fastandcurious88

[fastandcurious88]

Ooh fics like these are good too can someone give me recs like childhood friend au with Caleb and zayne or other Lis with non mc reader it doesn’t hav to just be tumblr plssssss angst with comfort is preferred lol🤭🤭

(3) even when there was rain, sunshine came

pairing. caleb x fem! childhood friend! non mc! reader (x childhood bsf! zayne)

synopsis. caleb planted a seed in your heart when you were both young, nurturing it without meaning to until it sprouted and blossomed. it shouldn't have grown this much, not when you knew you could never have him.

genres/aus. angst, fluff, f2l, unrequited love, childhood f2l

warnings. mentions of death, attending (a) funeral(s), lots of crying, reader goes down an emotionally unavailable time period but worry she feels better afterwards, small and and brief mentions of hatred oops, and cursing bc someone now does that double oops! if there's anything i'm missing, please let me know!

rating. pg-13 whoops.

wc. 5 k

a/n. not proof read as always lol also... mayhaps a double update is coming... maybe... also that last bit may be wonky bc obvi i havent graduated from uni yet so ion know how that looks like WHOOPS ❤️‍🔥

your fifteenth spring teaches you the reality of what it is like to truly mourn for someone. the news came to you in the midst of exams week at the aerospace academy, and it came to you in the form of your dad’s lieutenant colonel—his best friend. when you open the door to your dorm, you knew what it meant when you saw the man stand before you, his cap tucked in between his arm and side, his gaze downcast. your ears rang so loudly that you didn’t hear when he apologized.

and the rest of that week went by in a blur.

you took your exams and promptly prepared for the funeral the farspace fleet would give your dad in skyhaven.

it was an odd feeling.

attending your dad’s funeral in skyhaven was like a nightmare, a surreal experience that you wanted to wake up from. you always thought your dad would die of old age and be buried in bloomshore’s cemetery, long after retiring. yet, here you are: at the farspace fleet, watching as the general gave a speech about the brightest alum of the aesrospace academy and the best colonel he had the pleasure of training when he was a lieutenant. honestly, you don’t even pay attention to the old man. you know your mom isn’t either. you pay attention to the casket, the way the polished surface shines brightly against the unforgiving sun.

it’s an odd thing: attending a funeral when there is nothing in the casket.

because your dad died in the deepspace tunnel, the only casualty of the patrol team he was leading. you heard of his pilots’ recounts of the event, heard of it from his second-in-command. everything was normal, everything was going smoothly. then, the space felt weird. everything felt still for a second.

there was a vibration in the air, a low hum that intensified.

“your father gave the order for the patrol team to turn back.” a pause. “we were turning around when a vortex opened and…”

the deepspace tunnel.

what an unpredictable and unforgiving thing.

you blink, and suddenly there are people you’ve never seen before giving you their condolences.

“i’ll be organizing a small funeral for your dad,” your mom mumbles to you in between the shower of apologies you receive and the pitying gazes.

you glance at her. “do you need help?”

she shakes her head. “it’ll be small… just family.”

you suck a breath in and your finger twitches in your lap. “can zayne—”

“his family will be there,” she grabs your hand, giving it a light squeeze. “they’re family, too. do you want caleb there?”

caleb.

there is a tinge of anger that tugs at the strings of your heart, searing ardently within you.

even now, when you think you can move on from the idea of him—the thought of him—he still manages to slither back in some way.

you shake your head. “no. i just want zayne there.”

what’s it to caleb, anyways?

he stopped caring in eighth grade, so he won't care now.

and you don't have time to mourn over a living person who broke your heart.

your mom was quick to organize your dad’s funeral. a week later, while you’re on spring break, you find yourself at the kitchen table with your mom.

“what do you want in the casket?”

you tilt your head at her question. “excuse me?”

she continues filling out some paperwork. “what do you want to put in his casket for tomorrow? i’m putting in his awful collection of vinyls.” she chuckles, but you see the slight tremble in her fingers.

your dad often joked that he’d like to be buried with his vinyls so no one else could have them—he mostly said that because his best friend always eyed them when they were students in the academy.

what do you want to bury?

you think of his cap, the one that sits in your dorm right by the picture of zayne you have on your desk.

“nothing.” you finally say. “i… don’t want to put anything in the casket.”

you want to keep your dad by your side, you don't want to forget him.

“okay.”

and this time around, the funeral feels real.

your throat feels tight, your heart beats faster than usual. the sky weeps along with your heart, you feel like the world is spinning too quickly and that you’re about to sink down.

everything feels like a mess.

your mom stands to your right, her eyes fixed on the casket that’s being lowered into the ground. she moves forward, standing in front of the pit. she says something you cannot hear, kisses the white flower in her hand and lets it fall inside.

a squeeze breaks you out from your daze, warmth seeping into you. from the corner of your eye, zayne nods at you. with a gulp, you take a step forwards, then another until you're in front of the pit. you stare down at the casket.

this is too real.

standing in front of his casket makes it too real.

the man who called you his little star, the man who wasn't always around but tried to be, the man who never read you the classic bedtime stories and instead told you about the different jets in the fleet, the man who made you fall in love with the sky, the man who loved you more than anyone ever will and proudly told you that as if it were an undeniable fact—he is dead.

your dad is actually gone.

dead.

and your knees give out. you’re unsure whether you’ve been crying from the start but you are now: the tears rapidly fall down your cheeks, burning in excruciating pain. you don't care about the mud that gets on your clothes, all you can focus on is that emptiness and pain you feel, the wide hole that sinks into your chest.

a warm hand touches your shoulder, gentle as if to not break you further. arms circle around you, carefully bringing your head into a familiar crook. zayne exhales softly, a hand running up and down the length of your back. the umbrella he held up now lays forgotten on the ground.

“it hurts,” you croak, grabbing a fist full of his coat. “it hurts so much, zayne… make it stop.”

he continues to hold you. “it will hurt for a long time,” he says. “because healing takes a long time. you’ll learn to live with this one day… maybe not now, but one day.”

you can only gasp in response, clinging onto zayne as your sobs begin to take over, your chest rising and falling rapidly. “he’s dead,” you shut your eyes and press yourself closer to zayne, “he’s gone.”

you feel him shake his head. “he isn’t. he lives right,” zayne leans back, the hand that once held your head now pointing at your heart, “in here. he’s always going to be there with you.”

the seasons come and go, the days blur together, and the faces you see everyday you can never put a name to. you talk to your mom every day, and you delude yourself into thinking that clipped responses are better than none at all.

it’s the most you can do, after all.

you talk to zayne less despite having lived in the same city for four years now. you pull away from him slowly, taking small steps away until the gap between you has grown into what it is now: a canyon. the distance was already there when he left, so it shouldn't matter if it's grown more now that you’ve done the same.

and the small girl you left behind? the one who made the sun rise? you haven’t spoken to her once since your dad’s funeral in bloomshore. you didn't even tell her of his passing—you just stopped talking all together, and in between your fresh sorrow and her constant messages, she stopped trying to get a hold of you, as if coming to the slow realization that you're… done.

honestly, you don't blame her for stopping. you were a bitch, the remnants of a heartache mixed with your grief drove you to give her the cold shoulder.

you’ve pushed them all away and locked yourself in the prison that is your fear: the fear of getting too close and experiencing that pain once again.

because you don't think you can allow yourself to mourn for the dead ever again.

the seasons come and go, the days blur together, and somehow you’re a week away from graduating. you’re surprised the academy even let you get this far—after all, your score on that exam was just fine.

the heat of summer is unforgiving: it beats down on your back as you climb down the jet, the sweltering heat making you take quick strides across the practice field, unfastening your helmet with a flicker of your hand. you’re practically booking it towards the locker room.

“how are you feeling, miss valedictorian?” a classmate runs up to your side, matching your quick pace. “you got your speech ready?”

you don’t spare a glance and continue walking. “i have everything ready.”

they whistle. “wow,” they awe, “that’s our legendary miss valedictorian for you.”

the title makes you roll your eyes. “i thought i told all of you to quit it with that.”

they shrug, still following you as you enter the locker room. “everyone knows it’s true. even the academy praises you.”

the prodigy of the aerospace academy, y/n l/n.

just like your dad.

you tune out the voice of your classmate, getting rid of your flight suit and equipment, and storing it neatly inside of your locker. you adjust your clothes just as fast before you're out the door, already heading towards the gates. there’s a man that stands not too far from you, his back towards you. there’s also a girl talking to one of the guards nearest to you, though you can't see her as the guard covers her from your line of sight.

you aren't even a step outside when a hand latches around your wrist, and you freeze because you know who it is.

how could you not? his warmth is so familiar to you, even after all this time.

what surprises you the most is the fact that he's here. why is he here? he lives so far away from the academy. how is he here?

he says your name quietly. “we… should talk.”

your heart lurches, but still you don’t pull away. “i thought you were busy with med school...”

you can practically hear the way zayne raises a brow at your words.

“how would you know?” he asks, his tone void of any real malice—just pure curiosity. “we haven't talked since august.”

