raevalyntine

[raevalyntine]

how the love and deepspace men comfort you on father's day (you have daddy issues)

p.s.//i found the dividers on google!

Sylus

You were laughing just ten minutes ago. Sylus had made a dry remark about your stance, and you had flicked a mock glare at him before landing a shot right through the red centre of the target. He whistled, impressed. “I see you’ve been practising behind my back, kitten.”

You grinned, smug. He leaned back on the bench behind you, arms crossed, eyes never leaving you. “Remind me not to piss you off so often,” he added with a crooked smile.

You were on break, Sylus had gone to fetch water for both of you. When he returned, bottle caps twisted off and a teasing comment on his lips, the sound caught in his throat.

You were on the phone—body stiff, jaw clenched, voice hushed and sharp. Whoever it was on the other end was pushing every button you had, and it showed. Every second, your tone grew colder, angrier. Your brows pulled in tight. Your grip on the phone was white-knuckled. Sylus was surprised your phone didn’t break just by the sheer force of your anger.

He didn’t interrupt and waited patiently as he sat down and observed you. It was a while before you finally wrapped up your conversation.

You walked to the table Sylus was waiting at and slammed your phone face down on the table, chest rising and falling too fast.

He stepped forward, slow, cautious. “Hey, you—”

But you were already moving. Back to the range, loading rounds with mechanical precision, and the detached rhythm of someone trying not to feel.

The shots came fast, one after another. Too fast. Your arms were trembling just slightly. Breath ragged. Shoulders locked up like iron. Like if you just hit the center enough times, it might make the pain shut up inside your chest. Like if your aim was perfect, the ache in your chest would finally miss its mark.

Sylus watched for a beat longer. Then made a decision.

You were reaching for more bullets when he stepped in front of you. Not harsh. Not overbearing. Just there.

You tried to brush past him. “I’m fine. Just let me—”

But Sylus stepped in gently, never forceful—just there in a way that makes you calm down slowly. He reached out and closed his hands over yours with a carefulness that made you freeze. His palms were warm, his fingers calloused from training, but his grip was soft. Steady. Like he was afraid you'd shatter if he held too tight—but wasn't going to let you fall apart alone either.

“You’re gonna wear your arms out and snap your wrist at this rate,” he murmured, his voice barely above the buzz of the range. Low. Grounding. “And that’s before I start worrying about your heart giving out from how fast you’re breathing.”

You glared at him, jaw clenched. But he didn’t flinch. He didn’t scold or match your anger. He just stood there, eyes calm, as if your pain didn’t scare him. As if he’d been expecting this, and already decided he wasn’t going anywhere.

Without saying more, he gently pried the bullets from your fingers. He moved slow enough that you could’ve stopped him—but you didn’t. You just watched as he unloaded the weapon in silence, like he’d done it a thousand times before. Not just the gun, but you, disarming your defenses like it was second nature.

“Let me,” he said, softly. Just that.

You opened your mouth to argue. But then you saw the way he was looking at you, not with pity, not with concern that asked for explanation. Just that quiet, unwavering steadiness that had always been uniquely his. Like no matter how ugly this got, you weren’t going to face it alone.

Something in you gave out. Not all at once—but enough.

Your breath staggered. The fight drained from your limbs like sand slipping through your fingers. And before you even realised it, you stepped back and sat heavily on the bench, exhaustion catching up to you like a wave you didn’t see coming.

Sylus knelt down in front of you and placed the bullets aside, staying within arm’s reach—ready, patient, waiting for the moment you were ready too. He unscrewed the water bottle and handed it over. You took it with shaky hands.

There was silence before you exhaled and broke it.

“He called.”

Your voice was hoarse. Small.

Sylus didn’t need to ask who.

“Said he didn’t ‘understand why I was so distant lately.’ Like he forgot every time he bailed. Every time he—”

You paused, breathing hard. The tears came not in sobs, but in silent streaks down your cheeks. 

“I hate that he still makes me feel this way. I hate that a single phone call can ruin my whole day.”

You looked away. But Sylus didn’t.

“I hate him,” you whispered, “but I feel so bad for getting angry because he’s still my dad.”

Sylus reached up and wiped the corner of your eye with his thumb.

He let the silence breathe for a moment.

Then, resting his forearms on his knees, Sylus turned to look at you—really look at you. There was no teasing in his eyes now. Just a quiet, steady kind of care.

“You can come here and shoot all you want,” he said, voice low. “I’ll even reload every single round if that’s what helps.”

You let out a shaky breath, but didn’t say anything.

“But don’t think you have to hold it all in just to prove you’re strong,” he continued. “You don’t have to act tough all the time, kitten.”

Your eyes dropped to your lap, hands clenched without realizing. Your throat tightened.

“Anger isn’t wrong,” he said gently. “And you’re allowed to feel it. You’re allowed to be furious. To grieve. To hate and miss him all at once. That’s real.”

He leaned a little closer, steady and sure.

“You don’t owe him anything. You’re not selfish for feeling this. You’re human. And blood doesn’t excuse absence. It doesn’t excuse damage.”

You felt something in your chest twist at that—not because it hurt, but because it rang too true.

Sylus reached out, careful and calm. One hand settled over yours. The other on your knee, grounding, warm.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” he said, softer now. “Not with me here.”

You looked at him then. The steadiness in his gaze didn’t waver.

“I’ve got you, sweetie,” he said again, like a promise. “Even when it gets ugly. Even when you think it’s too much. I’m not going anywhere.”

And somehow, just those words—those few, steady, unwavering words—were enough to make your eyes burn again. Your chest stuttered with a breath that didn’t quite make it out. Then another. And just like that, something in you cracked—not loud or dramatic. Just a quiet, sudden release, like finally letting go of a breath you'd been holding for years.

Sylus was still kneeling in front of you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his chest. His eyes never left yours. Gently, he reached up and guided you forward—slow, patient, like he had all the time in the world to wait for you to let him in.

Your body leaned without thinking, folding forward into him.

He caught you instantly, without hesitation, easing you in until your forehead rested against his shoulder. He brought you even closer, one arm circling your waist, the other rubbing soft, slow circles behind your back—the kind that weren’t meant to fix, just to say: I’m here. I see you. You don’t have to carry this alone.

Then he pressed a kiss to your temple. Then another, just beneath your cheekbone, where your tears had settled. Gentle. Reverent. As if you weren’t falling apart, but something precious being held together in his arms.

Sylus—your shield, your anchor, your person—sat with you on that worn-out bench in a shooting range full of echoes and dust and grief you never gave a name. And he stayed there. Quiet. Unmoving.

Not as someone trying to fix the cracks.

But as someone who loved you enough to hold every broken piece.

And in that silence, you let yourself fall apart in the safest place you knew—right there in his arms.

Rafayel

The moon hung heavy in the sky when Rafayel stirred. It wasn’t a sound that woke him—but an absence. A quiet shift in the air, the kind of stillness that speaks louder than footsteps. He reached across the bed, hand brushing only the cold echo of where you’d been.

“...Cutie?”

No answer.

He sat up, blinking through the darkness. You weren’t in the kitchen, not in the bathroom, not curled up in your usual reading corner. But your jacket was missing from the hook near the door. His heart thudded once, uneasy. He pulled on his coat and stepped outside.

The night air was crisp, and the wind carried salt and sorrow. The beach stretched out endlessly before him, the waves whispering secrets in a language older than time.

He saw you.

A small silhouette, curled in on itself, outlined in silver by the moonlight. Knees to chest. Still.

Rafayel didn’t call your name. He just walked, the sand giving way beneath his feet, until he was close enough to see the tear tracks glinting on your cheeks.

It hit him then, like the way waves crash not once, but over and over. The ache in your silence. The weight you carried in your stillness.

It broke him a little, seeing you like this. No walls. No fight left in you. Just quiet grief, heavy and quiet under the moonlight. He sat down, letting the silence stretch between you like a thread he was too afraid to pull.

Close enough to let you feel him there. Far enough to give you space to come to him.

And you did.

Slowly, wordlessly, you leaned into him—like your body knew it could fall without breaking. His arm moved instinctively, opening for you, letting your head rest against his shoulder.

He wrapped the other around you, gently rubbing up and down your arm, slow, grounding strokes. Not trying to soothe the pain away—just holding it with you.

The waves rolled on.

Your tears came again, quiet and steady, and he let them. He stayed silent.

Only when your voice broke the stillness did he breathe a little deeper.

“I hate him,” you whispered. The words fractured in the air, and your breath hitched. “I hate that he hurt me. That he left so many things broken. That he made me feel like I was hard to love.”

A pause. The ocean roared softly in the distance.

“...But I miss him. I miss him so much, it makes me sick.”

Rafayel closed his eyes. He let your words sit between you, heavy and real. His hand didn’t stop moving, up and down your arms, a rhythm that matched the waves.

“You can hate him,” he said quietly, “and still miss him.” His voice was low, deeper than usual. Almost reverent. “You can grieve the version of him you wish existed, and still be angry at the one who was real.”

You didn’t speak. Just pressed yourself closer to his side, as his grip tightened around your arms.

“The world tries to make you choose,” he murmured. “Love or hate. Grief or rage. But hearts like yours… they don’t work that way. They feel everything. And that’s not a weakness, my love. That’s beautiful.”

The tears came again, but they felt different now. Like you weren’t carrying them alone.

Rafayel closed the space between you with a gentle touch, anchoring you in his warmth.

“You always act like it’s wrong to feel too much,” Rafayel whispered, brushing his knuckles under your chin.

“But my love, your softness isn’t a stain. It’s the part of you I want to protect most.” He pressed a quiet kiss to your temple. “You don’t have to forgive him. You just have to stop blaming yourself for bleeding.”

His touch was patient, a slow circling warmth against your skin. Above, the stars flickered in their ancient hush. Below, the sea kept time with your breath.

And beside you, Rafayel sat—silent, unwavering.

Not as a lifeguard trying to pull you from the depths, but as a shoreline. The place you could collapse against.

The one who knew love was not about saving you, but it’s about staying. Even through all the times you felt like you didn’t deserve to be loved.

Rafayel stayed beside you for however long you needed.

Just as someone who loved you through the mess. And didn't need you to be okay to hold you gently.

Zayne

Zayne had planned to spend a quiet weekend together with you—no hospital rounds, no emergency calls, no research papers. Just the two of you. He'd heard about a new café nestled on a quieter street of the city, where the windows were draped with ivy and sunlight spilled golden over every surface. He’d insisted you both go, said the cakes were worth lining up for.

You were smiling when you arrived.

It was beautiful. The warm wood interiors, the soft piano music playing in the background, the scent of lavender and espresso curling in the air. There were potted plants in every corner, and a gentle breeze that drifted in through the open windows. Peaceful.

But then—something tugged at you. A glance around the room, and you saw it: fathers with their children. Little hands holding larger ones. Laughter over milkshakes. A teenage girl slipping a hand-drawn card over the table. A middle-aged man cutting a bite of cake for a much older man infront of him.  And suddenly, you felt a shift inside. Like your chest had been cracked open a little too wide.

Your phone buzzed. You looked down. A message from your mother.

“It’s Father’s Day today, don't forget to call or visit your father!”

Oh.

You locked your phone quickly. Too quickly.

Zayne returned with a tray of cakes—caramel cheesecake for you, chocolate almond for him. He looked radiant in the sunlight, white coat traded for a soft beige cardigan, sleeves pushed to the elbows. But his eyes—he caught your expression before you had time to put up a front.

You smiled too fast, changed the subject too smoothly. Asked him how long the line was. Told him the place really lived up to the hype.

He didn’t push, didn’t ask.

Not then.

You both ate quietly. The cake was good. It should’ve tasted better.

Later, you walked home through the quiet streets. His fingers were laced through yours, warm and steady. But your mind had drifted somewhere else—far, far away from here.

He stopped.

You blinked.

You hadn’t even realized you'd reached a bench by the park. Zayne gently tugged you to sit with him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just waited.

The silence was patient, not heavy.

Finally, he spoke—softly, like he knew your heart was something brittle today.

“Was it because of what today is?”

You froze.

He already knew.

Of course he did. Zayne loved you too much not to notice— the slight tremble in your fingers when you held the fork, the way your eyes flickered to the floor when a father walked by with his child, the way your laugh that day had felt just a little too light. A little too practiced.

He knew because he’d been memorizing the shape of your soul since the moment he met you.

And he didn’t push. He just waited—patient, steady—until you were ready.

You didn’t answer right away. The words felt like they were lodged in your throat, raw and unspeakable. You looked down at your hands, resting in your lap. His were still holding yours.

And then—you looked at him. At the way he tilted his head just a little, eyes watching you with a quiet tenderness. At the way he didn’t push, didn’t demand, didn’t try to fix the ache. Just waited for you to be ready.

And suddenly, the dam broke.

You cried. Not a dramatic sob, but something quieter. More painful. Like grief that had learned how to sit still inside your bones.

Zayne reached for you the second your shoulders shook—no hesitation, no pause. Just arms around you, firm and steady, pulling you into his chest like he’d been holding that space for you all along. Like he’d known this was coming before even you did.

His coat wrapped around you both, shielding you from the cooling breeze. And still, you couldn’t stop. The tears came fast, hot, like a dam finally cracked open, spilling years of hurt no one had ever asked about. Not properly. Not gently. Not like this.

Zayne said nothing at first.

He just held you.

One hand cradled the back of your head. The other rubbed soft, slow circles into your spine—like his touch alone could remind you you’re safe now. That no one here was going to shame you for crying. That no one here would tell you to get over it.

He let the silence breathe between you both, letting your sobs taper at their own pace. And when your breath hitched again—sharp and broken—he bent his head close, speaking into your hair.

“You don’t have to talk about him,” he said softly. “Not today. Not ever, if it hurts too much.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last word. Just a little.

“My dearest,” he added, barely above a whisper, like the phrase was a thread holding him together too.

You gripped the front of his coat in your fists, trembling.

And Zayne didn’t loosen his hold. Didn’t flinch. He only tucked you closer, his cheek pressed against the crown of your head like he could shield you from your own memories just by being near.

There was something dizzying about how safe it felt—how in his arms, the grief didn’t feel so sharp. How being held didn’t fix anything, but somehow made the breaking feel a little less alone.

Zayne kissed your temple once. A soft, reverent press. Then again, slower. Not as a promise. Not even as comfort.

Just as proof that he was here. That he wasn’t leaving.

Not because you were strong. Not because you were okay.

But because he loved you even when you weren’t.

He stayed with you like that—quiet and constant—as the sun began its descent, casting golden light over the pavement. Neither of you moved until the worst of the storm passed.

And even then, Zayne didn’t rush you.

He just held you a little tighter.

As if to say: Let the world wait. I’ve got you.

Xavier

You didn’t answer his texts all morning.

At first, Xavier thought you were just sleeping in. It was the weekend after all, and you’d told him last night you were feeling off. Tired. Just wanted to rest.

Still, something sat wrong in his chest.

He stopped by the pharmacy. Got you cold meds, just in case. Ordered that herbal soup you always asked for when your throat was scratchy, the one you swore was your holy grail.

He went to your place, unlocked the door with the spare key you’d given him months ago.

It was quiet inside. The curtains still drawn. Not a sound.

He kicked off his shoes by instinct, carrying the soup tray and medicine in one hand, and quietly padded toward your bedroom.

The door was open.

And there you were.

