribs.

Zayne doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch.

“Come on,” he tells the girl. “Let’s go watch the lights come in.”

And just like that, he walks past you. No hesitation. No second glance.

The door opens, and the wind catches it. Then it shuts behind them, clean as a scalpel stroke.

And you are left inside the warmth, holding nothing.

You don’t remember walking to the hotel bar. Only the sound of your boots on packed snow. The burn in your calves from the climb. The hum of your own name, suddenly useless, echoing somewhere deep inside you.

Now you sit at the far end of the counter, coat still on, fingers red from the cold. The bartender, young and quiet, gives you a look like he’s seen people run from more than just the wind.

You nod at your glass. He refills it without a word.

It’s your fourth. Maybe third. You’ve lost count, and the fact that you’ve lost count is the first real mercy of the night.

You lift it again. Swallow it in one breath.

The heat climbs slow, low. No sting. No flinch. It settles into your chest like a bruise, not a balm.

And still — your hands don’t shake. You keep seeing her face. The girl. Her eyes. Her eyes. Your eyes.

No, that’s impossible. That’s sentimental. That’s the kind of thing people like to believe when they’ve been drinking and when the sky outside is layered in violet and black and stars. That’s not Zayne.

But then again, you saw him.

And there was something about the way he touched her head, about how precisely he measured the moment, how quietly he acknowledged you with nothing but the edge of a nod — as if you were just another polite inconvenience to be managed.

You could’ve handled anger. Recrimination. Accusation.

But that? That… undid something.

You drink again.

The math won’t leave you alone. You’re not even trying to calculate, but your mind does it anyway. That same brutal, automatic clarity you once hated in him — now taking over you like second skin.

She’s almost six. Nearly. Maybe five and a half.

You do the subtraction. You try not to think about it. You fail.

He hadn’t hesitated — as if he’d been waiting for you to leave all along. That’s the thought that lands first. Loud. Stupid. Petty. But there.

You picture her mother. Not a fantasy — a memory. The woman you once saw with him. She looked like she belonged beside him. Like she understood him without needing to try. Smarter. Softer. Prettier than you ever were.

You’ve never been beautiful the way he liked beautiful things. His apartment always looked like a magazine. His meals — artful. His shelves — symmetrical. You always felt like a crooked painting on a perfect wall.

Maybe you never belonged there. Maybe he figured that out too.

You press your fingers to the side of your glass and drum lightly. The bartender glances over. You don’t even have to speak. When he brings the next pour, you cradle it a little longer. Let it rest in your palm like something you’re trying to keep alive.

You told yourself, back then, that leaving was the right thing. That it would give him freedom, space, a life not tethered to your mess.

You left so he could be happy.

And now, with the living proof of that happiness having just skipped across the room into his arms —

Why does it feel like your ribs are folding in on themselves? Why does it feel like punishment?

You tip the glass back again. The burn now feels right. Like penance.

Somewhere behind you, a group of tourists laughs. Glasses clink. The sound’s muffled by the snow-pressed windows, the heavy wood beams, the distant wind howling like something ancient just outside the walls.

You close your eyes. You’re supposed to feel numb. Instead, it feels like your chest is thawing too fast. Like something inside is waking up with a roar.

And the only thing you want is to drown it back into silence.

You were supposed to be up hours ago.

There had been a list. Alarms, laid out meticulously the night before. Layers folded on the chair by the radiator, boots lined up like loyal soldiers. You were going to be efficient. Controlled. Someone with purpose. Someone who didn’t dissolve into whisky and memory and the sharp sting of her own mistakes.

Instead, you wake sometime after eleven, swimming through a haze that isn’t quite sleep and not quite regret. The world tilts gently beneath you, and your mouth tastes of copper and last night.

You don’t take the painkillers. It feels important not to.

The sky outside is blank again, a hard white you’ve only seen in northern places — something between erasure and threat. You dress by instinct: thick jeans, a fleece-lined shirt, the coat with the broken zipper pull. Uggs still damp. You tie your hair back with cold fingers and don’t check the mirror before leaving.

The air outside is heavier today. Crisper. Snow crunches beneath your soles in that particular way it only does in subzero silence. You pass two hikers on the ridge trail — layers too new, faces too red. They nod, friendly. You don’t respond.

Dr. Noah’s house sits on the upper slope, just beyond the last bend, framed by black pines and the wide white hush of the valley. It’s larger than you remembered, but quieter too. A chalet-style lodge, all dark-stained timber and angled glass — broad eaves sagging gently under the weight of accumulated snow. The windows reflect the pale noon light like sheets of ice.

You approach from the side path. The one that wraps behind the slope of the porch and leads up past the kitchen garden, now skeletal and brittle with frost, to the private entrance: a cedarwood door, flush with the planks, unmarked save for a brass pull and the faint ghost of boot scuffs on the stone step.

You hesitate.

The reasons not to knock assemble themselves quickly, efficiently. He may not be here. Or he is, and he brought his family. Or worse: he’s here alone, and still as closed off and surgical and devastatingly calm as he was last night.

You raise your hand anyway. The door opens before your knuckles touch wood. He must’ve been just behind it.

The light hits him square — white coat, wire-frame glasses, the same posture that always made him seem even taller than he was. For a moment, he says nothing. Just looks at you. That stillness hasn’t faded with the years. If anything, it’s calcified.

You see it then — a flicker across his face, something so quick it’s probably nothing. Annoyance, maybe. Or exhaustion. Or some emotion too fast to name.

And then he speaks, voice even, expression impassive. "Not the best time. You should leave."

It’s a clean incision. No edges to hold onto.

You blink, caught between offense and disbelief, and say, “I’m here to see Dr. Noah. Not you.”

A pause. His gaze doesn’t move.

“He’s ill,” he replies, with that mechanical precision you’d nearly forgotten. “I’m covering his patients until he’s discharged.”

Your voice softens, almost without permission. “Is it serious?”

He shrugs. Not dismissively — just finally. The kind of gesture that says this is what it is, and nothing more.

You understand. You always understood him best in these silences.

There’s nothing you can say to that. Not about Noah. Not about age, or time, or inevitability. The snow shifts under your feet. You glance behind him into the house.

Pine beams. Slate flooring. A wide, open room stretching toward a set of panoramic windows that look out over the ridge. The light inside is softer than expected — muted amber, filtered through linen drapes and the faint movement of steam from something on the stove. The air smells like pine and black tea. The kind of house that invites you to sit down and fall apart.

He turns slightly, hand on the doorframe. “You can visit him at the hospital,” he says. “But I’m expecting someone now.”

You exhale, more sound than breath. “Miss Deveraux, I assume,” you murmur, before you can decide not to.

His head tilts. A beat of calculation.

“You changed your name.”

You lift one shoulder. A shrug, a defense. He doesn’t get an answer. He already took all the ones that mattered.

You’re turning to go when something shifts. Not in his face, but in the air between you. Maybe professionalism. Maybe instinct. Maybe something older.

He steps aside. No invitation. Just an opening. You hesitate only a second. Then you walk through it.

Inside, the warmth hits hard. Your skin prickles. The space is wide but not cold — wood, stone, soft textiles in winter hues. A sheepskin throw over the back of a bench. Open shelving with hand-thrown mugs. A pile of well-worn paperbacks in the corner near a slate fireplace, still glowing faintly from a morning fire.

The heat is the kind that seeps under your skin and makes you remember things. Long nights. Herbal tea. The low sound of Miles Davis from the speakers in his kitchen. The kind of quiet that had nothing to do with peace.

Your boots leave wet prints on the floor.

“This way,” he says, and turns.

You follow him down the hall — wide-planked floors beneath your feet, the faint scent of cedar and lemon oil in the air.

The walls here are quiet. Not sterile, like the clinics you grew up in. But not quite lived-in either. Books in every alcove. Some dog-eared. Some untouched. A long-handled snowshoe mounted like art.

You pass a narrow window where wind-scattered shadows move across the snow. And you don’t ask where he’s taking you. You never did. Zayne walks ahead, and you follow.

Then he stops. Opens a door.

It’s the kind of room you’d expect in a place like this — clinical, but softened by the architecture. The walls are a shade too warm to be white. A reclaimed wood desk sits at an angle to a wide window with a view down the valley. There’s a folded wool blanket on the back of the armchair. A stethoscope rests near a mug gone cold.

And under the desk, a pair of small boots peeks out. Purple. Fur-trimmed. Familiar.

A moment later, a girl’s voice — muffled, stubborn — says, “I don’t want to read. Reading is boring.”

She’s curled beneath the desk, arms folded, cheeks flushed. Next to her, crouched on the floor in a cashmere sweater and soft leggings, is a woman — young, luminous, the kind of composed beauty you’ve only ever seen in galleries or dreams. Her hair is tucked into a braid, her voice calm as riverglass.

“Just one story,” she says gently. “Then we can go back to drawing. Promise.”

The child burrows deeper into the corner.

You stand frozen, caught somewhere between the clinical sterility of the room and the scene that could only be described as... domestic. They’re easy with each other, practiced. The woman places a hand gently on the girl’s shoulder, and the girl leans into it, just enough.

You feel something sink in your chest. That’s her, you think. The wife. The mother.

Zayne steps forward. His hand brushes the woman’s back — a touch so natural it’s almost intimate, but not indulgent. More... familiar. Trusted.

“She’s had enough for now,” he says, his voice soft but decisive. “Sweetheart, come on out.”

The girl peeks up at him. “Are you done working?”

He smiles — barely. “Almost. I need to finish this consultation. Then we can go look for rabbits.”

She considers this. Then, without a word, crawls out from under the desk and stands, brushing off imaginary dust. Her braid is loose over one shoulder, a little frayed at the end.

And then she sees you. Recognition flashes across her face — not quite shock, more like a slow realization. A dream remembered mid-afternoon.

“Hi,” she says brightly. “You’re the lady with Mommy’s eyes.”

You smile. “And you’re the girl who looks at mountains instead of drinking hot chocolate.”

She giggles. Then pauses. Tilts her head.

“What’s your favorite story?”

You blink, caught off guard. "East of the Sun and West of the Moon."

She wrinkles her nose, curious. “What’s it about?”

But before you can answer, Zayne cuts in, voice crisp. “A girl trades herself to a bear to save her family. She disobeys one rule, ruins everything, and spends the rest of the story chasing what she lost.”

The girl blinks. “Oh.”

“She finds him again,” you say quietly, stepping closer. “That part matters.”

Zayne doesn’t look at you. “Barely. And only after walking the ends of the earth.”

“Sometimes that’s what it takes,” you say.

There’s a pause. Something drifts in that space between interpretation and indictment.

The girl looks between you both, then smiles. “I want to read it.”

Zayne nods once, briskly. “We’ll find a copy.”

He looks to the young woman — the one whose name you still don’t know — and gives the barest nod. She stands, smooth and silent, and extends a hand. The girl takes it without hesitation, eyes still flicking back toward you.

“She has a thousand questions,” the woman says with a small smile. Her voice is lower than you expected. Kind.

“I imagine she does,” you murmur.

Then they’re gone. The door clicks shut with a soft finality.

You turn back. Zayne’s already pulling the chair into position. His face resets — back into the familiar neutrality of a doctor preparing to deliver something precise.

He gestures toward the patient’s stool.

“Sit,” he says, already reaching for the chart. “Let’s get this over with.”

And just like that, you’re no one again. Just a file. A diagnosis. Another thing to manage.

You sit.

The paper on the examination table crackles beneath you, loud in the hush of the room. Zayne doesn't look at you as he flips open the chart. His fingers move with the same exacting grace they always had — sharp, sure, impersonal.

There is no sign he knows you beyond your name. No flicker of recognition in the line of his jaw, no hesitation in the tone. Just one more consultation on a day too full.

He adjusts the light above you, then gestures. “Shirt.”

You pause.

The heater ticks somewhere behind you. The window throws pale afternoon across the floor — all snow and silence. Your hands rise, slow. The fabric sticks a little at your wrists.

When you unbutton the top three buttons, his eyes stay trained somewhere just over your shoulder. Not out of politeness. Control.

But his hand falters for half a second — just a twitch — when your collar falls open and the scar shows, clean and linear and unmistakable, running diagonally across your chest.

He doesn't comment. Instead, his voice shifts into that lower octave he used with unstable cases. “How long ago?”

You hesitate, eyes still fixed on the wall behind him. “Seven months.”

His gaze flicks up. Direct. Not curious. Clinical. “Cause?”

“Wanderer,” you say, too quickly.

You feel him still. Then the sound of the pen clicks sharply against the clipboard.

“You’re still in the field.”

It’s not a question.

You nod, barely. “I consult with Dr. Noah every month. He monitors me remotely.”

Zayne sets the chart aside with too much precision. “You took a core-impact injury to the thoracic cavity,” he says flatly. “That doesn’t require monitoring. That requires full diagnostic protocol. You should be in a central hospital. Not here. Not with a retired man in a chalet and a teapot.”

You bristle. “Noah’s been treating me years. He knows my profile.”

“His machines are ten years older than that.”

You flinch at his tone — not cruel, but surgical. The truth without kindness.

“I’ll refer you to the Linkon Diagnostic Center,” he continues, already reaching for the console. “They’ll run a complete bio-map and core sync within twenty-four hours. Dr. Reza is —”

You cut in, voice sharp. “You’re not offering?”

That stops him. Just for a moment. He meets your gaze. Something ancient flickers there, then shutters.

“I’m not your doctor,” he says.

He’s still listening to your heart, diaphragm pressed too close to skin, and suddenly you’re too bare. Too known. Too held open under his breath.

You pull back. Fast.

The stethoscope slips. You cover your chest with trembling hands and fumble for the buttons. “I’m not going back to Linkon,” you say tightly. “I’m fine.”

Your fingers shake. The top button won’t catch.

His voice doesn’t lift. “You’re not fine. You’re compensating.”

“I’ve been compensating since I was nine,” you snap.

That lands. You don’t know why you said it. Maybe because it’s the only way to hurt him — to remind him that you were already a scar before he ever touched you.

He steps back. Withdraws. The room feels wider again. Colder. Silence pools between you.

Then you speak, too soft to matter.

“She’s beautiful,” you say. “Your daughter.”

You force a small smile. “She looks like you.”

Zayne’s brow lifts, just a little. “You might want to get your vision checked. She looks exactly like her mother.”

You blink. The words hit like an off-key note.

“I didn’t notice,” you murmur, thinking — of the girl crouched beside her, warm and glowing and precisely the kind of woman you always assumed he’d marry. The kind who makes soup. The kind who waits. The kind who stays.

“She’s sweet,” you add. “And calm. I always thought you’d end up with someone like that. Someone who makes a home feel like tea and cinnamon and a blanket in the storm.”

His face tightens, just enough for you to see it before he hides it again. Then, sharply: “Are you done?”

You nod once. “Yeah.”

He turns, moves toward the desk. The professional mask slips back into place like it never cracked. “Come back tomorrow morning. I want your blood work. When you’re not hungover.”

Your face heats. A slow, miserable bloom. “I’m not —”

“You are,” he says simply. “I can smell it.”

You swallow, hard.

“It’s fine,” you lie. “The injury doesn’t bother me. I’m cleared for fieldwork. I just need you to sign the release.”

He doesn’t look up. “What release?”

You reach into your coat pocket and pull out the crumpled envelope. You place it on the edge of the desk.

He picks it up. Reads.

Then — without a word — he walks to the cabinet and slides it into a drawer sealed with a biometric lock. You hear the soft click as it closes.

“I won’t sign it,” he says. “Not until I’m sure.”

You stare at the drawer. Then at him.

There’s a pulse behind your ribs — not physical, not medical. Just heat. Something dangerously close to humiliation. You hadn’t expected softness, of course. But still, the stark refusal… It lands harder than you meant it to.

Your voice comes out quieter than planned. “You’re not serious.”

Zayne doesn’t look up from the chart. “I am.”

“I don’t need diagnostics,” you press. “I just need a signature.”

He flips to the next page, casually. “Then go ask someone who doesn’t know what they’re looking at.”

That stings. You laugh, a breathless, brittle sound. “So this is how it’s going to be.”

He meets your gaze then. Steady. Cold. "I treat what’s in front of me. And what I see is a patient with an unstable cardiac implant, signs of recent trauma, poor sleep, an irregular heartbeat, and a tendency toward self-endangerment."

You flinch. “Don’t analyze me.”

“I’m not,” he says, tone flat. “I’m reading you.”

The silence sharpens. You push off the exam table, standing fast enough that the paper beneath you rips.

“You don’t get to pretend you still have some claim to how I live.”

He blinks once. That’s it. “I never did.”

Your throat burns. “Then why won’t you sign the fucking form?”

“Because I don’t trust you,” he says, finally. The words are quiet, but they cut with such clean detachment, it almost feels surgical.

And just like that — the guilt in your chest shifts. You’d come here expecting control. Containment. What you weren’t ready for was this: being the villain in your own story.

Your voice cracks, more bitter than angry. “I didn’t ask you to care.”

“I know,” Zayne says. “You made that very clear. Seven years ago.”

That lands differently. Deeper. You close your eyes for a moment. The inside of your eyelids glow red.

“I thought leaving was the right thing,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t move. “For who?”

You look at him. He’s not angry. Not really. His voice is calm, clinical. The same voice he used with parents trying to argue with the numbers on a monitor.

And somehow that hurts worse.

You breathe in through your nose. The air smells like antiseptic and cedarwood and the past.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” you say, voice low. “I wouldn’t.”

He sets the chart down. Calmly. No slam, no emphasis. It might as well be a napkin.

“You think this is about forgiveness?” he says. “This is about liability. You walked in here with a barely stabilized core and a goddamn hero complex. Forgiveness isn’t part of the chart.”

You laugh again — short, scorched. “God, you haven’t changed at all.”

Zayne’s expression doesn't shift. “And you have?”

You take a step forward. It feels dangerous — not because you think he’ll hurt you, but because of how much space you’ve already lost.

“You think I wanted to disappear?” you bite. “You think it was easy? You think I didn’t —”

He cuts in, voice colder than glass. “You didn’t.”

A pause.

“That’s the only part I believe.”

Your breath catches. You feel it in your spine, the way you used to feel a storm breaking inside your chest.

“You act like I broke you,” you snap.

“No,” he says, and his voice now is quieter. Worse. “You broke yourself. I just happened to be holding the pieces.”

You stand there, trembling. There are a thousand things you could say. But none of them are clean. None of them come without blood. So instead —

“Go to hell,” you spit, and you’re already at the door.

Zayne doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you the way a surgeon watches a flatline. And as your hand hits the latch, shaking —

“You should’ve stayed gone,” he says.

That does it. You don’t even feel the cold this time as you step out into the white. You don’t zip your coat. You don’t look back. You’re burning from the inside out. And the snow, for once, can’t touch it.

You visit Noah in the hospital that afternoon.

He looks better than he should. Alert. Hydrated. Too pleased to see you. He tries for a weak smile, a raspy breath, a trembling hand — all performative. You’ve known him too long to fall for it.

“Don’t do that,” you tell him flatly, settling beside the bed. “You’re not dying.”

He shrugs, pleased with himself. “Still worked.”

You narrow your eyes. “You invited him the moment you found out I was coming.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just adjusts his pillow like a man deeply proud of a long game finally paying off.

You don’t press further. What would be the point? You're here now. And Zayne — he's no longer a memory. He has breath. Mass. Velocity.

You walk back slowly as the sky folds in on itself, streaked with the shimmer of the aurora. It lights the town in green and violet smears, as though the heavens have been bruised.

At one point, you pause by a square, where someone proposes in the snow. There’s clapping. Flash photography. Squealing. A heart traced in frost by a stranger's boot.

You feel nothing. No. That’s not true. You feel everything.

You don’t sleep that night. You lie awake staring at the ceiling, counting the creaks of the old radiator like heartbeats. You get up at four. Shower. Wash your hair. You wear the least-wrinkled shirt you have and a coat that still smells like smoke from a bar you don’t remember leaving.

You’re not trying to look good. You just refuse to look ruined.

Still — no amount of water or concealer covers the circles under your eyes. You look exactly like what you are: someone who hasn’t let herself feel in seven years and is now bleeding out in quiet, ungraceful increments.

By the time you reach Noah’s house again, the sun has barely crested the horizon. The snow is high and dry, powder that cuts like sand.

And then impact. A snowball straight to your cheek. Hard.

You don’t have time to dodge. It lands just below your eye, wet and sharp and entirely undeserved.

You freeze, lips parted. A bloom of cold shock spreads across your face. A giggle follows. Small, delighted. Merciless.

Your hand rises to your cheek. Already hot, already red. You squint toward the source of your humiliation, ready to unleash something unkind —

Then you stop. It’s her. The girl. Pom-pom hat, mittens half-falling off. Grinning. Victorious.

And behind her, Zayne’s voice. Measured, mildly irritated: “Princess. I told you — not before breakfast.”

You turn, still rubbing your cheek.

He’s in the doorway, hair still damp, shirt sleeves pushed to the elbows. His expression hardens slightly when he sees the welt blooming on your face.

The girl looks up at him, wilting a little. He kneels, says something too low for you to catch. She nods solemnly and disappears inside.

You murmur, “It’s fine.”

He doesn’t answer. Just jerks his head toward the hall. “In the office. Wait there.”

You move past him. Your face still stings. Your pride more.

You sit. The room feels colder than yesterday. The chair, harder. You catch your reflection in the dark glass of the cabinet — the mark on your cheek already darkening. You lean in, touch it with one finger. There's a faint scratch beneath it. You blink. A tear hangs on your lower lash.

Zayne enters just as you wipe it away. You turn your face quickly, offer your arm like it’s a business transaction.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t comment.

The needle pricks deeper than necessary. It’s probably your fault — the tension in your muscles, the way your jaw locks when he touches you.

The vial fills in silence. The kind that makes you want to scream or laugh or break something clean in two. You choose the last.

A shaky breath escapes. A strange, quiet laugh follows. Zayne raises an eyebrow.

You don’t explain. Why would you?

It’s not every morning that both a man and his six-year-old daughter manage to draw blood from you before coffee.

He withdraws the needle, tapes you up with clinical speed. “You’ll have the results this evening. Depending on Noah’s system.”

You nod, preparing to leave. Then he moves — slower now — and steps close again. You see the cotton ball and antiseptic in his hand before you feel it.

You pull back instinctively. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t argue. But he looks at you in that way he used to. Like every word is a waste of time, and still, he waits for you to finish.

Finally, he says, low: “Don’t be angry with her. She was trying to play.”

“I’m not angry,” you reply, eyes steady. “I just wasn’t expecting to be used for target practice before dawn.”

You’re almost out the door when there’s a knock. Then — she’s there again.

Only now, she’s different. Composed. Hair neatly brushed, her steps careful. No smugness, no bounce. She walks in with both hands wrapped around a large ceramic mug, steam curling from the surface.

“I made you something,” she says, with determined seriousness. “It’s hot chocolate. And I’m sorry for your face.”

Her voice is precise. That same gravity Zayne carries — but undercut by something lighter. A flicker. A spark.

You take the mug. The chocolate is cloyingly thick. Too much sugar. Not enough milk. Like a child’s attempt at comfort.

You drink it anyway. Because no one’s made you something in a long, long time.

And her eyes — when she looks at you like that — they remind you of someone. Not her mother. Not that woman from yesterday. Someone else. Someone in the mirror.

And something you’d buried starts to surface. Not yet. But soon. Very soon.

Behind you, there’s a soft shuffle of feet. The girl steps back, glancing up at Zayne.

“I said I was sorry,” she murmurs.

Zayne raises an eyebrow. "Princess. Did you finish your breakfast?"

She folds her arms, expression thoughtful. Too thoughtful.

“I filled up on guilt,” she says brightly. “It’s very heavy.”

Zayne exhales, but there’s a flicker at the edge of his mouth. Something caught between annoyance and affection.

She leans slightly toward him, lowering her voice. “But if the lady stays for breakfast… I might be able to eat more. For company.”

It’s the kind of manipulation only a child can pull off — just enough honesty to disarm you, just enough calculation to know it’ll work. You glance at Zayne, caught between reluctance and something else — a crack, too thin to be a real opening, but present nonetheless.

“She’s persistent,” you murmur.

“She’s six,” Zayne replies dryly. “That’s their job.”

He doesn’t exactly invite you — but he doesn’t stop his daughter from taking your hand and leading you to the kitchen either.

