shaiyasstuff - Tumblr blog

shaiyasstuff · 2 months ago

Text

stay | sylus

synopsis : You tried to forget him. But love doesn’t forget. It lingers in doorways and unsent goodbyes—until running feels safer than staying.

content : some other alternate reality, best friend’s brother trope

word count : 7k

now playing : paris in the rain - lauv

You smiled to yourself, barely, the corners of your lips curling as the knife tapped rhythmically against the cutting board.

The sound was steady, soothing—just beneath the surface of Shaiya’s voice as she launched into another retelling of her morning. Something about the god awful traffic.

Something about how her brother had the audacity to drop her off late. Again.

Her brother.

Sylus.

The name alone was enough to loosen the air in your lungs.

Tall, quiet, eyes like burning coals beneath a winter sky. That strange silver hair that caught sunlight like it was spun from frost.

Too beautiful for his own good.

Your fingers faltered for half a second. Just half. Heat bloomed across your cheeks like petals unfolding at dawn, and you bowed your head, willing the blush to pass as you resumed cutting.

“You good?” Shaiya called, amused. “You look like a cherry blossom sneezed on your face.”

You huffed a laugh. “That’s rude.”

The door chimed—a soft jingle that pulled you back into motion. You stepped out front with a practiced smile, greeting customers, taking orders, keeping your hands busy so your heart wouldn’t wander too far.

Behind you, Shaiya leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed, her ponytail falling loose with the humidity. “Thank god you’re here,” she said, voice warm with truth. “I’d be six feet under in espresso by now.”

You laughed, tossing a dish towel over your shoulder. “What kind of best friend would I be if I let you go down with the coffee ship?”

“Twelve years of friendship,” she declared dramatically, pouring a latte. “Still worth it.”

Shaiya’s café sat nestled in a quiet curve of the downtown street, ivy creeping over its brick exterior like an old secret.

You’d stepped in to help right after graduation—just a temporary thing, you told yourself.

Until the next door opened.

Until you figured things out.

Three years later, and you were still here. Same apron. Same view out the window. Same quiet life, small and steady and full of tiny comforts.

It wasn’t extraordinary.

But it was enough.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

Because you held a secret.

Not the kind that could be confessed in passing or laughed away over coffee.

No, this one was older—worn soft at the edges from being held too tightly. A quiet ache you carried like a pressed flower between the pages of your life.

It had lived there for years. Tucked beneath every stolen glance. Every heartbeat that stuttered when he entered the room. Every time his name passed through Shaiya’s lips like it meant nothing—when to you, it meant everything.

You had feelings for Sylus.

And that truth, as fragile as it was, felt too dangerous to speak. Because if it ever left your chest, it might ruin the only thing you had—this life, this café, this careful closeness you shared with the sister of the boy you loved.

So you buried it.

Deep beneath laughter and routine.

And told yourself it was enough.

—•

“Why should we need your permission to date your brother?”

“Yeah, screw off before I beat you up!”

Your heart hammered in your chest, wild and thunderous, as you stepped forward instinctively, placing yourself between Shaiya and the group of girls closing in.

Their bats gleamed under the afternoon sun, cheap wood and bad intentions.

Shaiya scoffed behind you, utterly unfazed. “I have standards, thank you. No way I’d let my brother date girls who smell like expired perfume and desperation.”

“Shaiya,” you hissed under your breath, throwing a hand back to keep her behind you. “Stop.”

One of the girls snarled and raised her bat. Your breath hitched. You shut your eyes, bracing yourself.

And then—

“Walk away before I make you regret it.”

That voice.

Low. Gritted. Cold as steel dragged across gravel.

Your eyes flew open.

There he stood.

Sylus.

A wall between you and the world, sleeves rolled, expression carved from stone.

Back turned to you like a shield.

That was when you had realised, you were in love with him.

“Y/N.”

Shaiya’s voice stirred you from your thoughts, soft but amused, pulling you back to the present like a thread tugged gently through fabric.

You turned, blinking as if waking from a dream.

“Yeah?”

She tilted her head, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “You’ve been staring at my brother for a while.”

Heat rose unbidden to your cheeks. You started to speak—some excuse, some denial—but she was already following your gaze.

Sylus stood just beyond the counter, sleeves still rolled, wiping his hands with a towel. His expression unreadable as always, but there was a quiet in him today. A stillness, like the hush of the sky before the first snow.

Shaiya chuckled softly. “He can be quite gentle sometimes, right?”

You swallowed, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah… he can.”

But what you didn’t say hung heavily in the space between you.

He’s gentle when no one’s looking.

Gentle in the way he hands you your favorite mug without asking.

Gentle in the silence he keeps so you don’t have to explain your sadness.

Gentle in a world that rarely offers you kindness.

You looked away, afraid she might see too much.

And perhaps she already had.

“Look at you,” Shaiya drawled behind you, her tone sing-song and merciless. “Always avoiding him. Do you like him or something?”

You nearly tripped over your own feet as you spun around, heart lurching. “W–What? No way! He’s not even my type!”

She only laughed, loud and unbothered, slipping beside you as if she hadn’t just tossed a grenade into your carefully maintained composure.

“Oh? Then what is your type, hmm? Tell me, I’ll play matchmaker. I know people.”

You said nothing. Couldn’t.

Your blush spoke louder than any words could manage, burning across your cheeks like dawn creeping over a horizon.

And still—your eyes betrayed you.

They flicked toward Sylus, where he stood in the soft golden wash of closing hour, wiping down tables, sleeves pushed up, silver hair catching the fading light.

How could anyone not like him?

The street outside had grown quiet. The kind of quiet that comes after a long day, when even the city holds its breath.

Shaiya stepped out, tugging her coat tighter as she made her way to the waiting car.

“She’s not coming?” Sylus asked, eyes on the rearview mirror, though his tone barely gave him away.

Shaiya smirked, arching a brow as she slid into the passenger seat. “You already know the answer. Shouldn’t you be used to it by now?”

He grunted, low and dismissive. “Shut up.”

The engine hummed to life. The car pulled away.

And from the second-story window, you watched them go—hands pressed lightly to the glass, breath fogging the pane.

The lights of the café flickered out behind you, the night folding in like a sigh.

“I have someone I like.”

Even now, the words echo—soft but sharp, like a paper cut across memory. He had said it so casually, as if it meant nothing, as if he hadn’t just split your world in two.

It was during your school days. Shaiya had teased him, poked at his ever-serious facade like she always did, and he’d let the words slip without looking up.

Your heart had leapt in that moment. Both soaring and sinking.

Maybe… maybe it was you.

But maybe—more likely—it would never be.

You sighed, the weight of the past settling over your shoulders as you closed the book in your lap. Its spine creaked softly in protest, like even it didn’t want the chapter to end.

A small mewl cut through the silence.

You looked down to see Lucifer—your cat—padding toward you, his ruby eyes curious, head tilted just so.

You smiled, leaning down to scoop him into your arms. His body was warm against your chest, soft and alive.

“Oh, Lucifer,” you whispered, voice barely more than a breath, “what am I gonna do?”

He blinked at you slowly. Then let out a plaintive little meow, as if he understood every syllable of your sorrow.

That night, you fell asleep curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over your legs, Lucifer pressed at your feet like a silent guardian.

And in your dreams, you stood in the rain. Your voice trembled, but you said it anyway.

“I like you.”

For once, he looked back. And for once, he didn’t walk away.

—•

The café smelled of rain and something sweet—vanilla, maybe, or the promise of a slower morning.

You arrived earlier than usual, unlocking the doors just as the first light stretched pale fingers across the street.

Clouds hung low, the world still damp from last night’s drizzle, the sky a soft gray that made everything feel softer, quieter.

The bell above the door chimed, and in walked Shaiya—hood up, sleeves too long, a coffee cup clutched between her hands like a lifeline.

“You’re early,” she said, voice half-yawn, half-surprise.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmured, smoothing your apron as you tied it on.

She hummed, setting her cup down and stretching her arms overhead. “Must be the weather,” she said, “feels like the world’s still dreaming.”

You didn’t answer. You were still dreaming, in a way.

Of a boy with silver hair and tired eyes.

Of a voice that once said, I have someone I like.

Of a you who was brave enough to ask who.

The machines whirred to life beneath Shaiya’s hands, the café waking up with its usual rhythm.

You moved through the motions without thinking, the warmth of routine grounding you, though your mind wandered far from the tile floor and polished cups.

“You know,” Shaiya said as she handed you a mug, “sometimes I wish he came by more often.”

You blinked. “Who?”

She gave you a playful look. “Sylus. My brother. You two used to talk more when we were younger, right? I always thought it was nice.”

Your fingers tightened around the ceramic.

She didn’t notice—just smiled, breezy and warm. “He acts cold, but he listens, you know? Always ends up remembering things you didn’t think he would.”

You nodded wordlessly.

Then Shaiya laughed.

“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to set you up or anything. He’s too grumpy for that. Still… I think he could use someone who softens him a little.”

Your heart stuttered.

But you said nothing, just took the mug to the window seat like she asked.

Outside, the rain had stopped. The sky remained gray, but there was a certain kind of stillness in the morning light that made everything feel possible.

Even if it wasn’t.

The morning unraveled slowly, like yarn slipping from loose fingers.

You refilled sugar jars. Wiped down windows. Let the hush of early hours settle into your bones like a familiar lullaby.

Outside, the street was quiet—just the occasional passing car, the rustle of trees shaking off last night’s rain.

Shaiya worked beside you, sleeves rolled, hair pinned in that messy way she always insisted was intentional. She hummed under her breath, some nameless tune, soft and off-key.

Every now and then, she’d bump her shoulder into yours, and you’d smile like everything inside you wasn’t carefully folded and hidden.

“I wonder what it’d be like to live somewhere else,” she mused suddenly, hands deep in a bag of beans. “Not forever. Just… to try. Big city. Rooftop bars. Men in suits who aren’t chronically sleep-deprived.”

You laughed under your breath. “Sounds dangerous.”

She grinned. “Sounds alive.”

You didn’t respond. Because your version of alive wasn’t neon lights and unfamiliar sidewalks—it was something smaller. Simpler.

It was a cup placed silently beside you, before you even asked.

It was a glance across a quiet room.

It was a boy who rarely spoke, but always seemed to understand.

“I think he’d visit,” she added, almost absentmindedly. “If I ever left. Sylus, I mean. He acts like he wouldn’t, but he would. He always shows up eventually.”

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Eventually.

The word clung to you like steam on glass.

Somewhere behind the counter, the coffee dripped slow and steady into the pot.

The smell was warm, bitter, comforting.

And time passed, as it always does.

Quietly.

Until something changed.

The hours slipped by, unnoticed.

Midday brought a flutter of customers, laughter echoing off the café walls, the hum of conversation filling the empty spaces between your thoughts.

Shaiya handled the register, you manned the bar—falling into rhythm, into habit, into the gentle blur of familiarity.

By the time the sky began to dim, the scent of rain was already in the air—earthy, electric. Shaiya checked the weather app and groaned.

“Looks like we’re getting another round,” she muttered, shrugging on her coat. “I texted Sylus. He’s picking me up again.”

You nodded, wrapping up the last few dishes. The café was quiet now. Nearly closed.

“Need a ride?” she asked over her shoulder, already halfway out the door.

You shook your head, too quickly. “It’s fine. I’ve got my umbrella.”

She didn’t press. Just smiled and left with the soft jingle of the door behind her.

From the window, you watched her climb into his car—Sylus in the driver’s seat, leaned slightly back, hand resting on the wheel like it belonged there.

The rain came quickly.

A sudden hush, then the soft patter against rooftops, then more—a steady rhythm that blurred streetlights into halos and soaked the world in silver.

You stepped outside, umbrella opening with a reluctant click. The chill clung to your clothes, and the air smelled like memory.

You walked. Slow. Head low. Feet careful on the slick pavement.

And your thoughts—of course—drifted back to him.

To the way he never looked surprised to see you, even when he should’ve been.

To the way he never said much, but when he did, you listened.

To the space he occupied in your chest without even trying.

Maybe it was stupid, still hoping. Still thinking of him when he likely thought of everything else but you.

You sighed.

Then—headlights.

A soft purr of an engine drawing closer. Slowing.

Sylus’ car pulled up beside you, its lights casting long shadows across the rain-soaked road. The window rolled down.

Shaiya leaned across from the passenger seat, grinning through the drizzle. “What did I say about walking home like a tragic novel character?”

You blinked, startled. “I— I’m fine—”

“No, you’re not,” she cut in. “Get in, dummy. Before you start narrating your heartbreak to the clouds.”

Her tone was light, teasing. She didn’t know. She never knew.

The passenger door opened—Sylus had leaned across silently, unbuckling her seatbelt to make space. He didn’t say a word, but his eyes were on you. Unmoving. Waiting.

Rain slid down your umbrella, pooling at your feet.

And before you could stop yourself, your hand moved.

The door creaked open.

You got in.

The door closed.

And for the first time in a long time, you were three people in a car—with one secret pressing against your ribs like it wanted out.

Your gaze wandered, following the sway of rain across the windows, the blur of passing streetlights painting golden streaks over the glass. Then it caught—something small, familiar.

Hanging from the rearview mirror was a charm—woven thread, pale blue and white, worn slightly at the edges from time and touch.

Your breath caught before your voice did.

“I always wondered where it went,” you murmured, leaning forward slightly. “Why is it here?”

Shaiya turned in her seat, grinning as she glanced between you and the charm. “Because my emotionally constipated brother’s car needed more colour,” she said sweetly.

You blinked, startled by the honesty and the ease of it.

Sylus reached over without a word and pinched her cheek, earning a dramatic yelp. “Ow! Hey! I was complimenting your character development!”

“You weren’t,” he said, low.

You laughed—quiet and real, the sound catching you off guard more than them.

And for a moment, everything felt suspended. Still.

You didn’t see it—but in the rearview mirror, his gaze never left you. Not even for a second.

Not as your laugh faded into silence.

Not as you leaned back again, hugging your arms to your chest.

Not even when the charm swayed gently with the motion of the car—between you both, like a secret too old to speak.

The drive wore on under a blanket of rain, the world outside blurred into watercolors—streetlights smearing gold across windows, puddles blooming across the road in soft ripples.

Shaiya’s voice, once a constant stream of stories and laughter, had faded into a gentle hum. You glanced forward.

Her head had lolled slightly against the window, breath steady, hands tucked into the sleeves of her jacket.

The rhythm of the rain had lulled her into sleep, and she looked younger like this—softer, peaceful in a way you rarely saw.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did Sylus.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full—of things neither of you dared to say.

He didn’t look at you, eyes fixed on the road, one hand resting on the wheel, the other relaxed near the gearshift.

You sat in the back, still, the sound of rain once again filling the space between you and him.

The charm swung faintly from the mirror—your charm. The one you gave Shaiya years ago, when you were both too young to know what permanence meant.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look back.

Just reached out and adjusted the rearview mirror.

