rains-starlight

[rains-starlight]

Heartbreak Anniversary with Caleb

Summary: It was your anniversary with Caleb. One year of togetherness. But what if he does not show up when you expect him to? What if he was spending it with MC? Pairing: Non MC! Reader x Caleb Note: MC in this fic goes by the name Lina (my name... so if you are angry, you can be angry at me :3). This oneshot was based on this request. I will write this for the other LADS men too. Also I don't think any of these men would ever be the type to actually willlingly forget it. So I had to adapt the request a bit. If you like my work, you can buy me a Ko-fi. (Tips are not expected, so don't feel pressured to do so.)

Rafayel version | Zayne version | Sylus version

Content Warning: injuries, panic, insecurities, self worth issues, blood, death, Caleb POV

The scent of bergamot and cedarwood floated through Caleb’s apartment in Skyhaven, softly curling into the corners of the room like invisible ribbons. You lit the last candle on the side table and stepped back to admire the glow. Warm, golden, flickering light danced across the walls, illuminating the soft decorations you’d put up over the last hour. Not too much, just enough.

You didn’t want extravagance. Just meaning.

On the coffee table, resting atop a matte-black runner, lay a gift box wrapped in old flight maps you’d collected—each marked with places Caleb had once spoken fondly of in fleeting, quiet moments. You’d even managed to find a tattered map of Skyhaven from years ago, folded neatly beneath the ribbon. Inside was a handmade leather band, engraved on the inside with:

��Wherever you are, I’ll follow the stars to find you.”

Your handwriting.

You’d cooked his favorite—well, your closest approximation of it. No one could match his level of cooking after all. He always smiled, teasing you about your stubborn refusal to believe he didn’t care for dessert anymore. Still, you made the chocolate torte. Just in case. Just... in case. Everything was cilantro free, of course. You didn’t even like cilantro much before, but now you hated it. Anything he hated, you hated with him. Silly, maybe. But love does that.

The clock on the wall chimed softly.

19:00.

He said he’d be back by 18:30.

No message. No call.

You told yourself not to panic. Caleb’s schedule was unpredictable. He was the colonel of the Farspace Fleet, and that meant long days, critical decisions, last-minute emergencies. You knew that.

But not tonight. Not this night.

This night wasn’t an afterthought. It wasn’t just a date on a calendar. It was the first anniversary of a secret love built in the spaces between chaos.

A tiny beetle figurine carved from stone sat on the corner of the table, an inside joke between the two of you. He always lit up when he talked about his childhood obsession with Jurassic-era beetles. You used to tease him for it, but tonight you had carefully painted a set of hand-made ceramic beetles—one for each month you'd spent together and arranged them in a neat line down the mantle.

You glanced at the door. Nothing.

You told yourself to be patient. You were good at being patient. When he left on missions for weeks without contact. When he disappeared into classified operations. When he looked haunted and wouldn't tell you why.

By 20:12, your thoughts started to wander. Maybe something had come up? Maybe a fleet emergency. Maybe wanderers, Maybe…

Lina.

You hated yourself for thinking it. For imagining her. Her laughter, soft and bright. The way his shoulders always seemed to ease a little when she was around. The way he looked at her. Like he was still trying to memorize her face. Like she was something sacred.

You weren't stupid. You knew their history. The childhood they shared. The death he faked. The life he left behind.

You told yourself that the things he shared with you were real. The nights he’d let you trace the scars on his chest, every metal seam and human ache. The mornings he woke up mumbling your name. The trembling in his voice when he first told you, "You make me feel like I still have a heart."

But now the silence was starting to scream.

At 21:46, you stopped sitting. You stood in front of the food like it would suddenly summon him back, then paced. You tried messaging him—just once, just a small "Are you alright?"—but it stayed unread.

Maybe he forgot. No. Not Caleb. Maybe he had a reason. He always has reasons. Maybe you’re just a placeholder. ...

You sat down slowly on the couch, picking at a corner of the throw pillow you bought last month just because he said it looked "weird but kind of cute." That was you too, wasn’t it? Weird. Kind of cute. Not Lina.

Your eyes drifted to the tiny box you had placed on the table—your gift to him. It wasn’t much, not something you could buy from any real store. And then there was the box—small, simple, hand-carved. Inside it was a gift: a fragment of a meteorite you’d collected from the lab. Embedded in a thin ring of reinforced alloy, it was something solid, something real. You’d even written him a note, which you reread now, fingers trembling slightly.

To my gravity in the chaos, One year ago, I thought you were a ghost. One year ago, I didn’t know I could still believe in something so... alive. Thank you for choosing me—every day, even if no one else knows it. Yours, completely.

But maybe... maybe he didn’t want that.

At 22:19, you blew out the candles.

The air felt heavier now. Thicker.

You didn’t cry. Not yet. Not while there was still the chance of a knock on the door, an explanation, an apology. A breathless "I’m sorry, I couldn’t get away," and an arm around your shoulder.

But 23:02 came. And went.

And with it, the last flicker of your excitement turned to quiet ache. You picked up the beetle figurine from the table and turned it over in your hand. You chewed on your bottom lip and pulled your arms around yourself, sinking into the edge of the sofa, your heart thudding too loudly in your ears.

You didn’t think you’d ever be a part of his world. Not with Lina still lingering in the shadows of his past — of his soul. But you had hoped… foolishly, maybe… that you'd made a place for yourself too.

Another hour passed.

You tried to distract yourself. Rearranged the silverware. Lit the candles. Unlit them. Checked your messages — nothing. Not even a standard “I’m running late” or one of his half-sarcastic "Try not to miss me too much" texts that always made you roll your eyes.

Your chest was starting to ache now.

You walked over to the large window, the lights of Skyhaven glowing like stars beneath your feet, and pressed your forehead against the cool glass.

Your fingers curled around the edge of your sleeve. Don’t spiral, you told yourself.

But then the whisper in the back of your mind rose louder — What if he’s with her?

He was always like this when it came to her.

It made sense. Lina had returned back to his life not long ago. She was a Deepspace Hunter now pulling danger around her like it belonged. Maybe she needed him again. Maybe he couldn’t stay away.

The worst part?

You couldn’t even hate her. You couldn’t blame her either.

You only hated how much of your soul curled inwards at the idea that when she called… Caleb still went.

You weren’t supposed to know. Not really. Not officially. But rumors had a way of finding even those meant to remain invisible. And you… you were invisible.

A secret, he said. To keep you safe.

The fleet didn’t know about you. Lina didn’t know about you. You were the girl tucked in the shadows, behind blackout protocols and security layers. He’d told you it was the only way. He’d told you the world he lived in—the things he did, the enemies he made—meant he could only protect one thing by keeping it hidden.

But belief was harder when your hands were cold from untouched plates, when your heart was heavy from unopened doors.

You imagined him smiling at her. The girl from his past. The one who knew him before the scars, before the mechanical arm, before the shadows. The one he never had to hide.

A bitter thought curled at the edge of your heart. If she’s sunlight, then what does that make me? A phantom in orbit?

You knew how his voice softened when he talked about Lina. How there was a different kind of ache in him, reserved just for her. He never denied their history. Never told you not to be jealous. He just looked at you with that same distant pain.

Maybe he had a good reason. Maybe something went wrong. Maybe he was out there saving the world again.

But maybe he just... didn’t choose you today.

The worst part?

You weren’t angry.

You were devastated.

The lock clicked.

You didn't move. You couldn't.

Your back remained pressed to the couch, the softest light of the starlamp casting shadows over your face as the door creaked open.

He entered like he always did—quiet, calculated, calm. But this time, you didn’t run into his arms. You didn’t say his name like a sigh of relief.

You didn’t say anything at all.

“...You’re still awake,” Caleb’s voice was low, uncertain. And tired.

You finally looked at him.

He wasn’t in uniform. His flying jacket was tossed over one shoulder, dark hair tousled as if he’d run his hand through it a hundred times. But his purple eyes—they were scanning the room. Seeing the set table. The cold food. And then they found you. His purple eyes met yours—sharpened by fatigue, but not empty of emotion. Not even close.

“I had to handle something,” he said, like it explained everything. Like four hours of silence on your anniversary could be fixed with a sentence.

“Was it Lina?” you asked softly.

His jaw tightened. “She was in Skyhaven.” He said it like that should explain everything. “Pip-squeak.. I mean Lina... She showed up without clearance. Asking questions. Getting close to restricted areas. I had to—”

You laughed. Bitter and broken. “Of course. Of course it was her.”

“She was risking her safety. She doesn’t understand what she’s walking into—what the Fleet is hiding—what’s at stake. I had to get her out without raising suspicion.”

A beat passed. You stood up, slowly, your movements deliberate.

“And you had to be the one to protect her?” your voice was calm. Dead calm. “Even if it meant giving up tonight?”

Caleb's brows knit together. “It’s not about her. It’s not like that—”

“Then what is it like?” You threw your arms out, a hollow laugh escaping you. “Because to me, it looks like she’s the one you protect in the open while I sit in the dark hoping you remember that I exist.”

“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he said tightly. “But I couldn’t tell you the truth either. Not with what’s happening in—.”

“You mean the truth that you’ll always run to her?” you whispered. “That no matter how much time passes, or what we build, she’ll still come first? Because she knows the version of you before the metal and blood and ghosts?”

He frowned, stepping closer. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” you snapped, the dam breaking. “Tell the truth?”

“She was risking her life. I couldn’t ignore that.”

“But you could ignore me.” Your voice rose. “You could ignore the messages, the calls. You could ignore the fact that I planned every little thing today so you’d have even just one moment where you weren’t a colonel or a protector or a soldier. Just Caleb. Just my Caleb.”

“I am yours,” he said tightly.

“Then why do I feel like I’m always in second place?” Your voice cracked.

“Don’t,” he said sharply, his jaw tightening.

“Don’t what?” you stepped forward. “Tell you how it feels to always be second? To be your secret? I’ve lived in the shadow of your guilt, your duty, her—and I’ve accepted it. I never asked for more. I never asked for all of you. But this?” Your voice cracked. “Tonight? This was supposed to be ours.”

Silence pulsed in the room like static. Caleb’s face was unreadable, his right hand clenched so tightly the bionic servos whirred. He flinched like you'd hit him. His voice dropped, lower now, rough around the edges. “You do exist. You're the only thing I think about when I'm out there. I keep you hidden because it’s the only way to keep you safe.”

You took a step back. “You keep me hidden because you’re scared. Of what people will say. Of what she’ll feel. Of what it means to admit that you’ve moved on.”

His face twisted, frustration bleeding into his expression. “You think I haven’t moved on? You think I don’t want the entire galaxy to know that you’re mine?” He took a step toward you, but you didn’t let him close the gap.

“Then why Caleb? Why are we still a secret? Why is my name the only one you never say out loud?”

Silence stretched, thin and cutting.

“I waited,” your voice cracked, soft and splintering. “I waited all night. For you. For us. And you weren’t there.”

“I’m here now—”

“It’s not enough!” you snapped, tears brimming at the corners of your eyes. “It’s not enough to show up after everything. I needed you when it mattered. When the candles were burning down. When I felt like a ghost in your life!”

His voice turned soft, almost pleading. “I’m doing everything I can—”

“I don’t need everything,” you whispered, heart splitting, “I just need you.”

Caleb’s mouth parted like he wanted to say something—like he was about to offer you some perfect, rational answer. You didn’t let him.

“Happy anniversary, Colonel.”

And with that, you grabbed your coat, storming past him, leaving behind the warmth, the gifts, the cold dinner, and every unsaid thing between you.

CALEB'S POV

The door slammed. The sound echoed like a bullet through Caleb’s skull.

He stood there, unmoving, breath stuck in his chest like a collapsed star. The starlight lamp flickered on the corner table. The food—her food—cold and untouched.

A year.

One year and he hadn’t even made it to the table.

He wanted to believe he had done the right thing. That protecting Lina—his Lina—was the correct choice. She was family. She was his responsibility. She always had been. Ever since they were children, when she scraped her knees chasing beetles and he carried her on his back. She was part of the life he left behind, the one tethered to memories, to ghosts, to everything he lost.

But then there was you.

The one who made this place feel less like a battlefield. Who waited for him. Who knew the darkness in him and still traced it with fingers that didn’t flinch. Who looked at him like he wasn’t some broken, weaponized shadow of a man.

And he left you. On your anniversary.

The room was a shrine to you. Your changes, your warmth, your effort—it clung to everything like a ghost. He picked up the ring box with a hand that was part metal, part guilt. His thumb brushed the note still folded neatly beneath it.