The kitchen is warm. Simple, but elegant. Dark stone counters, exposed beams. A kettle hisses quietly on the stove. There’s a bowl of half-eaten oatmeal on the table, a spoon leaning precariously against its edge like a forgotten decision.

You sit, because she wants you to, because it’s easier than saying no.

Zayne stands by the counter, pouring coffee. He doesn’t look at you, but the silence between you feels more like thread than ice.

“Do you have a job?” the girl asks suddenly, crawling into her seat.

You nod. “I’m a Hunter.”

Her eyes go wide. “Of monsters?”

You smile. “Of all kinds.”

She leans forward, elbows on the table, chin in her hands. “Do you know my dad?”

The question lands a little off-balance, but you manage, “A long time. Since we were kids. I know Dr. Noah, too.”

She accepts this like a scholar collecting facts. Then, eyes sharper now:

“Do you have Evol?”

Zayne stiffens slightly across the room — not visibly. But you feel it.

“I do,” you say carefully.

“What kind?”

You hesitate. “It’s… not specific. Not like most. Mine adapts. It changes. Depending on the environment. Or the people around me.”

“Like resonance?”

You blink. “Yes. Exactly.”

She lights up, bouncing slightly. “Me too! Papa says it’s rare. He showed me how to make cold. Like little pockets. And seals.”

“Seals?”

She nods furiously, then jumps down from her chair. “Wait here!”

Before you can stop her, she’s gone — the soft thud of her feet disappearing down the hall. You sit in the quiet that follows. Your hands wrapped too tightly around your mug. Zayne still hasn’t spoken. Still hasn’t looked at you.

When she returns, she’s holding something in both palms like it’s sacred.

A small, rounded snow seal — compact and carefully shaped, like a snowball someone almost didn’t want to sculpt. Its body is smooth but imperfect, eyes made of something dark and glossy. It glitters faintly in her palms, but doesn’t melt.

“I made this yesterday,” she says shyly. “You can have it.”

You reach for it. And your hands tremble.

It’s identical. Not just similar — identical. To the one tucked away in a drawer you haven’t opened in years. A smooth, delicate snow seal. The first thing Zayne ever made for you, after that accidental dinner — back when things between you were still uncertain. Still unspoken. And you were trying, very hard, not to fall in love with him.

You stare at her. Then at the seal. Then at him. He’s watching you now. Not guarded. Not indifferent. Guilty.

The thought doesn’t land — it detonates. You can’t breathe.

You stand suddenly. The chair scrapes too loud against the floor. The seal trembles in your hand.

“I have to go,” you say, voice too tight.

“Wait —” Zayne takes a half-step forward, almost like he wants to explain something. But he doesn’t. He never does.

His face falters, just once — an expression you’ve never seen on him. Unspoken. Unnamed. But unmistakably wrong.

You shake your head. “Don’t.”

You don’t know what he was going to say, but you know you wouldn’t survive hearing it. You pull on your coat. Your hands don’t quite work. The zipper catches. You don’t look at him. Or her.

You leave. You leave fast.

The seal stays in your pocket, burning cold against your thigh. And the thought won’t leave you alone — she has your eyes. Not just the color. The shape. The center. The way they narrow when something doesn’t make sense.

You breathe until your chest aches — deeper, faster, like you’re trying to outrun something curling under your ribs. But the thought stays: What if she isn’t like you? What if she is you?

You don’t remember deciding to leave the house.

At some point, your body just moved. One boot. Then the other. Coat half-zipped. Hat forgotten. Gloves in your pocket but not on your hands.

The door behind you closed with a soft latch, and no one stopped you. Maybe they didn’t see. Maybe they didn’t want to.

It’s noon when you start walking.

The streets are half-cleared. Locals move like shadows between wood-framed cafés and ski rentals, their faces red, layered, laughing. You hate the sound. You hate how it makes you feel like you’re the only person in the whole damn town who’s bleeding internally and pretending it’s just the weather.

You drift from block to block without direction. Your breath fogs like smoke. You pass a group of tourists taking photos of the northern lights that have lingered since morning — low, green ribbons against a dim sky. They’re beautiful. You want to scream.

The seal is still in your coat pocket. You touched it once. Didn’t look. Didn’t dare.

You’ve been unraveling since morning. No, before that.

Since the girl smiled at you like she knew you. Since Zayne’s eyes refused to meet yours when your hands shook. Since you saw her eyes — your eyes — looking out from someone else’s face.

You want to scream again. You want to sleep for a year. You want to claw your way out of this body and this life and these feelings you tried so goddamn hard not to keep.

By afternoon, the clouds thicken. The wind picks up. You realize — vaguely, distantly — that you haven’t eaten. Your fingers are numb when you finally reach the base of the lift. It’s closed for the day. The town has shut down early. Weather advisory.

A bored attendant is locking the gate. “Slopes are off-limits,” he says. “Storm’s rolling in.”

You nod, smile thinly, and turn back like a good citizen. But you don’t leave. You wait.

You wait until he disappears back into the office. Until no one’s watching. Then — like it’s nothing — you climb over the fence and start walking up the service trail. Skis abandoned at the side rack. Rental. Yours now.

You don’t know what you’re doing. You just know you need to get higher.

Need to outrun the noise in your head — the thudding, rising, tightening thought that something isn’t adding up. That maybe it already added up and you’re just too afraid to see the sum.

That child. That seal. Those eyes. That look on Zayne’s face like he owed you something and didn’t know how to pay.

You reach the crest of the slope as the sky turns the color of a fresh bruise — deep violet, heavy with snow.

The wind howls. And still — you don’t turn back. You clip into the skis with fingers stiff and shaking. The trail beneath you is untouched. No tracks. No sound.

Just you. And the storm. You push off.

Zayne waits until the girl arrives — Noah’s niece, the one with calm hands and a patient voice, the one you mistook for something she wasn’t. She greets him with a warm smile and a quick update: oatmeal was eaten, hot chocolate spilled, the child is brushing her teeth. He nods, hands her a list with quiet instructions, then pulls on his coat without a word.

He tries your hotel first. The front desk confirms what he feared — no sign of you since morning. Your room untouched. Key not returned.

Something in his chest shifts.

He checks the ridge path. Nothing. The café. The overlook. Still nothing. His movements are methodical — too calm. It’s not control. It’s containment. If he slows down, even for a second, something in him will crack.

And then — near the rental stand — he finds it.

A glove. Dropped. Half-buried in snow, already stiff. He picks it up, turns it over. Recognizes the tear at the seam. Yours.

He asks the attendant without raising his voice.

Did anyone come through this afternoon? Alone? Female. Dark coat. Grey hat.

The man squints. "Yeah. Kinda reckless. Took off before I could stop her. Trail’s closed. She climb the ridge?”

Zayne doesn’t answer. His eyes have already locked on the faint trail of ski tracks, just visible past the fence. The wind’s been at them, but not enough to hide them completely.

He doesn’t ask to borrow the gear.

He takes the skis, the poles. The boots he forces on with too much pressure, and when the attendant stammers something about policy, Zayne pulls out his wallet and empties it. A week’s wages in a handful of bills.

“Keep it,” he says flatly. “If I don’t come back, file a report.”

Then he moves.

The snow is heavier now. The light fractured and thick. The trail beneath him vanishes in places, reappearing in erratic, uncertain intervals.

Zayne cuts across the slope with practiced economy — no hesitation, no excess motion. Just angles, just speed. His breath steady, heart loud in his throat.

He tells himself he isn’t afraid. He doesn’t allow that.

But every time the wind screams through the trees, he hears your name in it.

You shouldn’t be out here. Not alone. Not after what your body’s already been through. The last time he saw your vitals, they told him you were compensating — tightly, dangerously. He knows how you move. How far you can push. And how far you go past that, every time.

You’ve always mistaken endurance for strength. Always carried pain like it was proof of something noble.

He hated you for that once. He thinks, maybe, he still does. But it doesn’t stop him.

Then he sees it.

Two skis. Sticking upright from a drift.

And his body stops moving before his mind does. He’s off his own skis in seconds. Ripping off gloves. Digging.

He calls your name once. Quietly. Pointlessly.

The snow is deep. Heavy. He can’t move fast enough.

His fingers spark, and he lets his Evol loose — concentrated cold that carves through the snow in clean, precise arcs, exposing the shape beneath. A coat. A shoulder. A hand.

You’re there. Unconscious.

Face pale. Skin far too cold. But breathing. Your mouth parts in slow, shallow rhythm. The line of your pulse is barely visible in your throat.

He checks your pupils. Taps your cheek. You don’t stir.

Zayne exhales — not relief. Not yet. Just... air.

He pulls off his coat. Wraps it around you. Scarf next. Then his gloves. He doesn’t think. Just works. Every layer he has, onto you. Your pulse is slow, but consistent. Fingers pinkening. No slurring at the mouth, no skin rupture. Early-stage exposure. You’ll feel it later — pain like fire. But you’ll live.

You’ll live. You’ll live.

He cradles you upright, gathering your limbs in careful precision.

Turning back isn’t an option. The trail’s too steep, visibility falling. Wind rising.

But he remembers.

Three miles east. Maybe a little more. Tree line drops. Cabin near the base. Old ranger post. No electricity, but shelter. Wood. He’d seen it once, riding out on the snowmobile. Just a marker in the cold. Never thought he’d need it for real.

He adjusts your weight. Lifts you fully.

You don’t stir.

The snow stings his face like glass. He takes one step forward.

Then another. And another. And another…

Every muscle is screaming. But he doesn't stop.

Not even when the storm closes around you like a fist. Not even when his legs buckle slightly under the weight of you. Not even when he has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stay upright.

Because this — this is the only direction that exists.

This is the cost of silence. This is the body he still remembers carrying once before. This is everything he couldn’t say compressed into the weight of you against his chest.

You open your eyes when the spoon touches your lips.

It’s not a dream, though your vision is still clouded. There’s something herbal and scalding and sharp on your tongue, and the taste cuts through the fog like citrus through smoke. You swallow reflexively.

The light around you is amber and low. Firelight.

There’s a crackle to your left — the sound of wood shifting in a stone hearth. You realize you’re lying on something soft, uneven. Furs. Blankets. The floor is warm beneath your back, too warm for snow.

Everything aches.

But it’s the hands you feel first. One bracing the back of your head, the other steadying the cup.

Zayne.

He’s kneeling beside you, his face cast in that flickering glow, brow furrowed but calm. He always looks calm. Even when he's breaking.

“Easy,” he murmurs, the same tone he uses with terrified patients. “One more sip.”

Your throat is raw when you speak. “Zayne…”

It comes out as a croak. Foreign. Barely yours.

His hand shifts, adjusting your weight. “You're okay,” he says. “You're safe. Just drink.”

You blink again, harder now. The room begins to resolve.

Rough-hewn walls. Low beams. A wooden table covered in old gear and folded wool. Two chairs. A rack of kindling. The window rattles in its frame, wind clawing at the glass.

You’re in a cabin.

The middle of nowhere. Snow hammering against the dark.

“I found you on the south slope,” he says. “Passed out. Cold to the core.” His voice stays even. “You should’ve been dead.”

You don’t respond. Not with words.

Your body is still catching up to the idea that it hasn’t been left behind.

“I need to get you warmer,” he says. “You’re not shivering anymore. That’s bad.”

You start to sit up. He stops you with a touch. His fingers are cold too — not numb, but close. You can feel the tremor under his restraint.

“You need to strip,” he says. “Your clothes are soaked. You won’t retain heat like this.”

You want to argue. Your brain wants to rebel. But your body betrays you — you’re shaking now, from the inside, from the marrow.

“I’ll help,” he says, already undoing the clasps at your coat.

You let him.

There’s no shame in the gesture. Only efficiency. Only silence.

He peels your clothes back layer by layer — coat, sweater, base layer — each one discarded near the fire. He’s methodical, but his fingers stumble once at the side of your ribs. You don’t flinch. Neither does he.

When he’s done, he does the same to himself. His hands are slower now. He’s soaked too. You see it in the way his shirt clings, the way his skin is flushed in patches, raw in others.

He says nothing. Neither do you.

The wind screams outside.

Then he lifts the furs. Slides in beside you.

Everything feels... detached. Like you’re still behind glass, still half-buried in snow. His body is there — you know that — but your skin won’t admit it yet. Cold lives in the marrow. It doesn’t release easily.

He doesn’t ask when he pulls you closer. Doesn’t explain as he hooks one leg over yours, his thigh anchoring you with clinical precision. Contact — pure and total. Every inch of skin aligned.

It’s about warmth. Nothing more.

You believe that. For now.

Your foot finds his under the covers. Slides along the ridge of his shin, searching. You lay your hands on his chest. Flat, tentative. He takes them in his — large, too cold — and brings them to his mouth. Breathes. Warms them with both palms, slowly rubbing life back into your fingers.

And then — you begin to shake.

Violently. But not only from the cold.

He starts to rub your back. Brisk. Practical. Hands flat, pressure deliberate. Not tender. Not yet. Just enough to pull you back into your body.

You respond without meaning to. You press against him — again, just for heat. That’s all. Your hands move instinctively, over his shoulders, his throat, lower. You start to trace the vertebrae at the center of his back.

Just to ground yourself. Just to hold on.

Your breasts are against his chest. Your nipples — hard to the point of pain — brush bone and breath.

He shudders.

From the cold? You don’t ask.

Because you’re no longer cold. Not really. But you’re not warm either. There’s only this flicker — a kindling at the base of your spine.

Not desire. Not yet. But something trying to become it.

His hand moves to your hair, finds the elastic, slides it free. Fingers comb through the strands, rough, reverent. His palm cups the back of your skull. Massages gently. The tension spills from your scalp like something breaking.

You make a sound — quiet, involuntary.

Your breath lands against his throat, hot, uneven.

He stills.

Then he shifts your face upward, thumb beneath your jaw. Not rough. Not asking. Just guiding. Until your eyes lock.

His gaze — green, always green — reflects the firelight in flickers. Cold forest. Flickering coals.

You can’t look away. You let him all the way in. Because he remembers the way. Because your walls were never walls with him — only doors you forgot how to close.

His voice is low, at your mouth: “You have no sense of self-preservation.”

You whisper back, “I forgot how to feel anything.”

Your throat tightens. “My heart’s been a shard of ice for years.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t soften.

“You didn’t even leave me that,” he murmurs. “Only the empty space where it used to be.”

“Zayne, I —”

But he hushes you, barely a breath. “Don’t speak. Not now. If we don’t warm up, we won’t make it to morning.”

“Then warm me,” you breathe.

Something in him breaks then — quietly.

His arms tighten around you. No hesitation. His fingers dig into your skin with bruising honesty. You feel it — the pressure, the edge, the claim — and it’s the first time pain feels like presence.

You welcome it.

“Harder,” you whisper. “Don’t hold anything back. Just… not now.”

He doesn’t.

In one breathless motion, he flips you onto your back — his body covering yours entirely, anchoring you to the furs and the warmth and the terrible, steady thud of his pulse.

He hovers over you, braced on his elbows, the lines of his frame drawn taut above yours. For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t touch. Just studies your face like a map he’s not sure he has the right to read.

It’s not hesitation. It’s a final warning.

But your body has remembered how to feel again. Heat has bloomed across your skin — from your neck to your cheeks, now flushed and electric — then lower, spiraling into your belly, blooming with a weight that has nothing to do with cold.

He leans in, and his lips graze the pulse at your throat. Light. Measured. Then lower — the slope of your collarbone, the hollow of your shoulder — his breath leaving heat where ice had lived.

When he speaks, it’s soft. Directive. “Hold me tighter.”

Not a plea. Not an invitation. An order. The doctor, still.

You obey.

Your legs curl around his waist, locking him in place. Your arms wrap across his back, palms flattening against tense muscle, nails dragging instinctively down the blades of his shoulder, then lower — to his waist, the arc of his hips.

Your skin sings where he touches you.

His body over yours is no longer just weight — it’s voltage. It cracks through the ache and the shame and the frost, down to the deepest, most feral part of you that only ever belonged to him.

You dig your fingers into the curve of him — familiar, lost, found again too fast. Too desperately.

And still, he doesn’t kiss you.

You want him to. God, you want him to. You want the taste of his mouth. You want to remember what it felt like when kissing him made the world disappear.

But he doesn’t give you that. Because that would make this real.

Too real.

And you’re both still pretending this is about the cold. About survival. About anything but what it is.

So instead, he moves lower — mouth against your throat, fingers tightening at your waist, and your whole body arches up to meet him, wanting more, needing more, aching toward the inevitable.

And still — no lips on yours. Still that one small distance held like a line neither of you dares to cross.

His hand slides lower. Fingers between your thighs, slow and certain — finding you already wet, already aching. His touch is careful at first. A question. A warning.

Then he moves — stroking, circling, teasing — and you arch, sharp and sudden, breath caught on the edge of a moan.

Your hands clutch at his back, your hips rising to meet him, the last of your resistance dissolved into heat and want and memory.

“Zayne,” you whisper, voice broken and close to prayer. “Please. I need you now.”

Your lips brush his ear. The words land soft, but strike hard.

He doesn’t answer. Just shifts — deliberate, sure — as his knee presses yours open wider, as his body finally, finally finds yours.

The first moment of him inside you is too much and not enough. A slow, deliberate stretch. He’s holding back — you feel it. Every inch a battle between restraint and collapse.

When you are completely joined, your eyes fly open. So do his.

You both stop.

Breathless. Still. Time folds in on itself.

It feels like the first time. Like a dream pulled too close to waking. Like you’ve spent years underwater and have just now broken the surface.

He begins to move. Barely. Slow. Torturous. Deep.

And you watch him. Because this is the moment you see it — his detachment cracking, his control unraveling. Each movement chips away another piece.

Then his hands seize your hips harder, pulling you closer, holding you down as he thrusts deeper, faster — no longer gentle. His mouth finds your shoulder, your throat. His teeth graze your skin, just shy of pain.

You match him.

Your legs wrap around his back. Your hips rise to meet every stroke, faster, harder. Sweat beads at his temple. A low sound slips from his throat — one you’ve never heard before, and never want to forget.

You’re not cold anymore.

There’s heat building in your belly, pulsing, tightening. Each movement pushes you closer to something unbearable.

You can’t stay quiet. You don’t want to.

Your moans rise with the rhythm, faster, sharper, and when he angles just right, when his name leaves your mouth like a gasp turned to flame —

“Zayne — !”

The world shatters.

Pleasure crashes through you in waves — violent, relentless. You bite down on his shoulder, legs trembling, body clenching tight around him.

He groans — low and guttural — and flips you both, pulling you on top of him, still joined, still inside you.

You collapse against his chest, panting, ruined.

Your thighs still locked around his hips. Your pulse frantic. His heartbeat thunderous beneath your cheek.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

And in that stillness, something settles. Not comfort. Not safety.

But the truth of it: he’s not indifferent. Not detached. Not after all this time.

He still holds you like he remembers how you once broke apart beneath his hands — and how you came back, not even realizing it was for him.

The sound of his heartbeat, and the low, steady howl of the wind outside, lulled you eventually. Your body relaxed — finally — into sleep. But it wasn’t rest. Just disjointed images: whiteness, blurred edges, something aching and incomplete. A dream without a shape, just cold and distance and something you couldn’t reach.

When you woke, he was gone.

You were still wrapped in the weight of layered furs, tucked with clinical precision, your body cocooned like something fragile. You could still feel him on your skin — the imprint of his hands, the echo of his breath.

“Zayne?” you rasped, your throat dry and raw.

His voice came from somewhere behind the fire. “I’m here.”

A second later he emerged, bare-chested beneath a heavy wool throw slung over one shoulder like a makeshift toga. He held a steaming mug in both hands.

“How do you feel?” he asked. “Headache? Nausea?”

“I’m fine.” You sat up, pulling the blanket to your chest. He handed you the tea. You took it without meeting his eyes.

That ridiculous throw was the only thing he’d bothered with — aside from the wool socks. And now that you noticed, the matching pair was on your feet too.

Your clothes hung near the fire, dripping onto the wooden floor in slow, defeated rhythms.

It was still dark outside. The blizzard had dulled to a whisper, snow tapping now instead of screaming. The only other sound was the slow collapse of wood in the hearth.

“Everything should be dry by midday,” he said evenly, eyes fixed on yours — calm, too calm. Doctor-Zayne calm. “Once it is, I’ll hike to the base. Should only take a few hours. I’ll bring back a snowmobile.”

“I can walk,” you muttered, wrapping the furs tighter.

“No,” he said flatly. “You’re one sneeze away from pneumonia.”

You sneezed.

Took a sip to hide it. The tea was bitter and hot and exactly what your throat needed. It didn’t help your pride.

He watched you for a long beat. Then, carefully:

“Tell me what possessed you to take the slope in a storm. Especially considering you’ve never been a particularly good skier.”

There was no judgment in his voice. That’s what made it worse.

You turned your head, eyes fixed on the fire. You didn’t want to talk about his daughter. You didn’t want to ask. Not while your body still remembered his breath on your neck. Not while your thighs still ached from being wrapped around him.

“You could’ve died,” he said. Softer now. There was a tremble, just barely.

“It’s not the first time,” you replied. Dry. Flat. “I didn’t ask you to follow me.”

His silence was sharp.

Then: “What does that mean?”

You shrugged. Shrugging was easier than explaining. Shrugging let you pretend this wasn’t tearing you open in layers.

His spine straightened. You knew that posture. You’d seen it in surgery. In argument. In loss.

“You think I wouldn’t care?”

“Do you?”

Still silence.

“Do you think it wouldn’t matter to me if you didn’t come back?” His voice was harder now — not loud, but precise. Measured like a scalpel.

You met his eyes, finally. “Do you care as my doctor? Or as Zayne?”

He stepped forward, just enough to catch the light on his face.

“Both.”

The word dropped between you like a stone.

“I deserve answers,” he said, tone cooling. “You’ve had seven years of silence. You don’t get to keep hiding.”

You flinched. “I’m not a puzzle for you to solve.”

“You’re not a stranger either.”

Your jaw clenched. “I have the right not to explain myself.”

“And I have the right to ask,” he said, his voice suddenly sharper — controlled, but frayed at the edges.

You looked at him then. Really looked.

He wasn’t the man you left behind. He wasn’t even the man you remembered.

His face was sharper now. Carved from something colder. His beauty had always been precise, but now it was almost inhuman — every emotion hidden behind faultless structure. The lines of him harder. His silence heavier.

He looked like someone who had survived something quietly. Someone who had burned and chosen to freeze instead.

And suddenly you wondered if he was asking because he was angry — or because he was afraid the answer would ruin him.

You set the cup down and rubbed your forehead — the gesture unconscious, familiar. The kind of motion you only made when faced with something unpleasant that required a decision.

You didn’t want to do this sitting. It made you feel small, like the version of yourself you’d spent the last seven years trying to grow out of.

So you rose, pulling the furs around you tightly, dragging their weight like a second skin, and stepped closer to the fire. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You stared at the flames instead — at the way the heat licked the logs and flared in quiet, devouring patterns.

Your palm stretched toward the warmth. The skin was hot, but inside you still felt the cold — like your bones had absorbed it, like it had settled somewhere marrow-deep.

A tremor passed through you.

“I’m not eager to dig up the past,” you said softly, the words barely louder than the crackle of the fire. “But I imagine you’re owed some kind of answer. Maybe I’ll even admit now that leaving the way I did was reckless. But at the time, I wasn’t thinking. I was reacting. Instinct, not intention.”

He said nothing. You kept your eyes on the fire.

“I’m actually surprised you didn’t put it together yourself,” you added. “But if you want me to say it out loud, then fine. I left because you fell in love with someone else. Because you cheated on me.”

Silence. And then —

“Excuse me?”

Zayne’s voice snapped across the space like the crack of a snapped branch. Not loud — but edged with something so sharp and disbelieving that it startled you into turning.

His face was a picture of stunned clarity. Not guilt. Not evasion.

Shock.

You’d seen Zayne process grief. Rage. Even loss. But not this.

“I can assure you,” he said with that same cold precision, “neither of those things ever happened. But by all means, continue. I’d love to know what led you to such an absurd conclusion.”

Your breath caught. He wasn’t lying.

He never had been good at lying — not even white lies, not even to protect someone. If you’d asked him then, directly, all those years ago… He would’ve told you the truth.

No matter what it was.

But you hadn’t asked.