His eyes met yours.

For a moment, nothing existed beyond that small reflection. Just you, and him, and the impossible weight of everything you never said.

Then—

“You still make those?” he asked, voice low and rough from disuse.

You blinked. “Huh?”

“The charms,” he clarified. “You used to give them to everyone. Shaiya… your classmates. You stopped.”

You hadn’t realized he remembered. Or noticed at all.

“I don’t know,” you said softly. “I guess I didn’t feel like they worked.”

A pause.

“Yours did,” he said, and looked away too quickly, like it hadn’t meant anything at all.

Your heart beat too loudly in your chest.

The rain continued to fall, and the car sat still in the quiet streetlight haze.

Outside, the world was wet and golden and lonely.

Inside, you could barely breathe.

The car slowed to a stop in front of your apartment building, tires humming against the wet road. You reached for the handle, but paused, your gaze slipping once more to Shaiya.

She had fallen asleep not long after the roads grew quiet. Her head rested against the window, her breath fogging the glass in gentle bursts.

In sleep, she looked small again.

Softer. You wondered if she was dreaming of home.

You moved carefully, not wanting to wake her, fingers brushing over the door latch—

“I’ll walk you,” Sylus said.

You froze, glancing toward the front. His voice was calm, low, like always—but there was a firmness in it, an edge of something unreadable.

You hesitated. “It’s fine, really. I’m used to—”

“I’ll walk you,” he repeated. No space left for argument.

So you nodded.

Outside, the wind met you first—cool and damp, threading its way through the folds of your coat.

You opened your umbrella with a soft click, the rain meeting the canvas with a hush like whispers.

He didn’t open one of his own. Just stepped beside you, hands in the pockets of his dark coat, silver hair catching droplets like a halo.

You walked side by side beneath the streetlights, the silence between you stretching long and delicate.

Each footstep was a quiet echo, each breath shared in the fragile space beneath the umbrella.

It should have been easy.

It wasn’t.

Your chest felt tight. Like something was blooming inside you, too wild to hold, too old to ignore.

The charm still lingered in your mind—the one you gave Shaiya so long ago, now hanging from his rearview mirror like a memory refusing to fade.

He kept it.

You didn’t want to think about what that meant.

Didn’t want to let your heart believe.

You glanced at him, just once. The side of his face was quiet in the dark, sharp in its stillness. His eyes fixed ahead, unreadable. Distant.

Like always.

And then, like a ghost, the voice of memory stirred.

“I just don’t want anyone to steal my brother from me.”

Shaiya had said it once, back in school. Half-pouting, half-serious, when the two of you sat eating cheap snacks behind the gym.

The sun had been warm that day, and you’d laughed at her dramatic tone.

You remembered your response.

A quiet vow, almost silly back then.

“I won’t.”

You never meant to fall for him.

But feelings don’t ask for permission.

They just… grow.

And now—now that vow clung to you like a chain.

I can’t be the one who steals him.

You reached your door.

Fumbled with the keys, hands trembling slightly—whether from the cold or something else, you couldn’t tell.

Sylus stopped beside you, saying nothing.

The rain gathered at your heels. The light above your door flickered faintly.

You turned the key. The lock clicked open.

But you didn’t step inside.

You stayed there, fingers curled around the doorknob, eyes downcast.

“Thanks,” you murmured. “For the ride. And… for walking me.”

He didn’t respond right away. You thought that would be the end of it.

But then—

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

The words cut through the quiet like a thread snapping under tension.

You turned to him too fast, heart stumbling. “I haven’t.”

He gave you a look. One that didn’t accuse. Just… waited.

You swallowed hard. “I haven’t,” you said again, softer. “I just… didn’t want to get in the way. Of you. Of Shaiya. This life.”

A silence.

Rain fell between your words, steady and unrelenting.

“You’re not in the way,” he said, voice low. Rougher now. “You never were.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

His eyes weren’t cold like you remembered them. They were… tired. And something else. Something quiet. Something like—

Hope?

The umbrella drooped slightly in your hand. Neither of you moved.

The rain kissed his hair, clung to his coat, shimmered along his lashes. And he was just standing there, saying the smallest things that somehow meant the most.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you confessed, barely breathing. “I think I’ve been waiting. For something. For… nothing. I don’t know.”

He didn’t offer comfort. Didn’t reach for you. Didn’t promise anything.

But he didn’t leave.

And that, somehow, was everything.

You stepped back slowly, into the warm light of your apartment, your heart pulling at the doorway like it didn’t want to part.

“Goodnight, Sylus.”

A pause.

Then, “Goodnight.”

And just before the door closed, your eyes caught his one last time.

He hadn’t moved.

Just stood there.

Looking at you like he didn’t want to look away.

The door shut behind you with a soft, final sound—

Like the closing line of a story he hadn’t finished reading.

Sylus stood there a moment too long, rain slipping down the collar of his coat, trailing along his jaw, gathering at the edge of his lashes. He barely noticed.

The cold didn’t bite.

What did—was the look in your eyes.

I didn’t want to get in the way.

You weren’t in the way.

You were the way.

He drew a breath through his nose, jaw tightening as he turned and made his way back to the car.

Inside, the heat hit him like a held breath released—warm, fogging the windows, thick with the scent of sleep.

Shaiya was still curled in the passenger seat, head tilted toward the window, breathing slow.

He slid behind the wheel, closed the door with care. Tried not to disturb the quiet.

But she stirred anyway.

“Mm,” she mumbled, her voice sleep-rough, teasing as it slipped through the dim. “You watched her the whole way to the door, didn’t you?”

Sylus didn’t answer. His hands rested on the wheel, knuckles pale beneath the soft glow of the dashboard lights.

Shaiya cracked one eye open, catching the tension in his shoulders. A slow smile tugged at her mouth. “You’re ridiculous.”

She yawned, arms stretching as she added, “I should charge you every time you look at her like she’s the only thing left keeping you tethered.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t deny it.

She studied him for a beat longer, then softened.

“She doesn’t know… does she?”

Still, silence.

“I mean, you’ve liked her for what—ten years? Since that day she tripped and dropped her lunch in the hallway and you picked up every last grape?”

His brow twitched. “That wasn’t—”

Shaiya snorted. “Please. You’ve been quietly pining like some tragic poetic antihero since we were teenagers.”

“She’s your friend,” he said at last. “I didn’t want to cross a line.”

Shaiya turned to face him fully now, voice gentling. “She’s my best friend. And you’re my brother. I’ve watched both of you dance around this for years, and I promise—there’s no line except the one you drew yourself.”

Sylus looked out the windshield. Rain slid in ribbons across the glass.

“She already looks back,” he said, barely audible.

“Not the way you want her to,” Shaiya replied softly. “Not yet.”

His grip tightened. “I don’t know what she feels.”

“Then ask,” she said simply. “Show her something real.”

He said nothing.

So she smiled, more gently this time. “You’re not going to break her, Sylus. And she’s not going to disappear just because you’re scared.”

His eyes drifted to the charm swinging faintly from the mirror—your charm. The one she’d given him quietly, without fanfare, like she was handing over something sacred.

He reached up and steadied it with two fingers.

Still holding.

Just like him.

Shaiya leaned back in her seat with a soft sigh, watching him like she had all the time in the world.

“I never told her how you’d ask about her after class,” she said, a smile in her voice. “Or how you’d sit by the door until she finished packing her things just to walk her halfway home.”

Sylus shot her a look.

She grinned. “Don’t worry, I kept your tragic romantic streak a secret. You’re welcome.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m your sister,” she replied, tone light but grounded. “I don’t need to imagine. I see you.”

There was a long pause.

“She makes you softer, you know.”

That caught him.

“You’ve always been difficult, guarded. But around her, it’s different. You laugh more. You try.”

He turned his face slightly toward her, eyes shadowed under the low light. “And if I mess it up?”

“Then at least you tried.” She gave him a small, earnest smile. “She deserves to know she’s wanted. You deserve to stop pretending she isn’t.”

Sylus looked away again, the city blurred in rain outside the windows. But his hand hadn’t left the charm.

“I just…” he began, but couldn’t finish.

Shaiya’s voice softened to a whisper.

“You wouldn’t be taking her from me, Sylus,” she said. “You’d be choosing her.”

And maybe—for the first time in all these years—he allowed himself to imagine what it would feel like…

To be chosen too.

“You’re leaving?”

The knife paused for a split second above the cutting board, but you didn’t look back.

You kept your tone light. “Yeah. You know me—I’ve always wanted to travel. See more of the world than this little corner.”

Shaiya didn’t answer right away. You heard her footsteps behind you, pacing the narrow kitchen floor like she didn’t know what to do with the space between you.

“I guess,” she said finally, but her voice was quiet. Brooding.

You tried to chuckle. “You can visit me when you’re free. I’ll send postcards. Bad ones.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then her arms wrapped tightly around your middle, hugging you from behind like she could hold you still.

“Can I bring Sylus?”

Your hands stilled. The knife froze mid-slice, blade reflecting pale lime and trembling fingertips.

You looked down. Smiled softly to the floor.

“That… probably wouldn’t be a good idea.”

She said nothing at first. Just held you a little tighter, like she knew what your voice was trying to hide.

Then, suddenly—blunt and impossible to ignore.

“But he really likes you.”

The words hit like thunder under skin.

Your hand jerked, slipping.

A sharp sting followed, the blade grazing your finger. A single drop of blood swelled and fell against the lime.

“Shit,” Shaiya hissed, rushing to grab a towel. “Wait—here, let me—”

You took it from her silently, pressing it to your finger, heart pounding in a rhythm you wished you could silence.

You didn’t look at her.

“He’s never said anything,” you murmured, voice quieter than the rain outside.

Shaiya exhaled, almost a laugh—fond, exasperated. “Of course he hasn’t. He’s Sylus. But he’s been in love with you for years, you know that, right?”

You shook your head, not trusting yourself to speak.

She leaned against the counter, watching you, her voice softening as she continued.

“You remember my birthday in high school? That girl who tried to flirt with him the entire time?”

You nodded, eyes still on the towel, watching the red fade into pink.

“I dragged her out by her extensions,” Shaiya said proudly. “Told her he wasn’t available. Not for anyone but you.”

Your head snapped up, startled. “What?”

She shrugged, sheepish now. “I’ve done it more than once, actually. Fended off half the women in town. I always thought you two would end up together. You belonged together. You still do.”

Your throat tightened.

“But…” you began, voice cracking like old glass, “you once said—you didn’t want anyone to steal him from you.”

Shaiya blinked. Then her face softened into something bittersweet.

“I was a stupid kid,” she said quietly. “I was scared of losing you both. But if I had to lose you, I’d want it to be to each other.”

You closed your eyes.

The towel in your hand was damp now. Your chest ached with everything you never let yourself feel.

He likes you.

How were you supposed to walk away now?

You stood in silence, your finger still wrapped in the towel, the lime forgotten on the board, its scent sharp in the still air.

Shaiya leaned back against the counter beside you, arms folded loosely over her chest, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Then, teasingly—like the sting of truth wrapped in silk:

“So…” she tilted her head, eyes glinting. “When did you start liking my brother?”

You blinked. Heat flooded your cheeks instantly.

“I—what?”

She grinned. “Come on. Don’t give me that. You think I never noticed? The way you go all quiet when he’s in the room? The way you look at him like he built the moon?”

You scoffed, half-horrified. “I do not—”

“You do,” she said, laughing now. “It’s kind of adorable, actually. Tragic. But adorable.”

You turned back toward the board, trying to hide behind the task, your voice barely a whisper.

“It was a long time ago.”

Shaiya’s smile faded into something softer. Waiting.

You swallowed, fingers trembling as they smoothed over the edge of the counter.

“I kept telling myself I couldn’t. That I shouldn’t.”

Shaiya was quiet for a moment, then stepped closer. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

You met her eyes. “Because you’re his sister.”

A beat.

Then she smiled again—wry and achingly fond. “God, you’re both so stupid.”

You let out a breathless laugh, eyes stinging.

“Seriously,” she continued, nudging your shoulder. “I’ve been watching you two orbit each other for years like it’s some forbidden fairy tale. Do you know how frustrating it is? I practically wrote wedding vows in my head.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile broke through the ache. “Stop.”

“I won’t,” she said proudly. “Because you love him.”

You didn’t deny it.

And for once, it didn’t feel like something to hide.

There was something comforting about saying it out loud. Here. Now.

In the kitchen that had always been a kind of sanctuary.

Where grief had been met with coffee and heartbreak stirred gently into soup.

Where silence never lasted long, and everything, somehow, returned to warmth.

Shaiya leaned beside you at the counter, arms crossed, smirk playing at the corners of her lips like it was muscle memory.

“You’re really going to leave without telling him?”

You didn’t lift your eyes. Just kept them fixed on the cutting board, where the lime’s bright green bled faintly into the grain.

“It’s not like it would change anything,” you said quietly.

She gave you a look—not cruel, not even stern. Just one part teasing, one part exasperated affection. “That’s probably the most melodramatic thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

You let out a soft, half-hearted laugh, one that barely stirred the air. “I’ve spent so long pretending I didn’t feel anything. Saying it now—it just feels like bad timing.”

Shaiya didn’t say anything for a while. The silence stretched comfortably, but not without weight.

You could feel her gaze on you, studying you the way only someone who’s known you half their life can.

Then, casually—too casually—she reached into her back pocket, thumb tapping quickly across her screen.

You blinked. “What are you doing?”

She shrugged, sliding the phone back out of sight. “Nothing. Just texting Eli. Or… you know, Sylus. Who’s to say, really?”

You turned toward her, brow arching. “Shaiya—”

She looked at you, all innocence and mischief. “Yes?”

You sighed, already regretting every life choice that brought you to this kitchen, this moment, this woman’s friendship.

She only smiled wider.

Like she knew exactly what was coming next.

You stared at the cutting board a moment longer, hands steady but your breath unraveling.

The lime had bled into the towel beside it—green, acidic, staining the fabric the way certain memories stain you. Subtle, but forever.

Your voice came quietly. Too calm for the storm that lived inside your chest.

“I’ve loved him for so long.”

Shaiya blinked, her teasing expression softening instantly.

You didn’t look at her. You couldn’t.

“It started before I realized it. Before I knew what it even meant to feel something that big. It was just the way he stood behind me when I was nervous. The way he remembered how I took my tea, even when I forgot. The way he looked at me like he already knew what I wasn’t saying.”

Your throat tightened.

“And I thought maybe—maybe it meant something. Maybe I meant something.”

You shook your head slowly.

“But then you said you didn’t want anyone to steal him. And I told myself I couldn’t be the one who did.”

You pressed your fingers to your eyes, as if it might hold the feeling back, keep it from spilling over.

“So I buried it. I buried every glance, every wish. I pretended it wasn’t real. And now I’m leaving. Because I thought if I put enough distance between us, I could finally be free of it.”

A pause. The air held still.

Then Shaiya raised an unimpressed brow. “I literally just told you he likes you.”