Curled under the blanket like a child hiding from monsters—except the monsters were your own memories. Your back to the door. Shoulders trembling slightly. You weren’t asleep.

Xavier stepped in slowly, placed the tray on the desk. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood at the edge of the bed, eyes taking in every quiet detail: the photo clutched in your hands, edges worn from years of being held; your cheeks red and raw from crying; the faraway look in your eyes, like you’d fallen down a hole in time and couldn’t climb back out.

He recognized the man in the photo.

Not because he’d ever met your father, but because he’d seen that picture before. You’d once shown it to him during a sleepy night in, said it was the only one where your father looked like he loved you.

And now, here it was again. In your hands. On this day.

He lowered himself to sit gently on the edge of the bed, careful not to startle you. You didn’t move, didn’t speak.

So he did the only thing he could think of.

He reached over and slowly, carefully, pulled back the blanket cocooning you.

“Move over” he said quietly.

You shifted just enough for him to slide in behind you, his arms wrapping around your curled body, warm and steady. His chin rested near your temple, his breath soft against your hair.

Still, silence.

But Xavier never needed you to talk first. He always just… stayed.

“I brought soup from that place you liked,” he murmured. “ I wanted to cook for you, but we both know how that ends.”

Despite everything, a weak, broken laugh escaped you—cracked at the edges, but real.

He smiled at the sound like it was his favourite song. Then, without a word, he softly ran his fingers through your hair, untangling the strands with patient care. You didn’t stop him. When you finally turned to face him, Xavier was already looking at you—eyes warm, calm, so heartbreakingly kind.

He brushed your hair back from your face with the backs of his fingers, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like this moment belonged to neither pity nor performance, just presence.

“A penny for your thoughts, my beloved angel?” he asked gently. 

Your lips twitched, barely, before trembling again.

“I know it’s stupid,” you whispered. “I don’t even like him. He lied. He left. But... that one photo—he looks like someone I wish I had.”

You blinked hard, and the tears returned without mercy.

Xavier didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His arms moved around you slowly, pulling you into his chest—not forceful, not tight. Just enough to say you’re safe now. Just enough to let your body remember what tenderness felt like.

“That’s not stupid,” he said quietly. “That’s grief. And grief doesn’t wait for logic. Or permission.”

You leaned into him, finally, letting your forehead press into his collarbone. Your breath hitched.

“I feel like an idiot,” you murmured. “Crying over someone who made it very clear I wasn’t worth staying for.”

He kissed the top of your head. Once. Twice.

“You’re not crying for him,” he whispered. “You’re crying for you. For the version of your life that you deserved and never got. That kind of pain doesn’t go away just because you understand who he really was.”

You bit your lip, hard. Your chest ached with all the things you had never let yourself say.

“And just so you know,” he added, voice low, a little steadier now, “if I’d known you then... if I’d been there when you were that small, in that photo... I would’ve held you close and never let go. I’d hug you like I’m doing now. Every time you cried. Every time the world felt too loud.”

That was it.

Your grip on the photo loosened, and your arms clung to him instead. You didn’t sob. Not this time. The tears came quieter—those silent, wrecking kind. The kind that only fall when someone sees the part of you that’s been hidden too long and doesn’t flinch.

And Xavier stayed right there. Holding all your hurt like it was something precious.

Eventually, you’d eat. He’d feed you spoon by spoon, teasing gently between sips, saying things like “this one’s got extra love seasoning” just to make you roll your eyes.

But for now, there were no jokes. No masks. Just you and him. Your breathing and his. The quiet, constant hum of someone who refused to leave—even when you had nothing to give.

Caleb

You and Caleb had always shared everything.

The same lumpy mattress when the roof leaked in the back room. The same knockoff toy cars from a church donation box. The same bowl of instant noodles, split in half with military precision. The same ache—that bone-deep kind that sits under the skin of kids who grew up learning how to hold their breath before anyone could teach them how to exhale.

Tonight, that ache came back.

You sat together on the worn couch, some reality show murmuring in the background. Caleb had a bowl of popcorn balanced on his lap. You hadn’t touched yours. Your gaze was unfocused, stuck on a corner of the wall like maybe it held answers.

He noticed.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, nudging your knee with his. “You okay, pipsqueak?”

You didn’t answer at first.

Then you said, voice barely above a whisper, “I don’t even know if he’s dead.”

Caleb stilled.

Your fingers twisted in your sleeves. “Or alive. Or where. Or what he looks like. If he’d even recognize me. I don’t even know if he left because of me. Or if he ever wanted me at all.”

Caleb didn’t respond right away. He didn’t rush in to fix it. Didn’t pretend to have the words. He just leaned in slightly—his thigh pressing against yours, grounding and warm. After a moment, he reached for your hand. His pinky hooked into yours—small, quiet. Intimate in the way only you two knew how to be.

“I think,” he said finally, “maybe not knowing… is better than knowing he chose to leave.”

That made your chest clench. You let out a breath that shook a little at the end. He squeezed your pinky gently.

“I know it’s not fair,” you murmured. “All these years and I still feel like I’m just… waiting for someone who doesn’t exist.”

“You’re not,” Caleb said. “You’re not waiting. You’re surviving. There’s a difference.”

You looked at him then, really looked. The way his features softened just for you. The faint glow in his eyes whenever he looked at you.  And suddenly you were tired of holding it all in. You shifted closer. Your head found his shoulder. He didn’t move. Just let you rest there like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He turned, chin brushing the top of your hair. “You’ve always tried to carry everything alone,” he said softly. “Even the things no kid should’ve had to carry.”

You let out a shaky breath. “You did too.”

He went quiet. Not out of denial, but recognition.

You swallowed. “But somehow you’re always so steady. Always the one holding the pieces. While I’m still here, still hoping for something stupid. Like maybe one day someone’ll show up and explain why he left. Why he didn’t want me.”

Your voice cracked. You hated how small it sounded.

“You’re not weak for wanting answers,” he said gently. “You're not broken for wishing it made sense.”

You shook your head. “But you never talk about it. You never let it eat you up like I do.”

Caleb let out a breath. It wasn’t a sigh, just something raw loosening in his chest.

“Yeah,” he said. “I used to hope too. That maybe he'd show up one day. Maybe there was some reason… some story that would make it all hurt less.”

You looked up, and he was already looking at you. The kind of look that knew every cracked part of you, and never once turned away.

“I wanted someone to come back for me too,” he admitted. “But I had you.”

Your breath caught.

“I had you,” he said again, voice softer this time. “You were my reason. You were the light in all of it, even when you didn’t notice. You kept me going when I didn’t know how to stay whole.”

He lifted his hand, slow and careful, tucking your hair behind your ear the way he always did when you were unraveling. His fingers lingered at your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly just beneath your cheekbone.

“You healed me,” he murmured. “Even while you were breaking. Just by being you.”

You blinked fast, but it was useless. The tears slipped down anyway.

“I don’t feel like I fixed anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” he said. “You just had to stay. And you did.”

His arm wrapped around you, pulling you close, not urgently, but like he was reminding you of something that had always been there.

You pressed your forehead to his shoulder. The ache softened into something fragile, but bearable.

“I’m so tired, Caleb,” you whispered.

“I know, sweetheart,” He kissed the side of your head, grounding and gentle. “So lean on me for awhile.”

You let yourself melt into him, years of weight loosening in the space between your ribs.

And Caleb held you like he always had—without needing to be asked, without expecting you to be okay first. Because the truth was, you had always saved each other. Quietly. Messily. Entirely.

You both sat like that for a long while, your breathing gradually syncing. You didn’t speak again, but the silence was soft, not heavy. Full of all the words you didn’t need to say.

And for once, the ache didn’t feel so sharp. Not with him here. Not when you remembered that maybe—just maybe—you didn’t need the answers anymore.

Not when you had Caleb. And he had you.

And that had always been enough.

[raevalyntine]

what happens when you buy a little plushie of the man you love?

(zayne fluff! a gift for all zayne lovers out there, let's shower him with the love he deserves)

Akso Hospital had always been proud of its reputation—cutting-edge technology, pioneering research, and a surgical team led by some of the brightest minds in the field.

At the very center of it all?

Dr. Zayne Li. Their prodigy. Their miracle. Their youngest Starcatcher Award recipient. The man whose steady hands had rewritten the outcomes of congenital heart defects. Whose name was printed in journals and whispered in lecture halls. Cold, brilliant, focused. A doctor with a heart so carefully guarded, it felt like a privilege just to see him smile.

You knew better. You’d seen the version the world never got to see.

The one who braided a little girl’s hair in the pediatric wing because she missed her mom. The one who kept your favorite tea stocked in his office. The one whose silence was never empty, but filled with a love so steady you could feel it in your bones.

You didn’t know that the board of directors had been planning a new mascot for the pediatric wing. Or that every single person in the room had immediately, unanimously, said his name. Zayne. Beloved by patients. Respected by interns. The silent strength behind Akso’s brilliance.

So when you walked into the hospital that afternoon, expecting nothing more than a quick lunch date with your snowman of a boyfriend, you weren’t prepared for the way your world stilled.

Because there—tucked between informational brochures and pastel signage, under the soft hum of the hospital lights—

Was a plushie. Of Zayne. Your Zayne.

Your breath caught in your chest.

It was so small. Maybe the size of your palm. But the craftsmanship was unreal—his pale beige three-piece suit, stitched to perfection. His crisp white shirt. The tie you knot every morning as his eyes find yours, and he leans in—quiet, close—to kiss your forehead like you’re his first breath of peace for the day. A miniature stethoscope rested on his tiny chest. His neatly styled jet-black hair was captured in soft tufts, complete with that single familiar swoop at the front. And his expression—gentle, smiling, just a little—was so unmistakably him, it felt like someone had reached into your chest and sewn your feelings into fabric.

His embroidered green eyes were thoughtful. His blushing cheeks were subtle, like warmth just beginning to bloom.

Your fingers trembled as you reached out, brushing the plushie’s cheek with your thumb. And suddenly—your chest felt too full. Was it the hospital lights? Or your hormones? Or just the impossible, overwhelming truth of how much you loved him?

“Oh my god,” you whispered, hands lifting to your mouth. “Is this... Zayne?”

The nurse nearby laughed gently. “Yeah. New pediatric mascot. The kids adore him. Honestly, so do the parents.”

You were already at the counter before she finished speaking, your heart soft and stormy all at once. You held the plush like it might shatter in your hands. It was just… so him. And something about seeing him this way—gentle, warm, huggable—made your chest ache with a pride too big for words.

Then, a small voice near you pulled you out of the moment.

“That’s Dr. Zayne,” a little boy said to his mom, pointing. “He was really nice to me when I had to stay here. He let me listen to my own heartbeat.”

You nearly choked on a sob.

Crouching down, you held the plushie out to him. “Would you like one?”

His eyes widened. “Really?”

You nodded and bought one without hesitation, handing it to him like it was the most natural thing in the world. “He’d want you to have one. He’s… pretty special, huh?”

The boy hugged it tight. “Yeah. He is. He’s my hero!”

And somewhere behind you, footsteps padded softly down the corridor. Zayne had just stepped out of his office, clipboard in hand, his white coat fluttering gently behind him. He stopped the moment his eyes found you—kneeling beside a child, handing him a plushie version of him, your face aglow with so much love it nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.

And then he saw it—the plushie pressed to your chest, your touch light and reverent, like you were holding more than just fabric and thread. He saw the way your fingers paused over its stitched little smile. The way you looked down at it with a softness so achingly full of devotion, he could barely stand still.

And for a long, suspended second, Zayne forgot the beeping monitors, the lab reports, the surgeries waiting to be reviewed. Because in that moment, standing quietly in the hallway, he realised— No professional honour had ever made him feel like this. No accolade, no award, no headline about his “exceptional precision” or “gifted hands” had ever made him feel the way you did.

Like he wasn’t just someone who knew the rhythm of a heart—but had become the reason one beat at all.

He stepped closer. You looked up, startled—but then you softened. And smiled.

You lifted the plush slightly. “Look who I found.”

Zayne let out the smallest laugh, something caught between amusement and awe. “You bought a plushie of me?”

You stood, hugging it gently to your chest. “I bought two, actually. Gave one to a little boy who said you helped him listen to his heartbeat.”

His eyes lowered. “I remember him.”

“I’m really proud of you,” you whispered.

His hand came up, gently brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I thought it was ridiculous, honestly,” he murmured. “Being made into a mascot. I didn’t think it meant anything. But…”

His fingers brushed against yours, just where they rested on the plush’s sleeve.

“…seeing you hold it like that—it feels like it does.”

Your voice trembled with tenderness as you whispered, “It does.”

And right there, in the middle of Akso Hospital, surrounded by laughter and life and the quiet hum of machines—he kissed your forehead.

Soft. Lingering. Like he was stitching the moment into the very fabric of his soul.

You didn’t say anything more. You didn’t need to.

A single, quiet “I love you” passed between you, unspoken, but felt in the brush of his lips against your skin.

The plush stayed in your hands the rest of the day—clutched to your chest, warm and cherished. Like a tiny, stitched promise of everything the real him already was.

Yours. Completely.

[raevalyntine]

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — HE COMES HOME EARLY

ZAYNE

You don’t hear the front door open. Not over the sound of Zayne’s voice looping softly in your ear, pulled from the dozen voice messages you’ve been clinging to for the past two days. The ones where he told you goodnight, where he reminded you to eat, where he whispered he’d be home soon — even though “soon” was supposed to be tomorrow.

You’re curled on his side of the bed, swallowed up by his oversized hoodie, knees tucked into your chest. His cologne still lingers faintly in the fabric, and you’ve been pretending that it’s him. That he’s right here, lying behind you, maybe with an arm thrown around your waist like he used to before work started pulling him away more and more often.

You missed him so much it hurt. But you didn’t want to distract him. You didn’t want to make it harder for him to focus, to do what he needed to do. So you bottled it up. Quietly. You told him you were okay. You told him you were proud.

You didn’t tell him that at night, his absence pressed down like a weight on your chest. That you started playing his voice messages just to fall asleep.

Which is why you don’t notice when he steps into the doorway.

He’s silent, always has been — sharp and composed, the type to carry tension in his shoulders and lock emotions behind a fortress of calm. He wasn’t supposed to be back yet, but he couldn’t shake the feeling all day that something was missing. Something more than the usual tug in his chest. So he wrapped up the meeting early, caught the earlier flight. Didn’t tell you.

Now he’s standing there, staring at the shape of you curled in his bed. His hoodie half-falling off one shoulder. Hair a mess. Lips parted in sleep.

And in your ears: his voice.

He doesn’t speak. Not right away. Just watches you for a long moment as his expression shifts — just barely, but enough. His brow softens. His jaw relaxes. You’d never see it, not unless you were looking.

But you stir.

A sleepy blink. A little inhale as you stretch, confused, because the lights are different, the air is warmer — and then you see him.

You sit up like you’ve been caught in the act. Yanking the earbuds out, panic flashing across your face.

“Zayne?! I — I thought—” You fumble to untangle yourself from the blanket. “You weren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow—”

He says nothing. Just crosses the room in a few steady steps. You brace for a lecture. A cold stare. But instead, he kneels in front of you and presses a hand to your cheek, thumb brushing the skin beneath your eye.

“You weren’t sleeping well,” he murmurs. “Were you?”

You shake your head slowly. You can’t lie to him. Not like this. Especially not when he’s looking at you like you’re something fragile, something precious.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you whisper.