“Do you remember Caroline?” you said, voice thinner now. “Dr. Sharp, I think. She came to town for the fellowship project. You spent over a month working side-by-side. You were gone every night, back after midnight, gone before I woke. We barely saw each other.”

“That project was critical,” he said quietly. “And yes. I’ve often wondered if that’s what it was. That I didn’t make enough space for you.”

You laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“I wouldn’t have left over time or distance,” you said. “That’s not me. Worst case, I would’ve had a meltdown. I would’ve yelled. Slammed doors. But what got under my skin… what stayed…”

You swallowed.

“We had dinner. All of us. One night. I watched the way she looked at you. The way she touched your hand like it was second nature. And the way you didn’t flinch. You were relaxed. Easy. Like she belonged next to you.”

He was quiet for a long beat. Then, lower: “She was my closest friend. For years.”

Was.

You didn’t miss the tense. Something final in it.

“I spiraled,” you admitted, voice cracking. “I started imagining things. Inventing whole conversations you never had. And then —” you drew in a breath, “— you were in the shower. And your phone lit up. I shouldn’t have looked. I know that. But I did.”

His face didn’t move.

“She texted you. Something about… a kiss. I couldn’t unlock it, couldn’t read the rest. But I didn’t need to. That was enough.”

Your words hung between you like ash.

When you finally met his eyes, what you saw there wasn’t the same fire as before. It was rage now. Cold. Controlled. Ancient.

He didn’t speak. But his hands were clenched at his sides, the tendons tight. Not shaking. Just contained.

And that, more than anything, frightened you.

Finally, Zayne found his voice again. When he spoke, it was quieter — colder. Like he was holding himself together with wire.

“She kissed me,” he said. “I didn’t kiss her back. I asked her to leave. I never saw her again. End of story.”

You opened your mouth, but —

He raised a hand. “No. Don’t.”

You froze.

“Let’s summarize, shall we?” he said, and his tone was so steady it hurt. “You accepted my proposal. We were making plans. Booking venues. Looking at rings.”

He took a step toward you.

You stepped back. The fire was too close now — too hot. Your skin prickled.

“And then,” he continued, “you disappeared. No warning. No explanation. No note. Nothing. Just… gone.”

His eyes were locked on yours. And you’d never seen him like this — not in battle, not in chaos, not even in the quiet moments when he looked like he might finally break.

“You vanished because of a kiss that never happened. Because you saw something you didn’t understand. Because you didn’t ask.”

The silence that followed was thunderous.

“I searched for you,” he said. “Do you know that?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“I looked in every city I thought you might go. Called hospitals. Asked colleagues. Filed missing persons reports in seven countries. I didn’t sleep for weeks. I had to be pulled off rotation because my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.”

Your breath hitched.

His voice was breaking now — not loud, not emotional. Just… broken. Controlled devastation.

“I thought you were dead.”

He let that hang there.

“I imagined you in rivers. In morgues. I dreamed it. Night after night. And every time the phone rang, I hoped it was you. I hoped you’d changed your mind. That it was all just a mistake, or a test, or a nightmare.”

Another step closer. His face was inches from yours now.

“And then at some point,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper, “I had to stop hoping. Because hoping was killing me.”

Your knees almost gave out.

“And now you stand here,” he went on, “telling me you left because you were jealous of a woman who meant nothing. Because you couldn’t bear to ask me a question I would’ve answered in one breath.”

His mouth twisted, just slightly — a flicker of something savage behind the calm.

“That’s not heartbreak. That’s cowardice.”

You said nothing. There was nothing to say.

His eyes didn’t soften. “I would’ve forgiven almost anything. A betrayal. A lie. Hell, even if you had loved someone else.”

A beat.

“But I don’t know how to forgive being erased.”

The final word landed like a gavel.

You looked at him — the man you loved, the man who once memorized the rhythm of your breath in sleep — and you didn’t see a stranger.

You saw someone who had carried your absence like a scar he didn’t let heal.

And now he was bleeding in front of you. But the blood wasn’t red. It was ice.

It came slowly. Too slowly.

Like thaw in the deepest part of winter — not warmth, but the ache that comes with returning sensation.

You’d spent so long clinging to the version of events you built inside your own head — a brittle, pathetic mythology — that you hadn’t once thought to challenge it.

You’d believed he betrayed you. And carried that lie like a wound for seven years. You let it harden inside you, let it dictate the terms of your survival.

You cried for him. Night after night, in rooms that never felt like home. Until you convinced yourself he had moved on. Married. Loved again. Raised someone else’s child in the light of a future that was supposed to be yours.

You tried to fill the space he left. But nothing fit.

And now that you knew the truth —

There was no relief. Only horror.

It crashed over you all at once — a cold so deep it numbed thought. Your throat tightened. You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

It was like being buried again — not under snow this time, but under the weight of your own choices. The grief of what you did, of what you undid.

“Zayne…” you managed. “I— I made a mistake.”

He laughed.

Not loud. Not cruel. But sharp. Icy. Surgical.

“A mistake,” he repeated, voice dry as ash. “Of course.”

He took a slow step toward you, his expression unreadable, his tone too calm to be safe.

“Just a minor lapse in judgment. Nothing serious. Nothing irreversible.”

You flinched.

“Just —” he continued, tilting his head slightly, as if mocking even his own patience, “— disappearing without a trace. Letting me believe you were dead. Watching me lose everything. My sleep. My mind. My future.”

His gaze pinned you. “But hey. Who hasn’t made that kind of mistake?”

“Don’t say it like that —”

“What? Like it’s nothing?” His smile was thin, brittle. “Like it’s not the single most devastating thing anyone’s ever done to me?”

Your breath caught.

“You want me to be kind, is that it? After seven years of silence, you want — what? Mercy? Grace?” He gave a small, mirthless laugh. “I’m sorry. I seem to have misplaced those somewhere around year two.”

You closed your eyes, shaking. “Please, Zayne…”

He didn’t move.

“You want me to say I understand?” he asked. “That I forgive you?”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, just slightly.

“You didn’t just leave,” he said. “You rewrote me. You made me the villain in a story I didn’t even know I was in.”

That was when something inside you cracked.

Your fists clenched at your sides, breath coming short. Rage rising not at him — not fully — but at yourself, and at him, and at everything you didn’t understand and didn’t ask and didn’t say.

And then you said it. Low, sharp, shaking.

“Oh, and what about you, Zayne?”

His brows lifted, almost imperceptibly.

“Let’s talk about you and your daughter.”

A flicker. Barely visible. A shift in the air.

You stepped closer. Voice rising.

“Let’s talk about why the hell she looks exactly like me.”

“Don’t you dare drag my daughter into this,” he said — clipped, sharp.

But his voice had shifted. You knew that tone. The one he used when he was cornered. When the truth was already rising in his throat, demanding release.

And that gave you strength.

You stepped forward, jabbing a finger into his chest.

“Oh, no. Not this time.” Your voice was shaking. Not from fear. From fury. “You don’t get to bury this under silence.”

He didn’t move.

“Why does she have my eyes, Zayne?” Your voice rose. “Why does she and I share the same Evol signature? Why do I look at her and feel —” You choked, breath catching. “— nothing, when I should’ve felt everything?”

He met your gaze without flinching.

“She has nothing to do with you.”

That was the lie that broke you.

“Zayne!”

You almost screamed it. And finally — finally — he answered.

“I created her,” he said.

Each word landed like a fracture.

“I created her from the only part of you I had left. I broke every protocol, every ethical law, every barrier between grief and madness. I did it knowing exactly what it was. A moment of desperation. Of agony. Of self-destruction. Call it what you want.”

His voice trembled once, barely. Then steeled again.

“But once she existed — she was alive. And I was responsible.”

You couldn’t breathe.

It all clicked into place, hideously fast.

There had been a time — after a fight, after a wound — a battle that had torn more than just your skin. The damage to your abdomen had been bad. Serious enough that your fertility came into question. And so, in a haze of pain and fear and future-thinking, you and Zayne had made a decision.

You’d frozen your eggs. Just in case. Just in case there was ever time for life.

And then you vanished. And he —

Your knees gave out.

Because it wasn’t just theory now. It wasn’t data in a file. It wasn’t a long-ago clinic visit or a box ticked on a form.

It was her.

Your daughter.

A child you hadn’t known you’d had. Who’d taken her first breath, first steps, spoken her first word — all without you. A child whose face you’d looked into and seen nothing but unfamiliarity.

Because the thread between you was never tied.

Your vision blurred. Your hands clenched. And then, with a clarity that burned through the haze, you lifted your arm and slapped him.

Hard.

His head turned with the force of it.

But he didn’t step back. Didn’t retaliate. Just stood there, breathing. Something behind his eyes shifted — regret, maybe. Or something darker. Disappointment.

You didn’t care.

“You had no right,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, just as quietly. “But we can’t unmake what we did.”

Your legs were shaking. Your body had stopped regulating heat again — not from trauma, but from exhaustion. The flu or something close to it now tightening your throat, buzzing behind your eyes.

You didn’t speak again.

You just turned. Pulled the furs around your body. Curled up on the floor, facing away.

Everything inside you was vibrating. Screaming. And still — you didn’t make a sound.

Behind you, you heard him move. A step, maybe two. The start of a word, maybe a breath.

But then — silence.

The kind that didn’t soothe. The kind that hollowed.

You drifted in and out of a fevered half-sleep, somewhere between dreaming and remembering, while the sun crept higher in the sky.

You weren’t fully conscious, but you knew he was there.

You felt his hand on your forehead now and then — clinical, measuring. You remembered being lifted just enough to drink something warm, bitter. His arm braced behind your shoulders. His voice low, instructing, coaxing.

You remembered his arms around you when the shivering got worse.

Not tender. Not romantic. Just practical.

Because you were freezing. And he wasn’t going to let you freeze alone.

He didn’t crawl beneath the furs again. But he lay beside you, fully dressed, silent, a barrier against the cold.

Even now — after all the damage, all the wounds neither of you could cauterize — he still gave what little warmth he had left.

When your eyes opened again, the room had changed. The light was golden, brighter. Fire still burned in the hearth, lower now. The air felt clearer.

You tried to sit up too fast. A hand pressed gently against your shoulder, stopping you.

Zayne.

His face above yours — alert, shadowed by worry, but composed.

You looked at him, and what surprised you most was the stillness inside yourself. Not peace. Not comfort. Just… an absence of fight. A numb kind of calm.

It wasn’t forgiveness. And it wasn’t closure. It was the breath after the collapse.

“How long was I asleep?” you asked, or tried to — the sound barely made it out.

Your voice cracked, nearly gone. You reached for your throat.

He shook his head once. “Don’t talk.”

No gentleness. Just clarity.

“About six hours,” he said. “It’s nearly noon. The fever’s dropped. Your clothes are dry.”

You noticed now — he was fully dressed. Jacket zipped, gloves on, boots laced tight. Efficient. Ready.

“I need to hike out,” he said, crouching beside you. “Snowmobile station’s a few miles. I’ll be back within two hours.”

You didn’t answer. Just watched him — the way his brows stayed furrowed, the way his jaw kept clenching and unclenching like there was something in his mouth he didn’t trust himself to say.

Then he reached for your hand. His palm was warm. Solid.

“Listen to me,” he said. “We’ll talk. Properly. We’ll get to all of it. But right now — I need to know that you’re not going to do something reckless while I’m gone.”

You didn’t grip his hand. But you didn’t pull away either. Your fingers just rested in his — a neutral stillness that said not yet, but also not no.

“I promise,” you whispered.

Zayne lingered for half a second more. Then he did something you didn’t expect. He brought your hand to his mouth. Touched his lips to the tips of your fingers. Barely there.

And then he stood. Crossed the room and walked out into the snow.

The door closed behind him with a clean, final click. And you were alone.

But this time, not entirely lost.

Four hours later, Zayne was carrying you back through the doorway of Dr. Noah’s house.

The fever had returned somewhere on the snowmobile ride down. Your skin burned, and the world had begun to tilt. By the time he stepped through the threshold, your voice was gone again.

He didn’t speak. Just moved with quiet certainty.

Helped you out of your damp clothes. Pulled a fleece pajama set from the linen closet — a pale blue thing that smelled faintly of cedar — and dressed you with swift efficiency. You didn’t protest. Couldn’t.

He laid you down in one of the guest beds, layered with thick quilts, and disappeared only for a moment. When he returned, it was with a bag of supplies already slung over his shoulder, a prepped IV in one hand and a throat spray in the other.

Every motion was muscle memory. Smooth. Intentional. Engraved in his bones.

At one point, as he propped your head up to give you a sip of raspberry tea, your hand slipped forward, fingers closing weakly around his wrist.

“Zayne…” you rasped. “You have a fever too.”

He didn’t look at you. Just adjusted the angle of the mug.

“I’m fine,” he said.

He gathered your hair gently — fingers threading through the strands with ease — and twisted it into a loose knot, securing it with a black elastic he must’ve pulled from his pocket.

You stared at him, eyes glassy with heat and a kind of wounded awe.

He remembered.

You never liked sleeping with your hair down. He hadn’t forgotten.

He met your gaze briefly. Something flickered — not tenderness, but something heavier, older.

“I took something earlier,” he said. “But you, on the other hand, have pneumonia. So rest. You’ll feel better after the fluids.”

The next few days blurred.

You slept. Mostly.

Woke only for medicine, for slow sips of broth, for Zayne’s quiet instructions. You tried to get to the bathroom alone. Failed. Tried again. He never mocked you for it. Just kept close enough to catch you if you fell.

Sometimes he sat in the armchair across the room, reading. When you were lucid enough to focus, you asked — weakly, half-asleep:

“Read it out loud?”

He didn’t ask why. He just turned the page. Cleared his throat.

And began.

East of the Sun and West of the Moon.

His voice — calm, measured — filled the room like something remembered, not new. You watched him as he read. The cadence. The precision. The way he breathed between sentences like it mattered.

He read the whole thing. And when it ended, neither of you spoke for a long time.

It was you who finally broke the quiet.

“She breaks the rule,” you whispered. “Lights the candle. Looks at him when she wasn’t supposed to.”

Zayne rested the book on his knee, fingers still hooked between the pages.

“She ruins everything,” he said. Not accusing. Just observing.

You didn’t flinch. “And still goes after him.”

“She wouldn’t have had to, if she’d just listened.”

“She wanted to know him,” you said. “Not just love a shadow.”

He looked at you then. Something unreadable in his expression.

You swallowed, voice barely audible. “She made a mistake. A big one. And she didn’t wait for forgiveness. She fought to make it right.”

Zayne’s gaze dropped. “It was still selfish.”

“So is love,” you murmured.

The fire cracked between you — a sharp snap that echoed through the stillness.

“It’s a strange story,” you added. “The girl disobeys. The prince stays silent. They both fail. And then they both change.”

“And still find each other,” he said, finally. Quiet. Measured.

“But not the same way,” you whispered.

“No,” he agreed. “They come back different. Burned. But still… together.”

Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away.

A week later, you felt strong enough to make it down the stairs.

The house still smelled like cedar and lemon soap, the way it always had. Dr. Noah’s niece — the woman you had once mistaken for Zayne’s wife — introduced herself properly over herbal tea and folded laundry. Her name was Marianne. She was kind. Warm in that easy, effortless way you’d never mastered.

She adored his daughter.

Your daughter.

They spent hours together — drawing, baking, building tiny snow forts that collapsed within minutes. And every time you watched them, a strange hollowness twisted in your chest.

You studied the girl constantly.

The resemblance, now that you knew, was undeniable. Your eyes. Your cheekbones. Your ridiculous inability to sit still for more than five seconds. But her hair — that inky black — was Zayne’s. And her quiet concentration when she built things from ice with pinched fingers? That was his too.

She was loud. Expressive. Curious. Always moving, always knocking something over. She danced through the house like a falling star — burning too fast, leaving marks.

And she wouldn’t leave you alone.

Every morning, she burst into your room like it was hers. Climbed up beside you. Chattered about everything — school, snow, cartoon cats, some child named Max who was apparently insufferable. And home.

God. Home.

That word stabbed deeper than anything else.

You let her talk. You smiled when you could. But you never reached for her. Never called her by name unless you had to.

You didn’t know how to feel.

Curiosity? Yes. Recognition? Slowly. Love? No. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

And wasn’t that its own kind of crime?

You moved around her like glass. Like she might break. Or worse — you might.

Then one morning, she stopped mid-sentence. Sat very still beside you, swinging her legs.

“Are you my mommy?”

It hit like a blow.

You froze. Words caught in your throat, the reflex to deny already gathering in your chest.

But you didn’t have to say it.

Zayne appeared in the doorway. One look — that infamous stillness — and the girl backed out of the room, cheeks red, eyes wide. She closed the door softly behind her.

But not before looking at you one last time.

And you knew you’d remember that look for the rest of your life.

You couldn’t breathe.

“I’ll talk to her,” Zayne said, not looking at you. “Make sure she doesn’t bother you again.”

Then — practical, brisk, clinical: “Your labs are stable. Lungs are clear. I scheduled a follow-up ultrasound downtown. As for your heart —”

“Stop.” Your voice cracked. “Just stop.”

You pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapped your arms around them, and began to rock. A motion you didn’t recognize in yourself. Uncontrolled. Unmoored.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered. “I can’t.”

Zayne dropped to his haunches beside you. His hand settled on your knee.

“What was I supposed to say to her?” Your voice was rising now, frantic. “What am I even supposed to feel? I didn’t carry her. I didn’t raise her. I didn’t know she existed. She’s mine but not mine.”

You were trembling now.

“She has my DNA, but I’m not her mother. I’m a stranger. What am I supposed to do with that?”

Zayne didn’t speak. Just stayed there. Then — slowly — his hand slid away from your leg, and he bowed his head, pressing his palms to his face.

He stayed like that for a long time.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, uneven.

“Every day,” he said, “I live knowing I did something beautiful and unforgivable at the same time.”

You didn’t move.

“I carry the guilt in every breath,” he said. “But I’d do it again. I wouldn’t trade her for anything in the world. Not my career. Not my name. Not even forgiveness.”

He looked up at you then.

“If you want to file a complaint,” he said, voice steadying, “if you want to take my license, ruin me — do it. I won’t fight. I’ll take it.”

“But I won’t ever be sorry she exists.”

Your mouth opened. But no words came.

Because something inside you had begun to thaw — not into love, not yet — but into something uglier.

Jealousy.

Jealousy of your own child.

Of how easily she clung to him. Of how naturally he held her. Of the years they’d had.

Without you.

The thought disgusted you. You wanted to slap yourself for even thinking it. You wanted to vanish again, just to avoid what that meant.

But it was there. And it was real.

“What kind of monster do you think I am, Zayne?” you asked, your voice raw, barely more than breath. “You think I came here to file reports? Tear your life apart on principle?”

He didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch.

“You already did that once,” he said, flatly.

You closed your eyes.

“Let’s not start listing sins,” you whispered. “We’ll be here until spring.”

Silence.

You exhaled slowly. “Yes. I left. And not just your life — I detonated my own. There’s no version of this where I walk away clean.”

You glanced toward the door, where her laughter had echoed just minutes ago.

“And if there’s a tiny version of me running through this house, it’s not just your doing. I lit the first match. I made the first cut. Maybe this is the price. The life that formed in the crater we made.”

Zayne turned, finally. Met your eyes.

There were no tears on your face. There hadn’t been for days. But in your chest, you were drowning. He knew it. He saw it.

“I don’t have an answer,” you said. “I don’t know how to stay. And I don’t feel like I have the right to leave. This —” your voice caught, “— this little family of yours… I’m not part of it. I’m just the fracture everything grew around.”

He didn’t argue. He didn’t reach for you.

He just studied your face for a long time, then said, “I can’t choose for you.”

A pause. And then —

“But if you decide to stay… even just to be near her, or me, or neither — on your own terms — then I won’t stop you.”

His voice was steady, but something caught in his throat at the end. Like he almost said more. Like he almost crossed a line that neither of you were ready to touch.

You nodded. You understood.

The door had opened.

Just a little.

And it would’ve been easier, if it were only him. If all you had to do was unlearn the years of distance, relearn the way he breathed, the way he touched, the shape of his voice when he said your name.

If it were only Zayne, you could try. You would try.

But there was her.

The girl who looked like you. Who trusted too easily. Who ran through the house with joy you hadn’t earned.

And she changed everything.

Because love with him had once been fire and failure and rebuilding.

But love with her… It required something else.

Patience. Forgiveness. Humility.

A different kind of bravery.

And if you failed again — you wouldn’t be the only one who paid for it.

So you sat there, still, the weight of the choice pressing against your chest, and thought:

What if I break her? What if I can’t be enough?

Another week passed. Your strength returned. So did the calls.

Work wouldn’t stop. Messages stacked in your inbox like pressure building behind a dam. You extended your leave. Zayne signed the clearance form. You knew he didn’t agree. But he didn’t protest. He just handed it over with that same stillness — the kind that told you: this is your decision now.

Physically, you were fit for the field. Emotionally, you were splinters.

He never said it, but you felt the way he watched you — not with judgment, but with expectation. Waiting. Hoping, maybe, that you'd stop wandering the halls like a ghost with a packed suitcase in her chest.

But the noise in your head never stopped. Not during the day. Not when you slept.

Especially not when you didn’t.

That night, you came down the stairs barefoot, the house asleep around you. Poured yourself a glass of wine. Stared at it. Sipped once.

No.

That wasn’t what you needed.

You left the glass untouched on the counter.

Walked the familiar hallway. Opened his door without knocking.

He was asleep on his back, face turned slightly toward the window. The moonlight cut through the blinds in silver bars, catching in the strands of his hair, casting lines across his throat.

You reached down. Brushed the edge of a curl from his forehead.

His hand caught your wrist before you could blink.

His eyes opened.

He didn’t speak. Your face said everything.

He pulled you down into him without hesitation. No questions. No ceremony.

His hands slid across your skin like he'd never forgotten its topography. His mouth moved from your neck to your shoulder, to the curve of your breast, the lines of your ribs, the hollow of your hip, and lower still.

But not your lips. Still not your lips.

And that — that was the answer.

At dawn, you dressed quietly. Zipped your bag. Didn’t wake him.

Your presence here had been a rupture. But now the world would settle again.

Zayne had his life — built carefully from grief and duty and love. You were an earthquake. He’d survived you once. He didn’t need to do it again.

At the door, your hand on the knob, a small voice stopped you.

“Are you going somewhere?”

You turned slowly.

She stood barefoot in her pajamas, hair a mess, eyes too wide. Her voice held no accusation. Only fact.

You swallowed. “Yes. I… I have to go back.”

“To the hotel?” she asked, stepping closer.

You crouched, tried to smile, tried to hold your own ribs together.

“No. I have a home. A job. Somewhere else.”

She nodded, thinking hard, then: “Then I’ll come with you.”

You blinked. “What?”

She didn’t hesitate. “I’ll come too.”

“No, sweetheart. You can’t. Your dad would be really worried —”

“But you’re my mommy,” she said.

Soft. Certain.

Her small hand came up to your face. Her palm on your cheek burned hotter than the fever ever had.

“I heard you. You and Papa. I saw your picture.”

She reached into her pajama pocket, pulled out something worn and folded.

A photograph.

You and Zayne. Seven years younger. Arms around each other, faces pressed close, eyes alight. You didn’t even remember the moment it was taken.

But she had carried it. Hidden it. Believed it.

You stared at her. At the picture. At those impossible, familiar eyes.

And something inside you cracked.

“Baby,” you said, your voice breaking. “I’m not — I can’t be the mom you think I am. I want to. I do. But I didn’t raise you. I wasn’t there. And I don’t know how to do this right.”

Her lower lip trembled. But she nodded. Like she understood, in the way only children do — by feeling it.

You reached out. Brushed a tear from her cheek.

“Be happy, little one,” you whispered. “That’s all I want for you.”

Then you stood. Opened the door. And walked into the snowlight, where the car already waited.

Zayne couldn’t remember the last time he drove this fast. Especially not with his daughter in the back seat.

She’d been there before he was even fully dressed. Still in socks, wide-eyed, breathless.

“She left,” she said. “Mommy left.”

She’d been crying.

And her tears — that — he would never forgive you for.

He didn’t know what he expected to do when he got there. Look into your eyes? See if your soul was still inside them? Drop to his knees and beg?

A few hours ago, you had still been in his arms. He’d almost believed. Almost let himself be happy again.

