#its not just the extent of their trauma
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Opinions on Charlie woobification? Also, do you think the fandom woobifies Dennis (too much)?
A few people have sent me asks about my thoughts on Dennis being woobified in the fandom and Iâve failed to answer them (sorry). Not for lack of interest on the subject, itâs just hard to answer. I think, though, answering this Charlie question in the same ask might make it easier to explain my thoughts on this.
When we talk about the fandom weâre generally talking about the people here, a couple hundred people on Twitter, maybe some Instagram stans(?) and tend to ignore the million (1,000,000)+ people on the subReddit and the huge chunk of people on Facebook and casual Twitter who are constantly, continually pushing a narrative that these characters have no depth, and thus their characterisation is what we see on the surface and nothing more. I think the one time itâs probably important not to ignore those people as fans of the show is when it comes to woobification.
Because at a surface level, the people who are consuming this show as a comedy and making posts that exhibit their takes/opinions on these characters to the majority of people portray the characters very simply: Charlie is an idiot and the best member of the Gang, in every sense of the word, and Dennis is a mere representation of toxic masculinity to a psychopathic degree. And those opinions are the loud majority.
So any discussion in our minority section of the fandom that woobifies Charlie or Dennis operates within and on top of the general narrative of the public perception (âface valueâ) of the characters. Woobification of Charlie, then, almost always further infantilises the majority of his traits to contribute to the idea that heâs not a bad guy and doesnât deserve the position heâs in in life, while woobification of Dennis mostly works to counteract the idea that heâs a cold-blooded psychopath.
In a way, I think you have to woobify Dennis to a degree in order to properly understand his character (and Glenn makes that clear). Do some people take it too far? When it gets into the realm of genuinely somehow believing heâs not a bad person, absolutely, but in over a decade of Sunnyblr posts, I think Iâve seen that conclusion once, maybe twice. I really donât think any post thatâs diving into how Dennis' actions reflect his insecurities and trauma is ever speaking ignorant of the rest of his character, and that normally seems clear to the majority of people because rarely, if ever, does a dive into Dennis woobification cause fans to understand the character worse than they understood him at face value.
Whereas, with Charlie, you constantly do see this. Posts and threads and fights between fans arguing up and down that Charlie is better than the rest of them: heâs the smartest, actually, he means to do good, he shouldnât be lumped in with the rest of them as sexual predators... People in this fandom genuinely argue that you are a *better person* if youâre a Charlie stan, that Charlie ships are softer, more moral, than toxic Dennis ships. The result of Charlie woobification seems to often make people less media literate about the character (and the show as a whole if weâre being real) than they would be if they just watched at face value.

Theyâre all morally despicable characters.
TL;DR: Due to the face value perceptions of the characters, woobification is an almost necessary tool for better exploring and understanding Dennis under his surface, while it really only exacerbates an annoying surface-level understanding of Charlie
#all that to be said. if youre woobifying for shitposting and fun have at it#slap cat ears on all those men#But ill say it clearly#the deepest truest understandings of Dennis you will see are from people who dip into the woobification of him#the most shallow worst understandings of Charlie you will see are from his woobifiers#dennis reynolds#charlie kelly#ask#if you wanna apply this to Mac and Dee just sub Charlie for Mac and Dennis for Dee to a lesser extent#also sorry idk if my answer was clear but no i dont think the fandom woobifies dennis too much#at least from what i see.. its just enough#but i see how it can be jarring to walk into deep exploration threads on dennis' trauma#with no acknowledgement that hes a terrible man#trust we all know it and are speaking from that#it just doesnt feel necessary to state
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i am once again thinking about Andrew/Jean parallels, and the potential for how Andrew could help and comfort Jean, since in some ways they went through quite similar traumas
there's that scene in The King's Men where Renee, Kevin, Neil and Andrew are talking about what to do with Jean now that Renee's gotten him away from the Ravens, and Andrew makes it clear that he's not willing to help protect Jean, "And I'm not taking in any more refugees" Andrew said. -page 326 TKM (which is completely fair on Andrew's part given all the bullshit he's already dealing with)
But like, I can't stop thinking about how things might have gone if Andrew had agreed to help, to protect Jean just like he's been protecting Kevin and Neil for well over a year now, to take another "refugee", like how might things have turned out đ¤
#hi i just realised as I was writing this that in addition to their similarities with dr*ke and gr*yson another fuckin similarity is that#THEY BOTH HAVE/HAD SIBLINGS THAT THEY TRIED TO PROTECT AND TO SOME EXTENT FEEL LIKE THEY FAILED#anyways i'm sooooo normal about the bonding over trauma potential these two have that i know will never be explored#bonding over trauma and bonding over their complicated relationships with exy#like am i the only one that was Not expecting Jean to just be like 'i do not like playing exy but its my whole life so im not going to stop#all for the game#aftg my beloved#andrew minyard#jean moreau#tsc spoilers#tsc#the sunshine court#the king's men#tkm#jeandrew#aftg#my posts
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I dont think Mob is naive as much as he's socially unaware, like the reason why he trusts Reigen so blindly is a bit more complex than just him being naive
Cause Mob reached out to Reigen because he was desperate to find someone like him, someone who understood his psychic specific issues, someone that could truly know what he's feeling and going through and give him guidance and support
Post incident Mob's thinking process was something along the lines of my powers hurt people -> my powers are bad -> my powers (my emotions, my instincts, myself) cannot be trusted
So he lost all confidence and trust in his own actions, resigning to being as passive as possible to avoid any further damage to anyone else, thus he started doubting his own perception of reality too
He's a kid already struggling with being ostracised for being socially inept, who just got traumatised and all of his insecurity increased by the tenfold, he doesn't know how to process what he's going through. He needs help.
And here comes Reigen, seemingly reliable, a responsible adult in a child's eyes, someone who claims he can understand him
Even tho Reigen doesnt. But it doesn't matter, because Mob finds comfort in his words and takes them to heart
Even if Reigen doesn't fully get it, even if he doesn't see the bigger picture, even if his advice isn't always the best
Eventually, Mob grows up, realises Reigen isn't as honest as he seemed through his 11 year old perspective, but like most things, he refuses to acknowledge it on a deeper level
Mob knows, but never tells Reigen, never thinks about what all those lies mean to him (ofc until he forces himself to face those doubts regarding Reigen, to properly acknowledge both of their flaws and accept them as they are, I should scream into the void about Confession Arc more God)
Due to his lack of trust in himself, Mob has relied on Reigen for years now to shape his moral compass, his thoughts, his decisions
Because well, Reigen lies, sure, but he isnt a bad person. When he hurts Mob, it isn't intentional or with ill intent, he still wants the best for him, what's the issue?
Except that it stunts Mob's growth. He doesn't develop as a person, doesn't have goals or wishes or ambitions, can't make choices on his own, he doesn't even let himself acknowledge his own emotions, he refuses to let himself exist
But Mob realises in time that he wants more than that, he wants to become better and be independent and feel again
Still, he puts the acknowledgement of the lies on hold for as long as he can, unwilling to question the way things are
This can make him feel a little naive, he constantly relies on Reigen and trusts his decisions and raises questions rarely until separation arc when he finally puts his foot down
And I do think that moment is the most resounding proof we have that Mob knows and allows himself to be used by Reigen, not wanting to shake the status quo, until he gets fed up
I mentioned the social ineptitude at the beggining but idk if I should even elaborate on that, you've watched the show, you know what I mean
He's blunt and can't read social cues or tonality that well and can't speak in front of crowds and is overall pretty awkward and I do think some people conflate that with naivety
Mob is still a child, he doesnt fully understand how the world works at the ripe age of 14 years old, but some folks take that as him being inherently naive/innocent/whatever which I don't find true
#ppl do a similar thing with seri but for different reasons but i do think in his case its worse cause thats a whole ass adult#anyway. i dont think im saying anything new i just wanted to ramble <3#i missed mobposting what can i say#ik i saw somebody talk about this in a more eloquent way but i doubt i could find the post cause i dont think i rbed it so rip#mp100#mob psycho 100#kageyama shigeo#that ova needs to come out already im going insane#cine te a intrebat#also hope i didnt come off as too negative towards reigen or smth#but like. my favourite part of confession is him saying (i didnt know!) LIKE YEAH. U DIDNT. LMAO.#ppl treat him as a bit too reliable sometimes and dont give him a lot of room to grow like Reigen isnt even 30 yet!! he aint that old!!#he still needs to get HIS own shit tgt before giving out advice just saying. also he totally doesnt understand mob fully. how can he??#he never mentions the incident with ritsu and considering mobs inclination of never telling anyone anything unless prompted#i doubt he knows... like reigen genuinely doesnt know the extent of mobs trauma!! when he said I Didnt Know he meant that shit!!!!!!#which is like. fine. cause to me whats important is how he always wants to protect mob and support him and help him#even if he doesnt always know how. even if advice backfires. hes always there and hes always trying and hes just as human and flawed as mob#himself#ig what im getting at is just that im bothered by the Flavour of reliable adult fandom is giving him. hes a lil pathetic and#fucks up sometimes and thats fiiiiiine. i feel like i talked shit about reigen but i do think hes a good guy and IS reliable just not in the#gives great advice way. but in the Knows How To Talk And Bullshit His Way Through Everything and Has Genuinely Good Intentions (usually)#and will throw away all of his self preservation if the situation requires him to. his advice is good but can be vague idk ONE rlly managed#to balance his pathetic side with his helpful reliable side and i dont think i articulated it the best way but like.... hes simultaneously#pathetic and sad but also the most sane and reliable adult in this show. rant over see u next time byeeee
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when out and about with bellara, harding and taash, lucanis and rye between them create SUCH an air of safe warm older brotherly energy for everyone with their mission dialogue lines. don't worry they're here they'll watch out for you no one's gonna mess with you while we're here we promise we've got you. and then they get together with davrin and it's chaos gremlin time 24/7. the wonders of chemistry
#all the collective annoying younger sibling energy simply biding its time until davrin is there. bless#(to be fair it's not like he's particularly above it in either of those two relationships individually either fhsakj#just feels unfair that he has to deal with two of them. AND his teenage son at the same time. every day davrin dragon age wakes up#and the little shits under his wing have unionized. keep him in your hearts and thoughts)#dragon age#dragon age: the veilguard#dragon age: the veilguard spoilers#dragon age spoilers#the group hug in harding's companion quest felt like a perfectly natural extention of this#like yeah if they could they WOULD try to shield you bodily from the ancestral trauma coming for you. that seems about right#extremely awkwardly and extremely earnestly from the both of them lol
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guys iâm ngl i donât really get some of the fanon interpretations of shaunaâs mom . Like imo that is Not a girl who grew up with a reliable source of love and validation ..
#even before all her Wilderness Trauma!#this is someone who Needs to feel loved and chosen to the extent that she a) allowed her friendship w jackie to become what it was#which like. the fundamental belief underlying that is âif i assert myself & ask for what i want i wonât be lovedâ#b) sabotaged that relationship so spectacularly#just donât think this is the behavior of someone who felt particularly accepted and secure as a kid.#i donât even think her parents need to have been BAD per se i just think its very much giving#child of divorce latchkey kid who was just kind of on her own
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finally finished watching su future after years and. man
#ITS SUCH A BITTERSWEET ENDING TO THE SERIES#watching steven's trauma get acknowledged to that extent and him breaking down was just sođ
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joy in back on the mind again. hal holds her underwater whenever they have a bath together
#also after all this time i think i actually figured out a kink joy has . which is very funny all things considered but she just#follows along with what hal wants. and he doesnt get off on like half the stuff they do either but i digress#anyway she likes choking. no method preference (yet) since its more on the feeling of being suffocated#it was previously established that she likes kissing (outside of work and sex and the like) so i guess they tie together !#honestly i clocked her asexual very early on but now i think hal is too to some degree#but where hers is mostly trauma based which leads her to be sex repulsed (lol) hes more just generally disinterested. his actions are a#product of his environment. and to an extent a power play against joy !
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âď¸.
#Ramble time about some deeply personal parts of Ishtarâs backstory (things that only friends that can handle heavy subjects get to see)#(if they wanna obviously i aint gonna drop this on those who would rather not but those curious & who can handle it? im chill disclosing)#but regardlessâŚ#here we go. touches on Kaletu too.#for obvs reasons this ainât being posted in public spaces. but all Iâll say is iâve dropped. enough hints i think.#about just how far kaletu was willing to go w the extents of his abuse.#through the mention of where i derived his name from. & a thing or two on Ishtarâs TH profile#(w the name thing i mean the. Kaletu bein derived from shukaletuda. in mesopotamian mythos. & TH issa thing i said is trauma response)#that honestly isnât anything iâll bring up like in spaces where it ainât allowed ofc. but.#as well as me mentioning this is somethn that he almost got legal repercussions for.#(but didnât bc money & power & fame talks ig.)#this aspect of their backstory. is. important to me given its purpose as a processing things i went through ordeal.#which is why im so antsy abt who i share it with bc i dont wanna. share that sorta thing w someone who is judgmental af#& wanna only share w ppl who are accepting & even willing to like.#accept ishtar in their past ig. & even realize also why their themes for their arc are so significant. but yeah.#âŚanyway. ive rambled enough for now in tags? the actual ramble like i saidâs only for friends interested ig so.#but i do warn for heavy ass subjects (which again. no problem with me discussing & i do wanna share. just. fear is all.)
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Like, my OCD has been hitting harder than usual too. Wow.
#i was like why do i have more compulsion urges?#its the trauma you idiot#my primary theme is about morality... honestly i feel like all OCD is that. to an extent#but i literally had an anxiety attack because i just saw the thumbnail of a video#and i dont want to say more because its super embarrassing but it just tripped my shit#i even asked my gf for reassurance#which isnt inherently a compulsion but it can become one so fast if im not careful#shit is stupid
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thinking of so many campaign ideas raghh i need to run a campaign NOWâźď¸âźď¸
#ill be so pissy like 'man i always hate we always get assigned forever gm by our friends i wanna be a player some time'#and then turn around and day dream about one of our 70 thousand campaign ideas#ill be honest i do like dm'ing more i just want to be a player some time#its more fun being evil as a dm than it is being evil as a player#as a player youre still at the whims of the dm to a certain extent. as a gm u can inflict so much character trauma đĽ°#(as long as the players agree in session zero ofc but you get what i mean)
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Unremembered
Max Verstappen x Reader
Summary: imagine looking the love of your life in their eyes and seeing a stranger stare back â but Max doesnât have to imagine, not when this is his reality
Warnings: serious injury and memory loss
The roar of the V6 engine fills Maxâs ears as he navigates the twists and turns of the Zandvoort circuit. Itâs the first practice session of the Dutch Grand Prix weekend, and Max is in his element, pushing his Red Bull to its limits.
Suddenly, his race engineerâs voice crackles through the radio. âMax, box this lap. Come back to the garage.â
Max furrows his brow, confused. âWhat? Why? The car feels fine.â
âMax, just box now. Itâs important,â GP insists, his tone unusually stern.
Reluctantly, Max steers his car into the pit lane, frustration building. As he pulls into the garage, he notices an unusual flurry of activity. His performance coach, Rupert, is waiting with a grim expression.
âMax, out of the car. Now,â Rupert says urgently.
Max climbs out, yanking off his helmet. âWhatâs going on? Why did you pull me in?â
Rupert takes a deep breath. âMax, I answered a call on your phone while you were out there. It was the hospital.â
Maxâs heart skips a beat. âThe hospital? Whatâ
âItâs about Y/N,â Rupert says softly. âShe was in a car accident on her way here. Itâs ... itâs serious, Max. Theyâve taken her to the trauma center.â
The world seems to tilt on its axis. Max grabs Rupertâs arm to steady himself. âWhat? No, that canât ... is she okay?â
Rupert shakes his head. âI donât know. They didnât give me details. But they said you should come right away.â
Without another word, Max bolts towards the exit. Rupert calls after him, âIâll drive you!â
The car ride to the hospital is a blur. Max stares out the window, his mind racing. âThis canât be happening,â he mutters. âWe were just talking this morning. She was excited to watch practice ...â
Rupert glances at him sympathetically. âTry not to assume the worst. Y/Nâs tough. Sheâll pull through this.â
Max nods numbly, willing himself to believe it. They screech to a halt outside the emergency entrance, and Max is out of the car before Rupert can even put it in park.
At the reception desk, Maxâs words tumble out in a panicked rush. âMy girlfriend was brought in. Car accident. Y/N Y/L/N. Where is she?â
The nurse types rapidly. âSheâs in surgery right now. If youâll have a seat in the waiting area, the doctor will come speak with you as soon as possible.â
Max paces the waiting room like a caged animal, running his hands through his hair. Rupert tries to calm him, but Max barely hears him. After what feels like an eternity, a doctor approaches.
