notvalesca

[notvalesca]

Nocturne . ݁₊ ♱ . ݁˖ . ݁

lord!sylus x vampire!reader

content: semi-slowburn, reader is a princess, down bad sylus, prob inaccurate rep of the time period, smut, wc: 15.8k

The castle breathes in silence. Outside, rain ticks softly against the stained-glass windows, streaking down in long, glistening lines that catch the candlelight like veins in glass. The fire crackles low in the hearth behind you, more for ceremony than warmth. Heat has never moved you much—not since you died the first time.

You sit before a towering mirror in your chamber, hands resting lightly in your lap, posture composed like a statue placed on display. The gown they chose for you is deep burgundy silk, shiny and rich, pooling around your feet like blood spilled on polished stone. Black embroidery coils along the bodice in patterns like thorned vines and serpents—too ornate, too precise, too sharp to be innocent. The neckline reveals just enough to tempt, framed by sheer tulle like smoke clinging to your skin.

Your choker sits high and tight around your throat: blackened gold with rubies that gleam like fresh wounds. Earrings swing low from your ears, matching the necklace, catching candlelight like a guillotine’s blade right before the fall.

Two of your handmaidens flit about behind you like birds in spring.

“Oh, Your Highness, you’ll be the envy of the whole court,” one trills as she tightens the laces on your corset. “That color... it’s like it was made for you.”

“She’ll have half the ballroom at her feet before the first waltz,” the other giggles, brushing perfumed oil—rose and amber—into the hollow of your throat. “Did you hear? The Marquess of Evermere has returned from Ardens. And the baron from Vellenshire too. That one with the shoulders.”

“Lord Hale,” the first sighs dreamily.

You don’t speak. Don’t smile. You’ve learned the art of stillness well—how to hold your face like a mask, your body like a secret. You give them just enough: a glance, the ghost of a smirk, the illusion of a demure princess preparing for a dance. But inside?

Inside, you ache.

Your gaze meets itself in the mirror. Eyes rimmed in kohl, dark and gleaming like garnets in snow. Skin pale enough to shame moonlight. You look like something painted in oils, hung in a cursed gallery—beauty without warmth. Grace without mercy.

They don’t know why they’re afraid of you. They never have.

Your mother’s voice echoes through your skull, clipped and cold. “You’re not a child anymore. You must marry.” “The nobles are growing impatient. People will talk.” “No man of quality waits forever.”

As if marriage could fix you. As if desire could replace hunger. As if you didn’t already know what you were.

You exhale slowly. You remember his throat. How it tasted, hot and trembling. How he said your name with wonder before the end. And then fear. Always fear. Always too late.

You kissed him like a lover and fed from him like a monster.

And no one in the castle speaks of him now. They whisper of “lost suitors.” As if they simply vanished. Fled. Grew bored. You know better. You always know better.

The door clicks open behind you.

“Milady,” a familiar voice says. Low. Steady. Trusted. “Your cloak.”

Amaris steps into view—older than the others, sharper too. Dressed plainly, but she carries the weight of your secrets like a rosary. She fastens your black velvet cloak over your shoulders, smoothing the heavy fabric down with practiced hands. Her fingers brush yours—a silent gesture. A warning. A tether.

“Remember,” she says quietly, close to your ear. “You don’t have to dance. Speak little. Smile when they look. And if it gets... too much—come find me.”

You nod once. Barely.

You both know what “too much” means. You’ve danced that edge before. The trembling restraint. The sting of arousal and hunger curling inside you like a blade against silk. All these men with warm blood and sharp smiles, thinking they can touch you, claim you. They have no idea what you are.

Behind you, the maids chatter on.

“She’ll be married before summer, you’ll see,” one says. “Some lord will fall madly in love.”

Amaris catches your gaze in the mirror. Her brow lifts.

"Madly." That’s always the word, isn’t it?

You rise from the vanity with slow grace, your gown rippling in waves down to the floor. You drift to the window and draw back the velvet curtain. Outside, the garden sleeps under mist and moonlight. Beyond the hedges, the ballroom glows—light spilling from the windows like golden honey. You see carriages arriving below, men stepping out with cloaks and canes, women descending with gloved hands on polished arms.

The castle rises around them all: a monstrous thing of spires and gargoyles, marble and iron, too beautiful to ever be safe. Ivy chokes the eastern tower. Statues stand eyeless in alcoves. The ballroom is a stage, and tonight, you will perform.

Inside your chamber, the fire has dimmed to embers. Behind you, the great bed waits—massive and canopied, sheathed in black lace and crimson sheets. You haven’t slept in it in days. Maybe weeks. Sleep eludes creatures like you. Or perhaps you simply don’t need it anymore.

Amaris adjusts the clasp of your cloak.

“Your father expects you to be seen,” she says, quieter now. Her tone is gentle. But even she is nervous. You can smell it—faint, like frost before snowfall.

You rest your fingertips against the windowpane. Cold. Like you.

“Perhaps tonight,” you murmur, “one of them won’t bore me before I start to crave them.”

Amaris doesn’t smile.

A gust of wind shakes the window. Lightning flickers faintly on the horizon. Something feels different tonight. The air stirs with the scent of new blood. Not like the others. Not prey. Something darker. Closer to your kind.

“Come,” Amaris says. “Let them see their princess.”

You don’t turn around right away. Your reflection stares back at you—silent, exquisite, damning.

What poor fool will step into your path tonight? Who will dance with death and think it love?

Your lips curl into a slow smile, sharp as your teeth.

Let them come.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The ballroom gleams like the belly of a jewel.

Polished marble stretches beneath golden chandeliers, each one draped with chains of crystals that catch the candlelight like tears in glass. Music wafts through the air—violins, soft and elegant, just enough to veil the tension that always lingers in rooms like this. It smells of rose oil and sweat, of perfume laid thick over nerves. Of too many hearts beating in close proximity.

You descend the grand staircase slowly.

Not from hesitation—no, never that. You descend like mist curling down a mountainside: graceful, deliberate, unignorable.  Your cloak billows behind you, half-open to reveal your gown– clinging to your frame like a second skin, embroidered with thread so dark it drinks the light. Your heels click like a metronome across each step.

And all at once, the room turns.

Conversation falters. Glasses still mid-air. Heads tilt upward like sunflowers to a starless moon.

You feel their eyes crawl over you. Some adoring. Some possessive. Others afraid and not knowing why.

Your parents stand near the foot of the staircase, flanked by nobles in court finery. The Queen's lips tighten into a smile, thin as a blade. The King offers a subtle nod, measured and impassive. You're already performing.

You offer bows and nods as you pass. Dignified. Mildly bored.

“Your Highness.”

“Radiant, as always.”

“I heard the fabric was imported from Orléaux…”

You smile like a wineglass—fragile, glittering, hollow.

At the base of the staircase, you turn away from the expectant crowd and glide toward the refreshments table. Champagne sweats in fluted crystal glasses, arranged like an offering. You pluck one with long fingers, feeling the chill bleed into your skin.

You sip, but don’t swallow. Let the liquid kiss your lips and rest on your tongue before you let it fall back into the glass. Gold and sweet. Faintly sour. Like love, perhaps.

Footsteps approach behind you.

“Standing off to the side already?” your mother says, voice light, false. “We haven’t even reached the second dance.”

“She looks stunning,” your father offers, more quietly. “Like a Rothschilde painting.”

You don’t respond. The music swells again—another waltz beginning.

Your mother touches your elbow. “Remember why you’re here, darling. This isn’t a gallery. You’re not to be admired from afar like an art piece. Tonight, you must engage.”

You sip again, slower this time. “I didn’t realize the meat was meant to entertain the wolves before the feast.”

She frowns. Your father chuckles under his breath.

Before they can scold you, a voice cuts in—masculine, confident, vaguely amused.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” he says, “but if you aren’t already promised for this dance... may I?”

You turn your head slightly. Broad shoulders. Fair hair. Ceremonial medals gleaming across a navy coat trimmed in gold. You recognize him by the build alone.

Lord Hale.

You offer a slight nod, because you’re in front of your parents and cornered like a cat.

He takes your hand with practiced grace and leads you out to the floor.

The waltz is slow. Measured. Easy enough to follow, though Lord Hale moves like he knows the steps well—too well. His hand rests against the small of your back. His palm is warm. You feel his pulse through his glove. A slow, steady rhythm. A delicious kind of temptation.

“You dance as if the floor might crack beneath you,” he says, tone wry.

“Perhaps I’m wondering who I’d take down with me,” you reply.

He laughs. “Ah. One of those princesses.”

You arch a brow. “One of what, exactly?”

“The kind who prefers daggers to rings. Who spends too much time in the garden alone and makes men write poetry they’ll later regret.”

You smirk. “Regret requires survival.”

He blinks, as if unsure whether you’re joking. Then chuckles again.

As he turns you through the next step, your eyes skim the crowd—glass and silk and waxen smiles. The chandeliers above flicker, and for a moment you imagine blood dripping from their golden chains instead of crystal.

You think of Prince Alric.

He had a voice like honey and hands that shook when he kissed you. His poetry was appalling. He wrote a sonnet comparing your eyes to dusk—no, to funeral bells. When you drained him in the library, he wept. You fed until he went silent. His corpse rested between the shelves for three days before anyone noticed. The servants blamed rats.

You think of the Count from Nordmere.

He liked to talk. About horses. About ships. About all the women who’d wanted him. You bit his throat during the Harvest Ball, your lips still painted red. He died moaning your name like a prayer. Or a warning.

Lord Hale spins you again.

“You’re quiet, Princess.”

“Thinking of past dances,” you say. “Some more graceful than others.”

He grins. “Should I be flattered or nervous?”

“I suppose we’ll both find out.”

He presses in just slightly. His breath brushes your cheek.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, “what is it you really want in a husband?”

You smile against his question, slow and amused.

A pulse you can quiet.

A body you won’t tire of before your hunger grows too loud.

Someone who won’t die too easily. Or better yet—someone who might like it.

But instead, you answer, “Someone with shoulders like yours. And less curiosity.”

His grin falters for just a moment.

The music nears its final turn. The dance draws to a close. Lord Hale bows low as the strings fade. You curtsy, your gown rippling like a pool of red silk.

“Would you grant me another dance later?” he asks.

You tilt your head. “If I’m still hungry.”

His smile wavers. He doesn’t quite know whether to take it as flirtation or threat.

Good.

You slip away before he can say more, back toward the shadows at the edge of the floor.

The candles shimmer. The orchestra prepares a livelier tune. Laughter rises, but you don’t hear it. You hear only the whisper of wind through stone. The scent of something approaching—distant and rich. Something that doesn’t belong to any of the trembling, sweating men in this room.

Something not afraid of you.

Your heart stirs.

You sip from your glass again, the champagne now lukewarm and losing its fizz. It barely masks the hollowness in your throat.

Amaris finds you before you can escape into your own thoughts completely. She emerges from the bustle like a ghost in uniform—her maid’s dress crisp, her clever eyes scanning you with practiced ease.

“Well?” she murmurs, tucking herself into the space beside you, careful not to draw attention. “Was that Lord Hale?”