You blinked. “It doesn’t mean it’s that simple—”

“Actually,” she cut in, stepping closer, her arms crossed again but her voice gentler now, “sometimes it is. You’re acting like this is some doomed fairy tale. But he’s not a prince trapped in a tower, and you’re not cursed. You’re two emotionally repressed idiots who have loved each other in silence for too damn long.”

You opened your mouth, but she wasn’t done.

“And let me just say, if I went to all the trouble of pushing away every girl who blinked at my brother for you, and you still run away, I swear—”

You let out a breath of laughter, shaky but real.

“I was trying to do the right thing,” you whispered. “For you. For him. For me.”

Shaiya tilted her head, expression softening again. “Then do the right thing now. Let him decide if he wants to stop you.”

And just as those words settled into your bones—

The front door slammed open.

It echoed through the café like the sudden snap of a thread pulled too tight.

You startled, the sound cutting straight through your chest—and through the storm of emotions still settling after Shaiya’s words.

Your hands froze on the edge of the counter, breath caught mid-inhale.

Behind you, Shaiya looked up casually, as though she’d been expecting this precise moment down to the second.

And then, there he was.

Sylus.

Soaked to the bone, rain dripping from the sleeves of his coat, his breath uneven and labored as though he’d run the whole way here.

Which—knowing him—he might have.

Your eyes met his across the café, and for a moment, time did that impossible thing it always did around him. It stilled.

He didn’t speak. Just stared.

His chest rose and fell with effort, like every breath carried the weight of words he didn’t know how to form yet.

“Wow,” Shaiya muttered beside you, barely holding back a grin. “That was fast.”

You could barely process it. Could barely breathe.

You turned to her, your voice a whisper. “You really texted him?”

She shrugged, all faux innocence. “I said maybe.”

You opened your mouth, heart in your throat, but she was already backing toward the kitchen door, hand raised like a curtain call.

“I’ll be upstairs,” she said lightly. “Don’t break anything. Or do. Emotionally.”

And then you were alone.

With him.

The door swung shut behind her with a quiet click, and the silence that followed was deafening.

Even the rain seemed to still outside, giving the moment a reverent hush.

Sylus didn’t move right away. Neither did you.

Then.

“You weren’t going to tell me.”

His voice was hoarse. Barely above the hum of the overhead lights.

You swallowed hard. “I hadn’t… finalized anything yet.”

His brow creased, but he took a step forward. “You’re leaving.”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“That’s not better.”

You looked down, suddenly very aware of your hands. “I just… I needed space. A change. Something new.”

“From what?” he asked, a little too quickly. “From this place? From me?”

You winced. “From myself.”

He paused. And for the first time since he walked in, you saw it—the flicker of pain behind his eyes.

“I thought,” you whispered, “if I left, maybe I’d finally stop waiting. Stop hoping.”

He blinked slowly. “Hoping for what?”

Your laugh was small and bitter. “Do you really not know?”

He didn’t answer.

So you went on. Soft. Shaking.

Truth peeling itself from the edges of every word.

“I’ve loved you for so long it feels like part of me. And I thought—if I stayed here, I’d always be waiting. Always watching you walk into the room and pretending it didn’t feel like gravity. And that’s not fair. To me. Or to you.”

He was still. Completely still.

You pushed the words out, afraid they might choke you if you didn’t.

“I’ve loved you for years. Quietly. Stupidly. I thought it would pass—but it didn’t. I buried it for Shaiya’s sake. For yours. I thought I didn’t have the right.”

Sylus stepped closer. The air shifted with him, thick with rain and unsaid things.

“I wanted you to cross the line,” he said. “To look at me like I wasn’t just your best friend’s brother. And you did. You do. But you always looked away after.”

Tears welled in your eyes, hot and unrelenting.

“You never said anything,” you whispered.

“I didn’t know how,” he admitted. “I thought I had time.”

A silence fell, full of things neither of you had the language for.

Your heart stuttered.

“Don’t go,” he said, stepping close enough that his voice dropped to a whisper. “Not yet. Not when we haven’t even started.”

You stared at him, trembling.

“I don’t know what happens next,” you said. “I don’t know if this will work.”

His eyes searched yours, steady and soft.

“Then let’s figure it out. Together.”

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

But the distance had never felt smaller.

And for the first time in years, you weren’t waiting anymore.

But everything between you pulsed like a thread pulled taut—one heartbeat, one breath, one word away from breaking open.

Sylus raised a hand, slow and unsure, as if even now he feared he’d be pushing too far. His fingers hovered at your cheek for a moment—then touched.

Lightly. Like rain. Like memory.

Your breath caught.

His touch was careful, reverent.

Like he wasn’t sure you were real.

Like he didn’t believe this was happening.

“I should’ve said something sooner,” he murmured. “I should’ve fought harder.”

You leaned into his palm, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re here now.”

That was all that mattered.

He didn’t ask.

He didn’t need to.

Because when he leaned in—slow, like the world might shatter around him—you met him halfway.

The kiss was soft. Tentative at first. Like two people learning each other in a new language, after years of speaking only in silence.

His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, and your own clutched the fabric of his coat, holding him close, holding him steady.

It was warm. And aching.

And full of every breath you’d held back since the day your heart first whispered his name.

When you broke apart, it wasn’t with urgency. There was no panic now.

Just his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing the same rain-damp air, the same stunned stillness.

“I haven’t bought the ticket,” you whispered again.

“Good,” he murmured, thumb brushing gently across your cheek. “Stay.”

You closed your eyes. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like running.

You didn’t feel like waiting.

You just stood there, in the middle of a small kitchen that had seen your tears and your laughter, wrapped in the arms of the boy you had loved in silence for too long.

And this time—he held you back.

masterlist

#lads #lads x reader #love and deepspace #lnds x reader #love and deepspace x reader #lnds #l&ds x reader #lads sylus #lads sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus qin #qin che #l&ds sylus #lnds sylus #sylus love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #sylus #sylus x mc

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shaiyasstuff · 2 months ago

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@blessdunrest I am so sorry you had to go through so much :(( Thank you for the tag sweetie! I’d love to let my readers get to know me more.

Name: Shirin or Rin is fine :3 (Shaiya is an ign I came up with xd)

Star sign:

Sagittarius or 射手座 in chinese :D meaning I am powered by wanderlust and existential crises. I love deep philosophical conversations… that I will 100% abandon mid-sentence if I see something shiny or remember I left my coffee in another dimension. My attention span? Somewhere between a goldfish and a firework.

My favourite trope i’d die for:

Ermm, probably arranged marriage. Bonus; if it’s enemies to lovers, sprinkled with a little “I don’t have feelings for her, I won’t have. But goddamn she looks so sexy when she’s reading a book and in her own world.” I am basic, I know.

The unhinged fic idea I haven’t written yet but think about daily:

wouldn’t say its unhinged but I have a draft just sitting there filled with headcanons of what I’d imagine BDSM with rafayel is like sksksk (I cannot for the life of me write good smut so i am just binging on smut works to learn xd)

How am I doing?:

Honestly not so great LOL but I get by. Mostly stressing out trying to find a job and maybe a sense of direction for my life cause hell, i don’t wanna freeload off my parents forever LMAO

Trauma dump (optional):

Was sexually assaulted by a family friend when I was waaaay younger and I didn’t even know it until I got older and learned about the world. Spent years trying to reconcile the fact that it happened.

Vibe:

If you’ve read my stories where I self-insert my OC Shaiya, then you’d have a pretty good idea of what kinda person I am LOL think: Crazy, fiery friend with a heart of gold.

Fun facts about me:

Got my diploma when I was 15. Business Ad :D

Am proudly Chinese-Malaysian.

I speak around 5(?) languages. 9 if you include dialects (English, Cantonese, Mandarin, A little japanese, Tagalog, can’t think of them right now LOL)

purple is my favourite colour!

No pressure tags:

None, but feel free to join!

Tell me:

Your name (or just your vibe)

Your favourite trope you’d die for

The unhinged fic idea that’s sitting in your drafts screaming to be finished

Or honestly? Just how you’re doing. Be feral. Be soft. Trauma dump in the tags. I’ll probably relate.

𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐌𝐄

[ 𝐚𝐤𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬 ]

Hi besties!

Since I'm currently procrastinating on my thesis in the most academically valid way (read: blogging about it instead of writing it), I thought now's the perfect time for a little get-to-know-me post!

Pull up a chair. Bring snacks. Let's trauma bond.

𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 : Elisabeth Eve (yes, it sounds like a tragid heroine, I'm doing my best to live up to it).

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐬 : She/Her

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧 : Pisces ♓—aka: intuitive, emotionally wrecked by fictional characters, would 100% fall in love with a brooding ghost in a crumbling manor. I cry about my own WIPs. No regrets.

𝐯𝐢𝐛𝐞 : Haunted victorian literature student, but she owns lip gloss and maybe a sword.

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐈'𝐦 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 : Currently writing my english lit thesis on female sexuality in popular BookTok books—which is important, necessary work... that unfortunately requires me to say things like "breeding kink as empowerment" in front of my very, VERY male, very buttoned-up advisor who has definitely never read a romance novel in his life.

Every meeting is a delicate dance where I try to explain why it matters that women are allowed to be horny in fiction—without actually saying the word "horny." Spoiler: I fail every time.

He once asked, with the most innocent confusion, "And... these books... are popular?" and I had to sit there, maintaining eye contact, while explaining the plot of a 500-paged romantasy (with a shadow daddy) that sold out in Target.

The thesis itself? Genuienly about how female readers are carving out space to explore desire without shame. The process of writing it? 60% passion, 40% praying my advisor doesn't ask me to define "breeding kink" again.

𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐭𝐲𝐥𝐞 : Emotinally constipated men. Unresolved tension. Slow burns that drag everyone to hell and back—me included.

My stories are 50% poetic thirst, 30% internal monologue spirals, 20% lace, and 100% repressed longing.

If no one is whispering something devastating in the dark and then losing their entire will to live over a single wrist touch, did I even write it?

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐢'𝐦 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 :

a 6k Sylus fanfic that was supposed to be "just a drabble" and is now emotionally unwell.

a vampire x reincarnated soulmate novel where no one is okay, least of all me

hydrating like an adult.

𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐦𝐞 :

Enemies to lovers but they cry about it later.

"Touch her and die" but he's the one begging for scraps of affection

Lovers seperated by time/war/miscommunication/his repressed trauma

One bed, hand brush, forbidden glance, painful silence that says everything.

𝐟𝐮𝐧 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞 :

I get emotionally attatched to one line of dialogue and it ruins my week.

I cannot write a single kiss without someone suffering first.

I will romanticize anything if you give me long enough and a vaguely dramatic soundtrack.

I hoard beautiful words like a magpie hoards shiny trash.

Okay but now I wanna know about you.

Who are you? What are you writing? What fictional character is currently living in your head rent-free and eating all your snacks?

Tell me:

Your name (or just your vibe)

Your favorite trope you’d die for

The unhinged fic idea you haven’t written yet but think about daily

Or honestly? Just how you’re doing. Be feral. Be soft. Trauma dump in the tags. I’ll probably relate.

Reblog with your answers, yell in the replies, or just send me asks like we’re already mutuals. Let’s emotionally spiral together 💌

@someprettyname @blessdunrest @wolfofcelestia @lovenstan @tsukiimonster OR anyone else who wants to hop on this little “get to know me” train—please. I’m begging. Distract me before I start monologuing to my thesis again. — Sylus Little Crow (aka Elisabeth Eve)

#i need sylus in my life so bad #its actually killing me atp #mom #i really love this man #send help

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shaiyasstuff · 2 months ago

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Thanks — @unknown-ends for tagging me!! Though I don’t read a lot of NSFW tags this was fun XD I learned somethings about myself that I didn’t even know I liked

Purple — will actively seek out

Red — hate, will actively avoid

Pink — not really familiar/won’t seek out but don’t mind reading it

not gonna tag anyone but please feel free to join!

something i found

in terms of entirely green or entirely blue i didnt get bingo </3

if u disagree with my choices send me the most 'this will fix you.' fanfic in my ask box. or argue idc

MY ADDENDUMS BC I LIKE TO OVEREXPLAIN also original under the cut

i am so neutral about most tropes its all about delivery jgkdshkdshgdk .... some of the yellow i would even say i dislike but the delivery can make me like it

a lot of the blue ones i would enjoy if there were some sort of subversion from the 'typical'/expected, or there's some layers. like if its an age gap i prefer an older woman-younger man. i like gentle dom and sub. i like necro if its angsty or yandere.

omegaverse is the bane of my existence i'm sorry. it feels like gender roles but if we made it lgbt but also if they were just kinda cishet LMFAOOO but dw i see the appeal! obviously, since theres purple. also i think sex is just funner when ppl do it just because. not because they literally have no choice due to biology

size difference overrated i'm sorry. i see the appeal though.

i made servitude orange but realistically i would enjoy it if its willing/devoted servitude. i was imagining forced servitude i guess.

original

tagging @sophiethewitch1 @hana-no-seiiki @arkhamshoneybee @couldeatthatgirlforlunch @obsessivevoidkitten @deviouz

only if u want!

#these are fun to do #i read like i listen to music #if i like i like

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shaiyasstuff · 2 months ago

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Sooo i decided to do something fun because i’m bored AND i wanna write something that everyone can enjoy! So here’s a poll ^^^ and tag me in the comments which Li you’d like written! the poll is gonna be up for a week (or until i decide to take it down LOL) so be quick!

edit: i don’t think i was clear but it’s one fic guys xd i’ll tally the votes for the Li at the end of the poll

#lads #lads x reader #love and deepspace #lnds x reader #love and deepspace x reader #lnds #l&ds x reader

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shaiyasstuff · 2 months ago

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trace | sylus | finale

synopsis : You hadn’t just held a candle for him. You’d built entire constellations. content : angst, highschool!au, emotionally constipated sylus now playing : Slow dancing in a burning room - John Mayer(Live in L.A.), In the stars - Benson Boone and Those Eyes - New West toward the ending

part | one | two

“We’re coming to you live from the hometown of rising basketball star, Sylus—”

The TV buzzed faintly in the background, but you weren’t listening. Not really.

“Little Ziera~” you cooed, cradling the squishy eight-month-old in your lap. She giggled up at you, wide-eyed and drooling, her tiny hands reaching for your face like you were the funniest person alive.

You chuckled, gently pinching her fingers. “She’s way too cute to be your kid.”

Shaiya scowled, tossing a cushion at your side. “At least she’s mine. Where’s yours, huh?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m perfectly content as a single, thanks.” You turned your attention back to the baby, who was now trying to eat your finger.

But then—quietly, like she was just thinking aloud—Shaiya said, “It’s because of him, isn’t it?”

Your hands paused for just a beat. Then you smiled again, letting Ziera curl her fingers around yours.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Shaiya scoffed. Again. Loudly.

Honestly, you were beginning to think it was her love language. “Sure. That good boy from college—Xavier, right? You dumped him outta nowhere, said you wanted to ‘focus on your career.’”