âAre you here for Y/N Y/L/N?â
Max nods frantically. âYes, Iâm her boyfriend. Is she okay?â
The doctorâs expression is grave. âSheâs out of surgery now. The accident was very serious. She has multiple broken bones and internal injuries. Weâve stabilized her, but ...â
âBut what?â Max demands, his voice cracking.
âShe suffered a significant head injury. Thereâs swelling in her brain. We wonât know the full extent of the damage until she wakes up.â
Max sways on his feet. Rupert steadies him with a hand on his shoulder. âCan I see her?â Max asks weakly.
The doctor nods. âSheâs in the ICU. I must warn you, sheâs heavily sedated and on a ventilator. It may be distressing to see her like this.â
Max follows the doctor down sterile hallways, his heart pounding. When they reach Y/Nâs room, he freezes in the doorway. The sight of her lying there, battered and bruised, hooked up to machines, is like a physical blow.
He approaches the bed slowly, tears welling in his eyes. âY/N,â he whispers, gently taking her hand. âIâm here. Youâre going to be okay. You have to be okay.â
Hours pass. Max refuses to leave her side, holding her hand and talking to her softly. Nurses come and go. Rupert brings him coffee that goes cold, untouched.
As evening falls, Max notices her fingers twitch. He leans forward eagerly. âY/N? Can you hear me?â
Her eyelids flutter, then slowly open. Maxâs heart soars. âY/N! Oh, thank God. Youâre awake. How do you feel?â
But somethingâs wrong. Her eyes are unfocused, confused. She looks at Max blankly, then around the room in bewilderment.
âWhere ... where am I?â She croaks, her voice hoarse from the ventilator tube that was recently removed.
âYouâre in the hospital,â Max explains gently. âYou were in an accident, but youâre going to be okay now.â
She frowns, struggling to process. âAn accident? I donât ... I donât remember ...â
Max squeezes her hand reassuringly. âThatâs okay. Donât worry about that now. Iâm just so glad youâre awake.â
But she pulls her hand away, shrinking back slightly. Her eyes narrow as she studies his face. âIâm sorry, but ... who are you?â
***
Maxâs world comes crashing down with those three simple words. He stares at you, his mouth agape, unable to process what heâs just heard. The room suddenly feels too small, too hot, too bright.
âWho ... who am I?â Max repeats, his voice barely above a whisper. âY/N, itâs me. Itâs Max. Your boyfriend.â
You shake your head slowly, wincing at the movement. âIâm sorry, I donât ... I donât know you. I donât remember having a boyfriend.â
Maxâs heart shatters into a million pieces. He takes a step back, running a trembling hand through his hair. âOkay, okay,â he mutters, more to himself than to you. âThe doctor said there might be ... complications. This is just temporary. It has to be.â
You watch him warily, confusion and fear evident in your eyes. âI donât understand whatâs happening. Why canât I remember anything?â
Max takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He needs to be strong for you, even if you donât know who he is. âYou were in a car accident,â he explains gently. âYou hit your head pretty badly. The doctors said there might be some memory loss, but ... I didnât think ...â
His voice trails off as he sees tears welling up in your eyes. âIâm scared,â you whisper. âI donât remember the accident. I donât remember coming here. I donât even know what day it is.â
Max instinctively reaches out to comfort you, but stops himself, realizing his touch might not be welcome. âItâs okay to be scared,â he says softly. âBut youâre not alone. Iâm here for you, even if you donât remember me right now.â
A nurse enters the room, breaking the tension. She smiles warmly at you. âItâs good to see you awake. How are you feeling?â
You turn to her, relief evident in your voice. âEverything hurts and Iâm so confused. I canât remember anything.â
The nurse nods sympathetically. âThatâs not uncommon with head injuries. Try not to worry too much. Your memories may come back gradually as the swelling in your brain goes down.â
Max interjects, his voice tight with worry. âBut she will remember, right? This isnât ... permanent?â
The nurseâs expression turns cautious. âEvery case is different. Weâll need to run some more tests now that sheâs awake. The neurologist will be by soon to evaluate her.â
Max nods numbly, feeling like heâs trapped in a nightmare he canât wake up from. The nurse checks your vitals and adjusts your medication before leaving the room.
An uncomfortable silence falls. You fidget with the edge of your blanket, avoiding Maxâs gaze. âSo ... weâre together?â You ask hesitantly.
Max nods, a sad smile tugging at his lips. âYeah, for almost two years now. We live together in Monaco.â
Your eyes widen. âMonaco? But Iâm ... Iâm not rich. At least, I donât think I am.â
Despite everything, Max canât help but chuckle. âNo, but I am. Iâm a Formula 1 driver. Thatâs why we were here in the Netherlands. Itâs race weekend, and you were coming to watch me practice.â
You shake your head in disbelief. âThis is so strange. Itâs like youâre talking about someone elseâs life. I canât imagine dating a famous race car driver.â
Maxâs heart clenches at your words. He pulls out his phone, scrolling through photos. âHere,â he says, holding it out to you. âMaybe these will help jog your memory.â
You take the phone hesitantly, swiping through picture after picture of the two of you together. At the beach, at fancy galas, cuddled up on the couch. In every photo, you both look blissfully happy.
âWe look ... so in love,â you murmur, your brow furrowed in concentration.
âWe are,â Max says softly. âOr at least, we were. I still am.â
You hand the phone back, your expression troubled. âIâm sorry. I wish I could remember. You seem like a really nice guy, and clearly we had something special, but ... itâs all blank.â
Max swallows hard, fighting back tears. âItâs okay. Itâs not your fault. Weâll figure this out together, I promise.â
Just then, a doctor enters the room. âAh, good to see you awake,â he says briskly. âIâm Dr. Smeets, the neurologist on your case. How are you feeling?â
You explain your symptoms and memory loss while the doctor makes notes. Max hovers anxiously in the background, hanging on every word.
âWell,â Dr. Smeets says finally, âthe good news is that your physical injuries are progressing nicely. The memory loss is concerning, but not entirely unexpected given the trauma to your brain.â
âWill she get her memories back?â Max asks, unable to keep the desperation from his voice.
The doctorâs expression is guarded. âItâs impossible to say for certain. Retrograde amnesia can be unpredictable. Sometimes memories return quickly, sometimes it takes months or even years. And in some cases ...â
âSome cases what?â Max presses.
Dr. Smeets sighs. âIn some cases, the memories never fully return. But,â he adds quickly, seeing the stricken look on Maxâs face, âthatâs relatively rare. The best thing you can do is be patient. Surround her with familiar people and places. Sometimes sensory triggers can help unlock memories.â
Max nods, clinging to that small hope. âThank you, doctor. Whatâs the next step?â
âWeâll keep her here for observation for a few more days, run some more tests. After that, assuming there are no complications, she can be discharged to recover at home.â
After the doctor leaves, Max turns to you with forced cheerfulness. âSee? Thatâs good news. Youâll be out of here soon, and then we can go home and work on getting your memories back.â
You shift uncomfortably. âI donât know if Iâm ready for that. Going ... home with you. I mean, you seem great, but youâre still a stranger to me.â
Max feels like heâs been punched in the gut, but he forces himself to nod. âOf course. I understand. Weâll figure something out. Maybe you can stay with your parents for a while?â
You nod, looking relieved. âThat sounds better. I remember my parents, at least.â
An awkward silence falls. Max clears his throat. âDo you want me to call them?â
âWould you mind? I donât even know where my phone is.â
Max steps out into the hallway to make the call, grateful for a moment to collect himself. When he returns, youâre looking out the window, lost in thought.
âTheyâre on their way,â Max says softly. âTheyâll be here in a few hours.â
You turn to him, your expression softening slightly. âThank you. You didnât have to do that.â
Max shrugs. âOf course I did. I care about you, even if you donât remember that right now.â
You study him for a long moment. âCan you ... can you tell me about us? How we met, what our life is like? Maybe itâll help bring something back.â
Maxâs heart leaps at the request. He pulls a chair closer to your bed and begins to talk, recounting the story of your relationship. How you met at a charity event, how nervous he was to ask you out, your first date at a little Italian restaurant in Monaco.
As he speaks, you listen intently, searching your mind for any flicker of recognition. But the memories remain frustratingly out of reach, like trying to grasp smoke.
âIâm sorry,â you say finally, interrupting his story about your first vacation together. âNone of this is ringing any bells. It all sounds wonderful, but ... itâs like youâre talking about someone elseâs life.â
Max tries to hide his disappointment. âItâs okay. The doctor said it might take time. We just have to be patient.â
You nod, but your expression is troubled. âWhat if ... what if I never remember? What if these memories are just gone forever?â
Max takes a deep breath, steeling himself. âThen weâll make new ones,â he says firmly. âI love you, Y/N. That hasnât changed. If I have to make you fall in love with me all over again, I will.â
You look at him, a mix of emotions playing across your face. âThatâs ... thatâs incredibly sweet. But what if Iâm not the same person anymore? What if the me you fell in love with is gone?â
Max shakes his head vehemently. âThatâs not possible. Youâre still you, even if you canât remember everything right now. The core of who you are, that hasnât changed. I know it.â
You donât look convinced, but you offer him a small smile. âI hope youâre right.â
Just then, a commotion in the hallway catches their attention. Your parents burst into the room, faces etched with worry.
âOh, sweetheart!â Your mother cries, rushing to your bedside. âWe were so worried!â
Your face lights up with recognition. âMom! Dad!â You exclaim, reaching out to hug them.
Max steps back, giving your family space for their reunion. He watches with a mixture of relief and jealousy as you interact easily with your parents, the rapport between you unchanged by your memory loss.
After a few minutes, your father turns to Max. âThank you for calling us, and for being here with her.â
Max nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. âOf course. I wouldnât be anywhere else.â
Your mother looks between Max and you, sensing the tension. âIs everything okay?â
You bite your lip, looking uncomfortable. âMom, I-I canât remember Max. Or anything about our relationship. The doctor says I have amnesia from the accident.â
Your parents exchange worried glances. Your father puts a comforting hand on Maxâs shoulder. âIâm so sorry, son. This must be incredibly difficult for you both.â
Max nods, not trusting himself to speak. Your mother turns to you. âBut surely you remember something? You and Max have been so happy together.â
You shake your head sadly. âIâm trying, but itâs all blank. Iâm sorry.â
An awkward silence falls over the room. Finally, your father clears his throat. âWell, the important thing is that youâre going to be okay. Weâll figure out the rest as we go.â
Max nods in agreement, but inside, heâs screaming. How can he just stand by and watch as the love of his life slips away? But he knows he has to be patient, to give you space to heal and hopefully remember.
âI should probably go,â he says reluctantly. âLet you have some time with your family.â
You nod, looking relieved. âThank you for staying with me. And for ... for everything.â
Max forces a smile. âOf course. Iâll be back tomorrow, if thatâs okay?â
You hesitate for a moment before nodding. âYeah, thatâs fine. Maybe ... maybe you can bring some more photos? Or videos? Something that might help trigger my memory?â
Maxâs heart swells with hope. âAbsolutely. Iâll bring everything I can think of.â
As he turns to leave, you call out softly. âMax?â
He turns back, his breath catching in his throat. âYeah?â
You give him a small, uncertain smile. âIâm glad I have someone like you in my life. Even if I canât remember it right now.â
Max blinks back tears as he nods. âAlways,â he whispers. âIâm always here for you.â
***
Max trudges into his hotel suite, the weight of the day pressing down on him like a physical force. He closes the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment, eyes closed, trying to steady his breathing. The room is dark and quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos of emotions swirling inside him.
He fumbles for the light switch, wincing as the bright overhead lights flicker on. The suite feels cavernous and empty without you here. Your suitcase sits untouched in the corner, a painful reminder of the plans youâd made for this weekend.
Maxâs phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, seeing a flood of missed calls and messages. His team, his family, the media â all clamoring for information, for his attention. He canât deal with any of it right now.
With trembling hands, he switches off his phone and tosses it onto the bed. He paces the room, energy thrumming through his body with nowhere to go. He should shower, should eat something, should call his manager and figure out what to do about the race weekend. But he canât bring himself to do any of it.
Instead, he finds himself drawn to your suitcase. He kneels beside it, running his hand over the familiar fabric. Slowly, almost reverently, he unzips it. Your neatly folded clothes, your favorite perfume, the book youâd been reading on the plane â all these little pieces of you, reminders of the life you shared.
Max pulls out one of your sweaters, burying his face in the soft material. It still smells like you. And suddenly, the dam breaks.
A sob tears from his throat, raw and primal. Tears heâs held back for years, through every hardship and setback, finally break free. Max crumples to the floor, clutching your sweater to his chest as he weeps.
âWhy?â He chokes out between sobs. âWhy her? Why us?â
The tears keep coming, relentless. Max cries for the pain youâre in, for the memories youâve lost, for the future that suddenly seems so uncertain. He cries for the little boy who was left alone at a gas station, for the young man who walked away from a horrific crash. He cries for every emotion heâs ever pushed down, every vulnerability heâs hidden behind a mask of determination and focus.
Through his tears, he hears a knock at the door. He ignores it, unable to face anyone right now. But the knocking persists, followed by a familiar voice.
âMax? Itâs me. Open up, mate.â
Max considers pretending heâs not here, but he knows Daniel wonât give up easily.bWiping his face on his sleeve, Max staggers to his feet and opens the door. Daniel takes one look at his tear-stained face and immediately pulls him into a tight hug.
âOh, mate,â Daniel says softly. âI just heard. Iâm so sorry.â
Max breaks down again, sobbing into Danielâs shoulder. Daniel doesnât say anything, just holds him tightly, letting him cry it out.
Finally, Max pulls away, embarrassed. âSorry,â he mutters, wiping his eyes. âI donât know whatâs wrong with me.â
Daniel steers him towards the couch, closing the door behind them. âNothingâs wrong with you, Max. Youâre hurting. Itâs okay to let it out.â
Max collapses onto the couch, feeling utterly drained. Daniel sits beside him, his usual joking demeanor replaced by genuine concern.
âTalk to me,â Daniel urges gently. âWhat happened?â
Max takes a shuddering breath. âShe doesnât remember me. She looked right at me and had no idea who I was. Itâs like ... itâs like the last two years never happened for her.â
Daniel winces in sympathy. âThatâs rough, mate. But the doctors think itâs temporary, right?â
Max shrugs helplessly. âThey donât know. It might come back, it might not. And even if it does, how long will it take? Weeks? Months? Years?â
âAnd youâre worried she wonât fall for you again,â Daniel says softly, understanding dawning on his face.
Max nods miserably. âWhat if she doesnât? What if the girl I fell in love with is just ... gone? I donât know how to do this. I donât know how to be around her when she doesnât even know me.â
Daniel is quiet for a moment, considering. âYou know,â he says finally, âwhen I first met Y/N, I thought you were crazy.â
Max looks up, confused. âWhat do you mean?â
Daniel grins. âCome on, mate. Mad Max settling down with a normal girl? I thought for sure it was just a phase, that youâd get bored and move on to the next model or whatever.â
Max bristles slightly. âY/Nâs not just some normal girl. Sheâs-â
âI know, I know,â Daniel interrupts, holding up his hands. âThatâs my point. It didnât take long for me to see how special she is, and how perfect you two are together. You bring out the best in each other. That connection, that spark â itâs still there, Max. Even if she canât remember it right now.â
Max shakes his head. âYou donât understand. You didnât see her in that hospital bed, looking at me like I was a total stranger. It was like ... like everything we had just disappeared in an instant.â
Daniel leans forward, his expression serious. âListen to me. The memories might be gone for now, but the feelings? The connection you two have? That doesnât just disappear. Itâs still there, buried deep inside her. You just have to be patient and give her time to find it again.â
Max wants to believe him, but doubt gnaws at his heart. âWhat if she doesnât want to? What if she decides sheâs better off without me?â
Daniel scoffs. âNot a chance, mate. Youâre Max fucking Verstappen. What girl wouldnât want you?â
The joke falls flat. Max just stares at the floor, shoulders slumped. Daniel sighs, realizing humor isnât the answer right now.