His eyes flick to the phone still lying beside you. The screen dimmed but not dark — paused on a message of him saying, “Just one more day, and I’ll be home.”

He takes a breath. Something soft, almost inaudible.

“You can always bother me,” he says.

It’s not something he says often. Not the type to reassure with words. But this — this moment— it carves something new into him. A guilt, maybe, but also a vow.

He leans in and rests his forehead against yours.

“Next time,” he adds, voice lower now, “tell me.”

You nod. The lump in your throat makes it hard to speak.

He climbs into bed beside you, pulling you into him with uncharacteristic ease, like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he doesn’t. And when you fall asleep again — this time with his real heartbeat under your cheek — you don’t need the voice messages anymore.

Because he’s here.

And he’s not leaving.

Not for a while.

XAVIER

You must’ve fallen asleep somewhere between the sixth and seventh voice message.

Xavier’s voice had been the only thing holding you together this week — clipped and careful through the static of bad reception, but still him. Still warm. Still trying, even in the middle of the chaos he never talks about in too much detail.

He’d left four days ago for the mission. He was supposed to be gone for five. You’d counted every hour, every awkwardly recorded “Hey, just checking in” or “Did you eat today?” like they were pieces of him you could tuck into your chest.

You hadn’t expected him to come back early.

You definitely hadn’t expected him to come back to this.

To find you curled up on his bed— his hoodie engulfing you, sleeves dangling past your fingertips, legs tangled in the sheets he hadn’t even had a chance to sleep in since he left. Earbuds in. Playing his voice, over and over.

You don’t hear the door creak open. You don’t hear the soft sound of his duffel hitting the floor. You don’t see the way he freezes in the doorway.

“…Oh,” he breathes, very softly.

Xavier stands there like he’s trying to solve a very delicate math problem.

His ears turn red before anything else. Classic. His brain starts short-circuiting almost immediately, evident in the way he rubs the back of his neck and mouths something that looks like “What do I do?” to no one in particular.

Then his face does this thing — this softening. His lips part slightly like he’s about to say your name, but he doesn’t. He just walks to the edge of the bed, slow and careful like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

And he just looks at you.

His hoodie nearly swallows you whole. You’re hugging his pillow like it’s the only thing keeping you safe. He can hear his own voice, faintly, from the half-displaced earbuds:

“…I miss you too. Just hang in there, alright? I’ll be back before you know it…”

He exhales, shaky. Like all the air just escaped his lungs and took his heart with it.

You stir slightly, probably sensing him there even half-asleep. A soft mumble escapes your lips — his name, barely audible.

Your eyes blink open.

And then widen.

“Xavier?” You sit up too fast, heart leaping. “What—? You weren’t—? I thought you—tomorrow—”

You start yanking the earbuds out like they’re evidence of a crime, cheeks burning. “I wasn’t— I didn’t mean to—”

“No, wait, wait — don’t—” Xavier flails a little, hands awkwardly half-raised. “Don’t stop. It’s okay. I just — uh.”

You look at him, eyes searching his face, confusion and embarrassment all over yours. He swallows hard.

“I came back early. I missed you. A lot. Like —kind of a stupid amount. And I just…”

He gestures vaguely to the scene in front of him. You. His hoodie. The voice messages. You.

“…I didn’t know you missed me this much,” he says softly, eyes dipping.

You bury your face in your hands. “I didn’t want to distract you. You were out there doing important stuff.”

Xavier sits beside you on the bed, not quite touching, not yet, but close enough that you feel the warmth of him. “Hey. You’re important stuff too, you know.”

You peek at him through your fingers.

He laughs under his breath — awkward and boyish and so Xavier it hurts.

“Also,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck again, “you look ridiculously good in my clothes, and now I’m never gonna be normal about it again.”

You groan, flopping back into the pillows.

He finally reaches for you then — carefully pulling you into a hug like he’s still not sure if he’s allowed. You melt into him, and he lets out a breath like he’s finally, finally home.

“I’m really glad you were playing my voice,” he mumbles against your hair. “I always worry I’m bad at those. I rehearse them, like, three times before I hit send.”

You laugh into his chest. “They were perfect.”

He hugs you tighter.

And that night, you fall asleep for real — no earbuds, no messages.

Just him.

RAFAYEL

You didn’t mean to fall asleep like this.

Not in his hoodie, not in his bed, not with his voice still playing quietly in your ears like it’s the only lullaby that works anymore.

You were just going to rest for a minute.

Just one more message. Just one more “Goodnight, my love,” and then maybe the ache in your chest would let you sleep.

Just for a little while.

You didn’t know he was coming home early.

Didn’t know Rafayel would walk through the door of the apartment while dusk still painted the windows lavender and gold, his suitcase barely in his hand, his heart pounding louder than the key turning in the lock.

He doesn’t call out. He’s quiet by nature, graceful like his presence is a secret only you are meant to know. He drops his bags in the hallway and moves through the place like a breath — like a man chasing something he already misses.

And then he sees you.

His hoodie hangs loose on you, far too big, the sleeves pulled over your hands. Your face is turned into his pillow, soft in sleep, lashes fluttering against your cheek. And in your ears, still barely audible:

“I know I say it too often, but I really do miss you. I can’t wait to be home, sweetheart.”

Rafayel stops in the doorway, and something in him just… breaks a little.

Softly. Quietly. Like the way a heart swells too fast in the chest and turns every breath into something fragile.

He steps closer, cautiously, as if afraid he’ll wake you. Or worse — afraid he won’t.

He kneels beside the bed, eyes drinking you in, his fingertips brushing the edge of the fabric where your hand curls into his hoodie.

And his voice — when he speaks, it’s almost reverent.

“…You wore my clothes,” he whispers.

You stir, just barely.

His breath catches.

Your eyes flutter open, dazed, and when you see him — when you realize — your whole body jolts like you’re waking from a dream you hadn’t expected to end.

“Rafayel?” you whisper, sitting up fast, tugging the earbuds out. “You’re home—? You weren’t— You said tomorrow—”

“I know,” he says gently, his hand already reaching to steady you. “I finished early. I… needed to come home.”

Your eyes flick down, embarrassed. “I wasn’t trying to be clingy. I just — I missed you. A lot. But I didn’t want to bother you while you were working…”

He exhales. And then he laughs, softly. But there’s no amusement in it — it’s tender. Almost broken.

“Silly girl,” he murmurs, touching his forehead to yours, “you could never be a bother.”

You feel his hands cradle your face, gentle and trembling, like he’s scared he’s not real. Like you might not be.

“I don’t think you understand what you do to me,” he says, and there’s a crack in his voice now. “Hearing my voice in your ears while you slept — you don’t even know how much that means to me. How much I missed you. I thought about you every single night. I replayed your messages too. I needed your voice just to fall asleep.”

Your throat tightens. You reach up and take his hand, holding it against your cheek.

“I didn’t think you’d want to come home to something like this,” you say softly. “Me. In your hoodie. Needing you too much.”

His gaze sharpens, then softens like melting snow.

“This,” he says, “is exactly what I wanted to come home to.”

And then he kisses you — slow and warm and deep, like he’s trying to say everything he couldn’t over a thousand voicemails. Like he’s trying to put the word home back into your mouth.

That night, you fall asleep in his arms, the real thing.

No earbuds. No replays.

Just the rise and fall of his chest.

Just the sound of him whispering “I’m here now. I’ve got you.”

And this time, you believe it.

SYLUS

The door clicks shut behind him with practiced ease.

Sylus steps inside like a man who knows exactly where he belongs.

The trip was supposed to run one more day, but the meetings wrapped early, and the first thing he did — before even grabbing dinner — was book the soonest transport home. He could’ve waited. Should’ve, maybe. But there was a pull in his chest he couldn’t ignore.

That quiet longing that always hums louder when he’s away from you.

He drops his keys into the bowl by the door, toes off his shoes without making a sound, and moves through the apartment like a shadow, soft and sure. Everything feels familiar but different — like the space missed him back.

And then he reaches the bedroom.

You don’t hear him come in. You’re fast asleep, curled under the comforter on his side of the bed. You’re wearing his favorite long-sleeved shirt, the one that swallows you whole and hangs off one shoulder just enough to make his chest ache.

And in your ears — faint, but unmistakable —his voice.

“…I’ll be back before you know it, kitten. Just a couple more days. You’ve got this, alright?”

Sylus’s brows lift just slightly. His lips twitch into a small smile. That calm, sure expression he always wears — like nothing surprises him, but everything matters.

He walks over and crouches by the edge of the bed, one elbow propped on the mattress, hand cradling his chin as he watches you.

You’re breathing softly, lashes casting delicate shadows on your cheeks, your body curled up like you were trying to make yourself smaller without him here. The faint trace of your favorite lotion lingers in the air — but beneath it, unmistakably, is his cologne. Faint. Faded. From the hoodie you stole out of his suitcase the day he left.

Sylus feels something flutter deep in his chest. Not guilt. Not pain.

Just love. That deep, steady kind that fills every quiet space between heartbeats.

“…You missed me that much, huh?” he murmurs with a smile, brushing your hair away from your face.

You stir slowly, a soft little noise escaping your lips as your eyes blink open.

You see him.

And panic flickers across your face. “Wait —Sylus?! I thought — You were supposed to—”

“Tomorrow,” he finishes for you, voice warm. “I know. Got back early.”

You sit up fast, yanking the earbuds out, fumbling for words.

“I wasn’t — I mean, I didn’t want to bother you— You had work—”

He leans forward and kisses your forehead before you can ramble further.

“You think I wouldn’t want to come home to this?” he says, resting his forehead against yours. “You. In my clothes. Listening to my voice just to feel close.”

You open your mouth to apologize again, but he stops you with a gentle finger against your lips.

“Don’t,” he says. “You don’t have to downplay how much you love me.”

You blink. That steady heat rises in your chest. He always says things like that — so smooth, so sure — but never in a way that feels cocky. Always like it’s a truth he’s offering you to keep safe.

“I missed you too, you know,” he adds, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “I had a whole playlist of your old voice notes I’ve been looping when I couldn’t sleep.”

Your eyes widen. “You did?”

He grins. “What, you think you’re the only one who gets soft when we’re apart?”

You let out a breathy laugh, curling into him as he finally climbs into bed. His arms are strong and warm, and they wrap around you like they’ve been missing this exact shape. He pulls you close, pressing a kiss to your hair.

“You can always need me,” he whispers into your ear. “That’s not a distraction, sweetie. That’s home.”

And as you settle into his chest, the earbuds forgotten, you realize it’s true.

You don’t need recordings anymore.

Not when the real thing is here, heartbeat steady beneath your cheek.

Not when Sylus is home — calm, confident, and all yours.

CALEB

Falling asleep here was like second nature to you now.

In Caleb’s bed.

In his hoodie — faded, too big, heavy with the faint, familiar scent of him.

His voice whispering in your ears through the looped voice messages he left you over the past few days. His calm, low tone had been the only thing keeping the ache at bay, even if every word made you miss him more.

“Pipsqueak, I know this is hard. Believe me, I hate being away from you too. But we’ll get through this, like we always do. Just a few more days.”

You hadn’t planned on crying that night. But you did, curled up on his side of the bed with your fists balled into the sleeves of his hoodie. You hadn’t told him how badly you missed him. You didn’t want to pull his focus. He had an entire unit relying on him — he didn’t need one more person leaning on his shoulders.

You didn’t know he was coming home early.

Caleb’s boots are silent on the hardwood when he steps inside the apartment. He doesn’t call your name. Doesn’t flick on the light. He knows where everything is — even in the dark, even tired from the flight and the drive home. He knows his way to you like instinct.

He’s been gone five days. Not his longest mission, but long enough that the ache never left his chest. Long enough that the quiet in every room made him feel too far from something vital.

When he reaches the bedroom, he pauses.

And stares.

You’re asleep. Soft, curled into his pillow, wrapped in the hoodie he forgot he left behind. One of the sleeves is pulled up to your nose. Your face is relaxed in sleep, but your earbuds are still in, faint sounds escaping — his voice.

“Hey. I know you probably won’t play these more than once, but I just… I need you to know I love you, okay? You’re everything I think about at the end of every day. Stay safe. Sleep warm. I’ll be home soon.”

His heart clenches.

Caleb crosses to you like something fragile might break if he moves too fast. When he crouches beside the bed, he sees the slight crease between your brows. You hadn’t been sleeping well, not really. Not without him. Not for days.

He should’ve known. Should’ve checked harder. Asked more.

A wave of guilt crashes into him, thick and silent. This wasn’t just his life anymore. It wasn’t just about what duty demanded.

His hand finds yours, fingers brushing the edge of the hoodie sleeve.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, voice rough. “God, Pips. I hate that I have to leave you like this.”

You shift slightly, the sound of his real voice blending with the recorded one, and your eyes flutter open — slowly, groggily, like you’re unsure if this is just another dream.

“...Caleb?” you murmur.

He nods, already sliding onto the bed, pulling you carefully into his arms. “I’m here. Came back early.”

Your arms wind around him on instinct, clinging like you’re scared he’ll disappear again. “You weren’t supposed to—”

“I know.” He exhales shakily, pressing his forehead to yours. “But I couldn’t stand being away another night. Not when I knew you were… like this.”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” you whisper, the shame slipping in. “You had enough on your plate.”

His jaw tightens. Then relaxes as he cups your cheek.

“You’re never too much. You’re never a burden. You’re home. You’re the only part of this job that makes coming back worth it.” He swallows hard. “I hate that I keep having to go. I hate what it’s doing to you.”

You shake your head, eyes shining. “I knew what I was signing up for. I just… miss you. A lot.”

“I miss you too. Every damn second.”

You rest your forehead against his chest, breathing him in, finally real. Finally here.

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head, holding you like a promise. Like an apology he’ll spend the rest of his life making up for.

“I’ll do better,” he whispers. “I don’t know how yet. But I will. You deserve better than voice messages and empty beds.”

You don’t ask him to explain. You just nod. Because he’s here. And for tonight, that’s enough.

[raevalyntine]

normal things you do that makes the lads men weak in the knees! (fluff, slightly suggestive)

characters: sylus, zayne, rafayel, caleb, xavier

sylus! (reversing the car with one hand)

“You sure you can handle her, kitten?”

Sylus raised a brow, that smug, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he leaned against the hood of his ridiculously sexy car — the same one he’d brought you in during your last mission. Midnight black, polished to a mirror finish, and all sharp curves and quiet danger. The kind of machine that purred when it moved. Just like him.

You twirled the keys around your finger, eyes gleaming with challenge. “Please. If I can handle you, anything else is a breeze.”

He let out a soft, amused laugh, the kind that rumbled low in his chest and made your heart flutter. "Careful now. You keep testing me, sweetie, and I might stop pretending to be nice."

You arched a brow. “That’s not a threat at all.”

“Cheeky little kitten,” he muttered, half under his breath, but loud enough for you to hear. His fingers brushed your waist as he opened the door for you, like he couldn’t not touch you. “Try not to crash her. Or I’ll have to remind you what real control looks like.”

You slid into the leather seat like you belonged there, flashing him a wicked grin. “Mm. Threaten me with a good time, why don’t you?”

You will be the death of him.

–

Truth be told, he never intended to let anyone else drive it. But it was you. And Sylus could never say no to you—not when you looked at him like that, with excitement dancing in your eyes and your hands already on the wheel like you belonged there. Not when your smile and those bright, determined eyes were the only reason he even bothered to wake up some mornings. So, he climbed into the passenger seat with a lazy, indulgent smile and watched you.