“i… go through your moments… sometimes…” you mumble in embarrassment, “you were studying not too long ago, right?”

his hold on your wrist loosens and tightens at the same time, his touch hesitant. he wants to hold on tighter, but is unable to. zayne holds your wrist gently, thinking as if you are to crumble if he were to hold on any tighter. he breathes slowly, “can we talk?” he quickly adds on, “privately?”

you nod and grab his hand, leading him to your apartment.

and as you walk away, you don't hear the call of a familiar name.

“pips!”

you awkwardly sit next to zayne in your living room, knees touching. your leg bounces, and you refuse to look at the older male.

zayne wordlessly places a hand down on your knee, stopping it from moving. “…there’s no need to be nervous.”

“there kind of is,” you grumble. “i didn’t think you’d ever visit me over…”

the distance, you want to say, but the words lodge themselves in your throat. you tap your finger against your leg now.

he hums. “well, i wouldn’t be here in the first place had you not started to pull away.” zayne breathes in slowly, carefully grabbing your hand in his. “i don’t blame you for anything. i just… want you to know that i’m always here. it doesn’t matter if you start pulling away because i’ll just follow you. i just want you to know that.”

you grip his hand at his words. “i’m a terrible friend,” you mumble. “how can you not blame me for this? how can you even say that?”

“because you’re still mourning,” he replies. “i know you—that means i also know how much your dad means to you.”

means—present.

not meant—past tense.

because you still miss your dad. you miss the summer days in verona where he’d carry you on his shoulders. you miss when he would talk to you about the new jets on his fleet. you mourn not only him, but the future you never got to live with him. he was supposed to watch you graduate, watch you work your way up in the ranks of the fleet—his fleet, he was supposed to be there when you ask him for love advice, he was supposed to help you move into your apartment after freshman year at the dorms and haul everything inside because he would never let his little star move a muscle.

“but i should be over his…” death. you still hate saying that stupid word. “but instead, i’ve let it consume me. you don’t blame me for that? for letting my fears influence me?”

you know that zayne knows: you pulled away because you’re afraid of losing him like you did with your dad. you’ve thought about it, about a world without him, when your mind can’t rest during the late hours of the night. each time you would end up silently weeping. there are no words to describe a world without him in it.

“of course not.” he knows. “i understand.” he always does. “i can’t make promises that i don't know if i’ll be able to keep because the future is unpredictable, but i can promise to take care of myself for you to ease your worries.”

and just like that, the knots in your chest untangle themselves. your shoulders no longer feel heavy, and you can breathe for the first time in a long time.

“you…” you tilt your head to look him. “you’re too good to me, zayne li.”

“i’m supposed to be good to you,” he lets out an amused chuckle. you take in how he looks now, how he looks older and more mature, how his hazel eyes have more brown in them than green hues right now, how his lips are curved upwards just the slightest bit. “i’m your best friend, you know?”

the book you had been reading for the month lays discarded on your chest, your back on your bed as you cover your mouth, shoulders shaking. zayne stares at you with a deadpan on his features. “you still haven’t made any friends?”

he gives you a pointed look from his sitting position against the bedframe. “have you made any friends?”

you stick your tongue out at him. “touché.”

zayne blinks once before leaning forwards to pinch your cheek, stretching the skin out. you furrow your brows and flick his wrist. “what are you doing?”

the corner of his lip lifts. “pinching your cheek.”

“no shit,” you scoff, huffing through your nose in amusement when his hazel eyes widen at your words. “what? don’t tell me you didn’t see this coming?”

he clears his throat and lets go of your cheek. “i certainly didn’t expect such a colorful word to be a part of your… everyday vocabulary.”

you shrug and roll off the bed. “the officers have a nasty influence on first years,” you scrunch your nose, “even worse when flight training starts. they just bitch about everything.” you sigh, “obviously, i don’t speak like this to the officers… or anyone.”

“then why say it around me?”

“because i don’t have anything to hide from you,” you reply, “i tell you everything. i’m always going to be the most relaxed around you—that won’t ever change.”

zayne smiles, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “you don’t tell me everything.”

you purse your lips. “yes, i do. i—”

“you never told me you liked caleb,” the smile still doesn’t leave his lips, and you tense at the statement. “but i knew that you did.”

you blink a couple of times.

the stupid kiss.

you never told him about what caleb did on the night of his fourteenth birthday. you didn’t tell him of the pain.

and you won’t tell anyone; no living soul will ever know.

looking away from him, your gaze falls on the snow globe on your nightstand. “and you never told me you liked her, but i knew you did.”

“i don't.”

your eyes go back to him, watching as he takes his glasses off. “i don’t like her… maybe i never did.” the last bit was quiet enough that you almost didn’t hear. before you can question him, he looks up and eyes your neck. a finger comes up to point at his own. “you don’t wear it anymore.” you know what he’s referring to.

you think to the box that sits underneath your bed in your mom’s house: the box that holds everything related to him—the pictures, the necklace, the notes and the doodles and the paper airplanes… everything. “i threw it away as soon as i left for skyhaven.”

the male hums. “is that so?”

you nod. “yeah,” you breathe out.

there was no point in bringing a piece of caleb with you when all you wanted was to forget him.

“it’s getting late,” zayne mumbles. “you have a spare room, right?”

“about that…”

zayne stares at the empty room you show him down the hallway from your room. he turns his head towards you. “why… is it empty?”

“i’m the one doing the visiting,” you say, “not the other way around. i found no need to set up the spare room…”

“i see…”

you smile at him, “we can sleep in the same bed.”

he furrows his eyebrows, mouth slightly agape. “what?”

“c’mon!” you nudge his shoulder. “it’ll be like old times!”

zayne sighs and pinches his nose. “you are a woman, and i am a man.”

“…and?” you raise an eyebrow at him. “are you saying you’re going to eat me up or something? should i be worried?”

“of course not,” he says quickly. there’s a slight frown on him that confuses you. “but… am i not a man to you?”

“of course you are,” you answer, leaning forwards. you reach out and grab onto his cheek, pinching it. “but i trust you enough to not do anything.”

“…i see.”

there were no classes for the rest of the week for the graduating class, meaning you no longer had to wake up in the crack ass of dawn to get ready. unfortunately, habits are hard to die, so despite having turned off your alarm, your mind wakes you up when the sky is a faded, dark blue. immediately, your mood sours as you stare up at the ceiling.

you lay in your bed for a fee seconds longer when you’re suddenly aware that your right side is empty and cold. with a yawn, your cold feet hit the ground as you stand up and quietly search for your missing friend.

zayne lifts his brows when you walk into the living room, his glasses sliding down the slope of his nose. “did i wake you?”

you shake your head, padding over to where he sits on the couch. the cushion sinks when you sit down, your head immediately falling on his shoulder. “i’m used to waking up at this hour…” you squint at his hands. “are you studying?”

he nods, ready to say something but the word die at the tip of his tongue. zayne watches curiously at your outstretched hand that open and close repeatedly.

“give me your notebook.”

he does so without any complaint. you scan the contents quickly, gaze flitting up to him afterwards. “i’ll help you study.”

zayne chuckles softly, and shakes his head. “i appreciate that, but you should sleep some more.”

“i’m already up,” you say through squinted eyes. “besides, it’ll be like old times.”

“ah yes,” he hums, nodding once, “back when you were in middle school and i helped you study.”

except you never actually studied. zayne would read the questions out loud once, you would answer perfectly, and then you would decide enough was enough before spending the rest of your time reading with him.

friday morning comes in the form of a quiet and empty room.

when you wake up, your left side is empty once again. in the span of the week, you’ve come to learn that zayne has the habit of waking up earlier than you do. sometimes he’s up an hour before you, other times it’s half an hour.

you breathe in and exhale slowly, blink once at the roof and then stand up. the drowsiness leaves your body as you begin to get ready: you brush your teeth and splash cold water on your face before wiping it away, you put your uniform on, you comb through the knots in your hair, and you place your cap on your head. your eyes move towards your desk, eyeing the black cap that sits on it.

you’ll be able to wear it soon.

you slip your socks on, and move into the living room. zayne sits at the table, his laptop open in front of him as he highlights something on his notebook. he looks up, his hazel gaze locking with yours. he gestures at the steaming cup of coffee in front of the chair next to him, and you head towards it.

“i thought your graduation was at nine,” he says, eyes going back to his laptop. “why are you already ready?”

“force of habit,” you shrug, grabbing the cub. the warmth seeps into your fingertips, and you raise it to your lips, pausing, “and my class has to practice once before the ceremony. we’re supposed to be there an hour from now... head for breakfast afterwards,” you snort and shake your head, eyes narrowing in mirth, “someone called it brunch in the group chat. another person called them a dumbass.”

zayne’s lips quirk upwards as you finally take a sip from your cup. he watches you with a quiet intensity, one that somehow warms up the tips of your ears, yet you tell yourself to not dwell on it because he’s just zayne, the boy you grew up with.

“you sound happy.”

you bring the cup down to rest on the table. “i am,” you breathe out.

the rest of your time before heading to the academy is spent by quizzing zayne. he answers everything perfectly, and you promptly congratulate him every time, to which he huffs a laugh through his nose. when it’s time for you to leave, he offers to give you a ride and you accept.

his car is, as always, clean. it looks like it just had the day he bought—you were with him as he walked around the dealership, scrutinizing every car and analyzing every thing he learned about them until he found one he liked. it took almost two hours, and you were tired as hell, but it was worth it. he drove you to a small cafe afterwards, his treat. and though you were still mourning for your dad, despite it having been a year later, that day you felt the first semblance of normality.

the car comes to a stop, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“i’ll see you later,” says zayne.

you give him a smile. “yeah, see you later.” when you open the door, he grabs onto your wrist. you look back.