âLook,â he says softly, âI know youâre scared. But think about it this way â youâve been given a chance to fall in love all over again. To experience all those firsts one more time. Itâs not ideal, sure, but itâs not the end of the world either.â
Max looks up, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. âYou really think she could fall for me again?â
Daniel grins. âAre you kidding? She fell for you once when you were an arrogant little shit. Now that youâre slightly less of an arrogant little shit, it should be a piece of cake.â
Despite everything, Max finds himself chuckling. âThanks, asshole.â
Danielâs expression turns serious again. âI mean it, though. You canât give up. Y/N needs you now more than ever, even if she doesnât realize it. You have to be strong for her.â
Max nods slowly. âI know. I just ... I donât know how to do this. How to be around her when she doesnât know me. When she looks at me like Iâm a stranger.â
Daniel considers this for a moment. âMaybe thatâs your advantage. You get to introduce yourself to her all over again. Show her the Max that she fell in love with in the first place.â
Max mulls this over. âI guess ... I guess that could work. But what if I screw it up? What if I say or do the wrong thing and push her away?â
Daniel claps him on the shoulder. âThatâs where your friends come in. Weâve got your back. Whatever you need, weâre here for you. Both of you.â
For the first time since the accident, Max feels a spark of genuine hope. âThanks. Really. I donât know what Iâd do without you guys.â
Daniel grins. âProbably crash and burn spectacularly. But thatâs why we keep you around â youâre entertaining.â
Max rolls his eyes, but heâs smiling now. âSeriously, though. How do I do this? How do I help her remember without overwhelming her?â
Daniel thinks for a moment. âStart small. Donât dump your whole history on her at once. Share little stories, show her pictures. Let her get to know you again naturally. And most importantly, be patient. This isnât a race you can win by pushing harder. Itâs a marathon, not a sprint.â
Max nods, feeling a sense of determination replacing his earlier despair. âYouâre right. I can do this. I have to do this. For her.â
Daniel smiles, seeing the familiar fire returning to his friendâs eyes. âThatâs the Max I know. Now, have you eaten anything? Because Iâm starving, and room service is calling my name.â
Max realizes he hasnât eaten since breakfast. âFood sounds good,â he admits.
As Daniel picks up the phone to order, Maxâs thoughts turn to you. He imagines you in that hospital bed, scared and confused. He makes a silent promise to himself, and to you, that heâll do whatever it takes to help you remember. And if you canât remember, heâll make new memories with you, ones just as beautiful as the ones youâve lost.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of food, conversation, and planning. Daniel helps Max sort through the flood of messages on his phone, crafting responses to his team and family. They decide that Max will skip the rest of the race weekend â his mind isnât in the right place to drive safely, and you need him more than the team does right now.
As the night wears on, Daniel eventually leaves, extracting a promise from Max to call if he needs anything. Left alone, Max finds himself drawn once again to your suitcase. This time, instead of breaking down, he begins to pack a bag.
Photos, mementos, little things that might spark a memory â he carefully selects items to bring to the hospital tomorrow. As he works, he talks to you in his mind, imagining what heâll say when he sees you again.
âI know youâre scared,â he murmurs, folding one of your favorite hoodies. âIâm scared too. But weâre going to get through this together. Iâm not giving up on us, Y/N. Not now, not ever.â
As he zips up the bag, Max feels a renewed sense of purpose. The road ahead wonât be easy, but heâs ready to face it. Because at the end of that road is you, and a love worth fighting for.
Max crawls into bed, exhausted but no longer despairing. As he drifts off to sleep, his last thought is of you. Of your smile, your laugh, the way your eyes light up when you look at him. He holds onto these memories, these precious fragments of your life together, knowing that somehow, someway, heâll find a way to share them with you again.
Tomorrow is a new day, a new chance to help you remember. And Max Verstappen has never been one to back down from a challenge.
***
The sun is barely peeking over the horizon as Max makes his way through the quiet hospital corridors. His footsteps echo in the empty hallway, the bag slung over his shoulder feeling heavier with each step. Inside are the stuffed versions of Jimmy and Sassy, and your favorite hoodie âhis hoodie, really, but youâve claimed it as your own.
As he approaches your room, Max takes a deep breath, steeling himself. He knocks softly before entering, not wanting to startle you if youâre asleep.
Youâre awake, sitting up in bed and staring out the window. When you turn to look at him, thereâs a flicker of recognition in your eyes, but itâs followed quickly by confusion.
âMax, right?â You say hesitantly.
Max forces a smile, trying to hide the pain those words cause. âThatâs right. How are you feeling this morning?â
You shrug, wincing slightly at the movement. âSore. Confused. But the doctors say Iâm healing well, physically at least.â
Max nods, moving closer to the bed. âThatâs good. I, uh, I brought some things for you. I thought they might help make you more comfortable.â
You eye the bag curiously. âOh? Thatâs ... thatâs very kind of you.â
Max sets the bag on the bed and starts unpacking. First, he pulls out the stuffed cats. âThese are Jimmy and Sassy,â he explains. âWell, stuffed versions of them. Theyâre our cats. You canât travel without these because you miss the real ones so much.â
Your eyes light up as you reach for the stuffed animals. âWe have cats? I love cats!â
Max chuckles, a warmth spreading through his chest at your enthusiasm. âYeah, two Bengal cats. Theyâre like little troublemakers, always getting into mischief. You adore them.â
You hug the stuffed cats close, a small smile playing on your lips. âTell me about them?â
Max sits in the chair beside your bed, grateful for the opening. âWell, Jimmy is the older one. Heâs very dignified, or at least he tries to be. But he has a weakness for cardboard boxes. No matter how expensive a cat bed we buy him, he always prefers a random Amazon box.â
You giggle at that, and the sound is like music to Maxâs ears. He continues, âSassy is younger and true to her name. Sheâs always chattering away, meowing at us like sheâs telling us about her day. And she has this thing for water âsheâll sit by the sink for hours, just watching the faucet drip.â
âThey sound wonderful,â you say softly, stroking the stuffed catsâ fur. âI wish I could remember them.â
Max reaches into the bag again. âMaybe this will help,â he says, pulling out the hoodie. âThis is your favorite thing to wear around the house. Well, my hoodie that youâve completely taken over.â
You take the hoodie, running your hands over the soft fabric. You bring it to your face, inhaling deeply, and for a moment, Maxâs heart soars with hope. But then you shake your head.
âIt smells ... familiar,â you say slowly. âBut I canât place it. Iâm sorry.â
Max tries to hide his disappointment. âItâs okay. Donât push yourself. The doctors said it might take time.â
You nod, but he can see the frustration in your eyes. âItâs just so strange,â you murmur. âI know things, like I know I love cats, but I canât remember our cats. I know this hoodie is important, but I canât remember why.â
Max leans forward, his voice gentle. âHey, itâs okay. Youâve been through a lot. Give yourself time to heal.â
You look at him, really look at him, for the first time since he entered the room. âYouâre being so patient with me. It must be hard for you, seeing me like this.â
Max swallows hard, fighting back tears. âItâs not easy,â he admits. âBut youâre worth it. Weâre worth it.â
A comfortable silence falls between you. You pull on the hoodie, snuggling into its warmth. âSo,â you say after a while, âtell me more about us. How did we meet?â
Maxâs face lights up at the question. âIt was at a charity gala in Monaco,â he begins. âI was there representing the team and you were there with some friends. I saw you across the room and ... I couldnât take my eyes off you.â
You raise an eyebrow, a hint of a smile on your lips. âOh really? Was it love at first sight?â
Max chuckles. âMore like anxiety at first sight for me. I was so nervous to talk to you. I must have circled the room three times before I worked up the courage to approach you.â
âYou? Nervous?â You say, sounding surprised. âBut youâre a famous racing driver. Surely youâre used to talking to people.â
Max shrugs. âOn the track, sure. But off it? Especially with beautiful women? Iâm a disaster. But something about you ... I knew Iâd regret it if I didnât at least try to talk to you.â
You lean back against your pillows, looking intrigued. âSo what happened? Did you sweep me off my feet with your charm?â
Max bursts out laughing. âGod, no. I was a complete mess. I walked up to you, tried to say something smooth, and ended up knocking over a tray of champagne glasses. Drenched myself and nearly you too.â
Your eyes widen. âOh no! That sounds mortifying.â
âIt was,â Max agrees. âI was ready to run away and hide forever. But then you did something amazing. Instead of being upset or embarrassed, you started laughing. Not at me, but with me. You helped me clean up, made a joke about how I was smoother on the track than off it, and then ... you asked me to dance.â
You smile at that. âI did? That was brave of me.â
Max nods, his eyes soft with the memory. âIt was. You later told me you thought I was cute when I was flustered. We danced for hours that night, talking about everything and nothing. By the end of the evening, I knew I wanted to see you again.â
âAnd the rest is history?â You ask.
âNot quite,â Max says with a grin. âI still had to convince you to go on a proper date with me. And let me tell you, dating a Formula 1 driver isnât always easy. But we made it work. Weâve been together for two years now, living in Monaco.â
You absorb this information, your brow furrowed in concentration. âIt sounds like a fairytale,â you say softly. âI wish I could remember it.â
Max reaches out, hesitating for a moment before gently taking your hand. To his relief, you donât pull away. âYou will,â he says firmly. âAnd if you donât, weâll make new memories. Even better ones.â
You squeeze his hand, offering a small smile. âYou really believe that, donât you?â
âI do,â Max says without hesitation. âBecause I know you, Y/N. Even if you canât remember right now, I know the person you are. Your kindness, your strength, your incredible spirit. That hasnât changed. Itâs still there, inside you.â
Tears well up in your eyes. âI want to believe you,â you whisper. âBut itâs so hard. Everything feels so ... disconnected. Like Iâm living someone elseâs life.â
Max moves to sit on the edge of the bed, still holding your hand. âI know itâs scary,â he says softly. âBut youâre not alone in this. Iâm here, your familyâs here. Weâll help you through it, step by step.â
You nod, wiping away a stray tear. âThank you. For being here, for bringing these things. It means a lot.â
Max smiles, his heart swelling with love for you. âAlways. Iâll always be here for you, Y/N. No matter what.â
Just then, a nurse enters the room. âGood morning,â she says cheerfully. âHow are we feeling today?â
You turn to her, still clutching the stuffed cats. âA bit better, I think. Max brought me some things from home.â
The nurse smiles approvingly. âThatâs wonderful. Familiar objects can often help in recovery. Now, Iâm afraid Iâll have to ask you to step out for a bit,â she says to Max. âWe need to run some tests and change some dressings.â
Max nods, standing up reluctantly. âOf course. Iâll be back later, if thatâs okay?â he asks, looking at you.
You nod, offering a small smile. âIâd like that. Maybe ... maybe you could bring some more things next time? Anything that might help jog my memory?â
Maxâs heart leaps at the request. âAbsolutely. Iâll bring whatever I can think of.â
As he turns to leave, you call out softly. âMax?â
He turns back, his breath catching in his throat. âYeah?â
âThank you,â you say simply. âFor not giving up on me.â
Max feels tears pricking at his eyes. âNever,â he says firmly. âIâll never give up on you, Y/N. On us.â
As he walks out of the hospital into the bright morning sunshine, Max feels a renewed sense of hope. It wonât be easy, and the road ahead is still long and uncertain. But youâre still you, still the woman he fell in love with. And heâll do whatever it takes to help you find your way back to him.
He pulls out his phone, sending a quick message to his team. He wonât be racing this weekend, or perhaps for a while. Some things are more important than Formula 1. Right now, his place is here, by your side, helping you piece together the memories of your life together.
***
The press room is buzzing with anticipation as Max takes his seat at the table. Cameras flash incessantly and the murmur of journalists speculating grows louder. Maxâs face is a mask of calm, but inside, heâs a storm of emotions.
His manager, Raymond, leans in close before stepping away. âRemember, keep it brief. No details about Y/N unless absolutely necessary.â
Max nods curtly, his jaw clenched. The past few days have been a whirlwind of hospital visits, tense conversations with the team, and now this â facing the media to explain his decision to step away from racing.
The room falls silent as the press conference begins. A Red Bull spokesperson steps up to the microphone.
âGood afternoon, everyone. As you know, Max Verstappen has announced his decision to take a leave of absence from Formula 1 for an undetermined period. Max will now take your questions.â
The room erupts with raised hands and shouted questions. Max points to a familiar face in the front row.
âMax, can you explain the reasoning behind this sudden decision? Youâre in the midst of a tight championship battle. Why step away now?â
Max takes a deep breath. âI understand this comes as a surprise to many. There are personal matters that require my full attention right now. I canât go into details, but I assure you, this decision wasnât made lightly.â
Another journalist jumps in before he can choose the next question. âBut surely these personal matters could be handled while continuing to race? Many drivers balance personal issues with their careers.â
Max feels a flicker of irritation. âEvery situation is unique. In this case, I need to step away completely. My focus canât be divided right now.â
The questions keep coming, each one chipping away at Maxâs patience.
âIs this related to your recent performance dip?â
âAre there issues within the team we donât know about?â
âSome fans are accusing you of abandoning the sport. What do you say to them?â
Max answers each as calmly as he can, but he can feel his control slipping. Then, a question from the back of the room ignites the powder keg.
âMax, there are rumors that this is about a woman. Have you let a relationship interfere with your career?â
The room falls silent, all eyes on Max. He grips the edge of the table, knuckles white. For a moment, he considers sticking to the script, giving another vague non-answer. But something inside him snaps.
âYou want to know the truth?â He says, his voice low and intense. âFine. Iâll tell you.â
Raymond steps forward, a warning in his eyes, but Max waves him off.
âMy girlfriend was in a serious car accident,â Max continues, his voice growing louder. âSheâs in the hospital with severe injuries and memory loss. She doesnât even remember who I am.â
The room erupts in gasps and furious scribbling. Max stands, leaning forward on the table.
âSo yes, Iâm stepping away from racing. Because the woman I love needs me. Because some things are more important than trophies or championship points.â
Heâs shouting now, years of pent-up frustration with the media pouring out.
âYou all sit here and judge me, speculate about my personal life, accuse me of abandoning the sport. But where were you when I was a kid, pushed to the limit by a demanding father? Where were you when I was struggling with the pressure of being the youngest driver in F1 history?â
The room is dead silent now, every journalist hanging on his words.
âIâve given everything to this sport. Iâve sacrificed friendships, relationships, a normal life. And now, the one time I need to put something else first, you question my commitment?â
Maxâs voice breaks slightly, but he pushes on.
âY/N is fighting for her life, fighting to remember who she is. Who we are together. And you want me to, what? Leave her alone in a hospital room while I zip around a track?â
He looks around the room, meeting the shocked gazes of the journalists.
âSo go ahead. Write your stories. Question my decisions. But know this â I donât regret my choice. Not for a second. Because at the end of the day, the chequered flag wonât keep me warm at night. It wonât laugh at my jokes or hold my hand when Iâm stressed.â
Max takes a deep breath, his anger giving way to a deep sadness.
âI love racing. Itâs been my whole life. But I love Y/N more. And right now, she needs me. So Iâm going to be there for her, every step of the way, until sheâs better. Until she remembers us.â
He sits back down, suddenly drained. The room is still silent, the journalists too stunned to even raise their hands for questions.
Finally, a older journalist in the front row clears his throat. âMax, I ... we had no idea. Iâm so sorry about Y/N. Can you tell us more about her condition?â
Max shakes his head, his voice softer now. âIâve already said more than I planned to. Y/Nâs privacy is important to me. All Iâll say is that sheâs fighting hard, and Iâm going to be right there with her.â
Another journalist speaks up. âYou mentioned Y/N doesnât remember you. How are you coping with that?â
Max runs a hand through his hair, considering his words carefully. âItâs ... itâs the hardest thing Iâve ever faced. Harder than any race, any championship battle. To look into the eyes of the person you love most in the world and see no recognition ... itâs gut-wrenching.â
He pauses, swallowing hard. âBut Iâm not giving up. Iâm fighting for us, for our memories, for our future. Even if I have to make her fall in love with me all over again.â
The mood in the room has shifted completely. Gone is the adversarial tension, replaced by a somber understanding.
âWhat can fans do to support you during this time?â Another journalist asks.
Max manages a small smile. âJust ... be patient. Understand that there are things more important than racing. And maybe, if youâre the praying type, keep Y/N in your thoughts.â
The Red Bull spokesperson steps forward, signaling the end of the conference. But Max holds up a hand, not quite finished.
âI want to say one more thing,â he says, his voice steady. âTo any of you out there who might be going through something similar â donât be afraid to step back. Donât let anyone make you feel guilty for putting your loved ones first. At the end of the day, thatâs what really matters.â
With that, Max stands and walks out of the room, leaving a stunned silence in his wake. As soon as heâs out of sight of the cameras, he leans against a wall, emotions overwhelming him.
Raymond approaches cautiously. âThat ... didnât go quite as planned.â
Max lets out a humorless laugh. âNo, I suppose it didnât.â
âYou okay?â Raymond asks, genuine concern in his voice.
Max nods slowly. âYeah. Yeah, I think I am. It feels ... good to have it out there. No more hiding, no more vague excuses.â
Raymond squeezes his shoulder. âYou did good, kid. It wonât be easy, but people will understand now.â
Maxâs phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out to see a flood of messages â from his team, his family, even other drivers. But one catches his eye â a text from your mom.
âJust saw the press conference. Y/N would be so proud of you. We all are. Come by the hospital when you can. Sheâs asking for you.â
Despite everything, Max feels a smile tugging at his lips. He turns to Raymond. âIâve got to go. Y/Nâs waiting.â
Raymond nods understandingly. âGo. Weâll handle things here. Give her our best.â
As Max walks out of the building, heâs greeted by a small crowd of fans. But instead of the anger or disappointment he expected, he sees understanding and support in their faces. Many are holding haphazardly thrown together signs with messages of encouragement for both him and you.