She gave you a look. “Y/N, I’ve known you since we were fifteen.”

You sighed, eyes flicking to her out the corner of your eye. She wasn’t wrong. “It’s not because of Sylus,” you said.

But your voice cracked on the lie.

Another scoff—Shaiya should bottle them by now.

“It’s been seven years, Y/N.” Her tone softened. “Aren’t you tired? Zayne and I… we worry about you.”

You clicked your tongue, a little sharper than you meant to. “Not everyone gets to meet the love of their life in high school, Shaiya.”

That came out harsher than intended.

But the truth was, you were tired. Tired of pretending the past didn’t claw at your chest every time you let yourself breathe.

Seven years.

That’s how long it’d been since you walked away. Since you packed your bags, left the town, the memories, him.

You had everything now—graduated with a degree in art history, landed a solid career at a museum, built a life.

You should’ve been proud. You were, most days.

But then the nights came.

Nights where you stayed late restoring paintings under soft lamplight, and something—always something—would trigger it.

A shade of gray, the exact tone of his hair when the gym lights hit it just right.

A cluster of rubies embedded in an old frame—the same red as his eyes.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just color. Just coincidence.

Until the night you couldn’t hold it anymore—drunk, curled up on Shaiya’s couch, sobbing into her shirt while she held you like she used in high school.

You didn’t even know why you were crying.

He was just a childhood friend.

Just a boy who made you laugh at the worst times.

Just someone who promised you the stars and gave you silence instead.

Just someone.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because when it came down to it, he had looked at you—eyes you swore once saw your soul—and called you just someone.

And no matter how far you ran, how many museums you worked in, or how many masterpieces you restored…

The little girl in you still ached.

Still waited.

Still wanted to be held and told she wasn’t just someone.

She wanted to hear she was enough.

You sighed, pulled back into the present as you shifted Ziera into your arms. She settled easily against your chest, warm and safe, her tiny breaths brushing your collarbone.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, eyes fixed on some invisible point ahead. “It’s just—”

The words caught in your throat for a second. You hesitated. Thought about leaving it there.

But then, softly, “Maybe it’s because I’ve always held a candle for him, you know?”

You glanced at Shaiya.

She didn’t say anything—just nodded. The kind of quiet nod only best friends give, when they don’t need you to explain further.

“And it hurts,” you added, voice barely above a whisper, “because I really thought he felt the same.”

And for a moment, that truth just hung there—between the two of you.

Quiet, and heavy, and real.

That night, after Shaiya and Ziera had gone home, you sat by the window with a cup of tea, lukewarm and untouched.

The television was still on.

Static humming from a sports channel running a rerun of the same segment. His name blinked across the bottom of the screen.

Sylus. Local hero. Rising star.

You didn’t even have to look to know which footage they’d chosen—his college tryout game, the one where he scored at the buzzer, the crowd on their feet.

His smile had been blinding that day. And distant.

You reached up to close the window, but stopped.

The breeze carried something soft through the screen—a faint echo of summer air, gymnasium sweat, and old laughter.

It was almost cruel how memory worked.

How your body still knew the sound of his laugh even if your heart had tried to forget.

Your fingers curled tighter around the mug.

You weren’t supposed to be here, still thinking about him.

You weren’t supposed to flinch every time you heard his name in passing—not supposed to feel like this.

You told yourself you’d moved on. That what happened in high school was just a chapter.

But the truth was, he’d never really ended. Just... paused.

Like some song you couldn’t stop humming in quiet moments.

Your phone buzzed beside you, dragging you back. A message from your museum supervisor—something about the new restoration project starting tomorrow.

You stared at it blankly for a moment before locking the screen again. You weren’t ready to return to a world where red paint made your breath catch.

Outside, the street was quiet. Not even the moon felt like it wanted to watch you tonight.

You leaned your head against the cool glass.

Seven years. And still somehow—

You missed him like it had only been yesterday.

“So, what do you like to do?”

The question echoed like a crack in glass—sudden, sharp, uninvited.

You blinked, and suddenly you weren’t sitting by the window anymore.

You were ten again, barefoot on sun-warmed pavement, fingers sticky with popsicle syrup.

He had looked down at you, taller even then, shadows of mischief in his eyes.

“Uhm… drawing. I like to draw dragons.” You’d said it softly, barely above a whisper, clutching your sketchbook to your chest like it was something sacred.

He’d grinned—wide, toothy. “Cool. I think that’s the first time you said more than five words to me.”

You remember blushing, shoving him lightly, and the way he laughed like it was the best thing in the world.

Back then, it was simple.

Back then, he made you feel like your shy little world—quiet sketches and messy water colours—mattered.

You blinked again, the present folding over the memory like a sheet pulled over a bed.

Your tea had gone cold. Your heart, colder still.

It was stupid, how one memory could unravel you. How one boy could still live in all the soft places you thought you’d outgrown.

You curled in tighter by the window, knees pulled to your chest, eyes fluttering shut.

You hadn’t just held a candle for him.

You’d built entire constellations.

The morning was gray.

Muted light filtered through your window as you pulled your coat tighter around you, bag slung loosely over your shoulder.

The streets were still quiet, the city not yet fully awake. Just the soft murmur of passing cars and the gentle hush of your boots against pavement.

You didn’t mind the silence.

It gave you time to think.

To breathe.

To feel the ache you kept neatly folded beneath your clothes.

Halfway to the museum, your phone buzzed. You glanced down—Mom.

You answered with a small smile already tugging at your lips.

“Hi, Mama.”

“Y/N, good morning, sweetpea,” came the warm voice on the other end, the one that always sounded like a hug, no matter how far you were.

You shifted your phone between shoulder and cheek. “How’s Dad? Is he still trying to fix the garage door himself?”

Your mother huffed out a laugh. “He refuses to admit defeat. Says retirement hasn’t dulled him a bit.”

You smiled to yourself, rounding a quiet corner as you neared the main avenue. “Tell him to be careful. Last time he nearly threw his back out.”

There was a pause. Then her voice softened, like she was already switching gears.

“Oh, I almost forgot. I bumped into Mrs. Qin the other day at the grocer’s. She said Sylus just got featured in some sports article—local paper did a full spread.”

Your smile faltered.

You didn’t say anything.

Your mother, oblivious, continued, “He’s doing so well, that boy. She says he’s still in town. Isn’t that something?”

You gave a noncommittal hum. “Yeah… something.”

“She wanted to pass along her regards,” your mother added. “Said she misses the days you two ran around like stray cats. Honestly, I don’t think she knows how to cook dinner for less than five people.”

You laughed—quiet, breathy.

Your mother didn’t know what happened between you.

No one really did.

And that was how you preferred it.

Because the moment you’d try to explain—really explain—it would sound pathetic.

Like you hadn’t grown past it. Like your heart hadn’t aged with you.

And how could you tell your mother, of all people, that the boy she still calls sweet had once looked at you like you were nothing?

So you didn’t.

You never did.

You let her memories live in peace. Preserved in the way all mothers choose to remember things—softer, warmer, easier.

“Anyway,” she chirped after a moment, “your father and I are settling just fine. It’s nice being back. Quiet. Familiar.”

Your breath hitched, almost imperceptibly.

Back.

You knew they had moved in recent months. Something about the coast getting too loud, too expensive. A small town would be better now that your father had retired.

Back to where it all started.

Of course.

You swallowed, the weight of those words pressing against your collarbones. “I’m glad,” you said quietly. “You deserve the quiet.”

“We do,” she agreed, and you could hear her smile through the phone. “Alright, darling, I’ll let you go. Be safe at work, hmm? And eat something. You sound too thin.”

“I love you,” you said softly.

“Love you more.”

The call ended, and for a moment, you stood still beneath the streetlight.

Sylus.

Of course you knew what he was doing.

You always knew.

You didn’t have to stalk his socials, didn’t have to ask around.

Your mother was more than happy to fill in the gaps. She thought she was doing you a kindness—keeping you connected, reminding you of simpler times.

But all it ever did was open old wounds in quiet, invisible ways.

He was doing great.

Of course he was.

Living his dream, chasing the future, smiling for cameras and shaking hands with people who only knew the part of him he allowed them to see.

Not the boy who once cried on your shoulder when his father got sick.

Not the boy who made you laugh so hard your sides hurt on rainy days.

Not the boy who said you were just someone.

You inhaled slowly.

Then you turned and continued walking, the museum finally coming into view through the morning mist.

It stood like it always did—still, ancient, beautiful in its faded elegance.

Your sanctuary.

Your second skin.

And even though your heart was still somewhere between yesterday and never again, your hands knew what to do.

They always did.

You slipped off your coat and tossed it over your bag, offering a tired smile as you greeted your coworkers.

A few nodded back, some mid-sip in their coffees, others too focused on their stations to look up. The usual.

Sliding into your spot, you pushed up your sleeves, snapped your gloves on, and leaned over the covered piece waiting on your desk.

“What are we working on today?”

Your colleague turned with a grin that said you’re not ready.

“The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun. The original.” His voice held a hint of reverence.

You blinked, processing. “Wait—the one? From the Brooklyn Museum?”

He nodded, practically bouncing. “Mmhmm.”

You stepped closer, the curiosity already pulling you in. “How’d it end up here?”

He shrugged like it didn’t matter. “No idea. Word is, the chief wants you on it specifically. Said he needed your touch.”

He nudged your shoulder, and you shook your head, amused.

When you peeled the cloth back, your breath caught a little.

There it was—delicate, dark, divine. The paper had aged, but the power in the strokes still pulsed like a heartbeat.

You leaned in, careful. “This piece is so light-sensitive. I don’t even want to know what they had to do to get it here safely.”

And yet, here it was.

Fragile. Faded. Still here.

Still waiting to be restored.

“UV lamp—now.” You flicked a hand toward the supply cabinet. Your colleague tossed you a mock salute and half‑jogged off to fetch it.

When the violet glow finally washed over the paper, you held your breath, moving the beam as delicately as a fingertip tracing silk.

Hairline fractures spider‑webbed beneath the surface and the varnish had yellowed into the color of old honey.

“It’s a miracle it’s still holding together,” you murmured, shoulders tense. “I’m afraid to even breathe on it, let alone touch.”

You set to work with that quiet, unwavering focus people always praised—steady hands, breath held soft.

Outside, daylight bled into twilight, then into ink.

One by one the overhead lamps clicked off as colleagues drifted home, until only your desk lamp burned, a lone circle of gold in the cavernous studio.

By the time the last door shut, you were alone with the Dragon—brush poised, silence thick, night pressing its palms against the windows.

You sighed, stepping back from the table, eyes sweeping over the painting with a tired kind of pride.

It was still far from whole, but something about it already breathed easier.

A quick glance at your watch made your stomach drop. “Shit,” you muttered. It was late—too late.

You peeled off your gloves, fingers stiff, and tied your hair into a loose bun as you moved around the room, quietly packing up your tools, storing everything with the care you always gave your work.

On your way out, you ducked into the bathroom, intent on washing the day from your face before heading home.

Back in the dim studio, the painting remained where you left it—battered and beautiful, raw in its incompletion.

Like it was asking the world to see it.

Look at me.

Even like this.

Especially like this.

You were halfway out the studio when you stopped cold in the hallway.

“My phone.”

Of course. You’d left it on the desk again.

With a sigh, you turned back, your steps echoing softly in the empty corridor.

The room was quiet when you re-entered, humming with the silence of things left unfinished.

You spotted your phone easily enough, tucked near your sketch pad.

But just as you reached for it, something tugged at you.

Your gaze shifted.

To the box.

To it.

Just one more look.

You told yourself it wouldn’t matter.

But it did.

Because the moment your eyes found the painting again, the breath left your chest.

The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun.

And suddenly, you were thirteen again—flat on the pavement after tripping over your own feet, and him, Sylus, standing above you with that crooked grin.

“You’re so clumsy,” he’d laughed, offering his hand. “But damn if you don’t fall like it’s poetry.”

It was bright that day too.

Sunlight catching in your hair.

His shadow falling over you.

And you, smiling like the world wasn’t heavy yet.

Your fingers hovered above the paper now, inches from the Dragon’s wings. They curled like tension incarnate, massive and wild.

The red used in his form was so vivid it almost bled—rage, desire, hunger. He loomed over the woman below, poised to consume.

And yet the woman—radiant, untouched—was bathed in golden light, her figure fragile but unyielding.

Like hope.

Like the kind of faith that doesn’t flinch even in the face of ruin.

Your lips twitched slightly.

Funny.

It almost looked like the two of you—how he was always the storm that never quite swallowed you, how you were always the light that refused to dim, even when it hurt.

You stepped closer, eyes drifting from the Dragon’s horns to the space where the woman stood, untouched but watched.

Desired, but distant.

Blake had painted divine conflict—man’s hunger for purity, the beast’s need to possess what it could not reach.

And maybe that’s what it was with Sylus, too.

He had looked at you like that once.

Like you were something too sacred to hold, too precious to keep.

And still, he let you go.

You pressed your hand lightly to your chest, heart aching in that slow, familiar way.

Maybe that was the tragedy.

You had always wanted to be chosen.

And he had always feared breaking what he loved.

—•

"Hey, you made it, man. And I don’t just mean the trophies or interviews.”

His friend grinned, throwing an arm over Sylus’ shoulder like no time had passed at all. Like they were still in high school, ditching practice to watch sunsets on cracked bleachers. “Look at you. Big shot.”

Sylus huffed a quiet laugh, head tilting just slightly. “Sorry. I’ve been... busy.”

His friend gasped, hand flying to his chest in mock betrayal. “Damn. You sound like an adult. Since when do you apologise, Sylus? What happened to that brooding teen who quoted Nietzsche during suicide drills?”

Sylus smirked, eyes glinting with something dry and familiar. “He still quotes Nietzsche.”

“Thank god,” his friend exhaled dramatically. “Thought for a second you grew out of your villain arc.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

Sylus bumped him lightly with his shoulder, the kind of nudge that said I missed this without having to say it at all. The rooftop party carried on behind them��music floating into the night, glasses clinking, the occasional cheer breaking through.

But up here, tucked just slightly out of reach, time felt slower. Softer.

“You’ve changed, though,” Sylus said after a moment, watching him from the side. “Less of an annoying gnat.”

His friend snorted. “Marriage does that to a man. That, and budgeting spreadsheets.”

Sylus laughed—just a breath of it, low and worn-in. He leaned against the railing, city lights flickering against his jaw, casting him half in gold, half in shadow.

Then came the silence.

The kind that wasn’t awkward. Just familiar.

The kind that curled in the spaces where memories lived.

“You ever think about those days?” his friend asked quietly. “Before everything?”

Sylus didn’t answer right away. His eyes were still on the skyline, but it was clear he wasn’t really seeing it.

“Sometimes. When it’s quiet enough,” he said eventually. “Not often. It hurts.”

His friend nodded, something softer settling over him. “You always carried more than you let on.”

Another pause.

“You ever think about her?”