He parked illegally, didn’t even glance at the signs. Checked his daughter’s jacket, zipped it tighter, then scooped her into his arms and ran.

The platform was already half-empty.

The train was gone. Five minutes too late.

And something inside him gave way — not with noise, but with silence. A collapsing lung. A skipped heartbeat. A life rerouted.

This was what it would be, then.

A life with a hollow in it. Until the universe finally had the decency to take him.

He heard a soft sound, like water breaking on glass.

At first he thought it was her — his daughter — but she was quiet now. Blinking up at him.

He followed her gaze.

And saw you.

Sitting on your suitcase. Face in your hands. Sobbing like something inside you had torn loose. The tiny snow seal rests on your knees — absurdly delicate against the wreckage of you.

For a heartbeat, he wanted to strangle you. The next — he only wanted to hold you and never let go again.

But he wasn’t alone anymore.

“Go,” he said gently, lowering her to the ground. “She needs you.”

She ran without hesitation.

You didn’t hesitate either — just opened your arms and pulled her in, holding her like you could fold the whole world into that embrace.

He couldn’t hear what you said. It was yours. It was between you.

He waited. Waited until the tears began to fade from your cheeks.

Then stepped closer.

“You chickened out?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” you half-laughed, half-hiccuped. “I got scared you’d never kiss me again.”

He arched a brow, and his look said everything: What, exactly, do you think I spent all of last night doing?

You licked your lips. His shoulders trembled with silent laughter.

“All that?” he said. “A full-scale emotional catastrophe for one unfinished kiss?”

“It’s worse,” you muttered, deadpan. “It’s agony.”

Zayne looked at your daughter, who still clung to your coat. Her eyes darted between you — between home and hope.

He bent down, pressed a folded note of cash into her palm.

“Two hot chocolates,” he whispered. “Get them inside. Mama loves hers with cinnamon.”

She bolted. No questions.

And then his hands were on your face, warm and certain.

“I don’t make a habit of kissing strangers,” he said.

“Zayne —”

“I only kiss one woman.” His voice caught, barely — but it did. “Mine.”

Then he stepped in — deliberate, steady — and kissed you. Not like a doctor. Not like a ghost from your past.

But like a man who remembered every breath you'd ever stolen from him. Like someone claiming what he'd mourned for too long.

His hand slid to your jaw, fingers anchoring just enough to say: You’re not leaving again.

His mouth was warm and certain and slow, like the end of winter breaking. And when you kissed him back — really kissed him — something locked into place.

Not resolution. But return.

He drew back just enough to speak, thumb brushing the wet beneath your eyes.

“Remember this,” he whispered. “These lips aren’t just for kissing. They’re for questions. Even the scary ones.”

You nodded. Then, just barely —

“Then let me ask one.”

Your hand rose to his jaw, your fingers brushing that impossible edge.

“Is there any chance,” you whispered, “that you could… ever love me again?”

Zayne looked at you.

Then shook his head — not in denial, but disbelief. At the question. At you.

“I never stopped.”

He took your suitcase. Slipped his arm around your waist.

Together, you walked back to your daughter. To cocoa. To warmth. To the beginning.

644 notes · View notes

softlypossessive · 3 months ago

Note

Oh ngl I'm so stupid for sanji it's not funny. I would love to read something for sanji and a plus size girlie that's fully the filthiest thing u can think of. I just want sanji and a female who's plus size cause I'm chubby and I need me some sanji smut... Pretty please with a cherry 🍒 on top ,🫣👏

Sanctified

♡ Characters: Sanji x Chubby!Fem!Reader ♡ Warnings: explicit smut, body worship, praise kink, oral sex (f!receiving + m!receiving), face sitting, titty sucking, titjob, kitchen sex, creampie, overstimulation, French dirty talk, nipple play, cum play/clean-up, intense devotion, light dom!Sanji, Sanji being feral for reader’s body, fluff-laced filth, reader sitting on his face like a throne, post-sex snacks and light aftercare, mildly possessive vibes ♡ WC: 5k ♡ Notes: This fic was originally requested as “just some Sanji smut where he’s down bad for a chubby reader,” and um... I may have gone a bit overboard… What was supposed to be a quick smut scene turned into a 5k+ marathon of filth, feelings, and food play. Plot? I don’t know her. Sanji is feral, worshipful, absolutely wrecked by your existence, and I didn’t have the heart to stop him. So yeah. It’s long. It’s messy. And he cries a little.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

You wake with a sleepy groan, blinking blearily in the dark as the urgent need to pee drags you from the warm cocoon of your sheets.

The Going Merry is silent, rocking gently beneath you. Everyone’s long gone to bed—soft snoring and the creak of old wood the only signs of life.

You shuffle quietly out of your room in your sleepwear—just a ribbed tank top and a pair of thin cotton shorts, worn soft from washing, riding high on your thick thighs.

After finishing in the bathroom, you start heading back, ready to collapse into bed again—when something stops you.

A scent.

Something sweet. Rich. Buttery and sticky, drifting on the air like a whisper. Caramel, maybe? Brown sugar? And underneath it, the gentle sounds of movement—muffled footsteps, the low clink of silverware, and a soft humming that makes your skin prickle with recognition.

Sanji.

Your brows furrow in confusion. Why the hell is he up at this hour? And cooking?

Curiosity pulls you toward the kitchen like a thread.

The light is warm and low, only one lamp flicked on over the counter. It casts a soft golden glow across the room, pooling around the figure moving with practiced ease near the stove.

Sanji.

He’s barefoot, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, collar lazily unbuttoned. His blond hair catches the light, glowing like honey, tousled and messy like he’s been running his hands through it. There’s a smudge of flour on his cheek.

And he’s humming to himself. Focused. Peaceful. Until—

“Sanji?” you whisper, still rubbing sleep from your eyes. “What… what are you doing?”

He turns to you slowly, not startled, not surprised. Just smiling. A soft, secret smile like this is exactly what he wanted.

“Ah, ma chérie…” His voice is thick with warmth. “You’re awake.”

You blink. “You were cooking? At this hour?”

He shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Couldn’t sleep. I had a craving for something sweet.” His eyes roam down your figure, lingering. “And I was hoping… maybe you would too.”

You glance at the plate in his hands—golden, steaming, syrupy. A gooey dessert he’s clearly just finished, caramel sticking to the edges.

Your stomach growls, traitorous.

He chuckles softly. “Come sit.”

You hesitate, still standing in the doorway in your tiny shorts and barely-there tank, but Sanji’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, his gaze grows more reverent, more intense—like you just walked into the room glowing.

You pad over and take a seat on the wooden stool. It creaks softly under you, and you squirm a little, pulling the hem of your shorts down in embarrassment. Sanji doesn't look away. Not even for a second.

He sets the plate down in front of you, sliding a fork beside it. Then he leans one hand on the counter, tipping forward slightly to watch you.

“Go on. Taste it.”

You glance at him once, then take a small bite.

The moment it hits your tongue, your eyes flutter shut.

It’s heaven. Sweet and buttery, still warm, melting in your mouth with just enough salt to make your toes curl. You moan softly without thinking, eyes squeezing shut as you chew.

And when you open them again—Sanji is staring.

His pupils are huge.

His breath catches audibly, throat bobbing. There’s color blooming high on his cheeks, and his jaw flexes. He shifts slightly where he stands, and you think—no, you know—his cock is getting hard.

“…Holy shit,” you whisper, fork halfway to your mouth. “This is insane.”

Sanji swallows hard. His voice is rough when he speaks.

“You’re insane. Sitting there looking like that. Making those sounds.” He steps closer. “Fuck.”

You stare at him, cheeks hot. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

He reaches out and gently brushes his thumb against the corner of your lips. You freeze.

His touch is light, almost reverent, thumb sweeping away a crumb that never even had a chance to fall. But he doesn’t pull back.

He stays there, staring at your mouth.

The silence is heavy.

Your breath catches in your throat.

His eyes flick up to meet yours, and the look in them nearly knocks the air from your lungs—hunger, yes, but also something deeper. Devotion. Adoration. Longing so thick it makes your thighs press together.

He’s drinking you in. Your curves. The softness of your belly. The stretch of your top across your chest. The faint press of your thighs where your shorts have ridden up. And he’s looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“You’re…” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, “so beautiful.”

You inhale sharply.

He leans in slowly, like giving you a chance to stop him. His fingers brush your cheek.

“A goddess.”

You whisper, “Sanji…”

He doesn’t kiss you yet.

He lingers—forehead nearly brushing yours, breath hot against your lips, the scent of butter and sugar and something darker, more masculine. Your lashes flutter.

And then you close the gap.

The kiss is soft at first. Gentle. Just lips brushing lips, testing the waters. But it doesn’t stay that way.

Sanji groans quietly into your mouth, his hand sliding into your hair as he deepens the kiss. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until your body is pressed flush against his. The heat of him is overwhelming.

His tongue teases at your lips, slow and careful, and when you open for him, he kisses you like he’s starving.

You moan into it, fingers curling in the front of his shirt, nails dragging lightly down his chest.

He kisses you harder.

Your teeth clack. Your bodies bump awkwardly. It’s messy, heated, real.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, eyes half-lidded, chest heaving.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers along your jaw. “You’re not even real. You’re something else entirely. A dream.”

You’re breathless.

You can barely speak.

“A goddess like you should be worshipped.”

You swallow hard, blood rushing south.

“You should be kissed,” he murmurs, lips ghosting across your cheek, “touched, adored. Every inch of you. Every curve. Until you know how perfect you are.”

You let out a shaky laugh, heart pounding.

“So show me, then.”

His gaze snaps to yours. You see his pupils dilate further. His chest rises.

You smirk, leaning in just enough to brush your nose against his, the faint scent of tobacco and sea salt clinging to his skin.

“If you really think I’m a goddess…” your voice drops to a husky whisper, lips grazing his ear, “prove it.”

Sanji exhales sharply through his nose—half laugh, half groan, his breath hot and shaky against your cheek.

He kisses you again, hard, his tongue shoving past your lips, wet and desperate, tasting of wine and lust.

Before you can catch your breath, he hooks his arms under your thighs and lifts you off the stool in one fluid motion, his lean muscles flexing under his shirt. You squeak, arms flying around his neck, your soft, heavy curves pressing into his chest as he carries you like you’re weightless—his hands digging into the plush meat of your thighs, heat pouring off him like a goddamn furnace.

“I’ll worship you,” he rasps, voice low and ragged, his lips brushing your jaw as he stumbles toward the kitchen floor. “Starting right fucking now.”

He sets you down gently on the warm wood, the grain rough against your bare thighs, but his lips are back on your neck before you can blink—hot, sloppy kisses trailing down your pulse, his teeth scraping just enough to sting.

His breath’s a furnace, scorching your skin, and his kisses burn hotter still. You barely register him tugging your tank top up, the fabric catching on your curves until your breasts spill free—full, heavy, nipples pebbling in the warm air, dappled by the golden light flickering from the overhead lamp.

He doesn’t rush. He freezes, just staring, his cigarette dangling forgotten from his lips as ash flakes onto the floor. His eyes—dark, dilated, fucking ravenous—trail down your body, drinking in every soft roll, every plush inch, like he’s etching you into his soul.

His hands, smooth as silk but trembling with need, brush up your sides, thumbs grazing the undersides of your tits as he starts kissing—slow, open-mouthed, from your throat to your collarbone, then lower. His lips hover just above the swell of your chest, his breath shaky, fanning across your skin, making your nipples tighten even more.

You glance down, confused by the pause. He’s hovering, forehead resting lightly above the curve of your breast, sweat beading on his brow.

“Sanji?” Your voice is soft, uncertain.

His lashes flutter, and he lets out a choked exhale, the cigarette finally dropping to the floor with a faint hiss.

“I’m just…” He swallows hard, voice thick with awe, “trying to convince myself this isn’t some wet dream I’ll wake up from with my cock in my hand.”

Your heart skips, heat flooding your cheeks and pooling lower.

Before you can respond, he leans in—his mouth wrapping around your nipple, sucking hard, a guttural groan rumbling in his throat like your taste is his lifeline. His tongue flicks over the peak, wet and relentless, circling it before he sucks again, pulling it deep into his mouth. His other hand cups your free breast, kneading the soft flesh, thumb teasing the nipple in slow, deliberate circles until it’s stiff and aching under his touch. Spit drips from his lips, slicking your skin, pooling in the valley between your tits as he moans into you.

You gasp, back arching off the floor, fingers tangling in his blond hair, tugging hard.

Sanji moans louder, burying his face deeper between your breasts, his nose pressing into your sternum as he nuzzles like a man possessed. He kisses the soft, sweaty skin there, tongue darting out to lick up the salt, whimpering like he’s drunk on you.

“Magnifique,” he breathes, voice muffled against your flesh. “Tellement parfaite, putain.”

His hands slide down, reverent and slow, tracing the plush of your sides, the dip of your waist, the roundness of your belly. He kisses every inch—open-mouthed, messy, leaving wet trails across your stomach, your hips, the tender spot where your shorts dig into your skin. His thumbs skim beneath the waistband of your shorts, slow and careful, like he’s handling something precious. He doesn’t pull right away—just breathes for a moment, resting his forehead against your belly with a soft, shaky exhale.

“May I?” he asks, voice hushed, reverent. “Please.”

And when you nod, he makes a quiet sound—half gratitude, half hunger—and starts to ease the fabric down. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just devoted.

He hooks his fingers around the waistband and peels your shorts down inch by inch, kissing the skin he reveals like every soft patch is a secret he’s lucky to be let in on. He kisses your hips, your thighs, the inside of your leg where it meets the crease of your softness.

When the shorts finally hit the floor, he leans back to look at you fully, eyes wide with that wrecked kind of worship.

“You’re divine,” he whispers, breath hitching as his fingers sink into your soft hips. “Every fucking part of you. Every curve. Every goddamn inch.”

You’re panting now, trembling, your core throbbing as he unravels you with nothing but his lips, his words, his wide-eyed worship. Then—he pulls back, sprawling onto the floor, his chest heaving, shirt half-unbuttoned, cock straining against his slacks. He tugs at your hands, eyes blazing.

“Come here,” he says, breathless. “Sit on my fucking face.”

You freeze. “W-What?”

His eyes go half-lidded, hazy with lust, pupils blown wide.

“Please, mon ange.”

Heat floods your face, your thighs clenching instinctively.

“Sanji—I can’t—I mean—” You cross your arms over your stomach, shoulders curling in, voice small. “You don’t have to do that, I’m… I’m too—”

“Shhh,” he cuts you off, sitting up just enough to press a kiss to your knee, his lips lingering, soft and warm.

“Don’t hide from me, ma déesse. Don’t you fucking dare.”

His hands slide up your thighs, squeezing the thick flesh like it’s his anchor, his thumbs digging in just enough to make you shiver.

“You think I don’t want this?” His voice cracks, raw and needy, eyes burning into yours. “You think I don’t dream about you smothering me with these thighs while I drown in your pussy? That I don’t jerk off every night wishing I could suffocate between these legs and die happy?”

Your thighs twitch, heat pooling between them. You stare, speechless, as he whimpers—fucking whimpers—his hands trembling as he pulls you closer.

“Please,” he begs, voice breaking, dragging you gently forward. “Please, let me have this. Let me taste you. Let me worship you like you deserve.”

You don’t even realize you’re moving until your knees frame his head, your thick thighs trembling, heart pounding so hard you can hear it. “

“You’ll stop me if—”

“If I stop,” he cuts in, voice low and shaking, “it’s because I’ve passed out from fucking ecstasy.”

You lower yourself, hesitant, your weight settling over him. He moans before his tongue even touches you—just from the heat of your pussy hovering over his face, the scent of your arousal hitting him like a drug. His hands clamp onto your hips, fingers sinking into your soft flesh, dragging you down hard with a groan that rattles through your bones.

His mouth finds you instantly—tongue licking a long, slow, greedy stripe through your folds, parting your slick lips, tasting the wetness already dripping from you.

“Oh fuck—Sanji—!” you cry out, hips jerking as heat explodes in your core.

He feasts like a man starved—mouth wide, lips sealing around your clit, sucking hard, his tongue flicking and pressing with delirious precision. His jaw works fast, wet and sloppy, slurping your juices like they’re the finest wine he’s ever tasted. The sounds are obscene—loud, wet smacks, his muffled groans vibrating against your pussy, the squish of your thighs squeezing his head as you rock against him.

Your thighs shake, instinct screaming to lift off, overwhelmed by the intensity, but his grip tightens, bruising your hips.

“No,” he growls into your cunt, the word muffled, hot breath fanning your clit. “Stay. Fucking stay right here. Don’t you dare run from me.”

His tongue dives deeper, thrusting into your hole, fucking you with it as his nose grinds against your clit, his face drenched in your slick—shiny, messy, dripping down his chin.

You look down, and he’s smiling—eyes wet, glassy, fucking beaming like he’s in paradise with your pussy smothering him.

His hands knead your ass, pulling you harder against his mouth, and you sob, tugging his hair as your hips roll on their own. He humps the air beneath you, his cock tenting his slacks, a dark wet spot spreading as he moans louder, the vibration pushing you over the edge.

You cum hard, thighs clamping around his head, trembling as you scream his name, voice cracking. Your pussy pulses, gushing slick over his face, and he drinks it all, tongue lapping frantically, sucking your clit through the waves.

You try to lift off, panting, overstimulated, but he yanks you back down, growling like a feral animal, and goes at it again—tongue relentless, lips bruising your folds, fingers digging into your thighs with desperate devotion.

You sob through the second orgasm, hips jerking wildly, your body shaking as it rips through you, leaving you a trembling, breathless mess. When you finally slump back, he lets you go slow—his lips brushing your pussy one last time, a soft, reluctant kiss like he’s saying goodbye to a lover. You collapse beside him on the floor, legs limp, soaked with sweat and your own slick.

He’s lying there, chest heaving, face glistening—lips swollen, chin dripping, eyes glassy and fucked-out.

“I need more,” he whispers, voice hoarse, raw with want.

Sanji lifts you like you’re a sacred relic, his hands trembling as he carries you from the kitchen—your bare thighs wrapped around his waist, your slick smearing against his shirt, his breath still scorching your skin. He kicks his bedroom door open like a man possessed, the wood slamming against the wall, and lays you on his sheets—soft, rumpled, smelling of him—like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

Then he kneels. Between your legs, at your feet, his lips pressing reverent kisses to your stomach, your thick thighs, your hips—anywhere he can reach. His tongue drags slow, wet circles, tasting the sweat and arousal still clinging to you, worshipping every inch with shaky breaths. You reach for him, fingers threading into his sweat-damp hair, tugging him up until his chest brushes yours.

But you stop him, cupping his face, pushing him back gently. He freezes, brows knitting, lips parting to protest.

“Mon amour?” he whispers, chest heaving. “Is everything okay?”

You smile, soft and wicked.

“Sit,” you murmur.

He obeys instantly, settling on the edge of the bed, legs parted wide, his chest flushed red, breaths ragged.

“I’ve let you worship me,” you say, sinking to your knees between his thighs, your voice low and sultry. “Now let your goddess serve.”

His eyes widen, pupils blown.

“Mon Dieu,” he breathes, voice cracking. “You can’t just—fuck, you can’t say shit like that.”

You grin, dragging your palms up his thighs, thumbs grazing the waistband of his slacks, feeling the heat of his skin through the fabric. He groans, hips twitching.

“You okay?” you tease, voice sweet and low.

“No,” he chokes, head tipping back. “I’m gonna fucking die.”

You kiss his thigh through the fabric, lips lingering, then unbutton his pants with agonizing slowness, sliding them down, revealing his briefs—tight, soaked with pre-cum, clinging to his thick cock like a second skin.

When you peel them off, his dick springs free—flushed red, veined, the tip dripping, a fat bead of pre-cum rolling down the shaft and pooling on his balls.

Sanji groans like he’s ascending, hands fisting the sheets.

“Putain de merde—”

You wrap your fingers around the base, stroking slow, your thumb swirling through the sticky mess at the tip, smearing it down his length. His thighs tense, muscles jumping under your touch. You lean in, pressing your lips to his cock—soft, sensual kisses along the shaft, tasting the salt and musk, then a slow lick from base to tip, tongue flattening against the pulsing vein.

He gasps, hips bucking.

“Oh fuck—fuck, yes—”

His hand grips the sheets tighter, knuckles white, throat bared as his head falls back.

You take him into your mouth—slow, teasing, eyes locked on his as you hollow your cheeks and suck the tip, tongue swirling around the slit, lapping up the pre-cum leaking steadily now. His moans are loud, broken, like he’s never felt this before.

“Mon ange, your mouth—fuck, it’s made for this,” he whimpers, hips twitching, trying not to thrust too deep.

You bob your head, once, twice, drool spilling down your chin, coating his cock in wet shine. You pull off with a loud, sloppy pop, grinning as he whines.

“Not done yet,” you say, yanking your tank top off, your heavy breasts bouncing free.

You cup them, pressing them around his cock, the slick warmth enveloping him.

Sanji fucking loses it. His hands shoot to your arms, gripping tight, his whole body trembling as you slide him between your tits—soft, sweaty, slick with spit and pre-cum.

“Oh god—oh fuck, you’re unreal,” he gasps, head lolling, hips grinding up into the plush heat. “I’m gonna cum just from this—look at you, fuck, look at what you’re doing to me.”

You lean down, sucking the tip as he fucks your cleavage—sloppy, loud, the wet squelch of skin on skin filling the room. His cock throbs, veins pulsing, and he cums hard with a sob—thick, hot spurts spilling across your tits, dripping down your chin, hitting your tongue as you lick him through it. You swallow what you catch, lapping up the rest, his moans turning into prayers of your name.

“Please,” he pants, still shaking, cock twitching. “Please, let me return the favor—please.”

You crawl onto the bed, straddling his lap, your slick pussy brushing his still-hard cock. “Then fuck me, Sanji.”

He lays you back with care, like you’re fragile despite the filthy mess you’ve made of each other. He settles between your legs, kissing your inner thighs—soft, reverent—his hands shaking as he lines himself up. When he presses inside, his whole body shudders, a low groan tearing from his throat.

“Mon dieu… so warm, so tight, so fucking perfect…”

You gasp at the stretch—thick, slow, inch by inch—his cock filling you, stretching your walls until he’s buried deep, forehead resting against yours, both of you breathless. He starts moving—slow, deep, devoted thrusts, each one rocking your soft body, your breasts bouncing with the rhythm. His hands roam your thighs, your hips, your tits—fingers sinking into every plush curve like he’s branding you.

“You feel like heaven,” he groans, voice raw. “You are fucking heaven.”

He leans down, kissing you as he fucks you—deep, messy, tongues clashing between moans. His lips trail to your chest, sucking and biting your nipples, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, steady circles.

You keen, body arching, the wet squish of his cock driving into you loud and filthy. One hand presses just above your pelvis, adding pressure, making you choke on a gasp.

“Oh god—Sanji—fuck—”

Your thighs tremble, body tensing as he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your lips.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Show me how good I make you feel.”

You break with a sob, legs wrapping around him, cunt fluttering wildly as you cum—hard, messy, gushing around his cock, soaking his thighs. He moans your name, thrusts faltering as your walls milk him, squeezing tight.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I can’t—” he gasps, voice shattering.

“Cum inside,” you whisper, still pulsing around him. “I want it. Fucking give it to me.”

He chokes, tears stinging his eyes as his hips jerk forward, burying deep. He grinds against you with a helpless whimper, cock throbbing as he spills—hot, thick, flooding your pussy, leaking out around him as he keeps thrusting, smearing it into your folds.

“Merci… merci… je t’aime… oh fuck—” The words spill like a confession, his body trembling as he collapses into you.

You’re still twitching, thighs locked around his waist, your cunt spasming, milking every last drop. He’s still hard, still throbbing inside you, moaning into your neck as his hips shift, dragging against your oversensitive walls. You jolt, gasping,

“Ngh—Sanji—!”

He freezes, kissing your shoulder.

“I can’t stop—I need more, just a little more.” His voice is wrecked, pleading.

You clench around him, involuntary, and he groans, deep and broken.

“Fuck, you’re still so tight—please—”

You reach down, circling your clit, gasping as your body sparks again.

“I can take it,” you whisper.