You nod. “His shoulders gave him away.”

Amaris grins. “I knew it. And?”

“He reminded me of the others,” you say simply, voice cool. “Charming. Confident. Sweet words with trembling hands.”

Her smirk softens. “Did you feel anything?”

You look down at your glass. The stem is thin between your fingers—delicate enough to snap with the slightest pressure. “The usual. A flicker of curiosity. Hunger.”

“But nothing more,” she says.

You shake your head. “They never last, Amaris. They smell of wine and cologne and fear, and when they get close enough to know me, the fear always wins.”

She leans on the wall beside you, fingers toying with the edge of her apron. “Maybe it’s not fear that does them in. Maybe it’s you.”

Your brow lifts. “You mean my appetite.”

“I mean your standards.” She flashes a grin, but there’s sympathy behind it. “You deserve someone who can handle your teeth.”

You huff, amused despite yourself, and the moment stretches—just long enough for you to feel the mood in the ballroom shift. It's almost imperceptible, a sudden hush beneath the music. A slight pause in the flow of conversation. You glance over your shoulder, brows narrowing—

And catch Amaris staring past you, eyes wide.

“Oh my,” she breathes.

You turn to follow her gaze.

At the top of the grand staircase stands a man draped in midnight black, accented in deep red and muted silver threadwork. His coat is tailored close to the waist and flares slightly at the hip, the dark silk catching the candlelight with an almost liquid sheen. Beneath it, a waistcoat in blood-red brocade glints faintly, offset by a crisp collar and a cravat pinned with a small, sharp ruby.

His posture is regal but unbothered. Dangerous in its ease.

And then there’s his face.

Sharp and elegant, with a jaw carved like marble and cheekbones that could cut glass. His skin is pale beneath the flickering light, yet warm-toned—like candlelight on parchment. But it’s his eyes that hold you. Deep crimson, glinting like garnets, framed by pale lashes. As if blood itself burned behind them.

He scans the crowd from his perch, and for a moment you think—perhaps you hope—he will look elsewhere.

Then his gaze finds yours.

And it doesn’t move.

Your breath halts in your throat. The champagne in your glass trembles.

He starts down the stairs. Slowly. Deliberately. The crowd parts like reeds in his wake, whispered names rippling in his path. You catch fragments.

“—Is that Lord Sylus?—”

“—From the northern territories—”

“—Never seen him attend before—”

So the rumors were true. A reclusive noble, sharp of tongue and colder than winter. They said he never courted, never entertained the company of women. He lived in a great manor carved into a cliffside, alone save for servants and shadow.

You’d thought him a myth. A cautionary tale wrapped in noble title.

But now he was walking toward you like you were the only light in the room.

Amaris nudges your elbow, but you don’t register it. Not until he stops just before you and offers a shallow bow.

“My lady,” he says, voice deep and smooth as polished onyx. “Would you grant me the honor of a dance?”

He doesn’t smile—not quite. Just the faintest tilt of his lips. Enough to suggest he could, if he wanted to. If you were worth it.

You hesitate, for half a breath.

Then you take his hand.

His touch is warm. Firm. Grounding.

He leads you to the dance floor as though it’s his realm, and the ballroom his dominion. The music swells. A new waltz begins.

You’ve never danced with someone who moves quite like him—precise yet fluid, strong yet poised. He spins you once, then again, as if to test your balance. You hold his gaze all the while.

“You don’t say much,” he notes, tone lightly amused.

“I find the quiet more telling than flattery.”

“A rare preference, in a room like this.”

“You don’t seem the type to enjoy this sort of thing either.”

He chuckles under his breath. “No. But then again, I’ve never had much patience for tradition.”

Your lips curl. “So what brings you here, then?”

“Curiosity,” he says, stepping closer on the next turn. “And a reputation that refuses to stay in my absence.”

You raise a brow. “You don’t like being spoken of?”

“I prefer to control the narrative.”

A beat passes. Then you ask, softly, “And what is your narrative, Lord Sylus?”

His hand tightens at your waist—not enough to alarm, but enough to be felt. Enough to make your pulse trip.

“I’m still writing it,” he murmurs. “But tonight, I’ve found a particularly captivating chapter.”

Your cheeks warm. Not from flattery—though he’s good at it. No, it’s something else. The way he looks at you. Like he’s dissecting, unspooling, seeing not just your face or gown or posture but something deeper.

Something darker.

For a moment, you wonder if he knows.

But then the waltz draws to a close. He slows your steps, bows over your hand, and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

His lips linger a second longer than is proper.

“I hope this won’t be our last encounter, my lady.” he says, eyes never leaving yours.

You want to respond. You try.

But before you can speak, he’s already turning, slipping into the crowd like smoke through keyholes—gone.

You stand still in the wake of him, hand tingling, skin flushed.

And for the first time in years, the hunger in your chest is complicated by something far more dangerous.

Curiosity.

The orchestra swelled again. One final song to end the night.

You’d retreated to the far edge of the ballroom, where the crowd thinned and the music melted into something softer, something more distant. Your empty champagne glass dangled between two fingers, the cold stem warming slowly against your skin.

Lord Hale found you there.

“I believe it’s tradition to end the evening with the same partner you began it with,” he said, stepping into your line of sight with that charming half-smile that had probably worked on countless other women.

You turned your head, regarding him coolly from beneath dark lashes. The candlelight kissed the edges of his cheekbones, gave his blond hair a gold sheen. He looked every inch the dashing suitor—clean-cut, eager, the kind who always thought they could handle you.

You hummed, just barely amused. “Are you hoping to secure a second impression that might outdo the first?”

“Only if you promise not to make me look quite so clumsy this time,” he teased, offering his hand again.

You let him lead you.

The ballroom was more crowded now than before, guests reluctant to let the night end, drawn to the final waltz like moths to flame. The floor gleamed underfoot, polished to a near mirror finish, reflecting dozens of dancing silhouettes in a swirl of satin and lace. Candles lined every sconce, chandeliers glittered with a thousand facets, and all of it blurred around you as Lord Hale guided you into motion.

“I must admit,” he said lowly as the two of you moved in slow, practiced turns, “I wasn’t expecting to see Lord Sylus tonight. Rather a legend, isn’t he?”

You arched a brow. “Does his presence trouble you?”

“Only surprised. Some say he never leaves that blasted fortress he built in the northern cliffs. Others claim he turns down every invitation.”

“Perhaps he’s finally decided to wed,” you offered with cool detachment.

Lord Hale scoffed gently, then glanced down at you with a quirked brow. “And here I thought that was your duty tonight, my lady. Did the mysterious lord catch your eye, by chance?”

You tilted your head just slightly, a smile ghosting your lips. “Are you jealous, Lord Hale?”

He chuckled. “Would you fault me if I were?”

The music continued, gentle and gilded, but your mind had already started to drift. His hands were warm in yours, his voice charming—but you barely heard him now.

Your hunger was rising.

The ballroom had become too bright, too loud. The flickering candlelight pressed at your temples. The scent of blood—sweet and metallic beneath perfume and smoke—had sharpened. Lord Hale smelled delicious, and he didn’t even know it.

You leaned in, just enough to let your lips brush the shell of his ear. “Shall we go to the garden?”

He stiffened slightly, then straightened with a grin he tried to conceal. “A midnight stroll? Won’t the others whisper?”

“Let them,” you said. “Besides, it’s better to talk away from prying eyes.”

He didn’t hesitate after that.

You passed through the wide double doors, his hand lightly at your back. The castle’s halls were quieter now, lined with flickering sconces and velvet tapestries that whispered with every breeze. The echoes of your footsteps followed you down a long corridor, past arched windows and shadowed alcoves. The air grew cooler the farther you walked, and soon you were pushing through one of the side doors, out into the night.

The garden greeted you like a lover.

Roses bloomed in beds of crimson and cream, perfuming the air with their velvet sweetness. Stone paths twisted between tall hedges and marbled statues; a fountain murmured softly at the center. Overhead, the moon hung full and heavy, spilling silver across the lawn.

You led him to a clearing nestled between hedges, just private enough. The distant murmur of the ballroom was gone now. Only cicadas sang.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

You turned to face him, the moonlight turning your gown to garnet, your eyes to blood and glass. “The garden?”

“Yes,” he said, taking a step closer. “But I was referring to you.”

You smiled, slow and deliberate. “You say the right things, Lord Hale. Most men do, in the beginning.”

He tilted his head. “But?”

“They never last.”

He chuckled, as if that were a joke. “Then I’ll have to try harder.”

His hand rose, fingers brushing your cheek, then falling to your shoulder. You let him lean in. His lips grazed yours—warm, hesitant—but you angled your head slightly, your lips ghosting past his jaw.

He froze when your mouth brushed his throat.

“Wait—”

But you didn’t.

Your fangs pierced his skin with ease. The taste hit you instantly—rich, alive, laced with hints of wine and arrogance and something foolishly sweet. He gasped, one hand tightening on your arm, then going slack. His knees buckled as you drank. He never screamed. Just whimpered softly, uselessly, a gurgled sigh before his heart slowed and stuttered into stillness.

You released him before he hit the ground.

Lord Hale collapsed into the roses like a broken marionette, face slack, eyes wide in fading disbelief. You dabbed the corner of your mouth with a silk handkerchief, expression untouched by remorse.

“A fool,” you whispered, watching the last flicker of life drain from his eyes.

The garden around you was still again, peaceful in a way it hadn’t been moments before.

Your steps were slow but elegant as you returned to the castle. The air smelled sweeter now. Your hunger had abated. The music had faded from the ballroom entirely, leaving only the hush of winding down conversation.

Amaris found you just as you reached the corridor near the kitchens.

“Milady,” she said in a low voice, eyes quickly scanning your face. “You’re—are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you said, dabbing your lips again, checking your gown for blood. “There’s a problem in the garden. It must be disposed of immediately.”

She didn’t ask questions. She never did.

Only gave a small nod and slipped away like a shadow.

You walked calmly back toward the heart of the castle, the faint copper tang of blood still clinging to your tongue—and something else, something that lingered heavier than before. That look in Lord Sylus’ eyes when they met yours across the ballroom.

As though he saw everything.

And wanted more.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You returned to your chambers long after the music had faded and the final lanterns in the ballroom had been extinguished. The corridors were hushed now, save for the occasional crackle of dying candlelight or the distant click of a maid’s hurried step. You walked with practiced grace, yet your body felt charged—alight with the thrill of the kill, and something else.

Lord Hale's blood still clung to your tongue like honeyed wine, but it had not filled the void as it once did. You had expected his end to bring the usual satisfaction, the velvety lull of satiation, the calm that came when the hunger was gone. Instead, you found yourself… restless.

You slipped out of your dress with the ease of routine, letting it puddle at your feet like discarded skin. Beneath it, your chemise stuck faintly to your body, your pulse still fluttering from the memory of two very different men.

You crossed the room slowly, fingers trailing along the edge of your writing desk as you passed, its surface littered with unanswered letters from noblemen, suitors, and friends long since drained or dismissed. You pushed aside the velvet curtain and unlatched the window, letting the wind slip in—cool, damp, and thick with the scent of roses and death.