“you’ll be free afterwards, right?”

“well, i know that there’ll be a party to celebrate… but that’s in the evening, like at nine.”

he nods. “good.”

zayne doesn't say anything afterwards and only bids you goodbye, promising to see you in a few hours. with a small wave, you watch as he drives off, leaving you alone at the gates. you breathe in slowly and exhale.

you take a step back, twist around and begin to walk to the gates when you suddenly stumble forwards, your cap falling off your head and landing on the ground with a thud.

“shoot! i’m so sorry about that!” a voice rings out from behind you.

with a sigh, you lean down to pick up your cap, dusting it off. you glance behind you: there's two, tall guys. one has short hair, and he has his friend in a headlock. the one in a headlock has brown hair, bangs covering his face from your judging eyes. you turn to face them.

“my friend here sure is clumsy,” the guy laughs, tightening his hold on the hunched over friend. the friend grunts in response, trying to pry off the arm around his shoulder. “oh shit,” the guy gasps, seemingly having realized something. “you’re a graduating senior?”

“that’s right,” you say.

the guy beams, his free arm stretching out towards you. “congrats, senior!”

his enthusiasm brings a small smile to your lips, and you give him a firm handshake. “thank you.”

“caleb,” the boy snaps his head towards his friend in the chokehold. “i can’t believe your clumsy ass bumped into our senior!”

the name makes your smile curl downwards.

“ah, senior! don’t tell me we upset you!” the other boy panics.

you shake your head, eyes closed. “no,” you grimace, “but i do have to get going.” you put the cap back on your head, and with a small wave, you walk away.

“caleb, why the hell are you staring? show some respect!”

caleb.

what a way to sour your mood.

the practice was chaotic, to say the least. after you dropped a bomb on them with the salutatorian, everyone began to shout questions directed at the two of you. you got so fed up you yelled at them to shut up or else you wouldn’t go to breakfast with them afterwards.

which leads you to now.

you sit at a table with your classmates, all of them staring at you.

“…so, i didn’t want to give the speech,” you shrug and poke at the food in your plate. “big deal.”

“but why?” someone asks, followed by a quick no offense to the salutatorian.

“they have more memories with the whole class,” you answer. “it didn’t feel right for me to be up on stage and give a big speech on memories and stuff. made more sense for someone who actually spent time with the class to do it.”

when you look up from your plate, you see that everyone’s mouth are wide open.

“…what?” you grimace. “did i say something wrong?”

“you’re surprisingly cool.” someone says.

their comment makes you snort. “very cool of me to do that, huh.”

someone ends up pointing at you. “you just laughed.”

chaos erupts once again.

“holy shit, she just laughed for once!”

“knock it off before i regret being here,” you give everyone a pointed look.

they all still, mumbling apologies. in the next second, everyone starts talking and taking turns to ask you questions.

surprisingly, you don’t mind the attention. you don't mind talking to your classmates like this; in fact, now there’s a tinge of sadness that settles into your chest.

you should have talked to them more.

you swear you see the person siting next to you start crying during the salutatorian's speech.

as you stand at your assigned spot, hands holding your diploma behind your back, you see the same person start to cry harder once they’re tapped out by their family, their rigid posture crumbling.

your eyes rake over what you can see: there’s people waiting to be tapped out, some are crying, some are laughing and happy. and then you see him.

zayne naturally stands out: tall and lean, a head above the shorter crowd. the sight is comical, making you puff out your cheeks in an attempt to not laugh. he stops a few steps away, takes his phone and snaps a picture of you, all the while having an arm behind his back.

“you blinked,” he hums once he stands in front of you.

you narrow your eyes slightly at him.

with a chuckle, zayne taps your shoulder, his touch warm despite the layers of your uniform that separates your skin from his. your posture relaxes, the rigidness melting away as your lips curl upwards. he brings a small bouquet of flowers, not flashy like the ones some of your classmates are receiving. a few hyacinths and irises, their blues like the color of the sky you love, held together by a white bow tied around the stems.

“congratulations, y/n.”

you take the bouquet from him, and look at him, the small smile you had now a grin. zayne’s eyes look like a light green underneath the harsh glow of the sun, much like the green hues of the gemstone aventurine, with small specks of amber in them.

he takes a step forwards, arms slowly wrapping themselves around your form. your cap almost falls off as your throw your arm around his shoulder, the bouquet clutched tightly as your free hand flies to keep your cap against your head. laughter bubbles from your chest and falls from your lips, loud and cheerful for the first time in a while.

“thank you.”

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[fastandcurious88]

This series is sooooo gooddddddd can someone give me. Like recs of fics ( doesn’t have to be just tumblr) of like college au with Caleb and or other Lis with like non mc reader????

— Borrowed time, part 5

‼️Caleb x reader x Sylus. Reader not MC. University AU. Modern AU. Angst angst angst!

Everyone knows Caleb is in love with MC. Everyone. Including you. But that does not stop him from flirting with you, teasing you, keeping you close. And it definitely does not stop you from falling for him—even when you know you’re just a stand-in, a place holder.

“I bet you still thought of me.”

song: party 4 u by charlie xcx [this song has been the main inspiration for this series, so whatever you feel listening go this song, i hope you’ll feel that while reading this series as well]

word count = 9.6k

i appreciate all likes, comments, reblogs, and asks. i may not reply to all of them, but i want you to know that i reread them over and over <3

i cant say im proud of this chapter, and tbh theres so much i hate about this part, but if i dont post this right now, i dont think i ever will, so please be kind, but i appreciate constructive criticisms! if this part felt unsatisfactory, just pretend this update didnt happen lol

ps. thank you so much for over 1k followers??? heres a thousand roses for all of you 😭🌹

part 1 | masterlist

The door creaks open.

The closet’s darkness slips away, replaced by blinding light and loud cheers.

But everything feels distant.

Your breaths are shallow. The warmth of his breath still clings to your skin, the ghost of his lips a lingering echo. His touch—still branded into your waist, your jaw, the hollow between your ribs. Your pulse hasn’t settled.

The air outside is cool, but your skin burns.

You stumble slightly as you step out, Sylus behind you—his shirt rumpled, one button undone. His silver hair is tousled, a little too messy. Your lips sting. You know you look wrecked.

And the crowd eats it up. Whoops and whistles explode around you.

You try to smile. You try to breathe.

But then your eyes land on him.

Caleb.

He’s across the room, half-lit by the cheap string lights, drink forgotten in his hand. His jaw is tight, his expression unreadable—except for his eyes.

They are cold.

Piercing.

It’s not anger. It’s like he’s looking right through you—like you’ve somehow ruined something sacred. Like you’re the disappointment.

Your chest tightens.

And then, just behind him, you catch a flash of movement.

MC.

Her head is down, hair shielding her face, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as she brushes past him, shouldering her way through the crowd.

Caleb snaps out of his trance in a heartbeat. His face shifts—concern overtaking scorn—as he calls after her and follows without hesitation.

And just like every time before, he doesn’t even spare you a second glance.

The cheers fade into static. Laughter turns tinny and distant, swallowed by the ringing in your ears.

It hits you all at once.

The heat. The mess. The press of Sylus’s body against yours. The way you leaned into it. The way you wanted to. The way you let yourself.

And then—MC’s face. Her voice. Her smile when she told you he’s kinda cute, isn’t he?

Guilt slams into you like a car.

It punches the breath from your lungs.

You feel it in your throat, acidic and raw, threatening to spill. A sickening twist coils in your stomach, bile licking at the edges of your tongue.

What have you done?

What did you just let happen?

Your skin crawls. The warmth you felt seconds ago now feels wrong—disgusting. It clings to you like smoke. Like shame.

You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to hold in the nausea curling up your chest.

Sylus says something beside you, low and teasing, but you don’t catch the words.

All you can hear is your own blood rushing in your ears.

And all you can feel is the weight of what you’ve just done. The taste of it. Bitter. Burning.

And the worst part?

You don’t even know who you’re more disgusted with—Caleb…

Or yourself.

You don’t wait for the whispers.

You don’t wait to see if MC turns back or if Caleb says anything at all.

You push through the crowd, pulse hammering in your throat, lungs clawing for air like there’s not enough oxygen in the room, not enough space in your ribs for this many feelings, this much shame.

The door slams shut behind you but it’s not enough.

Not enough to drown out the ghost of Sylus’s hands still on your waist. Not enough to erase the memory of his mouth against yours, hot and unbothered and too real.

Not enough to wipe away the scowl in Caleb’s eyes or the way MC couldn’t even look at you.

The night is too loud. The world is too close. Everything—everything—is pressing in on you.

So you push everything out of your way, scouring to find air.

You don’t think, don’t breathe, just bolt down the steps of the villa, sandals slapping against stone, the wind catching in your hair, stinging your eyes, stealing your balance. You don’t care.

The beach calls to you like a goddamn siren.