One year ago, I thought you were a ghost.

He sank onto the couch, the note clenched in his fist, breathing shallow.

You’re not wrong, he thought. You should hate me. You should have left long ago.

But he couldn’t change what he was. A protector. A weapon. He had promised himself, long before the explosion, that he would always be Lina’s shield. She was his past

But you...

You were everything he wanted. Not duty. Not history. Choice.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

You looked at me like I was still human.

And he had let you down.

The moment he realized you were gone, really gone and panic rose like ice in his throat. He stood too quickly, heart slamming into his ribs.

He picked up one of the beetle figurines, fingers trembling—not from weakness, but something far more dangerous. Regret. The kind that strangled you from the inside out.

Lina had found her way into danger again. She always did. Stubborn, reckless, determined to pull truths from the walls even if they buried her. She reminded him so much of the past, of the boy he used to be—of home.

And still.

She wasn’t the one who had waited for him in the dark.

She wasn’t the one who stayed, quietly patching up the pieces of a man the world thought dead.

Lina’s not her.

His head dropped. A breath slipped from him—frustrated, anguished. And then he moved. Like a switch had been flipped. He was already out the door.

The silence was suffocating, thick and heavy, as Caleb stormed through the corridor, rage simmering beneath his skin. The weight of his own failure pressed down on him with every step—he had been so damn stupid. How could he have left you alone? How could he have done that on your anniversary?

His breath quickened, chest tight with guilt, his mind racing through the possibilities. You were still in the city, somewhere. He had to find you. He had to fix this.

But then—

A soft sound broke through the tension. A muffled footstep. It was faint at first, like a whisper against the metal floor. Caleb’s heart skipped in his chest, a sense of foreboding crashing over him. It was faint at first, like a whisper against the metal floor. Caleb’s heart skipped in his chest, a sense of foreboding crashing over him like a wave. His instincts, honed for years in the fleet, went on high alert. Something wasn’t right. He froze, his eyes scanning the darkness of the lower docks.

And then he heard it—you.

Your voice. Weak, nervous, then a snap of contempt.

“Huh?”

“Didn’t think the Colonel had such bad taste.” The voice was low, unfamiliar—and dangerous. “Thought you’d be prettier,” he said, smirking.

Caleb's blood ran cold. His hands clenched, and his breath hitched. The voice was unfamiliar. The tone was too casual, too predatory. He recognized that kind of arrogance. His pulse hammered as his body shifted into autopilot—every fiber of his being screaming at him to move.

Without thinking, he bolted toward the sound, adrenaline flooding him like fire. He couldn’t breathe. His body moved faster than his mind could process, and as he rounded the corner, the scene unfolded in front of him.

A man—tall, smug, his uniform carelessly worn—was standing far too close to you. His eyes gleamed with malice, his grin stretched too wide. Caleb’s heart slammed into his throat as the man reached toward you, and in the span of a breath, Caleb was there.

He collided with the man’s side, the force knocking him off balance. The sound of their bodies hitting the ground was brutal—like a crash of stars falling from the sky. Caleb’s right arm swung and was a blur of motion—twists, jerks, a sickening crack as Caleb slammed his fist into the man’s ribs.

“You touch her,” Caleb snarled, his voice low, vicious, practically inhuman, “and you forfeit your life.” His evol pinned the disfigured man to the ground.

The man wheezed, scrambling to get to his feet. Caleb didn’t let him. He launched forward again, metal fist crashing into his chest with a sound like breaking glass.

You stood frozen nearby, the terror in your eyes driving Caleb further into that manic edge of rage. All he could think about was how close he’d come to losing you.

The man dropped to the ground, broken and bloodied, barely breathing. But Caleb didn’t stop. He grabbed the front of his collar, lifted him halfway off the floor.

“You thought I wouldn’t know?” His voice trembled with fury. “You thought you could lay a hand on her and walk away?”

The man whimpered something unintelligible, but Caleb didn’t care.

“I warned everyone—you don’t touch what’s mine.”

The man fell to the ground again in a heap, gasping, blood oozing from his mouth. But Caleb wasn’t finished. His eyes burned with the image of you—vulnerable, hurt, his failure etched into the lines of your face.

“You breathed near her,” Caleb snarled, each word dripping with contempt, his voice a growl of a man on the edge of losing everything.

The assassin laid motionless, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps, too broken to do anything more. Caleb stood over him, fists clenched at his sides. An in another instance, the man was gone, sucked into a deep black void as Caleb watched.

And then he saw you.

You were there—frozen, eyes wide, lips parted. His world went quiet as his heart slammed against his ribs, the realization of what had just happened sinking in. You saw it all.

The tremble in your hands. The shock in your eyes. The confusion.

Shit.

Caleb felt a sickening twist in his gut. He didn’t know why he was so... angry. His whole world was colliding into pieces. He had failed you.

His chest tightened, and without thinking, he stepped toward you, but his body was unsteady. The violence, the rage, it all turned into something colder, sharper. The panic wasn’t in his body anymore—it was in his mind, clawing at him.

“You—” He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I didn’t think.” His voice cracked, raw, as he reached for you, his hands trembling. “You—are you okay?” His voice barely formed the words. His breath came too fast, his head spinning with the need to hold you, to never let go, to protect you from every horrible thing in this world.

You didn’t speak at first. Your eyes kept flickering between him and the bloodstains on the pavement.

“Who was that?” you asked, your voice shaky.

“An assassin,” Caleb answered, his tone turning bitter as he looked down at the spot where he had just pulverized a man. “Someone sent to kill me. They wanted you too... to hurt you. Use you as leverage.”

His voice cracked again. The weight of what he was saying, of what had almost happened, hit him like a freight train. He couldn’t stop the violent rush of emotions anymore.

“I couldn’t let him touch you,” Caleb whispered, his eyes searching yours.

But you were still staring at him, still frozen. Your body was tense, stiff, as if you were afraid to move. Caleb’s heart clenched painfully in his chest. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

“I should’ve been there sooner,” he said, voice raw, broken. “I shouldn’t have let you walk out. I should’ve... I should’ve—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t find the right words. Instead, he rushed forward, grabbing your arm, pulling you against his chest, his grip fierce, desperate, the overwhelming need to hold you nearly suffocating.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice strained with emotion. “I swear to you... I won’t let anything happen to you. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not even me.”

His breath was shaky as he buried his face in your hair, inhaling deeply. The scent of you—of safety, of the only place that ever made him feel whole—was like a drug, and his mind spun in circles. He could feel the tension in your body, could feel the way you were still holding yourself back, the way you were still questioning everything.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeated, a mantra now. He could feel his heart beating erratically, his pulse hammering in his ears.

But then, something shifted in you. Something in your expression softened. You didn't pull away. You didn’t scream.

“Caleb...” you whispered, your voice barely a breath.

His voice cracked. “Are you hurt? Please—tell me you’re okay.”

Your hands came up hesitantly, resting against his chest. His heart stuttered at the contact. You weren’t pulling away.

“Caleb...” your voice was soft, uncertain, but there was no rejection in it. "I am not hurt... not physically."

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes—his own were raw, stormy with regret and something deeper: fear. Not of you. But of losing you.

“I know tonight is unforgivable,” he said quietly. “I know I messed everything up. You made this day something beautiful, and I...” His voice shook. “I ruined it.”

You stared up at him, eyes searching his face. For a moment, you didn’t speak. And then your hand lifted tentatively, cautiously—and brushed his cheek. The soft touch nearly brought him to his knees. He leaned into your palm instinctively, his entire body aching for that warmth he thought he had lost.

His jaw clenched. “I know. I know today… what I did… what I didn’t do—leaving you alone like that. I was supposed to protect you, and I—damn it—I nearly lost you.”

His voice cracked again, trembling like a fault line.

“You didn’t lose me,” you said softly. “Not yet.”

Caleb’s heart seized.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you more than the sky above us, more than every secrets I’ve had to keep. I know I failed you tonight. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness right now, but if you’ll let me try—really try—I’ll make it up to you.”

You lowered your gaze, your hand still resting on his cheek.

Caleb felt a tremor run through him at the thought. He had lost so much—so many pieces of himself, and if you were to leave... he wasn’t sure how he’d survive it.

His eyes softened as he continued, his gaze unwavering. “I know I’ve crossed lines, pushed you too hard... but I’ll do better. I’ll draw boundaries. I’ll protect you, the way I should’ve before, the way you deserve. You’re not just my responsibility. You’re everything to me. I’ll keep you safe, I swear it. I’ll make sure you never have to feel like today again.”

He let his forehead rest against yours, eyes closing briefly, trying to steady his own racing heart. "Please," he breathed out, the word a plea that carried the weight of everything unsaid. “If you’ll have me—if you’ll let me—just give me the chance to make it right.” His voice shook with the vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show, his usually controlled demeanor cracking under the strain of his need for you. He drew in a shaky breath and opened his eyes, meeting your gaze. “I know I’m not easy to love. I know I’ve been... wrong. But please,” his voice was low, almost pleading, “give me a chance to prove that I can be the man you deserve. That I can make it right.”

Caleb’s heart thudded painfully as he awaited your response, his body tense, waiting for any sign—any flicker of forgiveness, of hope. His mind screamed at him to fix everything, to reassure you that he would never let something like this happen again.

“I... I can’t promise I’ll forget this,” you murmured, your voice small but steady. “But I’m not going to leave you.”

His chest tightened, but he nodded, his eyes full of remorse. “I know,” he said, his voice breaking with sincerity. “I’ll respect that. I’ll listen. I promise. I just... I just want you to be safe. And I want you to know that I will always be here. Always.”

You held his gaze, searching for any signs of insincerity, but there was none. He was real. He was here, vulnerable, and for the first time, you could see the depth of his love—his obsession—but also his regret.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered. “But I need time. I need to know you’ll ne here… You’ll be transparent with me and draw boundaries…”

Caleb's eyes softened, the tension in his body easing, though the yearning was still there—quiet, but ever-present. He nodded, slowly, the weight of your words settling in. “I’ll be all of that. For you. For us.” He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours again, his voice barely a whisper, “Just... let me make it up to you. Please.”

You sighed, the weight lifting a little from your shoulders as you let yourself lean into him. The fear, the doubt, the anger—they were still there, lingering, but you felt a small flicker of hope.

You closed your eyes, sighing shakily against his chest. You still didn’t pull away.

Not forgiven. Not forgotten.

But still here.

For Caleb, that was everything.

The night was still broken. The world still dangerous.

But you—alive, warm, trembling in his arms—you were still his star in the blackness.

He just held you, tighter this time.

And you let him.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

If you like my work, you can buy me a Ko-fi. (Tips are not expected, so don't feel pressured to do so.)

Rafayel version | Zayne version | Sylus Version

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[rains-starlight]

Xavier – Six Days of Silence

Alright, guys! Your reaction to MC’s dramatic disappearance (and the even more dramatic meltdown from the LADs—especially Xavier 👀) has been absolutely wild! I can’t thank you enough! 💖

I couldn’t just ignore your cries of despair and leave you hanging, so... I wrote a continuation with Xavier. 😏🔥

If you didn’t suffer enough in the last part, well—buckle up. 😈 But seriously, I’m beyond grateful for all the love and engagement, and now I’ve got just one question... who’s next?! 👀💀

Previous Part

The door closes behind you with a quiet click.

Silence settles.

It doesn’t matter that the apartment is empty. Xavier is still here.

Not physically. But in the way the air still feels heavy with the weight of his words. In the way your phone stays too quiet, too still, despite how many times you check it. In the way his white hoodie—the one you never returned—hangs loosely around your shoulders, fabric slightly too big, smelling faintly of something cold, something distant, something unmistakably him.

You should take it off. 

You don’t.

Not even when you curl up on the couch, pressing your face into the collar, trying to pretend that it doesn’t ache.

Trying to pretend that you don’t miss him.

But you do.

And it’s only been one night.

Day One – The Silence

The apartment is too quiet. Too hollow. The kind of silence that isn’t empty, but suffocating—thick with the weight of something unspoken, something unfinished.

Xavier doesn’t message you.

Not in the morning. Not in the afternoon. Not even at night, when the absence of his voice becomes unbearable, pressing down on your chest like a phantom weight.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That this is what you wanted. That he deserved it.

And yet, every time you reach for your phone—every time your fingers hover over the screen, itching to type something—anything—you stop.

Because if you start, you might not be able to stop.

And if you see his name flash across the screen, if you hear his voice—cold, restrained, the way it was when he told you to ask him again in six days—you might break.

And you refuse to be the first to break.

You told yourself you wouldn't do this.