One young girl breaks away from her parents, running up to Max with a hand-drawn card. âThis is for Y/N,â she says shyly. âI hope she gets better soon.â
Max kneels down, taking the card with a genuine smile. âThank you. Iâll make sure she gets it.â
As he stands, the crowd starts to applaud. Itâs not the roar of a race victory, but a softer, more meaningful sound. The sound of people recognizing a different kind of strength, a different kind of victory.
Max raises a hand in acknowledgment before getting into his waiting car. As the driver pulls away, he looks at the card in his hands. Itâs a simple drawing of two stick figures holding hands, with the words âGet well soon Y/N! Max loves you â¤ď¸â written in childish scrawl.
For the first time in days, Max feels a weight lift from his shoulders. The road ahead is still long and uncertain, but heâs not alone. He has the support of his team, his fans, and most importantly, he has you â even if you canât remember him yet.
As the car speeds towards the hospital, Max makes a silent promise. To you, to himself, to everyone whoâs supporting them. Heâll face this challenge with the same determination and focus he brings to the track. Because this is the most important race of his life â the race to help you remember, to rebuild your life together.
And Max Verstappen doesnât lose races that matter.
***
Max stands outside your hospital room, the handmade card clutched in his hand. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself before knocking softly and entering.
Youâre sitting up in bed, looking more alert than heâs seen you since the accident. Your parents are there too, gathering your things in preparation for your discharge tomorrow.
âMax,â you say, a small smile gracing your lips. Itâs not the warm, loving smile heâs used to, but itâs a start. âWe saw your press conference.â
Max feels a flush creep up his neck. âAh, yeah. I, uh, might have gotten a bit carried away.â
Your mother steps forward, enveloping him in a hug. âYou were wonderful, dear. So brave and honest.â
âThanks,â Max mumbles, still not entirely comfortable with praise outside of racing. He turns his attention back to you. âHow are you feeling today?â
You shrug slightly. âBetter, I think. Still ... confused about a lot of things. But the pain is less.â
Max nods, moving closer to your bed. âThatâs good. I, uh, I have something for you.â He holds out the card. âA young fan made this for you after the press conference.â
You take the card, examining the childish drawing with a soft expression. âGet well soon Y/N! Max loves you!â You read aloud. Your eyes flick up to meet his. âThatâs ... very sweet.â
Max shifts uncomfortably, unsure how to respond. Your father, sensing the tension, clears his throat. âWeâre going to go get some coffee. Give you two some time to talk.â
As your parents leave the room, an awkward silence falls. Max takes a seat in the chair beside your bed, fidgeting with his hands.
âSo,â you say finally, âyouâre taking time off from racing. For me.â
Max nods. âYeah. I hope thatâs okay. I know you donât ... remember us. But I want to be here for you, however you need me to be.â
Youâre quiet for a moment, considering his words. âItâs a lot of pressure,â you admit softly. âKnowing someoneâs put their whole life on hold for me.â
Max leans forward, his eyes intense. âHey, no. Donât think of it like that. This isnât a sacrifice or an obligation. Itâs a choice. My choice.â
You nod slowly, but he can see the doubt in your eyes. âTell me something,â you say suddenly. âSomething about us. Something ... happy.â
Max feels a smile tugging at his lips as he casts his mind back. âOkay, how about this? Last year, after I won the championship, we took a vacation. Just the two of us, no teams, no press, no obligations.â
âWhere did we go?â You ask, curiosity piqued.
âBali,â Max says, his eyes lighting up with the memory. âWe rented this amazing villa right on the beach. You were determined to teach me how to surf.â
A small giggle escapes you. âDid I succeed?â
Max chuckles. âNot even close. I spent more time eating sand than standing on the board. But you were so patient, so encouraging. Even when I was frustrated and ready to give up, you just ... you made it fun.â
âSounds nice,â you say softly.
âIt was more than nice,â Max continues, warming to the subject. âOne evening, we were sitting on the beach watching the sunset.â He pauses, swallowing hard. âI realized all the trophies, all the victories ... they didnât compare to just being there with you, watching the sun sink into the ocean.â
Youâre quiet for a long moment, absorbing his words. âWe sound ... very happy together,â you say finally.
Max nods, blinking back tears. âWe are. We were. We will be again.â
You reach out hesitantly, taking his hand. Itâs the first time youâve initiated contact since the accident, and Max feels his heart soar.
âIâm scared,â you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. âIâm being discharged tomorrow, and I donât ... I donât know where I belong anymore.â
Max squeezes your hand gently. âYou belong wherever you feel comfortable. If thatâs with your parents for now, thatâs okay. If you want to try coming home with me, thatâs okay too. Thereâs no pressure, no expectations. Weâll figure this out together, at your pace.â
You nod, looking grateful. âThank you. For being so understanding. I know this canât be easy for you either.â
Max shrugs. âItâs not. But youâre worth it. Weâre worth it.â
A comfortable silence falls between you. Max is content to just sit there, holding your hand, savoring this small connection.
After a while, you speak again. âCan you tell me more? About our life together?â
Maxâs face lights up. âOf course. What do you want to know?â
You consider for a moment. âWhatâs a typical day like for us? When youâre not racing, I mean.â
Max leans back in his chair, a fond smile on his face. âWell, youâre definitely the early riser between us. You usually get up first, make coffee. Sometimes you go for a run or do yoga on the balcony.â
âI do yoga?â You ask, sounding surprised.
Max chuckles. âYeah, you got into it as a way to help me relax between races. Said if it could calm me down, it could work miracles for anyone.â
You laugh at that, a genuine, full laugh that makes Maxâs heart skip a beat. Itâs the first time heâs heard that sound since the accident.
âAnyway,â he continues, âI usually drag myself out of bed when I smell the coffee. We have breakfast together, usually something healthy that you insist I need.â
âSounds like I take good care of you,â you observe.
Max nods, his expression softening. âYou do. Better than anyone ever has.â
âWhat else?â You prompt, clearly engrossed in the story of your shared life.
âWell, if Iâm training, you often come to the gym with me. You say itâs to support me, but I think you just like ogling me when I lift weights.â
You swat his arm playfully, a faint blush coloring your cheeks. âI do not!â
Max grins, delighted by this glimpse of your old dynamic. âOh, you absolutely do. Not that I mind. I return the favor when youâre doing your yoga.â
You roll your eyes, but youâre smiling. âWhat else do we do?â
âWe cook together a lot,â Max says. âOr rather, you cook and I try not to burn the kitchen down. Youâre teaching me, slowly but surely. We have this tradition of trying to recreate dishes from all the countries I race in.â
âThat sounds fun,â you say, a wistful note in your voice. âDo we have a favorite?â
Max thinks for a moment. âThereâs this amazing pasta dish we perfected after the Italian Grand Prix. You said it was better than sex.â
Your eyes widen. âI did not!â
Max laughs. âYou absolutely did. Then you made me prove you wrong.â
You blush furiously, but youâre laughing too. âI canât believe I said that!â
âBelieve it,â Max says, grinning. âYouâre full of surprises, schatje. Itâs one of the things I love most about you.â
The word âloveâ hangs in the air between you. You grow quiet, your expression thoughtful.
âMax,â you say finally, âI want you to know ... Iâm trying. To remember. To ... to feel what you feel.â
Max squeezes your hand. âI know you are. And itâs okay if it takes time. Or if ... if you never feel exactly the same way. We can build something new, if we need to.â
You nod, looking relieved. âThank you. For understanding. For being patient.â
âAlways,â Max says softly.
Just then, your parents return, breaking the intimate moment. Your mother smiles warmly at the sight of your joined hands.
âEverything okay in here?â She asks.
You nod, offering a small smile. âYeah. Max was just telling me about our life together.â
Your father clears his throat. âSpeaking of which, we should probably discuss arrangements for after your discharge tomorrow.â
You tense slightly, and Max can feel your grip on his hand tighten. âRight,â you say, your voice uncertain.
Max jumps in. âY/N, remember what I said. Whatever youâre comfortable with. Thereâs no pressure.â
You nod gratefully. âI think ... I think Iâd like to stay with my parents for a bit. If thatâs okay?â You look at Max, worry in your eyes.
Max forces a smile, ignoring the pang in his heart. âOf course itâs okay. Whatever you need.â
Your mother steps forward. âMax, youâre welcome to visit anytime. We know how important you are to Y/N, even if she canât remember everything right now.â
Max nods, grateful for their understanding. âThank you. Iâd like that.â
As the conversation turns to logistics of your discharge, Max finds his mind wandering. Itâs not the outcome heâd hoped for, but he understands. You need time, space to heal and rediscover yourself. And heâll be there, every step of the way, however you need him.
As visiting hours come to an end and Max prepares to leave, you call out to him.
âMax?â
He turns back. âYeah?â
You hesitate for a moment, then say, âThank you. For everything. And ... Iâd like to hear more stories. About us. If thatâs okay.â
Max feels a warmth spread through his chest. Itâs not a declaration of love, not a magical recovery of memories. But itâs a start. A willingness to explore, to learn, to possibly fall in love all over again.
âAnytime,â he says softly. âIâve got plenty of stories to tell.â
***
The Monaco apartment feels cavernous and empty as Max pushes open the door. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the soft padding of paws as Jimmy and Sassy come to greet him. They meow insistently, weaving between his legs, clearly searching for someone who isnât there.
âI know,â Max murmurs, kneeling to scratch behind their ears. âI miss her too.â
He moves through the space, every corner filled with memories. Your favorite mug sits on the kitchen counter, lipstick stain still visible on the rim. A half-read book lies on the coffee table, your bookmark peeking out from the pages. Your scent lingers on the throw pillows on the couch.
Max sinks onto the sofa, and immediately, Jimmy jumps up beside him, headbutting his hand for attention. Sassy follows suit, curling up in his lap.
âAt least Iâve got you two,â Max says softly, stroking their fur. âBut itâs not the same, is it?â
He pulls out his phone, scrolling through photos of happier times. You and him on vacation, at race weekends, lazy Sundays at home. Your smile, so bright and full of love, now feels like a distant memory.
âCome on, Max,â he mutters to himself. âYou canât fall apart now. Y/N needs you to be strong.â
But in the quiet of the apartment, with only the cats for company, itâs hard to maintain that strength. For the first time since the accident, since the press conference, since leaving you at your parentsâ house, Max allows himself to truly feel the weight of everything thatâs happened.
A sob escapes him, then another. Soon, heâs crying in earnest, all the pent-up fear and frustration and loneliness pouring out. Jimmy and Sassy press closer, as if trying to comfort him.
âI donât know what to do,â Max confesses to the empty room. âHow do I help her remember? How do I make her fall in love with me again? What if ... what if she never does?â
The cats, of course, donât answer. But their presence is comforting, a reminder that heâs not entirely alone.
As his tears subside, Max takes a deep breath, trying to center himself. He needs to focus, to come up with a plan. You might not remember your life together, but he does. And heâs determined to help you rediscover it, piece by piece if necessary.
He stands, moving to the bookshelf where you keep photo albums. Maybe he could put together a scrapbook of your relationship, something tangible for you to look through. As he reaches for an album, his phone buzzes in his pocket.
His heart leaps when he sees your name on the screen. He answers immediately, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. âY/N? Is everything okay?â
âHi,â you say, and he can hear a note of confusion in your voice. âEverythingâs fine, I just ... this is going to sound weird, but I needed to ask you something.â
Max sits back down on the couch, curious. âOf course. What is it?â
You hesitate for a moment before speaking. âIâve been having these ... cravings. For food I donât remember ever eating before, much less liking. And I thought maybe ... maybe they mean something?â
Maxâs pulse quickens. Could this be a sign of your memories returning? âWhat kind of food?â He asks, trying to keep his voice neutral.
âTomato soup,â you say. âAnd beef carpaccio. I know it sounds strange, but I canât stop thinking about them. Do they ... do they mean anything to you?â
Max feels like his heart might burst out of his chest. âY/N,â he says softly, âthose are my favorite foods.â
âOh,â you breathe, and he can hear the surprise in your voice. âI ... I didnât know that.â
âThe tomato soup is something my mom used to make for me when I was a kid,â Max explains, his voice thick with emotion. âAnd the carpaccio ... that was what we had on our first real date in Monaco.â
Thereâs a long pause on the other end of the line. âI donât remember that,â you say finally, a note of frustration in your voice. âBut I can almost ... almost taste it, you know? Like my body remembers even if my mind doesnât.â
Max nods, even though you canât see him. âThatâs good, Y/N. Thatâs really good. It means the memories are still in there somewhere.â
âMaybe,â you say, sounding uncertain. âI just wish I could remember more. Itâs so frustrating, having all these ... these echoes of a life I canât quite grasp.â
âI know,â Max says soothingly. âBut this is progress. We just have to be patient.â
You sigh. âYouâre right. I just ... I feel bad, you know? Youâre being so patient and understanding, and I canât even remember our first date.â
Maxâs heart aches at the sadness in your voice. âHey, no. Donât feel bad. This isnât your fault. Weâre in this together, remember?â
âYeah,â you say softly. âTogether.â
Thereâs another pause, and Max can almost picture you biting your lip, the way you do when youâre thinking hard about something.
âMax?â You say finally. âCan you ... can you tell me about our first date? The one with the carpaccio?â
A smile spreads across Maxâs face. âOf course. It was about a week after we met at that charity gala. I was so nervous, I must have changed my shirt five times before picking you up.â
You laugh softly. âYou, nervous? I find that hard to believe.â
âBelieve it,â Max chuckles. âYou had me completely flustered. Still do, if Iâm honest.â
He launches into the story, describing how heâd taken you to a small, intimate restaurant overlooking the harbor. How youâd laughed at his attempts to pronounce the French dishes, how your eyes had lit up when you tasted the carpaccio.
âYou said it was the best thing youâd ever eaten,â Max recalls. âBut I barely tasted the food. I just couldnât believe someone as amazing as you was interested in me.â
âMax ...â you start, your voice soft and a bit uncertain.
âSorry,â he says quickly. âI donât mean to push. I know this is all still ... complicated.â
âNo, itâs okay,â you assure him. âI like hearing these stories. They help, even if I canât remember them myself yet.â
Max feels a warmth spread through his chest. âIâm glad. Iâve got plenty more where that came from, whenever you want to hear them.â
âIâd like that,â you say. âMaybe ... maybe next time we could do it in person? If youâre not too busy, I mean.â
âY/N,â Max says seriously, âIâm never too busy for you. Just name the time and place, and Iâll be there.â
You laugh softly. âCareful, I might hold you to that.â
âPlease do,â Max says, meaning every word.
As you say your goodbyes, Max feels lighter than he has in days. Itâs not a magical fix, not a sudden return of all your memories. But itâs progress. A willingness to explore, to learn, to possibly fall in love all over again.
An idea strikes him as he ends the call. He quickly pulls up a food delivery app on his phone, searching for restaurants near your parentsâ house. Finding one that offers both tomato soup and beef carpaccio, he places an order, adding a note.
A taste of our memories. Hope this helps satisfy those cravings - Max
As he completes the order, Max feels a surge of hope. Itâs a small gesture, but maybe it will help trigger more memories. Or at the very least, it will show you that heâs thinking of you, that heâs here for you in whatever way you need.
He looks around the apartment, seeing it with new eyes. Yes, itâs empty without you here. But itâs not a sad emptiness anymore. Itâs a space waiting to be filled again, with new memories alongside the old.
Max scratches Jimmy and Sassy behind the ears. âWhat do you think, guys? Should we start planning how to win your momâs heart all over again?â
The cats purr in response, and Max chuckles. âIâll take that as a yes.â
Even if you canât remember everything yet, your body remembers. Your heart remembers.
And Max is determined to help you rediscover every beautiful moment of your life together, one memory at a time. Starting with a bowl of tomato soup and a plate of beef carpaccio.
***
The shrill ring of his phone jolts Max awake. He fumbles for it in the darkness, heart racing as he sees the caller ID: your mother.
âHello?â He answers, voice thick with sleep but mind rapidly clearing.
âMax, Iâm so sorry to wake you,â your motherâs voice comes through, tense and worried. âItâs Y/N. She woke up about an hour ago and sheâs ... sheâs not okay.â
Max is already out of bed, fumbling for clothes. âWhatâs wrong? Is she hurt?â
âNo, no, nothing like that,â your mother assures him quickly. âSheâs just ... sheâs crying and she keeps saying she needs you. We canât calm her down. I know itâs the middle of the night, but I didnât know what else to do.â
âYou did the right thing,â Max says, pulling on a shirt haphazardly. âIâm on my way. Can you put her on the phone?â
Thereâs a rustling sound, then your voice comes through, small and broken. âMax?â
His heart clenches at the pain in your voice. âY/N, Iâm here. Whatâs wrong, liefje?â
âI donât know,â you sob. âI had this dream and now everything hurts and I canât ... I canât remember but I know I need you. Please, Max. I need you here.â
âIâm coming,â Max promises, already dialing his pilot with his other phone. âIâll be there as soon as I can. Just hold on, okay?â
âOkay,â you whisper. âPlease hurry.â
As the call ends, Max is already rushing out the door, barely remembering to grab his wallet and keys. He calls his pilot as he takes the stairs two at a time, not willing to wait for the elevator.