He rocks into you—smooth, heavy thrusts, his cock dragging through your swollen, cum-slick walls. His lips stay on you—chest, jaw, collarbone—kissing everywhere he can reach. Each thrust pulls a moan from you, your body a live wire, still teetering on the edge.

“That’s it,” he whispers, fingers sliding back to your clit, rubbing fast. “One more, ma déesse. Fucking break for me.”

Your body convulses, the buildup crashing hard—you scream, cunt clamping down, gushing again, soaking him as he groans, thrusting through it, filling you with another hot, sloppy load, his cum dripping out, pooling on the sheets beneath you.

Neither of you move. You just breathe—ragged, shallow gasps filling the quiet, the air thick with the musk of sweat and sex. Sanji’s trembling against you, his lean body pressed tight to your plush curves, whispering your name like it’s a prayer he’s carving into the dark—“Mon ange, mon angel…”

His hands roam, shaky and reverent, tracing the soft dip of your waist, the heavy swell of your hips, anywhere he can touch to prove you’re real.

Eventually, your breathing slows, chest still heaving under his weight, your thighs trembling faintly—boneless, fucked-out, but sated deep in your core, a warmth that sinks past muscle into soul. You blink up at the ceiling, vision hazy, the lamp’s golden glow smearing into a soft blur. Your pussy throbs faintly, slick and tender, still leaking his cum onto the sheets.

He presses one last kiss to your cheek—soft, lingering, his lips damp with sweat—then pulls away, slow and reluctant, his cock slipping free with a wet squish that makes you wince.

“Sanji?” you murmur, voice hoarse, blinking at the sudden emptiness.

He’s already on his feet, bare and glowing in the dim light—golden hair a sweaty, tousled mess, chest flushed red, cock still half-hard and glistening with your mixed juices.

“I’ll be right back, ma belle,” he says, voice low and fond, a promise wrapped in gravel. “Stay there.” He’s gone before you can protest, the door clicking shut behind him.

You sit up, dazed, arms crossing instinctively over your sticky chest—your breasts heavy, nipples swollen and slick with spit and cum, glistening in the faint light. Your thighs stay parted, tender and aching, the cool air hitting your pussy and making it clench, a dribble of his seed leaking out, thick and warm, trailing down your inner thigh.

You wince—half from overstimulation, half from the flicker of loneliness that creeps in, sharp and sudden, like he’s taken the heat of the room with him.

But then—footsteps. The door creaks open, and he’s back. Your heart fucking melts.

Sanji’s carrying a small tray, his hands steady despite the faint tremble in his fingers. One holds a warm, damp cloth, steam curling off it, folded with his usual precision. The other balances a dish of delicate, sugar-dusted sweets—puffy little pastries, glistening with glaze—and a tall glass of pink hibiscus tea, ice clinking, the rim crusted with honey.

He kneels beside you, bare knees sinking into the mattress, his face soft but his eyes burning, locked on you like you’re the only thing in the world.

“Let me clean you, mon ange,” he murmurs, voice a husky caress.

You lie back without a word, spreading your thighs for him, and he starts—slow, gentle, the cloth warm and rough against your skin.

He drags it between your legs, wiping away the mess—your slick, his cum, the sweat pooling in the creases of your thighs. The heat soothes the ache, but his touch ignites it too, his fingers brushing your swollen folds as he cleans, parting them just enough to swipe at the sticky mess dripping from your cunt.

You hiss softly, hips twitching, and he pauses, lips brushing your inner thigh in apology—a wet, open-mouthed kiss, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin.

“So good,” he whispers, moving up, the cloth gliding over your tummy, tracing the soft rolls, erasing the sweat and spit.

He lingers on your breasts, wiping the cum streaked across them—thick, tacky ropes that cling to your nipples—his thumb grazing the peaks as he works, making them stiffen again under his touch. He leaves kisses behind—soft pecks on your stomach, a slow suck on the curve of your tit, his breath hot and shaky.

“So sweet. So soft. So fucking perfect.”

You hum, a pleased little moan slipping out as he brings the glass to your lips. You sip—the tea’s cool, floral, cutting through the haze, and you chase it with a pastry, sugar dusting your fingers, melting on your tongue.

He watches, rapt, as you lick the crumbs off, his cock twitching visibly between his legs, still slick and heavy. He finishes cleaning you, the cloth now cool and damp, and tosses it aside, sliding into bed behind you—pulling the covers up, tugging your back flush against his chest.

His skin’s warm, damp, reeking of sex and sweat and the faint sweetness of the treats, his arms wrapping tight around your shoulders, lips brushing your neck.

“I meant it,” he whispers, voice low and rough, teeth grazing your earlobe. “You’re the only goddess I’d crawl for, bleed for, fucking die for.”

His cock presses against your ass, half-hard, smearing a wet trail of pre-cum across your skin as he shifts closer.

You turn your head, smirking, one brow arched.

“So that’s how you treat every goddess?”

His answer’s instant, fierce, soft as sin.

“Only you.”

His hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking your lip, pulling it down just enough to tease the wet inside of your mouth.

Your cheeks heat, pulse kicking up.

“Well, damn,” you murmur, leaning back into his chest, feeling his heartbeat thud against your spine. “Good thing I’ve got killer taste in men.”

He chuckles into your hair, a low rumble, and kisses the crown of your head, his breath stirring the strands. His hands start moving—slow, careful circles on your shoulders, knuckles brushing the curve of your arm, thumbs digging into the tense muscle of your upper back, kneading out the ache.

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs, voice drowsy but thick with promise, “I’m cooking you breakfast in bed.”

You grin, shifting your hips just enough to grind against his cock, making him groan low in his throat.

“Only if you serve it naked.”

He huffs a laugh, but it’s strained, his hips twitching forward, cock stiffening against your ass.

“If you keep talking like that,” he rasps, voice dropping dark and hungry, “you’re getting round three before the sun’s up.”

Your thighs clench, pussy throbbing at the thought, still slick with him. You don’t pull away, don’t let him slip out of reach—instead, you press back harder, feeling the heat of him, the sticky mess of his pre-cum smearing wider.

“Prove it,” you whisper, voice a dare, a spark.

Sanji freezes for half a second, breath catching, then he’s on you—flipping you onto your back with a growl, his hands pinning your wrists above your head, his body looming, cock fully hard now, dripping onto your stomach.

“Oh, ma déesse,” he breathes, eyes wild, lips curling into a feral grin. “You’re gonna regret that.”

Your thighs clench.

You decide not to sleep just yet.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

#op x reader #sanji x reader #one piece smut #chubby reader smut #x reader #vinsmoke sanji #one piece x reader #straw hat pirates #sanji x y/n #sanji x you #one piece imagine #sanji imagine #smut #sanji smut #softlypossessive smut #softlypossessive writing

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grimeshound · 5 months ago

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HWANG INHO NSFW HCS …

cw: 18+, age gap, daddy kink (inho being fatherly …), intox kink, somno, dirty talk, general filth.

a/n: i’m so sorry this came out way too long & messy ,, long & messy…?!?! , may have some typos. i was writing an inho fic but while writing & coming up with possible ideas, i may have gone a little overboard with the hcs… whoops. anyways head full of inho

—-

• has mastered the art of juggling praising and degrading down to a T. when he has you pinned down fucking you stupid, expect to be hearing the filthiest remarks against your ear.

“that’s my pretty girl, so fucking dirty.”

“just a dumb little fleshlight for me to fill, hmm? so, so good. all for me.”

• he calls you his baby, his sweet girl, his angel, & of course, sweetheart.

• possessive is inho’s middle name. but really, is this shocking news?

• inho never would’ve thought himself to have a daddy kink. not like he wasn’t open to the idea, moreso he never thought he’d get the chance to try it. but ever since you came into his life, you gave him the perfect opportunity.

• he took notice of how much his fatherly nature had you wrapped around his finger. you couldn’t help it, really. the way he’s so protective of you, so patient and caring. the day he called himself daddy in bed, you came so hard you could’ve sworn you were on the brink of blacking out.

“my pretty girl just needed daddy to fuck her right, huh? it’s okay, baby. i’ve got you.” he’d murmur, low groans escaping past parted lips as his thrusts turn sloppier, more frantic and messy at the sound of your moans.

• forced intox kink … i will die on this hill. something about seeing you all dumb & drunk, mind clouded after taking a swig of alcohol gets him hot and bothered.

• somnophiliac. he’ll try his best to be gentle at first to not wake you up, but he can’t help getting lost in the pleasure, pounding himself deeper and deeper until your eyes flutter open.

• the times he uses your mouth, you’re woken up by the sensation of being choked, your airway getting tighter and tighter. tears prick at the corner of your eyes as you frantically grip onto him, gasping for air. he’ll just shush you, hands still pressed firmly against both sides of your head as he fucks your throat.

“shh, it’s okay, baby. s’just daddy… go back to bed, angel.”

• on the topic of choking, inho can’t get enough of it. wrapping his hand around your neck during sex, the choked moans that come from you never fails to make his cock twitch. it drives him up a wall.

• he’d never say it outright, but your age gap makes him so fucking hard. just talking about it with him could serve as foreplay, really. he tries to be sneaky with it, mentioning it in passing.

• he mentions how his age is getting to him, or how young and pretty you are, how he’s “practically old enough to be your father,”. you’d say it’s sick, the only problem being you find it equally as hot.

• for someone of his age, he fucks like a madman. you may be the younger one, but sometimes you find yourself huffing trying to keep up with him. he does most of the work, tells you to just “sit pretty and take it.”, but the times when he’s all tired out and still hard? he’ll lay back on the bed, dark eyes fixed on you as he motions for you to ride him. “get yourself off on daddy’s cock, pretty girl.”

and really, how could you turn that offer down?

#hwang in ho #front man #oh young il #in ho #in ho squid game #inho smut #squid game #hcs #player 001 #squidgame 2 #smut #inho x reader

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lov3lycosmos · 2 months ago

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2:03 A.M (and everything feels right)

Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers

Summary: a late night convenience store run turns into a unexpected confession

Cosmos note: I lied I might post more instead of working on my new series, I'm procrastinating someone motivate me omg 😣

my library!

The soft blue light of your bedroom TV flickers against the walls, casting gentle shadows across the cluttered comfort of your space. A half-empty cup of tea sits on your nightstand, long gone cold, and a cozy blanket is curled around your body like a second skin. The sitcom playing is halfway through an episode you've seen a dozen times, but it keeps you company in the quiet hours of the night.

You hear a gentle knock, followed by a soft creak of your bedroom door opening. There’s only one person it could be.

Jeongin peeks his head in, hair messy and eyes squinting from the hallway light. He’s wearing an oversized hoodie and a pair of joggers, and his sock-clad feet barely make a sound as he steps in. “You’re still up?” he asks, voice husky with sleep.

You glance up, amused. “So are you.”

He grins, sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “Couldn’t sleep. Kinda figured you weren’t either.”

“You figured right,” you say, patting the space next to you on the bed.

Jeongin makes himself comfortable, stretching out next to you with a soft sigh, legs tangled in the blanket. “Wanna do something stupid?”

You look at him, curious. “Define stupid.”

He grins wider now, eyes sparkling despite the time. “Midnight—or... okay, post-midnight—run to the convenience store down the street? Come on, I’m craving banana milk and those honey butter chips.”

You laugh quietly. “It’s literally 2 AM.”

“And?”

“You’re insane.”

“And you love it.”

You sigh dramatically, already pulling yourself out from under the blanket. “Fine. But if I get arrested for loitering in my pajamas, I’m blaming you.”

He hops off the bed with a victorious noise. “Totally worth it.”

The streets are quiet, blanketed in soft city silence. The occasional car rolls by, headlights washing over the pavement, but for the most part, the world feels like it’s yours. You and Jeongin walk side by side, your arms brushing now and then as your steps sync up without thinking.

He looks over at you, his hoodie hood pulled up now against the breeze. “Kinda nice out,” he murmurs. “Cool, but not too cold.”

You nod. “It’s peaceful.”

Jeongin looks ahead again. “Yeah. I like it. When it’s just… us.”

You glance at him, something warm fluttering in your chest.

The corner convenience store glows like a tiny beacon, its neon signs buzzing softly against the quiet. The bell chimes as you walk in, and Jeongin immediately veers toward the fridge for his banana milk. You go toward the snack shelves, picking up some ramen for later, a couple candy bars, and—after some hesitation—one of those triangle kimbap things you always mess up opening.

He meets you at the counter, arms full of sugar and salt and very little nutrition. “Okay,” he says, setting it all down. “I may have gone a little overboard.”

You look at his haul and snort. “You’re feeding a small army.”

He leans in, stage-whispering, “An army of one very hungry boy.”

You pay for your stuff, he pays for his, and then you both walk back out into the stillness. Instead of heading straight home, Jeongin nudges your shoulder. “Let’s go to the park.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want to eat on the grass like gremlins?”

He grins. “Yes. Exactly like gremlins.”

The park is even quieter than the street, lit only by the occasional lamplight and the glow of the moon. You find a grassy patch under a tree and settle down side by side, your snacks spread out between you.

Jeongin cracks open his banana milk with a satisfied sound. “This is exactly what I needed.”

You take a bite of your kimbap—successfully opened this time—and hum. “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”

“Midnight snack picnic? Kinda romantic, right?” he teases, nudging you.

Your heart skips. You laugh it off. “Romantic? We’re in sweatpants.”

Jeongin shrugs, suddenly quiet. “Still feels kinda romantic to me.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

You look over at him, and find him already looking at you, eyes softer than you’ve ever seen. He looks like he’s thinking hard about something, like maybe this moment means more than either of you are saying.

So you ask, voice gentler now, “What?”

He takes a breath, then exhales slowly. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

Jeongin picks at the corner of his snack wrapper. “How long we’ve lived together now. How you’re always… here. Not just physically. Like… here. In my life. Constant.”

You smile, heart squeezing. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking up at you again. “And how sometimes I wonder if you feel the same way about me.”

Your stomach flips.

“I mean,” he rushes on, “I know we’re best friends. Obviously. But lately it’s been feeling like… I don’t know. More? Like I’ll be brushing my teeth and think about you brushing yours. Or I’ll hear a song and immediately want to send it to you. Or I’ll see something funny and I’m already smiling because I know I’ll tell you and you’ll laugh and—”

“Jeongin.”

He stops.

You shift closer, knee brushing his. “I feel it too.”

He blinks.

“I think about you all the time,” you say softly. “Not just as my roommate. Or best friend. Just… you. All the time.”

His eyes go wide, then glassy, like he wasn’t expecting to hear that out loud.

You add, voice small now, “I think I’ve been falling for you for a while.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence.

Then, without warning, he leans forward and kisses you. Soft. Tentative. Like he’s still not sure he’s allowed.

You kiss him back without thinking, tilting your head, letting it linger. It’s sweet and slow and exactly what you thought kissing him would feel like—warmth blooming in your chest and the feeling of everything finally clicking into place.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, still smiling. “Okay,” he says. “Good. That’s good.”

You laugh quietly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Because now I don’t have to pretend I don’t want to kiss you every single time you smile at me.”

You nudge his shoulder, still grinning. “You’re a sap.”

“You love it.”

“I really do.”

You sit like that a while longer, under the tree, snacks half-eaten and forgotten, the world quiet except for the wind and the soft, giddy thump of your heart.

At 2:30 AM, the world felt perfect.

And for the first time in a long time, home didn’t feel like the apartment behind you—it felt like Jeongin, sitting next to you in the grass.

Taglist: @vampzity @sooniedoongiedori25 @mhluvie @yaorzu-blog @lze325 @felixleftchickennugget @m-325 @lezleeferguson-120 @psychicyouthfox @pixie-felix @angel-writes-here @heechwe

(I'M STILL ADDING PEOPLE TO TAG! comment on any post, send an ask or a message if you want added!)

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dragonsfictavern · 1 year ago

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Beyond Desperation

Halsin Silverbough x Reader

a/n: Halsin and Astarion, my two main mans. I couldn’t not write something for Halsin. Some of the description may have gotten a little size kinky but dude is huge so it makes sense to me.

summary: After a particularly adrenaline endorsing fight ensues, Halsin needs desperately to feel close to you. His first course of action is to connect his body and soul with yours, replacing the aches of the fight with the aches of strenuous activities. Leading him to go a little bit overboard and apologize through vigorous after-care.

warning: MDNI 18+, p in v sex, biting, marking, body worship, light subspace, phenomenal after-care.

word count: 2.7k

It was due to a planned attack that started all of this. You had been there of course, fighting by his side. He had been particularly looking forward to it all day, his energy levels high despite his calm demeanor. You could tell having learned to read his body language and all the other things he never needed to speak aloud. Halsin was itching to help and frankly, so were you. Both of you aiming to look out for the natural order of things.

But then something happened that you probably both should’ve expected. In his excitement, Halsin had gone a bit too wild for a first turn of attack. After that, it wasn’t much longer until the entire fight was over and you all had clearly won. The other guys, while having gotten a few good hits in, couldn’t last long compared to Halsin’s stamina.

Afterwards, he went right to you, still overwhelmingly pent up from the very underwhelming experience of a fight. Checking to make sure you weren’t seriously injured. His heading straight for you was growing to be somewhat of a common occurrence. You tried not to look into it or think too deeply about it. You knew the way in which he cared for others. But that didn’t stop your heart from warming that he came right for you when becoming aware of his need. That he trusted you to be able to take care of him.

Though right now you were starting to feel a strange kindred bond that your opponents had with him. That's to say you were beginning to fear you too didn’t have the stamina to match up with Halsin. Your nails dig into Halsin’s stomach, bringing out a low growl from him as he helps you ride him into another orgasm for you both.

Like clockwork a hoarse scream is ripped from your throat as Halsin brings you to another one of your countless rippling climaxes. Your orgasm coats his cock just as your walls spasm around him and he groans, his eyes clouded over in a lust-filled daze. The only thing on his mind is bringing you to your peak once again, desperate to feel the way you clench around him as he empties himself inside of you. Desperate to see and feel your body as he gives you pleasure. Even as a puddle of your combined release soaks into the bedroom sheets of the local inn.

Your body convulses as sharp prickles erupt over your body from his deep thrusts and the beginnings of overstimulation. A whimper moves past your lips as you sag against Halsin’s broad warm chest, exhaustion falling over you after hours of euphoric bliss.

“You’ve done so well for me, dove. I knew you would,” Halsin’s low gravelly voice whispers along the shell of your ear as he leans down to your height. Your body twitches as he continues rocking into you though you can tell he’s restraining himself. Holding back from taking you again so soon after such an intense orgasm. You whine, burying your face in his neck as your hands trail up his overheated skin till they wrap into his hair. Both of you feeling needy for touch right now. For closeness and connection. “Sh, sh, sh. I’ve got you.”

“More Halsin, please,” you croak out, lips brushing along his raging pulse. Your hips start to move with his and your jaw drops, feeling the burn as his thick girth continues to stretch and split you open. But Halsin’s hands are right there on your ass, pushing himself inside you. Your body warps into him, a long mewl leaving you. But just as you think it’s about to get so good again, Halsin’s hands tighten, keeping himself firmly planted in your walls.

“Relax, it’s alright. Take your time. I know you got one more in you and I’m not going anywhere,” Halsin’s voice is a low rumble that vibrates against your skin as he peppers kisses along your shoulder. Your body still shakes but you’re itching to move, to keep him stuffing you full of his cum till he forces it out with another healthy dose of it. You truly don’t know where your minds gone when you reach this place with him. The crown of his cock rests sweetly against your cervix and it only serves to drive you deeper into insanity.

“Don’t- don’t make me wait. I can’t and I know you can’t either. I know you need it and I can do this for you. I want to do this for you,” you beg earnestly as a light fog grows heavier in your mind and your arousal for him heightens. You know this’ll give Halsin peace of mind, you know it’ll calm him after the fight you all went through. You want nothing more than to give that to him. So you whisper the one thing you hope will push him over the edge. “Just let go.”

Halsin is frozen, keeping you frozen along with him. His forehead now resting heavily on your shoulder, his nose brushing along your collarbone as he inhales heavy amounts of your scent. Then with a final squeeze to your ass, he lifts you up his cock, only leaving in the tip before his hips snap harshly back up into you. You cry out, cunt fluttering around his cock to which it responds with a twitch. Your bodies having been molded and in sync to each others.

Your hands caress his ears in order to intensify his pleasure. You feel the rumble in his chest and you press closer to him. Using his hold on your bottom, Halsin moves you up and down on his dick with ease, starting you both at a hurried pace. Your jaw drops, teeth nicking the skin of his neck.

“You’re ok,” Halsin breathes out, his voice low. You can hear the way he inhales and exhales roughly, tiny grunts leaving him with every wet smack of your hips meeting. You can only respond with broken whines, eyes fluttering as you lean all your weight on his imposing yet comforting figure. Halsin is more than prepared to carry you through this as he fucks into you.

His hands grip your body tightly as he fights for control, not wanting to be more rough than you can handle. His nails lightly dig into your skin, breaking skin in a way that has you moaning as pricks of pain join in with the vast amounts of pleasure. You know it’s sure to leave a mark or two but you can’t help but want more. Something that won’t fade away in a day or two.

You writhe against Halsin’s body, wanting his cock to touch every depth inside you as he maintains his frenzied pace. Lifting his head from your shoulder, he maneuvers around in order to more easily trail his soft lips over your heated body. He follows a pathway down your neck, tongue teasing your shoulder. His back arches so he can continue on along your chest. You gasp as his teeth bite at you softly, making your body buzz and quiver. His lips seem unable to leave your skin. You note the way his body shakes, his breath mixing with his groans and coming out in short pants.

You moan as his nails sink in a little further. Head thrown back you bask in every sensation you’re greeted with. It’s only when Halsin’s lips pause just above your collarbone do some of your senses come back to you. Though it remains difficult as you feel as though your body is floating in an air of bliss.

“W-what?” You try to ask through your haze, but talking proves to be difficult as every single thrust is punching the air out of your lungs. You barely even register it as Halsin’s teeth sink deep into your flesh. You’re so consumed by pleasure the puncture feels like faint tingles that only increase your ecstasy. You cry out more from surprise than anything. Your hands hold onto his hair tightly as you keep him right there inside you. Now in every way.

Halsin, so caught up in the way your tight cunt sucks him in with every thrust, the warm wetness encompassing him, and your beautiful body welcoming everything he is, he couldn’t stop the overflowing emotions whirling around in his mind. Before he knew it his teeth were out and burying themselves in deep. He was going to take them out immediately— he was going to apologize. But then he felt you tug him closer.

So instead he finds his mind completely spinning. Every time he starts to lift you up his cock, his hips snap back up into you as if desperate to stay. You whimper, back arching unnaturally as you’re unable to escape a second of pleasure, not getting a moment of reprieve. His brutal pace is relentless as he jackhammers his way inside you. You squirm but it only has him pressing harder into your G-spot, causing a sharp choking noise to leave you from the shock.

Your body tenses as you can’t escape the intense sensations inflicted upon you. You try to open your mouth and express it but all that leaves is a long moan that only has Halsin start sucking at the skin around his mark, his teeth still embedded in you. Your stomach clenches painfully as your orgasm reaches higher and higher. Goosebumps spread across your skin like wildfire as you feel yourself burning from the inside out. That burning heat coming from the way his girth fills you, consumes you.

Halsin, having become attuned with your body, senses that you’re on the precipice of something magnificent. He doesn’t hesitate to slam your body back down on his dick and grind your clit roughly on the hair of his happy trail. You choke, your body jerking with violent force as the cord at the bottom of your belly snaps. A ringing echos in your ears and you can faintly hear your screaming beyond that as your climax crashes into you in waves, one right after the other as he doesn’t stop the stimulation on your clit.

A few moments later his teeth slip out of you as he goans from your clenching down on him. A few quick jerks of his hips and he’s emptying another load into your walls. You feel his cum flood through you, adding to the mix of busy sensations you’re experiencing. Yet this one has to be your favorite. Your body convulses uncontrollably and you feel a faint spark of worry as black spots suddenly surround your vision. You quickly call out Halsin’s name before you fall into darkness, your body going limp in his hold.

When you wake, you’re laying on the bed flat on your back. You wonder what woke you up and why you were asleep in the first place when a shocking texture brushes between your folds. You hiss, body jerking back. You look down just as Halsin’s head snaps up to look at you. Seeing a wet cloth in his hand and the tortured look in his eye has your memories flooding back to the front of your mind in an instant.