You trip onto the sand, knees buckling, breath shaking, heart feral in your chest like it’s trying to break out and leave you behind. You tear your heels off, toss them somewhere you’ll never find again, and march straight toward the water like it might wash you clean.

The ocean crashes louder than your thoughts.

Salt fills your nose. Wind tangles in your hair. The stars above are too bright, mocking. Too calm for the storm splitting your insides apart.

You drop to your knees at the shoreline, water licking at your calves, seeping into your clothes, and you let it. You need it. You need the cold. You need the sting. You need to feel something real.

Because everything in your chest is twisted. Twisted and wrong and out of place.

You lean forward, pressing your forehead against your knees, breathing like each inhale might keep you from unraveling completely. You wish it were just the alcohol. Just a mistake. Just a hazy memory you could laugh off tomorrow.

But you remember it too clearly.

His mouth. The weight of his gaze in the dark. The way his hand didn’t hesitate when it slid against your jaw, when he leaned in like he’d been waiting to taste you all night.

And you let him.

Worse—you wanted it.

The thought turns your stomach. You dig your fingers deeper into the wet sand, nails scraping at the earth, like maybe you can bury the part of you that’s smiling.

Because she’s there.

Somewhere inside you—beneath the nausea, beneath the shame—there’s a version of you curled up, smug and satisfied. A version who watched MC’s face twist, who watched Caleb’s scowl turn cold, and felt nothing but satisfaction.

That part of you is smiling.

You hate her.

Because that part of you—the one that enjoyed it—she’s been quiet for a long time. Always biting her tongue, always watching from the corners while MC took the spotlight, while Caleb gave his warmth to someone else. You taught her to wait. To be kind. To be better.

But god, you’re tired.

Tired of twinkling for people who never look up long enough to see you. Tired of being loved only in parts—when you’re easy, when you’re quiet, when you’re beautiful and harmless.

You’ve always been the supporting character in everyone else’s story. The best friend. The comic relief. The tragic footnote.

So tonight, you wanted to be the villain.

So tonight, she let herself out.

You let her kiss him.

You let her drag Sylus into that closet and tilt your chin up with a smile that begged “ruin me if you want to.”

And she did.

Now here you are, buried in the sand and sea, trying to figure out if the guilt eating at you is heavier than the satisfaction still curling at the edge of your lips.

You’re not supposed to feel this way.

You’re not supposed to want to be seen like that. Wanted like that.

Not at the cost of MC. Not at the cost of Caleb’s crumbling expression.

But you do.

You wanted them to see. You wanted to be wanted. And for a second—you finally were.

And for that, you are repenting your sins, kneeling by the shore and letting the cold eat you whole.

The tide rushes in again, crashing against your skin.

You raise your head, throat raw, eyes burning.

You sit there, watching the waves hit and retreat, over and over, counting the sparkling stars reflected on the ocean surface, until you could not feel your feet.

This is your way of atoning—because you fear the girl curled up inside you, biting on her nails every time a tear threatens to fall. Because the damage she has done once you let her out for a fraction of a moment is irreversible. Collateral.

And because you can’t promise this will be the last time you let her out.

You finally return to your room, dread curling tight in your chest like a vice. Each step down the hallway feels heavier than the last, your body moving on autopilot, mind spiraling with possibilities.

You hesitate at the door. Fingers resting on the knob. You aren’t sure what you’re bracing for.

An angry Michaela?

A tear-streaked Michaela?

A cold, distant Michaela who won’t even look you in the eye?

You don’t know which would be worse.

The knob turns with a quiet click, the door creaking open. You take a breath—slow, bracing—and step inside.

Empty.

The room is quiet. Still.

Her suitcase remains tucked in the corner. A half-drunk bottle of water sits on the bedside table. The lights are off, the curtains drawn. Not a trace of her. Not even the ghost of footsteps.

Somehow, it’s worse than yelling.

You stand there for a moment, motionless, caught in the heavy weight of nothingness.

Then your phone buzzes.

MC [02:46 AM]: Had to clear my head. Be back later.

Short. Punctuated. Not cold, but definitely not warm either.

And with that, you’re left alone.

Surrounded by silence.

Sinking into it.

You sit on the edge of the bed, heart thrumming against your ribs.

You should feel relieved.

You grip the edge of the mattress tighter.

You should be thankful the confrontation didn’t happen yet.

But all you feel is this crawling unease.

Like the silence is just the eye of the storm.

And when she comes back—

You’re not sure which version of Michaela you’ll meet.

And worse—you’re not sure which version of you she’ll find.

You get changed and crawl under the covers, body heavy, soul heavier. The silence is your only companion—thick, choking, unforgiving. You bury yourself into the blankets like they could shield you from the weight of what you’ve done.

Eventually, exhaustion drags you under.

•

Rustling wakes you.

Sharp. Precise. Intentional.

You blink your eyes open, and there she is.

Michaela.

Her back turned to you.

Her suitcase is open on the floor, half-filled. Clothes folded with a neatness that feels hostile.

You sit up slowly, throat dry.

She doesn’t look at you, nor say a word.

You rise. Move toward your side of the room. Get ready in silence. The kind of silence that screams.

Every breath feels wrong. Every second, guilt crawls further up your throat, pressing, choking, aching.

You swallow hard, then try to break the weight as you part your mouth to speak.

Your voice is quiet. Fragile.

“Michaela… last night, I—”

Michaela freezes for only a second before she turns around, face already wearing a smile that feels too sharp, too bright.

“Was such a blast! You gotta tell me all about what happened in that closet!” She winks.

“No—I—”

“Don’t think too deeply into it!” She waves her hand casually, like you’d just brought up a funny memory from a party instead of the reason her bag is half-packed. She lets out a breathy laugh, brushing her hair behind her ear. “It’s college, Yn. People kiss like, all the time. It’s nothing.” Her face drops slightly, but returns back to its beaming state. She reaches for your hands, and her voice lowers down. “It’s just a kiss, isn't it?”

A pause.

“Y-yeah,” you utter.

Her face beams once more as she squeezes your hands. “Besides, he is a pretty good kisser, isn’t he?”

You stare at her. The smile she’s wearing is dazzling—carefully crafted, practiced.

But it doesn’t reach her eyes.

And that hurts more than if she’d screamed at you.

The silence that follows is unbearable.

Eventually, the two of you gather the last of your things and leave the room. You walk side by side, the air between you tight with everything unsaid.

Outside, everyone is saying their goodbyes. Laughter, hugs, last-minute selfies. But none of it touches you. Not really.

You spot Caleb near the car, arms crossed, jaw tight.

He shifts his weight, arms crossed, leaning against the car with that infuriatingly calm expression—like he’s been waiting to deliver a blow.

“Well, well,” he drawls, eyes dragging over your form. “Eventful night, huh?”

You freeze mid-step.

His tone is light, teasing, even laced with that familiar cocky lilt—but it cuts deeper than any insult. Because you know Caleb. You know exactly when he means it. When the smile on his face is just another weapon.

“Hope he was worth the show,” he adds with a smirk. You can’t quite get a read on his face, can’t really understand whether the smirk is teasing, jabbing, or insulting.

You don’t answer. You can’t. So you walk past him without a word.

But he’s not done.

He leans in just slightly, voice dropping low enough for only you to hear:

“I bet you still thought of me.”

It hits you like a slap. You don’t flinch. You don’t give him that satisfaction. But it scorches down your spine, curling into something heavy and sour in your stomach.

All words run dry in your throat.

Because you know you did, and he knows you did.

So, swallowing down the lump in your throat, you quietly climb into the car.

The ride back is a void—quiet and cold despite the sun that floods through the windows.

Michaela sits in the front, headphones in, eyes fixed outside. Her expression is unreadable, a delicate mask of serenity.

Caleb drives in silence, but the tension in his body betrays him.

His knuckles tighten around the steering wheel. The muscle in his jaw ticks every time the car slows.

And yet—despite everything—you still see the way his hand occasionally reaches over to Michaela’s thigh. Subtle. Familiar. He squeezes gently, reassuringly, every time the silence grows too loud.

You sit in the backseat, hands clenched in your lap, stomach churning, heart clawing at your ribcage.

Because somehow, in this cramped little car filled with silence and ghosts, you still feel like the one who doesn’t belong.

•

You finally find yourself back in your familiar space.

The door clicks shut behind you.

Shoes off. Bag down. Keys tossed on the counter.

The silence wraps around you, soft and undemanding.

For the first time in days, you breathe without pretending.

You shower, letting the water scald the memory of Michaela’s laugh off your skin.

You eat something. Actual food. Not alcohol. Not regret.

And for a brief, flickering moment, you start to feel okay again.

Until your phone pings.

A message.

Unknown [6:43 PM]: So?

You freeze.

Every part of you stills—except for your heart, which begins to pound like it remembers the thing you’ve tried so hard to forget since last night.

Something forbidden.

Something thrilling.

Something wrong.

The memory comes back in flashes as guilt claws its way up your throat, hot and unrelenting. It tastes like shame.

You stare at the screen until the words blur.

And then, with trembling hands, you type.

You [6:50 PM]: It was a mistake.

You [6:50 PM]: Don’t text me again.

You hit send before you can think twice.

Your phone slips from your grip, landing face-down on the bed as you bury your face in your hands.

“It was a mistake,” you mumbled.