Wouldn't pace the apartment, wouldn't reach for the door only to stop before your fingers brush the handle, wouldn't let yourself hover by the window as if expecting to see him below, walking with that same unshakable stride, hands in his pockets, the night folding around him like a living shadow.

You bite the inside of your cheek and turn away. This is ridiculous.

But it doesn’t stop your mind from unraveling the last time you saw him, the words that still sit on your skin like a bruise, aching, pulsing.

Two Weeks Ago

"You did it again."

Your voice was tight, measured, but it carried that dangerous edge, the one that meant you weren’t just angry—you were done.

Xavier stood in the doorway, his coat draped loosely over his shoulders, blood darkening the sleeve where it stuck to his arm. His own.

And yet, his expression remained unchanged.

"I handled it."

Effortless. Dismissive. As if bleeding out in the doorway wasn’t a cause for concern.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides. "You went into the No-Hunt Zone alone."

He exhaled slowly, unbothered, unconcerned. "Yes."

You wanted to shake him. Wanted to rip through that maddening, unflinching calm that always seemed to turn every argument into a chess match—where he never lost control, never let emotion slip past the surface.

"You promised," you said, quieter now, not because the anger had left, but because it was worse—quieter meant sharper, meant it was sinking in.

His gaze flickered. Not quite hesitation, but something close. Something annoyingly unreadable.

"I never promised," he corrected. "I said I’d be careful."

"You almost died last time," you snapped. "Or did you forget?"

A slow blink. "I don’t forget anything."

The weight of that truth settled like ice in your stomach.

"Then remember this." Your voice wavered just slightly. "You’re not immortal, Xavier."

His lips twitched, a fraction of amusement in the gesture. "Debatable."

You took a step forward. "You think longevity makes you untouchable?"

"I think," he said, tilting his head slightly, "that I’ve survived worse."

You stared at him. At the blood drying against his skin. At the way he stood so still, so effortlessly unaffected.

And that’s when you understood.

He had already made peace with his own death. And he expected you to do the same.

The thought made something break inside you.

"You want me to be a widow before I even get to be a wife?"

It came out before you could stop it, before you could think.

A flicker of something crossed his face—not shock, not emotion, but stillness. A brief, split-second pause.

And then, he shut it down.

"You’re being dramatic."

You stepped back as if struck. You didn’t realize your hands were shaking until you curled them into fists.

And then you laughed—soft, hollow, bitter. "You’re unbelievable."

"I’m realistic," he corrected.

That was when you left. You turned on your heel and walked out, before the frustration, the helplessness, the aching, consuming anger could drag you under.

And he let you go.

***

Now, you’re the one left behind.

You should have told him then. Told him how much it terrified you, the thought of coming back one day only to find his body on a slab, cold, lifeless, just another statistic in the war against Wanderers.

But you didn’t. Instead, you left. And now you’re here.

Alone.

Your phone is still on the table.

You stare at it for too long, the words forming and dissolving in your mind. You should write to him. It’s always been easier to write than to say it out loud. Because words—especially the ones that matter—come with too much weight, too much risk of cracking, of unraveling.

You start to type.

📱 You: Xav, I—

Your fingers freeze. You stare at the unfinished message for too long.

Then you delete it.

You sigh, rubbing your hands over your face, trying to chase away the exhaustion clawing at your mind.

At some point, you fall onto the couch, curling into yourself. The hoodie is still wrapped around you, the fabric worn and familiar, carrying the last traces of him.

Your eyelids feel heavy. Just for a moment, you close them.

A sharp vibration against the glass table jolts you awake. For a brief, heart-stopping second, you think it’s him.

Your fingers scramble for the phone, your pulse hammering, already too desperate for his name to appear on the screen.

Instead—

A message from a random, meaningless system notification.

You let out a slow breath. Your hands are shaking.

Because you had been waiting for him. Because some part of you still hoped.

You curl deeper into the hoodie, pressing your face into the fabric. And finally—you let yourself admit that you miss him too much.

Day Two – What Remains

The knock is barely there. So soft, so hesitant, like a ghost of sound rather than something real.

For a fleeting second—your heart leaps.

You open the door. The hallway is empty.

A cold draft brushes against your skin, slipping under the fabric of his hoodie.

But there, at your feet—a small black bag.

You kneel. Fingers brush over the label.

Painkillers. Electrolyte supplements. Emergency field rations. The essentials.

Your phone vibrates.

📱 Xavier: Take these.

You stare at the message, breathing out slowly through your nose.

A moment. A hesitation. Then—you type.

📱 You: Didn’t realize you made house calls.

📱 Xavier: I don’t. But you looked like you were about to collapse.

The words sink in too fast. Too easily.

Because of course, he noticed. Because of course, he knew. Because even now—even after everything—he’s still watching.

Your grip tightens around the phone.

📱 You: So you’re keeping tabs on me now?

📱 Xavier: No need. I already know how reckless you are.

A pause.

Then—

📱 Xavier: Take the damn medicine.

You press your tongue against the raw sting of broken skin, the inside of your cheek already torn from the habit, fingers hovering over the screen.

You could ignore him. Could let the pills sit untouched, just to prove a point. Instead, you close your eyes. And swallow the first dose dry.

It’s not an apology. Not even close.

But it’s something.

And that’s why it hurts more.

***

The night stretches long and restless.

You wake in intervals—too hot, too cold, too aware of the ache in your chest that no amount of painkillers can dull.

Somewhere between sleep and waking, your fingers drift over the phone again.

You hesitate. Then type—

📱 You: You said six days.

A second passes. Another.

Then—

📱 Xavier: I did.

A breath catches in your throat.

He answered.

You don’t know why that surprises you. You don’t know why you expected silence.

📱 You: Then why are you here?

The response comes too quickly.

📱 Xavier: I’m not.

It shouldn’t sting.

It does.

***

Morning comes slow and suffocatingly heavy.

You don’t want to move. Don’t want to pull yourself from the warmth of the couch, the stale comfort of yesterday still clinging to the air.

But the world doesn’t stop just because your heart is cracked along the edges.

So you get up.

Force yourself into autopilot—shower, dress, coffee that you don’t even drink.

Your phone vibrates again.

📱 Xavier: Eat something real today.

You exhale sharply, tilting your head back against the kitchen counter.

Then—you type.

📱 You: Didn’t realize you were my dietitian now.

📱 Xavier: I’m not. But someone has to be.

Your jaw tightens.

📱 You: I’m fine, Xavier.

📱 Xavier: You’re lying, but okay.

The breath punches out of you before you even realize you’ve been holding it. Because he sees through you. He always does.

And you hate him for it.

You want to be angry. Want to tell him to back off. Want to remind him that he left first.

But instead—

📱 You: Did you eat?

A pause.

📱 Xavier: Of course.

You don’t believe him. But you let it go.

***

The day drags forward, sluggish and unforgiving.

By the time night falls again, you’ve checked your phone at least twenty times. You tell yourself it’s just habit.

It’s not.

You curl back into the couch, fingers ghosting over the hem of his hoodie, feeling the fabric twist between your hands.

You don’t know what you’re waiting for. 

You don’t want to know.

Day Three – Ghosts in the Rain

The rain is relentless.

It starts while you're still at work—a slow, heavy downpour that turns the streets into rivers, neon lights smearing across the wet pavement. You watch it for a moment through the glass, jaw tightening when you realize you left your umbrella at home.

Perfect.

By the time you finally step outside, the water is already pooling at your feet, seeping into your boots, soaking through the edges of your sleeves. You shove your hands deeper into your pockets, hunching your shoulders against the cold, and walk.

It isn’t far. Just a few blocks. Just enough time for the silence to creep in again.

Your phone stays still. Xavier doesn’t message you. You don’t message him.

You’re not even sure what you would say.

The air in the apartment is thick with dampness when you finally push open the door, shaking the water from your fingers. You toe off your boots, leaving a faint trail of wet footprints across the floor.

You reach for a towel—and stop.

Because there, just by the door, is a folded dry sweatshirt.

Not yours.

A white hoodie. 

His.

And next to it, a small, neatly sealed packet. Heat packs.

Your stomach twists.

Your hands tremble as you reach for your phone, wiping away the water still clinging to the screen.

📱 You: You’ve got to stop breaking into my apartment.

A pause.

Then—

📱 Xavier: I didn’t. But you always forget an umbrella when it rains.

You exhale sharply, pressing your tongue against the sting of broken skin inside your cheek.

📱 You: Right. You’re psychic now?

📱 Xavier: No. Just observant.

You hesitate, running your fingers over the fabric of the hoodie before pulling it over your head. It’s warm, slightly oversized, carrying the scent of him beneath the clean detergent—something golden, like sunlight caught in the fabric, soft and caramel-sweet at the edges, but beneath it, barely there, something sharper, something darker, like the last trace of dusk before night takes over. Unmistakably Xavier.

📱 You: You’re really committing to this whole passive-aggressive monitoring thing, huh?

📱 Xavier: Aggressive. There’s nothing passive about it.

The response is instant. Too quick. As if he’s been waiting.

Your chest tightens.

📱 You: And yet, for all your keen observation, you still don’t seem to notice when you do the exact same thing.

A longer pause this time.

📱 Xavier: Clarify.

You roll your eyes. Of course, he’s going to make you spell it out.

📱 You: No-Hunt Zone. 

📱 Xavier: That’s different.

📱 You: Oh? Because it’s you?

📱 Xavier: Because it was necessary.

You let out a bitter breath, pressing the phone against your forehead for a moment, closing your eyes.

📱 You: Right. That word again.

📱 You: I suppose me being gone was necessary too, then?

📱 Xavier: That was a choice.

📱 You: So was yours.

Another long pause.

For a second, you think that’s the end of it. That he’s not going to reply.

Then—

📱 Xavier: You’re still wet. Change before you get sick.

A sharp inhale.

📱 You: That’s all you have to say?

📱 Xavier: For now.

You stare at the screen.

For now.

It isn’t an admission. It isn’t anything close to forgiveness. But it’s not a dismissal, either.

It’s an opening. A crack in the wall.

You exhale, curl deeper into the hoodie, and let your eyes slip shut.

For the first time in days, the silence doesn’t feel quite as heavy.

Day Four – Running in Circles

You don’t sleep.

You try. You close your eyes, shift positions, breathe slow and deep, count the seconds, then minutes, then hours. But your mind refuses to settle. The silence is unbearable, pressing into your skin, sinking into your bones.

By the time the sky begins to pale, the city just beginning to stir beyond your window, you give up.

The clock reads 6:04 AM when you lace up your running shoes.

The air is sharp, crisp with the last bite of night still lingering in the wind. The streets are nearly empty, save for the occasional early commuter, their footsteps swallowed by the sound of your own—steady, rhythmic, a heartbeat against the pavement.

You push yourself hard. Harder than you should.

It’s reckless, this need to move, to exhaust your body so completely that your mind has no room left to think.

Because when you think, you remember.

You remember the way Xavier looked at you that night. How his voice never wavered, how he turned away before you could say anything at all.

"Ask me again in six days."

You push faster.

Your breath burns in your throat. The ache in your legs spreads, deep and insistent, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

You run until the edges of your vision blur.

Until the exhaustion feels like something you can hold, something real, something that drowns out the ache in your chest.

Until the smell of coffee pulls you to a stop.

You’re standing in front of the café before you even realize it.

Your fingers curl against your palms, your breath still uneven. The air inside is warm, rich with the scent of espresso, cinnamon, something familiar.

Habit. Instinct. A mistake.

But still—you go inside. Still—you stand at the counter, order without thinking. Still—you reach for the cup, staring down at the neat label printed on the side.

Cappuccino. No sugar. Just how he likes it.

Your fingers tighten around the cup. You don’t hesitate. You walk straight back to his apartment, jaw clenched, pulse hammering in your ears.

And without a second thought—you leave the cup by his door.

You don’t knock. You don’t wait. You just leave.

Your hands still tremble when you reach your own door. You exhale, rubbing at your face, trying to push down the erratic rhythm of your pulse.

Then—you see it.

A second cup. Sitting neatly on your doorstep.

Your breath catches.

Fingers shake as you reach down, pressing against the warmth of the cup, the familiar weight of it. The label stares back at you, bold and unmistakable.

Latte. Just how you like it. From the same café.

The realization slams into you like a fist to the ribs. You were thinking of him. He was thinking of you.

At the same damn time.

Something twists, raw and sharp, in your chest. Then, as if he feels it—your phone buzzes.

📱 Xavier: Pushing yourself that hard after days of poor recovery is reckless.

Your fingers clench.