His gaze only lasts a moment before moving back down between your thighs. You see as that tortured look increases as his face twists. With a featherlight touch he cleans you up, being careful with the wet cloth as he wipes everything away. Your body aches but his soothing touch is enough to make you instantly relax back into the bed.

“Oh, Halsin,” you sigh, voice hoarse from your screams, watching as he avoids your gaze. Your limbs feel as though they weigh a million pounds, so all you can do is lay and watch as Halsin internally tortures himself over what just happened. Your heart flutters as he bends down, pressing soft apologetic kisses across your hips.

“Sweetheart, I am so sorry,” Halsin mumbles after a few long moments of silence. He grimaces, shaking his head as his eyes once again catch onto the forming bruises around your hips he’d just kissed. Looking away for a moment he puts some green paste he most likely made on his hands. He then leans forward, hands sliding over your bum and to the small puncture wounds from his nails. He makes sure to rub it in carefully to each mark. You wait until he’s finished and sitting back next to your legs.

“Halsin c’mere,” you call gently, loving the evident care shown from him while also needing you both need more. The air surrounding you is cold and empty as the fog is all but disappeared from your mind and you once again feel everything fully. You see Halsin hesitate, doing a double take to meet your gaze. Emotion rises in your chest and your voice cracks as you ask again. “Please, come here.”

His face twists in pain at the small break in your call. He doesn’t waste another moment before crawling up the length of his bed. Laying by your side he remains close while keeping a few inches of space between you. His eyes frantically move up and down your naked body, checking you over for what was probably the millionth time.

“How’re you feeling? Do you hurt? Did I hurt you?” He asks quietly, one question firing off as soon as he finishes asking the first. Finding your strength, you sluggishly lift an arm and cup his cheeks in order to bring his focus to your face. His cheek falls into your palm, soaking up your touch. “I’m so sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” you say in an attempt to calm his guilty heart. But Halsin immediately scoffs, not buying that for a second. In the moment, it had briefly scared you. But you were ok. Now, more than anything, you wanted to laugh about how he’d made you feel so good your body gave out. Though you could see he wasn’t in the joking mood right now.

“You cannot say such things, sweetheart, look at you,” Halsin says, motioning a hand along your stiff body, eyes following it. That same hand carefully lands around your waist. He rubs his thumb in calming circles, bringing a warmth to spread through you. Guilt continues to radiate off of him and it hurts your heart to see. He closes his eyes, angling his head to kiss along your wrist and down your arm. “I lost control— that is far from ok,”

“I wanted to go again. I don’t regret it, even now,” you admit, thumb caressing his cheek. Both of you subconsciously working to soothe the other. Halsin’s eyes open and meet yours. You can see his emotions going haywire through the depth of his eyes. He feels so much and carries so much on his back. He’s incredibly strong but you want him to know he doesn’t have to carry it alone.

“I was reckless. It was my responsibility to take care of you, make sure I wasn’t too rough. Now look at you,” he murmurs against your skin as he continues his soft kisses. With your hand now free of his face, you wrap it back into his hair. Such a simple touch from him has your heart beating out of your chest.

“Look at me. You’re taking care of me perfectly,” you express, letting your emotion shine through to him. His soft eyes flicker up to look at you as his lips reach your shoulder. They now look the tiniest bit more forgiving than they did a moment ago. Without moving even an inch away, his arms slip around your body. He curls you into himself, fully encapsulating you within his form. You hum contently, curling your arms between your bodies and brushing along his smooth skin.

“And I won’t stop. Is there anything you need?” His face now right in front of yours and his body surrounding you completely, you feel a million times better. Comfort and safety solidify themselves within you. Your eyes look between his as you can see his full attention on you and anything you may need of him. Right now the idea of needing more seems impossible as you have everything you could ask for right here.

“Just this.”

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missmadella · 2 months ago

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Bonten's Heart (Bonten x Reader)

Well, I may have gone a little overboard again, but I have so many ideas! I already have another one-shot planned. I hope you enjoy these little stories as much as I enjoy writing them. :3

Summary: As Bonten's darling, you’ve always been at the center of their world — a constant reminder of what they protect. But when a late-night craving leads you to sneak out for some ice cream, your world takes a dangerous turn. After being injured while trying to protect Koko during a break-in at Bonten HQ, the members are left shaken, realizing just how much they’ve come to rely on and care for you.

Words: 14551

It was the quiet hum of the city that woke you up. You blinked your eyes open, groggily trying to make sense of the dim light filtering through the blinds. The room was still, peaceful, save for the soft sounds of Bonten HQ—the distant murmurs of voices, the faint buzz of electronics. Your body was still heavy with sleep, but there was something nagging at you, something tugging at the back of your mind.

At first, you tried to ignore it, shifting slightly under the covers and pulling them up higher. But it was no use. It wasn’t a physical ache or the discomfort of a bad dream. It was… a craving.

A sudden, overpowering urge for something cold. Something sweet.

You stared up at the ceiling, mind swirling through the usual options. Chips? No, not salty enough. Chocolate? Maybe, but… no, that wasn’t it. Ice cream. The thought of it hit you like a wave, and suddenly, the need for ice cream was all you could focus on. You could practically taste the cool, creamy sweetness already—vanilla with swirls of caramel or maybe something with chocolate chips. The possibilities were endless.

You groaned inwardly. It was 2:47 AM. Why now? Why, of all times, did this craving hit you at this hour?

Your stomach gave an impatient little growl, confirming that you weren’t just imagining it. The craving was real.

You glanced over at the clock beside your bed. The bright numbers stared back at you, reminding you how late—or early—it really was. Everyone else was probably still in the middle of their usual late-night meeting, discussing some operation or other. Mikey, Ran, Rindou, Sanzu, Koko, and Kakucho—they’d be talking about business while you were struggling to ignore your sudden food obsession.

But no. You couldn’t just lie there and try to sleep through this. The craving for ice cream was too strong. And besides, it would only take a quick trip down to the convenience store, right? You could get your treat, be back before anyone even noticed.

You groaned again, sitting up and swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The cool floor beneath your feet was a shock, but it helped clear your head just a little. You knew the risks—sneaking out in the middle of the night wasn’t the best idea, especially with Bonten members always alert, but the pull of that ice cream was stronger than any fear of being caught.

You stood up, glancing around your room, which was dim and quiet. The meeting wasn’t supposed to end anytime soon. You’d be in and out, like a ghost—quick, efficient. The store wasn’t too far, and you could grab your treat without anyone noticing.

You quickly pulled a hoodie on over your sleepwear, tying the strings tight to hide the fact that you were still wearing your pajamas. The cold air outside would definitely need a jacket. Grabbing the nearest one hanging on the back of the door, you slipped it over your shoulders. The whole process was almost mechanical—get the ice cream, satisfy the craving, and return to your room. Easy.

You padded quietly across the room to the door, your slippers making soft shuffling sounds against the floor. The hallway outside was quiet, too. It was late, almost unnaturally still for Bonten HQ. You paused, listening carefully for any signs of movement or voices from the meeting room at the far end of the hall. But there was nothing. Just the faintest echoes of hushed conversations and the occasional click of a door shutting.

Your heart pounded a little faster now. The thrill of sneaking out was always a bit exciting, especially in a place like this where everyone’s business was so… important. And secret. You were pretty sure Bonten members didn’t just go for midnight snacks, but you didn’t care.

“Just a quick trip,” you whispered to yourself, your hand resting lightly on the door handle. “In and out.”

With a quiet sigh, you cracked the door open, the faint light from the hallway spilling into your dark room. You stepped out, closing it as quietly as possible behind you. The hallway was eerily quiet, and you carefully tiptoed toward the back exit, making sure your footsteps didn’t echo. Your heartbeat was louder than your footsteps as you made your way to the door that would lead you outside.

But then, as you reached for the handle, something in the air shifted. A slight rustling, a sound in the distance. You paused, freezing in place for just a moment.

Someone was in the hallway. And judging by the soft steps, they weren’t far.

_________________________________________________________________________________

With a quick rush, you stormed out of the HQ, finally making your way to the 24/7 grocery store down the street, still in your slippers. The only thing you wore was a big hoodie you’d "borrowed" from Mikey—the one he’d been searching for ever since—and your pajama shorts. It was a warm summer night, not too cold, but certainly not the warmest either. A slight shiver ran through you as you cuddled your face deeper into Mikey’s hoodie, strolling down the street.

The only problem was, you hadn’t realized you’d been seen leaving the house at 2 AM.

With a sigh, Mikey leaned back in his chair, watching the city streets from the high vantage point, his gaze eventually settling on the figure walking in slippers below. Sanzu had informed him that you’d vanished into the night. God only knew what your plan was. Without saying another word, Mikey sent Ran and Rindou after you, instructing them to either make sure you arrived safely at your destination or bring you back to safety. He couldn’t risk anything happening to Bonten’s darling just because they hadn’t been paying attention to you.

As you walked further down the street, the cool night air felt refreshing against your skin, and you couldn’t help but smile as you imagined the ice cream you were about to indulge in. You’d almost forgotten about the dangers of sneaking out in the dead of night until you heard a soft footstep behind you. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up, and instinctively, you pulled the hood of Mikey’s sweatshirt tighter around your face.

You glanced over your shoulder, but the street was empty. It was probably nothing, just your imagination, right?

But then, the footsteps grew closer.

You quickened your pace, trying to ignore the growing unease in the pit of your stomach. Your slippers slapping against the pavement was the only sound you could focus on as your breath hitched in your chest. A rush of adrenaline coursed through you, and just as you turned the corner to head to the 24/7 store, a shadow appeared ahead.

"Going somewhere?" Ran’s voice came from the darkness, smooth and teasing, yet with a hint of concern.

Your heart skipped a beat. So much for being sneaky.

You whirled around to find Ran and Rindou standing there, looking far too amused for the situation. Ran’s smirk was the first thing you saw, his arms crossed casually, while Rindou leaned against the brick wall, hands tucked into his pockets.

"Really? At 2 AM?" Rindou asked, his tone light, but there was that underlying sense of responsibility in his voice. "Don’t you know better than to sneak out like that?"

You stood frozen for a second, surprised by how easily they’d caught up to you. You had been sure you were being quiet. The giggles from the convenience store seemed distant now, and the cool night air no longer felt comforting.

"Well," you started, trying to recover some of your usual confidence, "I didn’t think anyone would notice. I just wanted something sweet, okay? Is that so wrong?"

Ran’s smirk widened, his gaze softening slightly as he studied you. "Sweet, huh? It’s not that we’re against late-night snacks. But you can’t just be out here alone without telling anyone. Especially not when Mikey’s been worried about you."

You felt a flush creep up your neck at his words. You hadn’t exactly planned for them to find out, let alone Mikey. "I didn’t want to disturb you guys doing your meeting," you muttered, looking down at your slippers.

Rindou pushed himself off the wall, taking a step closer. "You really think we wouldn’t notice you slipping out at this hour?" His voice was softer now, almost playful, but there was a thread of seriousness running beneath it. "We can’t have you wandering around by yourself. Especially with all that’s been going on."

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t quite hide the warm feeling blooming in your chest. There was something comforting about having them keep an eye on you—even if it wasn’t the way you wanted.

"So, what? You’re just going to follow me all the way to the store?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Ran shrugged, a playful glint in his eyes. "You didn’t think you were going to get away with it that easily, did you?"

Before you could protest further, Sanzu appeared from the alley behind them, his expression unreadable. "Mikey’s been watching, you know. He sent us to make sure you were safe."

You sighed, looking at the ground, finally realizing you were caught. "I’m not a kid, you know. I can handle myself."

But deep down, you knew they were right. Bonten wasn’t the safest place to wander alone at night, especially with the number of enemies that would target them—and by extension, you.

Rindou chuckled, nudging you gently. "Let’s just get your ice cream and head back. You’re not going anywhere without us tonight."

___________________________________________________________________________

With a heavy sigh, you relented, knowing full well that there was no point in arguing. Sanzu walked up to join the group, his usual smirk in place as he fell in step with you.

"You know," he said in his signature lazy drawl, "Mikey’s gonna have a field day when he finds out you snuck out without telling anyone. Bet he’ll lecture you for hours, sweetheart."

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at the corners of your lips despite yourself. "Don’t remind me."

The group walked in silence for a while, the only sound being your slippers slapping softly against the pavement. You glanced up at Ran, who was walking just behind you, his steps slow and measured. Every now and then, his eyes would flick to you, almost as if checking that you were still walking in the right direction, like he was making sure you were safe.

"Enjoying your midnight stroll, princess?" Ran asked, his tone teasing, but his eyes were always alert, scanning the street around you.

Rindou was ahead of you, strolling casually, but every now and then he’d glance over his shoulder, eyes narrowing slightly. He wasn’t really upset—he was just being cautious, like always.

"I still don’t get why you didn’t just tell us," Rindou muttered as he looked back at you. "You could’ve just asked us for ice cream, darling. We would’ve gotten you whatever you wanted."

"Yeah, well," you said, pulling the hoodie tighter around your shoulders, "I didn’t want to disturb. Plus, you guys are probably tired too."

Ran chuckled from behind you. "We’re never too busy or tired for you, sweetheart."

You stopped for a moment, feeling the warmth of their words. It was a little embarrassing, but comforting too. The tension in your shoulders eased, and you could breathe a little easier knowing they were sticking with you—whether you wanted them to or not.

"We're like a little army watching over you, darling," Sanzu added, his voice dripping with amusement. "I’m sure Mikey would approve of our thoroughness."

You shot him a look. "I didn’t need a whole army."

Ran leaned in, his voice quieter now, teasing but with an edge of seriousness. "Maybe not, but it’s our job to make sure you’re safe, princess. You don’t get to walk around Bonten HQ without us keeping an eye on you."

"That’s what bodyguards are for," you muttered, feeling a bit of frustration build up. But you knew, deep down, they weren’t just following you out of obligation. They cared, even if it came across in their teasing.

________________________________________________________________________

When you arrived at the convenience store, you made a beeline for the freezer section, determined to get the ice cream and make this as quick as possible. You didn’t need the whole group looming over you, especially when they were already making jokes at your expense.

But Rindou and Ran were right behind you, casually glancing at the options.

“Did you have a flavor in mind, sweetheart?” Rindou asked, sounding genuinely interested. “Or are we picking for you?”

You hesitated for a moment, eyes scanning the freezer. "Vanilla," you said finally. "With caramel swirls. That’s what I was in the mood for."

Ran nodded and leaned over to pick up the tub. "Not a bad choice, princess. Classic."

You turned to glance at him, but your eyes met Sanzu instead, who was eyeing the shelves of snacks with the most casual demeanor. His smirk was still firmly in place as he flicked his gaze between you and the ice cream.

"Don’t even think about stealing some of mine, Sanzu," you warned, narrowing your eyes playfully.

Sanzu raised an eyebrow, not even looking at you. "I wasn’t gonna steal any, darling. Just admiring it." He grinned, though, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "But now that you mention it…"

You swatted at his hand as he reached for your tub, laughing despite yourself.

Once the ice cream was secured, you made your way to the counter. Ran followed close behind, still teasing you. “You really didn’t think we’d just let you wander off on your own, huh, princess? We’ve been running after you for a reason.”

You snorted, clearly not expecting such concern. “I wasn’t planning on getting kidnapped, you know. It’s just ice cream.”

Rindou chuckled. “You’re not the problem, darling. The problem is how easily you could’ve wandered into something dangerous. We can’t just let you go off on your own in the middle of the night. The last thing we need is for something bad to happen to you.”

You paused at the counter, the words catching you slightly off guard. It wasn’t like you hadn’t known they cared, but hearing it out loud felt different. You glanced at them, feeling a little warmth flood your chest despite yourself.

"Thanks," you muttered quietly.

The walk back was quieter this time, the playful teasing from earlier fading into a comfortable silence. You held the ice cream tub in your arms as you walked alongside Ran, who had subtly slowed his pace to match yours. He didn’t say much, just offered a soft smile every now and then, his casual nature more comforting than anything else.

Sanzu was still trailing behind, occasionally making snide comments under his breath, but it was clear he was watching your back.

When you reached the door of Bonten HQ, Rindou and Ran gave you a moment before following you inside, their eyes scanning the area just in case.

"Next time," Rindou said, his tone light but sincere, "just ask us, darling. We’re always around to make sure you’re alright."

You nodded, finally feeling the full weight of their concern. "I’ll keep that in mind."

You were halfway to your room when you heard Mikey’s voice call out from the hallway. You froze, the ice cream tub almost slipping from your hands. You hadn’t thought Mikey would still be up.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going, darling?” Mikey asked, looking between you and the group of Bonten members trailing behind you.

The teasing tone in his voice made you realize that, while you had tried to sneak away, Mikey and the others were always one step ahead.

“Just getting some ice cream,” you said sheepishly, holding up the tub as if that would explain everything.

Mikey raised an eyebrow, but there was a soft smile on his face. “At 2 AM?”

You smiled back, the tension easing away. "Yeah, Mikey. At 2 AM."

He shook his head but said nothing more, allowing you to head back to your room, the comforting weight of Mikey’s hoodie still wrapped around you.

__________________________________________________________________________

You had barely taken the first satisfying spoonful of ice cream when you heard the familiar sound of footsteps approaching your door. Before you could even finish licking the spoon, Mikey’s voice rang through the hallway.

“Oi, sweetheart,” Mikey’s voice echoed, “You got enough ice cream there? Or are you planning to make us all jealous?”

The door creaked open before you could respond, and in walked Mikey, Sanzu, Ran, Rindou, Koko, and Kakucho—all six of them, lined up at the doorway, gazing at you like a group of sentries. You blinked up at them, spoon still in hand, surprised to see the entire Bonten crew standing there.

“Didn’t think you’d all show up," you muttered, but there was a smile playing on your lips. It wasn’t a surprise, really. After all, they had followed you all the way to the convenience store, and now here they were, keeping watch over you as you enjoyed your midnight snack.

Mikey leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed as he smirked at you. "You think you're getting away with sneaking out, princess?"

"Just wanted some peace and ice cream," you said with a playful shrug, trying to hide your amusement.

Sanzu walked over and plopped down beside you on the bed, his usual grin in place. "Peace? With all of us here? Good luck with that." He reached for the ice cream tub without hesitation, scooping up a bite. "Might as well share, darling."

You sighed, but handed him the tub anyway. He was just like that—always pushing his luck.

Ran remained by the door, his arms folded in a more serious manner than the others, but there was something warm in his eyes as he spoke. "Sneaking out in the middle of the night without telling any of us?" He raised an eyebrow, his tone teasing but with an underlying edge of concern. "You’re lucky we care about you, sweetheart. Could’ve been dangerous."

"Yeah," Rindou added, stepping forward from the back of the group, his tone quieter but just as serious. "You never know what kind of mess you could’ve gotten caught up in. This isn't some safe little neighborhood, darling." He eyed you with a bit of exasperation but mixed with fondness.

You glanced around at them, the weight of their concern starting to sink in. “I didn’t think it’d be that big of a deal... It’s just ice cream."

Koko chuckled from the back of the room, his voice smooth and carefree as always. "You’ve got to admit, princess," he said, crossing his arms. "We’re a bit more than just a 'group of guys.' It’s our job to keep you safe. You can’t just wander off like that, no matter how innocent your intentions are."

Kakucho, who had been standing silently at the back of the room, stepped forward now, his usual calm expression never faltering. He gave you a small but sincere smile before speaking up, his tone soft but earnest. "We... don’t want anything to happen to you, sweetheart. You’re important to all of us."

You stopped eating for a moment, looking at him. Kakucho rarely said much, but when he did, it was always meaningful. His words held weight, and you could tell he meant it.

You nodded slowly, but then teasingly raised the ice cream tub. "But you all are acting like I’m not capable of handling myself. Do I look that helpless?" you said with a slight smirk, trying to lighten the mood.

Mikey chuckled, stepping forward now. "You’re far from helpless, sweetheart. But that’s not the point." He gently took the ice cream from your hand, setting it aside on your desk. His gaze softened as he looked at you. "The point is, we care. I care."

Sanzu glanced between the two of you with a smirk. "Mikey’s all worried about you, huh, princess?" he teased, nudging you lightly. "Can’t blame him though, you’re his and our darling after all."

Mikey ignored the jab, but the faintest blush spread across his cheeks as he adjusted his posture. "Shut up, Sanzu," he muttered before turning back to you, his tone softening even more. "I’m serious, alright? Don’t go sneaking off again, especially at this hour. The City doesn’t exactly have the safest streets."

Ran finally pushed off the doorframe and walked over to where you were sitting. His eyes met yours, a little more intense than before. "You’re important to us, princess. I won’t repeat myself again. We don’t want you in danger."

You felt a warmth spread in your chest, not just from their words, but from how genuine they sounded. Despite their intimidating roles, these guys really cared for you in a way that was hard to ignore.

"Okay, okay, I get it." You leaned back against the headboard, a small smile tugging at your lips. "I’ll try to keep it safer next time. But you guys gotta chill out sometimes."

Rindou snorted. "We can’t exactly ‘chill out’ when you make moves like that." His eyes softened as he met your gaze. "We’d never forgive ourselves if something happened to you."

There was a long pause as the members of Bonten all stood around, watching you with varying expressions, but the sentiment was clear: they cared deeply. The playful teasing faded into something deeper, something more heartfelt.

Koko sighed dramatically, still leaning against the wall. "Looks like we’re gonna have to start babysitting you more often, huh, princess?" His voice was light, but his eyes never left you.

You snickered and shook your head. "As long as you bring ice cream," you joked, already reaching for another spoonful.

Kakucho smiled softly, his eyes glancing down at you. "Fine. We’ll make sure you get all the ice cream you want... as long as you promise to stay out of trouble, darling."

You grinned. "Deal."

___________________________________________________________________________

The night that had started off peaceful with laughter and playful teasing was quickly turned upside down. As you were finishing your ice cream and chatting with the members, everything changed. The calm, cool atmosphere in the room suddenly shifted as Sanzu’s phone buzzed. His expression immediately hardened, his eyes scanning the screen before quickly looking up at Mikey.

“It’s bad,” Sanzu said, his voice sharp with tension.

Mikey’s eyes narrowed, and in a flash, the carefree vibe was gone. The smile faded from his face, replaced by an expression of focused determination.

“They’re coming,” Mikey muttered, his hand quickly reaching for his gun. His eyes flickered to you, and you immediately knew something wasn’t right.

“Everyone, to your positions!” Ran barked, his voice carrying authority as he moved toward the door.

“Stay here, sweetheart,” Rindou added, his voice low, trying to mask the urgency in his tone. "Don't move from this room. It's not safe out there."

You froze, the ice cream spoon still in your hand as you processed his words. There was no time for explanation as the other Bonten members swiftly readied themselves.

“Koko, take the left wing,” Mikey ordered, his voice clear and steady despite the rush of adrenaline in the air. “Sanzu, you and Kakucho go to the back. Rindou, Ran, you’re with me on the right side. Keep her safe.”

As the other members rushed out to take their respective positions, Kakucho lingered for a moment at the door, his eyes flicking back to you. There was something unreadable in his gaze, but his words were firm.

“Stay in the room, don’t leave. We’ll handle it.”

You nodded, your heart racing. You had never seen them so tense before. It wasn’t like the usual operations or missions. This felt different. The air was thick with the promise of danger, and you knew—this time, it was personal.

The moment the door clicked shut, the sound of heavy boots rushing through the corridors and the tense murmurs of Bonten’s most feared men echoed through the HQ. You stayed still, anxiety creeping in as you glanced toward the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was happening outside, but the blinds were closed.

Then—an explosion.

The windows rattled as the sound of an impact vibrated through the building. Your heart skipped a beat, and before you could react, the door burst open. Ran was the first to rush back in, his face a mask of urgency.

“Get back to your room!” he ordered, his eyes flicking to you with a mix of concern and command. “It’s not safe. Stay in here, don’t—”

Before he could finish, the sounds of shouts and gunfire rang from the hallway. A cold chill ran down your spine.

You didn’t want to hide in the room. You couldn’t. Mikey and the others were out there, and you weren’t about to just wait around while they were in danger.

Ignoring Ran’s desperate commands, you quickly ran for the door. You flung it open just as the first figure stormed past the hallway. There were shadows of men, all armed, charging down the corridor.

“Stay the hell back, princess!” Rindou’s voice snapped from the hallway, but it was too late. You were already stepping out, determined to find your way to where they were fighting.