And still… you thought of him.

Not Hale. Not the sweet, trembling fool whose name you barely recalled as his blood warmed your throat. No—it was the man at the top of the staircase. Sylus.

His name echoed like a secret against the hollow of your ribs. You had heard of him, of course. Everyone had. The eldest son of a noble house long faded into legend, a recluse rarely seen in public, a shadow with a title. Whispers said he kept to his estate, collecting relics, refusing brides, and harboring a coldness that chilled even the most persistent of matchmakers.

You had not expected him to exist.

And yet he had arrived with that unsettling poise, eyes like freshly split rubies gleaming beneath the chandelier. He hadn’t looked at you like the others. No hunger, no flattery. He had looked at you like he knew. And for a heartbeat, you had felt bare beneath it.

His touch had burned in a way you didn’t understand. Not the fire of thirst—but something quieter. Deeper. A pull, as if your soul had remembered his before your mind could.

You sat on the edge of your bed, hands folding slowly in your lap, staring at the hearth though no fire burned there tonight. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t need to. Instead, you waited for dawn, letting the darkness whisper through your thoughts.

By morning, the castle had returned to its rhythm.

You sat in the dining room across from your parents, the long oaken table spread with silverware and spiced fruit. A roast had been prepared too, though you had no appetite for it. Your tea had gone tepid in its porcelain cup.

Your mother wore that thin, practiced smile she reserved for social inquiries. “You looked beautiful last night, darling,” she said as she dabbed delicately at her lips. “Many eyes followed you.”

You offered a nod, letting her speak.

“And? Anyone catch yours?” your father added, looking up from his paper with one brow arched. “There was that young Lord Hale. Bold sort. You danced with him twice.”

You held your cup between your hands. “Mmm,” you murmured. “He was... spirited.”

“Spirited?” your mother repeated, sounding too pleased. “Did he make any overtures? Show promise?”

“He asked to walk with me in the garden,” you said simply, and watched their expressions twist just slightly.

Your mother leaned forward. “And?”

“I believe he’s not quite suited for courtship,” you said smoothly. “Too eager. Lacking composure.”

“Such a shame,” your father said flatly, turning the page. “Another one lost.”

You didn’t correct him. Let them think he’d been discouraged. Let them think he’d left with his pride wounded and heart bruised. Let them wonder, for now.

Then, as if summoned, the door creaked open and Amaris stepped inside.

She moved with her usual ease, face impassive, but her gloved hands clutched a dark envelope. She bowed slightly as she approached you. “A letter, my lady,” she said, eyes flickering meaningfully for the briefest moment. “Delivered not long ago. No seal.”

You took it. The envelope was thick, made of fine black parchment. The wax was deep red, pressed flat without a crest. On the front, only your name, written in a sharp hand—almost like it had been carved into the surface rather than inked.

You waited until your parents returned to their discussion of estate finances before you excused yourself with a graceful smile, stepping into the hallway beyond.

Amaris followed wordlessly, her curiosity practically vibrating off her. “From him?” she whispered once the doors shut behind you both.

“I don’t know,” you replied, but your heart beat once, hard.

You slipped your thumb beneath the seal and opened it.

Inside was a single sheet, folded crisply. No greeting. No signature.

Just one sentence in that same angular script:

“Tell me, did the garden still your hunger, or merely delay it?”

You stared at the page, the blood in your veins suddenly slow, molten.

Amaris looked at you. “What does it say?”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes lingered on the final curve of the ink, like the last twist of a knife.

He knew.

He had watched.

And he was still playing the game.

You stared at the letter a moment longer, as though it might shift in your hand and reveal something more—some hidden message between the words. But there was only that one line. That one quiet, knowing question that coiled beneath your ribs like smoke.

You folded the letter slowly, fingers lingering on the edges, and slid it back into its envelope. The ink had not yet dried entirely. You could smell it—metallic, dark, like blood.

Amaris shifted beside you. “I take it we won’t be burning that one like the others.”

“No,” you murmured. “This one… deserves a reply.”

A slow, pleased smile curved her lips. “Shall I prepare a carriage?”

You turned from her, the faintest curl of a grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. “No need. I imagine he’s already near. I’ll let him think I’m walking right into his snare.”

“And if it is a snare?” she asked lightly.

You looked over your shoulder at her. “Then I’ll enjoy the dance before the knife.”

You didn’t return to your chambers. Instead, you followed the path your instincts told you he would expect. Down the east wing staircase, through the old music room whose door hadn’t been opened in months, and out past the greenhouse, where ivy swallowed the windowpanes and sunlight bled like honey through fractured glass.

There, past the hedgerows and overgrown fountain, was the forgotten gate—one only a few in the manor still knew of. You slipped through it like a wraith, skirts barely whispering against the stone, and found yourself at the edge of the forest beyond the estate.

The trees were tall here, unnaturally still. No birds sang. The air was heavy.

And then, just ahead—he was waiting.

Leaning against the broken arch of an abandoned garden folly, Lord Sylus stood in black, his cloak loose over one shoulder. His red eyes caught yours instantly, gleaming like coals through mist.

“You came,” he said simply.

You stepped forward, ignoring the way the grass seemed to hush under your feet.

“You invited me.”

“I wasn’t certain you’d listen.” His voice was low, thoughtful. “You don’t strike me as the type to answer riddles.”

“And yet I answered yours.”

He inclined his head. “You’re even more dangerous than you let on.”

You gave a soft laugh, the kind that didn’t touch your eyes. “You followed me into the garden.”

“I never left the ballroom,” he said, and your breath paused.

The space between you buzzed with something unspoken. Tension? Recognition? Curiosity? You weren’t sure anymore.

“What are you?” you asked finally, not bothering to veil it with flirtation.

He stepped forward, just once. “Something like you. But older. Cursed longer. Less hungry, more hollow.”

His words scratched at something buried. You stared at him, the curve of his mouth, the stillness of his hands, the way he seemed carved rather than born.

“I don’t usually meet men I don’t want to kill,” you said.

“Is that what happened to Lord Hale?” he asked, voice gentle, as though it didn’t matter either way.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Sylus stepped even closer. Now you could smell him—oakwood and cold metal and something faintly sweet beneath it all, something not quite human.

“Why did you watch me?” you asked, voice softer now.

His gaze flicked over you, slow, unhurried. “Because I saw a mirror. And I wanted to know if it was cracked.”

You hated the way those words settled in your chest.

“I should kill you,” you whispered.

He smiled then. A real smile, sharp and beautiful. “Try.”

The invitation thrummed through your bones like music.

But you didn’t lunge. Didn’t bare your teeth. Instead, you reached out, slowly, and ran your fingers down the edge of his coat, testing the feel of him—solid, warm, maddeningly composed.

He didn’t flinch. “You don’t want my blood.”

You blinked. “No.”

“I don’t want yours either.”

The air shifted. The hunger between you was of a different kind entirely now.

Then he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But I want something else.”

You should have pulled away.

You didn’t.

You let him linger. You let the silence stretch long and slow between you.

When you finally stepped back, his smile had faded into something more solemn. 

“I’ll see you again, sweetie.” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

And you didn’t deny it.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The days passed, though you weren’t sure how many.

Time had always bent strangely for you—distorted by the dull, endless repetition of nobles and parties, lifeless flirtations, and the hollow echo of wine glasses clinking over music you no longer heard. But now it seemed to fold in on itself entirely. You’d wake long after noon, still wrapped in the same silken nightdress, hair tangled and skin cool as frost. You’d sit by the window and stare out into the trees, where fog clung low to the earth like a wounded thing, and you’d try—over and over—to make sense of the voice that lived behind your ear now.

“But I want something else.”

You still fed, of course. You had to. The need curled in your belly like smoke, low and insistent, and ignoring it only made you sharp and irritable. You let yourself indulge—more than usual, if anything. A young captain from the southern provinces who came to your room with shaking hands and left without memory; a visiting poet who tasted like lilac and wine; even a stable boy, when your mood turned stormy and you didn’t want to talk.

It wasn’t about pleasure. 

They were sustenance. Nothing more.

Because none of them made you feel anything.

Not the way he did.

Sylus.

The name alone made your stomach tighten in a way that had nothing to do with hunger. You hated how you remembered his every movement—the way his fingers brushed your wrist like it was intentional, the slow smiles he gave you, the way he’d called you sweetie so naturally— like it was a secret only he was allowed to know.

He didn’t smell like prey. He didn’t feel like prey.

There had been no fear in him.

Not even curiosity, which was more dangerous still.

He looked at you like he already knew—what you were, what you’d done, what you still needed. And not only did it not bother him—he seemed drawn to it.

But he didn’t make you hungry.

That was what troubled you most.

It wasn’t the lack of desire. You still had that. You’d felt it since the moment you laid eyes on him—it surged when he looked at you too long, when he smiled, when his lips brushed your knuckles and it felt like lightning crawled under your skin.

It wasn’t blood you wanted.

And for a creature like you, that was a deeply unsettling revelation.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

At breakfast, your mother asked if you’d enjoyed the last ball you attended.

Some forgettable farce, full of names and faces you didn’t care to remember.

You gave a vague answer—smiling around your teacup, pretending to listen while your father mentioned something about Lord Hale’s strange disappearance.

They didn’t suspect you. They never did. You were their porcelain doll. Their lovely, pale daughter with a quiet smile and polite answers. You played your role well.

“It’s time to be serious,” your mother said delicately, buttering a piece of toast. “You’re not a child. You need to choose someone before tongues begin to wag.”

“They already do,” you murmured.

“And I let them,” she said. “Because your reputation keeps you safe. But that won’t last forever.”

Your father sighed. “Lord Davis sent flowers. A whole cart of them.”

“Let them rot,” you said.

Your mother shot you a look. “He’s wealthy, and titled.”

“He’s also dull, and I suspect he speaks to horses more than people.”

That earned a small, reluctant laugh from your father. But your mother was less amused.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You kept busy, as best you could.

You walked the garden paths until your shoes were soaked through with dew. You asked Amaris to rearrange the entire north wing of your wardrobe. You read poetry you couldn’t focus on, dipped your fingers in paint you never used, went riding at dusk with a blade hidden in your corset just to feel something.

Nothing helped.

No matter what you did, your thoughts circled back to him.

It wasn’t like you. You were used to men obsessing over you—not the other way around. You were used to being in control.

But now, at night, when you lay beneath the canopy of your bed with your lips still tasting of someone else’s blood, you thought of red eyes in the dark. Of his voice—low and rich and full of knowing. Of the way he watched you like a man surveying a puzzle he had every intention of solving.

You didn’t like being on edge.

You didn’t like not knowing.

“I think you’re infatuated,” Amaris said casually, one afternoon, as she fastened the laces of your gown.

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Is it ridiculous to note that this is the fifth time you’ve worn this color since the ball?” she said, tone amused. “And that you haven’t stopped asking which guests will be attending the next?”

You turned your head away, toward the mirror. “It suits me.”

“Mm,” she murmured. “And if he likes it too, all the better.”

You didn’t answer. But your silence betrayed you.