He didn’t expect to be completely undone within minutes.

You were so focused, eyes sharp, lips pursed just slightly, hands adjusting the mirrors like you’d done it a thousand times. The dim streetlights lit the inside of the car in soft amber glows, playing off your skin and making you look breathtaking. He’d always thought you were beautiful. But this? This was something else.

And then came the reverse.

You shifted gears smoothly, turned to check behind you, and put your right arm behind his headrest, your other hand loose and controlled on the wheel. You leaned back slightly, posture effortless, movements confident.

Sylus went still. The moment your arm slid behind him and your body leaned in close, his brain short-circuited.His breath hitched — somewhere between a curse and a groan — and he didn’t even pretend to look away. No, he stared shamelessly. Like you were the sexiest thing he’d ever seen — and you knew it.

The car slipped into park with a clean click.

“You okay?” you asked, glancing at him with a knowing smirk. “You’ve gone awfully quiet over there.”

His eyes dragged over your profile — that smug smile, the rise and fall of your chest, the way you sat like you owned the whole damn car. His voice came out rough, breathless, honest.

“You trying to kill me, sweetie?”

You blinked at him innocently. “What? I didn’t even hit the speed limit.”

“Kitten, don’t tease me,”  he muttered, eyes still fixed on you like you might disappear. 

You snorted, laughing. “You’re dramatic.”

“And you,” he muttered, still staring, “are dangerously attractive. Remind me never to let you drive again.”

You raised a brow, cocky. “What? Afraid I’ll outshine you?”

“No,” he murmured, leaning in close until his breath brushed your skin. He pressed a kiss just under your jaw — slow, teasing. “Afraid I’ll crash the damn car next time… because I’ll be too distracted watching you.”

zayne! (tying up your hair)

The apartment was quiet, save for the occasional soft rustle of paper and the ticking of the clock on the wall. You sat cross-legged on the couch, Zayne right beside you, both of you lost in your own worlds—his full of medical scans and diagnostics, yours in a stack of mission reports. You were wearing one of his old T-shirts. It was a little too big on you, the sleeves falling slightly off your shoulder and the hem pooling around your thighs. But it was soft, smelled like him, and frankly, you weren’t about to wear anything else when you were spending the night with Zayne.

He had started out focused—really, he did. But somewhere between you curling your legs under you and the way your brow scrunched while reading the file, his eyes had started drifting from his report to you. Again and again. And then just... stayed there.

He should’ve been reading about some medical stuff or… well, he forgot what he was even reading about. Because all he could think about was how unfair it was for someone to look that gorgeous doing something as mundane as paperwork.

And then you did that.

You let out a quiet sigh, strands of your hair falling across your face as you leaned forward slightly. You grimaced, frustrated, and reached for the hair tie on your wrist. Zayne watched in real-time as you gathered your hair into a loose ponytail, arms raised above your head, exposing the soft curve of your neck. His T-shirt slipped just a little lower on your shoulder as you moved, your skin glowing faintly in the golden evening light.

And he lost all sense of what he was doing.

Before you could even secure the tie, Zayne was there, leaning in, his lips brushing against the bare skin of your neck, soft and warm and lingering.

You froze for a second, surprised, your fingers still tangled in your hair.

A small, breathless laugh escaped you. “What was that for?”

He didn’t move far, just rested his forehead against your shoulder, voice low and a little hoarse when he answered, “You’re distracting.”

You smiled, finishing the ponytail and turning slightly to face him. “I’m just sitting here.”

“Sweetheart, you could be taking out the trash, and I would still think you’re irresistible,” He exhaled through a smile, shaking his head. “I never stood a chance.”

You nudged him playfully, cheeks warm. “You’re unbelievable.”

Zayne just leaned in again, his hand brushing your knee gently, lips returning to your neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Yeah,” he murmured, leaving a trail of kisses from your jaw to your neck, “so are you.”

caleb! (drinking water after a gym session)

The gym was dimly lit by the time you finished, the late evening hush settling in as the last of the music faded into the background. You were both drenched in sweat, panting, muscles sore and shaky—but satisfied.

Caleb dropped the dumbbells with a grunt, resting his hands on his hips as he turned to look at you.

Big mistake.

You were standing there in those tights—the ones that hugged every curve and made his brain stutter like a broken machine. Your sports top was damp, your skin glistening, and your cheeks flushed from exertion. Even just breathing, you looked like a goddess to him.

But then you tilted your head back and took a swig of water.

And he swore the world was in slow motion.

A bead of sweat slid down your neck, joining a drop of water that trickled from the corner of your lips down to your collarbone.

Caleb let out an actual groan.

Before you could lower the bottle, he was behind you. You yelped in surprise as his hand gently but decisively took the bottle from yours, and his other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against his chest.

“Caleb—!” you squealed, breathless and laughing. “We’re both sweaty! And disgusting!”

He didn’t even seem to hear you. His lips found your bare shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world, brushing warm and soft over damp skin. He tightened his hold just slightly, his breath hot against your neck.

“I need you,” he murmured, voice rough, low, and devastatingly serious.

You went still in his arms.

“Right now,” he added, kissing up toward the corner of your jaw, like you weren’t both soaked in sweat and supposed to be cooling down.

“You’re insane,” you mumbled, heart pounding.

He chuckled, but didn’t deny it. “Only for you, pipsqueak.”

rafayel! (covering the edge of a table to protect his head)

You and Rafayel sat side by side at the table, paint tubes scattered around you like colourful confetti. Brushes lay haphazardly in every direction, and two half-finished canvases rested on the table. The air was thick with the sharp scent of acrylic paint and something softer—maybe the faint scent from your lotion, or maybe just the warmth radiating from him so close you could almost feel it.

You were both caught up in the fun of switching canvases every few minutes, layering your styles to create something beautifully chaotic. You wore one of his T-shirts, the sleeves rolled up messily, and a streak of turquoise paint marked your cheek like a badge of honor. It felt effortless, playful—until his brush slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

“Damn it,” he muttered, already crouching to retrieve it.

Without even glancing up from your own canvas, your hand moved instinctively—sliding out to cover the sharp corner of the table edge, the one his head was dipping dangerously close to.

Rafayel didn’t even notice at first. But when he came back up, brush in hand, he saw you: your expression serene, brow furrowed lightly in concentration, your other arm still braced protectively over the edge.

You hadn’t done it for attention. You probably hadn’t even realized you'd done it at all.

But something inside him shifted.

It was the smallest act. Quiet. Thoughtless. Pure muscle memory, like you were wired to look out for him.

And you were still wearing his shirt. Still sitting in the golden afternoon light like a soft dream come to life. His lips parted slightly, breath catching as he watched you.

You finally looked over. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer.

Just leaned in and kissed you—soft, full, and far too deep for such a quiet moment. Like he'd just remembered he was desperately in love with you all over again.

When he pulled back, you blinked, dazed. “...Raf?”

“I love you,” he said simply, as if that explained everything. And somehow, it did.

xavier! (leaning over him to reach something)

The two of you were in the kitchen, lazily prepping dinner together after a long day. Xavier was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching the pot simmer while you moved around the space like you owned it—because you basically did. This was his place, sure, but the way your presence lingered in every room made it feel more like yours.

He was keeping a casual conversation with you as your eyes flicked toward the cabinet above him. You took a step closer.

Then, with no warning, you leaned right over him, reaching for the top shelf where the spice jar sat, just slightly out of your natural reach. Your torso pressed gently against his arm, your shoulder brushing his chest. His voice faltered as the scent of you infiltrated his senses.

You didn’t notice.

Or maybe you did, but acted like you didn’t.

Your fingers wrapped around the jar, and then you were pulling back with a victorious smile, turning away like nothing had just happened. You were already opening it, humming softly as you shook a little spice into the pot.

Xavier hadn’t moved an inch. His thoughts, on the other hand, were a battlefield.

The heat of your body. The effortless way you invaded his space. The soft scent of your shampoo still clinging to the air. The sound of your breath when you reached. The hem of your shirt rising just a bit too high when you stretched. All of it left him rooted to the floor, watching you like you were a living temptation he didn’t deserve.

“Xavier?” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “You okay?”

He blinked. Swallowed. “Yeah,” he said, voice lower than he meant it to be. “Do you always do that?”

“Do what?” You tilted your head, genuinely puzzled.

“Just... reach over people like that. Casually. Like you didn’t just—” He broke off, jaw clenching slightly. “Never mind.”

Your smile turned slow. “Xavier, were you flustered?”

He scoffed lightly. “I don’t get flustered.”

You stepped closer, eyes dancing. “You do. When I do things like this—” and then you brushed your fingers down the front of his shirt, featherlight, “—you get a little distracted, huh?”

He exhaled slowly, catching your wrist, pulling you flush against him.

“You’re cruel,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours, heat simmering under his skin.

“And you’re easy to tease.”

He didn’t argue. He just kissed you, deep and slow, hands slipping to your hips with intention that made your knees weak. 

The pot simmered on the stove, long forgotten, the scent of dinner fading into the background. You had to call for takeout instead—something quick, something easy—because every touch, every lingering look from Xavier left you trembling in a delicious kind of ache.

Later, you sat across from each other at the small table, plates between you, but your mind miles away. Your body was already sore from the way he’d claimed you, but Xavier smiled like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just shown you exactly what it cost to tease him.

His eyes caught yours over the rim of his glass, warm and dangerous, and you knew the night was far from over.

a/n: thank you everyone for all the love on my writings!! this one had been in my drafts for awhile but I only got to revisit and edit it yesterday. i apologize in advance if any of them are out of character, or some a little short than the others. I'm still learning and practicing on how to write for each character, but I do hope my silly little writings can make you smile. love you everyone!!

[raevalyntine]

the lads men reaction to seeing you dance!

(fluff, slightly suggestive if you squint)

Xavier

Xavier’s usually reserved demeanour melted into something far softer as his gaze landed on you just two steps away on the dance floor. Under the twinkling lights of the Hunter’s Association annual party, you were all tipsy twirls and sparkly eyes, moving to the beat of the music with zero concern for who was watching.

He leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest, doing a poor job of hiding his grin. When one of your spins came a little too close to the punch bowl, he stepped forward instinctively—whether to catch you or the bowl was up for debate. (He’d much rather have his hands on you.)

You smiled at him with the kind of enthusiasm that made his heart stutter. “Come dance!”

“I don’t… dance,” he said, lifting a brow.

You didn’t hesitate. You grabbed his hand with a wink. “Tonight you do, Starboy.”

He let you tug him into the crowd, a resigned but fond sigh escaping him as his hand tightened around yours. “As long as I can keep you close,” he murmured as he slid his hands on your waist while you twirled around.

Five seconds later, he tripped over absolutely nothing. 

(He didn’t let go of your waist once.)

Zayne

Zayne opened the door quietly, slinging his coat over one arm. It had been a long shift, but the second he stepped inside, he came to a full stop.

There you were, completely unaware of his presence. Hair a beautiful mess, barefoot, wearing the silk nightwear Zayne had gifted you, you danced in the middle of the living room with full, unapologetic, dramatic flair. With your headphones on, you spun like you were centre stage on Broadway, before you curtsied to the imaginary audience.

Zayne bit his lip, shoulders trembling with the effort not to laugh out loud. You finally turned, mid-sway, and saw him. “Zayne!” you yelped, freezing in place like a deer in headlights.

He raised a brow and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. “Should I come back later or be your private VIP audience?” You groaned, face flushing bright red. “I—I didn’t hear you come in!”

He strolled over to you, calm and amused, and gently took your headphones off. Without a word, he dipped his head and pressed a soft kiss to your temple. His hand found your waist, pulling you gently closer until your bodies touched. Then, with a quiet exhale, he rested his head on your shoulder and began to sway the two of you side to side, slow, unhurried, like the rest of the world could wait.

“Sweetheart…” he whispered, warm breath caressing your ear, “You really don’t know what you do to me, do you?”

Rafayel

The music drifted through the grand ballroom — soft, classical, and timeless. Overhead, the chandeliers shimmered like constellations, casting delicate light across the marble floor. Rafayel’s gloved hand rested lightly on your waist as the two of you moved in quiet sync, gliding like you belonged to another era.

Most eyes, as always, were on him.

But his gaze never once left you.

Then you spun — graceful, poised, your dress fanning around you like a blooming flower caught in slow motion. Effortless. Enchanting. Like a scene from an old black-and-white film that he never wanted to end.

Rafayel paused, just for a breath, momentarily taken by the sight of your serene smile under the crystal lights.

“Mon amour,” he murmured, his voice low and reverent. “Where have you been hiding all that grace, my dear Miss Bodyguard?”

You laughed, soft and teasing. “I thought you preferred dramatic flair.”

“I do,” he said, pulling you back into his arms with practised charm, “but every version of you is my undoing.”

Then he spun you again, a touch more dramatically this time, because, of course, he had to reclaim the spotlight with a smirk.

Sylus

The twins were already in full swing. Luke was shouting something about unfair scoring while Kieran moved like a natural-born rhythm god, effortlessly hitting every beat. You were wedged between them, flailing with unfiltered enthusiasm as the Wii blared a Kesha song and the poor sensors struggled to keep up.

Sylus stood at the doorway, arms crossed, blinking at the scene like he’d just walked into another dimension. His heart warmed ever so slightly, witnessing his family having fun.

“…What exactly is this chaos?”

You turned mid-dance, one arm flung dramatically overhead. “JUST DANCE NIGHT!”

Kieran shot him a sly grin. “You’re up next, boss.” Luke waved the extra remote like a challenge. “C’mon, boss! Show boss lady what you’ve got!”

Mephisto cawed from his left shoulder, as if encouraging Sylus. Sylus narrowed his eyes and stepped in slowly. “I just closed a seven-figure deal. I don’t have the energy to just dance.”

Five minutes later, his six-foot-plus frame —all sleek muscle and deadly precision in literally every other context— was flailing beside you in what could only loosely be defined as “dancing.” His jumps were too high, his arms too wide, his focus terrifyingly intense as Rasputin blared from the speakers and Kieran nearly wheezed filming it all.

(You 100% beat him. He demanded a rematch. Maybe just you and him now, in his bedroom.)

Caleb

The beat dropped, lights pulsed in technicolour, and the crowd moved like one massive, electrified wave. Caleb had one arm slung casually around your shoulder as he bopped along with an easy, almost lazy rhythm.

You were dancing like your soul depended on it.

Not just a shy little sway—no. Your arms in the air, hair bouncing, belting the lyrics with pure joy, kind of dancing. And he loved every second of it. 

You spun to face him mid-chorus, breathless and glowing. “Dance with me!”

He smirked, barely tapping his foot. “I am dancing.” Then, with a cheeky wink, he added, “Besides… I’d much rather watch you.”

You rolled your eyes at his boyish grin, but your heart still did a traitorous little flutter. Grabbing his free hand, you pulled him into the sea of people. He stumbled at first, nearly spilling his drink, laughing the whole way. “Alright, alright! You’re as bossy as ever, pipsqueak.”

Once he gave in, it was chaos. He was goofy, shameless, and annoyingly good at dancing — the kind of moves that made strangers cheer and made you laugh so hard you had to hold onto him just to breathe.

And when the song finally slowed, he leaned in, lips brushing your cheek, voice barely audible over the hum of the crowd.

“For you?” he whispered, “I’d make a fool of myself in front of the whole damn world.”