You rounded a corner, heart hammering in your chest as you saw the chaos unfolding. Mikey, Sanzu, and Kakucho were already taking down enemies, but Koko—he was surrounded. A gang member had slipped past the others and was wielding a knife, aiming it straight at Koko’s side.

“No!” you screamed, your heart leaping in your chest. You didn’t even think about the danger. You only saw Koko’s face, calm but vulnerable.

Without a second thought, you lunged forward, throwing yourself between the man with the knife and Koko.

Everything seemed to slow as the man’s eyes widened in surprise, but it was too late. The blade found its mark. You felt the cold steel cut through the air before it sank deep into your side.

You gasped, your body going rigid as the shock of pain hit you. Blood soaked through the fabric of your hoodie, warm and sticky.

Koko's eyes went wide in horror as he pushed the man away and caught you in his arms. “No, no, no!” he breathed, his voice shaking. “Why did you—”

You collapsed against him, your breath coming in shallow gasps. The room spun, and your legs wobbled beneath you. Koko was holding you tightly, his hand pressed to the wound, but it didn’t stop the blood from seeping through.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Koko muttered frantically, his usual calm completely shattered. He turned his head sharply to the others. “Get a medic! Now!”

Mikey, Sanzu, and Ran rushed over, their eyes immediately locking onto the sight of you, injured and cradled in Koko’s arms. Mikey’s face contorted with absolute fury, his usual calm replaced by a storm of rage and worry.

“Dammit, sweetheart!” Mikey shouted, his voice raw with anger. He reached out to help, but Kakucho was already there, moving with urgency, pulling you into his arms with the same intensity that was reflected in everyone else’s actions.

You could barely register the words through the dizzying pain. The room spun, your vision blurred. The only thing that cut through the haze was the realization that you’d done something reckless. You had thrown yourself into the chaos to protect someone you cared about.

As Kakucho and the others rushed you away, Mikey’s voice was filled with both fury and fear. “We told you to stay put!”

“Don’t you ever—” Rindou’s voice cracked with anger, his tone low and tight. “Ever do something like that again.”

But none of their voices could drown out the overwhelming weight of the pain, nor the cold grip of fear in your chest. You’d never seen them this shaken before. You’d never seen them so protective.

And now, you realized—this wasn’t just a game. Bonten’s world wasn’t only dangerous for them. It was dangerous for everyone involved.

The pain was blinding, and every second felt like a lifetime as Kakucho rushed through the halls with you cradled in his arms. The others followed closely behind, but you couldn’t focus on anything but the bleeding wound on your side and the dizziness that threatened to pull you under.

"Stay with me, sweetheart," Kakucho's voice was firm but laced with concern, a stark contrast to his usual calm demeanor. His grip tightened on you as if holding you would keep you from slipping away.

Your breath hitched in pain, but you managed to force out a weak, "I’m fine…"

"You’re not fine," Mikey's voice rang out from behind, sharp and stern, but you could hear the worry buried beneath the anger. "You think you’re fine after that? After what you just did?"

Your vision swam, and the sound of their footsteps echoed, but you barely registered it. All you could hear was Mikey's voice—louder now, more desperate. "This is why I said to stay the hell in your room. You think this is some kind of game?"

As they reached the medical wing of the HQ, Kakucho didn’t hesitate. He laid you on the nearest table, the motion sending a fresh wave of pain through your body, but you couldn’t focus on that. Not when the Bonten members were standing over you, their faces a mixture of anger, relief, and concern.

Ran moved first, his usual sharpness softened by his worry. "We told you to stay back, princess," he said, his words soft but biting. "You could’ve been killed. You don’t understand how dangerous this is."

You tried to push through the pain to speak, but Sanzu cut you off, his voice low and dangerous. "Stop acting like this was some heroic stunt. You almost got yourself killed for nothing." His usual carefree attitude was nowhere to be found. There was only fear, masked by his frustration.

Rindou’s face was unreadable, but his hands were clenched at his sides, clearly holding back something. "You really thought you could just throw yourself into the middle of all this and walk away fine?" he muttered, his eyes flickering between the wound on your side and your face. "Damn it, princess…"

The room fell silent for a moment, the tension thick in the air. Then, Koko stepped forward, his face pale but determined. He gently placed his hand on your uninjured arm, his voice quieter but no less intense. "You’re lucky. You should be dead right now, and that’s not something I can just ignore. Don’t you ever do something like that again."

You felt a lump form in your throat, but you couldn’t respond. Every word they said made your heart ache, but it also filled you with warmth, knowing that they cared so much.

But then, as the medics rushed in to treat your wound, Mikey moved to your side, his eyes dark with emotion. His voice, when it came, was softer, but there was no mistaking the weight of his words. "You think we’re invincible, sweetheart? You think we can protect you if you keep acting like this?"

Your eyes fluttered open to meet his, and for the first time, you saw the vulnerability in his eyes—the fear of losing you.

"I don’t want to lose you, darling," he whispered, his voice rough, and his hand brushed a strand of hair from your face. "Stay with us. Don’t do something like that again."

You didn’t have the strength to say much, but you squeezed his hand, letting him know you heard him. "I won’t... I’m sorry."

There was a long silence before Kakucho’s calm voice broke through. "We’ll make sure this never happens again, sweetheart. No more slipping away. No more taking matters into your own hands."

Sanzu leaned against the wall, arms crossed, but there was something gentler in his gaze now as he looked at you. "You’ve got us watching you from now on. We don’t care if you don’t like it. You’re not going anywhere without one of us."

Koko stood at the foot of the table, still keeping a distance, but his voice was softer now. "You’re our responsibility. Don’t forget that."

You closed your eyes again, feeling the weight of the moment settle over you. The gang was right—this wasn’t a world for someone like you. But you didn’t regret what you did. You would protect them if it came to it, just like they would for you.

As the medics worked on you, stitching up the wound, you felt the warmth of the Bonten members around you, their eyes never leaving you. It was a dangerous world, but in that moment, you knew you weren’t alone. They would never let you go.

___________________________________________________________________________

The world around you was a hazy blur of voices, distant footsteps, and the faint beeping of machines. Everything felt heavy, but slowly, slowly, you started to wake. Your body ached, a dull throbbing pain radiating from your side where the stitches pulled tight against your skin.

The first thing you felt, though, was warmth.

Someone was there. Sitting quietly at your bedside.

You blinked a few times, your vision clearing just enough to see a familiar figure hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling between them. Mikey. His head was bowed slightly, his usually unreadable expression cracked and vulnerable in the dim light.

His eyes were locked onto you, but he looked tired—so tired—and there was a shadow in his gaze that you hadn't seen before.

You stirred a little, wincing softly at the movement, and his head snapped up immediately. His hand instinctively reached out, hovering just over your arm but not touching, as if afraid he might hurt you more.

"Sweetheart…" he breathed, his voice a low, broken whisper. Relief and guilt warred in his expression as he looked at you like you might slip away again if he dared to blink.

You didn't speak at first. You just moved your hand, slow and careful, reaching out and gently placing your palm against his cheek.

Mikey froze under your touch, his whole body going rigid. His eyes widened slightly before they fluttered shut, leaning just a little into your hand as if grounding himself.

"I'm sorry, Mikey," you whispered, your voice still rough from sleep and weakness. "I… I just wanted to protect Koko… I didn’t mean to make you worry."

A sharp breath escaped him, almost like a laugh but too bitter, too broken. His hand finally moved to cover yours, trapping it gently against his face.

"You scared the hell out of me," Mikey muttered, voice cracking with the weight of all the emotions he usually buried deep. "I thought—" He stopped himself, jaw tightening. "I thought we were gonna lose you, baby."

You blinked up at him, heart twisting painfully at the sight of him—this man who bore the weight of a bloody empire—looking so shattered over you.

"I didn’t want anyone to get hurt," you said softly, tears pricking your eyes. "I couldn't just stand there and do nothing."

"I know," Mikey whispered, his thumb brushing softly over the back of your hand. "But if you ever get hurt like this again... I won’t survive it."

The silence between you was heavy but comforting, filled with all the unspoken things neither of you could put into words.

Finally, Mikey leaned down, pressing a feather-light kiss to your forehead. "Rest now, darling," he murmured against your skin. "We’re here. You’re safe. I promise."

Still holding your hand against his cheek, Mikey stayed by your side, refusing to move. As you drifted back to sleep, your heart ached—not from the pain, not from the injury—but from the overwhelming, fragile love that existed between you and the man who rarely let himself be this vulnerable.

And in that moment, you knew—you would do it all over again if it meant protecting them. Protecting him.

___________________________________________________________________________

One by one, they came. Each member stepped into your room with the same heavy look in their eyes—worry, guilt, and something even deeper that they couldn’t quite hide. To them, you looked fragile, breakable. A sight they never wanted to see again.

The pain still clung to you, sharp and unforgiving. Even shifting slightly in bed made your body scream in protest. But none of that mattered—not when you knew they were safe. Not when the chaos had ended.

Rindou and Ran sat quietly on either side of your bed, both of them gripping your hands like lifelines. "Don’t ever do that to us again," Rindou said, his voice tight, his thumb brushing over your knuckles without thinking. "Ever," Ran added, a rare seriousness softening his usually playful face.

You offered them a tired, small smile, squeezing their hands back as best you could. "I’m sorry," you whispered, your voice rough but honest. "I just... I couldn't watch Koko get hurt."

Their grips tightened a little, as if they understood, but also as if they were terrified. You had protected one of their own. The next to enter was Sanzu.

Sanzu leaned against the doorframe for a moment, just staring at you. His usual cocky grin was nowhere in sight. Instead, his jaw was tense, and there was a wild glint of guilt in his eyes.

"Angel," he muttered, stepping closer, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them. "You really scared the shit outta us, y'know that?"

You gave him a soft look, still too weak to fully smile, but you reached a hand toward him weakly. It was enough. Sanzu crossed the room in two strides, crouching down by your bed and letting you rest your hand lightly on his shoulder.

He didn't say anything more — he just stayed there for a moment, breathing you in, like making sure you were really alive. Before leaving, he pressed a kiss to your knuckles, a rare gentleness slipping through his usual chaos.

Next was Kakucho.

He entered the room quietly, a small tray in his hands with some cut fruit and a bottle of water. He looked at you like you were glass — about to shatter if he even breathed too hard.

"Here," Kakucho said softly, placing the tray on the nightstand. "You need to keep your strength up."

You gave him a tiny nod of thanks. Kakucho sat down carefully beside you, reaching out but stopping halfway, hesitating. You moved first — just brushing your fingers over his hand.

"You protected one of us," he said, voice thick with emotion. "But next time... let us protect you too, alright?"

You smiled faintly and whispered, "Okay," making him finally relax a little before he patted your hand gently and stood up, lingering for a few seconds longer than necessary before he left.

The room was silent after Kakucho left. You thought maybe it was over—that everyone had come to see you. But then you heard the lightest footsteps yet. Almost hesitant. Almost scared.

Koko stood in the doorway, frozen.

He looked... wrecked.

His hands were shaking slightly as he gripped the edge of the doorframe. His eyes were wide and glassy, guilt pouring off him in waves.

He opened his mouth to speak— Closed it— Tried again—

"I... I’m sorry," Koko finally choked out, voice barely a whisper. His face twisted in pain. "This is my fault. If you hadn't jumped in front of me—if I had been faster—you wouldn't be like this."

You saw the panic building inside him, the way he started to crumble right in front of you, guilt eating him alive. Without thinking, you lifted your hand weakly, beckoning him closer.

Koko stumbled forward, falling to his knees by your bedside, hands trembling as he reached for you but didn’t dare touch. Tears clung to his lashes.

Before he could spiral further, you leaned forward as much as you could manage — and gently pressed a kiss to his forehead.

A soft, lingering kiss, full of forgiveness.

Koko froze, his breath catching in his throat. And then he buried his face against your hand, shoulders shaking as he clung to you, as if anchoring himself to your warmth.

"It's not your fault," you whispered, your thumb brushing lightly against his cheek. "I’d do it again, Koko. Every single time."

It took a long moment, but eventually he nodded against your hand, trying—and failing—to stop the tears that slipped free.

___________________________________________________________________________

It took days — maybe even weeks — but slowly, surely, you began to heal. The bruises faded. The pain dulled to an ache. And finally, you were allowed out of bed.

But if you thought you were going to move around freely again... You underestimated how insanely protective Bonten was about you now.

Ran was the first to notice you trying to sneak down the hallway one morning.

"Oi, oi, princess~" he called lazily from the couch, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. He practically materialized beside you in seconds, casually slinging an arm around your shoulders like you were made of spun sugar. "Where do you think you're sneaking off to, huh? Need an escort?"

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help smiling as he led you toward the kitchen — like you were royalty needing a personal guard.

Rindou wasn’t far behind.

He pretended to be nonchalant, sitting at the counter with a cup of coffee, but his sharp eyes tracked your every step. When you reached up to grab a glass from a high shelf, he was immediately behind you, grabbing it down for you without saying a word.

"Just... don’t strain yourself, okay?" he muttered, glancing away awkwardly. You caught the slight pink at the tips of his ears, and it warmed your heart.

Kakucho was even worse.

He hovered nearby constantly, offering help with anything and everything. You tried to carry a blanket from the laundry room once — just a light blanket — and Kakucho was immediately there, taking it from your hands like you were lifting a mountain.

"You’re still recovering," he said firmly, carrying it for you before you could protest.

If you even looked remotely tired, Kakucho was already steering you gently toward the couch with a stern, silent stare until you sat down.

Koko had turned into a walking checklist.

Every time you moved, he’d appear like magic with a glass of water, a snack, a pillow—whatever he thought you might need.

"You feeling dizzy? Sit down for a minute. Here. Take this," he'd say, pressing things into your hands like an anxious mother hen.

If you so much as yawned, Koko was immediately at your side, fussing over you until you were tucked into a blanket again.

You started to wonder if you were ever going to be allowed to stand without an entire security detail.

Sanzu took a different approach.

He stayed near — not hovering — but always close enough to catch you if you stumbled. He didn't smother you. Instead, he watched, sharp and quiet, stepping in only when absolutely necessary.

Still, you could feel his gaze like a tether — like an invisible thread connecting you. When you got too tired, Sanzu would wordlessly offer his arm for you to lean on, guiding you back to the couch without a word. And sometimes, when he thought you were asleep, you’d catch him brushing your hair back from your face so, so gently.

Mikey wasn’t like the others. He didn’t hover. He didn’t fuss. He didn’t bring you water or pillows or snacks.

Instead... he watched.

From the doorway. From the hallway. From the corner of the room — silent, unmoving, his dark eyes tracking your every move like a hawk.

Whenever you laughed softly with Ran, or let Koko adjust your blanket, or leaned tiredly against Kakucho’s shoulder... Mikey was there. Always watching. Always quiet. Like a ghost who couldn't bear to step too close.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. It was that he cared too much.

He was terrified.

Terrified that if he touched you, he might break you again. Terrified that the world could hurt you — and that he, somehow, hadn't been strong enough to stop it last time.

Mikey’s heart was still bleeding from the sight of you lying there that night — blood staining your clothes, eyes fluttering shut.

That memory haunted him. And it made him too scared to reach for you now.

But you noticed. Of course you did.

You noticed the way his fists would clench and unclench at his sides when you winced in pain. The way he lingered at the doorway for hours without coming in. The way his voice — when he did speak — was so soft it barely existed.

"You're okay now, right...?" he asked you once, late at night, standing just outside your room. His voice cracked mid-sentence, like he didn’t believe his own words.

You smiled softly. "Yeah, Mikey. I’m okay."

His shoulders sagged — just a little — with relief.

But he still didn’t step inside.

Not yet.

___________________________________________________________________________

It happened one evening, while the others were gathered in the living room.

You were wrapped in a big blanket, sitting curled up between Ran and Kakucho, your body still aching but your heart warm. Rindou had brought you a cup of hot tea. Sanzu was stretched out lazily nearby, keeping an eye on you even while pretending to be half-asleep. Koko sat stiffly in the armchair, glancing your way every few seconds like he was making sure you were really there.

And Mikey... Mikey was standing in the corner.

Watching. Silent. Still not coming close.

Your chest ached seeing him like that — so distant, so afraid. So you made a choice.

You pushed the blanket aside slowly, standing up carefully on unsteady legs. Immediately, the room shifted — Ran and Kakucho reaching to steady you, Rindou already halfway off the couch. But you shook your head gently.

You walked — slow but determined — straight toward Mikey.

His dark eyes widened slightly as you approached, but he didn’t move. He just watched you with a fragile, broken kind of hope.

Without a word, you reached for him, taking his hand in yours. It trembled slightly in your grasp.

You gave him a small, reassuring smile.

And finally — finally — Mikey moved.

He pulled you into his arms so carefully, like you were something sacred. He sank down onto the couch, keeping you cradled in his lap, tucking you into his chest like he couldn’t bear to let you go ever again.

You let out a soft, happy sigh, nuzzling against him as he buried his face in your hair, breathing you in.

The room went very still, the others watching quietly with soft, relieved smiles.

Mikey's voice was barely a whisper against your hair. "Missed you, angel..."

You smiled against his chest, feeling his heart beating fast against your cheek.

Lifting your head, you cupped his face gently between your hands. His eyes met yours — so full of emotion it almost broke you.

And then, you leaned up and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips.

It was tender, sweet — full of everything you couldn’t put into words.

When you pulled back, Mikey just stared at you for a second, stunned. Then he smiled — a real, small smile, the first one you'd seen from him in days.

"Thank you, baby..." he whispered, forehead resting against yours.

But before you could sink deeper into the quiet moment, a chorus of dramatic voices broke out around you:

"Hey! No fair!" Ran called from across the room, grinning wide.

"If Mikey gets a kiss, I want one too," Rindou muttered, crossing his arms with a mock pout.

"I was the one who fed you all that soup!" Kakucho added, faking offense.

Koko, surprisingly, didn’t say anything — but the way he looked at you, eyes wide and pleading, said enough.

Sanzu just smirked lazily, tilting his head. "C'mon, angel. Don’t play favorites now."

You giggled softly — a real, bright sound that made all of them relax instantly.

Still cuddled up in Mikey’s lap, you smiled at the rest of them, warm and teasing:

"Fine, fine. Line up, boys."

Ran practically jumped over the back of the couch to get to you first, while the others laughed, the room finally — finally — feeling whole again.

___________________________________________________________________________

You couldn’t stop laughing softly as they all lined up, half-teasing, half-serious, waiting for their turn like a bunch of overgrown kids.

Mikey still held you protectively in his lap, arms loose around your waist, not letting you go far — but he allowed you to lean toward the others.

Ran was first, of course.

He knelt dramatically in front of you like some prince from a fairytale, smirking up at you. "Alright, princess. Give me your best shot."

You giggled, leaning forward to press a quick, playful kiss to his forehead.

Ran clutched his chest like he’d been shot. "So cruel," he whined dramatically, falling backward onto the floor, making everyone laugh.

Rindou came next, grumbling under his breath.

"Che," he muttered, cheeks slightly pink. "Ran’s forehead gets a kiss? I better get more than that."

You smiled warmly at him and reached out, cupping his cheek before kissing him sweetly on the tip of his nose.

Rindou froze like a statue, blinking in stunned silence before muttering, "Tch... whatever," but you caught the shy little smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he sat back down.

Kakucho approached with that quiet, steady presence of his.

"You don't have to if you're tired," he said gently, ever the protector.

You shook your head, touched by his kindness, and leaned in to place a soft, lingering kiss on his temple.

Kakucho closed his eyes for a moment, breathing out slowly, like you had just given him a blessing. He ruffled your hair softly before moving aside, a rare, tiny smile playing on his lips.

Sanzu swaggered up next, grinning wide.

"Don’t hold back, pretty girl," he teased, tilting his head invitingly. "I can handle a real kiss."

You rolled your eyes affectionately and leaned in to kiss the corner of his mouth — just a soft brush of your lips.

Sanzu’s grin widened like the Cheshire Cat. "Tease," he whispered, winking at you as he sauntered away, laughing under his breath.

And then... there was Koko.

He hesitated — hovering nearby, hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes flickering nervously. You smiled, ready to give him a kiss on the cheek too, but the moment you leaned toward him —

he moved first.

Quickly, almost desperately, Koko grabbed your wrist, pulling you gently but firmly toward him.

"Wait," he mumbled, voice low and rough. "I... I want a real one."

Before you could respond, he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours.

Not rushed. Not rough. But deep — full of everything he was too scared to say aloud. A soft, trembling kiss that told you how guilty, how grateful, and how scared he had been.

You melted into him for a moment, feeling his hand trembling slightly where it rested at your waist.

When Koko finally pulled back, his cheeks were flushed, eyes wide and glistening.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it. "For everything."

You cupped his face gently, smiling up at him.

"You don’t have to apologize," you whispered back. "I’m okay. You’re okay. That’s all that matters."

Koko let out a shaky breath, forehead resting against yours for a long moment before he finally, reluctantly, let you go.

Behind you, Mikey’s arms tightened protectively around you again, pulling you back into his lap where you belonged. The others gathered close — not just friends, not just protectors.

Family.

Your heart felt so full you thought it might burst.

And for the first time in what felt like forever — You felt completely, utterly safe.

___________________________________________________________________________

The weeks following your injury had been both slow and emotional. Day by day, the pain in your body faded, and the tenderness of your injury became nothing more than a distant memory. You were healing, both physically and emotionally, with Bonten’s constant care around you. They were always there, watching over you, not just as a form of protection but because they cared.

Each of them had their own way of helping you heal — Mikey was always by your side, keeping an eye on you with his quiet intensity. Sanzu was relentlessly teasing you to keep your spirits high, while Kakucho was always the quiet one, ready to support you in any way you needed. Ran and Rindou were constantly checking in, making sure you were okay and offering their time for anything you needed. Koko, always overly cautious, was the one who hovered the most, making sure you had everything you needed.

And you loved them all equally.

As the days went by, you could feel yourself growing stronger. The ache in your body was gone, and while Mikey still held that protective, almost possessive gaze when he looked at you, it wasn’t because you were fragile anymore. You were healed, and yet, they still looked at you like you were the most precious thing in their world.

Tonight was special, though. Bonten had a meeting with an important client at a club, and Mikey insisted that you come along, though not just for business. He wanted you there because, despite your recovery, he couldn’t bear the thought of you being away from him. He needed to keep you close, to protect you. But it wasn’t just Mikey — the others felt the same way.

The dress they had picked out for you was simple in its elegance but stunning all the same. A long black gown, sleek and sophisticated, clung to your curves without being over the top. The deep neckline was bold but not too revealing, the fabric soft and flowing as it swished with each movement. The dress shimmered under the lights, and as you stood before the Bonten members, you could feel all their eyes on you.

Mikey was the first to glance your way, and for a moment, the protective instinct in his eyes softened into something else — something that spoke of deep pride. He didn’t just see you as his responsibility; he saw you as someone he cherished and adored. But when his gaze met yours, he didn’t say anything. He just pulled you close, his arm winding around your waist, a silent promise of protection.

Ran and Rindou exchanged a look, both of them impressed. Ran was the first to speak, his usual cocky grin in place as he made his way over to you. “Well, well, well… Look who’s looking like a million bucks tonight. How are we supposed to focus on business with you in the room, huh?”

You laughed softly, feeling the attention from them but also feeling their affection — not just Mikey’s, but from all of them. You weren’t just his — you were theirs, equally cherished by each one.

Sanzu, ever the teasing one, flashed you a mischievous grin. “I can’t blame the client for being distracted. I’d be too if I had someone like you next to me.” His voice was playful, but his eyes spoke of something deeper — the protective streak all the Bonten members had for you.

Kakucho was next, his usual calm demeanor even more pronounced tonight. He nodded at you with a rare, soft smile, and his deep voice was filled with sincerity. “You look incredible. No one will dare hurt you with us here.”

Koko, still looking a little unsure, approached hesitantly. But when he saw you, his usual reserve melted, and he was struck silent, staring at you like he couldn’t believe how beautiful you looked. When he finally found his voice, it was barely a whisper, “You’re… breathtaking.” His words weren’t just about your appearance; they were a mixture of awe and admiration.

___________________________________________________________________________

The night air was crisp as Bonten’s sleek black cars pulled up to the exclusive club. The flashing lights from the club’s entrance illuminated the faces of the Bonten members as they stepped out, their presence commanding the attention of everyone around. But none of their usual confidence or intensity was more apparent than Mikey’s, who, despite his usual composed demeanor, couldn’t help but glance toward you as you exited the car.