📱 Xavier: I suggest reading this.

A link. An article. Something about the dangers of sudden overexertion without proper conditioning.

A laugh bubbles up, breathless, bitter.

Of course. Of course he would turn this into a lecture.

📱 You: You’re unbelievable.

📱 Xavier: Clarify.

You wipe at your face, not even realizing your skin is damp, whether from sweat or something else.

📱 You: I’m not a civilian. I’m a Hunter. A trained fighter, just like you.

📱 You: I might not have your experience, but I’m not fragile. I don’t need a babysitter.

The response takes longer this time. A long, stretching pause.

Then—

📱 Xavier: Noted.

The words are too even. Too carefully chosen.

You see it immediately. He’s upset. But instead of fighting back, instead of defending himself, he just—withdraws.

It infuriates you.

📱 You: That’s it?

📱 Xavier: Would you prefer I argue?

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, hard enough to sting.

📱 You: Maybe.

📱 Xavier: Why?

Because at least then it would feel like something. Because at least then he wouldn’t be slipping away from you, wouldn’t be treating you like you weren’t worth the effort.

You suck in a breath, trying to calm the wild, uneven rhythm of your heart. Then you do something stupid.

Something reckless. Something you’ll regret the second you hit send.

📱 You: Funny how you only care about my recklessness when it’s convenient for you.

Silence.

One second.

Two.

Then—

📱 Xavier: Understood.

Just that. No defense. No cold, razor-sharp argument. No more words at all.

You stare at the screen. Then you hurl the phone at the wall.

The crack is instant, the screen splintering on impact. It falls to the floor, dark, dead, useless.

Something burns behind your eyes, frustration, exhaustion, anger collapsing into something too heavy, too unbearable to name.

Your hands quiver. You press them to your face, breathe through the ache blooming in your chest.

Then—

You stand. You grab your coat. You don’t stop to think.

You need a new phone.

Because what if he messages you?

Because even now—after everything—you still want him to.

Day Five – The Breaking Point

Silence should be a relief.

After four days of his constant, cold precision—the quiet should feel like a gift.

But it doesn’t.

It’s suffocating.

For the first time since he left you standing in that room, there’s nothing.

No message. No sarcastic remark. No quiet proof that, despite everything, he still gives a damn.

The absence cuts deeper than you expect.

You go to work anyway. Because you have to. Because stopping means thinking, and thinking means tearing yourself apart with what-ifs.

***

"Our agent successfully retrieved the Aethor Core." Captain Jenna’s voice carries through the room, steady, matter-of-fact.

A holographic map flickers to life above the conference table, casting shifting blue light against the faces of those seated around it. 

Your mission. Your work. Your risk.

You keep your expression neutral, spine straight, hands folded in front of you.

"Undercover infiltration into the Vasquez Syndicate was a success."

Murmurs spread across the table. You don’t move. You feel him before you see him.

Xavier.

Seated across from you, back straight, jaw locked, completely, unnervingly still.

You make the mistake of looking up. And that’s when you see it.

Not his usual sharp, quiet calculation. Not cold detachment.

No.

This is something else. This is contained rage.

It sits just beneath the surface—controlled, measured, but undeniably lethal.

Your stomach twists.

The Vasquez Syndicate. A name that sends ripples of unease through even the most hardened Hunters.

And you had gone there alone.

Undercover.

Without telling him. Without telling anyone.

You lower your gaze back to the table. Captain Jenna continues.

"Their leader was eliminated. Aethor Core secured. Minimal collateral damage."

The words should be a victory. You should feel something. Instead, your phone vibrates against your leg.

Once.

Then again.

Then again.

A steady onslaught of incoming messages.

Your fingers tighten against your thigh. You don’t have to check. You already know.

📱 Xavier: You have a death wish, then?

📱 Xavier: That’s what this is?

📱 Xavier: Of course. That makes sense. Why else would you walk into Vasquez’s den ALONE?

📱 Xavier: Did you think you were being clever?

📱 Xavier: Or was it a game? A test to see how close you could get before you were skinned alive like his last five victims?

📱 Xavier: Tell me, did you at least get a look at the furniture?

📱 Xavier: I hear human leather is in this season.

The blood drains from your face. You type quickly.

📱 You: Xav, I—

More messages slam into your screen before you can hit send.

📱 Xavier: Or wait—

📱 Xavier: Was it worth it?

📱 Xavier: Was the thrill of playing martyr that exhilarating?

📱 Xavier: You must have loved the dramatics of it. Walking through their front door, knowing exactly what would happen if they figured you out. How noble. How self-sacrificing.

📱 Xavier: I’m sure they would’ve written songs about you.

📱 Xavier: Would you like me to start composing one now?

Your stomach twists into knots.

📱 You: Xavier, stop.

📱 Xavier: Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?

📱 Xavier: Wouldn’t want that. Not after you’ve made me spend the last six days believing you were DEAD.

The breath catches in your throat.

📱 You: I wasn’t—

📱 Xavier: No? You weren’t?

📱 Xavier: Oh, forgive me. I must have been mistaken. You must have sent me a message before walking into the hands of a man who decapitates people for sport.

📱 Xavier: Oh, wait. You didn’t.

📱 Xavier: Because you didn’t tell anyone.

📱 Xavier: Because you thought you could handle it.

📱 Xavier: Because you think you’re invincible.

📱 Xavier: Because you learned absolutely nothing.

📱 Xavier: Because you’re a fucking idiot.

Your chest tightens, fingers shaking as you try to respond.

📱 You: I retrieved the Core, didn’t I?

The moment you send it, you regret it. The reply is instant.

📱 Xavier: Ah.

📱 Xavier: So that’s how little your life is worth?

📱 Xavier: A glorified rock?

📱 Xavier: Good to know.

You glance up, breath unsteady, and realize your mistake.

Because Xavier is looking at you. And his expression is unreadable.

No sarcasm now. No amusement. Just something flat and cold, buried beneath something much darker.

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the table.

You stand.

Move toward him, as if closing the space between you will break whatever this is, will fix whatever new fracture you’ve carved into the already fragile thing between you.

But the moment you take a step closer—he moves. A single flick of his fingers. A gesture.

Dismissal.

Like you are nothing. Like you aren’t even worth the fight.

And in his eyes—that unreadable fire.

You open your mouth. Try to speak. He beats you to it.

"You think I’m mad?" His voice is low, quiet, lethal. "You think this is anger?"

A slow, sharp inhale. Then—he stands. Looks at you like you’re a stranger.

"If you ever do something that fucking stupid again—"

A pause. A razor-thin breath.

"Don’t come back."

Silence.

It lands like a blow. It shatters something you don’t even have a name for.

And then—he walks away.

And for the first time, you wonder if six days was a mercy.

Because now—

You’re not sure this will ever end.

Day Six – Between Love and War

The knock against his door is sharp, deliberate.

No answer.

Your fingers tighten, knuckles aching as you knock again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

The realization sinks in slow, cold. You know where he is.

No-Hunt Zone.

Of course. Of course.

The hypocrisy of it claws at your ribs, burns hot behind your eyes.

He spent days throwing your choices back in your face, dismantling them with surgical precision, making sure you felt every ounce of his anger. And yet—he’s doing the exact same thing.

Alone. Again.

Without backup. Without you.

The fury in your chest solidifies into something unshakable.

You don’t think. You move.

You tear off your civilian clothes, slip into the gear that feels like a second skin, strapping on your weapons with methodical ease. Your mind is calm. Your body is not.

This isn’t just anger.

This is something raw, something bitter, something that coils too tight in your chest.

Because what if this is the time he doesn’t make it back?

What if he never even planned to?

***

You move fast, weaving through the crumbling skeletons of abandoned buildings, the faint blue pulse of your Hunter’s bracelet flickering at your wrist.

The fluctuations come sharp and erratic.

A Wanderer is near.

And so is Xavier.

The realization barely has time to settle before a hand clamps over your mouth, an arm hooking around your waist, dragging you back into the shadows of a half-collapsed structure.

You react instantly, twisting in his grip, but his hold is unbreakable. His breath is warm against your ear. Too steady. Too controlled.

"Tell me—" His voice is low, measured, lethal in its restraint. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

You rip his hand away, shove him back, your pulse hammering against your ribs.

"Shouldn’t I be asking you the same damn thing?"

His expression flickers—something sharp, something dangerously close to breaking—before it smooths out again.

"You shouldn’t be here."

You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. "And you should?"

His fingers twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t argue.

The air crackles.

A pulse of energy shudders through the ruined cityscape, sending vibrations through your bracelet.

You both freeze.

The Wanderer is close. Too close.

And you were too distracted to notice.

A deafening shriek splits the air.

You barely have time to react before something massive crashes into view, sending debris flying, the force of it shaking the ground beneath you.

It’s huge.

Bigger than any you’ve ever seen. Darker. Hungrier.

And something is wrong.

Your Evol pulses—but weakly, like something is suppressing it.

You glance at Xavier, see the same realization in his eyes.

The Wanderer lunges.

You move at the same time.

Dodge. Shoot. Pivot. Strike.

Your movements are precise. Automatic. Perfectly in sync.

But something is missing.

Resonance.

You grit your teeth, adjusting your aim, but the energy won’t connect.

Because you’re too angry. Too furious with him to let yourself fall into sync.

And so is he.

Your focus wavers—just for a second, just long enough to throw your balance.

You stumble.

A mistake. A fraction of hesitation.

The Wanderer seizes it.

It moves faster than you expect, faster than anything that massive should be able to.

A pulse of energy collides against your chest, sending you sprawling.

A second strike is coming—you see it, but you’re too slow, your body still recovering from the impact—

And then Xavier is there. Between you and death.

His sword clashes against the incoming blow, deflecting it just enough to send the Wanderer skidding back.

His breathing is uneven. Not from exertion, but from something else.

Something like rage.

"Are you hurt?" His voice is taut, dangerous.

You shake your head, pushing yourself back up.

"I’m fine."

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away from you. Like he doesn’t quite believe you. Like he’s assessing whether he just almost lost you.

You don’t have time for this.

"You really think you would’ve made it out of this alive?" You fire, voice shaking with frustration. "Look at it. Look at the size of that thing. And you came here alone."

Xavier exhales slowly through his nose. Controlled. Restrained.

"You came after me," he says, voice like a blade, slicing through the tension.

You shake your head, jaw tight.

"Of course I did. That’s what you do when you—"

The words catch.

His eyes are on you. Steady. Unwavering.

The air between you is thick, charged, buzzing with everything unspoken, everything you haven’t let yourself say.

Your fingers tremble around the grip of your gun.

"I—"

The Wanderer screeches.

The ground shudders.

You don’t think. You react.

Your hand snaps forward, closing over Xavier’s.

The second you touch him—

Resonance explodes.

A flash of light. A rush of energy so intense it steals the breath from your lungs.

The Wanderer staggers. Its movements falter.

You see the opening. So does he.

Two strikes. One shot. One kill.

The Wanderer dissolves. The air stills. The only thing left is a single Protocore, pulsing softly in the dust.

You’re both breathing hard, hands still locked together, neither of you moving.

And then—

His fingers tighten.

The world tilts, just slightly.

Xavier doesn’t look at the Protocore. He looks at you.

And when he steps forward, you step back, heat creeping up your neck.

But he doesn’t let you run. He cups your face, tilting it up until you have no choice but to meet his gaze.

"Say it."

Your pulse pounds.

"Xav—"

"Say it." His voice is low, demanding.

You swallow hard. You already said it once.

But now—he’s listening.

Now, there’s nothing between you but everything you’ve been holding back.

Your throat tightens. And then—you break.

"I love you," you whisper.

His breath stutters, caught between control and something raw. His hands slide lower, fingers gripping your waist, pulling you in.

And then—he’s kissing you.

Hard. Desperate. Unforgiving.

Your weapons hit the ground. His sword, your guns—forgotten.

The only thing left is this. The only thing left is him.

His breath is ragged against your lips, his hands urgent, searching.

"What good are my eyes if they can't see you?" he murmurs against your mouth.

"What use are my hands if they can't touch you?"

"Why do I need lips if not to kiss you?"

His forehead presses against yours. His voice is steady. Unshaking.

"And if you don’t let me love you the way I do—what’s the point of living at all?"

You exhale, shuddering. A quiet, breathless sound escapes you—half a sob, half a laugh, because of course he would say something like this, because of course it would be him. Your hands tighten against his shirt, gripping hard enough to ground yourself, to keep yourself from falling apart. 

And finally—you let yourself hold him back.

***

The Morning After – Promises in the Sunlight

The world is quiet.