•

The following days were the most peaceful ones you’ve had in what felt like forever—quiet, slow, and mercifully uneventful. No parties. No whispered gossip. No sharp glances from Caleb or strained smiles from Michaela. Just the soft hum of routine and the space to finally breathe.

You sleep more. Eat better. Enjoying the lasts of your break. You’re rebuilding yourself piece by piece—one uneventful morning at a time.

But the moment you start feeling a little more like yourself, Monday catches up.

The quiet comfort of the break ends the second your feet hit campus tiles. The world spins forward like nothing ever happened.

Michaela acts like nothing ever happened.

She greets you with the same bright smile, the same light giggle, the same affectionate bump of the shoulder. As if that night was just another one of many forgettable college party blurs. As if your lips had never touched Sylus’s. As if her eyes hadn’t dulled the second they landed on you.

And you pretend too.

Because it’s easier that way. Safer.

Later that day, she loops her arm through yours as you walk out of class, swinging your hands between you. “Let’s go shopping after lectures? I need a new outfit or something for the first viewing next week,” she beams.

You nod before you can think too hard about it.

“Oh—” she adds, with that little flicker in her voice that always precedes something calculated, “I invited Caleb too.”

Your smile doesn’t falter, but your stomach twists.

The shopping trip is tolerable at best. Michaela slips into her spotlight with ease—twirling in front of mirrors, holding up dresses with playful pouts, laughing just a bit too loud at jokes that don’t quite land. Caleb sticks close, fingers brushing her waist, whisper her ear when she grins too hard.

But his eyes wander.

You catch him sometimes, gaze flicking to you when Michaela isn’t looking. Just for a second. Just enough to leave that same sour taste in your throat.

You don’t acknowledge it.

You can’t.

Instead, you smile when Michaela pulls you into the dressing room with her. You nod when Caleb asks if you’re tired. You pretend not to notice how her laugh dims a little when he lingers by your side for too long. You go through the motions—lift the hangers, compliment the colors, offer the safe, neutral opinions you’ve mastered so well.

It’s like muscle memory now. Playing your role.

Because if you don’t look too hard, you can almost believe this is normal. That nothing’s changed. That your mouth hadn’t betrayed you. That your silence wasn’t stitched from guilt.

By the time the sun dips below the skyline and the three of you step out of the store, bags in hand and feigned joy in your lungs, you feel wrung out—drained from smiling too much and meaning none of it.

Caleb says something—something teasing, probably—and Michaela laughs like a girl in love.

You stay a step behind them, clutching your bag a little too tightly.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You tell yourself you deserve this.

Because in this triangle of careful lies and quiet betrayals—

You’re the one who kissed the wrong boy.

And you were the one who almost said yes again.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” Michaela says, as if it just came to her. “You have to come to the premiere next month.”

You blink. “The… premiere?”

She grins. “The film. The one we shot over break? We’re doing a small screening—kind of like a soft launch—for friends and crew.” She swings her shopping bags absentmindedly. “It’s just this tiny old theatre on 12th. Indie vibes, red velvet seats, ancient projector that might burst into flames halfway through—super charming.”

You force a smile. “Sounds cute.”

“You’ll come, right?” she says, looking at you over the rim of her cup. “I already told them to save you a seat.”

You hesitate—but not long enough for her to notice. “Sure.”

She beams. ���Perfect.” Then, casually: “Sylus will be there too. I made sure he’d come.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the straps of your bag.

“Made sure?” you echo, trying to keep your tone even.

Michaela shrugs, but there’s a sparkle in her eyes—the kind that always means she’s saying more than she lets on. “Yeah! I’ve been seeing him pretty frequently these days. Bumped into him a few times after the shoot… had coffee once or twice. He’s actually really funny when he’s not being all mysterious and broody.”

“Oh,” Caleb joins, light and amused. “Him. Great. Can’t wait to hear him brood about cinematography or whatever the hell it is he does.”

Michaela laughs, linking her arm with yours again. “Be nice. He’s actually been really helpful lately.”

“Helpful,” Caleb echoes, quirking a brow as he pops the lollipop from his mouth. “Didn’t realize mysterious bad boys were part of the crew now.”

“He’s not a ‘bad boy’,” she says, rolling her eyes.

She says it lightly, but there’s a deliberate lilt in her voice—a softness, almost flirtatious.

Your grip on your bag tightens, the fabric biting into your fingers.

You nod once, slow. “Didn’t know you two were close.”

She hums. “We’re getting there.”

Then, with a coy smile: “He asked a lot about you, though. Thought that was cute.”

Your chest constricts. The air feels thinner somehow.

“Anyway,” she says, skipping in front and spinning to fully face you, “it’s going to be such a fun night. You should wear that black slip dress—the one you wore to Jenna’s party? You looked so good in that.”

And all you could mutter in response was a short hum along with a smile.

•

The following days were as normal as they could’ve been. Well, aside from the fact that he has suddenly been everywhere.

At first, it was subtle.

A glimpse of him through the glass-paneled door of the editing lab, leaning over a student’s shoulder.

The sound of his voice drifting down the hallway—low, smooth, impossible to mistake.

Then you saw him again, this time in the courtyard. Talking to a group from the business department, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a coffee he barely drank from.

Word spread quickly.

“I thought he took most of his classes online?” someone whispered nearby.

“He does. No one ever sees him around.”

“Then why’s he here now?”

“Who knows? Maybe to complete his last courses before graduation?”

“He’s a business major, right?”

“Yeah, but like… old money business. Scary smart. The kind that makes you nervous to breathe too loud.”

You kept your head down, but your pulse never quite stayed still.

Because every time you caught sight of him, he never once looked your way—

And yet, you felt his presence like it was stitched into the fabric of your day.

He was too composed. Too polished. Too calculated.

And somehow, his silence was louder than if he’d cornered you outright.

“Just a mistake,” you mumble to yourself each time you see his figure waltz by.

But your quiet whispers to calm your nerves didn’t prove to be a very sustainable method.

Not when the universe seems hellbent on rubbing it in.

You see them together.

Once in the corridor outside the media building—her laugh echoing off the walls, his hand casually in his pocket, head tilted down to hear her better. They walk side by side, their pace easy, unhurried.

Michaela looks effortless next to him—bright-eyed, golden, her hand brushing his arm as she says something that makes him smile.

Not his usual smirk. Not the quiet, condescending curve of his mouth he wore like armor.

You stop in your tracks.

Just for a second.

Long enough for Michaela to spot you.

She waves. Cheerful. Unbothered. “Hey babe!”

He followed her gaze and landed on you. The smile on his lips curls up a little higher as you meet his eyes.

“Hello,” amusement coats his voice.

“Hi—”

“I’m probably not going to be free today for our usual hangouts,” Michaela cuts in, turning to you with an apologetic pout. “I asked Sylus to help with some of my work… You can hang out with Caleb by yourself, right?”

Before you can answer, she adds with a dramatic sigh, “Please tell him to chill and that I’m fine—just really busy. He’s been blowing up my phone non-stop these days.”

You force a smile, nodding once. “Yeah. Of course.”

She beams, already tugging Sylus further down the hall.

He casts one last glance your way.

A flicker of something in his eyes—teasing, sharp, unreadable.

As soon as you’re left standing there, caught in the space between their footsteps and your silence, your phone buzzes.

You glance down,

Caleb [4:28 PM]: where are you

Caleb [4:28 PM]: arent we having dinner today

Caleb [4:28 PM]: are you with her? she’s not answering my texts

Your stomach tightens.

You can still hear Michaela’s laughter fading around the corner, Sylus’s low voice murmuring something back.

Caleb [4:29 PM]: nvm

Caleb [4:29 PM]: i’ll find you myself

You don’t even remember agreeing to it.

One minute you’re reading Caleb’s texts with a pit in your stomach, the next he’s striding up to you outside the lecture hall—jaw tense, eyes scanning over your shoulder like he’s half-expecting Michaela to appear.

“She’s with him, isn’t she?” he asks, no greeting, voice clipped.

You blink. “Caleb—”

His expression shifts. He exhales, scrubs a hand through his hair, and forces a smile.

“Whatever,” he says, eyes softening as they settle on you. “Doesn’t matter. You’re here.”

And just like that, the edge in his voice fades.

“Come on,” he says, nudging your shoulder. “I’m starving. Let’s go grab something before I start chewing my own arm off.”

You hesitate for half a second, but he’s already walking ahead, glancing back to make sure you follow.

•

Dinner ends up being at this tiny place tucked behind the arts building—warm lighting, mismatched chairs, the kind of quiet hum that makes everything feel a little softer.

You sit across from him, arms tucked against your chest, still a little shell-shocked from everything.

He notices.

“You’ve been doing that thing again,” he says between bites. “Where your brain goes somewhere else and forgets to take your body with it.”

You snort. “And what thing are you doing right now?”

He leans back, exaggeratedly smug. “Being charming and irresistible, obviously.”

You roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth lifts. Just a little.

When your food arrives, he pushes his plate toward you with a quiet, “Try this. It’s better than yours.”

You glance at him, suspicious. “You haven’t even tasted mine.”

He grins. “Exactly. That’s how confident I am.”

It’s silly. Stupid, even. But it helps. The knot in your chest loosens just enough to let a small laugh slip out.