She stepped closer, tightening the laces with a firm tug. “Just be careful,” she added softly. “Whatever he is, he’s not ordinary.”

Neither are you, you wanted to say.

But instead: “I know.”

That evening, a new invitation arrived.

A masquerade at the Von Clares. Renowned for their winter roses and scandalous tastes. It would be full of masks, of course—and secrets behind them. The kind of place where favors were traded like gold and you couldn’t turn a corner without tripping over lust or ambition.

You scanned the list of confirmed attendees and found his name quickly.

Sylus R. Nocturne

Your heart didn’t flutter.

It throbbed.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The snow fell softly the night of the masquerade.

You watched it from the tall windows of your room, arms folded beneath your cloak as Amaris stood beside you, murmuring disapproval over your refusal to wear white. Everyone else would be dressed in pale silk and gauze—ice maidens and winter spirits, how terribly predictable.

You chose shadow.

A gown of black muslin and silk, rich and soft and clinging in all the right places. Your mask was carved onyx with silver filigree, a glint of crimson at the corner of the eyes—a single nod to the predator beneath the silk. Around your throat, a choker of garnets, the dark stones pulsing like a heartbeat. You didn’t look like a girl trying to catch a suitor.

You looked like a secret meant to be kept.

And maybe, tonight, you didn’t want to hide what you were.

Not completely.

You descended the stairs long after the other guests had left, a carriage waiting at the bottom of the hill. Your mother had raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Amaris gave you a long, searching look as she adjusted your gloves at the door.

“He’ll be there,” she said, not as warning, but reminder.

“I know,” you replied.

Your pulse betrayed you anyway.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The Von Clare estate glittered like a frostbitten dream.

Lanterns lined the walk like floating stars, the ballroom lit in amber and gold. Music drifted through the open windows—violins, lilting and haunting, as guests swept through marble corridors in silk and fur. Everywhere you looked: masks, feathers, gloved hands reaching for crystal glasses. Champagne and rumors flowed freely.

You moved like smoke through it all, polite and detached.

Eyes followed you. Of course they did. They always had.

But they didn’t matter.

You were only looking for one.

And when you saw him—standing near the terrace doors in a fitted black coat, mask tipped slightly over one crimson eye—you nearly turned and fled.

Not out of fear.

But because the sight of him sent something sharp and heated slicing through your composure.

He looked—unfair. His hair was tousled like he’d flown here through a storm, and the cut of his jacket clung to the lines of his shoulders like it had been tailored to the shape of sin. His mask was simple, matte black with no ornamentation, and yet it made him seem otherworldly. Untouchable. Watching.

But he didn’t watch the room.

He watched you.

From the second you stepped into view, his attention snapped into place. Not politely. Not lazily. But like a man seeing something he’d spent a very long time searching for.

You weren’t used to being seen like that.

And you hated how it made your knees feel.

He didn’t move at first.

Just stood there.

So, of course, you moved first.

You approached with practiced ease, chin high and smile faint. But every step toward him made your pulse louder, your throat tighter. He let you come to him, and when you stopped—only an arm’s length away—he tilted his head, considering.

“You clean up nicely,” you said coolly.

“Ah,” he murmured, voice like velvet. “She speaks first this time. I should count myself lucky.”

You arched a brow. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, taking your gloved hand in his and bowing—gently, exaggerated, a devil playing the part of a gentleman. “But if I may say... black suits you far too well. Are you trying to scare the guests?”

“Shouldn’t I?”

His smile crooked, fond and wicked. “You’re terrifying.”

You hated how warm your stomach felt.

And then, without asking, he guided you onto the dance floor.

You almost pulled away.

Almost.

But his hand was warm through the silk. And his arm, when it settled at your waist, felt too natural to resist.

The violins swelled.

And you began to move.

You hadn’t danced like this in years. Not with anyone who mattered. Not with anyone who looked at you like the world had gone quiet just to watch you move. Sylus didn’t speak for the first few turns of the room—he just looked at you, one hand at your waist, the other folded gently in yours, and you hated the way you wanted to lean into him. The way your body responded to his like it remembered something your mind couldn’t yet name.

He was too close.

He wasn’t close enough.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said at last, voice low.

You scoffed. “That implies I was meant to seek you out.”

“You mean you didn’t think of me at all?”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, just enough that your breath caught. “Lie better.”

You looked up at him then, letting your gaze pierce. “What is it you actually want, Sylus?”

His eyes gleamed behind his mask. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“No,” you said, sharper than you meant to. “You flirt, you watch, you say unsettling things and leave. It’s not obvious at all.”

He held your gaze as the music dipped into something deeper, slower.

“I’m courting you.”

You blinked.

Then laughed—soft, dry, disbelieving. “You don’t do that.”

“I am now,” he said simply.

The sincerity of it froze you.

He didn’t grin. Didn’t tease. Just looked at you like the statement was self-evident.

“I mean no harm,” he added softly. “If that is what you think of me.”

You stiffened. His hand at your waist didn’t press—just held you steady, as if he knew the storm behind your mask.

“Then what do you want?”

His thumb brushed your wrist—so lightly you nearly missed it.

“You,” he said.

You stared at him, breath caught behind your ribs. “That’s it? That’s your grand confession?”

Sylus tilted his head slightly, amusement curving at the corner of his mouth. “You sound disappointed, sweetie.”

“I sound skeptical.” Your voice was low, tight. “Most men want a dowry, a title. Or at the very least, an easy woman to parade.”

“I have no interest in parading you.”

“No?” You arched a brow. “Then what do you plan to do with me, Lord Sylus?”

He smiled at that—slow and wicked, but not unkind.

“I plan to spend time in your company. I plan to flatter you shamelessly. I plan,” he said, lowering his voice as he spun you gently, “to earn your trust, and then something more.”

You rolled your eyes, but it came out softer than you intended. “So, that’s what this is?”

“Yes.”

“You say that like it’s obvious.”

“It is. To me.”

You studied his face—what you could see beneath the mask. The scar at the edge of his eye. The too-honest gleam in the other. The way he looked at you as if every movement you made told him something no one else could hear.

“Do you even know what that means?” you asked, voice tinged with disbelief. “To court someone? This isn’t a card game.”

He gave a soft huff of a laugh. “What would you have me do? Write you sonnets?”

“God, no.”

“Then let me try this way.”

His arm tightened slightly at your back, just enough to make you aware of how solid he was, how easily he could draw you against him if he chose. But he didn’t. He simply let the space between you crackle.

“I don’t understand you,” you said finally, more quietly. “You don’t feel like one of them.”

“The other suitors?”

You nodded.

“I’m not.”

“Then what are you?”

His smile didn’t fade—but it changed. Grew quieter. Warmer. A little sad.

“Something you’ll discover in time.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the best one I can give you tonight.”

You should’ve pulled away then. Pressed him further. But you didn’t want to cause a scene. And you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how badly you did want to know. So instead, you pivoted, voice drier than wine:

“So tell me, Lord Sylus. If you’re courting me so seriously—should I be expecting a proposal next? A ring? A public announcement at the next ball?”

Something in his eyes flickered.

And then—without hesitation, without even blinking—he said, “If you’ll have me.”

You nearly stumbled.

Sylus, ever steady, caught you with ease, hand tightening at your waist just long enough to keep you upright before resuming the rhythm of the dance. You looked up at him, trying to find the mockery in his face—but there wasn’t any. Only calm, devastating honesty.

“You’re not serious,” you whispered.

“I am.”

“You can’t be.”

“Why not?” he asked mildly.

“Because you know what I am.”

He leaned down, lips nearly brushing your ear. “That’s the part I’m looking forward to.”

Taken back, you stiffened again. “And if I say no?”

“Then I’ll consider myself unlucky.” He pulled back, tilting his head in mock thought. “But I’ve never had much luck, you know. I’ve had to take what I wanted.”

Your breath caught.

There was no threat in his voice—none at all. But something older lingered beneath those words. Something dragon-blooded and ancient and utterly patient.

He wouldn’t take you by force.

But he would pursue you with every edge of his will.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The masquerade was long over. The distant estate where it had taken place was quiet now, its mirrored halls and candlelit balconies nothing but a lingering echo in your memory.

Still, three days later you carried its residue—on the hem of your gown, in the dull ache where a gloved hand had held your waist too tightly. You told yourself you weren’t waiting for him.

And yet here you were, alone in the garden behind your family’s castle, past midnight, barefoot on cool stone.

You crouched near a trellis, fingers brushing along a rose’s stem, inspecting the split where thorns had pierced it through. It felt familiar.

You heard the crunch of boots on gravel.

Slow. Deliberate.

You didn’t startle.

“You’re bold,” you said evenly, not turning. “Coming here.”

A familiar voice answered, low and self-assured. “I’m courting you aren’t I? Should I not be?”

“That depends,” you murmured, rising to your full height. You still didn’t face him. “Do you enjoy tempting fate?”

The footsteps stopped behind you. Closer than you expected.

“I’ve never found fear to be all that useful,” Sylus said.

You turned then. He was dressed in dark charcoal again, though tonight his coat was lighter, open at the collar. The moonlight caught in the silver of his hair, made his eyes seem redder. Wilder.

He looked—at ease. As though he belonged here. As though this wasn’t dangerous.

“Then you’ve clearly never met a woman like me.”

“I suppose I haven’t.” His gaze traveled—never leering, but keen. “But I’m glad I finally have.”

You stepped away from the trellis and toward the path, keeping distance between you. “Men who get too close to me tend to disappear.”

“Lord Hale?” he asked, unbothered.

You met his eyes coolly. “You want to end up like him?”

“No, I don’t,” he smirked. “Though I suppose I’d have already been disposed of in the hedges if I were going to.”

You scoffed at that.

You moved to stand by the fountain, your hand brushing the rim absently. “Maybe I’m just waiting for the right moment.”

“Maybe,” he said, following your steps but not crowding them. “You have no such plans.”

“How can you be so sure?” You turned your body just slightly, one hand trailing the water. “You came out here willingly. Past midnight. Alone. Into a garden belonging to a woman with a trail of suitors in her wake. Not many of them breathing. Are you some fool or do you have a death wish, Lord Sylus?”

His expression didn’t falter. If anything, the corners of his mouth tugged upward.

“A death wish?” he huffed, “No, no. I have much greater ambitions, my lady. I believe I told you of them at the masquerade.”

You rolled your eyes. “Ah, yes, your plans of wedding a monster. How grand.”

“Yet here you are,” he said, “warning me, pushing me away. Doesn’t quite fit the monster you’re attempting to paint, sweetie.”

You exhaled a soft laugh. “I don’t owe you a performance.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I’m glad you’re not giving me one.”

That disarmed you more than you cared to admit.

You studied him a moment. The shape of him, tall and composed, ringed in moonlight. There was something about his stillness—it wasn’t passivity. It was coiled control. Not fear, not caution. Curiosity.

“You’re not afraid of me,” you said, not a question.

He stepped closer, just one measured pace. “Should I be?”

You didn’t answer.

He moved again, slow enough to give you time to stop him. You didn’t. Now the distance between you was almost nothing.

You looked up at him, tilting your head. “You truly are stupid,” you murmured, “or something else entirely.”