Not the heavy, suffocating kind of silence that has weighed on you for days, but something else. Something warm.

Your body feels boneless, satiated, exhausted in the best possible way. The bruises on your skin tell a story—some earned in battle, others left by a different kind of war, one fought in the dark, in whispers, in hands that refused to let go.

And then—you feel it. Eyes on you.

You blink against the soft golden light spilling through the curtains, twisting slightly to find him.

Xavier is propped up on his elbow beside you, one arm tucked beneath his head. His gaze is unreadable, too intense in the quiet morning light.

But he isn’t watching you. Not exactly.

His fingers trail absently over your skin, following the paths where the sunlight dances along your shoulder, your collarbone, the curve of your wrist. Mapping you.

The way his fingers move—it’s almost reverent. Like he’s committing this moment to memory, like he’s terrified it might slip through his grasp if he blinks.

You reach for his hand. But he beats you to it.

His fingers curl around yours, guiding your hand to his lips, pressing the softest, most devastatingly tender kiss to your fingertips.

It nearly steals the breath from your lungs.

You swallow hard, your voice coming out quieter than intended.

"Xav…"

His grip tightens, just slightly.

"When we met," he murmurs, voice low, steady, unshaking, "you promised me something."

Your brow furrows. You don’t move.

"You said I would be your partner," he continues, thumb brushing absently over your knuckles. "In everything. In battle. In your reckless plans. In life."

His eyes lift to yours, and the weight of his words settles deep into your chest.

You can’t look away. Not now. Not from this.

Your throat tightens. "Xavier—"

"Don’t apologize," he says smoothly, shaking his head before you can even start.

But you need to. Because you hurt him. Because you left.

Because even though you both made mistakes, you forced his hand.

He sees it in your eyes before you can say anything, and his fingers tighten just slightly around yours.

"This isn’t about apologies," he murmurs.

His other hand comes up, brushing along the curve of your cheek, pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

"This is about what happens next."

You blink.

"I won’t force you to promise me anything," he continues, watching your reaction closely. "Not unless you mean it."

The warmth of his touch lingers against your skin, steady, grounding, heartbreakingly gentle.

"But I need you to understand something."

You hold your breath.

"I won’t make you worry again." His voice is softer now, more certain. More dangerous in its quiet conviction. "I won’t make you question whether I’ll come back. Because now I know how it feels."

Your eyes sting.

"Does that mean…" You hesitate, voice barely above a whisper. "No more No-Hunt Zone?"

The corner of his mouth twitches.

"Not exactly."

You open your mouth to argue, but he stops you with a single look. Before you can push him away, before you can get worked up, he leans in—pressing his forehead to yours.

His breath is warm against your lips.

"If I go," he murmurs, slow, careful, a promise wrapped in steel, "I take my partner with me."

Your chest tightens.

He’s serious.

This is his way of saying it.

His way of meeting you halfway.

His way of telling you that he’s not going anywhere without you.

You exhale slowly, pressing your forehead harder against his, letting the moment settle between you.

"...Okay."

The word is soft. Tentative.

But you mean it.

His fingers thread through yours, squeezing gently. The smallest, barest hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Good."

He kisses you once, slow and deep, searing the moment into your skin.

And for the first time in six days—you let yourself believe it.

[rains-starlight]

You had an argument, and in the heat of the moment, you took on a secret mission—disappearing without a trace or warning for six days. He won’t let that slide, will he?

(⚠️ Warning: Slightly angsty and dramatic) 🔥 UPD: Guys, I hear you loud and clear about Xavier, and I'm already working on his full story. Let me know if you want more about the others (or any specific one).

🖐️💥😈 Sylus 

You don’t even make it home.

One second—you’re stepping toward your door. The next—you're grabbed.

A sharp yelp leaves your lips, but it’s already too late.

One hand clamps down on your shoulder, the other hooks around your legs, and suddenly—you're airborne.

"Cargo secured."

A second voice. Muffled. Hollow.

You twist wildly.

Two figures in black masks, sharp beaked visors, curved horns on their hoods.

Luke and Kieran.

You thrash. “Put me down—”

"No can do, Miss," Kieran hums, flipping you upside down just slightly.

"Our Boss gave very strict orders," Luke murmurs.

Your stomach sinks. The car door swings open—

And you’re shoved inside.

Kieran and Luke plop down beside you, silent as shadows.

Then—

Luke sighs. Long and exaggerated.

"Such a shame," he muses. "She was so pretty."

Kieran hums. "So full of life."

Your eyes narrow. “What.”

They tilt their heads in unison. Luke’s fingers drum against the seat.

"He was so worried."

Kieran exhales. "On the first day, he simply waited."

Luke nods. "Second day, he sent people out. Checked hospitals. Crime scenes."

Kieran’s head tilts. "By day three… well, we all knew something had to bleed."

Your stomach drops.

Luke stretches, relaxed. "Four syndicates fell in one night. Just in case one of them had you."

Kieran sighs. "On the fourth day, he realized that wasn’t enough."

Luke hums. "So he started getting creative."

Your breath hitches. "Creative?"

Kieran taps his chin. "That warehouse in N109 Zone? The one that burned to the ground?"

Luke leans closer. "Day five. Still no sign of you. He collapsed an entire district."

Kieran shrugs. "Nothing personal. Just a message."

Luke tilts his head. "And then day six came."

A beat of silence.

Kieran chuckles. "You know, Miss… If you hadn’t shown up today, N109 Zone would’ve been repainted in blood by sundown."

Luke sighs dreamily. "It still might be."

Your blood turns to ice.

And then—Luke’s head tilts toward you.

"Now…?"

Kieran completes it, a beat later.

"Now he has you."

The car slows. Your chest tightens. And then—you realize where you are.

N109 Zone. His estate.

The car door swings open—

And you’re hauled out like luggage.

"Handle with care," Luke hums.

“I am handling with care," Kieran murmurs.

They carry you inside. Set you down with eerie gentleness. Smooth out your jacket. Brush imaginary dust off your shoulders.

Then—they step back. Bow, deep and slow.

“Welcome home, Miss.”

And then—they’re gone.

You whirl after them. “HEY—”

A quiet sound.

Fabric rustling. A slow, deliberate exhale.

You freeze.

And then—you turn.

Sylus is standing across the room. Calm. Collected. Expression unreadable.

But his eyes. They burn.

You swallow.

“What the fuck was that?” you snap, motioning toward the door.

Silence.

He just… watches you.

Then—slowly, smoothly—

He shrugs off his jacket. Lets it fall onto the chair. His fingers move to his cuffs. Undoing them.

One. Then the other.

Rolling his sleeves up, inch by inch.

Your stomach twists.

“Sylus.”

He doesn’t answer. His hands move to his belt. He unbuckles it. Pulls it free.

And you—

You fucking run.

You BOLT.

Straight toward the door. It’s locked.

You curse.

Behind you—he clicks his tongue.

“Oh, Kitten,” he murmurs, voice low, almost amused.

You spin, darting behind the desk. He follows. Casually. Slowly.

“You disappear for six days,” he murmurs, voice smooth, mocking, deadly.

You sidestep. He matches you.

“You ignore my calls.”

You swerve left. He steps right.

“I tear this city apart looking for you.”

You dodge back. He adjusts effortlessly.

“And now,” he exhales, tilting his head, smirking lazily, “you’re running.”

You hurl a stapler at him. He catches it. Drops it. Sighs.

Then—his patience snaps.

A sharp pulse of red energy explodes outward. The desk flips. The chairs crash against the wall.

And suddenly—

You are out of places to run. Before you can move—

He has you.

A sharp yelp rips from your throat as he grabs you, spins, and drops into his chair—

Bringing you down over his lap.

Your breath catches. “Sylus—”

"Ah, ah, ah.”

His palm glides down your back. Teasing. Amused. Smug.

"You made a very poor choice, Kitten."

Your heart pounds. His fingers hook into your waistband. And in one sharp motion—

He pulls your pants down.

Your entire body jolts. “Wait—”

The first smack lands. Sharp. Stinging.

You jerk violently.

Then—the second.

Then—the third.

“Sylus—you absolute bastard!”

A low chuckle vibrates through his chest.

“Six days, Sweetie.”

Another smack.

“You think you get away with that?”

You snarl, thrashing. “You—I’ll kill you!”

"Oh?" His hand presses against your lower back, keeping you pinned.

Then—lower now, smooth as silk, dripping with mockery—

“You sure you can handle that right now?”

You growl.

And then—

You bite him. Hard. Right on the thigh.

His breath hitches. Then—a slow, dangerous laugh.

He grabs you. Turns you over, setting you between his legs, hands gripping your chin—forcing you to look at him.

And then—

You see it. The rage is gone.

And in its place—

Something raw. Something wrecked. Like he’s aged years in just six days.

His voice—when it comes—is low. Hoarse. Unsteady.

“…I thought Ever carved you up for spare parts.”

Your stomach drops.

"You really think," his fingers twitch against your skin, "I was just waiting?"

His eyes flick over your face, scanning, memorizing. And then—softer now, almost broken—

"If you hadn’t come back tomorrow, I would’ve wiped them off the face of the earth."

Your eyes sting. Your hands reach for him, trembling.

You slide forward, onto his lap.

His breath stutters.

And then—you kiss him. Hard. Desperate. Unyielding.

He shudders.

Then—his hands clench around your waist, crushing you to him. When he pulls back—forehead pressed against yours, breath uneven—

“…Next time you disappear,” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek, voice shaking with something terrifyingly real, “I’m not looking for you.”

Your heart cracks. You shake your head. You cup his face. Hold him there.

“…You won’t have to.”

Silence.

Then—

His grip tightens. And just like that—

He is never letting you go again.

❄️🩸💔 Zayne

You already know where he is.

Zayne isn’t home. Of course, he isn’t.

So you do the only thing that makes sense—you head straight for Akso Hospital.

By the time you step through the pristine glass doors, you’re already talking.

“I know how this looks, but I can explain—”

And then—you see him.

Standing near the nurses’ station, uniform crisp, posture rigid, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat like he’s carved from ice.

For a second—just a second—his breath catches.

But then—

A switch flips. His entire presence shifts.

Cold. Professional. Untouchable.

His eyes meet yours. And he says nothing.

No relief. No anger. Nothing.

Just pure, hollow emptiness.

You swallow hard. Force yourself to continue.

“Zayne—”

“You need medical attention.”

His voice is calm. Impersonal. A doctor speaking to a patient. Not the man you know.

Your stomach twists.

He doesn’t ask where you’ve been. Doesn’t ask why you disappeared. Instead—he starts listing symptoms.

“You’re pale. Have you lost blood?”

You inhale sharply. “Zay—”

“Concussion?”

“No—”

“Fever? Infection?”

His eyes flick to your scraped knuckles, the dried blood on your sleeve.

And you realize—

He’s not angry. He’s protecting himself. He’s shutting down. Like he already convinced himself you weren’t coming back. Like he already mourned you.

And something inside you breaks.

Your legs wobble.

You sway—

And then—

You collapse.

The reaction is instantaneous.

A sharp inhale. A rush of movement. A sudden, firm grip catching you before you hit the ground.

Zayne’s arms lock around you. One around your back, one under your legs, holding you effortlessly. His breathing is uneven. His fingers tremble against your skin.

“Hey—!” His voice is no longer detached. It’s urgent. Terrified.

He tilts your face up, eyes scanning for injuries, pupils blown wide with panic.

"You—" His breath shudders. “Shit, you're—”

But you don’t answer. Because you keep your eyes closed. Because you know exactly what you’re doing.

And for a moment, it works. For a moment, he’s yours again. For a moment, his walls are completely, irreparably shattered.

Then—

His steps slow. His breathing evens.

And suddenly—

He stops. And you feel it. That one single, damning second of realization.

Your eyes are closed, but you can hear it. The sharp, cold click in his mind as he figures it out.

His arms loosen. Too loose. Too fast.

And suddenly—you're falling.

You gasp sharply, hands instinctively grabbing at him—

But he catches you at the last second, lowering you onto the cold, sterile floor of his office with just enough control to keep you from truly getting hurt.

But barely.

His jaw is tight. His nostrils flare. His hands press into his thighs like he’s physically holding himself back from losing control.

Then—flat, quiet, lethal—

“You lied.”

Your stomach drops. You open your mouth—and then you feel it.

A sharp, aching throb in your knee. It hits all at once—the pain, the exhaustion, the weight of everything that happened.

Your throat tightens.

And then—before you can stop it—

Tears prick at your eyes.

Your voice comes out small, weak, broken.