âFrank, I need the jet ready as soon as possible. Weâre flying to-â he rattles off the name of your parentsâ hometown. âHow fast can we be in the air?â
âMr. Verstappen, itâs the middle of the night,â Frank starts, but Max cuts him off.
âI know what time it is. This is an emergency. How soon?â
Thereâs a pause, then Frank sighs. âGive me 30 minutes. Iâll call the crew.â
âMake it 20,â Max insists. âIâll double your rate.â
âWeâll be ready,â Frank assures him.
Max ends the call as he reaches his car, peeling out of the parking garage with a screech of tires. His mind races as fast as the car, worry for you overwhelming everything else.
What could have triggered this? Youâd been doing better, or so he thought. The memory of food had seemed like progress. But now ...
He shakes his head, forcing himself to focus on the road. Getting to you safely is what matters now. Everything else can wait.
Max makes it to the airport in record time, barely bothering to park properly before heâs sprinting towards his private jet. Frank meets him at the stairs.
âWeâre fueled and ready,â he says. âWeather looks clear, we should have a smooth flight.â
âGood,â Max nods, already climbing the stairs. âLetâs go.â
As the jet takes off, Max finds himself unable to sit still. He paces the cabin, checking his phone every few seconds even though he knows thereâs no signal at this altitude.
The flight attendant approaches cautiously. âMr. Verstappen? Can I get you anything?â
Max shakes his head, then reconsiders. âActually, yes. Coffee. Strongest youâve got.â
She nods, retreating to the galley. Max resumes his pacing, his mind a whirlwind of worry and speculation.
What if youâd remembered something traumatic? What if this setback undid all the progress youâd made? What if ...
He forces himself to stop that line of thinking. Catastrophizing wonât help anyone, least of all you.
The flight seems to take an eternity. As soon as they land, heâs out of his seat, barely waiting for the stairs to fully deploy before heâs racing down them.
A car is waiting, arranged by his ever-efficient team. Max barely registers the driverâs greeting as he slides into the backseat.
He recites the address tersely. âAs fast as you can.â
The drive is a blur of streetlights and quiet suburban roads. Maxâs leg bounces nervously, his hands clenched into fists.
Finally, mercifully, they pull up to the familiar house. Max is out of the car before it fully stops, racing up the front steps.
Your father opens the door before he can knock. âThank God youâre here,â he says, ushering Max inside. âSheâs upstairs.â
Max takes the stairs two at a time, his heart pounding. He can hear muffled sobs coming from your old bedroom.
He pauses at the door, taking a deep breath to steady himself. Then he knocks softly. âY/N? Itâs me. Itâs Max.â
The sobs quieten slightly. âMax?â Your voice comes through, small and uncertain.
âCan I come in?â
Thereâs a pause, then: âPlease.â
Max opens the door slowly. The room is dimly lit by a bedside lamp, casting long shadows. Youâre huddled on the bed, knees drawn up to your chest, eyes red and puffy from crying.
The sight of you so distressed nearly breaks him. In two long strides, heâs at your side.
âIâm here,â he says softly. âIâm right here.â
You look up at him, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks. âMax,â you whisper, and then youâre launching yourself into his arms.
Max catches you, holding you close as you sob into his chest. He strokes your hair, murmuring soothing words.
âItâs okay. Iâve got you. Youâre safe.â
Gradually, your sobs subside, replaced by hiccuping breaths. Max continues to hold you, rocking slightly.
âDo you want to talk about it?â He asks gently.
You pull back slightly, wiping your eyes. âI had this dream,â you start, your voice hoarse. âIt was so vivid. We were ... we were in a car, I think. And there was a crash and I couldnât ... I couldnât reach you.â
Maxâs heart clenches. Is this a memory of your accident trying to surface?
âIt felt so real,â you continue. âAnd when I woke up, I was so scared and confused. I couldnât remember where I was or why you werenât there. I just knew I needed you.â
âIâm here now,â Max says, cupping your face gently. âIâll always come when you need me.â
You lean into his touch, closing your eyes. âIâm sorry for making you fly out in the middle of the night.â
Max shakes his head. âDonât apologize. Thereâs nowhere else Iâd rather be.â
You open your eyes, meeting his gaze. Thereâs something different there, something Max canât quite identify.
âMax,â you say slowly, âI think ... I think I remembered something.â
His breath catches. âWhat did you remember?â
You furrow your brow, concentrating. âItâs not clear. Just ... feelings, mostly. But when you walked in, when you held me ... it felt familiar. Safe. Like ... like coming home.â
Max feels hope bloom in his chest. âThatâs good, schatje. Thatâs really good. It means the memories are still there, even if theyâre hard to reach right now.â
You nod, then yawn widely. The emotional toll of the night is clearly catching up with you.
âYou should try to get some sleep,â Max says, moving to stand up.
But you grab his hand, holding him in place. âWill you ... will you stay? Just until I fall asleep?â
Maxâs heart swells. âOf course. As long as you need.â
You scoot over, making room for him on the bed. Max kicks off his shoes and lies down next to you, careful to maintain a respectful distance.
But you close that distance, curling into his side like itâs the most natural thing in the world. And for a moment, it feels like nothing has changed. Like the accident never happened.
âTell me a story,â you mumble, already half-asleep. âAbout us.â
Max smiles, wrapping an arm around you. âOkay. How about the time we tried to teach Jimmy and Sassy to swim?â
You make a soft sound of agreement, nuzzling closer.
As Max recounts the tale of your misadventures with the cats and a kiddie pool, he feels you relax against him, your breathing evening out.
He continues the story even after heâs sure youâre asleep, partly out of habit, partly because heâs not ready for this moment to end.
Eventually, he falls silent, just listening to your steady breathing. He knows he should leave, go sleep in the guest room or on the couch. But he canât bring himself to move, to break this fragile peace.
Just a few more minutes, he tells himself. Just a little longer.
Before he knows it, sunlight is streaming through the windows. Max blinks awake, momentarily disoriented. Then he feels you stir against him, and everything comes rushing back.
You lift your head, looking up at him with sleep-clouded eyes. For a moment, just a moment, Max sees recognition there. The look you used to give him every morning.
But then you blink, and itâs gone, replaced by confusion, then embarrassment.
âOh God,â you mutter, sitting up quickly. âMax, Iâm so sorry. I didnât mean to keep you here all night.â
Max sits up too, trying to ignore the ache in his heart at the loss of contact. âItâs okay. I wanted to be here.â
You run a hand through your hair, not meeting his eyes. âLast night ... itâs all a bit fuzzy. Did I ... did I say anything? About remembering?â
Max nods slowly. âYou said being with me felt familiar. Like coming home.â
Youâre quiet for a long moment, staring at your hands. âI wish I could remember more,â you say finally, your voice small. âItâs all still so ... jumbled.â
Max reaches out, then stops himself, unsure if the touch would be welcome. âItâs okay. Weâll figure this out together.â
You look up at him then, a small smile on your face. âTogether,â you repeat. âI like the sound of that.â
Thereâs a soft knock at the door, and your mother pokes her head in. âOh good, youâre both awake. Breakfast is ready if youâre hungry.â
As you both stand to head downstairs, Max feels a mix of emotions. Disappointment that the night didnât lead to a magical recovery of your memories. Hope at the small signs of progress. And an overwhelming sense of love for you, memory or no memory.
He knows the road ahead is still long and uncertain. But as he watches you smile at something your mother says, he feels more certain than ever that itâs a road worth traveling.
Because even if you canât remember all of your history together, youâre still you. Still the woman he fell in love with. And heâll spend every day helping you rediscover that love, one memory at a time.
***
The rhythmic clanging of weights fills the air as Max pushes through another set of bench presses. Sweat beads on his forehead, his muscles straining with each repetition. Rupert stands nearby, counting softly and offering encouragement.
âNine ... ten ... good, Max. One more set and weâll move on.â
The sharp ring of Maxâs phone cuts through the gymâs atmosphere. Max grunts, arms shaking as he finishes his reps.
âCan you grab that, Rupert? Might be important.â
Rupert nods, retrieving the phone from Maxâs gym bag. âItâs Y/Nâs parents,â he says, eyebrows raised.
Maxâs heart skips a beat. âPut it on speaker,â he says quickly, sitting up on the bench.
Rupert answers the call, holding the phone out between them. âHello? This is Rupert, Maxâs trainer. Youâre on speaker.â
âOh, hello Rupert,â comes the familiar voice of your mother. âIs Max there? We have some news.â
âIâm here,â Max says, leaning closer to the phone. âWhatâs going on? Is Y/N okay?â
Thereâs a pause, and Max feels his anxiety spike. Then, your fatherâs voice comes through, barely containing his excitement.
âMax, itâs ... itâs incredible. Y/N says she can remember. Not everything, but ... a lot. She woke up this morning and it was like a flood of memories just came back to her.â
The words hit Max like a physical force. He stands abruptly, forgetting the weight still balanced precariously on his legs. It crashes to the floor with a deafening clang, missing Rupertâs foot by mere inches.
âWhoa!â Rupert yelps, jumping back. âEasy there, Max!â
But Max barely notices. His entire world has narrowed to the voice coming from the phone. âShe ... she remembers? Are you sure? How much does she remember?â
Your motherâs voice comes back on. âItâs still patchy, but she remembers you, Max. She remembers your life together, your home in Monaco. Sheâs been talking about the cats all morning.â
Max feels his knees go weak. He sits back down heavily on the bench, his head spinning. âCan I ... can I talk to her?â
âIâm afraid sheâs with the doctors right now,â your father explains. âThey want to run some tests, make sure everythingâs okay. But sheâs been asking for you. We thought youâd want to know right away.â
Max nods, then remembers they canât see him. âYes, of course. Thank you. Iâll be there as soon as I can. Iâll take the jet, I can be there inâ
âActually,â your mother interrupts, âY/N has been asking to come home. To Monaco. She says she misses you, and the cats, and ... well, her life with you.â
Max feels a lump form in his throat. âShe wants to come home?â He repeats, his voice barely above a whisper.
âIf thatâs alright with you,â your father adds quickly. âWe understand if you need time to prepare, or if you think itâs too soonâ
âNo!â Max exclaims, perhaps a bit too loudly. He clears his throat. âI mean, no, itâs not too soon. Itâs perfect. I can send the jet for her right away. If ... if thatâs what she wants.â
He can hear the smile in your motherâs voice as she responds. âIt is. Sheâs quite insistent, actually. Says she wants to sleep in her own bed.â
Max feels a grin spreading across his face. âIâll make the arrangements right away. Can you have her ready to go in ... letâs say five hours?â
âWe can do that,â your father confirms. âAnd Max? Sheâs ... sheâs really excited to see you.â
Max swallows hard, emotion threatening to overwhelm him. âI canât wait to see her too. Thank you both, for everything.â
As the call ends, Max looks up to see Rupert grinning at him. âSo,â his trainer says, âIâm guessing our workout is over for the day?â
Max laughs, a sound of pure joy and relief. âYeah, Iâd say so. Sorry about almost crushing your foot.â
Rupert waves it off. âSmall price to pay for good news like that. Go on, get out of here. Go prepare for Y/Nâs homecoming.â
Max doesnât need to be told twice. Heâs already dialing his pilot as he rushes towards the locker room. âFrank? I need the jet ready as soon as possible. We need to pick someone up ...â
That evening, Max is pacing the length of his â your â living room, unable to keep still. Heâs tidied the already immaculate apartment three times, checked on the cats twice, and changed his shirt four times.
Max takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He sinks onto the couch, and immediately Jimmy jumps into his lap.
âHey, buddy,â Max murmurs, scratching behind the catâs ears. âMamaâs coming home. You excited?â
Jimmy purrs in response, kneading Maxâs leg. Sassy, not to be left out, appears from nowhere and curls up next to them.
âYeah, me too,â Max says softly. He looks around the apartment, memories flooding back. Your first night here together, nervous and excited about taking this step. Lazy Sunday mornings cuddled on this very couch. The time you tried to teach him to dance in the living room, both of you laughing so hard you could barely stand.
The next hour crawls by at an agonizing pace. Max alternates between sitting rigidly on the couch and pacing the floor. He checks his phone obsessively, waiting for updates.
Finally, blessedly, his phone rings. Itâs his pilot. âWeâve landed, boss. Y/Nâs parents are helping her into the car now. Should be at your place in about 20 minutes.â
Max feels his heart rate double. âThanks, Frank. Until next time.â
The next 20 minutes are the longest of Maxâs life. He stands by the window, watching the street below, waiting for the familiar black SUV to appear.
When it finally does, Max feels like he might pass out. He watches as the car pulls up, as the driver gets out to open the back door. And then ... there you are.
You look tired, a bit pale, but to Max, youâve never been more beautiful. You look up at the building, a soft smile playing on your lips. And then your eyes meet his through the window.
Max feels his breath catch in his throat. Because in that moment, he sees it. Recognition. Love. Youâre really back.
Heâs at the door in an instant, yanking it open just as you step off the elevator. For a moment, you both freeze, taking each other in.
âMax,â you whisper, and itâs the sweetest sound heâs ever heard.
âY/N,â he breathes, and then youâre in his arms.
He holds you tightly, burying his face in your hair, breathing you in. You cling to him just as fiercely, and he can feel your tears soaking through his shirt.
âIâm sorry,â you murmur against his chest. âIâm so sorry I forgot you.â
Max pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his hands cupping your face. âHey, no. You have nothing to be sorry for. Youâre here now. Youâre home.â
You nod, a watery smile on your face. âI am. I remember, Max. Not everything, not yet. But I remember us. I remember loving you.â
Max feels tears spill down his cheeks, but he doesnât care. He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. âI love you so much, liefje. God, I was so scared Iâd lost you.â
You shake your head, your hands coming up to wipe away his tears. âNever. You could never lose me, Max Verstappen. Not really.â
And then youâre kissing, and itâs like coming home after a long, difficult journey. Itâs familiar and new all at once, and Max never wants it to end.
A loud meow interrupts the moment. You break apart, laughing, to see Jimmy and Sassy winding around your feet, demanding attention.
âOh, my babies!â You exclaim, kneeling down to scoop them up. âI missed you too!â
Max watches, his heart so full it feels like it might burst. This is what heâs been missing, what heâs been fighting for. You, here, in your home, with your little family.
As you straighten up, cats in arms, Max wraps an arm around your waist. âWelcome home,â he says softly.
You lean into him, a contented sigh escaping your lips. âItâs good to be home.â
Max knows thereâs still a long road ahead. Your memory isnât fully restored, and there will be challenges to face. But right now, in this moment, with you in his arms, he knows everything will be okay.
Because you remembered. You came home. And together, you can face anything.
***
The neon lights of Las Vegas blur into streaks of color as Max races through the city streets, his Red Bull car a blur of blue and red and yellow. The roar of the engine fills his ears, but it canât drown out the beating of his own heart. This race feels different, more important than any heâs ever driven before.
As he navigates a tight corner, Maxâs mind flashes back to the conversation that led him here...
âMax, you need to go back,â you had said, your voice gentle but firm. âRacing is part of who you are. Iâm better now, and I want to see you out there doing what you love.â
Max had shaken his head, pulling you closer on the couch. âBut what if something happens? What if you need me?â
You had laughed, a sound that still made his heart skip a beat. âIâll always need you, silly. But I donât need you hovering over me 24/7. Plus,â you added with a mischievous grin, âI miss seeing you in that race suit.â
Now, as he pushes the car to its limits, Max feels a renewed sense of purpose. Heâs not just racing for himself anymore, or for the team. Heâs racing for you, to make you proud, to show you that your faith in him wasnât misplaced.
âMax, youâre pulling away,â GPâs voice crackles through the radio. âGap to P2 is now 3.5 seconds. Keep this up, mate.â
Max grunts in acknowledgment, too focused to form words. He knows youâre watching from the garage, probably biting your nails like you always do during his races. The thought makes him smile behind his helmet.
Lap after lap, Max maintains his lead. The famous Las Vegas Strip becomes a blur of light and shadow as he speeds past the iconic hotels and casinos. In the back of his mind, he remembers your excitement when you found out about this race.
âVegas, Max! Itâs going to be incredible. Promise me weâll stay a few extra days after the race?â
He had promised, of course. Heâd promise you the moon if you asked for it.
As the final laps approach, Maxâs concentration intensifies. Heâs been in this position before, leading a race, victory within grasp. But itâs never felt quite like this.