And then—just as you’re mid-bite—his voice softens.

“Hey.”

You look up.

His eyes are steady now. No teasing. No act.

“I never really got the chance to say it properly,” he murmurs. “About what happened at the filming set. That night. Everything.”

The clinking of cutlery fades around you.

“I was inconsiderate,” he says. “I thought too little. Acted too harsh. ”

He looks down at his hands for a moment. “I overlooked your feelings. And I hurt you more than I meant to.”

You don’t know what to say.

So you just watch him as he finally lifts his gaze again, softer now. Warmer.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is… I’m sorry.”

The air between you stills.

“Can’t say I really enjoyed the stunt you pulled though,” he jokes.

The dinner continues quietly—less heavy now, more like the old rhythm you used to share with him. Caleb cracks a few jokes, pokes fun at your serious face, and makes exaggerated guesses about the lives of people at nearby tables. You end up laughing more than you expected to.

Then, as you gather your things to leave, he tilts his head toward you with a mischievous glint.

“One drink?” he asks. “There’s this quiet place nearby. They make the worst cocktails I’ve ever had in my life. Thought you’d like it.”

You roll your eyes. “Sounds irresistible.”

He grins. “Exactly.”

The bar turns out to be this cozy hole-in-the-wall tucked behind a bookstore, dimly lit with string lights that look like they’ve been up since 2003. There’s an old piano in the corner no one plays, and the bartender greets Caleb like he’s a regular—which is both comforting and mildly concerning.

The music’s soft. The booths are deep and worn-in. And somehow, the world feels smaller here.

Caleb orders for both of you, raising a brow at you across the table. “Just trust me.”

You don’t. But you drink it anyway.

“You’re smiling,” he points out, pleased with himself.

You arch a brow. “Must be the worst cocktail I’ve ever had in my life.”

He lifts his glass. “To consistent branding.”

You clink glasses, laughter warm between you.

The kind of warmth that sneaks up on you—gentle, nostalgic, easy.

And then, somewhere between the second and third drink, he leans back, eyes softer now, his playful edge melting at the corners.

“You know,” he starts, swirling what’s left of his drink. “I don’t really remember what my parents look like anymore.”

You glance over at him.

“You don’t talk about your family much,” you say gently.

He lets out a breath. It could’ve been a laugh.

“Don’t really have one,” he says. “Not really.”

He lifts the glass to his lips, but doesn’t drink. Just rests it there, like he needs something to hold on to.

“Thankfully, Michaela’s took me in,” he continues. “Thankfully…” he repeats, quieter this time.

Your mood sours from the mention of her name. Of course she would be mentioned.

“She has always been sick since she was a kid. ‘Cause of her bad heart.”

You stay quiet. Let him keep going.

Something in his voice says he needs to.

“It’s always been my responsibility to keep her safe,” he says, almost like he’s reminding himself. “Since we were kids.”

His fingers drum against the glass, slow and steady, like a heartbeat.

“And whenever I failed to do so… well…” he trails off, then smiles, a crooked, breathy thing that doesn’t touch his eyes. “It never really ended very well.”

You feel the weight of those words, the way he tries to tuck pain into them like they’re just another part of the joke.

“He used to remind me constantly… of my purpose…” Caleb mumbles, his voice slowing, slurring slightly. His words are slipping like his grip on the glass—loose, tired, too worn down to hold on.

You watch his eyes begin to dim, heavy with drink and something much older.

“You’re too drunk, Caleb,” you say softly, reaching out to steady the glass before it tips.

He blinks at you. Slow. Dazed. And then his lips part, just barely.

“That I’m just a stray…” he whispers, almost to himself. “If no one needs me…”

His gaze unfocuses for a moment. You don’t think he even realizes he’s still speaking.

Your breath catches.

He’s still smiling, faintly, lazily. But it’s the kind of smile that scourches your chest.

You slide your hand across the table, fingers brushing his. He doesn’t move.

“You should go home,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer. Just leans further into his folded arms, the tension in his shoulders finally giving out.

You sigh, quietly.

The bar is warm, the night colder. And somehow, without much thought, you find yourself wrapping his arm around your shoulder, whispering half-hearted complaints as you half-drag, half-guide him out the door.

•

The days fly by like leaves lifted off the branches.

Nothing of the past has ever been mentioned ever again—the few days at the film set, the tense atmosphere between you and Michaela, nor the night Caleb slumped into your shoulder, murmuring half-truths through the haze of cheap liquor and old pain.

Classes resume. Group chats return to life. The cafeteria starts serving that awful tomato soup again. You slip back into the rhythm like nothing happened.

But the cracks are still there—just beneath the surface, waiting.

You’re sitting under the shade of a banyan tree behind the humanities building. It’s quiet, peaceful, a little breezy. Your lunch is balanced on your lap, half-eaten. Michaela plops down beside you with a soft “ugh” and a dramatic stretch.

“God,” Michaela says brightly, appearing at your side like she always does—seamlessly, like a breath of perfume. “He’s actually so funny once you get him to talk.”

You glance at her. “Who?”

She tilts her head, playful. “Sylus,” she says, drawing the name out. “He’s been helping me prep for the Q&A tomorrow. Said I needed to sound less ‘pageant’ and more ‘visionary.’ Whatever that means.”

Her laugh is breezy. Too light.

“Oh?” you respond, forcing a smile. “Sounds like you’re getting close.”

“Oh, it’s nothing serious,” she says quickly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Coffee here, late-night notes there. He’s just so…” She trails off, eyes sparkling. “Interesting, don’t you think?”

You hum. Noncommital.

Michaela doesn’t seem to notice—or pretends not to.

She takes a sip of her drink, then suddenly perks up. “Oh! The premiere’s this Saturday. Are you ready?”

You blink. “Ready for…?”

“The spotlight, duh,” she grins, nudging your arm. “To see yourself on screen, see the scenes you played in come together with the background music. And to see your name in the closing credit!”

You roll your eyes, but it makes you smile. “It’s not that serious.”

“It is,” she insists. “You looked amazing, even in the trailer. You carried that café scene.”

You snort. “I said four words.”

“Yeah, but you felt those four words. I almost cried.”

You laugh together, and for a second—it feels real. Familiar. Like the last few weeks never happened.

“Have you picked an outfit yet?” she asks between bites of salad.

You shake your head. “Was just gonna wear something simple.”

Michaela gasps. “No. You’re not walking into an indie theater full of film nerds in ‘something simple.’ You have to look effortless. Like you’re not trying, but also like… if you were trying, you’d end worlds.”

You glance at her, raising a brow. “That specific, huh?”

“Always,” she says, eyes sparkling.

And for a moment, it’s just the two of you.

Two girls beneath a tree, laughing about dresses and dumb film boys and the weight of appearances.

It feels soft. Safe. Like how things used to be.

And it hits you with a quiet ache.

Because even now, part of you still wants to believe this friendship can survive what’s been done.

That maybe you haven’t already burned the bridge.

That maybe—just maybe—she hasn’t noticed the match in your hand.

The rest of the week passes in quiet, deliberate steps.

Classes blur. The campus grows louder, buzzing with exams and end-of-semester deadlines. Your name gets tagged once or twice in the group chat—reminders about call times, wardrobe, a blurry meme of someone joking about crying during the Q&A.

You try on outfits with Michaela after class, like you promised.

It’s surprisingly normal—her room filled with scattered hangers, half-empty iced coffees, the faint sound of a playlist humming from her speaker.

You laugh. You bicker. You twirl.

And then—Saturday arrives.

The day of the premiere.

It’s just past golden hour when you step out of your building, the sky painted in soft streaks of lavender and orange. The air is crisp. The kind that wakes you up and reminds you something’s about to happen.

The old theatre on 12th is just as Michaela described it—small, a little run-down, with velvet seats that creak and a marquee that flickers every other letter.

There’s already a crowd forming outside. Film kids in too-large blazers and thrifted dresses, professors dressed semi-formal but too cool to act like it, and the crew—all wide-eyed and excited, passing around programs and laughter.

The theater glows in the soft spill of marquee lights, buzzing faintly overhead as you approach, clutching your clutch tighter than necessary.

The car pulls up just as you step onto the red-carpeted pavement.

And then you see her.

Michaela steps out first, the silk of her silver dress catching the light like water. It slips over her frame effortlessly—cool-toned and reflective, like moonlight turned human. Her lips are painted a soft coral, her eyes dusted with shimmer, and her smile—bright, unbothered, breathtaking—lands like a punch to the chest.

Then comes Caleb.

He unfolds from the car in slow, unhurried movements, sleeves of his black dress shirt rolled neatly to his elbows beneath a tailored blazer, the collar unbuttoned just enough to suggest trouble. His hair is slicked back, not too perfect, and a hint of cologne catches the air as he leans slightly toward Michaela, saying something close to her ear.

You feel it instantly—the pull. The heat.

They look like they stepped off a magazine spread. Like they’re here to be looked at. Owned it. Earned it.

Your stomach twists.

But then her eyes find yours.

“Yn!” Michaela beams the second she sees you, waving you over like the oldest friend in the world. Her voice cuts through the crowd with effortless warmth. “You look stunning! Oh my God!”