“Zayne… my leg hurts.”

Everything stops. The air in the room shifts.

And suddenly—

The rage is gone. His walls crumble.

His gaze snaps to your knee—swollen, bruised, torn fabric revealing skin already darkening with a deep, painful contusion.

And just like that—he’s on his knees. The doctor in him takes over.

His hands tremble as they press to your leg, fingertips ghosting over the bruised flesh like it physically pains him to touch.

He leans down. And presses a soft, lingering kiss to the bruised skin.

Your breath catches.

His forehead presses gently against your knee. And then—a whisper, barely audible, like he’s afraid of his own voice.

“…I lost you.”

Your heart cracks wide open.

He inhales sharply, his fingers tightening against your leg, like he’s still trying to convince himself you’re real.

You slide off the chair. Sink onto the cold, sterile floor. Your hands come up, cup his face.

His breath stutters.

You press your forehead to his.

Hot. Unwavering. Eternal.

“Only death could take me from you.”

His eyes squeeze shut. And when they open again—

There’s nothing left but raw, agonizing devotion.

Then—

His hands reach for you. And this time, he doesn’t let go.

🪑🍎🎖️ Caleb

The door clicks shut behind you.

Something feels wrong. The air is too still. Too perfectly controlled.

And then—you see it.

The chair.

Placed dead center in the room.

The apartment is spotless. Too spotless. Like someone scrubbed it raw, wiped away every trace of warmth, every sign of life.

Your stomach tightens. And then—a voice.

Cold. Measured. Absolute.

"Sit down."

You turn sharply—

And there he is.

Colonel Caleb. Not your Caleb.

Not the man who kisses your forehead every morning. Not the man who makes you breakfast even when he’s running on two hours of sleep.

No.

This is the soldier. The commander. The man who could level entire cities with a single order.

And you are his captive.

Your jaw tightens. “Caleb, what the hell—”

"Sit. Down."

Your spine stiffens. “No.”

A flick of his fingers. The chair scrapes forward, slamming into the back of your knees.

You stumble, cursing—

But before you can react—a force clamps around you. G-forces shift. Gravity bends. The chair drags you back to the center of the room.

Then—weight locks around your limbs. You can’t stand. Can’t move. Your pulse spikes.

His face is unreadable. His eyes—stormy, dark, endless.

Like he hasn’t slept in six days.

A tablet activates in his hand.

Several floating screens appear around you, flickering with surveillance footage.

And then—his interrogation begins.

His voice is calm. Clinical. Devoid of warmth.

"In the hours before your disappearance, this man entered your building. Do you know him?"

You blink. “What—?”

He gestures at the screen. A blurry security cam shot.

You squint. “That’s—a fucking courier.”

"Interesting."

A swipe of his fingers. Another screen appears.

"You placed an order at a bookstore six days ago. Three books were delivered. For what purpose?"

You stare. “...For reading?”

His brows twitch.

"Curious. You spoke to the courier for over five minutes. What was discussed?"

Your hands clench into fists. “How the hell would I know?”

A beat of silence.

Then—softer now, dangerous in its evenness—

"You really expect me to believe you don’t remember?"

Your blood boils. “Are you seriously doing this right now?”

He swipes again. More footage. More records. More evidence that means nothing.

And you snap.

"You are losing your fucking mind."

His jaw tightens.

And then—

The gravity releases.

You lurch forward, finally able to move—

But before you can get up—

he’s already there.

A single step. One hand gripping the back of your chair, tilting it back—

His face is inches from yours. His gaze burns.

"Are you fucking someone else?"

Your breath catches. Your pulse thunders in your ears.

And then—

You laugh.

Sharp. Bitter. Furious.

You gesture at yourself—the dirt, the bruises, the blood still crusted on your sleeve.

“Look at me, Caleb.”

He doesn’t move.

“Does this look like a woman having an affair?”

His fingers twitch against the chair. His voice drops to a whisper.

"I’m on the edge of it."

Your chest tightens.

“I don’t doubt that, you psychopath.” You shove against his arm, but he doesn’t budge. “Now let me up so I can strangle you.”

His fingers loosen.

And then—

"Six days."

Your breath hitches. His hand moves. Curls around your jaw, firm but careful.

"Six days. Eight thousand six hundred forty minutes."

His thumb brushes over your cheekbone.

"I couldn't breathe without pain."

Your throat tightens. Your rage collapses into something else entirely.

“Caleb—”

"I searched. I traced every lead. I turned this country inside out."

His voice wavers.

And then—softer, rawer, almost desperate—

"If you hadn’t come back, I would have burned everything to the ground."

Your chest aches.

“…I had a mission. It was classified.”

His jaw twitches.

"Then tell me—" His voice turns sharp, edged with something almost pleading. "Tell me you weren’t running."

You exhale shakily.

“You’re so obsessed with losing me, Caleb—maybe that’s why you always do.”

Silence.

Something in his face breaks. He straightens. Turns away.

Leaves.

The door slams.

And you collapse to your knees. Your hands come up—cover your face—

And finally, finally, the tears fall.

But then—

A soft creak. A shift in the air. Warmth.

Arms wrapping around you, pulling you into a crushing embrace.

You freeze.

His voice is hoarse, quiet, trembling with something raw.

"You’re the only one who can destroy me without lifting a hand."

Your breath shudders. His grip tightens.

"One word from you," he murmurs, "and I’m gone."

You shake your head.

“Caleb…”

His forehead presses against your shoulder.

"I tried. Every day. Every second. I tried not to hold on too tight." He exhales shakily. "But I can’t."

Your heart clenches.

“Caleb, I always come back.”

He flinches.

You pull back just enough to cup his face. His eyes are stormy, desperate, flickering with pain.

"You have to trust me."

His lips part, but no sound comes out.

Then—barely above a whisper—

"I can't lose you."

Your fingers tighten against his jaw.

"You won’t."

Silence.

Then—

He kisses you.

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Devouring. Starved.

His hands tangle in your hair, holding you to him like he’ll die if you pull away.

A single tear escapes down his cheek. And you catch it with your lips.

“…I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Caleb, I’m so sorry.”

His breath shudders. He shakes his head. 

“No.” His voice breaks. "You don’t apologize to me." 

Your brows furrow. “Caleb—” 

He swallows. 

"If you’re better off without me—" 

Your hand flies up, slaps over his mouth. He freezes. Tears well in your eyes. 

“Don’t. Say. That.” His chest rises sharply. You lean in, press your forehead to his. 

“…You are my universe,” you whisper. 

His hands shake against your back. 

“No matter what we do, no matter what happens—” You press your lips to his, slow, deep, endless. “I will always come back to you.” 

His breath shudders against your lips.

And then—his voice drops, quiet but unshakable. 

"You will never disappear on me again without warning. Not now. Not ever."

🗡✨🌥 Xavier 

The door clicks shut behind you.

You barely take a step inside before a voice cuts through the air—

Calm. Measured. Unshakable.

"Ah." A quiet exhale. "Look who finally remembered they have a home."

You freeze.

Xavier is already there.

Sitting in the living room, one leg crossed over the other, a book balanced in his hand—like your sudden reappearance was nothing more than an interesting plot twist.

He doesn’t look up immediately. He finishes the sentence he’s reading first.

Then—calmly, unhurriedly—he turns the page.

And finally—his gaze lifts to yours.

Cold. Slow. Too calculating.

"Six days."

Your stomach tightens. "Xav—"

"Mm. No." He holds up a single finger.

The room falls silent. And somehow, that’s worse.

You watch as he closes the book. Carefully. Precisely. Then—without breaking eye contact—he sets it aside.

And then—a small smile.

Soft. Almost friendly.

Which means you’re in deep, deep trouble.

"You look tired," he murmurs, tilting his head. "Traveling, were you?"

You exhale. "Xavier—"

"Oh, no. Let me guess." His fingers tap idly against the armrest. "You were simply busy."

A pause.

"Too busy, in fact, to answer a single message."

Your jaw tightens. "It wasn’t—"

"Ah," he interrupts softly, as if realizing something.

His eyes flick over your torn sleeve, the faint bruises on your arms. Then, slowly—he smiles.

"Or," he murmurs, "did you lose your phone again?"

Your stomach drops. Because he knows.

You inhale sharply. "Xav—"

He shakes his head.

"No, it’s alright. I understand." He leans forward slightly, resting his chin against his knuckles. "I’m sure you had an excellent reason."

A beat of silence. Then—mild amusement, carefully laced with steel:

"Would you like to tell me what it was?"

You hesitate.

Because you were on a mission. A classified one.

Because he wasn’t supposed to know. Because you work together.

And yet—he knew nothing.

You try anyway.

"I had a—"

"A mission?" His brow lifts, a polite flicker of curiosity. "Fascinating."

His tone is smooth, unbothered. And that—that is when you know how angry he really is.

He gestures vaguely toward the stacks of reports on the table.

"Tell me, darling, which mission was it?"

You swallow hard. "I can’t—"

"Mm. Right. Classified."

Another small nod. A slow, deliberate blink.

"As are all major operations within the Association."

His fingers drum lightly against the armrest.

"And yet, strangely—" He tilts his head. "Not a single record of your assignment exists."

You say nothing.

Xavier exhales through his nose—almost disappointed.

"And here I thought," he murmurs, "we were supposed to trust each other."

You flinch.

His gaze softens. Not with kindness. But with something far worse.

Pity.

"You must have had your reasons, of course," he muses.

A small sigh, like he’s humoring a child.

"I imagine you thought it was necessary. Sensible, even."

His fingers lace together.

"Just as I found it necessary to send out a search party on day three."

Your breath catches.

"You what?"

He hums.

"By day four, I expanded my resources. You'd be surprised how quickly information spreads when you know where to look."

Your hands clench.

"Xavier—"

"Day five, I began considering alternative outcomes. Some of them, admittedly, rather unpleasant."

A flicker of something colder in his expression.

"Ever been forced to sit in a room full of people trying to convince you that your partner is dead?"

Your stomach turns.

"Xavier, I wasn’t—"

He clicks his tongue.

"Day six, I received word that you had finally resurfaced."

He leans back. Folds his arms. And then—a soft chuckle, utterly humorless.

"Imagine my relief."

Silence.

You exhale sharply. "Xav, I—"

"Did you know," he interrupts, voice light, conversational, detached, "that people tend to avoid looking a grieving man in the eye?"

Your throat tightens.

"Not that I was grieving, of course." He taps a finger against his chin. "I don’t make a habit of mourning people until I see a body."

He tilts his head slightly, studying you.

"But I imagine it must have been quite the inconvenience, being dead for six days."

Your chest tightens.

"You think I wanted to—"

"Oh, I know," he murmurs. "You didn’t want to disappear."

His voice lowers.

"But you still did."

And for the first time—he is no longer smirking. His blue eyes bore into yours, steady, sharp.

"You made a decision that left me in the dark."

A long, slow breath.

"And I need to know," he says softly, "if you would do it again."

Silence.

You don’t have an answer. You don’t think there is one.

He exhales.

Finally, he leans back. Gazes at you for a moment longer.

Then, calmly—he stands. Smooth. Effortless. Precise. And then—he walks past you.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

"Xavier—"

He doesn’t stop. You push to your feet.

"Xavier, you’re coming back, right?"

Finally—he pauses. Turns his head, just slightly.

And then—

"Ask me again in six days."

The door closes behind him. And this time—you’re the one left behind.

🧜🏻‍♂️🧑🏻‍🎨🌊 Rafayel 

You are exhausted.

Every part of you aches. Your body demands sleep, warmth, peace.

Instead—

You come home to chaos.

Loud music. Laughter. The scent of wine, perfume, candle wax, and indulgence.

And then—the sight of him.

Rafayel.

Lounging near the pool, half-leaning against an ornate chair, a glass of red wine dangling lazily between his fingers.

His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to hint at toned muscle beneath, his sleeves rolled up, his perfectly tousled hair falling over his forehead in an effortlessly careless way.

And surrounding him—beautiful women.

Drinking, laughing, leaning toward him like he’s some fallen deity of temptation and excess.

Your stomach twists. A tight, burning rage coils in your chest.

And then—

He sees you. His eyes widen—just slightly. And then—a slow, almost lazy smirk.

"Ah." He lifts his glass dramatically, tone dripping with sarcasm. "Look who's finally returned!"

You tense.

He rises to his feet, arms spread as if welcoming royalty.

"My muse. My inspiration."

His voice carries over the music, over the murmurs of people starting to notice the tension.

"The very heart of my art!"

A sweeping gesture.

And then—

He motions toward the canvas-lined walls.