âTwo laps to go,â GP informs him. âYouâve got this. Just bring it home.â
Max takes a deep breath, visualizing the remaining track in his mind. He can almost hear your voice, the way youâd whisper âYouâve got thisâ before every race, a private moment just for the two of you amidst the pre-race chaos.
The last lap arrives, and Max is in the zone. Every turn, every straight, every gear change is perfect. As he rounds the final corner, the chequered flag comes into view.
âYes!â Max shouts as he crosses the finish line, pumping his fist in the air. The team erupts in cheers over the radio, but Max is waiting for one particular voice.
âBrilliant drive, Max!â GP exclaims. âAbsolute masterclass. How does it feel to be back on the top step?â
Max takes a moment to catch his breath, emotions threatening to overwhelm him. When he speaks, his voice is thick with feeling.
âIt feels ... it feels incredible,â he says. âBut this win, itâs not for me. Itâs for Y/N.â
He can hear the surprise and emotion in GPâs voice as he responds. âThatâs beautiful. Iâm sure sheâs over the moon right now.â
As Max begins his cool-down lap, he continues, knowing his words are being broadcast to millions around the world, but speaking only to you.
âY/N, liefje, this oneâs for you. For your strength, your courage, your unwavering support. You pushed me to come back even when I wanted to stay home with you. You believed in me when I doubted myself. This victory is yours as much as itâs mine.â
He pauses, swallowing hard. âI love you, Y/N. More than any trophy, any championship. Youâre my biggest win.â
As he pulls into parc fermĂŠ, Max can see the team gathered, ready to celebrate. But his eyes scan the crowd, looking for only one person.
And there you are, pushing through the throng of mechanics and officials. Your eyes are shining with tears, but your smile is radiant.
Max practically leaps out of the car, not even bothering with his helmet. He meets you halfway, sweeping you up in his arms and spinning you around.
âYou did it!â You exclaim, laughing and crying at the same time. âOh Max, Iâm so proud of you!â
Max sets you down but doesnât let go, pressing his forehead to yours. âNo, we did it. I couldnât have done this without you.â
You shake your head, still smiling. âThis was all you, Max. I just watched from the sidelines.â
âYouâve never been on the sidelines,â Max says firmly. âYouâre the reason Iâm here. The reason I push myself to be better, on and off the track.â
Before you can respond, the team descends upon them, whooping and cheering. Max is pulled away for the podium ceremony, but his eyes never leave you.
The champagne flows, the anthems play, but it all feels like a blur to Max. All he can think about is getting back to you, celebrating properly.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of photos and interviews, Max is able to escape back to the teamâs hospitality area. Youâre waiting for him, a glass of champagne in hand and a proud smile on your face.
âThereâs my champion,â you say softly as he approaches.
Max pulls you close, not caring who might be watching. âI meant what I said on the radio,â he murmurs. âThis win is yours.â
You laugh, a sound that still makes his heart soar. âWell, in that case, I guess I should start preparing my acceptance speech for the Prize Giving Ceremony.â
Max grins, playing along. âOh yeah? And what would this speech entail?â
You pretend to think for a moment. âLetâs see ⌠Iâd like to thank the academy, and of course, my incredibly handsome and talented boyfriend, without whom none of this would be possible ...â
Max laughs, feeling lighter than he has in months. âHandsome and talented, huh? I like the sound of that.â
You smack his arm playfully. âDonât let it go to your head, Verstappen. Iâve seen you first thing in the morning, remember?â
âHey, I thought you said I was cute when Iâm all sleepy and rumpled,â Max protests.
âCute, yes. Handsome is a stretch,â you tease.
Max clutches his chest in mock offense. âYou wound me. And after I just dedicated my win to you and everything.â
You soften, reaching up to cup his face. âIt was beautiful, Max. Really. I donât know what I did to deserve you.â
Max turns serious, covering your hand with his own. âYou existed. Thatâs more than enough.â
You stand there for a moment, lost in each otherâs eyes, the celebration continuing around you unnoticed.
Finally, Max breaks the silence. âSo, about that promise to stay a few extra days in Vegas ...â
Your eyes light up. âOh, you remembered! I was hoping you would.â
Max grins. âOf course I remembered. I was thinking... maybe we could make it a bit more special than just a few extra days?â
You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. âWhat did you have in mind?â
Max takes a deep breath, suddenly nervous. This wasnât how heâd planned to do this, but standing here with you, flush with victory and love, it feels right.
âWell,â he says slowly, reaching into his pocket, âI was thinking maybe we could celebrate our engagement.â
Your eyes widen as Max drops to one knee, pulling out a small velvet box. The noise of the celebration fades away, leaving just the two of you in your own little bubble.
âY/N,â Max begins, his voice shaky but determined, âthese past few months have been the hardest of my life. But theyâve also shown me, without a doubt, that youâre the one I want to spend the rest of my life with. Through good times and bad, wins and losses, I want you by my side.â
He opens the box, revealing a stunning diamond ring. âWill you marry me?â
You gasp, tears filling your eyes. For a heart-stopping moment, Max fears heâs misjudged, moved too fast. But then youâre nodding, a radiant smile breaking through the tears.
âYes,â you whisper. âYes, Max. A thousand times yes.â
Max slips the ring onto your finger with trembling hands, then stands to pull you into a passionate kiss. The team, finally noticing whatâs happening, erupts into cheers and applause.
As you break apart, breathless and giddy, Max rests his forehead against yours. âI love you. More than I ever thought possible.â
You beam up at him, your eyes shining with happiness. âI love you too. Always and forever.â
As the team swarms around them, offering congratulations and calling for more champagne, Max holds you close. This, he realizes, is his true victory. Not the race win, not the trophies or the championships. But this moment, with you in his arms, promising a future together.
***
Emma settles into her favorite armchair, a steaming mug of tea on the side table and Max Verstappenâs newly released autobiography in her hands. As a long-time fan of Formula 1 and Max in particular, sheâs been eagerly anticipating this book.
She flips through the early chapters, smiling at familiar stories of Maxâs rise through the ranks of motorsport. But itâs the chapter titled âThe Race of My Lifeâ that catches her attention. This, she knows, is where Max will finally open up about the period when he stepped away from racing â a time that had puzzled and worried fans.
As Emma begins reading, sheâs immediately struck by the raw emotion in Maxâs words.
I thought I knew what pressure was. The weight of expectations, the split-second decisions that could mean victory or defeat. But nothing in my racing career could have prepared me for the day I walked into that hospital room and saw the love of my life look at me without a hint of recognition.
Emma feels a lump form in her throat. She remembers the press conference where Max had revealed the reason for his absence, but this ... this is different. This is Max laying bare his soul in a way sheâs never seen before.
In that moment, I realized that all the trophies, all the victories, all the adoration from fans â none of it mattered. The true test of my life wasnât on any track. It was right there, in that sterile hospital room, facing the possibility of losing the one person who saw me not as Max Verstappen the driver, but just as Max.
Emma finds herself blinking back tears. Sheâs always admired Max for his skill on the track, his determination, his fierce competitiveness. But this vulnerability, this raw honesty, shows a side of him she never knew existed.
The chapter continues, detailing the days and weeks following the accident. Max describes the pain of seeing you struggle to remember, the hope that would flare with each small recognition, and the crushing disappointment when progress stalled.
Iâve faced some of the best drivers in the world, pushed myself to the absolute limit of human capability. But nothing â nothing â has ever been as challenging as sitting by her bedside, day after day, telling her stories of our life together and seeing no spark of remembrance in her eyes. It was like watching the person I loved most in the world slip away, inch by inch, and being powerless to stop it.
Emma has to pause her reading, overwhelmed by the emotion. She tries to imagine what it must have been like for Max, known for his control and precision on the track, to face a situation where he had no control at all.
As she continues reading, sheâs struck by Maxâs honesty about his own struggles during this time:
There were moments â dark, terrible moments â when I wondered if it would be easier to walk away. To accept that the woman I loved was gone, replaced by this stranger who wore her face but didnât know my heart. The guilt I felt for even thinking such thoughts nearly crushed me. But I realized that true love, real love, isnât just about the easy times. Itâs about choosing to stay, to fight, even when every instinct is screaming at you to run.
Emma finds herself nodding, moved by Maxâs profound realization. She remembers following his career, cheering his victories, sympathizing with his defeats. But this ⌠this feels like sheâs truly seeing the man behind the racer for the first time.
The chapter takes a turn as Max describes the day you started to remember:
When she looked at me that day, really looked at me, and I saw recognition in her eyes â it was like winning every championship, every race, all at once. No podium celebration could ever compare to the joy of hearing her say my name, of feeling her arms around me, knowing that she remembered us, our love, our life together.
Emma feels tears rolling down her cheeks now, unashamed. Sheâs always been moved by stories of love and perseverance, but knowing this is real, that it happened to someone sheâs admired for so long, makes it all the more powerful.
As the chapter nears its end, Max reflects on how this experience changed him:
I returned to racing eventually, but I was never the same driver ⌠or the same man. I had faced my greatest fear and come out the other side. I had learned that there are things more precious than any trophy, more thrilling than any race. I learned the true meaning of love, of commitment, of fighting for what really matters in life.
Emma closes the book, needing a moment to process everything sheâs read. She feels like sheâs seen a completely new side of Max Verstappen, one that goes far beyond the confident, sometimes brash young driver she remembers.
Picking up her phone, she opens Twitter, scrolling through reactions to the book. It seems sheâs not alone in her emotional response. Fans and fellow drivers alike are sharing their thoughts.
Just finished @Max33Verstappenâs book. Iâm in tears. What an incredible story of love and perseverance â¤ď¸
Always respected Max as a driver, but this book shows what a truly remarkable person he is.
Emma adds her own tweet to the mix.
Thank you, @Max33Verstappen, for sharing your story. Youâve shown us that the greatest victories in life often happen off the track đĽş
She picks up the book again, turning to the final pages of the chapter. Maxâs closing words resonate deeply.
In the end, life isnât about the races you win or the records you break. Itâs about the people you love, the bonds you forge, the differences you make. My greatest achievement isnât any trophy or title. Itâs the life Iâve built with her, the love weâve nurtured through good times and bad. Thatâs my true legacy, and itâs one that will last far beyond when the chequered flag last waves for me.
#f1 imagine#f1#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#f1 fanfiction#f1 x reader#f1 x you#max verstappen#mv1#max verstappen imagine#max verstappen x reader#max verstappen x you#max verstappen fic#max verstappen fluff#max verstappen fanfic#max verstappen blurb#f1 fluff#f1 blurb#f1 one shot#f1 x y/n#f1 drabble#f1 fandom#f1blr#f1 x female reader#max verstappen x female reader#max verstappen x y/n#red bull racing#max verstappen one shot#max verstappen drabble
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pre-steddie, post the events of s4, and some good ol' steve harrington gets some new glasses <3, 2k-ish
There was a time where Steve would've rather died than wear them.
Then he did nearly dieâseveral times over, actually.
But if Steve had to sum up what he actually gained from the horrific annual monster-hunting bullshitâbesides the scars and trauma, of courseâhe would say perspective.
It's a lot easier to see what matters on the other side of the end of the world. Or in Steve's case, it's actually harder to see. And he should've totally been wearing those prescription glasses his parents bought him back in the seventh grade.
Maybe then, instead of an occasionally foggy memory and migraines, he'd be a little better off.
But as things go, he hadn't worn them. No, instead, when he was a foolish 13-year-old, Steve had hidden the glasses. Pretended they got lost. Fibbed while knowing exactly where in the house he'd stashed them.
It had certainly earned him an earful of chastising, as well as an actual sore ear from how his mother had pinched it tightly. But, either way, in the end he'd got what he wanted.
Sure, it definitely made it harder on his grades. More often than not, if Steve didn't cop one of the seats closer to the front of class, he'd earn himself a headache from all his squinting. But it was worth it because at least he wouldn't look uncool. Popular kids never wore glasses.
And then... years later, a couple brushes with his fragile morality, old friends turned enemies and new friends, genuine friends earned... he gets perspective.
This is all to say, Robin finally convinces him to wear his glasses again.
Well, actually, the doctor had been the one to convince he needed to wear them, given all the other problems he'd gathered from his mounting concussions.
Robin had been the one to somewhat bully ("Lovingly!" She'd protest) him into actually wearing them. An uphill battle she had been determined to win, despite all Steve's abject objections.
She won. They'd gotten him new frames, made sure the prescription was up to date and that Steve didn't completely hate the way they looked.
But even though they didn't look anything like the smaller pair still tucked away in a shoebox beneath his bed, collecting dust, there's still a hesitance to wear them.
But... perspective.
It's what Steve keeps trying to hold onto as he scrunches his nose down at the glasses in the case in his hands. The lenses glint in the fluorescents of Family Video.
He huffs and picks them out, unfolding the arms gently. Looking a little stupid was better than getting another migraine at work, he decides.
He stores the case beneath the counter and sits back down at the computer, hands in his laps, the wire-rim glasses in his fingertips.
You put these on and you may as well just declare the 'You Suck' side a forever winner. Some part of him whispers meanly. Not as if you're much of a looker anymore. It's a sliver of that slimy ego lurking within him. Steve's mouth twists as he does his best to shove it away.
It's true, to some extent. That last run-in with the Upside Down had left its mark well and truly. Along his chin, rippling down toward and along his jaw, is a scar where the skin split and had to be patched back together. The discoloration of it makes it impossible to miss.
Robin says chicks dig scars. But even if she's right and not just saying it to banish the sad lilt in his voice, there's still some part of Steve that wants to cling to what once made him important. What made people look at him, pay attention to him.
The point is wearing the glasses isn't just about wearing the glasses.
But Steve also isn't trying to be all about appearances anymore â so if they made him look... worse, then so be it.
He slides them on and tilts his head up, focusing on the screen. The pixels on the computer sharpen and the blurriness of his surroundings saps away, smoothing out his field of vision. Steve blinks.
It's much different to how it was trying them on at the doctor's office. He's in familiar turf now and as he blinks again, looks around, Steve realises how many details he's been missing. Holy shit. Can Robin see this well? All the time?
He can read the things all the way across the room â can parse out the poster titles without having to squint in the slightest. Jesus Christ, should he even have been allowed to driveâ
The bell on the door chimes and Steve turns instinctively.
"Oh! Steve, you're wearing them!"
It's Robin, dropped off by none other than Eddie, for the half-shift she shares with Steve on Thursday afternoons. Sure, she could bike from school, but itâs getting icier in the mornings and Steve likes to drop her off before his shift.
Eddie takes the other half. If that means he also meanders into Family Video to hang around for a half hour and talk to Steve? Well, Steveâs got no problem with that at all.
Theyâre friends. Hard not to be, given the circumstance of their springtime shared together. It's not exactly something Steve ever predicted happening, but considering his newfound perspective, he's taken it in stride as one of the pros of the whole situation.
Except with his newly corrected vision, two things change simultaneously.
Behind Robin, Eddie steps into the Family Video and Steve suddenly sees Eddie Munson with a reverent clarity.
Has Eddie always looked like... that?
With his glasses, Steve can see the true brown in his eyes and the brightness in them as they meet Steveâs own. He can see the sweeping lashes that kiss in the corner, the strong line of his nose.
The curve of Eddieâs bottom lip and the blister in the middle of it, chewed too frequently, pinker than his lips. He sees the faintest of freckles, hidden in his hairline, andâ
â he sees the exact moment Eddie clocks the glasses.
Because Eddie stops, midway through the door, full-body stutters and then just halts. The door he'd pulled open swings and hits him in the back.
Right. There's a neon-bright sign from the universe that Steve does, in fact, look as stupid as he feared. Embarrassment wells up inside him, hot and itchy.
Steve whips the glasses off so fast they hit the counter and bounce over, onto the ground.
"Jeez!" Robin jumps, for which Steve can't blame her for considering both he and Eddie made two loud noises in the space of roughly two seconds. She looks over her shoulder to see Eddie's frozen figure and mutters, "Oh, I'm clocking in." Then disappears out the back.
Steve watches her go, already missing the clarity of his glasses but hell if he's putting them back on. Not after that god-awful reaction. They can get trod on by customers for all he cares.
God, okay, so maybe that's an overreaction (those things are expensive) but also, this was the first test in trying them out in public.
Look, Robin's obviously his best-friend but shit, he was hoping she wasn't straight up lying to him telling him they looked good.
How did this turn into 13-year-old Steve's exact nightmare?
Eddie only seems to realise he's still stuck in place when the chime of the door bell sounds once again, alerting Steve of his presenceâas if he could ignore that reaction coming in.
Well, at least it was an honest reaction.
How much were contacts again?
Steve pushes back from the counter with a sigh, beginning to head round to retrieve the glasses from the floor. Except, the movement seems to kickstart Eddie and he scrambles forward so that when Steve straightens up, glasses in hand, Eddie's right before him.
Brown eyes wide. Expression... serious?
"You didn't tell me you wore glasses." Eddie says. He sounds almost breathless.
"Yeah, well, not anymore." Steve replies dryly, heading back around the counter.