Dressed to perfection, you were the center of attention — in a long, elegant black gown, your every step exuding confidence and grace. The Bonten members kept close to you as you entered the club, the heavy beats of music vibrating through the air. Your heart raced for a moment, but the steady presence of Mikey and the others helped ground you.

Ran, ever the smooth talker, flashed a grin at a few onlookers, making sure everyone saw who you were with. “Let’s not waste any time,” he said, guiding you through the entrance. Rindou, his hand protectively placed at your back, led the way. The others followed close, as if forming a protective barrier around you.

Inside the club, the lights were dim but vibrant, casting an atmospheric glow across the room. The pulse of the music, the clink of glasses, and the murmur of conversation filled the space as Bonten moved through it. Their path was clear — the private lounge they had reserved was waiting for them, a secluded area tucked away from the main crowd. The VIP area, where only the most important clients and their guests were allowed.

As you entered the private lounge, the soft plush of the couches and dim lighting made the space feel like a haven. Mikey, always aware of your comfort, guided you to one of the couches. “Take a seat,” he murmured, gesturing toward a space next to him. But it was clear — you were the priority, not the client they were about to meet.

Sanzu, his usual mischievous smirk on his lips, followed you and made sure you were settled. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said lightly, his eyes glinting. He couldn’t help but admire the way the gown hugged your figure, the way the soft glow of the lights made you seem even more ethereal.

As you sat down on the couch, the Bonten members took their usual positions, but it was clear that their attention kept drifting to you.

Kakucho, always the quiet one, couldn’t help but glance in your direction. His eyes softened when he saw you adjusting your position, curling up a little for comfort. You looked so at ease, yet there was still a vulnerability in you — something that made him want to protect you all the more. He kept his distance for now, but there was an unmistakable warmth in his gaze whenever he looked at you.

Meanwhile, Koko, who had been quieter than usual, watched you with a look that could only be described as reverent. His usual hesitation in social settings was gone as he admired how effortlessly you carried yourself. Every little movement, every slight shift in your position, seemed to captivate him, and he couldn’t stop staring. “You look stunning,” he said quietly, almost to himself, though everyone in the room could hear the sincerity in his voice.

As the group settled into the lounge, the others all began to relax, but none could fully ignore how you had transformed the space. Mikey, sitting beside you, couldn’t help but look at you with pride. He had been adamant that you come along tonight — not because of business, but because of his own need to keep you safe. But as he observed you now, there was a deeper sense of admiration that filled his chest. You weren’t just his responsibility anymore. You were theirs — a part of their world, just as much as they were a part of yours.

Ran stretched out on one of the chairs, his eyes glancing toward you occasionally, an amused grin playing on his lips. “It’s amazing how you make this place seem like a dream,” he remarked teasingly, though the admiration in his tone was undeniable.

Rindou, leaning against a table, looked over at you with a mix of affection and pride. “Mikey’s right — we couldn’t keep you hidden in the back. Everyone here’s going to notice you anyway.”

The minutes passed, and while Mikey chatted with the others about the meeting and the client they were waiting for, the conversation naturally drifted back to you. But it wasn’t just the way you looked that kept them mesmerized. It was the way you fit in with them, the way you belonged. You weren’t just their guest; you were an integral part of their world.

As time passed, the other members shifted slightly in their seats, eyes occasionally drifting toward you. They weren’t being obvious, but the admiration was clear. There was a softness to the way they looked at you — a mix of pride, affection, and protectiveness. They were all so aware of how much you had become a part of their lives.

Koko, still sitting closest to you, leaned forward slightly, his fingers lightly grazing your hand as he whispered, “Don’t think you’ll get away without a little attention, darling. You’re practically glowing tonight.”

You couldn’t help but smile, the warmth of their attention settling over you like a blanket. Despite the intensity of their world, the dangerous games they played, they had always made sure you were cared for — but tonight, it was different. Tonight, it was about more than just protecting you.

It was about admiring you.

_________________________________________________________________________

The minutes stretched on as the Bonten members waited for their client to arrive. The lounge’s ambient lighting and the low hum of conversation filled the space, but for you, the minutes felt like hours. You had already become accustomed to the attention from the Bonten members, each one equally protective and affectionate, but now that the client hadn’t arrived yet, the stillness of the moment had you feeling a bit restless.

You leaned back on the plush couch, swirling the contents of your drink in your hand. The glass was cool, refreshing — the tang of citrus a sharp contrast to the heaviness in the air as Mikey, Ran, and Rindou discussed business in low tones. Kakucho, ever the stoic figure, stood by the entrance, his eyes scanning the room, always alert. Koko, too, had his focus split between you and the conversation. But you, well, you were beginning to feel a bit bored.

“You’ve been awfully quiet,” Sanzu’s voice came from behind you, breaking the silence. He leaned over the back of the couch, a playful grin on his lips. “You’re not getting bored already, are you?”

You chuckled softly, glancing over at him. “I’ve been sitting here for what feels like ages. The client isn’t even here yet.”

Sanzu’s eyes sparkled with amusement as he pushed off the couch, his hands in his pockets. “Well, if you’re getting bored, you can always go dance. The music’s not bad, and you deserve to let loose a little. Mikey said you’re free to have some fun tonight.” He raised an eyebrow, daring you. “I’ll go with you, of course. I’ll be your personal bodyguard for the night.”

You raised an eyebrow, considering the offer. Dancing? It had been years since you’d been to a club, let alone danced. But there was something tempting about it, the idea of getting lost in the music, even if only for a little while. And you knew that with Sanzu by your side, you’d be safe. He had a way of making everything feel more carefree, and his protective streak, even though it was playful, was something you could always count on.

After a brief pause, you finally agreed. “Alright, let’s do it. It’s been ages since I danced.”

Sanzu grinned, his expression lighting up at the idea. “That’s the spirit! Let’s get you out there, sweetheart.”

The music thudded through the club’s speakers, the deep bass vibrating in your chest as you stepped onto the dance floor. Sanzu walked beside you, his proximity enough to ensure you were safe but still allowing you to enjoy yourself. The crowd pulsed with energy, but you were lost in the beat, feeling the rhythm take over. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed dancing until now. It was freeing, intoxicating even, and you couldn’t help but smile, letting the music guide you.

But then, like a shadow, a man appeared out of nowhere, his eyes scanning you with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. He sidled up to you, clearly too bold and a little too drunk.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he slurred, his voice loud enough to cut through the music. “Mind if I buy you a drink? Or maybe we can dance… I’m sure you’re too pretty to be alone.”

You instinctively took a step back, uncomfortable with how close he was getting, but the stranger wasn’t taking the hint. His hand reached for your arm, brushing it lightly, but it felt too forceful — possessive.

“Hey, let go,” you murmured, trying to brush him off.

But the man didn’t listen. He leaned in closer, completely disregarding your personal space. That’s when you looked up at Sanzu, your unease clear. You didn’t need to say a word — Sanzu had already noticed. His expression darkened, and his posture shifted, the playful, teasing attitude replaced with something colder.

Sanzu stepped forward, positioning himself between you and the stranger. His voice dropped into a low, dangerous tone as he addressed the man.

“Didn’t you hear her?” Sanzu’s voice was laced with a cold edge, his eyes narrowing as he locked onto the stranger. “She said ‘no.’ I suggest you walk away. Now.”

The man, clearly intoxicated and not used to being talked to in such a way, scoffed and took a step forward. “What’s your problem, man? She’s just having fun.”

Sanzu didn’t hesitate. His hand shot out, gripping the guy by the collar and lifting him off the ground with surprising strength. “My problem is that you don’t seem to understand boundaries,” Sanzu growled, his eyes flashing with fury. “If you don’t back the hell off, I’m going to make sure you regret it.”

The stranger’s face drained of color as he struggled against Sanzu’s grip, but he didn’t stand a chance. Sanzu’s gaze was like ice, and the threat in his voice was unmistakable. He gave the man a little shake, just enough to make him realize the situation he was in.

“Now,” Sanzu continued, his voice cold and unwavering, “I think you’re going to walk away, and you’re going to do it quietly. Got it?”

The man nodded, eyes wide with fear, and without another word, Sanzu released him. The man stumbled backward, muttering something under his breath as he quickly made his way through the crowd, his drunken bravado replaced with clear regret.

Sanzu turned to you then, his posture immediately softening as he checked in on you. His hand rested on your shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle, though his eyes were still sharp and protective. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice now tinged with concern. His eyes flicked over you, scanning for any sign of discomfort.

You nodded, your heart still racing, but you felt safe with him by your side. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks, Sanzu. That was... kind of intense.”

Sanzu’s lips curled into a smirk, but there was no playfulness in it — just a quiet, steely determination. “I don’t mess around when it comes to people trying to mess with you,” he said simply, his gaze softening ever so slightly as he looked you over. “You’re my responsibility, sweetheart. Don’t forget that.”

You couldn’t help but smile, a little relieved and comforted by his fierce protectiveness. “I won’t. Thank you for having my back.”

Sanzu’s grin returned, though it was still edged with that protective fierceness. “Of course. Now, let’s grab another drink, yeah? You’re not letting that idiot ruin your night.”

As you walked back to the lounge, Sanzu’s hand never left your shoulder, guiding you through the crowd. There was a protective warmth in his touch, the kind that only came from someone who cared about you deeply. And as much as you had wanted a carefree night, you realized that with Sanzu around, you didn’t have to worry about a thing.

___________________________________________________________________________

The moment you stepped back into the lounge, the room seemed to shift. You could feel the eyes of the Bonten members on you, but this time, it was different. The way they looked at you wasn’t just a passing glance; it was an appreciation, a realization of your strength. Their expressions softened just a bit, almost like they were seeing you in a new light. But then, there was also that strange tension in the air, as if the room was holding its breath.

Mikey, sitting at the head of the table, watched you closely as you re-entered, his eyes narrowing slightly as if studying you more carefully than before. He was proud of you, but there was something else — an instinctive protectiveness that flared within him, especially as he noticed the shift in the air.

“Welcome back,” Ran said with a smirk, leaning back in his chair, eyes flicking over to you with a casual air.

“Welcome back Princess,” Rindou added with a raised brow, his usual teasing tone still present but softer, recognizing your strength.

Kakucho nodded at you silently, his usual stoic face giving a subtle hint of approval, while Sanzu looked at you with a mix of pride and something deeper — admiration, maybe.

But the client... the client couldn’t keep his eyes off you, and it was clear he was more than just impressed. His gaze was practically leering, a smirk forming on his lips as he watched you with a predatory interest. You felt the weight of it immediately, but you held your head high, standing firm despite the discomfort.

Mikey’s expression shifted, his gaze flickering from the client to you, then back again. He could see the way the client was watching you, the way his eyes lingered a little too long. His protective instincts flared again, but he didn’t say anything immediately. He wanted to see how things would unfold.

But the client, emboldened by the silence and the alcohol in his system, leaned back in his chair and chuckled, breaking the tension in the room with his next words.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice thick with arrogance. “I didn’t realize Bonten had such a beautiful piece of property.” He looked directly at Mikey, his smirk widening. “You know, Mikey... I’ve been thinking. How about you let me take her off your hands for a night? She’s a real pretty slut, don’t you think?”

The words hit the room like a bomb. The silence that followed was deafening. Everyone’s gaze shot immediately to the client, but it wasn’t surprise on their faces — it was anger, disgust, and most of all, the unmistakable glint of protective fury.

Mikey’s face darkened immediately, his jaw tightening as his eyes locked onto the client with an icy stare. He didn’t speak at first. He didn’t need to. The threat in his eyes was enough to make even the bravest man reconsider his next words.

But you weren’t going to wait for Mikey to respond. You had already stood up, the same quiet determination in your eyes that had shown itself before. Your hands curled into fists, but your expression remained calm — controlled.

“I’m not a ‘piece of property,’” you said coolly, your voice steady despite the storm brewing in the room. “And I’m certainly no one’s ‘slut.’”

The client laughed again, clearly thinking you were just trying to play it off. But that laugh faltered as he saw the look in your eyes — the same one the Bonten members had seen in you earlier. The one that told him you weren’t someone to mess with.

Sanzu’s hand shifted instinctively, ready to step forward at the first sign of trouble, but Mikey was already on his feet, his voice calm but low, like a snake preparing to strike.

“You don’t speak about her like that again,” Mikey said, his tone quiet but dangerous. “And you better learn your place, because Bonten doesn’t tolerate disrespect like that.”

The client’s face faltered for a moment, but then, in a show of arrogance, he tried to brush it off. “Oh, come on, Mikey. It was just a joke. I was only asking...”

You didn’t wait for him to finish. In one smooth motion, you stepped forward, the knife Mikey had given you now in your hand. You held it with the ease of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. Without hesitation, you shoved it in the client’s direction, pressing it dangerously close to his throat, making sure he could feel the cold steel against his skin.

“Jokes like that aren’t funny,” you said, your voice low and steely. “Now apologize. Or things will get worse for you.”

The room was deathly still. The Bonten members watched closely — some with glimmers of approval, others simply waiting to see how it would unfold. Mikey’s eyes never left you, though his expression had softened slightly. This was the person he had chosen to protect — strong, unyielding, and willing to stand up for herself without hesitation.

The client’s bravado crumbled, but then something ugly sparked inside him. His rage boiled over, and he suddenly screamed, his voice echoing harshly against the lounge walls. "You—! You think you can talk to me like that, you slut?! You think Bonten can just do whatever it wants with me?!"

His words hung heavy in the air, thickening the already suffocating tension in the room.

Without flinching, you moved. Calmly, almost slowly, you pulled the knife free again — only to ram it into his hand with precise, merciless force. The client's scream tore through the silence, a brutal, satisfying sound that made you smirk in grim satisfaction as you watched him writhe.

"You little—" he started, fury and panic twisting his features.

But before he could spit another word or you could act again, Sanzu moved. His hand, already twitching in response, was the first to act. He stepped forward in a flash, his usual teasing demeanor completely gone. His face was cold, lethal, a predator locked onto his prey.

He placed a firm hand on your shoulder, stopping you with surprising gentleness, pulling you back just enough. "Easy now, doll," he murmured lowly, his voice a dangerous contrast to the chaos, while his sharp eyes stayed pinned to the wounded man before him.

Sanzu’s hand was steady on your shoulder, keeping you close but careful not to push you harshly. His gaze flicked to Mikey for just a split second — a silent, wordless conversation passing between them.

Mikey, who had remained seated and eerily quiet through it all, finally moved.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he extended a hand toward you. No words were needed. You felt Sanzu gently guide you toward him, and you stepped without hesitation into Mikey’s waiting arms.

He pulled you into his lap with a firmness that left no room for protest, wrapping his arms protectively around you, cradling you against his chest as if shielding you from the rest of the world. His chin rested lightly atop your head, his touch careful, yet you could feel the tension vibrating through his body — a leash barely holding back the storm inside him.

"You did good, pretty girl," Mikey murmured low enough that only you could hear. "But no more getting your hands dirty, yeah?" His voice was soft, but the weight behind it was heavy — not a command, but a plea.

Around you, the others stood like silent shadows.

Ran let out a low whistle, smirking a little, though even he looked impressed. "She’s got better aim than half the guys I’ve seen." "Yeah, but don't encourage her," Kakucho muttered, crossing his arms and glancing at the still-screaming client with a frown. His protective instincts were clear in the tightness of his posture.

Rindou chuckled under his breath, exchanging a look with Koko, who for once looked more concerned than amused. "She’s scary when she wants to be," Rindou said lightly, but there was pride in his voice too.

Koko, still pale from the earlier chaos, shook his head. "You scared the hell out of me," he muttered toward you, but the corners of his mouth lifted into a small, relieved smile. "Don’t do that again, angel."

Meanwhile, the client clutched his bleeding hand, whimpering and cursing under his breath. He looked utterly pathetic now — a far cry from the arrogant man who had dared to insult you minutes before.

Mikey lifted his gaze slowly, staring down at the client with eyes as cold as winter ice.

"Consider this your only warning," Mikey said softly, almost sweetly — which somehow made it all the more terrifying. "You don’t touch what belongs to us. You don't even look the wrong way."

Sanzu grinned lazily beside you, his usual dangerous spark returning to his eyes. "If you’re lucky," Sanzu added, almost sing-song, "you might get to leave with that hand still attached."

The client barely nodded, his face pale and sweaty with fear.

Mikey finally turned his full attention back to you, loosening his hold just slightly so you could shift more comfortably in his lap. You leaned back against him, relaxing into his warmth. His hands were steady, strong — a silent promise that nothing and no one would hurt you again.

And for a moment, surrounded by the lethal men of Bonten, their unwavering loyalty and deadly protectiveness wrapped around you like armor, you felt completely and utterly safe.

___________________________________________________________________________

The tension in the room slowly ebbed, though it never truly disappeared — not when it came to Bonten. But you... you had done what you needed. You had defended yourself. Defended your place at their side.

The adrenaline, however, was wearing off fast. The steady thump of Mikey’s heart against your back, the soft rumble of the others' voices, the weight of the room finally settling — it all made your body feel heavier, your eyes growing lidded and slow.

You barely registered Mikey’s arm tightening around you as you slumped slightly in his hold. He glanced down and caught the tiny yawn you tried — and failed — to hide.

“She’s falling asleep," Rindou murmured with a quiet laugh, nudging Ran, who only smirked knowingly.

"Figures," Ran drawled. "Little fighter spent all her energy. 'Bout time we take her home."

Mikey didn't say anything — just stood slowly, adjusting you in his arms with a gentleness that contrasted the hard set of his jaw. The others surrounded you like an unbreakable wall as they made their way out of the club, their presence ensuring no one dared even look your way.

By the time they reached the sleek black car waiting outside, you were already half-asleep, your head tucked under Mikey’s chin.

The door swung open smoothly, and Mikey, reluctant but knowing he needed to drive back, handed you carefully to Kakucho.

"Here," Mikey said simply, and Kakucho nodded, accepting you into his arms without hesitation.

You barely stirred as Kakucho settled you into his lap, one strong arm wrapped protectively around your waist, the other resting lightly across your thighs to keep you steady. He leaned back against the seat, making sure you were nestled securely against him.

"You did good, little one," Kakucho whispered near your ear, his voice soft enough that only you could hear — not that you were awake enough to respond.

The engine hummed to life, the smooth motion of the car pulling away from the club lulling you into deeper sleep almost immediately. Kakucho shifted just slightly, careful not to wake you, and the others fell into a rare, comfortable silence, the city lights blurring past the windows.

By the time they arrived at the penthouse, you were completely limp with exhaustion.

Sanzu hopped out first, opening the door, while Ran and Rindou moved ahead to clear the way. Mikey followed behind, his gaze flickering between you and the building like he was calculating every possible threat.

Kakucho carried you inside with quiet pride, as if he were holding something precious — which, to Bonten, you absolutely were.

He didn't hand you off to anyone else. Instead, he brought you directly to your bedroom, pushing the door open carefully with his foot. The soft lighting made the room glow in warm tones, and Kakucho gently laid you down onto your plush bed.

You stirred just a little, a tiny whimper leaving your lips at the loss of warmth.

Immediately, Mikey was there, crouching beside the bed, brushing hair from your face. "Shh, it’s okay, angel," he whispered. "You’re home now."

Someone — probably Koko or Ran — pulled a thick, soft blanket up over you, tucking it carefully around your small frame.

You felt the ghost of a kiss — first on your forehead, then your temple — though you were too far gone to tell who it was. Their presence, their warmth, their safety — it wrapped around you tighter than any blanket.

You smiled faintly in your sleep.

You were home. You were safe. You were loved.

And Bonten would make sure it stayed that way.

___________________________________________________________________________

The soft morning light spilled gently through the curtains, bathing the room in a golden, warm glow. You stirred slowly under the covers, the familiar ache in your muscles much lighter now — barely there, just a reminder of everything that had happened.

As you blinked sleepily awake, you became aware of soft murmuring voices just outside your door. And then, before you could even sit up, the door creaked open carefully.

Ran peeked his head inside first, grinning like he was up to something. "Look who's finally awake," he said teasingly, stepping fully into the room with a tray in his hands — stacked with your favorite breakfast foods.

Behind him trailed Rindou, Sanzu, Kakucho, Koko — and, finally, Mikey, who lingered just a step back, his dark eyes steady on you.

"Morning, princess," Sanzu drawled with a lazy smirk. "Or should I say... our little assassin?"

You let out a sleepy groan, burying your face into the pillow for a second before peeking out at them. "I don't even remember half of it," you mumbled.

Koko snorted, setting a drink down beside you. "You stabbed a client in the hand and made him cry. Then you fell asleep on Mikey like nothing happened. It was..." — he shrugged dramatically — "iconic."

Ran slid the tray onto your lap and plopped onto the bed beside you, careful not to jostle you too much. "You should’ve seen his face. Priceless."

Rindou leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smirking. "You’re lucky we didn’t record it. Would’ve made a great Christmas present."

Despite their teasing, you could feel the tenderness in their voices — the deep relief that you were okay, smiling and alive and here with them.

Kakucho was the quietest, simply reaching out to lightly brush a strand of hair behind your ear before stepping back, letting you eat in peace.

Mikey finally moved closer, sitting down carefully on the edge of your bed. He didn't say much — he rarely needed to — but the look he gave you was everything: pride, relief, and something deeper, almost reverent.

"You did good," he said softly, voice only for you.

You smiled warmly at him — at all of them. They weren’t just your protectors. They weren’t just Bonten. They were your family.

As you ate, they stayed with you, lounging around the room — telling stories, teasing each other, making plans for later — like nothing bad could ever touch this little world they built around you.

You knew dangers would come again. You knew life with Bonten would never be simple. But in that moment, in that morning light, surrounded by the only people who ever truly understood you, you realized something important:

You weren’t alone. You were stronger with them. And they would burn the entire world down before letting anything happen to you again.

You were theirs — and they were yours.

Forever.

___________________________________________________________________________

A Few Weeks Later

Life at the Bonten headquarters had settled into a new kind of normal. Meetings, negotiations, the occasional clean-up job — and you, weaving through it all like you belonged there all along.

One evening, after a long, lazy dinner, you were curled up in the lounge with the boys, everyone relaxed for once. Ran was sprawled across an entire couch like a cat. Rindou and Sanzu were battling in a video game. Koko and Kakucho were talking quietly at the bar. And Mikey? Mikey was sitting close behind you on the couch, absentmindedly playing with the hem of your shirt.

It was the kind of peaceful night that felt rare and precious.

"So," Ran drawled suddenly, stretching his arms over his head, "when are we giving our girl a Bonten tattoo?"

The room froze for a second.

You blinked. "Wait. What?"

Rindou immediately jumped in, grinning. "You are basically one of us now. Makes sense."

Sanzu threw his controller down dramatically. "Shit, yeah. We’ll ink you up right next to Mikey’s if you want. Make it official."

You laughed, half-flustered, half-thrilled. "I think stabbing a client bought me enough street cred already."

Koko chuckled behind his drink. "True. But a little Bonten tattoo would be hot. Maybe right here—" He teasingly poked your hip, making you squeal and squirm away.

Kakucho gave a rare, boyish smile. "You could design your own. We wouldn't force it... but it'd mean you're family. Officially."

You looked up at Mikey, who was watching you with that small, secretive smile he reserved only for you.

"Your choice," he said quietly, his voice vibrating against your back. "You’re already ours. Tattoo or not."

Your heart twisted warmly in your chest. They didn’t need ink to claim you. But... the idea of having a permanent reminder — something you chose — something that said you belonged to this family you had fought for — It stirred something fierce and soft inside you.

"I'll think about it," you said, smiling like you were hiding a secret.

Ran immediately whooped. "She’s thinking about it! That's basically a yes!"

Rindou leaned back, smirking. "Sanzu, you owe me ¥10,000. I said she'd say yes."

Sanzu groaned and tossed a pillow at him.

As chaos broke out again — Ran trying to convince you to get your tattoo on your thigh ("It’s hot, trust me"), Rindou suggesting something subtle behind your ear, Koko offering to pay for the best artist in Tokyo — you leaned back into Mikey’s warmth, laughing until your stomach hurt, feeling more at home than you ever had in your life.

You were Bonten's heart now.

And they'd make damn sure the whole world knew it.

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