Sylus stilled—not noticeably. Just a flicker. But his friend noticed. Of course he did.

“Yeah,” he said, voice barely above the wind. “More than I should.”

His friend didn’t push. He just let the quiet stretch, like the space between heartbeats.

“Do you regret it?” he asked, gently.

Sylus was silent again. Long enough for the city below to change shape. Long enough to feel like the answer wasn’t easy—because it wasn’t.

“Yes,” he breathed. “But it’s the kind of regret you learn to carry. Like it belongs to you.”

His friend looked at him for a long second, then sighed.

“Damn. You really did grow up.”

Sylus smiled faintly, still watching something only he could see. “Don’t tell anyone,” he murmured. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

His friend leaned against the railing beside him, shoulders just brushing, the wind curling around them like the edge of a memory.

“You ever think about that day?” he asked, voice quiet. “Back of the school. When you pulled her aside.”

Sylus didn’t look at him. He didn’t need to ask which day.

Of course he remembered.

“It was quiet,” he said, after a moment. “She looked at me like she believed—just this once—I might choose her out loud.”

His fingers curled around the railing, knuckles whitening.

“And I almost did.”

His friend said nothing.

“I wanted to,” Sylus continued, voice low, fraying at the edges. “She was standing there, waiting. Not saying anything, but… you could see it in her eyes. She just wanted me to say something. To give her a reason to stay.”

He paused. Let the ache stretch.

“And then Colin showed up. Laughing like he always did. Loud enough for the whole world to hear.”

He exhaled, bitter. “And suddenly I felt it—all their eyes on me. Watching. Judging. Waiting to see if I'd cave.”

A humorless laugh slipped through his teeth.

“So I did what I thought would protect me.”

He stared up at the sky, like the stars might offer penance.

“I let her go. Stepped back. Said she was just someone.”

His friend winced but stayed silent.

“Colin was always watching,” Sylus said, quieter now. “Picking at me. ‘You’re too soft, man.’ Like caring made me something less. And I let him in. Let his voice sound louder than hers.”

His jaw clenched.

“I was seventeen. Thought being loved was a weakness. Thought wanting her made me small.”

The rooftop pulsed faintly with music behind them—voices, footsteps, laughter—but it all felt far away. A different world.

“I watched her walk away,” Sylus said. “Again and again. Every time I didn’t say the truth… I lost her a little more.”

His friend glanced at him, gentler now. “And what was the truth?”

Sylus turned, just slightly. His eyes were far-off, distant with the weight of what-ifs.

“That she was never just someone,” he said. “Not even close. She was… the only thing that ever felt real.”

His voice dropped to something hoarse, something wrecked.

“And I buried it. Smothered it. All so I could look untouchable to a boy who hasn’t mattered in years.”

His friend studied him for a long moment, then asked, softly, “Do you regret it?”

Sylus didn’t speak at first. The silence said enough.

Then, at last—

“Every version of me that failed her still lives inside me.”

He breathed out slowly, shoulders heavy beneath the weight of it.

“And when I dream of her…”

His voice broke, just faintly. “It’s always the same. She’s standing there, waiting. Same look on her face. And I still can’t say it. Still can’t move.”

His friend swallowed. “And if you could?”

Sylus looked out at the skyline, eyes softening like dusk.

“I’d tell her I’m sorry—for every moment I made her feel small. For every time I let silence answer when she needed something more.”

A pause.

“I’d tell her I loved her. That maybe I still do.”

Another breath.

“That she was the only thing I was ever sure of. And I let her think she was forgettable.”

The wind shifted.

The city lights blinked on like stars waking up too late.

But you were gone now, weren't you?

Gone in the way people leave when they’ve waited too long.

Gone in the way things break—not with a sound, but a silence too deep to fix.

And the boy who once stood behind the school, heart in his throat, was still here.

Only now, he finally knew what he should’ve said.

His words faded into the wind, swallowed by the quiet hum of the city.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then, after a long pause—

“I did try to warn you,” his friend said, nudging Sylus with his shoulder. “Told you back then you were a dumbass. Pretty sure I said it with love.”

Sylus huffed out a breath—almost a laugh. It caught in his throat.

“You said a lot of things,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“Yeah, well, I was a genius ahead of my time.”

Sylus gave him a look, dry and unimpressed.

His friend grinned. “Come on, you remember. I told you, straight up—‘One day she’s gonna walk, and you’re gonna hate yourself for letting her.’ What did you say back? Something moody and dramatic, probably.”

Sylus stared out at the skyline, jaw tight, but the corners of his mouth pulled upward—just slightly.

“I think I told you to shut up,” he murmured.

“Classic.” His friend laughed. “And then you probably quoted some depressing philosopher about how love is a social construct and solitude is eternal.”

Sylus exhaled, almost smiling. “I was unbearable.”

“Oh, completely,” his friend agreed. “But she loved you anyway. That was the miracle.”

The words hit gently, but they landed all the same.

Sylus went quiet again, the ghost of that almost-smile fading.

“I didn’t deserve it,” he said.

His friend shrugged. “Maybe not. But she gave it to you anyway.”

There was a pause.

“And that’s the thing about love, man. It’s not about earning it. It’s about not running from it when it’s right in front of you.”

Sylus didn’t respond.

He just leaned forward on the railing, eyes following the moving lights below, the wind tugging softly at his sleeves.

“You think she’s happy?” he asked, so quietly it almost got lost in the noise.

His friend didn’t answer right away. He didn’t pretend to know.

“I think,” he said, “she found a way to live without you. Doesn’t mean she stopped carrying it.”

Sylus nodded, once. Like he already knew.

“Then I hope,” he whispered, “she’s carrying it gently.”

His friend looked at him—really looked—and for a moment, he saw not the man Sylus had become, but the boy who once stood behind the school, paralysed by fear, and too proud to say stay.

So he softened his voice.

“You’re not that kid anymore, you know.”

Sylus let out a slow breath.

“No,” he murmured. “But the damage he did still follows me.”

His friend clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Then stop walking in circles. Say what you needed to say. Even if she never hears it.”

Sylus closed his eyes.

And for the first time in years, he let the words rise to the surface—not for you, not for forgiveness—

But for himself.

“I loved her,” he whispered. “Not the way people write about in books. Not in fireworks or storms. Just… the kind that stays. The kind that never leaves.”

His friend didn’t speak again.

And they stood there together, in the silence that followed—

Two boys who had grown into men.

One of them still learning how to hold a love that had already slipped through his fingers.

The bus rumbled to a halt outside the stone-fronted building, its tall archways casting long shadows across the pavement. Sylus stepped off last, his duffle slung over one shoulder, hoodie up, the curve of his jaw set in quiet disinterest.

He barely looked up as his teammates filed out in front of him, laughing, stretching, nudging each other like boys who had never had to carry silence the way he did.

He didn’t want to be here.

Team trip, they said. Something educational. A museum visit arranged by one of the girlfriend’s contacts—some kind of PR move, a filler day in the middle of the travel schedule.

He had tuned most of it out, earbuds in and hood drawn. The only reason he’d come was because the coach had raised an eyebrow and said, “It’ll look good on your record.”

So he came.

And then he stepped inside.

The museum was quiet in the way sacred places always are. Light pooled in through high skylights, catching in the stillness of glass displays and the matte sheen of aged canvases.

Footsteps echoed softly across the floor. Voices were hushed.

He thought it’d be boring. Forgettable.

Instead, something in the air caught him off guard.

It wasn’t anything big. Just a shift—like walking into a dream already in motion. Like he’d been here before, in some other life, though he knew he hadn’t.

He stayed at the back of the group, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

The tour guide was saying something about Renaissance anatomy studies, but Sylus wasn’t listening. His eyes moved slowly across the walls, the halls, the corners.

And then—

He saw you.

By accident. Through a pane of glass.

He hadn’t even realised where he was standing until his gaze drifted beyond the sculpture in front of him, to the adjacent exhibit room across the way. The angle was odd, warped slightly by reflection.

But—

It was you.

Or someone who looked so much like you that his heart stopped, just for a second.

You were focused on something—framing a sketch beneath a mount, your gloves brushing delicately along the edge of paper. Your hair was tied back, slightly messy, like it always was when you worked.

You weren’t speaking. Just moving with that quiet kind of precision you’d always had.

The same posture. The same shape of your hands.

His chest pulled tight.

He blinked once. Hard.

But you were still there.

He hadn’t imagined it.

It was you.

You didn’t see him. Of course you didn’t.

You were half-turned, too busy with whatever task had your attention, the same way you’d always been—losing hours in careful work while the world spun unnoticed around you.

He hadn’t seen your face in seven years. Not in real life. Just fragments. Photos he couldn’t stop from surfacing online. Sketches. Dreams.

He stood frozen, barely breathing.

He wasn’t ready for this.

Wasn’t ready for how much it would undo him—just the sight of you.

You looked... the same. Not in the literal sense, maybe. But in the way that mattered. Like memory hadn’t gotten it wrong. Like time hadn’t eroded who you were.

His teammates had moved on without him, rounding the corner toward the next room, oblivious.

He remained rooted, eyes fixed on the sliver of you he could still see.

Something ached deep in his chest—sharp and quiet and familiar.

He had no idea you worked here. No one had told him. No one had mentioned the city, the museum, the chance.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t fate in some grand, poetic sense.

It was accident.

Cruel. Perfect. Unbearable.

Eventually, you stepped out of view. Just like that. Gone again.

And Sylus was left standing there, feeling like seventeen all over again—like he’d let something slip through his hands before he even had the courage to hold it.

He didn’t follow.

Not then.

He walked the rest of the tour like a ghost. Nodded when his name was called. Laughed, once or twice, when someone elbowed him in the ribs.

But his thoughts were somewhere else. Still trapped behind that glass, in the brief glimpse of someone he thought he'd never see again.

When they reached the front entrance, the team began to pile toward the waiting bus. Some were still talking about the exhibit. One had picked up a souvenir book. Someone else joked about stealing one of the miniature busts.

Sylus was the last to approach the doors.

He hesitated.

One foot on the step. One hand on the bar.

This was the part where he walked away again. Quietly. Predictably. Like he always had.

But his hand dropped.

And without another word, he turned around and ran.

Back through the glass doors. Back through the marble halls.

He didn’t know where you’d gone. Or if you’d even still be there.

But this time—he couldn’t walk away.

Not again.

Never again.

He pushed through the glass doors, barely registering the startled glance from the staff at the front desk.

The museum had begun to empty out, the soft lull between exhibits settling over the air like dust. The quiet made every footstep echo too loud. Every breath sounded like it didn’t belong.

He didn’t know where you’d gone.

Only that he’d seen you. That you were real.

That maybe—maybe—this was his one chance to say something before silence caught up again.

Sylus ran.

Through the corridor lined with oil portraits, past the faded sculpture garden, around corners he didn’t recognise, past velvet ropes and signs that blurred as he passed them.

He didn’t care where he was going.

Only that you were here.

Somewhere.

His hood had fallen off. His breath hitched in his chest, fast and ragged. The air was cool but it burned in his lungs.

You couldn’t have gone far.

He skidded around a corner, nearly colliding with a display of 17th-century ceramics. A few heads turned. He didn’t look back.

She was here. I saw her. It was her.

His thoughts were fragmented. Uneven.

Memories bled into the walls as he ran—your laughter echoing behind him like the sound of shoes on tile, your voice layered over faint museum ambience.

He half-expected to see you every time he turned a corner. Half-feared you’d already left.

What would he even say?

I’m sorry?

I never stopped thinking about you?

You were never just someone?

None of it felt like enough. But he ran anyway.

He turned another corner—too fast this time—and his shoulder clipped the edge of a glass panel. He winced, stumbled, righted himself.

Still nothing. Just walls. Art. Names that didn’t matter.

Until—

There.

Down a narrow hall, where the light fell in soft gold, you were standing in front of a newly installed piece, clipboard in hand. You were scribbling something. Focused. Calm. Unknowing.

And suddenly, he couldn’t move.

His steps slowed. Each one heavier than the last.

You hadn’t seen him yet.

But he saw you—fully this time. No glass. No tricks of light. No doubt.

Just you.

You were older now.

But there was still something achingly familiar in the way you tilted your head when you studied art. In the crease between your brows. In the gentleness of your hands.

His chest rose and fell, breath uneven.

He stood a few feet behind you, like he had all those years ago—too afraid to cross the distance. Too afraid to speak.

But this time…

He stepped forward.

The sound of his shoes made you stiffen slightly, sensing someone behind you.

You turned.

Your eyes met his.

And for the first time in seven years, Sylus looked at you without hiding.

He didn’t say a word.

Just stood there, chest heaving, heart loud in his ears, as everything he should’ve said a lifetime ago swelled in the silence between you.

And this time... he wouldn’t run.

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shaiyasstuff · 2 months ago

Text

lines that blur | zayne

synopsis : He wasn’t supposed to fall for you. Not with the kind of work you did—work that made men like him keep their distance. content : hostess!mc/reader, not fluff but not quite angst either, romance yes now playing : Old Love - Yuji, putri dahlia

He didn’t mean to fall for you.

Not for the way your smile slipped out when you thought no one was watching—soft, secret, curling up into your eyes like something you forgot to hide.

Not for the way your face lit up when you tasted something sweet, like joy was simple and he’d only just remembered what it looked like.

And definitely not for your laughter—god, your laughter—that didn’t belong in a place like this. It rang out clean, bright. Untouched.

He wasn’t supposed to fall.

Not with the kind of work you did—work that made men like him keep their distance.

Not when he’d built his life on lines he didn’t cross, rules he didn’t bend.

Not when he wasn’t even meant to be there that night—stuffed into a booth at the club, dragged out by Greyson for a birthday he hadn’t wanted to celebrate.

But you were there.

And suddenly—so was he.

Zayne had watched you that whole night.

Not on purpose—not at first. But his eyes kept drifting, finding you in every pause, every lull in conversation.

The soft sway of your hair with each step, like it had a rhythm all its own.

The way you poured wine without spilling a drop—elegant, effortless. Like this wasn’t just a job, but a craft you’d made your own.

In the low, moody glow of the club, you looked untouchable.

As if you didn’t belong to this place at all, but moved through it—like smoke, or something not quite real.

He watched. Quietly.

Careful not to let it show—not in his face, not in the way he sat rigid, fingers curled tight into his coat.

But god, he was mesmerised.

Fully. Completely.

And he hadn’t even touched you yet.

Greyson stumbled out first, the rest of the group trailing behind in a blur of laughter, apologies, and half-hearted goodbyes.

Then it was just you and Zayne.

He didn’t move. Didn’t look like he intended to.

So you tilted your head toward the bar—wordless—and walked.

He followed.

You sat him down and ordered a slice of cheesecake. The best one on the menu.

He didn’t ask why. Just picked up the fork and took a bite.

And that’s when it happened.

You laughed at something—small, probably stupid—but it slipped out before you could catch it. Light. Unfiltered.

Zayne went still beside you.