Eddie tracks him as he goes, looking almost devastated at what he's hearing. He stumbles in closer, palms pressing against the counter, and leans forward as Steve retrieves the case.
"What do you mean? What do you mean not anymore?"
He sounds a little panicked now.
Steve levels him with a flat stare. "C'mon man, I know what a bad reaction looks like when I see oneâ"
But Eddie's shaking his head furiously, hands flying as he does everything to signal the word no. "Nope, no you do not. Thatâ nuh uh. Will you put them on again? Please?"
"No way!"
"Steve, I promise you that was not a bad reaction. That was- was-" Eddie stammers for the right words before pivoting. "Can you just put them on again? Please put them on again?"
It's the genuineness in Eddie's tone that actually gets Steve to pause. He glances down at the glasses in his hand, hovering midway to the case, and then back up to Eddie.
Is this some elaborate way to make fun of him? No, Eddie wouldn't. But then what?
The pause is long enough for Eddie to spring into action and he slowly reaches out, heading for the glasses in Steve's hands. Eyeing him hesitantly, Steve reluctantly lets him take them from him, unfolding them with his ringed fingers.
Then, he holds them out and up. Through the lenses, he can see the detail of Eddie's face once more and he swallows. His fingertips brush Eddie's as he takes them and slides them back onto his face.
It takes another blink to get used to the change and in this time, Steve notices, Eddie has managed to turn a wonderful shade of pink.
Steve can see it in much better detail than usual as well, can track how it seems to crawl up his neck. He bets the tips of Eddie's ears are red too, hidden amongst his wild curls. He's blushing. He's blushing?
And he's smiling too, this maddening curl to his lips, as he drinks in Steve and his new glasses with a hungry gaze that darts all over his face.
Man, Steve thinks absently, using the moment of quiet to examine all those new details of Eddie's face, how long has Eddie been pretty?
Then Eddie huffs a disbelieving laugh and Steve's stomach drops.
It must show on his face because instantly Eddie's hands are up, waving away the thought in Steve's head. "No, no, no! Not bad! Just... Jesus Christ," He mutters the last part into his shoulder, his face turned away for a moment.
"I just actually didn't think it was, uh," He coughs. "Like, possible for you to get any hotter."
âWhat?â Steve says.
That's what that reaction was? Something fizzles inside him, suddenly feeling pleased as punch.
âWhat?â Eddie parrots.
The pink in his face has dipped closer to crimson and if it keeps going that way, Steve reckons he could roast marshmallows over it.
Steve shifts on his feet, reaching up and running a nervous hand through his hair. Sure, he said wanted attention but this is something new, something different. He's not sure if he likes it just yet.
Eddie watches the motion, wide eyes glued to his hand, and when he catches Steve's questioning gaze through his glasses, he does a full 180 turn away from the counter.
"Oh my god, I'm so gay," He mutters, in a breath that Steve probably wasn't supposed to hear.
Steve's eyebrows raise. It sounds like... and he could be wrong here, but it sounds like Eddie likes his new glasses. Very much so.
And that makes Steve feel... good. Really good. Top of his game, one tally in the You Rule side of the board, good.
Eddie turns back and fixes a smile that Steve is sure isn't supposed to look that crazy. Steve reaches up and nudges the glasses further up his nose with his knuckle idly.
"So," Steve says, the uncertainty in his voice not false. "You don't think they look... bad?"
"Nope," Eddie squeaks out.
His smile has gotten a little more deranged. Then, in one big breath he says, "Tell Robin she betrayed me and I'll see you later-bye!" and peels out of the Family Video, the door-chime announcing his departure.
Robin treads out from the back-room, her Family Video vest on now and she surveys the store as she walks. Upon finding only Steve, her brows wrinkle together.
"Where'd Eddie go?"
Steve shrugs. "Dunno. Left in a hurry. Told me to tell you that you betrayed him or somethin'." He makes quotation marks with his fingers.
Robin frowns harder at that, her puzzling face on. A moment later, it melds away into a deviousness that means Steve instantly knows he's missing out on some inside joke. Especially when Robin starts to cackle, laughing so much that she has to hide a snort in her palm.
"What?" Steve all but pouts. "What is it? Tell me."
Robin, still laughing, snags the returns trolley and begins to wander backward. "Trust me, Steve. You'll want to figure this one out on your own. Either way, I think you should wear your glasses around Eddie again. Preferably while I'm there to watch."
She wiggles her brows as she disappears around an aisle, still wandering backward. Steve hears the moment she bumps into a shelf and snickers at her responding ow!
He turns back to the computer and settles in the seat, nudging the glasses up his nose once more. Huh. So Eddie likes the glasses. Maybe they weren't so bad.
And if Steve got to see that blush again, in glorious good-vision detail? Then that wouldn't be so bad either.
#steve will figure it out soon <3 for now he's just 𼰠about being mooned over#heheheh#gay ppl in my phone ill be honest i have no clue what this is#written in the span of an afternoon in not my usual style at all#is it a fic? idk!#but u can have it <3#ruby writes steddie#steddie#steddie fic#steddie ficlet#steve x eddie#pre steddie#stranger things#uhhhhhhhhh. yeah đââď¸
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SILKEN CHAINS.

| AO3 | PAIRING: Yandere!Caleb x Psychotherapist!Reader CW: SFW but MATURE, manipulation, yandere, obsessive/possessive/controlling behaviour, grotesque descriptions, descriptions of gore, suicide, implied murder, stalking, trauma, mental illness, just a heavy fic in general, mild swearing, Fem!Reader. SUMMARY: When her childhood friend spirals into a paradox of obsession and madness, who could mend his fractured mind better than her? Utilizing her years of expertise, she is determined to bring him back. But can one play with fire without scorching their skin? Can she unravel his mind before he devours hers? WORD COUNT: 31k words. DISCLAIMER: Although you are free to view this as dead dove or dark romance, I am not romanticising such behaviour. I'm simply telling a dark story for the sake of telling a dark story. This is merely a psychological thriller written for the fun of it. Heavy content ahead, be warned. A/N: Helloo!! Sorry for being super inactive!! I hit a writing slump and when Iâd recovered from it, I started this fic (or, more accurately, I started writing this fic in order to flee from writerâs block.) I wanted to work on my other sylus fic but I kept mixing the characterâs personalities up. Iâm usually great at multitasking but not when it comes to writing it seems. I had exams, my mother got sick halfway through ramadan, I was fasting and constantly exhausted, and yeah. (Yes, I am Muslim!) Anyways, the idea for this fic was something akin to a shower thought. I changed my writing style a bit. Basically went from uhh poetic(?) to more mordern. So I donât know how I did. Any criticism or feedback is appreciated!!
He was always like this, wasnât he?
You twirled your pen between your fingers as you glared out the open window into the faces of buildings looming high. A warm westerly breeze wafted through the opening, swirling the bittersweet scent of coffee throughout the room. A long, white couch sat at the other end of yours, bearing a small, fresh dent on its right cornerâleft by the last patient of the day. That decade-old piece of furniture had been in your office for as long as you could recall. It had shouldered the weight of various troubled souls who would rush to you at the first hint of distress. They would barge in, plop themselves down on the exact same side of the sofa, and pour their worries out.
For hours, you would sit still with a notebook in your hands, gazing out that very same window as if your ears had not caught a word. And once theyâd stop, you would turn to them with a smile.
âI see. Well, letâs start from the beginning.â
Many came with a burdened frown, and all left with their heads lifted high. That was the quality of your serviceâthe merit of having abandoned the role of a renowned criminologist to settle for a mere clinical psychotherapist. It was a far more peaceful life, where you only needed to contend with the usual afflictions of mental health. Youâd say it suited you better. It was far kinder to your body and soul to study the boundaries of the mind rather than the savagery of crime. Because if you were truly competent enough to retain your position as a criminologist, you would have noticed sooner, wouldnât you?
Your pen stilled in your hand.
You had studied the faces of many. Cheaters, narcissists, the apathetic, the antisocialâyou had seen it all and more. During your brief tenure as a criminologist, you had worked with the most wretched criminals. A deranged, delusional son who had donned the skin of his mother shortly after gutting her alive, a schizophrenic woman who had splattered her husbandâs brains across her grotesque painting, and countless men and women who displayed heightened symptoms of obsessive and abusive behaviour towards their partners.
And yet, you missed it.
There was a saying that we normalise the odd behaviour of those closest to us to such an extent that their misdoings and concerning actions fly off our radar without a hitch. Our paths were so intertwined with theirs that we saw no reason to stop and ponderâHey, could this be a sign of mental illness?
You supposed you had fallen into the same dilemma. He had sat before you your entire lifeâfrom adolescence to the moment higher education set you apart, he had always been there. Even as you pursued your double majors, Calebâs botched mental evaluation exam had not raised any red flags in your mind.
âOh, itâs a flawed test. You of all people should know that someoneâs mental health canât be determined by a simple questionnaire.â
And regrettably, you believed him. He made a good point, after all. A simple questionnaire said nothing about someoneâs true psyche.
But still, you regretted not questioningâIs it even possible to fail so miserably?
You should have checked his answers. Such an oversight had cost you the surprise of finding out in... such a way. And now that you looked back and reevaluated your interactions with him, the markers became clear.
âThe people that want to hurt you? They should all justââ his gaze burned through your skull, ââdisappear.â
âI donât need your protection. Iâm fine on my own.â
He scoffed, eyes brimming with betrayal.
âYou donât need me? Is that what you think?â
Your lips trembled as you sank deeper into the plush of the couch, forced down by his presence. With one arm, he caged you between his body and the cushions.
âAlright, what do you want? You can tell me.â
You knocked his forearm weakly. âCaleb, calm downââ
âWe can return to Linkon if thatâs what you want. Weâll rebuild our old house. And if one house isnât enough, Iâll build you a whole maze.â
Like a fish out of water, you thrashed about, only to still once realisation dawned on youâ
He was speaking to you with unfiltered, bare words. There would not be another chance like this. Now was the perfect time to capitalise on his raw and vulnerable state.
You pursed your lips. Calebâs finger trailed across your jaw.
âIâll decorate it with whatever you want. It will be the most stunning garden youâve ever seen.â
You emptied your gaze, donning the familiar facade of a professional, objective psychotherapist. You scrutinised him as he spoke. You picked up on the subtle crack of his voice, the tears threatening to form, the gentle firmness of his grip. This was himâthe true, raw him. How could you not have noticed sooner?
In hindsight, the signs were present. Possessiveness, obsession, strategic controlâtraits you would have easily identified in a client. He thought of himself as clever. And he was right. To the general public, Caleb was beyond cunning. A force to be reckoned with.
But you had seen worse. You had dissected minds far more twisted than his. You were confident in your abilitiesâyou could unravel him, strip him bare once more, and deliver the final blow with cautious precision. Patients often believed themselves to be indecipherable, an enigma buried in the sands of time.
Yet they forgot that doctors such as yourself had wasted half their lives preparing for them. No matter how savage or twisted one may be, you were trained to make people collapse at the slightest pull of their heartstrings.
The only reason behind your incompetence had been simpleâfamiliarity breeds blind spots, and Caleb was all too familiar to you. You regretted not having picked up on it sooner. Now, all your analyses pointed to the same result. He was severely disturbed and in urgent need of therapeutic intervention.
And who was more qualified to deliver just that than you?
This was what you had studied for, was it not? With your combined expertise in both psychology and criminology, you could corner Caleb into spilling his woes. You could fix him. He thought himself untouchable, but you had spent years preparing for men like him.
You tilted your head and glanced at the brightly coloured strip of paper sitting atop your desk. Tickets. To Skyhaven. You could finally see him.
You smiled. How long had it been? A couple of months, perhaps? Since your last visit to Skyhaven, Caleb had not hesitated to check up on you daily. As if unbothered by your reluctance to respond, he left small texts floating in your inbox. Simple formalitiesâHow are you feeling? Have you eaten well?âall left on read. You could practically see the fireworks erupt in his violet eyes the moment you finally respondedâ
âIâm coming over tomorrow. Do you mind?â
Like an overjoyed pup granted his favourite treat, he swarmed your chat with various emoticons. âAre you on vacation? :0â âWhen are you coming?â âShould I make dinner?â
Despite your best efforts at denial, you couldnât shake the flutter in your chest at his care and enthusiasm.
If only he had remained the same.
If only he were the boy you once knew, you wouldnât have to resort to such measures.
Your pulse quickened as your fingers brushed across the ticketâs surface.
You were really doing this, werenât you? Playing with fire, confident in your eventual triumph. In your field, patience was key.
You would untangle him thread by thread. And when he collapsed, you could embrace him once more. Not as a cruel, restrictive monster, but as the warm boy you had always known.
It was only a matter of time.
âPlease stand clear of the doors,â a robotic female voice buzzed. âNext stop, Skyhaven.â
You planted yourself against the hard plastic chairs, clutching a phone that idled on a conversation.
âIâm on the train.â âIâll be there to pick you up :Dâ
You stuffed your phone back into your bag. With a loud whir, the train began to move. Your body swayed to the side as it accelerated, pressing you against a metal pole. In just a few hours, you would reach Skyhaven. And he would be there, waiting for you with that big grin plastered across his faceâthe grin that once lifted you off your feet, whose irony you had now begun to despise. It was the very same expression that would trick the masses.
Girls lined up against high school lockers would swoon over it. But what they didnât know was that his radiant smile was merely a distraction meant to deter them from the way his eyes, no matter what obstruction emerged before him, would always be locked on you. His warm violet hues would burn through your skull as you led him through the hallways, chatting away obliviously. Back then, you had shrugged it off. He was just expressing care, you thought. You were afraid of crowds back then. He was just looking out for you. It was in your best interest, right? If only you had known.
You should have questioned. You should have known better.
But your high school days were well behind you. What stood now were two matured adults with a strained relationship, engaged in a ruthless game of chessâa game he did not yet realise he was a participant in.
But that only gave you the upper hand. When dealing with patients who would exploit your vulnerability and love for them, having a head start was almost a necessity. Sure, you were certain youâd come out on top eventually. But your work had taught you to tread gingerly nonetheless. When navigating the confines of a personâs mind, every micromovement of yours could cause the whole structure to crumble. No matter how accomplished a psychotherapist is, they are bound to experience massive turbulence in the field of their work.
And you had come prepared accordingly.
You reached into your bag to retrieve a worn, leather-backed journal. It had no labels. Only a brown, thick covering with a matching strap. A blue strip with a metal piece on its end hung loosely from the bottom. It was a bookmark. Old, wornâthe fabric of the strip had gone dirty. It was stained with splotches of brown, with an array of torn threads poking out from a corner.
You turned to the first page. It was dated three years ago.
You swiftly flipped through the rest of the pages until you landed on nothing. Somewhere around the middle of the journal, there was a cluster of blank pages stapled together. With a moment of reconciliation, you thumbed through the stapled pages.
Harrison Roan.
A small smile graced your lips. You had, in fact, snatched the correct one before departing.
You traced your hurried handwriting, skimming over the words. You stopped at the small paragraph below the marginâthe âfinal commentâ.
Patient remains evasive and reluctant to engage in cooperative dialogue. He exhibits obsessive tendencies when discussing his partner, demonstrating patterns of control consistent with Machiavellian protection. His behaviour suggests a state of limerence, accompanied by coercive control over his loved ones. Obsessive-compulsive personality traits are observed, raising suspicion of OCPD. Therapy is recommended for further evaluation and intervention.
Back during your time at the Linkon Criminal Psychiatric Facility, you were assigned as Harrisonâs primary psychotherapist. He was accused of abducting and imprisoning his lover, Anne Lotte. Anne underwent severe emotional abuse and manipulation. For a short period of three months, you were assigned to her as well. But before you could make any progress, she had thrown herself off the facilityâs roof.
It was devastating, the state you found her in. Anneâs mind was completely mangled. There was a dark fog clouding her conscience. You doubted even a piercing sharp beam of light could pass through to her. She was unresponsive, silent, rendered dead; almost as if her mind had gone senile. Her situation filled you with revulsion. Ten years of imprisonment and psychological torture could destroy oneâs psyche so brutally that even after they had regained their freedom, the light of hope would fail to reach their eyes.
You refused to be a victim of the same tragedy, and you refused to let Caleb walk the same path of insanity. Beyond all, you loved him. You wouldnât leave him be and watch as he slowly abolished himself. You would not let the same tragedy occur once more. And perhaps Harrisonâs case was the key. Maybe you could learn a thing or two from here.
âSkyhaven. Doors will open from the left.â
You shut your journal and lazily shoved it back into the depths of your bag. A flock of passengers stood, ready to hurl themselves out the moment the door slid open. You recoiled in your seat with a sigh. Youâd just go once the crowd had dimmed.
Placing your chin in your hand, you looked out the window and peered through the crowds, fishing for Caleb. Your pulse fluttered as you saw him stare back at you with that signature smile of hisâboyish, handsome⌠eerie. A chill shot up your spine. There was something about this ânewâ him you could not explain. Something you couldnât wrap your head around.