[raevalyntine]

hi fellow tumblr people!! i'm really new here and wanted to share my fics! i started posting on twitter @/sylusvault and wanted to try posting here on tumblr too. i spammed post the last few posts hahaha, those were all fics i had posted on my twitter acc before. i still don't know how to navigate this blog, do a masterlist and all that stuff but i'll try to slowly learn it. i hope everyone enjoys my silly little writings hehe <3

[raevalyntine]

what happens when sylus meets your possessive boy cat for the first time?

(sylus x reader) humour, fluff, possessive and petty sylus, suggestive

It started with you dragging Sylus to the grocery store.

He had shown up that morning in a dark maroon button-down with the sleeves rolled up, hair perfectly tousled, ready to whisk you off somewhere expensive and mood-lit. But when you met him at the door with a shopping list and a cheerful smile, he blinked at the paper in your hands like you’d just handed him an arrest warrant.

“You’re telling me,” he drawled, arms crossing as he leaned against the doorway, “that instead of letting me take you on a proper date, you want me to follow you around a fluorescent-lit store while we argue about produce?”

“Yes,” you grinned, pressing the list to his chest. “Consider it a bonding experience.”

He sighed. “Kitten, you know I could get all this delivered. Snap of my fingers. Why suffer?”

But you just grabbed his hand and brushed your thumb along his knuckles. “Because I want to do it with you.”

He stared at you for a long second, then let out that deep, rich laugh that you love so much under his breath, kissed your temple, and let you tug him along. “Alright, sweetie. Anything you want.”

Hours later, you finally stepped into your apartment, grocery bags in hand and the scent of fresh bakery bread trailing behind you.

Sylus followed in behind, setting down a few bags with a sigh. “That was not romantic,” he muttered, brushing away a rogue piece of lettuce from his shirt. “An old lady threw a head of lettuce at me. Why was I not aware that grocery shopping was equivalent to war?”

“It’s discount day today, she’s just doing what’s right,” you said, hiding your smile as you unpacked the fridge items. Sylus chuckled and was already helping you organise the groceries into their respective shelves. You shooed him away after a while, telling him to rest (you didn’t want him to mess up your organisation system).

As Sylus wandered into your home, he took in everything as if he were seeing your place for the first time. Sylus had technically been here before, but back then it had been late, the lights were off, and your front door had barely closed before things turned into a blur of kisses and discarded clothes. But now? Now he was really seeing it. The sun touched everything like it was showing off: your plants, your quirky fridge magnets, the soft pillows arranged just how you liked them. Sylus was quiet as he looked around. Reverent, almost. Like he was memorising it.

He ran a hand along your bookshelf. Paused by the photos on your console. Touched the mug with your chipped initials. The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Once the last can of soup was stacked and you’d wiped your hands on a towel, you called out, “Sylus—here.” You offered him a glass of water. He took it, his fingers brushing over yours just a little longer than necessary, then set it aside after a sip.

And that’s when you noticed the shift.

He stepped in closer. One hand came to rest beside your hip on the counter. Then the other. And just like that, he’d caged you in–his arms on either side, his tall frame looming close, dark eyes simmering with something slower, warmer. His body heat pressed in, his eyes dark and glinting.

“I was very patient today,” he murmured, voice low, lips brushing your ear.

“Barely,” you whispered back, trying not to smile.

He leaned in, grazing your jaw with his mouth, his tone slipping into a dangerous purr. “You know,” he murmured, voice velvet-smooth, his breath fanning over your jaw, “I behaved all day. Didn’t cause trouble. Didn’t threaten anyone. Didn’t even bite you in the spice aisle. I deserve something sweet now, don’t I?”

Your breath caught.

Then he kissed you. Deep, slow, curling warmth that stole the air from your lungs and made your fingers tighten in his shirt. The kiss grew hotter, his hand finding your waist, yours sliding up his chest. His body pressed against yours, caging you between him and the counter.

His hands were slowly tugging the waistband of your jeans when—

THUMP.

Something heavy collided with Sylus’s feet.

“Wh–What the?!”

Startled, he stumbled back a step. His shoulder bumped the cabinet. Staring up at him with the rage of a thousand suns was a massive, fluffy orange cat. Tail puffed like a warning flare, blue eyes narrowed in betrayal. The cat let out a low, judgmental mrroooww and hissed at Sylus.

Sylus blinked in confusion and shock as you bit back a laugh. Sylus turned his gaze towards you, but you were already leaning down, your voice sweet as you called the cat over,  “Hi Pumpkin, come here.”

Immediately, the snarling little menace transformed into a puddle of affection. He padded over like a lovesick marshmallow, weaving through your legs and purring so hard it vibrated the floor.

Sylus stared in disbelief.

You crouched to scoop him up, and Pumpkin climbed willingly into your arms, nuzzling his head under your chin. He made a little chirrup noise, then reached forward and gently booped his nose against yours.

“I missed you, baby.” You muttered as you nuzzled your face into Pumpkin’s fur.

Sylus gaped. “He tried to kill me and you’re rewarding him?”

You just smiled. “He’s just protective.”

Pumpkin blinked at Sylus from the safety of your arms, smug and purring like a motorcycle.

Sylus narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t the jealous type—really, he wasn’t—but something in his chest was rumbling. Maybe it was his dragon instincts. Maybe it was the sheer audacity of that cat. It’s fine. It’s not like that little terror–Pumpkin was it? –would do much. He’ll just take the hisses and glares and ignore it, like the calm and composed man he is. Right?

It started small.

You were sitting on the couch, Pumpkin curled on your lap as Sylus went to sit besides you. Sylus gestured vaguely toward the cat, then to you. “Wait, sweetie. How have I never seen him before? This is not a small animal. He looks like he could eat three sets of Mephistos.”

“He was at the vet,” you explained, stroking between Pumpkin’s ears. “Check-up. He stayed overnight for observation.”

“Ah.” Sylus narrowed his eyes. “So I didn’t dream this demon into existence.”

You shook your head, cheeks warming. “Nope. Very real. Just… not around that night.”

There was a beat of silence before Sylus smirked, his tone turning deliberately low. “Right. That night.”

You stiffened slightly, cheeks flaring redder. Sylus stepped closer again, his smirk deepening as he leaned in just enough to brush a knuckle under your chin.

“That night…” Sylus echoed, voice thick with amusement. “The one where we didn’t even make it past your hallway. You were practically tearing my shirt off, kitten.” Your face flushed instantly, and you looked away, flustered. Sylus grinned, closing the distance, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

He didn’t get any further.

A low growl interrupted the moment.

Pumpkin—who had apparently been napping with one eye open—shot up, tail flicking, pupils dilated. Sylus instinctively backed off just as the orange menace prepared to pounce.

“Down, soldier,” he muttered under his breath.

You scooped Pumpkin into your arms just in time, cooing softly, “Shh, baby. It’s okay.”

Sylus’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “You're comforting him?”

You pressed a kiss to Pumpkin’s furry head, entirely unbothered. “He gets jumpy when he senses a threat.” Sylus narrowed his eyes. “I’m the threat?”

Pumpkin blinked slowly at him, clearly unrepentant. Sylus scoffed. “Unbelievable. I’ve fought trained assassins who were more welcoming.”

There were more moments like that. Too many, in Sylus’s opinion.

He’d try to slide his arms around you while you cooked—nothing scandalous, just a soft back hug, maybe a kiss to your neck—and BAM. Pumpkin appeared, claws out and hissing like a snake. During dinner, Sylus brushed his fingers along your thigh under the table, only for a furry missile to launch itself between you, knocking over a water glass in the process.

Movie night? Forget it. Sylus would settle in beside you, finally thinking he’d earned a moment of peace, only for Pumpkin to leap up, stare him dead in the eyes, and then physically wedge his fluffy body between you two with the weight and determination of a Wanderer. Hell, a Wanderer was easier to handle than this.

Sylus was patient. Until he decided he’d had enough.

It was the end of the night, you were headed to bed, and he was right behind you like a man on a mission. The moment you stepped into the bedroom, Sylus kicked the door shut and locked it with such speed and finality, you almost laughed—until you saw the look in his eyes. Dark. Heated. Done with being polite.

As you crawled under the sheets, he joined you instantly, curling around you like he belonged there. His hand rested on your waist, fingers flexing slightly as he inhaled your scent. Soft, warm, yours. All the missed opportunities from the day simmered to the surface. Every time he’d reached for you, only to be clawed or glared at by a fuzzy orange menace.

His lips brushed the back of your neck. “Now,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous, “where were we?”

His mouth found your skin again, trailing hot, slow kisses down your shoulder. You shivered, your breath catching—

And then.

“MRRRROWWWW!”

A banshee wail echoed through the apartment. Followed by frantic pawing. Sharp. Desperate. Unrelenting. Like someone was trying to break into the room with pure willpower and toe beans.

Sylus cursed under his breath. You sighed and offered a sheepish smile as you turned your head over your shoulder. “Pumpkin always sleeps on the bed…”

Sylus stared at you, slack-jawed, like you’d just told him that you were going to break up with him.

“Of course he does,” he said flatly, rolling onto his back and dragging a hand down his face. “Of course he wants to sleep in this bed with you.”

There was another insistent thump against the door. You giggled as you slipped out of bed to open the door. Pumpkin strutted in like a king returning to his throne, hopped up, and promptly curled between the two of you. Sylus stared at him, utterly betrayed. “…This is war.”

As you slept soundly with Pumpkin curled up with you, Sylus was seething. He wasn’t going to lose you to a thirty-pound fluffball with abandonment issues and a superiority complex. Not like this.

Something had to be done.

And that’s how, one week later, your bedroom door slammed open and Sylus marched in like a man possessed—carrying a sleek, regal-looking Bengal cat in a luxury pet carrier.

You blinked. “Sylus… what is that?”

He set the carrier down like it was sacred cargo, his voice resolute. “Your cat declared war. I’m giving him… a distraction.”

Sylus had brought a girlfriend for your cat.

And that’s also how, later that night, with Pumpkin and his newlady friend preoccupied in the living room—curious meows and soft purring barely audible through the closed door—you finally ended up exactly where Sylus wanted you: writhing under him, his name a breathless chant on your lips.

The cats purred. But in your bedroom, Sylus growled—low and possessive—as he claimed every inch of you, reminding you who’d truly won tonight—one heated kiss, one desperate moan at a time.

His lips trailed fire down your neck, his hands greedy with every inch of you he’d been denied for far too long. The bedroom was dim, warm, breathless.

Outside, the cats got acquainted.

Inside, Sylus made sure you only remembered his name.

His mouth brushed your ear, voice like velvet and fire.

“No more interruptions, kitten. Tonight, you’re mine—every. last. inch.”

[raevalyntine]

"you're not fine" (sylus x reader hurt/comfort)

AU where you're his second-in-command, angst, yearning (so much yearning), raw confession

You know Sylus better than anyone. And lately… something was wrong.

He didn’t say a word about it, of course. He never did. Sylus had always been a man of silence when it came to his own struggles. His words, when they came, were nothing more than a polished shield, a mask that slipped over his pain. He wore that mask so well that even those closest to him never saw past it. To the rest of the team, he remained the same sharp, relentless commander — calm, cool, invincible. But not to you. Never to you. You knew him better than anyone else ever could.

You saw the cracks. They were small at first, so faint that maybe only someone who had lived and bled beside him for years would notice. His shoulders — once as firm as steel, holding the weight of the world with ease — began to sag, just a little, after every mission. The slight shift in his posture, the exhaustion that clung to him even when the mission had been a success.

The dark crescents beneath his eyes grew sharper with each passing day, a stark contrast to the strength he projected on the outside. You couldn’t ignore the way he was carrying himself. His body had always been the first to give him away, a language of fatigue his mask couldn’t hide. The way he avoided resting, pushing himself until he nearly collapsed, convinced that pushing harder would somehow silence whatever it was that haunted him. And it was obvious to you — even if he refused to acknowledge it — that it was something far worse than just a lack of sleep.

The silence, too. The space between his words was becoming a chasm. He barely spoke unless he absolutely had to. When he did, his voice cracked in ways that no one else seemed to hear, like it was straining against the burden of everything he kept buried deep inside. He sounded like someone choking on words that refused to surface. It was as though the very act of speaking was becoming an effort for him, and you hated it. You hated that he didn’t trust you enough to share the weight with you.

But it was the way he stopped looking at you that shattered something deep inside.

It wasn’t just that he avoided your gaze when you stood in front of him, though that in itself was an ache you couldn’t ignore. No, it was something deeper, more painful. He did look at you — but only when you weren’t looking back. You could feel his eyes on you, heavy, lingering. That stare that held a quiet desperation, like he was memorizing the shape of you, committing every detail to memory, just in case. Just in case what? You didn’t know. But you knew it wasn’t the same look he used to give you, the one full of fire, of mutual understanding, of trust that no words could ever fully describe.

You’d been his partner in everything for so long — his equal, his second in command, his anchor. You had seen him at his worst, and he had seen you at yours. And still, somehow, the two of you had always found a way to keep each other afloat. But now? Now, it felt like you were watching him drown, slowly, painfully, and he wasn’t letting you save him.

You tried to reach out, tried to bridge the distance that was growing between you. But each time, it was like he was shutting you out further, pulling into himself in ways that made your chest ache. You knew he was pushing you away, even if he didn’t want to admit it. But what hurt the most was that he wasn’t even trying to explain why. He was just… silently suffering, as if he was trying to shield you from whatever it was eating him alive. You wanted to tear that mask off, demand he tell you what was wrong, why he was hiding from you, why he was letting himself fall apart without saying a word.

You’d known Sylus long enough to read him better than anyone else ever could. You didn’t just know him — you breathed him. You were the only one who understood him best.

The kind of understanding that didn’t need words, didn’t need explanations. Yours was a bond forged not through grand declarations, but through the unspoken, the in-between moments — the kind born in the dark, where hope was scarce and survival was a daily gamble.

You met him in a place where people were discarded. Where hunger was more common than mercy, and warmth came only from pressed backs in alleyways or flickering fires from trash bins. You had nothing. He had less. But even then — even in that ruin — Sylus carried a kind of fire behind his eyes. Not for himself, but for the chance that maybe you both could make it out.

He broke his bread in half when his stomach hadn’t known fullness in days, and still, without hesitation, offered you the larger piece. You gave him your only jacket when winter bit through your skin, your fingers stiff and blue with cold, but you smiled anyway — because he was warm. You wiped the frost from each other’s lashes in silence, huddled beneath torn roofs and against frozen walls, knowing that if either of you faltered, the other would follow. You weren’t just two stray souls scraping by on the edge of the world.

You were twin embers in the ash — flickering, desperate, but refusing to go out as long as the other still burned. You were survival written in shared breaths and quiet sacrifices. Two halves of a dying flame, stubbornly feeding one another light in a world that never offered any.

You didn’t know what loyalty meant back then, not in the way the world defined it. But you knew what it meant to choose someone. To stay. To fight. To crawl through blood and ash and rot with them and still look at them like they were your only light.

Together, you fought tooth and nail to rise. To build something that no one could take from you again. Onychinus wasn’t just an organization. It was a fortress built from every broken piece of your childhood — yours and his — mortared together by trust and fury and pain.

So when people asked how you worked so well together, they never really understood. They didn’t see that your bond wasn’t tactical — it was existential.