“Would it disappoint you if I said neither?” he asked. “That I just find you... interesting?”

“Interesting,” you repeated dryly.

“Enchanting, then.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“I’m not flirting for the sake of it,” he added, softer now. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

“And what do you mean, Sylus?” His name tasted strange on your tongue. Too familiar.

He considered you for a moment, then smiled—crooked, slow.

“I mean that you came out here to be alone,” he said, “and yet you haven’t told me to leave.”

You hated how true that was.

You turned your gaze toward the roses instead. “This garden has been here longer than the castle. Older than my bloodline. I like it because it doesn’t pretend to be tame.”

He moved beside you, not touching, but close enough to feel his presence radiating warmth.

“I understand that,” he said. “I don’t trust anything too carefully pruned.”

You let a beat pass. Then another.

“I could kill you,” you said at last. “And no one would hear. Not this deep into the hedges.”

“I know.”

You finally looked at him again.

“I don’t fear death the way most men do,” he said. “And I don’t fear you.”

You swallowed the strange sound rising in your throat. He wasn’t lying. Not a trace of it in his tone.

He reached out, slowly—fingertips brushing the back of your hand where it rested against the marble lip of the fountain. You didn’t pull away.

“Don’t pretend this doesn’t intrigue you too,��� he said. “You never indulge men this long unless you want to.”

“Is that what you think you are?” you asked, voice lower now. “Indulgence?”

He smirked faintly. “Not yet. But I’d like to be.”

You hated the heat that bloomed in your chest. The warmth in your limbs that betrayed how long it had been since you let anyone touch you. Since you let anyone look at you like this.

He let the moment linger—long enough for you to feel the question behind his breath.

Then he stepped back.

“There’s a performance in the old conservatory tomorrow night,” he said, smoothing his sleeve. “A string quartet. Local talent, but I hear they’re decent. And the venue’s... romantic. In that brooding, candlelit kind of way.”

You raised a brow. “Is that supposed to tempt me?”

“Would it?” he asked.

You didn’t answer. But neither did you decline.

He nodded, as if your silence was confirmation.

Then he turned away, retracing his steps down the winding path—but before he disappeared into the shadows of the hedges, he paused.

“I hope you come,” he said over his shoulder. “But if not—” a pause, “—I’ll find you in the next garden.”

Then he was gone.

And you stood barefoot by the fountain, the cold marble under your palm, heart traitorously awake in your chest.

You didn’t go back inside for a long time.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The castle was quiet at twilight, hushed beneath a veil of mist that clung to the gables and garden walls. Somewhere, the last bell of the hour rang low.

You sat before your mirror, candlelight licking at the glass, casting twin flames in your eyes. Amaris stood behind you, carefully drawing the laces of your gown—deep ruby silk that kissed your shoulders and fell like liquid shadow down your spine. 

“You’re seeing him again,” Amaris said, soft but certain.

You didn’t answer immediately. She tied the last ribbon with deft fingers and stepped around you, adjusting the fall of the skirt.

“What does Lord Sylus want, do you think?” she asked next, smoothing out a crease. “No man has lingered this long before.”

You met her gaze in the mirror. “I’ve never let them.”

A hushed laugh escapes her lips. “Your hunger knows no bounds, my lady.”

“No, it hadn’t,” you said, lifting a hand to fix an earring, “not until I met him.”

Amaris tilted her head. “And you—do you like him?”

You paused, fingertips resting against your earlobe.

“I don’t know,” you said. “He unsettles me. Intrigues me.” you pause, “But I don’t know if I can trust him yet.”

Amaris frowned faintly, stepping back.

“Is he... like the others?” she asked. She didn’t have to say the names. The castle still remembered. Lord Hale. Lord Everett. Lord Sinclaire. All now ash, or dust, or worse.

“No,” you said. “He’s nothing like them.”

She waited, sensing there was more.

You turned from the mirror and rose, smoothing your skirts with deliberate slowness. “He knows what I am.”

Amaris blinked. “He knows?”

“He’s known since the night we met. And yet he stays. He’s not afraid.”

“That doesn’t make him trustworthy.”

“No.” You looked toward the window, where moonlight was beginning to streak the garden walls in silver. “It makes him dangerous.”

“And still you go.”

You turned, lips curling slightly. “Wouldn’t you?”

Amaris didn’t smile. She reached for your gloves instead, holding them out with a quiet dignity that said she would never stop protecting you, even if she didn’t understand why.

You took them, slipping them over your hands. “If I don’t come back—”

“I’ll bury him neatly,” she said.

That did earn a smile. A sharp, passing thing.

“Don’t wait up,” you said, and swept from the room before she could say another word.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The conservatory was half-silvered in moonlight, the glass panes high above beading with condensation as the evening cooled. Inside, candles flickered along the arching walkways, their golden light caught on ivy leaves and the pale blooms of night-blooming jasmine. The scent was thick in the air—heady, dreamlike, almost narcotic.

You stepped inside alone, your heels silent on the polished marble floor, silk gown trailing in your wake like spilled wine. The quiet swell of the quartet filtered from another room, but here the music was more distant, intimate—something private. Hidden. A slow waltz that curled along the air like smoke.

Sylus was already there.

He stood near one of the fountains, facing away, bathed in candlelight and shadow. His coat was darker than midnight, the collar high, the silk of his cravat faintly patterned like old constellations. The moment he sensed your presence, he turned.

His smile bloomed slow, deliberate. “You came.”

“I did,” you said, tilting your chin. “You’re lucky I was in the mood.”

He moved closer, offering no retort—only a crystal flute of champagne, already half chilled from the silver tray beside the fountain.

You took it, letting your gloved fingers brush his. His touch lingered a moment too long.

“You look…” His gaze dropped to your gown, then returned, eyes gleaming. “Like a sin I’d commit twice.”

You arched a brow, sipping the champagne to disguise your surprise. It was cool and sweet, laced with rosewater and peach.

“Do you rehearse lines like that?” you asked, faintly amused.

“Only for you,” he said.

You scoffed softly, though your stomach fluttered. “Flatter me all you like, Sylus, but I know how this story ends.”

“And how is that?”

“With you bleeding out somewhere poetic. A ruined chapel, perhaps.”

He stepped closer, invading your air, his voice low and velvet-lined. “I’d prefer your arms.”

You nearly choked on the champagne. “You really are relentless.”

He smiled, something wolfish curling in the corners. “Relentless would mean I expected a reward. But tonight, I only wish for your time.”

You gave him a look, halfway between disbelief and reluctant curiosity.

“Dance with me,” he said, and offered his hand.

You hesitated. Then, slowly—perhaps too slowly—you placed your fingers in his.

The quartet’s distant melody deepened into a lilting waltz, and he drew you into it without hesitation. One arm curved around your waist, the other holding your hand just firm enough to guide.

The dance was long, slow, exquisitely drawn out. His gloved hand rested at the small of your back, and you swore you could feel the warmth of his palm through the silk. He didn’t rush. Every movement, every step was measured—an unspoken language, designed not just to impress, but to unravel.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured near your ear. “Should I worry?”

“I was warned you were cold,” you said as he spun you, the floor catching the hem of your gown like a flame.

“I am. To most.” He brought you close again. “But you’re... warming.”

You huffed softly. “I’d believe that if I didn’t know better.”

“Oh?” His thumb brushed your knuckles. “And what is it you think you know?”

You met his gaze, bold but uncertain. “Nothing important. I still don’t know what you want.”

“I’ve already told you.”

“I want to hear it again.”

He spun you once, drawing you close on the return. “You.”

You blinked. “You don’t even know me.”

“Then let me.”

You swallowed, pulse flickering. “There are easier women at court.”

“I don’t want easy,” he said. “I want you.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the music. Your breath caught—not from fear, but something sharper. Want. Wonder.

As the song reached its close, he didn’t release you right away. His hand slid to the curve of your waist, fingertips grazing just beneath your ribs. You didn’t stop him. Couldn’t.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said, voice a thread of heat along your throat. “Every night. Every time I close my eyes.”

You stared at him. “That sounds like a curse.”

“Feels like one.”

That startled a quiet laugh from you. Not dry or sarcastic—genuine. He grinned at the sound, satisfied.

“I wanted to hear that,” he said softly. “Your laugh.”

You turned your head slightly, embarrassed at the heat creeping up your neck.

He caught the moment, his voice barely above a whisper. “Come. I want to show you something.”

The music faded behind you as he led you toward the glass doors. He opened them for you, and the cool night air swept across your skin.

The balcony was empty, bathed in silver light. Below, the manicured gardens stretched in ghostly green, and above, the moon hung full and pale, veiled by drifting clouds.

“You brought me here to look at the moon?” you asked over your shoulder.

“I did,” he said easily. “Though you fiercely rival it.”

You turned just enough to smirk. “You certainly know how to flatter—for a man with a cold reputation.”

He laughed, low and quiet. “What can I say? A woman like you would inspire even the most frigid of men.”

You kept your gaze on the sky, arms folding over your chest.

“Even on this small balcony, you still feel so far away,” he said.

“Maybe I’m protecting you from danger.”

“How kind,” he said with amusement. “Though I’ve yet to experience this danger you keep speaking of.”

You said nothing.

After a beat, he asked, “Don’t you ever feel lonely?”

You glanced at him. “I think you already know the answer.”

“I know what it looks like,” he said. “But I want to know what it feels like. From you.”

You turned back to the moon. “I think loneliness becomes less a feeling and more a fact, after a time. Like gravity. Or hunger.”

“And yet you keep everyone at a distance.”

“Perhaps I enjoy being alone.”

“Do you?”

You didn’t answer.

He stepped closer, his arm brushing yours. “I don’t believe you’re unfeeling,” he murmured. “You wouldn’t be so careful if you were.”

The words caught you off guard. You looked at him—searching, uncertain.

Silence bloomed between you again, thicker this time. Heavy with something unnamed.

His fingers found your wrist, slow and careful, then slid up your arm in a reverent touch. “Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

His hand rose to cradle your jaw, warm and steady. The stars blurred behind him. And then—finally—you leaned in.

The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant. Then came the pull you’d tried so long to resist. His lips were patient, his hand steady, but the heat in his chest pressed into yours, and you melted—just for a moment.

He drew back, breath ghosting across your lips.

“Do you believe me now?” he asked.

Your fingers were still resting lightly on his chest.

“No,” you said, breathless. “But I’ll allow you to keep courting me.”

A slow smile spread across his face—unpracticed, but sincere. “Then I’ll be relentless.”

You arched a brow. “I thought you already were.”

He chuckled low. “Guilty.”

Then, more softly: “There’s a lake estate I’ve been restoring, just north of the forest. It’s quiet. Unspoiled. I’d like to take you there. Just the two of us.”

You didn’t answer right away. He didn’t rush you.

At last, you said, “When?”

“Next week. At dusk,” he said. “It’s most beautiful then.”

“Already trying to sweep me away,” you mused. “What do you have planned?”

He looked at you with a certain softness you hadn’t seen before.

“I plan to win your heart,” he paused. “To show you true devotion, if you allow it.”