You force a smile, walking toward her as she reaches out and takes your hand for a brief spin. “See? I told you that dress was the one. Absolutely gorgeous.”

“Thanks,” you murmur.

Caleb’s gaze drifts lazily toward you. His eyes widen slightly, just for a second—subtle, but there. And then that crooked, lazy smile of his crawls up his face like he’s trying not to let it show too much.

“Damn,” he mutters under his breath, voice low, just loud enough for you to hear over the soft chatter of the crowd. “You do look good today, shortcake.”

You don’t turn to look at him. You don’t smile. But your pulse stutters anyway.

Inside, the lights are low and flickering, casting everyone in gold.

You find your seats near the front.

You sit first.

Then Michaela slips in beside you, smoothing the back of her dress.

Then Caleb—his thigh brushing against hers, jacket folding as he slouches back with that usual too-cool ease.

And then—

An empty seat. Reserved with a single placard.

SYLUS QIN

You stare at it for a second too long.

The serif font. The clean white card. The space he hasn’t filled.

People slowly fill the theatre, and the chatter dies down as soon as the introducing speech starts. Cheers and laughter are exchanged as the producer welcomes everyone, and soon, lights begin to dim, the hush rippling through the room like a spell settling.

The first flicker of light sears across your vision—too bright, too sudden. You blink, disoriented.

The grainy opening shot bleeds onto the walls, painting everyone in uneven strobes of white and shadow. Your hands curl into the fabric of your dress.

Then you hear your voice.

Just a small line, off-screen. But it makes your throat tighten.

And then you’re there. You.

A glimpse of your face on camera—too quick, too exposed.

Your stomach flips. A cold rush spreads down your back. You shrink into your seat without meaning to.

The flickering continues—scenes switching with sharp cuts, too fast, too loud. Your eyes strain to follow. The glow of the screen presses against your skin like heat.

You feel it in your temples. In the base of your skull.

A thrum. A pressure.

You try to breathe slower.

But there you are again.

In the corner of the frame. Behind Michaela’s shoulder. Walking across the background, smiling as she delivers a perfect monologue.

You’re always there—but never really there.

Never centered. Never seen.

Just enough to anchor the shot.

Never enough to be remembered.

Your heart races faster.

You glance sideways—Michaela is watching intently, chin tilted just so, the soft rise and fall of her breathing unbothered. Her hand rests lightly on Caleb’s arm.

You try to focus on the screen, but the lights are too much now. The images change too quickly. Your skin feels hot. The sound dips and rises, warping in your ears. Laughter in the film echoes strangely, like it’s bouncing around inside your chest instead of the room.

You swallow down the tightness clawing its way up your throat.

Breathe.

You stare at your knees. At your folded hands.

The screen flashes white again—another cut. Another shot of Michaela framed in golden light, eyes brimming with perfectly timed tears.

And just behind her, out of focus—your figure. Barely lit. Barely there.

You curl your fingers into your dress and force yourself to stay still.

Because if you move—if you flinch, if you breathe too loud—it’ll feel too real.

Like this isn’t just a movie. Like your position in the film is just as it is in real life.

Your breath hitches.

Get through this. Just get through this.

But the room feels too full. Your lungs too tight. Your face too visible under the flickering screenlight.

So, with quivering hands, you quickly excuse yourself out quietly, muttering a soft “I need to use the toilet,” to Michaela.

Your fingers brush her arm as you squeeze past, knees knocking against the velvet seat in front of you.

You don’t look at Caleb.

You don’t dare.

The moment you reach the aisle, you bolt.

The darkness of the theater presses in from all sides, but the exit sign glows red—blessedly real, blessedly distant from the version of you being projected for everyone else to see.

You push through the heavy doors.

Out into the hallway.

Into the quiet.

It’s cooler out here. Dimmer. The hum of the projector muffled by layers of walls.

And still, your hands shake.

Your chest heaves.

You press your back against the corridor and squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to breathe again.

To stop hearing the lines you spoke, the laugh that wasn’t yours, the way you stood just out of frame.

You weren’t supposed to matter.

You weren’t supposed to be seen.

But seeing yourself just that—seeing yourself as nothing more than a narrative device—knocks all air out of your lungs.

And so you do what you do best in situations like these.

You walk.

Down the corridor. Past posters for old plays and peeling signs pointing to locked rehearsal rooms. The soft clink of your heels echoes against the concrete, sharp and rhythmic, the only sound in the hush that follows you.

Left. Then right.

You take the stairwell without thinking—something about the way the door hangs open, waiting.

Up.

One flight. Two.

You’re not counting. You’re not really anywhere.

Just moving.

The final door gives with a groan.

And then—open air.

The rooftop is quiet. Dimly lit by a few tired bulbs and the soft haze of city lights glowing from below. The wind brushes past your cheeks, tugging at the hem of your dress, the strands of your hair.

You inhale slowly—deeply.

The air fills your lungs and doesn’t choke. For the first time tonight, your chest doesn’t feel so tight.

You hug your arms around yourself, rubbing warmth into your skin as you move toward the edge of the rooftop. The wind tangles softly in your hair. The quiet is heavier than silence—it’s soothing. Honest.

The sounds of the premiere, the echoes of your lines, the weight of Michaela’s smile, Caleb’s lingering glances—all of it stays behind those concrete walls.

But the moment your shoulders finally drop—the tension unwinding from your spine like thread pulled too tight—

a voice slices through the quiet.

“The movie boring?”

You jolt.

And there he is.

Leaning lazily against the railing at the far edge of the rooftop, one hand resting in the pocket of his black slacks, the other loosely curled around a cigarette he hasn’t lit. The wind toys with the edges of his shirt, untucked and open at the collar, the soft fabric fluttering just enough to hint at the warmth beneath.

His silver hair—bright even under the dull rooftop lights—shifts with the breeze, strands falling across his forehead in that effortless way that should be illegal. The city glows behind him, casting shadows across the hard angles of his jaw, the sharp lines of his cheekbones. His eyes catch yours beneath long lashes, amused, unreadable.

He doesn’t move.

He doesn’t need to.

Just the sight of him—calm, crooked smile in place, posture loose like he’s got nowhere to be and nothing to prove—pulls something taut inside you all over again.

Sylus Qin.

Looking like trouble sculpted in moonlight.

And you walked straight into it.

Your voice stumbles out, more breath than word.

“What are you doing here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just tips his head slightly, eyes trailing over you in that infuriatingly slow, unreadable way of his.

“Didn’t realize rooftops were exclusively yours now.”

His voice is quiet but laced with amusement, like he’s already enjoying how thrown off you are. The wind picks up, tousling the silver strands of his hair. He doesn’t fix them. Just leans back against the railing again like this is his space now. Like you’ve wandered into his scene.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he adds, gaze settling on you. “Didn’t strike me as the type to abandon your own premiere.”

Your jaw tightens. “It’s not my premiere.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, eyes glinting. “You were in almost every shot. That little background smile of yours really carried the emotional arc.”

You shoot him a glare. He shrugs.

“Relax,” he says, voice dipping just enough to make your skin prickle. “I’m just making conversation.”

And then, without breaking eye contact, he pulls the cigarette back out from his pocket—like he knew exactly when to use it for effect.

You watch as he rolls it between his fingers, slow and practiced, before slipping it between his lips. His eyes flick downward, shadowed beneath dark lashes, as he flicks the lighter.

A soft click.

A brief spark.

Then flame.

He cups the light with one hand, shielding it from the wind, the gesture intimate in its precision. The flame catches the edge of the cigarette, a quick sizzle, and then a curl of smoke unfurls between his lips as he leans back—head tilted, silver hair brushing the collar of his jacket.

He exhales through parted lips.

Smoke spills from his mouth in a lazy stream, rising into the night air.

And for a moment, the whole rooftop smells like sin.

You swallow. Hard.

Because it shouldn’t look that good.

No one should look that good doing something so simple.

But he makes it look like poetry wrapped in gasoline.

Dangerous. Beautiful. Impossible to look away from.

He glances sideways, catching your gaze—then smirks around the cigarette.

“What?” he says, smoke curling past his teeth. “You want one?”

You ignore his question as you cross the distance between you with quiet steps, heels clicking softly against the rooftop floor, until you’re beside him.

Close, but not touching.

You lean forward onto the railing, elbows braced, eyes fixed on the world below. The city stretches beneath you—cars like fireflies, neon signs blinking against concrete, life spilling in all directions.

“Heard you’re pretty close to Michaela these days.”

Words slip out of your mouth before you could stop them—carried off too quickly by the breeze.

Sylus doesn’t respond right away. Just takes another drag, eyes still on the skyline, unreadable behind the soft glow of the city lights and the rising smoke.

“Is that what people are saying?” he asks, voice low, like he’s half-amused, half-bored.

You glance sideways at him, but his expression doesn’t shift.

“She’s been… talking,” you murmur.

He exhales slowly, smoke curling from the corner of his lips. “Yeah. She does that.”

There’s a beat of silence. The kind that leaves your thoughts too loud.

“She seems to like you,” you add, keeping your voice light. “Says you’re funny. Helpful.”

His gaze finally cuts to you, slow and sharp. An eyebrow arches. A slow, knowing smirk tugs at his lips.

“You sound jealous,” he says, voice dipped in something darker. Teasing. Dangerous.