The brush of shoulders in rooms heavy with tension. The shared glances across battlefields that spoke louder than any command. The quiet offered in place of comfort when both of you were too tired to cry.

There were no lies between you — not because you’d made a pact, but because you didn’t need to speak to know.

You could feel it when his breath hitched in the dark. When his hands trembled after a particularly bloody mission. You knew when to press your fingers into his shoulder, grounding him without a word. And he knew when to pull you back before you broke — always before you broke.

You were the only one he let see his weakness, because you were the only one who never saw it as weakness.

You knew him when he was nothing. And he knew you the same.

And that was what made this distance unbearable.

Because the man who once pulled you out of hell was now the one shutting you out of the world you built together.

Sylus had started leaving you out of everything. Missions came and went, and your name was never on the list. At first, you thought it was just a coincidence, maybe even a fluke. But the pattern continued, and each time you questioned it, his excuses grew more polished, more rehearsed. “It’s too dangerous,” he would say, his eyes never meeting yours for more than a fraction of a second. “You need rest.” “We need someone here at base.” Each response wrapped in feigned logic, in those protective tones that only made your stomach twist into knots. They sounded like concern, but you heard the hollow echo beneath them — the way he distanced himself from you with every word, like a quiet wall that had started to rise between you.

And every time he gave one of those excuses, it made you feel smaller. Not because the reasons were bad — no, they were the kind of things a commander would say, the kind of thing he would say to someone he cared about. You hated that he was treating you like someone to protect instead of someone to fight beside. It wasn’t the first time he'd protected you—no, that had been a constant in your partnership, but this… this was different. It wasn’t protection. It was isolation. It was control.

You tried to hide how much it hurt, but you couldn’t. It gnawed at you like a slow ache deep in your chest that wouldn’t go away, no matter how hard you buried it behind smiles and reassurances. But it did hurt. Every time Sylus told you to stay behind, it felt like he was taking a part of you with him. Every time he left without you, a jagged piece of your heart stayed behind, waiting for him to return, praying he would come back with nothing worse than a few scrapes.

Because Sylus knew you. He knew you better than anyone else. He knew how much you hated being stuck at base like some fragile doll on a shelf, waiting for orders. Waiting for something to do. He knew how it made you feel useless, how the silence of the empty halls would gnaw at your nerves, making every second drag by with the weight of a thousand missed opportunities. You were a fighter. You weren’t meant to be sidelined. You weren’t meant to wait. Your hands were meant to be bloodied next to his, your voice meant to shout commands beside his in the chaos of battle. But now, he kept you out of the war you built with him. The war you fought together, side by side. It felt like betrayal, even if he didn’t say it out loud. You couldn’t help but wonder: Was it because he didn’t trust you? Or was it something worse — something deeper?

You offered to take missions. Perfectly suited tasks that you could execute better than anyone. You knew you were the best at what you did, and yet, when you volunteered, when you pushed yourself forward, Sylus just brushed you off with that same dismissive tone that cut deeper each time.

“I’ve got it covered,” he said, like it was nothing. Like you were nothing. “Kieran can handle it.”

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, your knuckles white with the effort to stay calm.

“Kieran?” you snapped once, unable to keep the edge from your voice. “I trained Kieran. I know what he’s capable of, but you know I’m better suited for this.”

Sylus didn’t respond. He just… turned away. That was the worst part. The way he just turned his back on you, as though you were a stranger, as though you meant nothing more than the air he breathed in and out without thinking.

The space between you two grew, slowly, like rot setting into the walls of a once-strong fortress. Silent, suffocating, and all-encompassing.

And when he returned from missions— when he was broken, battered beyond recognition, with bruises blooming like dark flowers across his skin, his body limping and bloodied, burned at the edges from the hell of combat — he didn’t come to you. No. He didn’t come to you for solace. He didn’t come to you for the comfort you had always given him, the quiet strength that had been a constant throughout all the chaos. Instead, he retreated into his room without a word, without a glance back at you.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

Today, he came back from another mission, one you should’ve been part of. The moment the door swung open, you saw him limping through the entrance, his arm pressed tightly to his side, blood staining his sleeve. The others scattered quietly, glancing between the two of you like they knew something was about to break — something that had been fragile for far too long.

You didn’t wait. You couldn’t.

You were already in his room before he even had the chance to settle. Medical supplies were scattered beside you on the bed. You didn’t speak. You didn’t move — you were still, holding your breath like the world was waiting for something to happen. 

Sylus froze in the doorway, his eyes widening, though his expression quickly shifted into one of guarded indifference. “You shouldn’t be—”

“Sit,” you interrupted, your voice sharp, clipped.

You didn’t wait for a response. You didn’t need to. You reached for him, your hand clasping around his wrist, pulling him down onto the bed with a force that left no room for argument. Every movement was precise, surgical — you weren’t sure if it was for him or for you, but it was all you could do to keep from shattering.

Sylus tried to mask the tension with a joke — his last weapon. “You know, kitten, if you wanted me shirtless, you could’ve just—”

“Shut up.”

Your voice left no room for negotiation. He blinked, startled, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, he didn’t have anything to say. The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable. It was heavy, thick with everything unsaid between you. It pressed down on your chest, your heart beating unevenly as you gripped the hem of his shirt and pulled it off, exposing the bruises, the blood, the deep gash across his ribs.

You didn’t speak. Not a word. You just opened the antiseptic, your hands trembling slightly as you cleaned the wound, the small bottle slipping between your fingers like it didn’t belong in your grasp anymore. Every touch was careful, like he was made of glass, but in reality, it was you who was breaking a little more with each moment that passed.

Sylus flinched, but not from the pain. No, it was from you — from the way your hands were too soft, too cautious, like you were afraid of him. And maybe you were. You were terrified of the distance between you now, the void where the connection you once had used to be.

Your eyes were glassy. You kept your gaze down, refusing to meet his. When your fingers brushed against his skin, the air between you felt charged with a kind of grief you couldn’t name. He could feel it too — how careful you were, how broken you seemed.

“I told you,” he said quietly, his voice distant, like he wasn’t sure if he was speaking to you or to the ghosts that haunted him. “I’m fine.”

And that was it. That simple sentence shattered something inside you. It wasn’t the words — it was the fact that he believed it. That he thought he could lie to you, to himself. You wanted to scream, to tell him everything, but instead, you just stared down at him, feeling your chest tighten with the weight of everything unsaid.

“No, you’re not,” you said, your voice cracking like thunder rolling in from a storm. “Stop lying to me.” The words left your mouth like a plea, but it wasn’t just for him. It was for both of you. For the trust you’d shared, the partnership that had once been everything. Now, it was all slipping away, leaving nothing but echoes of what you’d once been.

Sylus stilled at your words, his eyes darkening as they dropped to the floor. You didn’t wait for him to speak. You couldn’t.

“You’re not fine, Sylus,” you said, your voice shaking as you rose to your feet, pacing like a storm trapped inside a glass cage. “You don’t sleep. You barely eat. You avoid me. You pretend I’m not standing right in front of you.”

He didn’t respond. He just looked away, and that tore you apart in ways you couldn’t even begin to describe.

“You’ve been shutting me out of everything,” you continued, your voice cracking, raw with emotion. “Missions. Planning. Your life. You treat me like I’m breakable. Like I’m not good enough to fight beside you anymore.”

Your words dropped, softer now, wounded and raw, like a cry you couldn’t stifle. “Why?”

Sylus didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just stared at his hands, like he was trying to find an answer that he didn’t have.

“Why won’t you let me in anymore?” you whispered, your heart splintering with every passing second, the quiet desperation in your voice ringing louder than anything you’d said before.

His mouth opened, then closed. No words. Just silence. And in that silence, you realized — this wasn’t just about the missions. It wasn’t about the blood or the bruises or the physical scars he carried. This was about something deeper. Something broken. You had given everything to this man — your heart, your trust, your soul. And now, he was shutting you out like you meant nothing.

You stood, the weight of the moment heavy in the silence between you. But as you turned to leave, as the final thread of tension between you and Sylus seemed to snap, his hand shot out, catching your wrist. His grip was firm, but it wasn’t a command. It was a plea. And before you could say anything, before you could pull away, Sylus exhaled, the breath escaping him like a confession he couldn’t keep anymore.

“Because I’m scared.”

The words were soft. Softer than you’d ever heard him sound. And they hit you like a punch to the gut, so unexpectedly, so raw. Sylus, the commander, the leader who had never allowed himself to show weakness, was before you, unraveling in a way you never thought you’d see.

“Scared?” you whispered, your voice trembling, the weight of his admission pressing down on you, suffocating you with its intensity. “Of what?”

Sylus ran a hand through his hair, the action shaky, desperate. His facade, the unbreakable shield he’d carried for so long, was crumbling. “Of losing you,” he said, his voice almost too quiet to hear, like he was afraid the words would shatter everything.

Your heart tightened, a lump rising in your throat. You could feel it — the pain that he was carrying, the weight of it crushing him. 

He spoke again, his voice so soft it felt like it could shatter if it touched the air. “I have these dreams,” he said, his gaze unfocused, as if he were trapped in a place only he could see. “Every night.” He paused, the words slipping from him in a tortured whisper. “You’re with me, but something goes wrong. You’re hurt. You’re screaming, and I’m helpless. I can’t reach you. I can’t pull you back. And then… then you’re gone. You’re still. You don’t move. And when I wake up—” His voice cracked, like he was trying to hold something back, something too painful to say. “I’m terrified that one day… it won’t be a dream.”

For a moment, the world seemed to stop. You couldn’t find the strength to speak. You just stared at him, the man who had always been so strong, so unshakable — and now, here he was, trembling in front of you, his walls finally crumbling.

“Every day I send people into missions, knowing they might not come back,” he continued, his words coming faster now, his chest heaving like he was suffocating. “But you? You’re not allowed to die. Not you.” His eyes locked onto yours, full of something so heavy it made you want to look away, but you couldn’t. You were trapped in the storm of his vulnerability. “If something ever happened to you… I wouldn’t survive it. There’d be nothing left of me.”

You didn’t know what to say. You stepped closer to him, your heart pounding in your chest as you closed the distance. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands still holding your wrist, as if he were afraid you'd slip away if he let go. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, charged with everything that had been left unsaid between you two. Every moment of unspoken longing, every piece of frustration, every silent confession that had been buried so deep beneath the surface.

Your breath was uneven, your hands trembling as you reached for him, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead in a gesture so gentle, it almost felt like a plea. You were about to say something — anything — to break the tension, to make sense of the mess swirling between you both. But the words got caught in your throat before they could leave your lips. And then, before you could even comprehend what was happening, he spoke.

He said it like a prayer. Like a promise. Like something he had been carrying inside of him for so long, it was finally breaking free, no matter how much it terrified him. His voice cracked, raw and desperate, barely above a whisper but impossible to ignore.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice trembling with an emotion so deep it bled through every syllable. It wasn't just the words—it was the way his entire being seemed to surrender, as though confessing this truth was all he had left. “I love you in a way I can’t explain. In a way that hurts, like my heart is being torn open every time I think about it.” His eyes searched yours, desperately trying to convey everything he couldn’t put into words. “I can’t breathe without you. I can’t think without you. You’ve become so much a part of me, I don’t even know who I am without you. And the thought of losing you...” He swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling with the effort of keeping it together. 

A pained breath escaped him, his voice faltering as the words left him. “You’re stronger than anyone I know,” he murmured, his eyes locking with yours, a trace of admiration mixed with something darker, something raw. “You’re capable of anything. One of my favorite things about you is how you live fully—how you chase what you want, no matter what the world throws at you. It’s beautiful.”

His hand tightened on your wrist, as if afraid you might slip away with the next word. “But I can’t ignore the fear. The fear of losing you... because I don’t know how I’d survive that. I don’t know who I’d be without you.” He closed his eyes, letting the weight of the truth sink in. “I know it’s selfish, but I can’t help it. I just...” His voice trailed off, the words too heavy to speak any longer. He sighed, a shudder running through his body, and without warning, he dropped his forehead to your stomach, the pressure of his face against you a quiet plea for understanding. His breath was shaky, hot against your skin, and his hands loosened slightly, as if he were afraid of holding on too tightly. His body trembled with each shaky breath, as if the vulnerability he had exposed was more than he could bear.

He stayed there for a long moment, forehead resting against you as if your warmth could soothe the storm inside him. The silence between you was heavy, filled with things unsaid, but there was no need for words now. He had laid himself bare before you, as fragile as he had ever been.

And in that fragile moment, you understood the depth of his love—and the pain it caused him to try to protect you from himself.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Dropping to your knees before him, you reached for him with trembling hands, cupping his face so gently it was as if you were afraid he might break from anything harsher. Your thumbs brushed over the tears streaking down his cheeks, lingering like they had every right to fall there.

His eyes met yours.

God, his eyes.

So raw, so full of grief and love and fear all tangled into one storm of emotion. They searched your face like he was trying to memorize you—like he didn’t know if this would be the last time.

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. Your breath trembled against his skin, your heart pounding loud enough you were sure he could feel it.

“I never needed you to protect me from the world, Sylus,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I just needed you with me.” His lashes fluttered, his brows drawn tight, like your words had struck something too deep to hide. “I know you’re scared,” you breathed. “You’ve always been scared to lose the people you love. But I’m not just someone to protect. I’m someone who wants to choose you, again and again, even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts.”

His breath hitched.

“I love you,” you said, and the words didn’t feel like enough—not for everything you carried, for all the sleepless nights and quiet yearning and aching silences.

So you kept going, voice rising with the force of everything you’d buried. “I love you so much it terrifies me. I love you in ways I didn’t know a heart could stretch for. I love you in the quiet, in the chaos, in the parts of you that are rough and sharp and scarred. I love the way you laugh like you don’t deserve to, and the way your eyes go soft when you look at me, even when you’re trying to be strong. I love you when you're brave, when you're breaking, when you're too damn stubborn to let anyone carry the weight with you. I love you, Sylus. Not the fighter. Not the protector. Just... you.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers sliding into his hair as your voice broke. “I love the way you let me be wild, and fearless, and free… and how even when you’re pulling away, I know it’s because you’re trying to protect me. But Sylus… It’s not just you protecting me. I protect you too. My love protects you. You’re not alone in this.”

His lips parted, breath shallow. You saw it—the moment the wall cracked, when everything inside him spilled through the storm in his gaze. He looked down, his shoulders trembling as the tears fell—heavy, unstoppable, and full of everything he'd been holding in.

You slipped your hands under his jaw, guiding him to look up at you. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red, holding the kind of love that could wreck you in the most beautiful way.

“You won’t lose me,” you whispered, voice shaking but sure. “Not unless you let go of me. Not unless you keep believing you have to choose between loving me and keeping me safe.” Your hand trembled where it rested against his cheek. “I’m not afraid of what’s out there, Sylus. I’m only afraid of a life where you’re not in it.”

His breath caught. And when he looked at you—really looked at you—it was like something shattered behind his eyes. Like the weight he had been carrying alone for so long cracked under the truth of your words.

You leaned in—slowly, almost reverently—as if one wrong move might shatter the fragile thread holding the moment together. Your heart thundered in your chest, but your touch was tender, deliberate. And when your lips finally met his, it was like the universe held its breath.

His breath hitched sharply against your skin, and for a suspended heartbeat, the world ceased to exist. There was no past, no future—only the present, only him.

His hands shot up to hold you, desperate and trembling, as if anchoring himself to the only thing that made sense anymore. Like if he let go, he’d fall apart.