You held his gaze. “All right. I’ll come.”

He bowed slightly, never looking away. “Then I’ll be counting the days.”

And when he offered his arm to escort you back inside, you took it—just a little closer than before.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The carriage rattled over gravel as it curved through the gates of Sylus’ estate.

It loomed above the pines like something carved from shadow and myth—gothic arches stretched skyward, stone gargoyles crouched in the eaves, and a cascade of wild roses tangled up the south-facing wing. The manor was grand but strange, too symmetrical in places and oddly modern in others, as if it had been reshaped over centuries by hands that couldn’t quite agree on beauty. Its windows were lit softly, warmly, and a line of golden lamps glowed along the path leading to the front steps.

You stepped out of the carriage into the cool dusk, your skirts brushing over moss-stained stone.

Sylus was already waiting.

He leaned against the doorway with one arm braced above his head, the other tucked into the pocket of his black coat. His eyes found you immediately—hungry, fond, amused. You hadn’t even opened your mouth and he looked as if you’d just told him something scandalous.

"Welcome to my home," he said, voice low and velvety. “And here I thought the architecture was the most breathtaking thing on the estate.”

You rolled your eyes, the corner of your mouth tugging up despite yourself. “You’ve hardly let me step inside.”

“I don’t need to,” he replied, offering his arm. “You brought the storm with you, sweetie.”

He led you into a grand foyer where chandeliers glowed with soft amber light and dark wood gleamed beneath polished boots. You took in the ornate railing sweeping along the second-floor landing, the velvet drapes pulled high, the soft hush of the space—opulent, but not cold.

“I had the rooms aired out,” he said as he guided you forward, “in case you worried I spend my nights brooding among cobwebs.”

“You don’t?” you teased.

“Oh, I do. But only for effect.”

You laughed. He seemed to drink in the sound, glancing sidelong at you like he couldn’t help himself. “Come. Let me show you the more dangerous parts of the manor. Like the drawing room. I’m told it has a very sharp settee.”

He gave you a tour like no other man ever had—half guide, half provocateur.

The drawing room was moody and lush, lined with dark green paneling and lit by sconces shaped like dripping candles. An enormous fireplace stood sentinel on the far wall, and over it hung a haunting oil painting of a woman whose eyes seemed to follow you.

"Is she family?" you asked.

"No. But she came with the frame,” he said. “I thought it would be rude to separate them.”

The music room was all dusky golds and walnut wood, warmed by a hearth and crowned by a grand piano near the window. A violin rested on its side beside a silver metronome.

“You play?” you asked.

He leaned in, lowering his voice. “I do. But I only perform for an audience of one.”

“And here I thought you’d bring out a whole string quartet just to woo me.”

“I considered it,” he admitted. “But I’d rather see how your eyes shine under candlelight when I play something slow. Just for you.”

The library took your breath away.

Vaulted ceilings rose high above two levels of shelves, and the smell of parchment and polish clung to the air. A ladder stretched along the tallest shelf, and in the center sat two armchairs facing a fireplace already crackling with low flames.

You wandered toward the spines with wonder. “This is… not what I expected.”

“You thought I was illiterate?”

“No,” you laughed, running your fingers along the cracked leather of an old volume. “I thought you'd only collect books to keep up appearance.”

He stepped up behind you, voice a whisper just over your shoulder. “And what appearance would that be?”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. “A mysterious man with excellent taste.”

“Guilty,” he murmured.

The tour ended with him leading you down a quieter hall, one with softer rugs and windows that overlooked the moonlit gardens. He stopped before a tall door and opened it with a slow, almost reverent hand.

“Your room,” he said. “Unless you prefer mine.”

You gave him a look, stepping past the threshold.

The room was exquisite. Deep burgundy drapes—so similar in shade to the gown you wore during your last evening together—hung from the canopy of a carved mahogany bed. A mirrored vanity sat beneath an oval window, and a faint perfume of rosewater and cedar clung to the linens. A single crystal decanter of wine stood waiting on a silver tray.

You turned to face him.

“Thank you, Lord Sylus,” you said, lips twitching. “For the tour. And the theatrics.”

He bowed slightly at the waist, though his eyes burned as they lingered on you.

“Rest well, my lady,” he said. “We ride at dawn. I plan to win your heart between the gallops.”

“I didn’t know it was a race.”

“Oh, it always is.”

And then he was gone, the door whispering shut behind him, leaving only the flicker of firelight and the ghost of his smile.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The morning dawned soft and golden, kissed by mist. Thin ribbons of fog still clung to the hills as you stepped out of the manor and into the chill air. A groom was already leading two horses into the courtyard—one deep chestnut, the other black as spilled ink. Both stood proud and gleaming beneath their saddles, their breath puffing in white clouds.

And beside them stood Sylus.

He wore a black riding coat with silver embroidery threading the cuffs and collar, open just enough to hint at the dark shirt beneath. His hair was slightly tousled by the wind, and the morning sun caught the edge of his red eyes, turning them a deeper, darker garnet.

“You’re late,” he said with a grin.

“I’m ten minutes early.”

“Exactly. Which means I’ve been waiting ten minutes too long.”

He held out a gloved hand to help you mount, but even after you were seated, he lingered at your stirrup, eyes traveling the length of you as if he were memorizing the image for some secret purpose.

“You look breathtaking on horseback,” he murmured, then added, “Though I suspect you look breathtaking in most places.”

You arched a brow. “And do you say that to all your guests?”

“No,” he said, swinging into the saddle beside you with effortless grace. “Only the ones who haunt my dreams.”

With a sharp whistle, he urged his horse forward, and you followed, the two of you setting off at a canter through the trees beyond the estate.

The forest thinned as the path wound uphill, giving way to open fields scattered with larkspur and buttercups. The wind played in your hair. Sylus rode close, stealing glances more than once, and you caught his smirk each time you pretended not to notice.

“You ride well,” he said at last, eyes crinkling in amusement. “Not that I’m surprised. You seem the type to tame wild things.”

“I suppose I have a talent for it,” you said, lips curving. “Are you offering yourself up as an example?”

“Oh, I’m far too wild to be tamed,” he drawled, reining in as the horses crested a low ridge. “But if you’re brave, you can try.”

You both slowed as the fields unfurled into a meadow below, bright with flowers and dappled sunlight. Sylus led the way off the path, guiding your horses into the taller grasses until they came to a gentle halt. The breeze rippled across the blooms in soft waves, and the scent of earth and honeysuckle wrapped around you.

“Let’s rest a moment,” he said, dismounting. “I want to show you something.”

You slid down from your horse, letting him steady you with one hand at your waist. He didn’t let go right away. His gaze lingered too long.

“I thought you were showing me something,” you said, teasing.

“I am.” His voice dropped. “But I think I already found it.”

Before you could reply, he turned, brushing through the flowers until he plucked a small cluster of wild violets. He came back slowly, a boyish light in his eyes you hadn’t quite seen before.

“Hold still,” he said softly, stepping in close.

You tilted your head as he tucked the violet behind your ear, his fingers brushing your cheek. The contact was fleeting but warm, intimate.

“There,” he said, voice suddenly quieter. “Perfect.”

You blinked at the tenderness in his expression, the way his eyes softened, how his smirk faded into something unguarded.

“You’re beautiful,” he added. “But you know that, don’t you?”

“I like hearing it from you,” you murmured.

He laughed, but it was hushed—gentle, like a secret—and you reached down to pluck a bloom of your own, a tiny wild daisy.

“Your turn.”

He tilted his head, trying to look unimpressed, but you caught the slight pink tinge creeping into his ears. When you tucked the daisy above his ear, he froze—not out of resistance, but embarrassment.

“A daisy?” he asked, clearly trying to recover his usual charm.

“It suits you.”

He gave a sharp exhale of mock offense. “I was hoping for something more dangerous.”

“You look dangerous enough. I wanted to try something softer.”

He smiled at that—something real, without guile. His gaze dropped, just for a moment, and when it returned to you, it had a shimmer of something new. Not fire. Not flirtation.

Something closer to wonder.

“I don’t let people see me like this,” he said, voice low. “But I think you knew that already.”

You reached out and touched his hand, lightly.

“I did.”

And for a moment, the two of you stood still in that field, wind curling around you like silk, flowers swaying at your feet, the world distant and hushed.

Then he stepped back, just a bit, clearing his throat.

“If we stay here much longer, I might say something I can’t take back,” he said, half-teasing, half-true. “Shall we ride on?”

You nodded, heart warm, and let him help you mount again.

As you turned your horses toward the path, he cast one last glance over his shoulder at the flowers behind you.

“I’ll remember that meadow,” he said.

You smiled. “So will I.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The next night, you had wandered out into the gardens without quite meaning to, drawn by the warm hush of twilight and the way the roses glowed like fading embers in the dusk. The moon was just beginning to rise, silvering the hedges and trailing vines with pale light. All was quiet—save for the rustle of leaves, the chirp of night insects, and the slow breath of the night on your skin.

You sat on the edge of the stone fountain in the center of the garden, fingers trailing the water’s surface as you lost yourself in thought.

“Ah,” came a low, familiar voice behind you, “so this is where my darling has run off to.”

You turned, startled—but not truly surprised.

Sylus stood at the edge of the path, half-shadowed by a climbing arch of ivy. His coat was dark, finely tailored, and the open collar of his shirt gave him a roguish ease that made your breath catch. The candlelight from a nearby lantern flickered across his features, carving his cheekbones in gold.

“You found me,” you said with a small smile.

“Of course I did. Do you think I’d let you vanish into a moonlit garden without following?” His tone was light, teasing. “Besides, I have something for you.”

He offered his hand.

Suspicion curled pleasantly in your chest. “What is it?”

“You’ll see. But you’ll have to trust me.”

You placed your hand in his, and he pulled you gently to your feet. His touch was warm, his grip firm. As he led you through the garden, he stole glances at you again—he was always stealing glances—and each time, you felt them like brushstrokes of heat.

He brought you to the east wing of the manor, down a quiet corridor you hadn’t yet explored. When he opened a tall oak door and stepped aside, you realized what he’d been hiding.

A dining room—not the formal hall used for noble dinners, but something smaller, more intimate. The chamber was awash in soft candlelight. Dozens of candles flickered across the table and mantle, their golden glow reflecting off decanters of wine and polished silver. A bouquet of wildflowers sat in a crystal vase at the center, echoing the ones from the meadow. The scent of roasted duck and honeyed pears wafted through the air.

Your brows lifted. “You set all this up?”

“I had help,” he said. “But the thought was mine.”

You turned to him, uncertain whether to be amused or charmed.

He tilted his head. “Too much?”

“It’s perfect,” you said. “Though I’m beginning to think you’re trying to seduce me.”

He gave a slow smile. “And if I were?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you let him pull out your chair and sink into the evening like a warm bath. The two of you dined by flickering light and soft shadows, wine poured freely between teasing remarks and half-truths shared in glances. He asked about your childhood. You asked about his travels. He gave answers that hinted at more than he said.

“You’re a mystery,” you said at one point, sipping your wine. “One moment, you’re all fire and bravado. The next, you’re quiet. Thoughtful. I can’t decide which is more dangerous.”