Your breath catches. Because they’re all of you. Dozens of paintings.

But—ruined.

Slashes through the canvas.

Paint smeared and splattered over your likeness like an artist in rage, in agony, in heartbreak.

The fury in you erupts. Your voice cuts through the music.

"What the actual fuck is this?!"

He gasps, mock scandalized.

"Oh, you don’t like them? What a tragedy!"

He downs the rest of his wine in one smooth gulp, tossing the glass aside with a careless flick of his wrist.

Then—he grins.

Crooked. Reckless. Infuriating.

"And here I was, drowning in sorrow, channeling my unbearable suffering into art."

A sigh.

"But alas." He shrugs dramatically. "Seems the muse herself has returned."

You march toward him. He tilts his head.

"Careful, cutie. You seem upset."

"You’re a fucking disaster."

He laughs.

"You’re six days late to that realization."

You grab his wrist, yanking him toward the exit.

“We’re talking. Now.”

His body moves, but his feet don’t follow. Instead—he pulls against your grip.

His smile widens.

"Oh?" His voice drips with amusement. "Dragging me away already? Jealous, cutie?"

Your jaw clenches.

"This is pathetic."

Another laugh, lighter this time.

"Ah, but it was all I had!" He places a hand over his heart. Theatrical. Overdramatic. Perfectly insufferable.

You snap.

And shove him into the pool.

He barely has time to react—water crashes around him, drenching his white shirt, dragging him under.

And for a brief, glorious second—silence.

Until—

His hand grabs your wrist. You yelp, but it’s too late.

He pulls you down with him.

Cold water engulfs you, shocking your senses.

When you resurface, gasping, furious, he’s already brushing his hair back, blinking at you through wet lashes.

And suddenly—

The playfulness is gone. The crowd has vanished. Thomas made sure of it.

And now—it’s just you and him.

And for the first time tonight—he’s quiet. His voice is lower, slower.

"You storm into my house. Onto my estate. Into my party. And then..."

He gestures lazily toward the water.

"You throw me in my own fucking pool?"

You pant, teeth gritted. “Your—house? Great! I’ll leave you in your fucking house—”

You turn to climb out—

And he grabs you again. A firm grip. Unshaking.

His eyes—darker now. Sharper. Focused.

"Make another move, cutie." His voice is dangerously low.

"And we’ll have problems."

You glare. "Let. Go."

He doesn’t. Instead—he pulls you closer.

“You’re not walking away from this.”

Your pulse spikes.

"Rafayel—"

"Do it," he whispers. "Say it to my face."

Your breath catches.

"You want to leave?" His hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer, forcing you to feel the heat radiating from his soaked body.

"Then say it."

Your hands shake. You flick water into his face, desperate to break the tension.

He doesn’t even blink. Instead—his eyes drop.

To your clothes.

Soaked. Clinging. Revealing everything.

His pupils darken. And then—his jaw tightens.

"You left me for six days," he murmurs.

Your breath stutters.

"I left for work, not you, you hysterical maniac."

He tilts his head.

"That’s the same thing. And your phone?"

"A Wanderer shattered it!"

He lets out a sharp, bitter laugh.

"Ah, yes. And I suppose you were also too busy fighting for your life to send me one. Single. Fucking. Message?"

You exhale sharply. "Raf, you’re insufferable. A party? Seriously?"

"How else am I supposed to handle soul-crushing heartbreak?"

His voice drops.

"Tell me, cutie." His fingers skim your waist, trailing fire in their wake. "How else was I supposed to drown my suffering?"

He leans in, breath hot against your lips.

And then—

He kisses you. Desperate. Possessive.

Your legs wrap around his waist, instinct taking over.

His grip tightens.

"You threw me in a pool," he whispers against your lips.

"You deserved it."

His fingers dig into your hips.

"You waltz in after six days and just—throw me?"

"Maybe I should throw you again."

He grins against your skin.

"I should make you pay for that."

"Raf—"

"Mm. Shh."

His hands travel lower, pressing you harder against him.

Your breathing turns shallow.

"Your paintings," you murmur.

"I’ll paint more."

"You hated me for six days."

"Endlessly." He kisses your throat, voice dropping further.

"You didn’t want to see me again?"

He grins against your collarbone.

"Try leaving me again, cutie."

His grip tightens, unshakable.

His breath is hot against your ear.

"And I promise—"

His hips press forward, slow and deliberate, sending a sharp jolt of heat through you.

"You won’t be able to walk for a week."

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xavmc before bed :>

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i was gonna refine this but then i didn't so here <3

to be fair i dont blame him artists really do be forgetting to eat

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"I'll only say this once," Zayne began, looking up from his paperwork on his desk.

"It's time for bed."

You pouted, before drawling out a loud groan. You'd hoped he hadn't been paying attention to the time. But, you suppose you shouldn't have expected your doctor to not pay attention when it had to do with your health.

"But you're staying up..." You whined, lip jutting out to gain some sense of sympathy. No effect.

"I have to finish this file. I'll be there soon."

You sighed, turning around to walk towards the door.

"Forgetting something?"

You looked over your shoulder. Zayne's eyes met yours with expectation, as he froze his task. Your eyes narrowed.

"Goodnight, Doctor Zayne." You rolled your eyes, your head dragging back around to follow you out. You heard a call from the threshold.

"Goodnight sweetheart!" His voice rings, a light tease. You turned back around, and blew a raspberry at him from the doorway.

"I love you too," He smirked, flipping through pages.

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the babies

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his ass tryna look cute 😭 "you're the one who tried to trick me first 🥺" MAN IF YOU DONT GET UR ASS OUTTA HERE /sarc

he is cute . i just didn't get the appeal for the first time, i like zayne, sylus, and caleb more

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that damn smirk hello?? stella me too girl bc bearded sylus is doing something to me

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Just imagine Xavier working on the spaceship wearing a short sleeve shirt and you can see his veiny arms/hands and he's getting all sweaty and possibly breathing hard from doing manual labor in the heat and-

Oof I think I need to lie down 😵‍💫

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How they beat the heat:

Xavier: Like a cat sleeping in a sunny spot. Unsurprisingly will still be hungry for hot pot, luckily eating hot food helps with managing hot weather. The question is, are you going to eat with him?

Zayne: Pretty straightforward thanks to his Evol. When other people ask him to use it, he declines. When you ask him to cool you down, he playfully complains, but obliges, massaging your neck and scalp.

Rafayel: Barely leaves the water. Not his bathtub, no, the sea. He swims down where it's cooler and insists you come diving with him. And if you need to kiss him to breathe underwater, well, that's a bonus.

Sylus: If he already avoided the daytime, now more so. Everything is shut and dark in the base during the day, and open and breezy during the night. So many strategically placed fans... And somehow still wants to cuddle.

Caleb: He's making ice cream and sorbets for you both like there's no tomorrow, insisting you'll get a heatstroke otherwise. Will also ask for your help applying sunscreen, and help with yours in return.

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Idk why but this has me doing backflips

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"feverish attempts" ; a braindump (word vomit) from yours truly !!!! again !! because i kid you not i think this card genuinely displays so much of what xavier's love means, and it's more than just the cute/sexy moments this card has. i'm a firm believer that this is a very top tier card and it's really up there in my top 3 xavier cards and i,

SDKJGDSJ i was actually debating on whether or not i was going to do this bc my brain is just so mush over this card, but i also can't stop thinking about it and i have this constant urge to yap so like. why not just yap under the cut amiright 😭

ill kinda be summarizing points i made in previous posts i made (no restraint, floral blessing, voyage of the outcast) so this is like, one super giant culmination of all of those posts? so uhhh ;; uhmm ;;;; the usual spoiler warning for xavi myths and anecdotes i suppose :D !!

what i will ALWAYS reiterate in all of my xavier card posts like this, is that his past identity is so, so, so important to his development.

YOU HAVE TO UNDERSTAND !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

imo the reason it's mentioned so much, is so that we as the audience can see that xavier—even xavier, who's lived for god knows how long at this point—still has room to grow. he can still change, and he can still want to change, and he still will change, for the betterment of himself.

because we all know how he started out as. i mention it so many times, and i know that a lot of xavier girlies know it too; there is so so much importance in his starting identity of a prince. when you grow up with an identity like that, it becomes so ingrained into you that no matter what you do a part of you will always go back to it, and it will always still shine through in the little things that you do.

and, at the same time… in order to understand why xavier's behavior in 'feverish attempts' is so important, we need to understand how we got there.

so just to preface, i'm going to grab what i wrote for 'voyage of the outcast':

a) ; the nature of a prince.

something i do wish we had (or may get) more insight into is what exactly his life was like in philos x.x largely what we know of can only be inferred, because the story is being told through mc's point of view, and technically mc doesn't get too deep into the kind of lifestyle each of the LI's have.

with that being said... xavier, in his lightseeker myths and the 'when shooting stars fall' anecdote, still does encapsulate typical princely duties. there's the formality of royalty, the responsibility that comes with a higher status... a prince is high-ranking, a prince is a noble, a prince is royalty. there's a certain sovereignty involved with the title, and in that effect—we all know that there's a certain air of elegance and poise that xavier generally carries himself with, whether that be in his swordfighting, or the words he uses (he has pretty eloquent speech sometimes), the books he reads... even little things, like the calligraphy he does, his handwriting, the slow dancing, playing the piano. he's well learned, and it's clear that he's been trained truly in the image of a prince.

and he's calm. collected. for the most part, we've seen him deal with adversities in a way that's almost chillingly calm; and for the most part, he portrays himself in a way that feels as if it's not easy to get him to lose that calm. again, it's why we as the audience tend to be so shocked when he does lose that calm. he just gives this image of someone who doesn't often lose control of his emotions...

but it's never been because he wants it that way.

along with all of these things, comes the duty of being a prince.

xavier isn't just a prince, he's the crown prince. he's the next-in-line. he's expected to take the throne after his father's death, and that means being able to lead and care for his people. that's a heavy burden to bear. he's already likely faced with all these lessons, to exude a princely demeanor, and all that formality, and speciality, and elegance, and poise—and now he has to keep in mind that the satisfaction and the safety of this planet will fall directly into his hands when the time comes.

we know later on in his lightseeker myth that this means much more than we think it does—because it means being aware of, and accepting, and condoning the sacrifices that go into keeping philos safe, for, well... exactly that. to keep the people safe.

—"...I knew you'd catch on. However, it is a necessary duty of the crown prince. It is also the King's responsibility."

—"Xavier! Listen to me. A King cannot act on his emotions or only protect the people he holds dear. Your duty is to protect Philos. You must only do what is necessary."

his duties are outlined. he has to protect philos. he must only do what is necessary.

and it's also worth noting that although the context here is somewhat dark, this is a rule that applies to general leadership—there is not much room to be selfish, because you have to think about the people under your care, or rule, or jurisdiction. it's a responsibility that falls on your shoulders for you to bear, for you to make the right call, the right decision. and that is the value that the xavier's father is trying to instill in him.

because he is the crown prince.

because he will soon be king.

and heavy is the head that wears the crown.

...only, xavier has never once been receptive of it.

b) ; learned helplessness vs psychological resistance.

we go back to, again, "when shooting stars fall", and the very clear recognition mc has of his lack of freedom.

because that's what it is.

lack of freedom.

because duty is the enemy of freedom.

and xavier, given his position, is undeniably plagued by all of these duties and these obligations and these things that fall to him—

yet, he's never wanted any of it.

though not explicitly confirmed in the game itself, the setup that's implied leads us as the audience to believe that xavier has never enjoyed his royal duties, never found that it was something he desired. it could be that he wanted many other things, but has never been allowed to enjoy these things. in "when shooting stars fall", he's often lonely; often surrounded by these "bodyguards" and rarely interacting with other people in the academy. he believes that these figures restrict him from watching the meteor shower with mc, too.

so it's possible to think that he's believed, all that time, that he had no say in the things that he does...

because he has to be molded into the perfect image of a prince.

that's where it comes in: the constraint. something that limits one's freedom of action or choice.

it may or may not be what happened literally, but it's clear that by the time anecdote 3 happens, xavier had developed into a person conditioned to think that he was not allowed to do as he wished. it could be the strict training, it could be the little things they might have kept from him when he was little.

but xavier believed that there was nothing that he could do.

in a sense, this brought about a sense of learned helplessness.

learned helplessness is the learned feeling that one has little to no control over a certain situation. and because of the lack of control, feelings of helplessness, or passivity, or a lack of motivation to take action, end up resurfacing.

it could mean overlooking opportunities for relief, or change… but it means basically accepting the situation as-is, without bothering to try to get out of it. "it is what it is." "i can't do anything anyway, so why should i still bother?"

this is the xavier that we meet at the beginning of anecdote 3.