Completely still.

He hadn’t expected it. Not here. Not from you.

But god—it did something to him.

The kind of thing he didn’t have words for.

Not yet.

“You were so obedient,” you tease, licking your popsicle with an exaggerated wink as you glance up at him.

Zayne walks quietly beside you, milk tea in hand, eyes never on the pavement—always on you.

These walks had become routine now. Late-night dessert runs. After-shift drives.

Little rituals that started the night he’d stayed longer than he meant to… said more than he probably should have.

You remember it clearly. The way he’d asked to stay in touch.

You—just tipsy enough, basking in the slow glow of his attention—had leaned in with a grin and handed over your number.

It started small.

He’d show up during your shifts. Never making a scene, just watching. Waiting.

And when your night ended, he’d walk you to his car. Drive you home. Never asked for anything.

Then one evening, he’d asked if he could take you out. Just dessert.

You remember sliding into the passenger seat, laughing as you buckled in.

“You’re the first guy who’s ever taken me out for something other than sex,” you’d said—half a joke, half confession.

You hadn’t expected the way his face shifted. The quiet ache in his eyes.

His hands moved slower then, gentler, as he reached across you to pull the seatbelt into place.

The softness of it caught you off guard. Made your breath stutter.

“Then I’ll be the only guy from now on,” he said.

You laughed, brushed it off—playful, easy.

But your heart had already betrayed you.

And now?

Now, seeing you had become part of his routine. His rhythm.

Before your shift. After.

If you so much as texted craving something sweet, he’d show up with it—no questions, no hesitation.

He didn’t say much. Never asked for more.

But the way he looked at you?

He was starting to realise—he needed you more than he wanted to admit.

You both slowed as the club came into view, neon lights casting soft blue against the pavement.

You turned to him, that familiar grin on your lips. Playful. Easy. “This is it. I’m going now.”

He gave a small nod, hands tucked deep in his coat pockets. “I won’t be able to pick you up tonight,” he said, voice lower than usual.

You waved him off. “It’s okay. I know you’ve got a long shift.”

A step back. Still smiling. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

His gaze softened—barely, but you caught it.

The crease between his brows smoothed, and for a heartbeat, he just looked at you.

Like you were something fragile in a world too sharp. Something he didn’t quite know how to protect…

But wanted to.

“I know,” he said.

But what he didn’t say—not out loud—was that he wished you didn’t have to.

He stayed there, watching as you disappeared into the club, swallowed by low lights and velvet curtains.

Only when the door clicked shut behind you did he finally turn and head for his car.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, he exhaled slowly.

His palms itched against the steering wheel. His collar felt too tight.

He shouldn’t be thinking about you like this.

But god, the image of you clung to him.

The way your head tilted when you teased. The spark in your eyes. The curve of your smile like you knew exactly what you were doing.

That dress—barely skimming your thighs.

The way you walked. The way you moved in those heels like the world owed you its attention.

He leaned back, closed his eyes.

Let out a quiet, frustrated breath.

You were driving him mad.

And the worst part?

You didn’t even know it.

—•

The hospital hums with beeping monitors and rolling carts, a constant background chorus of machinery and footsteps.

Zayne moves through it all on autopilot—writing reports on whiteboards, checking charts, letting children place sticker crowns on his shoulder as he makes his rounds.

Then comes a thought.

Sharp. Uninvited.

What would your children look like?

And then—did you even like children?

He chokes on his own spit, coughing into his fist.

“You good, doctor?” Greyson appears beside him, giving his back a firm pat.

Zayne raises a hand, nodding as he swallows down the last of the cough.

“Yes. I’m fine,” he says after a beat, voice tight but steady.

Greyson studies him a second longer before shrugging and moving on, clipboard tucked beneath his arm.

Zayne exhales, adjusting the stethoscope around his neck like it might steady him. But the thought lingers.

You—holding a toddler. Your laugh mixing with theirs. Something soft, impossible. A vision from a life he had no business imagining.

He drags a hand down his face.

It’s stupid.

He’s never even seen you in daylight.

He forces his focus to the next room. To the patient. To anything else.

A little girl with tangled hair and smudges of marker on her arms beams at him as he walks in. Her grin is gap-toothed and infectious.

“Dr. Zayne!” she calls.

“Hey, princess,” he says, masking the shake in his chest with a practiced smile. “Did you draw me something today?”

She holds up a page—stick figures under a rainbow. Or maybe an explosion. He can’t tell.

“That one’s you,” she says, pointing to the tallest figure with absurdly long arms.

Zayne crouches beside her bed, taking the drawing like it might fall apart in his hands.

“And who’s this?” he asks, tapping the smaller figure beside him—big eyes, a dress, a smile that somehow feels too familiar.

She shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe your wife.”

He freezes.

Just for a second.

Long enough for the air to shift.

Long enough for the thought to wedge itself deeper.

Maybe.

“Maybe,” he says softly, folding the paper and slipping it into his coat pocket.

Her monitor beeps steadily. His heart doesn’t.

He finishes his rounds on muscle memory—hallways blurring past, fluorescent lights feeling too bright, too white.

By the time he makes it to the parking lot, the sun’s slipping behind the buildings.

He leans against his car, pulls out his phone. Opens a message thread.

‘Craving anything sweet tonight?’

He stares at the words.

Deletes them.

Types again.

‘Are you okay?’

No.

Backspace. Gone.

He locks the screen and exhales, head tipping back, eyes closed against the fading sky.

God, what were you doing to him?

Over at the club, the shift drags.

The music is louder than usual, the crowd drunker, the tips smaller. You’re on your feet for hours, smile painted on and cracking at the edges.

Someone spills a drink on your tray. Another tries to grab your waist like you’re part of the decor. You laugh it off—polite, effortless. Like always.

But tonight, it wears on you more than usual.

Maybe it’s the ache in your legs.

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s not here.

He usually is. Somewhere in the corner, tucked into a booth, quiet and watching like he’s memorising the shape of you.

But not tonight.

You told him it was fine. That you didn’t need looking after.

You meant it. Mostly.

Still, when you glance at your phone between tables, you find yourself hoping for something.

A text. A dumb dessert joke. A “you good?”

Something.

Nothing.

You wipe down the counter harder than necessary, forcing a breath through your nose.

Don’t be needy.

Don’t get used to kindness that was never promised.

The club lights shift—purple to red, red to gold—and your head throbs with it. You duck into the back for a break, slipping behind the staff door and leaning against the cool wall.

You check your phone again.

Still nothing.

You open his name. Type.

‘Busy shift?’

Pause. Backspace.

‘I didn’t see you. Everything okay?’

Backspace.

You sigh, thumb hovering.

Instead, you swipe up and lock the screen.

Shove the phone into your pocket like it’s heavy.

Because the truth is, you’re not used to missing people. You’ve made an art out of not needing anyone.

But Zayne?

Zayne is making you forget the rules you built around your own heart.

And that’s dangerous.

You shove the phone deeper into your apron pocket and push off the wall, heading back out into the club.

The music swallows you whole again—bass thudding against your ribs like a second heartbeat.

You move on instinct, clearing glasses, flashing smiles, pretending you belong in a place that feels more like a cage with every passing night.

But your mind drifts.

It always does when you’re tired. When you let your guard down even a little.

You remember the first time you walked into a place like this.

Not because you wanted to.

Because you had to.

The debt collector had been polite, at least. Smiling when he explained it in simple words your mother couldn’t quite grasp, not through the painkillers and the hospital bills.

Smiling when he leaned back in his chair and said, “It’s simple. A few nights a week. Some tips, some cash under the table. You’ll make a dent in what’s owed.”

Like it was nothing.

Like it was normal.

And maybe it is, for girls like you.

Girls who grew up learning that being pretty was a currency, that being polite was a shield, that survival sometimes meant smiling even when you wanted to scream.

You hadn’t screamed.

You’d just nodded.

And now here you are. Still smiling. Still surviving.

Some nights it’s almost easy. Some nights you almost forget.

But not tonight.

Tonight, you feel every compromise pressed against your skin. Every choice you didn’t really get to make.

And for the first time in a long time, you wish someone would notice.

You wish someone would see past the gloss and the grin and the practiced tilt of your head.

Someone like him.

Zayne.

You shake the thought off, slipping between tables with mechanical grace.

You don’t have time for stupid things like hope.

Hope gets you reckless.

Hope gets you hurt.

You know better by now.

You wipe down the counter one more time, even though it’s already clean, just for something to do with your hands.

And when your break finally rolls around, you duck back into the staff hallway, sink onto the bench, and let your head fall back against the wall.

Your phone buzzes.

Your heart jumps—too fast, too hopeful.

But it’s just a shift schedule update.

You let the screen dim without reading it.

And in the hollow quiet between songs, you whisper the one thing you’ll never say out loud.

“I miss you.”

—•

It was supposed to be a forgettable night.

Just one drink. A quick in-and-out for Greyson’s birthday. He hadn’t even planned to stay past the first round.

But then the music shifted. The crowd parted.

And there you were.

You moved through the club like it didn’t touch you. Like the noise and heat and heavy stares slid right off your skin.

Your tray was balanced with casual precision, your smile a half-formed thing you only gave to customers who tipped well.

But it wasn’t your smile that caught him.

It was the quiet.

There was a stillness in you, even in motion.

Something practiced. Controlled.

Like you’d learned how to be looked at without being seen.

He knew the look. Knew the posture.

It was armor.

You stopped at a nearby table, set down a round of drinks. A man reached for your wrist—too familiar, too fast.

Zayne tensed.

But you stepped back smoothly, smile never slipping, voice light as sugar as you said something he couldn’t hear.

Whatever it was, it worked. The man laughed and raised his hands in mock surrender.

You walked away untouched.

But he didn’t.

He was still sitting there, heart beating faster than it should’ve, watching the place you’d just been.

It should’ve ended there.

Just a glance. Just a moment. Just a beautiful woman in a too-loud club, doing her job.

But then you passed his table. You didn’t look at him—but he looked at you.

And for the briefest second—half a breath, maybe—you brushed a hand across your hip.

A nervous tic. A flicker of discomfort.

Gone just as fast.

But he saw it.

And it stayed.

Even after Greyson had one too many and spilled whiskey on his sleeve. Even after the group peeled off into the night, loud and laughing.

Even after he should’ve left, should’ve gone home, should’ve forgotten you.

He stayed.

He sat in that booth long after his reason for being there had disappeared.

Because of you.

Not your smile. Not your body.

But that flicker.

That moment when your guard cracked.

That was the night it started.

The night you became more than a passing glance.

More than a pretty girl in a loud room.

You became a question he couldn’t stop asking.

The drawing is still in his coat pocket.

He hasn’t taken it out, hasn’t looked at it again—but he knows it’s there.

Knows the crayon lines are probably smudged now from how many times he’s slipped his hand over that spot, just to feel the weight of it.

The thought of you still hasn’t left him. Not since the hospital. Not since the half-typed texts in the parking lot.

He told himself he’d leave it alone.

Give you space. Give himself time.

Be smart.

But smart doesn’t feel the way you do when you laugh.

It’s nearly midnight now.

The hospital is quiet, fluorescent lights dimmed, halls echoing with tired footsteps and vending machine hums.

He should go home. Sleep. Reset.

Instead, he leans against the break room counter, thumb hovering over your name in his phone.

There’s a long pause before he types.

Just one line.

'Still working?'

He stares at it.

It’s too casual. Too easy.

But he sends it anyway.

And for a minute, he regrets it. Instantly. Completely.

Wonders if you’ll ignore it.

If he’s overstepped. If he’s made the wrong move again.

But then, three blinking dots.

You reply.

'Yeah. Almost done. You okay?'

He exhales, his shoulders dropping just slightly as he types, slower this time.

'I had a rough day. Thought about cheesecake.'

He thinks for moment. Then—

'You free after?'

You don’t tell him yes.

You just send a location.

A late-night diner tucked behind a gas station on the edge of downtown. The kind of place that smells like burnt coffee and fried things, with flickering neon signs and booths that have seen too much.

You get there first and slide into a corner booth, tired and still half in uniform, the faint shimmer of the club lights still clinging to your skin.

You order coffee you won’t drink and a slice of pie you don’t really want, just to have something on the table.

You check your phone twice.

He walks in just as the server sets down your plate. His coat is still on, hospital badge clipped to the pocket, hair mussed like he’s been running his hands through it all night.

He spots you instantly. Doesn’t smile.

But his eyes do something soft. Something wrecked.

Zayne slides into the booth across from you.

You study him for a second.

He looks tired. Paler than usual. There’s a crease between his brows like something’s still pressing on him.

“You okay?” you ask, voice low.

He nods.

Then shakes his head.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

It’s the first honest thing he’s said all day.

You push the plate toward him without a word.

He doesn’t hesitate. Picks up the fork. Takes a bite.

Silence stretches, but it’s not the kind that hurts. It’s the kind that feels… mutual. Like you’re both resting in it. Like your bodies are tired of pretending.

Zayne sets the fork down slowly, eyes still on the pie.

Then, “I thought about you all day.”

You blink.

It’s not like him. Not like this.

He keeps going, quietly.

“At work. During rounds. Between rooms. I couldn’t stop. It was…” He trails off, shaking his head. “It was too much.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

Your heart is loud enough inside your chest to answer for you.

He finally looks up. Meets your eyes.

“I don’t know what this is,” he says. “But I keep coming back to it.”

To you.

You lean back against the booth, eyes soft, mouth tugging into the faintest smile.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“I know.”

“But you did anyway.”

He nods.

You stir your coffee. Take a slow sip. It’s gone cold.

“Maybe I’m bad for you,” you say. It’s not flirtation. It’s a warning.

“I think we both already knew that.”

And still—neither of you moves to leave.

The pie sits between you, half-finished. The lights buzz above your heads. Somewhere, a jukebox plays a song neither of you recognise.

And under the table, your knees brush.

Just slightly.

But neither of you pulls away.

You don’t move your knee. Neither does he.

The contact is small, meaningless to anyone else. But for you, it feels like a crack in the dam. Like if one of you shifts just a little further, it might all come pouring out.

Zayne’s fingers curl on the edge of his plate. Not tight, just steadying. Like he’s holding himself in place.

Your gaze drops to his hand.

Then rises back to his face.

“I used to come here a lot,” you say, voice low, mostly to fill the space. “After work. When I first started at the club.”

He glances up, waiting.

“My feet would hurt, and I’d smell like vodka and desperation, and I’d sit in that corner over there—” you nod toward the back booth “—and pretend I was someone else.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

Then Zayne speaks, softer than before. “Did it work?”

You shake your head. “Not really. But for ten minutes, with a slice of pie and no one looking at me like I was for sale… it helped.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Anger, maybe. Or helplessness.

But all he says is, “I hate that that’s the world you live in.”

You offer a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, “It’s just the world.”

Another silence. Comfortable. Heavy.

Zayne shifts slightly, resting his elbow on the table, hand open between you.

It’s not an invitation. Not exactly.