“Both,” he replied, lips brushing the rim of his glass. “But you’re not afraid of danger, are you?”

“No,” you said slowly. “Only of being bored.”

“Then you have nothing to fear with me.”

The air between you grew denser as the meal wore on, conversation turning into something more like a game—more space between the words, more heat behind the smiles. The shadows grew deeper. The only light now came from the candles, casting your features in gold and painting Sylus’s lashes across his cheekbones.

At last, as the final bite of dessert disappeared and the wine settled warm in your veins, Sylus stood.

He walked around the table and held out his hand.

You blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Dancing,” he said simply. “If you’ll join me.”

There was no music, only the whisper of the wind outside and the occasional creak of candle wax softening in the warmth. But when you placed your hand in his, he drew you close with the ease of someone who had already pictured this moment a dozen times.

Your bodies fit together too well.

One of his hands found your waist, the other your fingers, and he guided you into a slow turn, the candlelight spinning softly around you. His touch was reverent but confident, his steps smooth, practiced.

“Tell me,” he said, voice low and rich with mischief, “is this the part where you fall helplessly for me?”

You raised a brow, stepping in closer with a smirk. “I think it’s sweet how you assume I haven’t already.”

His eyes flashed—something wickedly pleased and undeniably fond. “So you admit it.”

“I admit nothing,” you murmured, letting him guide you into another slow turn, your skirts brushing against his legs. “Except perhaps that I enjoy this more than I thought I would.”

“Dancing?” he asked.

You looked up at him. “Being with you.”

For a heartbeat, Sylus didn’t answer. His hand at your waist held just a fraction tighter, his gaze suddenly serious in the candlelight.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing the back of your hand. “Because I haven’t been able to think of anything else.”

You smiled—soft, unguarded. “You’re shameless.”

“I’m honest,” he countered, spinning you gently and catching you again with practiced ease. “And entirely yours, if you’ll have me.”

You blinked, heat blooming at your throat. “You’re dangerous when you talk like that.”

“Then I’ll keep doing it,” he said with a grin. “Because I like what it does to you.”

You laughed, and he looked at you like he could live off the sound. Then he leaned in just slightly, forehead almost brushing yours.

“I want to keep dancing with you,” he said, quieter now. “For as long as you’ll let me.”

Your fingers tightened just slightly around his. “Then don’t stop.”

And he didn’t. He held you closer, swaying with you in the hush of the candlelight, long after the conversation faded and only the distant chirping of crickets and the silvery spill of moonlight kept you company.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The hallway was quiet as the two of you wandered back through the dim corridors, the lingering warmth of candlelight still clinging to your skin like a second perfume. Your arms brushed occasionally as you walked, and Sylus didn’t seem in any hurry to let the night end. His jacket had long since been unfastened, hair slightly tousled, lips still curved in that easy, contented smile he wore only with you.

When you reached your bedroom door, he stopped and turned to face you. His voice was soft when he said, “Sleep well. We’ve another long day tomorrow, if I’m to impress you further.”

You tilted your head. “You’re trying to impress me?”

He smirked. “Is it not obvious?”

You stepped closer, your voice low. “Then you should know something.”

He blinked, something alert and still in him now. “What’s that?”

You reached past him, hand brushing his wrist. “I’d rather stay with you tonight.”

Sylus didn’t speak for a beat. His red eyes darkened, not with suspicion or confusion, but with an unmistakable surge of emotion—hunger, want, and something softer beneath it all.

“…Are you sure?” he asked, quieter now, his tone carefully measured, like he was offering you the chance to undo the words if they’d come too fast.

You nodded. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He hesitated for only a heartbeat before reaching for your hand. His fingers laced gently with yours, thumb tracing the top of your knuckles in an absent-minded way that made your chest ache.

“This way,” he said, his voice velvet-wrapped steel.

He led you down the hall—just a few doors down—to a grander set of double doors, which he pushed open with a single hand. There was a piano near the window, half-shuttered, and a decanter of deep red wine waiting near the hearth. The bed—massive, four-posted, dressed in black and deep gold—waited at the heart of the room like the end of a vow.

The room glowed gold and amber in the firelight. Candles flickered across every surface, painting Sylus’s skin in warm shadows as he led you in, hand still clasped around yours like he couldn’t bear to let go. The door shut behind you with a soft click.

You hadn’t let go of his hand either.

His room was grand but intimate—dark wood, velvet drapes, a fire crackling in the hearth like it was summoned just for you. The scent of it mingled with whatever cologne clung to him: cedar, spice, something deeper beneath it all that made your head swim.

He turned to you with that slow, dangerous smile, his voice low. “You’re sure?” he asked, even as his thumb traced gentle circles along your wrist. “You want to stay here tonight?”

“I want your bed,” you said simply, truth pulsing in your chest. “I want you.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Sylus stepped closer, backlit by the fire, his chest rising in shallow breaths. The heat in his eyes was almost unbearable.

Wordlessly, he began to undress.

He took his time.

He undid each button of his shirt—slow and methodical, as if he wanted you to feel every moment stretch. His gaze never left yours, even as he shrugged the fabric from his shoulders, revealing skin kissed by candlelight and shadow, sculpted muscle shifting beneath pale scars and ink-black veins that glimmered faintly in the fire’s glow.

Your gaze lowered, hands trembling slightly as you reached for him, brushing your fingers along the lines of his abdomen, tracing the place just above the waistband of his slacks.

He let you explore.

He didn't rush you. He looked at you for a moment, reverent, eyes dark and full of something deeper than hunger—like he was memorizing you, like he’d waited lifetimes for this. His fingers skimmed your cheek before reaching for the straps of your dress, voice low and warm like velvet as he murmured, “Let me see you.”

You let him.

The gown slipped from your shoulders with a gentle sigh, pooling around your feet. Cool air kissed your skin, but Sylus’s hands were already there to warm you—roughened palms sliding slowly from your waist to your hips, mapping the curve of you like sacred terrain. His breath hitched softly as he drank you in.

“Darling,” he whispered, more prayer than curse, “you’re beautiful…”

He kissed you then, deep and slow, his hands spanning your waist, then sliding lower to pull you close. You let him walk you backward until your thighs touched the edge of the bed—but instead of lying down, you turned, climbed into his lap, straddling him where he sat.

He made a low sound, hands instinctively catching your thighs, palms broad and warm against bare skin.

You kissed again, messier now, your fingers in his silver hair, his mouth dragging down your neck. When you shifted your hips, grinding slow against the hardness beneath his trousers, he cursed under his breath. The brush of his slacks beneath you made heat flare low in your belly, but it was his mouth—hungry and searching—that stole your breath as he kissed you again.

You melted into it, arms winding around his shoulders as his hands splayed across your back, pulling you closer. His tongue slid along yours, tasting, teasing, deepening the kiss until you were gasping softly into his mouth.

Then he leaned back slightly, eyes glowing like coals.

“Drink from me.”

You froze, breath catching. “Sylus—”

“Please,” he whispered, thumb brushing your cheek. “I want to feel it. I want you to take what you need.”

You shook your head, voice tight. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

His smile softened. “You won’t.”

“You don’t know that—”

“I do,” he said, cupping the back of your neck. “You won’t kill me. You couldn’t. Sweetie…” His gaze searched yours. “Don’t you want to feel my heartbeat? Feel how it beats for you?”

He guided you down slowly, gently, until your lips hovered over the column of his throat. Your fangs slid down instinctively, the sight of him—so open, so warm beneath you—unraveling the last of your restraint. With trembling hands, you guided his head to the side, kissing the place where his pulse thundered strongest.

And then you sank your fangs in.

He gasped—so did you.

The rush of warmth, the thrum of his blood, the taste of him—it was overwhelming. He groaned low in his throat, arms wrapping tightly around you as your hips rocked without thinking. The taste of him was unlike anything you’d known—rich, powerful, intoxicating. His blood lit something inside you, a deep, primal connection blooming as he moaned your name, hips twitching beneath you.

The intimacy of it—his arms around you, your body pressed to his, the way his blood warmed your chest as you swallowed—made your vision blur. You could feel his heart hammering beneath your lips, could hear the slight tremble in his breath every time you moved against him.

“Sylus…” you moaned into his neck.

He was panting, hands roaming everywhere—your back, your hips, your thighs—moving you faster against him. The friction made you dizzy, hungry for more. Pleasure built in hot little waves, cresting right along the pull of blood between your lips.

But then you forced yourself to stop.

You licked the wound, breath shaky, and looked down at him.

The bite had already begun to heal.

Your heart thudded. “How… what are you?”

His hand caressed your cheek. “Something ancient. A fiend. Made for you. Always you”

You looked at him, dazed. “Sylus…”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “Now let me take care of you.”

With ease, he lifted you from his lap and laid you gently on the bed, his mouth trailing heat down your neck, your chest, your stomach. Every kiss felt like devotion, every touch like worship.

When he settled between your thighs, you gasped—already aching, already open from the way you’d ground against him. But he didn’t rush.

He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh first. Then another. And another.

“You’re everything,” he said softly, right before he lowered his mouth to you.

The first brush of his tongue made your hips jerk, your hands flying to the sheets. He groaned softly at your reaction, then anchored your thighs with his hands and deepened his attention—licking into you slowly, thoroughly, like he was savoring every sound you made.

“Sylus—please—”

He moaned against you, the vibration against your most sensitive spot making you writhe.

“Say it again, my love.” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Say my name while I taste you.”

“Sylus—”

“Louder.”

“Sylus,” you breathed, louder now, as his tongue dipped lower, slow and thorough and maddening. His hands held your hips steady, his mouth unrelenting, drawing soft, trembling sounds from your lips with each motion.

Every flick of his tongue felt like fire, like honey, like unraveling.

When he slipped two fingers inside you—long, thick, curling perfectly with each stroke—you couldn’t help it. You cried out, hips rocking, thighs trembling around his head as he murmured encouragements against your skin.

“That’s it, darling,” he whispered. “Just like that… Let go for me.”

And when you did—when that wave crested and broke and your body shuddered around his fingers—he held you through every second, his mouth not leaving you until you were gasping and pliant beneath him.

He kissed his way up your body after that, slow and indulgent, like he couldn’t bear to miss a single inch of you.

When he reached your mouth again, you kissed him with everything you had—tasting yourself on his lips, breath still trembling. Your hands moved to the last of his clothing, pushing it down, eager to feel all of him against you.

He groaned into your kiss when your hand wrapped around his length—thick and hot and aching for you. He caught your wrist gently, stilling you.

“Do you want this?”

“Yes,” you whispered. “I need it.”

He ran his thick tip through your folds, teasing, throbbing with the ache to be inside. Each nudge of your clit had you twitching from the overstimulation—wanton moans spilling from your swollen lips.

Then he slid in slow—inch by inch—until he was fully buried inside you with a low groan. Your hands clutched at his back, your name a sigh on his lips.

The stretch made you gasp—he was so thick, the fit almost too much—but he didn’t move right away. He stayed still, kissing your cheek, your jaw, whispering, “You feel so good… So perfect around me…”

He began to move, thrusts deep and agonizingly slow, pressing kisses to your throat, your shoulder, your lips. He laced his fingers with yours above your head, bodies moving together in perfect rhythm.