— "I can't." "Is it because of those..." I hesitate, wondering what to call them. "People?" Xavier appears shocked, and then he nods without saying a word.

— "Don't be sad. I'll just go by myself... I'll bring your wish to the stars when I do. What's your wish?" "I don't have one." "How could someone not wish for anything?"

however...

it changes.

the xavier at the beginning of that anecdote is not the same xavier we see at the end of it.

mc makes various comments; talks about how he's smiling more, and we see him more deliberately avoiding the company of those "people" in favor of being with mc instead. he's found something he wants, and he makes the decision that this is worth fighting for. it breaks him out of that mold of learned helplessness—

only to have it ripped away from him through mc's death.

this anecdote is painful because he realizes that he doesn't have to be trapped anymore... but it's a moment that's short-lived.

and it builds.

it's very likely that the end of that anecdote haunts him for years on end, builds up a certain sense of resentment and disdain for the universe, for his circumstances, and builds more of that rebellious nature.

when we see him in his lightseeker myth, that learned helplessness is gone.

and instead, it switches to the opposite end.

xavier is more headstrong. he's no longer passive, no longer the boy who was unsatisfied with the restrictions but sat still and did nothing. he literally walks out of his conversation with the king, and he's seen multiple times in the myth defying what's expected of him.

but because it's gotten to the point where he's at the opposite end of the spectrum...

he'd develop, instead, what would be called psychological resistance.

maybe not the concept in its entirety, sure, but the very core of it—that is, displaying these paradoxical, opposing behaviors in response to what he'd be told to do.

he's so insistent on rebelling against all of this, that the more he's told he's a prince, or that he has to do this or that or help philos or whatever, he'd completely turn his back on it. i would argue that at this point he is being less objective of the situations and, by going against the expected conduct of a prince, gets overly emotional. because at this point, the only thing that matters to him is mc.

so we get to see the full extent of exactly why xavier is emotionally unstable, because he keeps fluctuating between the two extremes of dealing with all the constraint he's experienced.

and one thing i want to add to this point is the concept of why people turn to these kind of responses.

it's already been established that xavier doesn't like what he's been made to do, doesn't like the people who force him to do all this, doesn't like his duties, doesn't like his roles.

it's established—he feels trapped.

and the main, simplest result in this is—the feeling of being threatened.

not literally, but just because it's the opposite of feeling safe.

the nervous system's main responses to signals of threats—or signals opposing safety—are (1) fight or flight; (2) freeze. freeze referring to learned helplessness, and then fight or flight referring to psychological resistance. these are states of the nervous system that it constantly fluctuates between depending on the level of perceived threat, but it will be in either of those states unless it feels safe.

so what we're getting at here is—xavier doesn't feel safe.

now there are still other parts of his background that give us information on his behavior. for example, like how his insistence on leaving behind his princely identity puts him in a state of incongruence (i do talk about this more in the voyage of the outcast post if you want to look through it! <3). but the thing is that at this point with 'feverish attempts', xavier has been steadily moving away from that incongruence. we first saw it with the lumiere myth. how lumiere seemed very much in line with what his princely persona was like, and it may have been why he was so aversive to lumiere, especially that mc likes lumiere aka a part of him that he wanted to leave behind. in the end of that myth, mc did make it clear that she loves every part of him, and she likes lumiere even more because he is xavier. so much so that by 21 days, "every version of me belongs to you, and only you." xavier took that first step into realizing that he wants to give mc every part of him, even the ones he doesn't like. he's still willing to let her love him even then.

in no restraint, we see him battle with the fact that he just has so, so much love for her that he simply doesn’t know how to deal with it anymore—that he feels trapped in it, that he wishes he could show her love as much as he feels, but he doesn't know how to. it's one of the starting points of their relationship romantically as both he and mc steadily work through that tension and guide it towards something more wholehearted, and mc reciprocates the desire he has to love her. he's no longer a cupcake she'd keep tucked away for herself, and she doesn't want him to hold back either.

in floral blessing, we talked about how "i wish i can be your sanctuary until the end of time, in your eyes." conveyed a sense of steadfast reassurance, because xavier has now grown to accepting himself wholly, and now he knows what he wants. he wants to be mc's sanctuary, and there is no hesitation in him disclosing that to her even if he still leaves the final decision up to her. “Forever is but a collection of moments strung together. With every minute comes another, second after second. When I open my eyes again, I want you to still be by my side.”

and then what you can really see through all of that development, is that xavier now feels like he has a safe space to be more honest with her.

the root of xavier's problems has always been working through that incongruence, and in turn from that incongruence stems his insecurities of "not being good enough" for mc or wondering if, "will mc like me if i'm like this?", that sort of vibe.

but he's been working through that—now he knows who he is, he's more sure of who he is.

there's way too many things to say about cards like silvery polyphony, celestial message, inflorescent imprints… these cards are cards where we see xavier express his love in profound, meaningful ways to her, because he is so, so, so sure that he wants to love her.

he is so, so, so sure that he wants to be the best possible version of himself for her.

because the biggest difference between then and now, is that xavier now feels SAFE.

with what i mentioned earlier, xavier had never felt truly safe with his family and his responsibilities breathing down his neck like that. the only time he felt safe enough, found the freedom enough to feel safe—was when he was with mc, during anecdote 3.

we know that moment was taken from him.

and now, it's taken years and years and years for him to finally be in this space where (1) mc allows him to be himself, and (2) mc allows herself to reciprocate his feelings and reassure him of her own love. we especially see a lot of that towards the end of misty silhouette.

in order to understand why 'feverish attempts' is so meaningful, we first have to understand how we got here.

and as it stands, that is exactly the way we got here—all of that development leading into the safety he feels with mc, which is shone so, so, so beautifully in this card.

it starts the moment he overhears the customers talking about someone always 'off to save the day'. this is a moment we can glean back into his insecurities—"will mc like me?" "i'm kind of like that sometimes. is she upset?"

and xavier doesn't just leave those questions in his head.

this time he's the first to ask— "are you still thinking about what happened earlier?"

he wants to ask if she's upset; he wants to ask if he's messed up. part of him recognizes he might have, and this time instead of shying away—or immediately doing something to try to alleviate or make things up—he asks.

THE FUCKING COMMUNICATION

HE ASKS HER !!!

AND EVEN IF MC SMILES AND BRUSHES IT OFF, HE EXPLAINS IT ANYWAY !!!!!!

we've seen this before; in no restraint, the scene plays out in a familiar manner:

in 'feverish attempts', he says— "The ID was fake. We needed it to get our 'friend' released. As for my name… I'm Xavier. I always will be. … The 'friend' you saw at the psychiatric hospital was a former member of the Backtrackers…"

He even goes so far as to explain things a step further. more about the Backtrackers, and more about who Isaiah really is.

AND HE SAYS—

AND EVEN THEN STILL ASKS HER IF SHE'S MAD AT HIM?

i can't tell you how INCREDIBLE it is to see xavier communicating this much, because through all that we've seen, he has YET to be so STRAIGHTFORWARD with everything !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"I dealt with dangerous things without telling you. And after you found out, I still tried to hide it."

he's SELF-AWARE OF WHAT HE DID WRONG, AND NOT ONLY IS HE SELF-AWARE— HE'S ADMITTING IT OUT LOUD EVEN !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

THE INSANITY IM TELLING YYYOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU HE'S NEVER DONE THIS BEFORE!!!!!!!! I WAS SCREAMING !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AND THEN JUST LIKE.

i think this, and really the rest of the card, just shows HOW MUCH xavier's love is SO CENTERED on what EFFORT REALLY MEANS

because are his attempts perfect? no, not at all. mc even gets mildly annoyed about it and has to shut up his constant reports LMAO.

is his love language acts of service? no, not this either. he's not a very service-y kind of person, and you'd kind of expect him not to be, since he's grown up on the borderline of independence as a leader, and simultaneously as a prince who has been served.

but he's TRYING.

in the little prince, one of my favorite quotes is this—"You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed."

because it highlights the importance of trying. the importance of effort.

that when you care for someone, truly care for someone, you still do your best to make that known—especially when you already know how that person receives love, even if it's not the primary way you show love to people, you still try.

there's something so genuine in xavier's attempts, because he's so clumsy with it, but you can feel that all of it is so genuine.

he's taking that responsibility.

everything he does here is so founded on his love for her, so founded on how devoted he is to making her happy, to the best of his abilities.

he knows he can do better.

he wants to do better.

he is doing better.

mc, in turn, allows him to be—in this card she asks him to update her, she tells her that she wants to be involved in his life. and it gives him that safe space. allows him to open up, keeps his nervous system for going into fight or flight or even freeze.

he feels safe with her, and more than anything—he wants to be involved in her life, too.

so this card was about all of that coming together, the acceptance, the peace of it—the way they're both letting each other into their lives simultaneously, and allowing more free-flowing communication to happen.

i can't stress enough how many times free-flowing communication can't happen because one side feels the other isn't genuine, or one side feels they're not doing enough for the other, etc.

it might have felt like that with xavier and mc, because a push and pull can only go so far, right? how long until mc stops believing xavier wants her deeply involved in his life, if he doesn't step up to try inviting her in and talking about it? how long until xavier stops believing that mc wants him involved deeply in his life, if mc doesn't step up and try inviting him in?

how long can they hold living on doubts, until one of them gives in and slinks away?

one party won't know until and unless the other party does their part—invites communication, and after communication, doesn't make them just empty words but follows through.

sometimes it's not easy to follow through.

but it has to be made known that even if it's difficult, you're still showing your own intention to try.

and these conversations they have in this card… they start with xavier telling mc he'll update her. and when he's unable to do that, she undeniably gets upset about it—but it doesn't end there, because they talk about it. it's absolutely not the same open end that no restraint leaves on where they just settle on their feelings… it's a card that takes the promise further.

it shows the audience mc's side, shows how unsettling it is for her to keep chasing after something she isn't given all the answers to. it shows xavier's side too, how much he's come to know what he needs to do, but that he's still struggling a little bit.

it shows that their agreement is not easy for xavier to keep, but again that he sill tries to. he still wants to.

and to the best of his ability, he is.

he's doing SO much better than he used to, already.

he's taken so many steps forward—he's poured out all of his intentions.

he knows he's not perfect, and he knows he's messing up… but he, again, knows what he wants.

he wants to be better for mc.

he wants to grow into a better person that can genuinely make her happy, not give her a false sense of security and comfort that she has to doubt sometimes.

and he doesn't just know that, he's making all these fforts to convey it.

LOOK AT IT !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

LOOK AT THE COMMUNICATION!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

YOU KNOW HOW PEOPLE SAY "IF THEY WANTED TO, THEY WOULD"?

WELL, XAVIER.

XAVIER.

THAT'S XAVIER.

XAVIER IS THE EPITOME OF THAT.

YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND. THIS IS INSANE TO ME.

THE WAY THAT XAVIER SHOWS LOVE. IS SO. IT'S SO REVERENT.

IT'S SO. DEVOTED.

IT'S EVERYTHING EVER.

IT'S EVERYTHING WHILE SIMULTANEOUSLY BEING SO SUBTLY WRITTEN IN HIS CHARACTER THAT IF YOU DON'T GET HIM AND UNDERSTAND WHERE HE'S COMING FROM, ALL OF THIS FEELS LIKE IT FALLS SHORT—

buT IT DOESN'T ‼️‼️‼️

IT'S SO SIGNIFICANT AND SO MEANINGFUL AND

LIKE DO YOU UNDERstAND.

EVERYTIME I THINK OF THIS CARD I FEEL LIKE IM GOING TO CRASH OUT OVER HOW MUCH I LOVE HIM AND HOW PRECIOUS HE IS AND HOW WONDERFUL HIS LOVE WITH MC IS 😭😭😭😭😭

jUST!!!!!

EVERYTHING THAT HE DOES IS GUIDED BY MC, BECAUSE HE'S MADE HER HIS REASON FOR LIVING.

AND IN THIS CARD !!!!!!!!! HE'S LEARNING HOW TO SHOW THAT PROPERLY !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! IN A WAY THAT MAKES HER FEEL LOVED !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! IN A WAY THAT MAKES HER BELIEVE IT !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! FOR REAL THIS TIME !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

/YELLS AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS

DO YOU SEE WHY I LOVE THIS CARD SO MUCH !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! DO YOU SSSEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1

/GOES INSANE-

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Morning glow✨⭐️