The kiss wasn’t perfect—but it was everything.

It was soft and aching, raw and real. It was a confession wrapped in silence, a promise sealed in warmth. It was every sleepless night, every lingering glance, every word left unsaid—finally spoken through the trembling press of lips.

It was desperation and devotion, fear and longing, all tangled up in the press of your mouths and the way he whispered your name against your lips like a vow. Fingers threading through hair, breaths stolen between kisses, every touch a promise, every shiver a prayer. He held you like he’d found salvation, and you clung to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

And when he kissed you again—deeper, slower—it wasn’t just hunger. It was history. It was heartache. It was home.

You fell into him like you’d been waiting your whole life to do so, and he caught you like he never planned to let go.

The war inside you both went quiet. The weight you’d carried lifted. And as the world melted into nothing but skin and sighs and shared breath, you didn’t just fall—

You crashed. Into him. Into love. Into everything you’d both been too afraid to reach for.

And that night, it wasn’t the stars or the silence that held you. It was each other. Raw. Real. Unbreakable.

[raevalyntine]

what happens when your best friend! caleb catches you playing an otome game?

It begins with you lying on your stomach across the couch, bathed in the soft glow of afternoon light filtering through the curtains. Your legs sway lazily in the air, your eyes glued to the screen of your phone. You’ve been completely absorbed in a new otome game you downloaded a few days ago. A futuristic romance otome filled with dramatic storylines, compelling choices, and an array of captivating love interests, each more alluring than the last.

You barely register the sound of the door opening or the soft thump of a bag hitting the table behind you. The music from your game hums quietly, wrapping you in the immersive world as one of the characters—a cyborg—leans in to confess something sweet and vulnerable.

A quiet gasp escapes you, barely louder than a whisper. “He’s perfect…” A smile tugs at your lips, warmth rising to your cheeks.

That’s when a familiar voice leans over the back of the couch, teasing and light-hearted, but carrying a subtle edge. “Who’s perfect?”

You jolt upright, yelping. “No one!” But it’s too late—Caleb’s already seen the glow in your eyes.

He reaches down, snatching your phone with practised ease, holding it just out of your reach as he studies the screen. “Wait a second—oh no. Is this another one of those romance games?” He squints mock-dramatically. “Oh my god pipsqueak, it is.”

You lunge forward to reclaim your phone, but he dodges effortlessly, still pressing through the interface with shameless curiosity. “So this guy’s the one, huh?” he says, tapping on your chosen love interest. “Let me guess: tragic past, mysterious stare, says dramatic things like ‘Even in death, we will never be apart’?”

You pout, feeling embarrassed. “That’s… not entirely wrong.”

Caleb laughs, that familiar sound that makes your heart twist for reasons you try not to name. But his teasing fades into something quieter as he slowly returns the phone, still lingering beside you. He settles on the couch, shoulder brushing yours—close, warm, grounding. Despite your heart still racing from the embarrassment of getting caught, you’re immediately calmed by Caleb’s presence beside you.

Then, too casually, he murmurs, “You know… if I was in that game, I’d break every route just to reach you.”

You freeze. Your breath stills in your lungs. You glance at him—but he’s not looking at you, his eyes fixed forward, his voice soft as velvet.

“It doesn’t matter how many times the story resets, or how many challenges stand in my way—I’d fight through all of it if it meant I got to stand beside you at the end.”

The room holds still. You forget how to blink.

Slowly, he turns to you and catches you staring, wide-eyed, lips parted in silent wonder.

A slow, crooked smile spreads across his face. “What? Don’t tell me that pixel cyborg guy didn’t say that to you.”

You shake your head faintly. “No… he didn’t.”

Caleb leans back, stretching out beside you like he hadn’t just turned your entire world upside down. “Guess he’s not as good as me, then.”

And suddenly, the screen in your hands loses its charm—because no fictional script, no digital romance, could ever compare to the boy beside you who just made your heart skip a beat with nothing more than the truth.

[raevalyntine]

caleb's here to comfort you <3

(caleb x reader) anxiety, comfort, fluff

The weight in your chest has been simmering for days.

It wasn’t loud. Not dramatic. Just... persistent. A quiet thrum of heaviness that followed you from the moment you woke up to the second your head hit the pillow. Work felt like wading through fog, and even home, your safe haven, felt a little off. It feels like you’d misplaced a piece of yourself and couldn’t remember where to look.

You didn’t tell Caleb. He’d been so busy lately. He had been coming home later and later from the Fleet, his shoulders tense beneath that heavy uniform, eyes darker than usual with fatigue. You didn’t want to burden him. He always did so much. You were supposed to be his comfort, not another weight for him to carry.

So you smiled when he was home. You smiled when he kissed your temple and told you how much he missed you. You smiled even when you were slowly unravelling at the seams.

Tonight, your anxiety was louder somehow. You’ve tried to comfort yourself with a warm shower, the steam clinging to your skin like it could soak the sadness out. You’d curled up on the couch with your favourite show, but the characters blurred into the background, and your eyes just stared, not even paying attention to the screen. Then you heard the door unlock.

You blinked out of the haze. “Welcome home,” you called out, your voice a practised kind of cheerful. “Long day?”

Caleb’s tired eyes found yours instantly, and despite everything, a soft smile tugged at his lips. The moment he saw you, the weight of command, the tension of duty, it all began to unravel from his shoulders. “It's always a better day when I come home to you, pipsqueak.”

Even on his most draining days, you were his constant. The warmth that steadied him. But something in your eyes tonight… something didn’t sit right. He leaned down, kissed your forehead, and gently brushed his knuckles along your cheek. “Gimme ten minutes. I’ll shower and I’ll cook for you, yeah?”

You nodded, and he disappeared into the bathroom, but his mind lingered on you.

Dinner was simple. Familiar. You both talked about your day at work. He made a joke about one of his subordinates tripping over their own boots. You tried to laugh. You did laugh. But Caleb could see through the cracks. He always could. Your smile didn’t reach your eyes. And his heart twisted.

He watched you more carefully now, noticing the way your shoulders didn’t relax, how you stirred your food more than you ate it. And just as he opened his mouth to ask—

“Pipsqueak, are you o—”

“I’ll get the dishes,” you cut in quickly, standing up a little too fast. “You cooked, I clean. Fair trade.”

You were in front of the sink when he followed. He didn’t speak at first. He just stepped up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, holding you to his chest like he was anchoring both of you.

His voice came softly, low. “Baby,” he murmured, “talk to me.”

You stood still, the porcelain plates trembling faintly in your hands.

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

“No, you’re not.” He pressed his forehead to the side of your head, his voice breaking with quiet emotion. “I know everything about you, and I know you haven’t been okay for a while.”

You didn’t answer. But your body did. The dishes clinked into the sink, and your shoulders trembled. Caleb turned you gently in his arms, and the moment he saw the tears finally brimming in your eyes, something inside him shattered.

He hated this.

Hated that you had carried this alone.

Hated that you had smiled for him when your heart was breaking.

He pulled you into him, arms tight, protective, like he could shield you from everything the world threw at you.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice soft and gentle. “Let it out, pipsqueak. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You cried, and he held you, his hand stroking your back. He blinked away his own tears, pressing his lips to your temple. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I should’ve seen it sooner.”

You shook your head, but he only held you closer. “You don’t have to be strong for me. You don’t ever have to carry this alone.”

When your sobs softened into sniffles, Caleb leaned back just enough to cup your face. His thumb brushed away the tears on your cheeks with tenderness that can only happen when you’ve loved someone more than you love yourself. And then, without a word, he scooped you up in his arms and carried you toward the bedroom.

“Caleb…” you whispered.

“Shh,” he said gently. “You’ve carried enough today. Let me take care of you now.”

He laid you down on the bed, then slid in beside you, pulling you close, your head resting against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

“You’re not a burden,” he whispered. “You’re not too much. Not for me. You are my peace, baby. My heart.” He kissed the top of your head softly. “Whatever you’re going through, we’ll go through it together.”

His fingers combed through your hair as his voice dipped into a murmur.

“You’re strong. You’re loved. And even when it feels like the world’s too heavy... You don’t have to carry it by yourself.”

His words slowly calmed you down, your eyes fluttering closed as you melted into him. He kissed your forehead. And leaned to press a soft kiss to your closed eyes.

“I’ve got you, pipsqueak. Always.”

[raevalyntine]

took you long enough (brother's best friend! zayne)

reader is also neighbours with zayne!, teeny tiny angst, yearning, jealousy, angry reader putting zayne in his place, zayne's a coward at first, zayne's just really down bad, slightly suggestive, protective brother, fluff ending

Zayne didn’t know why he’d picked up the dessert. He stood in his kitchen like a man possessed, staring down at the small container of tiramisu he’d brought home from work, wrapped it up, then found himself walking the familiar path next door. The light from your window was still on, faint against the evening sky.

He told himself it was nothing. Just a neighbourly gesture. Something your brother would have appreciated. That was all.

But it wasn’t.

Not really.

Not when deep in his chest, he wanted more than to just share a dessert with you.

Not when he could feel the silence you’d left behind like a ghost in his ribs.

You used to text him constantly. Stupid things like memes that didn’t make sense, blurry pictures of your takeout, and random thoughts at odd hours. “Why do we need to wash towels? We get out of the shower clean, right? So we’re cleaning the towel too, right? If we lost our legs, where would we feel the pain? In our legs? But they’re gone so…”

He used to groan and roll his eyes, tell you to stop texting him so much, to stop bothering him. But you never listened. And maybe a part of him had liked that you were stubborn and annoying.

But then the texts stopped.

He used to recognize the rhythm of your knock before it even finished, that familiar beat on his office door at the hospital—always arriving with a paper bag crinkling in your arms and a smile so disarming it made him forget whatever was on his screen. “You’re a distraction,” he’d mutter every time, trying to sound stern, but his voice always softened around the edges when it was you. You’d just laugh, breezing in like you belonged there, settling into the chair across from him without waiting for permission. Sometimes you ate in silence, other times you filled the space with stories about your day, your voice rising and falling like music he didn’t know he’d memorised. And while he feigned attention to patient charts and hospital protocols, the truth was, he was tracing the sound of your laughter in his mind, letting it echo in the quiet corners of his heart where no one else had ever been allowed.

You hadn’t shown up in over a month.

Now, his days were quiet.

Now, there was no knock.

Just absence. Loud and aching.

And Zayne had the ridiculous realization that he'd built his days around your interruptions, and without them, something in him had started to unravel.

And then came the nights out.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

You were out more often lately, stepping out into the night like you belonged to it. Sometimes dolled up, pretty and poised, and so far out of reach it made his throat tighten. Other nights, you looked like trouble waiting to happen—short skirts, off-shoulder tops, legs bare and defiant. Like you were daring the world to notice you.

He would watch from his window. Just for a moment.

Just long enough to curse whoever you were meeting.

And sometimes, when the nights were especially cold, he caught sight of someone walking you back. A man he didn’t recognize. A stranger. Tall. Laughing too loud. Standing too close. Someone who probably didn’t know that you got cold easily, or that your mood soured when the wind bit too hard. Someone who didn’t carry your favourite gum in his glove compartment just because you once said you liked the minty kind.

Zayne had stood by the window that night, fists clenched at his sides as the man waved you off and you walked up to your door alone. You hadn’t even noticed him watching. You’d looked… fine. Fine without him.

But something in Zayne bristled.

He had half a mind to snitch to your brother. Let him handle it, blow the whistle like some concerned guardian.

But Zayne wasn’t stupid.

He was more scared of you than your brother actually. 

And more protective than he had any right to be.

So he told himself this was just doing it as your brother’s best friend, making sure you’re well taken care of. That’s why he’d picked up the dessert. That’s why he was walking over now. That’s why his heart was hammering too loudly for a man doing something so casual.

He told himself that lie again and again.

But his fingers were still trembling when he reached your front step. His knuckles hovered just above the door. But the door opened before he could even knock.

You stood there, framed by the hallway light, stunning in a way that knocked the breath from his lungs. Your makeup was subtle, lips painted with that glossy tint you wore when you wanted to feel pretty, a figure-hugging dress that clung to every curve like it was tailored just for you. You smelled like vanilla and really, really bad decisions.

Zayne’s breath hitched. His mind stuttered.

Because for a second, just one, he wasn’t thinking straight like he usually does. He was thinking like a man on the edge.

He imagined what it’d feel like to smear that lipstick with his mouth, to kiss that attitude right out of you—slow, hard, and unforgiving. To grab your waist, feel the heat of your skin under his hands, and push you against the doorframe just to see you flustered and breathless for once. Mess up that perfect hair with his hands tangled in it, tugging until you gasped his name in that voice he always pretended not to crave and watch you glare at him with wild eyes and swollen lips.

And just as his mind started to spiral, your voice dragged him back.

“Zayne?” you asked, blinking up at him. “What are you doing here?”

His throat worked around nothing. For a second, he forgot what he was even holding.

He stiffened, caught. “Uh—I, um. Dessert. Brought you dessert,” he said gruffly, lifting the container.

You raised a brow, half-amused. “Didn’t know you did door-to-door dessert deliveries now.”

He swallowed. “Just thought you might want some.”

“Sweet,” you said. “But I’ve got plans.”

His stomach dropped. “Plans?” he echoed, tone flat.

“Yeah. A date.”

There it was.

“A date. At this hour?”

“Last I checked, I don’t have a curfew,” you said, already reaching for your purse.

“With who?”

“Some guy I met last week.”

“So you don’t don’t even know him?” he snapped, voice harsher than he intended.

“And?”

His voice dropped an octave, sharp and accusing. “It’s not safe. Some guy asks you out this late, and you just… say yes? He invites you out in the middle of the night, and you think that’s okay?”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and something in your eyes shifted, cooling into something unreadable. “What’s it to you, Zayne?”

He frowned. “I just—it's not right. What kind of guy invites a woman to a date this late?”

You tilted your head, gave him that look that always made his heart stutter. “Is that really the part that bothers you? That it’s late? Not that it’s someone else?”

He stayed silent.

So you smiled, bitter and bright. “Right. You’re the type of guy who’s nice and proper. Because you’re Zayne. The responsible, respectful, too good for anyone, Dr Zayne. Who never says anything and never does anything. Just watches from the sidelines and keeps doing his job like a good boy.”

His brows drew together. “Excuse me? I… That’s not fair.”

“Did I say something wrong? What’s not fair is spending years throwing myself at you like a damn idiot,” you snapped. “Texts, lunches, flirting—you name it. You had all the signs, Zayne. Hell, I may as well have tattooed it on my forehead.”

He flinched, but you were far from finished.

“And every single time? You brushed it off. Gently, politely. Like you were just tolerating your best friend’s little sister. Like I was some delicate child you had to tiptoe around.”

“I was trying to protect you–”

“From what?” you shot back. “From your own feelings? From getting too close? God, Zayne, you’re so scared of wanting me out loud, it makes me sick.”

You took a breath, trying to smooth the sting in your throat. “But you know what? Fine. Be a coward. Be the noble idiot who thinks he's doing the right thing by pushing me away.”

Your voice lowered, sharp with finality. “But don’t come to my door acting like you're here just to fulfil your responsibility, when the truth is, you’ve always cared. You’ve just been too much of a fool to do anything about it.”

His throat tightened as he looked into your eyes—so hurt and angry and wild.

You waited. He said nothing.

And then a car honk cut through the moment, sharp and final.