Each drag against your walls had you digging your nails deeper into his back, earning deep groans from Sylus. His tip nudged your sweet spot with every thrust, causing more desperate pleas to leave your lips.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, moaning into his mouth. Every thrust stole your breath, sent pleasure building low in your belly, sparks dancing down your spine.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against your lips, voice thick with emotion. “Only mine.”

You tightened around him in response, lost in the delicious friction, the drag of his body inside yours, the heat of his mouth as he kissed every inch of you he could reach.

“My love,” he whispered, voice breaking. “My darling girl…”

It went on and on, the pleasure building with agonizing sweetness—like a fire stoked slow and careful until it consumed you both.

And when you were close again, when you were teetering right on the edge, he held you tighter, kissed you deeper, and broke against your mouth with a ragged plea:

“Marry me.”

You gasped, stunned—but he kissed you again, desperate now, and repeated it like it was the only thing that mattered.

“Marry me, sweetie… Say you’ll be mine.”

And then the climax hit—yours first, then his, bodies locking together as the pleasure rolled over you both in perfect synchrony. You gasped his name, and he groaned yours like a vow, spilling delicious warmth into you with a trembling exhale.

As you both came down, he held you—sweaty, breathless, hearts pounding in unison. His lips brushed your temple as he whispered again, softer this time:

“Say yes.”

a/n: ummmmm sooooo…. i’m not sure what planted the seed for this… it was just supposed to be freaky vampire sex initially. i think the duke raf & duke zayne fic permanently altered my brain and then this was born. i hope we like?🤍 also lowkey i hardly proofread this so pls lmk if u see any mistakes

🏷️: @potania @violentriddlehoard @glitterykingdomangel

[notvalesca]

"from today to our distant future, I will always be by your side 💍"

I was supposed to post this on July 15th along with sylus release anniversary but I forgot to post it here....

[notvalesca]

words can't even describe how much I love this. this easily become one of my top sylus fanfic

Salt on your Skin

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

Character: Sylus x f!reader / you

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

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

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

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

Salt on your Skin

🎧 "Salt on your Skin" Spotify Playlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until that one afternoon. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiles “Something like that.”

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

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

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

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

He smirks. “Depends who's asking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t blink. “No.”

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

“Does that line usually work on all girls?”

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

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

His smile falters for half a second.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shouldn't care.

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

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

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

“How?” you demand, brows furrowed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you okay?” His voice was close.

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

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

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

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

Fuck… I owe him my life.  

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

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

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

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

It's not your business.

But still...

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

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

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

“There is,” he replies, calm as ever.

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

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

“You always talk like that?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Sylus,” he said simply.

You nod, repeating it silently in your head. 

Sylus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

...Right?

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

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

His lips twitch. “Yeah. Starlight.”

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

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

“What do you dream about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh politely. “Sure.”

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

Sylus stands there, phone now tucked away. 

“Huh. That was fast,” you say.

He shrugs. “Wasn’t important.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh no, she's already imagining things.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Papá…!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They raised you well,” he added quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

He turned, eyes finding yours.

“And you?” he asked.

“Eh?” 

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

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

He chuckled. “Is that so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why haven’t you?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t lie to me,” you echo back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The pen hovered. He turned to a fresh page.

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

His jaw clenched. His heartbeat had yet to settle.

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

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

[Notebook]

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

[pressed hard into the paper]

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

[Margin note, stained with coffee]

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

[With a small cat sketch]

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

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

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

Kieran.

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

“Not tonight,” he murmured.

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

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

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

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

You look to the sides, confused. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

♫ Bachata en Fukuoka ♫

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

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

“Please stop,” you gasped between laughs.

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

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

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

“Mr. Qin. Welcome back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And just like that, they were gone.

♫ Grecia ♫

You smile “I like them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*(Pablo Neruda - 100 Love Sonnets) 

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want to leave?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Umm?”

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

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

“To me? Yeah.”

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

That finally made him smile. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

♫ Qué se siente que me gustes tanto? ♫

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now?”

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

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

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

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

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

Please...

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

Don't hurt me...

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

Kiss me...

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

“Give me a moment,” he murmured. 

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

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

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

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

“¿Y si te doy mi vida?”

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

“I’m not… lying.” You lie.

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

But now…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Sylus?” you ask softly.

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

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

“When?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What does that even mean, Sylus?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sylus. 

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

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

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

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

You don’t hear his footsteps at first. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You huff. Then laugh, low and disbelieving.

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

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

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

He’s silent for a moment. 

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

“Does my choice change your secret?”

“No,” he repeats.

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

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

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

“I'm glad to hear that.”

“Now…” you whisper, “your—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It suit you” he laughed. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“Leaving today was… an option.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Want more Sylus in your life >> MASTERLIST

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did someone said its maid day?

yes I know I'm late but I still want to draw sylus in maid outfit 🤧

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he looks so good with the freefall gambit outfit but he looks better naked 😏

his waist is craaaazy

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open orbit 240 with sylus relentless conqueror (CA)

this is the first time I post my battle stuff here, but I just really want to share this achievement 🤸🏻‍♀️

who would've thought that a standard companion could clear OO240 T2 without any matching stella? this is why I love CA sooo much.. though the gameplay is so complicated (no wonder no one in global have ever tried it)

if you like to see more of my battle stuff (especially sylus) please go to my tiktok or YT 💖

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the capy is too stunned to speak

this particular scene from sylus birthday card is so cute 😂😂

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𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗌𝗒𝗅𝗎𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍..?

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sylus birthday twibbon♡

I make these to commomerate sylus upcoming birthday! feel free to use it, you can directly upload your pfp on the link down below or edit manually from the file on gdrive.

Pink: https://twibbo.nz/sylus-birthday-2025-v1-valesca

Red: https://twibbo.nz/sylus-birthday-2025-v2-valesca

Gdrive: https://bit.ly/42mN7VX

If you like it, like/reblog would help so much! tysm <3

!! personal use only !!

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my magnum opus 💕

happy white day y'all! I also make a free PFP for multiple skintones 🫶🏻 👇🏻👇🏻

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happy birthday rafayel ✨🎂

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the way I relate so much to this.. and also the reason why I really love sylus 💕 he noticed our hardship and help without us needing to ask

the world when you're with me

synopsis: you seek out sylus for comfort after realizing you were wrong about him.

tags: comfort, fluff, implied avoidant!reader learns to trust sylus, implied avoidant!reader clings to sylus, sylus takes care of reader from afar, sylus has mephisto and the twins follow reader but wbk pairing: sylus x reader, reader is mostly mc word count: 802

a/n: is this the peak of literature? no. did i need to write it after the day i had? yes. did i need to post it today? no, because i’m trying to stagger my posts more, but here we are. anyway 4k caleb pwp coming tomorrow 

For the first few weeks after you’d infiltrated the N109 Zone, you’d avoided Sylus Qin like the plague. 

After being scared out of your wits by the first version of him you'd met—the cold, unavailable criminal mastermind who’d forced you to shoot him within 5 minutes of knowing one other—you were unashamedly wary of working with him again. 

But Sylus’s intel was unrivaled. More and more often, you found yourself visiting the N109 Zone to meet with him, eventually not even bothering to book a place to stay. There was always a guest room at the Onychinus base prepped for your arrival.

As you spent more time with Sylus, he’d noticeably changed his approach to interacting with you. Rather than forcing you to resonate with him, he’d explained to you how his Evol worked, letting you aim his hands at some training dummies to test it out yourself. Instead of unceremoniously shutting you out when he was tired, he’d drag his robe-and-slippers-clad self to sit beside you on the sofa, answering your cautious questions by practically giving away all his secrets. 

His shift in attitude hadn't stopped there. Sylus had clearly been using that endearingly incorrigible crow to keep tabs on you, but for the strangest reasons. 

Whenever you had a bad day at work, some building-wide maintenance emergency would magically appear, forcing your team to cease operations for the rest of the day. He’d text you a couple hours after your early dismissal, saying he was in the city and inviting you on an evening joyride to clear your head.  

The day after you’d lugged a case of water up the stairs to your apartment, having to pause a couple times to catch your breath, you came home to see your fridge mysteriously stocked with groceries. The only traces left behind were the masked twin figures you spotted scurrying away from your window. 

When a new phone showed up at your doorstep one day—you never even told him you’d shattered your screen, you thought—you’d decided that Sylus wasn’t as bad as you’d once assumed. Not anywhere near as bad, in fact. He was thoughtful, generous, and helped you without taking credit or forcing you to ask for it. You’d never had that before.

Which is why, somehow, you find yourself standing in the doorway of his armory, studying him silently as he polishes an antique-looking gun.

When he notices you, Sylus looks up, raising a delicately arched eyebrow. “Something wrong, kitten?” he drawls, subtly checking your body for injuries. 

Mind numb from your absolutely dreadful day, you stay silent while Sylus looks at you expectantly, his hands forgetting their earlier task. 

But for the next minute, you remain hovering in the doorway. You expect him to get annoyed—you almost want him to, so you have an excuse to go back to relying only on yourself—but all you see on Sylus’s face is patience.

When you start shuffling toward him, that patience mixes with a glimmer of anticipation that he visibly tries to suppress. You need him to be calm right now—an anchor, he thinks. If he loses his composure, if he startles you with his excitement at your approach, you might bolt at any moment. 

Sometime during his inner struggle, you reach him. Meekly, you stand before his chair, briefly opening your mouth before closing it. 

“What is it, sweetie?” he asks softly. “Tell me, and we can figure it out together. I’ll personally track down whoever seems to have stolen your words from you.”

At his offer, you break, collapsing into his lap. His large, warm hands immediately encircle your waist, and you bury your face into his neck, inhaling his leather and spice cologne. 

“Aw,” he coos in his baritone voice, rocking you slowly in his embrace. When he lifts your head an inch, you resist, letting out a soft whine. Gently, he guides your head back to his chest, his quickening heartbeat thumping in your ears and grounding you in the the moment. 

After several moments of silence, your deep, shuddering breaths the only interruptions, Sylus murmurs into your ear. “When I noticed you never ask for help, I was worried the world may not be treating as well as it should. You must be very tired, hmm?” he asks, rubbing his chin against your hair. 

Tightening your arms around him, you sit there for a while, his steady breaths seeming to mend a decades-long rift in your heart.

The next time Sylus tries to lift your head, you let him. He pulls your face from his neck so he can look into your eyes, hoping his gaze conveys his sincerity, before pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. 

“You don’t need the world when you’re with me,” he promises. “I’ll treat you better than it ever could.”

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pookie 🥺 sylus in that one abyssal chaos commission 🤣😭

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piercings & tattoos

got inspired after seeing a gorgeous sylus cosplay 🥹 will try to color it, hopefully it turns out well.

please check them out @ nor_cosplay

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wip

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MC's morning view after night of secrecy 😌

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how sylus celebrate valentine's day

based on azure's echo day phonecall "Homemade Sweets" 👉🏻👈🏻 I bet he is secretly excited to try making candies