Your breath falters.

“I’m not.”

He hums, low in his throat, clearly unconvinced. Then, he turns—just slightly—enough to face you, enough to make you feel it.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, voice barely above the wind.

He leans in, just a bit. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough that the air between you shifts.

“I mean… if you wanted my attention,” his eyes drag slowly down your face, “you didn’t have to bring her up to get it.”

You blink. Hard.

The smirk deepens. He takes one last drag from the cigarette, flicks it to the side, and exhales—

Right past your shoulder, warm and slow, like it was deliberate.

Then he turns back toward the railing, arms resting casually as if he didn’t just turn your pulse inside out.

“Relax,” he says again, voice smooth and cruelly amused. “I’m just making conversation.”

“Fuck you and your conversations.”

“Language, princess.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, slow and smug, like he enjoys your bite more than he should.

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks next—just watches the lights below with that lazy, unreadable calm.

“The deal’s still on, by the way,” he says, almost offhand. “I don’t usually hold my deals this long.”

Your breath catches—but you don’t answer. Not immediately.

Instead, eyes still fixed on the city, you ask quietly,

“What’s it like?”

He glances sideways.

“To smoke,” you murmur, voice soft against the wind. “What does it feel like?”

That catches him off guard.

His smirk fades into something quieter—still sharp, but thoughtful.

He straightens a little, resting his elbows on the railing, eyes narrowed at the skyline like he’s remembering something he can’t touch anymore.

“It’s… warm,” he says eventually. “First few seconds burn. Then it’s just heat in your chest. Makes everything a little slower. A little duller.”

He glances at you again, eyes shadowed beneath silver strands.

“You’d hate it.”

And then, softer—

“You’d get addicted.”

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “That confident, huh?”

His smile returns, crooked and slow.

“Always.”

Then—without looking away—he reaches into his pocket, pulls out the pack again, taps it once against his palm.

“Wanna try?”

You hesitate.

Just for a second.

The rooftop wind brushes your skin. The lights below blur like you’re not quite grounded anymore.

“…Okay,” you say finally, barely above a whisper. “Sure.”

His gaze lingers on you for a breath longer than it should—sharp, slow, searching.

Then, with practiced ease, he slips the cigarette between his lips, flicks the lighter, and inhales. The tip glows ember-red. Smoke curls around his face like it belongs there.

He steps closer.

Not fast. Not aggressive. Just… inevitable.

Until your backs are no longer parallel, but aligned.

Until his body is angled toward yours, his hand brushing the railing beside your arm.

Then he exhales—slow, steady—up into the air first, just to show you how.

And before your thoughts can catch up, before your pulse even finds a rhythm, his hand slides around your jaw. Gentle, but certain. Fingers curling under your chin, tipping your face up to his.

“Open,” he murmurs.

And you do.

He leans in—closer, closer still.

Not to kiss. Not yet.

His mouth hovers just a hair’s breadth from yours, and then—

He exhales.

Smoke floods from his lungs into yours, warm and heady and tasting like fire and him.

It hits you all at once—your lips parted against his, the heat of his breath rolling into your mouth, your chest, your nerves. Your hands grip the railing behind you, fingers curling tight.

And just as your knees begin to weaken, just as the smoke begins to burn—

His lips press to yours.

Not soft.

Not tentative.

It’s full, hungry contact—heat and pressure and something sharp beneath the surface. He kisses you like you’re something he earned. Like he knew this was coming the moment you stepped onto that rooftop.

And god, you let him.

His hand slips from your jaw to your throat, thumb resting lightly just beneath your pulse. You feel it hammering there, wild and fast. He deepens the kiss, mouth coaxing yours open further, tongue tracing the edge of your bottom lip like a tease, like a challenge.

You kiss him back.

Harder. Needier. Like you’ve been holding it in.

Like you’re finally letting go.

The smoke lingers between you. In your mouth. Your chest. The heat of it coils through your veins, makes the moment feel reckless, dangerous, electric.

When he finally pulls away, just barely, your lips are still parted—still chasing after him.

And Sylus—

He’s already smirking.

“Told you,” he breathes, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“You’d get addicted.”

Your breath comes shallow. Foggy. Like you’re drunk—from the smoke. From him.

From the way his voice sits too low in your stomach, too warm in your throat.

You blink, dazed. “What the fuck was that?”

He laughs—low, rich, and dizzying.

“Still want to call it a mistake?”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

Not with the nicotine still curling in your lungs. Not with his breath still ghosting yours.

Maybe it’s the way the air thins between you again.

Maybe it’s the flush that rises to your cheeks when you look up at him and realize he hasn’t stepped back this time.

Or maybe it’s just that dangerous cocktail of heat and haze and the taste of sin still lingering on your tongue.

“I think,” you whisper, eyes flicking to his mouth, “you didn’t teach it properly.”

His gaze sharpens. That smirk falters, just for a second—enough to show the hunger underneath.

“Oh?” he breathes.

You nod. Barely.

He leans in. Slowly. Purposefully.

His hand grazes your waist, his breath brushing your lips—and just when you think he’s going to kiss you again—

He pulls back.

Barely an inch. Just enough to keep you chasing.

His smirk returns, lazier this time. Meaner.

“Didn’t think you’d beg so soon,” he murmurs.

You glare. “I didn’t beg.”

“Mm,” he hums, dragging a finger along your jaw, “Not yet.”

Then—finally—he kisses you.

But it’s slower now. Crueler.

His mouth moves with calculated ease, like he’s studying you. Like he wants to see how long you can last with the tension stretched this thin.

He barely gives you what you want—just enough heat to make your knees unsteady, just enough pressure to make you lean in.

When your hand fists in his shirt, tugging him closer, he lets out a quiet laugh against your lips.

“Impatient,” he mutters, and you feel it—low and hot—right in your throat.

And then he deepens the kiss.

Because he knows you’re done pretending you don’t want it.

And he’s done pretending he doesn’t love watching you unravel.

But in the middle of it all—his fingers sliding under your shirt, your hands fisted in the back of his hair, breaths shared like secrets—

It hits you.

A crack of clarity.

Sharp and sudden, cutting through the haze.

You pull back.

Not far, but enough. Enough to breathe. Enough to speak.

“Why are you doing this?”

His brows knit, just slightly. You feel the shift in him, the quiet tension settling beneath the heat.

You keep going. You have to.

“What will you get out of the deal?”

Your voice is low, but steady. The question tastes bitter in your mouth—maybe because you’ve been trying to pretend it didn’t matter.

But it does. It always did.

He watches you, smoke still clinging to his breath, his thumb pausing on your skin.

And for a moment, he doesn’t answer.

Like he’s deciding what version of the truth to give you.

Like he’s debating if you’ve earned it.

He fully pulls away, the warmth of his body gone in an instant.

You watch as he straightens his spine, smooths down his collar with one hand, runs the other through his wind-tousled silver hair—like he’s putting his armor back on. Like he needs the distance again.

“I’m not playing games,” he says.

His voice is low. Still sharp, but there’s something underneath now. Not heat. Not flirtation.

Something older. Quieter. Worn.

You cross your arms, still catching your breath. “Then what is this?”

He pauses.

You see the flicker in his eyes—a calculation, a hesitation. The part of him that always weighs what to say and what to bury.

Then his lips tug into that same maddening smirk.

“You’re just really pitiful,” he says, voice lazy with mock sympathy.

Your brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”

“Kind of like someone I knew,” he continues, like he didn’t just insult you to your face. His tone is still light, but something about the way he says it—too casual, too precise—makes you freeze.

He doesn’t elaborate right away. Just glances down at the city lights below, cigarette smoldering between his fingers again.

He takes one last drag from the cigarette before flicking it over the edge, watching the ember fall like a dying star.

Then he turns back to you—smirk faded now, voice lower, rougher. Real.

“Let’s just say—” he begins, eyes locking with yours,

“you get to use me to get whatever you want…”

A pause. A slow step closer.

“And I’ll use you to get whatever I want.”

He lets the silence stretch between you, lets the weight of the words hang there like smoke.

“Sounds fair?”

You don’t answer right away.

You just stand there—wind tousling your hair, the taste of smoke still clinging faintly to your lips—watching him.

Watching the way he doesn’t push.

Doesn’t ask again.

Just lets the offer hang in the air like a match waiting to be struck.

Your thoughts spiral—through the flickers of the film, the ache in your chest as you watched yourself play the shadow, Michaela’s bright voice, Caleb’s wandering gaze, Sylus’s mouth on yours, the weight of his hands, the things he said.

And the worst part?

The way all of it made you feel alive again.

Like something inside you had finally stirred.

Like you were tired of being careful. Tired of being quiet. Tired of waiting for someone else to hand you the pen to your own story.

You draw in a breath, meet his eyes.

“Fine,” you say, soft but steady.

“I’m in.”

His smile is slow. Pleased. Like he already knew.

But he says nothing. Just nods once and turns to leave, hands in his pockets, silver hair catching the rooftop light.

You don’t stop him.

You stay there for a moment longer, listening to the echo of your own heartbeat.

And when the rooftop door clicks shut behind him—

You’re still tasting sin.

Still thinking about the deal you just made.

And wondering who, in the end, will really get what they want.