But it’s there.

You look at it. Then at him.

Slowly—so slowly—you reach across the table and lay your hand in his. Fingertips first. Like a question.

His fingers close around yours cold, but careful.

For a while, neither of you speak.

You just sit there, two tired souls in a fluorescent-lit booth at the edge of the world, holding onto something small and quiet, real.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel like you’re performing.

And when he finally walks you to your apartment door, he doesn’t try to kiss you.

He just stands outside your door, waits for you to get in, and waits for you to close it.

You give him a shy smile, “I still don’t know what this is.”

He meets your eyes.

“Me neither.”

And then—finally—a smile. Faint, a little broken, but honest.

“Good night,” he says.

You smile and nod, closing the door. His touch still lingered on your hand.

And for once, you don’t feel like running from it.

The city is still stretching when you wake.

Sunlight spills in slanted lines across your bed, catching the shimmer of your discarded heels by the door.

You’re not usually awake this early—not without a shift dragging you from bed—but this morning, you are.

Because you didn’t sleep much.

Because your hand still remembers the shape of his.

You roll over and check your phone. No new messages.

Just the one from last night, still sitting there like an afterthought, like a thread you could pull on if you wanted to:

‘You free after?’

Your lips tug into the smallest smile. You don’t reply. Not yet.

You press the phone to your chest and let the silence settle around you—not heavy this time, but calm.

It’s been a long time since quiet felt like anything other than loneliness.

You pull on a hoodie and wander into the kitchen barefoot. Make toast you don’t eat. Brew coffee you forget about.

The apartment is still. Safe. Yours.

And for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel the need to be anywhere else.

He doesn’t sleep either.

The couch is stiff. The apartment too quiet. He keeps the TV on low just for the illusion of company.

But it’s you he’s thinking about.

The way your fingers curled into his like it wasn’t a question. The sound of your voice when you told him about sitting in that corner booth like you were trying to disappear.

It gutted him.

Not because you were broken.

But because you’d learned to live like it was normal.

He wants to text you. Something small. Something stupid.

‘Did you ever actually eat that pie?’

He doesn’t.

Instead, he lets himself lie back, eyes half-closed, and replay the moment your hand touched his across the table. Not rushed. Not reckless.

Just… soft.

And that’s the problem.

You’re not a mistake he made one night.

You’re something quiet and persistent.

Like a pulse beneath the skin.

Something that makes him feel alive—and that terrifies him.

He sits up. Rubs a hand over his face.

Maybe he shouldn’t see you today.

But he knows he will.

Your shift doesn’t start for hours. No need to rush.

So you let the water run hotter than usual, stand still beneath it, eyes closed, as if the heat could erase the noise from last night—the bodies, the stares, the constant wanting.

But it’s not the club that lingers.

It’s him.

Zayne.

The quiet way his hand found yours, careful, like he was holding something fragile.

The way he didn’t kiss you—not out of disinterest, but something that felt like reverence. Like restraint was his language for care.

And that’s what unsettles you most.

Because you’ve known touch that took.

Words that smiled while hands closed in.

People who made affection feel like a transaction.

But Zayne doesn’t take.

He waits.

And it’s that waiting that’s dangerous. The kind that makes you want to give something away, without being asked.

You catch your reflection in the fogged mirror.

For a second, it’s easy to imagine his fingers along your jaw—soft, not searching. Just… there. Present.

That’s where the ache begins.

Not in your body—but somewhere deeper. Somewhere you thought you’d sealed off for good.

You brace your hands on the sink, exhale slow.

Don’t get used to it.

Softness is expensive. And you’ve already paid more than enough.

Later, when you’re stepping out the door, your hand moves on instinct.

Phone. Screen. Empty.

Still no message.

You don’t know if that’s better or worse.

You type anyway.

‘Last night was nice.’

Four small words. Quiet things.

You hover for a beat too long.

Then send them.

And tuck the phone away before your doubt catches up.

He doesn’t plan to see you.

Not really.

He just ends up outside the club around the time you usually show. A coincidence, maybe.

A lie he tells himself because it’s easier than admitting the truth.

You spot him before he sees you—leaning against the hood of his car, hands tucked into his coat pockets, the city casting him in gold and shadow.

You can’t help the way your mouth curves. Barely. Just a flicker of something soft.

You cross the sidewalk slow, hands buried in your jacket.

“You stalking me now?” you ask.

“Maybe,” he says, like it doesn’t matter either way.

You lift a brow. “You’re not even gonna deny it?”

Zayne shrugs. One corner of his mouth tugs up, tired and honest.

“Didn’t feel like lying today.”

The quiet stretches between you. Not awkward. Not quite.

Then, quieter—

“I don’t have to be in for another twenty.”

He nods toward the passenger seat.

You open the door and get in.

Neither of you speaks much.

The windows are down. The wind moves through the car like it’s trying to carry something away—your thoughts, maybe. The fear. The wanting.

He doesn’t ask where you want to go. He just drives.

Like the road is the only thing that makes sense.

Like proximity is enough.

You sit curled sideways in the seat, arm propped against the window, eyes half-lidded, watching the city slip by in streaks of light and blur.

You glance at him. Study his profile.

“I don’t get it,” you murmur.

He doesn’t look over. “Get what?”

“You. This.”

A vague gesture between you—fragile and undefined.

“You’re good,” you say. “Clean. You don’t belong in my world.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just presses his mouth into a line and turns off onto a narrow road. Trees rising on either side, the city falling behind.

When he stops, it’s at a quiet overlook—nothing but sky and the glitter of far-off buildings.

He shifts into park. Kills the engine. Everything goes still.

Then he turns to you, slow.

“You think I’m clean?” he asks. Not mocking. Just… tired.

You study him now. Really study him.

The faint stubble. The lines beneath his eyes. The way his shoulders slope under invisible weight.

“No,” you say. “Not now.”

A beat.

“But you make me feel like I could be.”

His hand moves—hesitant. Reaching without reaching.

Fingertips graze your wrist, like he’s asking for permission without needing an answer.

“Don’t say that,” he whispers.

You don’t pull away.

“Why not?”

His eyes flicker.

“Because I don’t know how to deserve it.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty.

It’s full of every word neither of you knows how to say.

Then he lifts his hand—slow, reverent—and lets it settle along your jaw. Just barely. Like you might vanish if he touches you too fast.

You let your eyes fall closed.

So does he.

His mouth hovers near yours. A breath away.

And then—

you both pull back.

At the same time.

Like something holy just almost happened.

Like it still could.

You lean in, rest your forehead against his shoulder. He exhales, soft and long, and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

Neither of you says anything.

Because sometimes silence is the answer.

And for now, it’s enough.

masterlist

#lads #lads x reader #love and deepspace #lnds x reader #love and deepspace x reader #lnds #l&ds x reader #lads zayne #zayne love and deepspace #lads zayne x reader #love and deepspace zayne #lnds zayne x reader #l&ds zayne x reader #l&ds zayne #lads x y/n #lads x you #love and deepspace x you

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shaiyasstuff · 2 months ago

Note

im so sorry that random ass anon was mean to you !! people on tumblr are so bitchy nowadays, ive seen so many creators receiving so many hate asks for some reason. and it's ALWAYS from anons, like the fuck ???

anyway, cheer up !!! here's a flower !! 🌷

LOL i just saw this im so sorry! aniwei i wasn’t hurt about it XD to each their own I would say, thanks for the flower! I’ma give one right back

#anon ask #lads mc

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shaiyasstuff · 2 months ago

Text

my little demon | rafayel | episode two

synopsis : You accidentally summon a demon. He's annoying, endearing, and suddenly leaving. You hate it, hate him. Except, maybe you don't. And maybe that's the worst part. content : demon!rafayel, fluff, poor references to hell, comedy now playing : I.F.L.Y - Bazzi

previous episode

Sunlight spilled through the kitchen windows, warm and golden as you hummed to yourself, carefully decorating a tiny piece of cake like it was a masterpiece.

Pure bliss.

Until—

“Oh my fucking— Rafayel!” you yelped, nearly flinging the frosting knife across the room.

There he was. Smug. Smirking. Hovering horizontally above your kitchen counter like a cursed screensaver.

“Surprise,” he said, as if he hadn’t just shaved a few years off your life expectancy.

You glared, clutching your chest like an old Victorian woman recovering from scandal. “I have a front door, you know?”

He blinked, deadpan. “I’m a demon.”

You sighed, pointing your spatula at him. “Still rude.”

He shrugged. “Still me.”

His eyes flicked to your hand, then he slowly lowered himself into a standing position, circling the kitchen counter with the hesitant guilt of someone who just broke something expensive.

“Okay, don’t get mad at me,” he said, voice way too careful.

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

He lifted a hand, finger pointing delicately. “Uh… that.”

You followed his gaze—down to your hand.

Your hand.

Which was now fully embedded in the cake you had just spent the last two hours decorating with painstaking precision and a frankly concerning amount of emotional investment.

You stared in horror. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Rafayel winced. “Still cute though.”

A second passed. Maybe two.

Then—

“I’m going to fucking. kill. you.” you hissed, eyes narrowing into murder as you turned to Rafayel, who immediately threw his hands up in surrender.

“H-Hey! Aren’t we the best of buds?” he stammered, inching backward.

Your hand slid toward the sink. Fingers curled around the nearest knife. You smiled sweetly—dangerously.

“One.”

His shoulders jumped, wings twitching. “Wait, let’s talk about—”

“Two.”

“Okay but violence isn’t necessary!” he yelped, already halfway to launching himself back into the air.

—•

“Ow~” he whined dramatically, clutching his head like you’d just decapitated him.

“Oh, shut up,” you rolled your eyes, rubbing the spot where your fist had connected. “You can’t feel pain from mortal weapons, dipshit.”

Rafayel pouted, lips jutting out like an offended child. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t sting emotionally.”

You snorted. “Demon logic is so weird. You can’t get hurt by swords or bullets, don’t bleed, don’t age—but you get bruises from a punch?”

He mumbled, sulking. “Your punches are very emotionally charged.”

You scoffed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, beloved,” he sighed, draping himself across your kitchen table like a tragic opera star, “here I remain.”

You finally graduated—thank every cosmic force out there—and moved back into your family home not long after.

A bittersweet return, quiet in all the ways that once made you feel small.

Rafayel, of course, had not gotten his promotion yet. Which meant, tragically, he was still here. Still hovering.

Still dramatically consuming ungodly amounts of strawberry milk tea on your couch like a bored Victorian ghost with access to food delivery apps.

But if you were honest—annoyingly, frustratingly honest—you were grateful.

He was there the first night you came back. When the silence in the house cracked open old memories and the air still smelled faintly like your parents’ perfume.

You cried. A lot.

Ugly, snotty, gut-wrenching tears that made your chest ache.

Rafayel didn’t say much.

Just sat beside you, shoulder against yours, unusually quiet. A small flick of warmth—his hand brushing yours, his presence a strange comfort in a place that felt like a museum of what once was.

And then, in the middle of your breakdown, he said, “Okay, hear me out. What if we painted the living room black and added lava lamps?”

Which is how you ended up redecorating. Not just patching walls and changing curtains—but reshaping the house into something that felt more you.

Less like a shrine to loss, more like a new beginning. Chaotic, weird, and questionably stylish. Very you-coded.

With a hint of demon flair.

Now, as you gently rub the fading bruise on his forehead three months later, it’s safe to say the demon had somehow—unfortunately—wormed his way into your life.

A permanent fixture. Like a stray cat that never left. Chaotic, needy, weirdly comforting.

“Alright, Beelzebub, that’s enough feigning,” you muttered, rinsing your hands at the sink as you cast a dramatic glance toward the tragic remains of your once-beautiful cake slice.

Behind you, Rafayel let out an indignant huff, arms crossed, still floating a few inches off the ground. “I’m offended. I’ve achieved more than Beelzepoop ever did.”

You turned, one brow raised. “You? Achieved more than the actual Prince of Demons?”

He blinked at you with a ‘do-you-even-know-who-you’re-talking-to?’ expression. “Obviously.”

You snorted. “Right. And I’m Aphrodite in a hoodie.”

He scoffed, dramatically wounded. “Double offence. First, rude. Second, Greek mythology isn’t even real.”

“Says the guy named Rafayel who fell out of the Void and into my kitchen.”

Unfazed, he grinned. “You’re more of an Astaroth anyway.”

You blinked. “She’s literally a high-ranking demon of seduction.”

He winked. “Exactly. She’s hot. Fits.”

You groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

“I’m adorable,” he corrected, spinning in midair like it proved something.

Unfortunately… you didn’t have the heart to argue.

You made your way to the living room, Rafayel trailing behind like a chatty shadow, going off about how if you were really Astaroth, you’d at least know how to flirt properly.

“Please,” you scoffed, flopping onto the couch with the grace of someone utterly done. “Astaroth rides a dragon. She’s not just some seductress—she’s a badass.”

Rafayel wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, well, she’s also kind of a bitch in real life.”

You blinked. “You know her?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he casually pulled a full strawberry milk tea out of thin air and took a long sip like this was completely normal behavior.

You threw your hands up. “How?? Where are you getting these?!”

He shrugged, all too pleased with himself. “I’m a demon.”

You leaned forward, peering suspiciously behind him like he might be hiding a demonic vending machine in his spine. “Do you have, like, a secret stash somewhere? Is there a boba dimension?”

He ignored you entirely, now launching into a rant. “Everyone hypes up Astaroth, but Lucifer? Total icon. Charisma. Style. Actual management skills. Way cooler.”

You stared at him. “Did you just turn a boba flex into a Lucifer TED Talk?”

He grinned mid-sip. “Yes.”

You slapped both hands over your face with a long, tortured groan. “Please just get your promotion already and get out of my life.”

Rafayel pouted, hovering above the floor like a levitating drama queen, legs crossed and all. “Can’t you just admit you love me already?”

You lowered your hands, stared at him flatly. “No.”

Not even a blink. Just pure, stone-cold deadpan.

He gasped. “Heartless.”

You smirked. “Soulless.”

“Touche.”

—•

“Rafayel.”

“Yes?”

“Please stop hovering above me and let me sleep.”

A pause.

“…But I’m making sure you don’t get nightmares.”

“You are the nightmare.”

“Flattered.”

As much as Rafayel would have loved to keep teasing you—dangling upside down, whispering nonsense just to hear you groan—he let you sleep.

With a quiet sigh, he lowered himself onto his feet, the air stilling around him. He padded over to the chair beside your bed and sat down, elbows resting on his knees, watching.

Your face was soft now, pressed into your pillow, lashes brushing your cheeks, brows no longer drawn tight from stress.

Just peace. Just you.

His eyes softened.

“I lied,” he whispered, so quietly it was barely a breath. “I’m never getting that promotion.”

You didn’t stir.

“Because I don’t want to leave.”

He stood, the shadows folding around him as the edges of the room began to shimmer. The void called—quietly, like a familiar echo.