You scoffed, shaking your head like you were done playing this game. Without another word, you turned on your heel and walked down the steps toward the car idling at the curb. The guy you were seeing waved from the driver’s side, clueless and grinning.

Zayne stood there, rooted to the spot. The tiramisu in his hand felt heavier now, like a mistake he couldn’t undo. He watched the car door shut behind you. Watched the way the red of the taillights lit up your silhouette as the car pulled away into the night.

And still, he didn’t move.

Because maybe you were right. Maybe he was a fool.

Zayne sat on the edge of his couch, elbows on knees, hands laced tightly as he stared at the untouched glass of water in front of him. The clock on the wall ticked mockingly. 1:47 a.m.

You still weren’t home.

He had told himself not to worry. You were an adult, perfectly capable, strong-willed. You’d told him that yourself a hundred times. And yet the anxiety coiled tighter in his chest with each passing minute. The idea of you out there, with a stranger who didn’t know the slope of your shoulders when you were tired or the way your voice curled around sarcasm when you were hiding hurt, was enough to set him on edge.

Then his phone rang. Your brother.

“Zayne, hey. I need a huge favour,” came the familiar voice, slightly out of breath. “Can you pick her up from that club downtown? She called me, but I’m still stuck at work and I won’t get there in time. I don’t want her waiting alone, and I trust you more than a cab.” Zayne was already reaching for his keys. “I’m on my way.”

The drive there was a blur of city lights and the drumbeat of his own pulse. The club was loud even from a distance, bass vibrating through the pavement as lights spilt across the sidewalk. Zayne parked and scanned the front entrance. Then he saw you.

You were sitting on the curb, arms folded tight around yourself, dress bunched slightly at your knees. Your heels dangled from your fingers, and your expression was drawn, tired, bored, and cold. You were beautiful, still. Always.

Zayne felt something simmer in his chest. What kind of man leaves a woman alone like this? He got out, walking quickly toward you.

“Let’s go home,” he said quietly, already slipping off his coat.

You looked up, surprised. “Wait—Zayne? I thought my brother—”

“He asked me to come,” Zayne murmured, already draping his coat around your shoulders. You didn’t resist as he guided you gently to the car, opening the door and shielding your head as you slipped inside. The warmth hit you immediately, and you leaned back against the seat, sighing.

The drive was quiet. The road ahead was dark and familiar, winding through city streets he knew by heart, but tonight it all felt unfamiliar. Because you weren’t talking. You weren’t laughing or teasing him. You just stared out the window, quiet. Zayne glanced at you. “Are you alright?”

You gave a half-nod. He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “So… how was your date?”

You scoffed. “Awful.”

Zayne smiled a little. “That bad?”

You finally turned toward him, eyes rolling. “He brought me to the club just to show off. He didn’t even listen to me. Half the time he was talking about himself, and then he left me alone at the bar so he could dance with some girls he apparently ‘used to hook up with’.” You threw your hands up, exasperated. “I felt like a wall.”

Zayne’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing, just listened. Let you rant. It grounded him. Hearing your voice again. Hearing your anger directed at someone else and not him.

“You should’ve seen him,” you went on, rolling your eyes. “He kept looking at his reflection in his phone like he was in love with it. Who even does that?”

Zayne chuckled despite himself, glancing at you. You glared at him. “It’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You are,” you accused. “You’re laughing while I’m basically telling you I’m gonna die single. My friends are getting married. Some are popping out babies after babies. And I’m here, wasting my time with losers and still going home alone.”

Zayne’s smile faded. He turned onto your street, headlights cutting through the quiet.

“Maybe you’re just choosing the wrong kind of guy,” he said gently. “Maybe you need someone who actually knows you. Someone who remembers you hate runny yolks but loves soft-boiled eggs. Someone who knows you go quiet when you’re overwhelmed, or that you fake-laugh when you’re trying to hide being nervous. Someone who doesn’t need a reminder that you hate strawberries, but somehow love strawberry-flavoured things.”

You went quiet. The car eased to a stop at your shared driveway.

You blinked, stunned, but he wasn’t done. He turned to you and gazed at you with a determination that you’ve recognized and grown to love over the years.

“Someone who’s been a fool for years,” he continued, his words rough, like they’d been caged too long. “Someone who was too scared because he thought he might not be enough for you. Someone who spent so much time convincing himself that you deserved more than what he could offer.”

Your breath hitched, but you couldn’t look away.

Zayne’s eyes softened with guilt and longing. “Someone who was terrified,” he whispered. “Terrified of messing it up. Of saying the wrong thing and losing you completely. Someone who chose to just keep quiet and told himself he could live with being just your friend. Your neighbour. The guy next door who got to see you smile from across the fence.”

He laughed once, quiet and bitter. “Stupid, right? Thinking he could be content with scraps, when all he ever wanted was you.”

The air between you tightened, thick with everything unsaid over the years. Your lips parted, but no words came.

The words hung in the air between you, thick and heavy, each syllable landing with the force of something long overdue. For a moment, there was only silence. The weight of everything unsaid fell between you like a wall that neither of you knew how to break.

Zayne's chest rose and fell, his pulse thudding in his ears. He waited for you to respond, to say something, but you just sat there, not moving, your lips parted slightly as if you were on the edge of a decision you couldn't make.

And then, finally, he whispered, his voice raw, desperate—“Someone like me.”

There it was. The unspoken truth. The answer he had been so terrified to say out loud.

And in the next heartbeat, the world shifted.

You didn’t know who moved first, whether it was him or you, but in that instant, the car’s silence was shattered by the crash of your lips together.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t slow. It was raw and hungry, desperate like a dam that had finally broken. His hands gripped your face, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t get enough, as if this was the only thing that made sense in that moment. Your fingers dug into his shirt, tugging him toward you with the same need, the same urgency.

The kiss was everything you both wanted and everything you had been holding back. The taste of his lips—the heat of his touch—was everything you had imagined in all the years of waiting. And yet, nothing in your fantasies had prepared you for this. Nothing had prepared you for the way he kissed you with so much emotion, so much intensity, that it felt like the world had stopped moving around you. All that mattered was the feel of each other, the way your bodies fit together, the way your hearts raced in sync.

When you finally pulled away, the world came rushing back. Your breath was heavy, quick, like you’d been holding it for far too long. Zayne’s forehead pressed to yours, his breath warm against your skin. For a moment, everything felt impossibly still, like time had been suspended in the aftermath of the kiss.

He closed his eyes for a brief second, trying to steady himself, and when he opened them again, there was a deep vulnerability in them and a truth that had been buried for so long. He whispered softly, his voice raw with sincerity, “I’m sorry. For being so scared. For taking so long to see what was right in front of me. And… for making you wait.”  Zayne’s hands gently cupped your face, his thumb brushing the apple of your cheek as his gaze softened. “I... I’ve always wanted you. I just didn’t know how to make it real. How to be enough for you.”

A small, tender smile tugged at your lips as you leaned into his touch, feeling warmth flood your chest. His words hit something deep inside you, and before you knew it, you were grinning up at him, your face flushed.

“Well,” you teased, voice playful but soft, “took you long enough, you jerk.”

Zayne’s eyes sparkled with a mix of relief and amusement, and he let out a light chuckle. There was something in his gaze—something that was both teasing and affectionate, an unspoken promise between the two of you.

“Language, princess,” he murmured, his lips curling into a grin. “Might have to teach your pretty mouth to say nicer things.”

Before you could respond, Zayne leaned in again, his lips capturing yours with a renewed hunger, as if to prove that he wasn’t done showing you how much he wanted you. It was deep, it was slow, but every brush of his lips sent sparks through you. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you closer, as if he couldn’t bear the space between you. Before you knew it, you were already climbing onto Zayne’s lap, your hands tangling in his hair as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer.

The kiss was turning downright sinful—your legs curled onto Zayne’s lap, your fingers in his hair, his hands locked around your waist like he didn’t ever want to let go. The car’s windows were fogging up, the air inside heavy with heat, breathless laughter, and long-suppressed longing. 

But just as Zayne’s hand slid up your spine and you tugged at his shirt like you were two seconds away from losing all restraint—

HONK!

Both of you froze. Then—

HOOONK-HOOOOOONK!

Blinding headlights lit up the interior of the car like a stage spotlight, catching you full-on, tangled together in a compromising, heated mess.

You flinched, breaking the kiss and whipping your head toward the glaring brightness outside.

Parked at the end of the driveway, unmistakable even through your haze of panic, was your brother’s car.

“Oh my god.”

You buried your face in Zayne’s neck, groaning into his collarbone. “Oh my god. He’s going to kill us.”

Zayne didn’t move, frozen like a deer in headlights, his eyes wide with panic. His hands stiffened on your waist, and his throat went dry as your brother’s earlier words echoed in his mind—“I trust you more than a cab.” And now, in this exact position, Zayne was pretty sure he was about to lose that trust entirely.

Then came the knock on the driver’s side window.

A slow, smug rhythm.

Zayne winced. You peeked over your shoulder, already dreading the sight.

Reluctantly, Zayne rolled down the window. The cold night air swept in and with it, your brother’s voice, thick with amusement.

“Well, well. Finally,” he said, grinning like he’d just hit the jackpot at a casino. “Took you two long enough. I was this close to stamping both of your foreheads with proclamations of love.”

You groaned louder, burying yourself deeper into Zayne’s neck. “Please shut up.”

“I mean, I always knew you two were pathetic, but watching this unfold in real time? It was like watching paint dry. Painful. Agonizing. Occasionally hilarious.”

Zayne cleared his throat, his cheeks burning red. “We, uh—”

Your brother raised a hand. “Don’t. Save it.”

Then the teasing drained from his face, replaced by something firmer, steadier. He turned his attention to you, voice shifting into big-brother authority.

“Alright. That’s enough for tonight. Go inside.”

You lifted your head, blinking. “What? Why?”

“You heard me,” he said flatly, using that tone you knew better than to argue with. “Inside. Now. Before I actually start giving a speech.”

You huffed, still perched in Zayne’s lap. “You’re literally the worst.”

“And I’m still your big brother.” He nodded toward the front door. “Go.”

Grumbling under your breath, you turned to Zayne, leaned in, and pressed a quick peck to his lips—soft, sweet, and entirely defiant. Then you slipped out of the car and marched toward the house with theatrical indignation, muttering something about “cockblocker” and “ruining the moment”.

Zayne watched you go with a helpless smile… until he turned and saw your brother still standing there, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

The air shifted.

Your brother said nothing at first—just studied him. Zayne sat up straighter, hands folding in his lap, bracing like he was about to be grilled in military.

“You’re my best friend,” your brother said at last, his voice lower, quieter. “And she’s my sister. So let me be very clear.”

Zayne nodded quickly. “Yes, s—sir.” He immediately winced.

Your brother narrowed his eyes, one brow lifting. “...Did you just sir me?”

Zayne cleared his throat and looked down at his hands. “It slipped out.”

Your brother exhaled through his nose, biting back a smirk, but his tone remained serious.

“She’s not just someone for you to have fun with, Zayne. She’s the girl who cries at sad commercials and laughs when she’s about to fall apart. She gives everything—her heart, her trust, her loyalty—without asking for nearly enough in return. If you’re not ready for that, walk away now.”

“I’m ready,” Zayne said, quietly but firmly. “I love her. I have been for years, and you know that too. And I’m going to do it right this time.”

There was a pause. Then your brother’s eyes softened—just barely. “Then start with a proper date. Not... whatever this was.”

Zayne let out a quiet breath of a laugh, nodding. “Alright.”

Your brother gave him one final look—half warning, half reluctant approval—then turned and started walking back into his house.

Zayne leaned back in the driver’s seat, heart still racing, lips still tingling, a dazed smile slowly creeping onto his face.

He was so lost in it that he didn’t notice the upstairs window sliding open.

“Zayne!”

He jumped, startled, and looked up.

You were leaning out your bedroom window, arms folded on the sill, cheek resting on them. You looked soft, sleepy, and absolutely glowing.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you said with a bright smile. “Goodnight.”

Zayne blinked, then gave the smallest wave, utterly stunned.

Your brother, who was halfway into the house, snorted. “She’s got you whipped already.”

Zayne didn’t deny it.

And he didn’t mind one bit.

Because you were his now.

And this time, he was going to do it right.

That night, Zayne lay in bed, eyes open to the dark, one arm draped across his chest like he could hold the feeling in place.

The feeling of you.

He wasn’t sure sleep would come. Not when his body still buzzed with the aftershock of your kiss, not when every inch of him still remembered the way you moved, the way you tasted like rebellion and longing and something that was finally his.

Your lips had been soft, but demanding—pulling something from him that he hadn’t let surface in years. That kiss had been a sin wrapped in years of aching restraint, and now that he’d tasted you, he didn’t know how to come down from it. He could still feel the ghost of your breath against his jaw, the press of your thighs as you climbed into his lap like you belonged there.

And god, you did.

You kissed him like you were tired of waiting. Like you were punishing him and claiming him all at once. Like you wanted him to feel the years you’d spent wanting him back. And he did.

He remembered the tremble in your fingers when they threaded into his hair, the heat of your mouth when you gasped softly against his lips. He remembered the soft press of your body against his, the way your hips shifted in that one maddening moment that made him groan and clutch you tighter like he could stop the earth from tilting.

It hadn’t just been a kiss. It had been an undoing.

And now he lay there, ruined by it.

He shifted on the sheets, jaw tight, heart still thrumming like he was back in the car with you all over again.

He loves you so much.

God, maybe he always had.

He loved you the very first time he stepped foot in your house, when he was still a quiet, awkward kid following your older brother into the chaos of you. You’d stormed into the living room like a thunderclap in your overalls, hands on your hips, declaring that you had to be included in whatever game they were playing. “No girls allowed” meant nothing to you. You took your seat like you were born to belong.

He loved you when he didn’t even know what love was. When all he knew was that everything felt brighter when you were in the room.

He loved you in middle school, when you were loud and moody and always talking back, your moods shifting like seasons, impossible to predict, impossible not to watch. He’d pretend to be annoyed, but he always looked up when you walked into the room. Always noticed when your voice got quiet. Always cared more than he should have.

He loved you in high school, when you’d show up uninvited to his study sessions with your brother—distracting, relentless, asking questions you already knew the answers to just so he’d look at you. He’d try to ignore the flutter in his chest when you sat too close, when you chewed your pen thoughtfully, when you teased him until his ears turned red. He memorized your laugh like it was part of his syllabus.

Years passed. You grew. He did too. But his heart never unlearned the shape of you.

And now… now he could finally hold that love in the open.

No more quiet glances. No more buried feelings.

He could wait for you to be ready. For you to trust that this time, he wouldn’t let go.

He’d be the gentleman you deserved—every bit the man you needed, not the scared boy who thought loving you meant keeping his distance.

He would make sure you never felt alone. Never again let silence answer the questions in your eyes. He’d give you the kind of love that didn’t just promise—it showed up. Every time.

Zayne sighed into the quiet, a soft smile curving his lips.

“Please be nice to my heart,” he whispered into the dark. “And maybe—go easy on the miniskirts.”

He chuckled to himself, just a little, the sound low and warm.

And as the rhythm of his breathing slowed, Zayne finally let sleep take him, peaceful and light, for the first time in years.

He fell asleep to the promise of tomorrow.

To the sound of your voice still ringing through his thoughts.

And to the quiet certainty that this time, he wouldn’t be too late.