Before stepping through, he looked back one last time. His gaze lingered on you, curled beneath the blanket with your arm half-hugging your pillow, utterly unaware.

A slow smile tugged at his lips.

“Cute,” he murmured.

And then he was gone.

As Rafayel stepped onto the warm, scorched ground of his domain, the familiar heat curled around his boots like a welcome—and a warning.

He didn’t make it three steps before a demon rushed up to him, breathless and flustered. “Sire! The demons in the western region are acting up again! You can’t just disappear like that—”

Rafayel winced, rubbing his ear with an exaggerated groan. “Fuck, stop yelling. You’re worse than a smoke alarm.”

The demon blinked, wide-eyed. “But—”

“Relax.” Rafayel shot him a look, half-irritated, half-amused. “I was gone for like, what, three days? What, did the entire underworld fall apart without me?”

“…Yes.”

He sighed. Loudly. Dramatically. “Hell really needs to learn how to function without me. I’m starting to feel needed. It’s gross.”

“Well, you are the king…” the demon muttered, almost under his breath.

Rafayel stopped.

Slowly, he turned.

His usual laidback grin was gone—replaced by a sharp, twisted expression as his crimson eyes gleamed with something far less forgiving. The air around him crackled, heat rippling like a warning.

“And?” he said, voice low, dangerous. “Have I raised a bunch of scum who can’t get things done without hand-holding?”

The demon flinched, shrinking slightly under his glare.

Rafayel stepped forward, his voice cold now, all traces of sarcasm stripped clean. “Tell me—was I gone long enough for discipline to rot?”

“N-No, sire.”

“Then act like it.”

And just like that, the fire behind his eyes dimmed, and returned to their original colour, his smirk slowly returning as he stepped back. “Good chat.”

Rafayel skipped away happily, his coat fluttering behind him, humming some off-key tune as he thought about your sleeping face.

The way your lips were slightly parted. The softness in your brow. The rise and fall of your breath.

Utterly peaceful.

Utterly unaware.

Back near the gates of the palace, the demon who had been scolded turned to another, wide-eyed. “Has he forgotten he’s actually the King of Hell?”

The other demon shrugged, deadpan. “Who knows. But best let him be.”

A pause. Then, under his breath, “He’d rip your head off if you said anything.”

They both nodded solemnly as Rafayel twirled joyfully into the distance like the most dangerous fever dream anyone’s ever had.

—•

“Ugh, where is it?” you grumbled, crouching to look under your bed, then climbing onto chairs to peer above the cabinets like some caffeine-fueled treasure hunter.

You’d been tearing the house apart for the past hour, desperate to find one thing—your favorite hoodie.

It was Sunday.

Which meant hoodie, knee-high socks, hot chocolate, and absolutely zero responsibilities. A sacred tradition.

But the hoodie in question? Nowhere. Gone. Vanished like it had sensed you needed comfort and decided to flee out of spite.

You stomped your foot in frustration, letting out a noise of sheer despair.

“Woah, woah, woah— any harder and you’ll punch a hole through the floor,” came a voice from behind you.

You spun around, already bracing for nonsense.

And there he was—Rafayel, stepping out of the void like he owned the place, wearing a tired, lazy smile… and your hoodie.

Your favourite hoodie. Your favourite colour. Slouchy, warm, irreplaceable.

On him.

You stared.

He grinned. “Miss me?”

Your eyes narrowed into a glare sharp enough to kill gods.

“Raf. Five seconds.”

The grin on his face faltered. He tilted his head innocently. “Huh?”

“Five,” you repeated slowly, taking one deliberate step toward him.

Panic flickered in Rafayel’s eyes. He knew that look. He’d seen it right before you threw a toaster at him for ‘accidentally’ eating your cheesecake.

“H-Hey! What did I do this time?!” he yelped, backing up slightly.

“Four.”

He clutched the hoodie tighter around him like it might shield him from divine wrath.

“Okay, okay, wait, let’s talk about this like two emotionally mature beings—”

You didn’t blink.

“Three

“It was just a hoodie,” Rafayel sulked, rubbing his butt as he floated midair with the wounded pride of a dethroned drama queen. His pout was deep. Tragic. Oscar-worthy.

You, on the other hand, were seated triumphantly on the couch, smug and cozy, wrapped in your hoodie like a warrior draped in victory.

The very hoodie you had pried off his smug little body after chasing him down the hall and delivering a perfectly executed flying kick to his ass.

Hot chocolate in hand. Feet propped up. Hoodie reclaimed.

Peace restored.

“I think you bruised my ego,” he muttered.

You took a sip. “Good. Maybe next time you’ll ask before committing hoodie theft.”

He crossed his arms. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re warm-blooded lint with wings.”

“Still cute though,” he grumbled.

You smiled into your mug. He wasn’t wrong.

You took a deep whiff of your chocolatey masterpiece, eyes fluttering closed in bliss, before cracking one open to look at the demon still sulking midair.

“Any luck on that promotion?” you asked casually, lifting the mug to your lips.

The moment the hot liquid touched your mouth, you hissed and pulled back, fanning your scorched lips. “Shit. Too hot.”

Rafayel shrugged, utterly unbothered, leaning back into his crossed arms like he was lounging on an invisible beach chair. “Wouldn’t know. Hell has a weird system. Something about karmic paperwork and sin-to-chaos ratios.”

You snorted. “Or maybe you’re just not as overqualified as you thought you were.”

He gasped, clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him. “How dare you.”

You smirked. “I dare. Daily.”

“Cruel woman,” he muttered, flipping upside down dramatically.

“Underachieving demon,” you shot back.

“Still adorable,” he mumbled.

You rolled your eyes. But you didn’t deny it.

You set your mug down with a satisfying clink and patted the empty space beside you. “Okay, friendly cuddle time.”

Rafayel scoffed like it was the greatest inconvenience in all the realms—but he still floated down and plopped beside you, limbs sprawling dramatically.

Without hesitation, you climbed over his lap, curling into his chest like you’d done it a thousand times before.

Because, at this point, you basically had. You let out a long, contented sigh. “Ah yes. I have a life-sized heater,” you murmured, poking his chest playfully. “And it’s squishy too.”

He grumbled, arms automatically winding around you like muscle memory. “I can’t believe you’ve reduced me to this level of uselessness.”

You gasped, hand flying to your chest. “Excuse you. Being a heater is not useless. Heaters save lives.”

He opened his mouth—probably to make another sarcastic comment—but you cut in, smirking against his sweater.

“You’re my emotional support demon.”

He froze for half a second.

Then exhaled through his nose, a quiet chuckle escaping before he tucked you a little closer.

“Lucky for you,” he muttered, “I’m warm and emotionally damaged.”

You looked up at him, head resting against his chest. “How are demons born, anyway?”

Rafayel paused, lips quirking slightly in thought. “Well… we’re not born, exactly. It’s more complicated than that.”

He reached up, gently tugging your hood over your head like he was tucking you in, and let you snuggle closer, his voice softening like he was about to tell a bedtime story.

“Lower-level demons,” he began, “are usually breathed into existence by Lucifer. They’re formed from whatever’s around—ashes, stone, shadows. Sometimes even stranger stuff. Like a cursed gust of wind. Or basement mold.”

You blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish,” he muttered. “There’s a demon literally made out of melted wax and self-doubt.”

You laughed, and he smirked, letting the sound of it settle between you like warmth.

“Hell’s weird,” you said.

“Hell’s home,” he corrected, mock-offended. Then, quieter, “But you’re warmer.”

You grinned, eyes alight with curiosity. “Okay, tell me something that’ll blow my mind.”

Rafayel looked down at you, your cheek smushed against his chest, hoodie half covering your face. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—uncertainty, hesitation—but it vanished just as quickly, swallowed by the usual smugness.

“Demons can’t fall in love,” he said quietly.

You jerked back a little to look up at him, brows furrowing. “What? Really?” Horror bloomed across your face. “So there are no demonic romances? No succubi falling for their victims? No tragic love stories in the fiery depths?”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You’re being sarcastic.”

You gasped, hand over your heart. “No, I’m not! That’s genuinely tragic!”

He blinked, like he hadn’t expected you to actually care.

And for once, you didn’t tease. Didn’t smirk. You just looked up at him, genuine and a little sad. “That sucks, ‘yel.”

He glanced away, voice softer than before. “Yeah. It does.”

“But why, though?” you whined, dragging out the syllables like a child denied candy.

Rafayel smirked, leaning his cheek against the top of your head.

“It’s just the way it is. Though…” he drawled, smug creeping back into his voice, “you and I are an exception.”

You scrunched your nose. “Ew.”

He pulled back, lips parting in exaggerated offense. “Hey!”

You shrugged, grinning. “Sorry, I don’t do forbidden interdimensional romances on Sundays.”

He pouted. “So picky for someone who literally climbed into my lap ten minutes ago.”

“You’re warm,” you retorted.

“And devastatingly charming.”

“Mm. Debatable.”

“Rude.”

“Truthful.”

He sighed, cradling you a little closer. “One day you’ll admit you’re madly in love with me.”

“One day,” you echoed, eyes drifting shut, “when hell freezes over.”

“…You do realize I could make that happen, right?”

You groaned into his hoodie. “Go to sleep, demon.”

He chuckled, low and lazy. “It’s Sunday. Do you really want me to sleep when I could be entertaining you? Come on, ask me something. Anything.”

You tapped your chin, pretending to think, though the question had been sitting on your tongue for a while now. “Okay. Will you promise to visit… even after you get promoted?”

For a moment, he went still.

Then, with a half-hearted smirk, he leaned back. “Hmm. Probably not.”

Your heart sank.

“Unless,” he added, casually, “you promise to stop kicking my ass.”

You snorted, trying to keep it light. “Fine. I’ll just summon another demon.”

His eyes flicked to yours, a little too sharp, a little too fast. “Hey.”

You smiled, teasing. “What? Maybe one who doesn’t steal my hoodies.”

But he wasn’t smiling anymore.

“I’ll get jealous,” he said, and though the words were laced with his usual dramatics, his voice had dropped—lower, quieter, like something unsaid was bleeding through.

You froze, the playfulness fading just enough for the air to shift.

“I’m serious,” he added, eyes meeting yours now, too steady for comfort. “I’d hate it.”

You swallowed, caught off guard by the weight in his tone. “Why?”

Rafayel didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he leaned in closer, the space between you shrinking, the warmth of him wrapping around your shoulders like static. The kind of closeness that wasn’t just physical—it pressed against your chest, your breath, your thoughts.

“Because I’m not just any demon,” he said softly, eyes flickering to your lips, then back up to your eyes. “You didn’t summon them. You summoned me.”

And suddenly, the room felt smaller.

Quieter.

Too quiet.

You swallowed, your breath catching somewhere between your ribs and throat.

His words hung in the air—weightless, yet crushing.

You summoned him.

Not them. Not anyone else. Him.

You tried to laugh, tried to pull the teasing tone back into your voice, but it came out thinner than you meant. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“I’m not,” he said, gently—too gently for a demon who once tried to convince you to paint your kitchen black. “I’m just… saying what you won’t.”

Your fingers curled into the hem of your hoodie—his hoodie, your hoodie, yours now—and you stared down at your lap like it might anchor you.

“Rafayel—”

“Do you know what it means,” he cut in, his voice almost a whisper now, “for a demon to not want to go back?”

You looked up.

He wasn’t smirking.

No sarcasm, no smugness. Just ocean eyes too open, too raw.

“It’s not that I hate hell,” he said. “It’s home. Fire, brimstone, endless bureaucracy… all the fun stuff.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“But you,” he continued, “you’re warm in a way I didn’t think I could still feel. You make things quiet, even when you’re yelling at me. You make me stay.”

Your heart pounded against your ribs, painfully loud.

And when you didn’t answer, when you just sat there frozen, unsure of what to do with the sudden tenderness filling the room like smoke, he leaned back.

Just a little.

Just enough to give you space again.

“I know,” he said softly, a rueful smile playing on his lips, “demons can’t fall in love.”

“But I think if we could…”

He trailed off, letting the silence finish the sentence.

You looked at him—really looked at him—and felt something shift. Something dangerous. Something irreversible.

And you weren’t sure if you were ready for it.

But you wanted to be.

“You can’t fall in love,” you said, barely above a whisper. “But… you can feel, right?”

The question sat there between you like something fragile, something sacred.

Rafayel didn’t answer at first. He just looked at you, really looked—eyes burning a little softer now, like dying embers that still held heat. His smile faded into something quieter, more honest.

“I can,” he murmured. “Not the way you do. Not the way mortals write songs about. But I feel.”

You nodded slowly, gaze dropping to your hands. “So… what do you feel now?”

He exhaled, and for once, it wasn’t exaggerated or dramatic—it was careful.

“Jealousy,” he admitted, almost embarrassed. “Warmth. Frustration.”

A beat.

“Peace. When you’re around, it’s—quiet.”

You looked up, heart caught between disbelief and something deeper.

“And when I’m not?”

He gave a crooked smile. “Louder. Colder. Boring as hell.”

You laughed, breathless.

He leaned forward again, resting his forehead gently against yours.

“I don’t need to love you to want to stay,” he whispered. “But I think… whatever this is, what I feel when I look at you—it’s the closest I’ve ever been.”

And you let your eyes close, just for a second.

Because even if it wasn’t love—not yet, not exactly—it felt like something just as terrifying.

Because somewhere between the banter, the teasing, and the endless pestering—between flying kicks, hoodie thefts, and boba-fueled late nights—you’d fallen.

Fallen for the demon who hovered too close.

Who made your life unbearably loud, yet somehow quieter.

Who never once asked for a place in your heart, but carved one out anyway.

Even if you didn’t want to admit it.

Even if you told yourself it was just comfort, just company, just friendly cuddle time.

It wasn’t.

Not anymore.

Because when he looked at you like that—tender, hesitant, a little afraid—you knew.

You’d fallen for your emotional support demon.

And hell, maybe he’d fallen too.

Rafayel pulled back just enough to look at you, and for a breath, everything was still—charged, heavy, full of everything neither of you had said.

Then he blinked.

“Wait a second,” he said, squinting at you dramatically. “Are you blushing?”

You immediately recoiled, shoving his face away. “Oh my god, Rafayel—”

“I knew it!” he cackled, twisting away to hover mid-air as you tried to smack him again. “You like me!”

“I literally just said—!”

“Emotionally support demon, huh?” he teased, spinning like an obnoxious orbit around your couch. “More like emotionally devastatingly handsome demon—”

“I take it all back,” you muttered, grabbing a throw pillow and chucking it at him.

He caught it mid-spin, grinning like he’d just won an award. “Too late! You fell. I’m basically your forbidden fantasy.”

You flopped back onto the couch with a groan, covering your face with both hands.

And somewhere above you, between the laughing and the twirling and the smug declarations, Rafayel slowed. Hovered.

He looked down at you—at your half-smile hidden behind your fingers—and said, quieter this time, more to himself than to you.

“Yeah… I think I’ve fallen for you.”

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