Something that frightened you.
You beamed through the glass, the brightest smile you could muster, and raised your palm to wave at him feverishly. Collecting your belongings in a frenzy, you rushed out the door, only to be met by the solid wall of his chest.
âOofââ You rubbed your forehead. The man before you broke into a fit of gentle laughter and ruffled the top of your head. âWere you that excited to see me?â
You shot him a sheepish smile. He returned your gesture.
âHere, let me help with those.â He hoisted one of your bags over his shoulder and beckoned for you to follow. You took after him shortly after, skipping over to him with glee.
âSoo⌠why the sudden visit?â Caleb mused. You raised your head to look him in the eye. âI got a vacation, andâŚâ
He cocked an eyebrow. âAnd?â
âThere are⌠never mind. Can I tell you once weâre alone?â You could feel the way his heartbeat hastened without needing to touch him. It made your stomach knot in retaliation.
âAlright. Sounds good.â
The two of you hauled your way to the car. Before you could nestle yourself in the spacious backseat, he rushed in front of you to swing open the door to the passenger seat. He gestured for you.
Your eyes glinted with mischief. âOh?â
âThe finest service from yours truly.â
Damnit, that smooth imbecile.
Defeated (yet not yielding), you slid into the passenger seat and waited as he loaded your luggage into the trunk of the car. Once sure nobody was looking, you pried open your bag and inspected the journal inside. Phew. You hadnât abandoned it on the train.
âForget something?â You jumped. Your head whipped to the head peeking in from the crack of the car door. A shudder crept up your spine at the empty expression plastered on his face and the way his eyes gave away nothing. The grin was absent from his lips. With lingering unease, you forced your muscles to relax. âI just thought I left my phone behind.â
The warmth returned to his gaze. âSorry for scarinâ ya.â He ruffled your hair affectionately. You shook your head. âNo, itâs fine.â
The drive was quiet, with you engulfed in your paranoia regarding whether or not you should say what youâd sworn to tell Caleb, and him consumed by God-knows-what. The way he fixed his gaze on the road up ahead, not once looking back or giving you a sliver of his attention, perplexed you. What was he so invested in?
âSo,â Caleb started, snapping you out of your domain of thought, âWhat were you gonna say?â
You bit the inside of your cheek and forced yourself to don a neutral tone. âI wanted toâŚâ Fingers deftly played with the hem of your shirt. âFix things.â
He raised an eyebrow.
âBetween us. Because, you know.â
The world stilled. You subconsciously hugged your bag tighter against yourself, anticipating all sorts of responses he could give. Would he stay silent? No. Not his style. He wouldâŚ
Caleb smiled. âSo, you want to start over?â He glanced at you from the corner of his eye. âCanât say for sure whether I can be the Caleb you want.â
An opening.
You mustered the kindest simper you could and shook your head. âI was thinking⌠rather than rebuilding our past, we try and make peace with the new versions of each other.â
There was silence. And then, a glint in his eye. His shoulders slumped against the leather seat. The weight dimmed from the air, leaving only a soothing quietudeâthe calm after the storm had passed. It was almost like the old days.
Almost.
âSounds good to me.â His mask returned. Contrary to his words, this version of Caleb was unfeeling. Even now, he refused to let you in. He blocked you out with that fireâthat crackling lukewarm grin, that blazing radiance he bore. Warm like the sun, and just as deadly as it, and almost impenetrable.
But you could see the cracks that ran through that frigid surface. Earth crumbles fast. And no matter how sturdy the soil, the right amount of water could dampen it just enough for you to dig through.
You would reach him. You were sure. And you would save him just as you shouldâve saved yourself.
Caleb helped you unload in front of his house, reaching the bags faster than you could and hauling them over his shoulder before you could protest. Admittedly, it was these small gestures of fondness that allured you to him in the first place. A trap, you thought. Only a front to mask his true twisted nature.
âAre you gonna conquer my room again?â he teased. You stopped in your tracks, turning to scrutinize all the barren rooms. A thought arose, one you desperately tried to shove to the back of your brain. Had you let your fear of him affect you so much that you would begin to lose your mind over the simple choice of rooms?
You took a deep breath and raised your finger, pointing at his room. You looked at him and grinned. âWhy not? Your bed is the comfiest.â
Caleb would fall for it, wouldnât he? The thought of you inhaling his scent, residing where he didâit was far too intimate for his mind to fathom. And the privilege of having your scent rubbed all across his bedsheets, in his balcony, in the mugs you used and the plates you discarded; you were making an offer a lovesick mind like his could not refuse.
You rejoiced internally at the sight of his face. The widening of his eyes, the contraction of his pupils, the subtle twitch of his lipsâsomething awoke in him. Something fearfulâa horned monster with gleaming red eyes clutched his heart. It was your indication that youâd won.
âAlright, alright,â Caleb mused. âWhatever the lady wants, she shall get.â
And with that, you successfully seized his room.
They say that oneâs room is a reflection of oneâs mind. They being you, of course, alongside a few other studies that emerged following the publication of your own. A great deal can be discerned from the mere face of a roomâthe way its occupant arranges their bedsheets, the colours they favour, the state everything is in, the organisation of furniture and possessions, the things they treasure enough to keep within these walls. From mental state to relationship status, all could be dissected from a single glance at a room and its arrangement.
You didnât believe Caleb foolish enough to leave incriminating evidence strewn about. If anything had been there, he would have tidied up days before you set foot in Skyhaven. He preferred to keep details of his field of work discreet. You assumed it stemmed from an unwillingness to "corrupt" what he held sacredâsacralisation, perhaps? Disturbing when done to a human, yet not uncommon. You had encountered such cases before, and no matter how many you worked on, each left a familiar sinking feeling in your gut.
Knowing that, you never expected to find anything concrete in his room. But that wasnât your intention.
You unpacked, arranging your belongings on the bed. Your journal rested on his desk. Of course, there was a risk in choosing to stay here. If you left your journal lying about and he happened to enter on a whim (which he had every right to; it was his room, after all), you would be exposed almost instantly. What excuse could you offer for analysing patients from three years ago, especially while on holiday? Worse, if his eyes caught the blue thread marking the pages where you had written about Harrison, he would connect the dots at once. What would he do then? Banish you? Grow cold? Or something worse?
You didnât want to think about it.
Regardless, it was a risk you were willing to take. Consequences only existed if you faltered first. You were far more interested in what his room revealed about his mental state. Was it irrefutable evidence? No. But you werenât on duty. This was a personal investigationâhere, proof could be as subjective as you pleased. The only jury was yourself.
The bed was impeccably made, yet a thin layer of dust coated the duvetâa symptom of neglect. Still, there were signs that he had attempted to prepare. The neatly arranged cosmetics on the vanity, the dusted balcony with its watered plants, the stocked bird feeder swaying gently from the ceiling, the polished bathroom with its dry, tiled floors. They spoke of the care he had taken to render the space habitable for you.
It was your belief that people tidied before the arrival of guests to mask the unguarded fragments of themselves, those revealed in the dim solitude of their rooms. You could sense the effort he had poured into creating an illusion of warmth. His room practically welcomed you. Little hints of life were scattered throughout, almost as if to weave a mirage of normalcy.
"When we move in together in the future, what kind of room do you want?"
You lifted your chin, humming in thought. "Oh! I know! I want a lively room!"
"You mean colourful and vibrant?"
You shook your head. "No, dummy. A warm room! One that looks lived in."
Had he remembered your words? Back then, you had merely been a child. You had no true grasp of what you were saying, lacked the linguistic skills to articulate your thoughts. And yet, he remembered. Or perhaps it was simply instinctâafter all, any normal person would feel more comfortable in a space that had been occupied before.
Despite his meticulous efforts, something betrayed it all.
You ran a fingertip across the duvet, picking up dirt. He had forgotten to tend to the bed. You could see it nowâthe bed, untouched for so long, had appeared so pristine that it had entirely slipped his notice. That very perfection had made him overlook it. And you might have as well, had it not been for the red welts that bloomed upon contact.
That told you more than you had expected. So consumed with work, he had dehumanised himself. Yet, instead of confronting it, instead of seeking help, he had merely painted over the cracks and prayed you would not notice.
Caleb was underestimating you. And that would be his undoing.
As both a therapist and a friend, it was your duty to halt his descent before it could begin.
Breakfast was served a bit late, around the time youâd usually make it for yourself back at home. Flatbread stuffed with meat and cheeseâslightly indulgent, youâd say, but filling and undeniably delicious. Especially when put together by his hands. The savoury aroma wafted through the kitchen. You sat near the counter, devouring the bread in bites that left your mouth stuffed and puffy. Caleb laughed at the sight. But what could you do? After all, you were obsessed with his culinary prowess.
Although, you would admit, it was hard to focus on the food when his eyes were practically glued to you, unmoving and unwavering. A chill crept through your limbs but was quickly swallowed by the sudden burst of flavour in your mouth.
âHow is it?â
You mumbled incoherent words through your full cheeks.
âIâll take that as a compliment.â
No matter how vastly he changed, one thing remained constantâhis food. It hadnât changed a bit. The taste carried the same warmth it once had, the same lingering aftertaste of his signature seasoning. A silly thought popped into your mindâwhat if that were to change as well? A ridiculous notion. But then again, art changes as the artist does.
âDo you eat well while youâre on duty?â
Caleb looked out the window and hummed. His gaze averted yours. âDoes cafeteria food count as âeating wellâ?â
ââŚNot really.â You smiled. Why did he look away?
You pinched his arm. âLook at youâyouâre going to grow frail and weak!â
Caleb flinched before wincing dramatically, forcing a chuckle. âReally? Guess I gotta start eating well, huh?â He paused, glancing at his arm. âOr else someoneâs gonna be breathing down my neck even when weâre apart.â
With a tilt of your head, you nodded. âIâll scold you every time Iâm back.â
âIf it means seeing you more ofteâow!â You pinched a thin layer of his flesh and twisted it.
âI can see those evil schemes swirling around in your brain. Cut it out! Or do you want me to punch you?â
Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. âOh, whatever am I to do?â
Despite the playful spark in his eyes, you couldnât ignore the way his gaze flickered toward the compartment beneath the counter. He shifted, positioning his body over the gap so you were unable to steal a glance even if you tried.
You tilted your head and hummed. Interesting. It was best not to let him know youâd caught on.
You swallowed the last bits of your food with a mug of icy water. âOnce youâre weak, Iâll craft a ploy to seize your position. The fleetâs going to have a new Colonel soon!â Smirking slyly, you puffed out your chest with mock confidence.
An unexpected tension settled in the air. You noted the way his shoulders tensed, the way his jaw clenched at the word Colonel. A fleeting, alien emotion flickered behind his violet eyes, only to be swiftly dimmed by his sudden grin. That same, insufferable grin that guarded the entrance before you could step into his mind. His way of shutting you out.
He poked your arm and chuckled. âIâll be looking forward to it, Colonel.â A palm rose to his head in an exaggerated salute.
Why was he so jumpy today?
Later, sometime during the afternoon, you dragged Caleb out for a casual tour of Skyhaven. âShow me your favourite places to relax!â youâd said with a beam. That was all it took for him to crumble to his knees.
He led you to a sky-based retreat (well, you were already in the sky, but still) situated atop a towering skyscraper that dwarfed all others of its kind. It was a behemoth of a buildingâa monolithic structure plated with heavily tinted, floor-to-ceiling windows on all four faces. The epitome of a modern yet intimidating corporate monolith. A lake surrounded it on three sides, and the only way in was via a vast bridge, sturdy enough to withstand the heaviest of cargo-bearing trucks, looping around the entire strip of land.
The apex was swallowed by cotton-white clouds. The last few floors vanished into the fog, dissolving from view. Despite the presence of splendid and meticulously maintained gardens throughout, only a few workers strolled about. Even with the meticulously architected bridges, barely any cars were to be seen. Only the distant rattle of golf buggies echoed in the air. Save for the occasional chirps and the gentle woosh of water below, it was eerily quiet.
You contemplated asking Caleb about it, but for some reason, your inability to piece it together on your own gnawed at you, filling you with a bitter pride. It should be easier than a murder case. Why were you fumbling? This was supposed to be your first real move. How could you falter before even setting your plan into motion?
None of the workers paid any real attention to the two of you as you stepped through the main entrance. Only a few odd glances followed. Caleb seemed to be a regular here. They all seemed at ease with his presence.
The elevator ride was a gruelling one. You could swear it took five whole minutes just to exceed the twentieth floor. Caleb argued it had only been forty seconds. It felt longer, nonetheless. Normally, a crowded elevator would have preoccupied you. You would have found yourself enthralled by the faces and mannerisms of the passers-byâthe twenty-something man in a black suit, the unusually silent boy with bruises on his arms, the seemingly unfazed elderly woman with a deep-set frown. Insignificant to most, yet to you, endlessly fascinating.
For instance, the furrow on the businessmanâs brow suggested he was late for work. The bruises on the boyâs body spoke of a heartwarming heroism, evident in the little girl beside him who thanked him ceaselessly (though, judging by his expression, he had definitely received an earful from his guardian). And the irritable old womanâwell, she was quite clearly the one who had placed a zipper on the boyâs mouth.
What seemed forgettable to others was precious to you, and as long as there was company, you found solace.
But here, there wasnât. Other than Caleb, of course. And unfortunately, you couldnât exactly stare at him for the entire ride. Youâd rather not resemble a mad doctor dissecting a newly discovered organism. Still, you couldnât deny itâhe was far more interesting than any stranger.
So, you stared at him anyway. Luckily for you, he didnât seem to mind. Perhaps because he was too preoccupied, gazing out the transparent sheet of glass with a small smile on his lips. He seemed to be in a good state of mind. That was good. Otherwise, things had a slim chance of escalating into an argument. Nothing you couldnât handle, just something youâd rather avoid. Or else, heâd pierce through your façade faster than you intended.
The doors slid open with a hiss. Beams of warm light spilled through, hitting your face and causing you to squint. The entryway, constructed of flimsy straw structures, was adorned with threads of vines creeping up and down the walls. Sunlight dripped through the holes in the patchwork roof, glinting cruelly beyond the tapestry, shining down with all its mightâan act of savagery against your poor eyes. Thankfully, the vines shielded you from its full assault.
You tilted your head. A womanâuniformed, with a strict look on her faceâstood beside the entrance with an immaculate posture. A familiar hat sat low on her head, guarding her eyes from both the intense heat and light. The utter lack of emotion in her gaze sent an involuntary shiver down your spine.
You glanced up at Caleb. He was unfazed by her presence, as if she were a mere colleague or a guard standing by. But she wasnât the latter. You could tell by the uniform.
With your hand in his, he strode up to the woman. She offered a curt salute in response. âColonel.â
âWe would like to enter.â His voice was cold, a stark contrast to the way his thumb tenderly grazed over yours.
The woman turned to you. Her head tilted as she scrutinised you with a wary gaze. Then, she nodded. âRight this way.â
You were sure of it now. This was a private building, accessible only to high-ranking members of the Farspace fleet. You supposed such an arduous job had its benefits. Well, this was the least they could offer to those who put their lives on the line each day, fighting for yet more senseless bloodshed. This place was built upon a mixture of blood and sweat.
You grimaced. It felt wrong to stand upon this ground. If you squinted, you could see themâcorpses strewn across the floor, brain matter splattered across the walls. Your stomach coiled. What a pathetic way to liveâto be crowned in blood and sit upon a throne of bloodied cash, chest brimming with pride, belly full of greed, smirking down upon the famished.
You turned to face Caleb. You supposed he wasnât too different from those people. And yet, you had forgotten all about it until now. He was truly a master at forging a harmless appearance, a welcoming front. Even now, a part of you refused to see him that way.
You supposed you were guilty as well. You had accepted your position as his plus-one without hesitation and accompanied him to such a place. It was hypocritical to persecute him while standing upon the faces of corpses, declaring yourself the selfless hero.
Such was the nature of humans.
The woman led you through the delicate gate. Caleb dragged you along. The first time you laid your eyes on the garden, your world stilled.
Words could not describe how breathtaking yet melancholic the sight before you was. If you were to attempt to jot it down on a piece of paper, you would be stuck on the first word. Unlike your initial beliefs, the botanical garden was not encased in glass. It shouldâve been obvious from the torture youâd enduredâthe perpetrator being the sadistic, open sun. Maybe it was the awe of it all that heightened your perplexity.
The flowering meadows, the perfectly trimmed patches of fresh, green grass, the symmetrical, square-shaped ponds, the pair of birds feeding from the birdbath, the cascading artificial waterfallsâyou didnât know which one of them struck you the deepest. Or maybe it was the overly maintained religious sculpturesâthe one depicting a winged woman, angel or devil, with a honeycomb for her faceâor the concerningly clean walkways, or the flawlessly aligned roses in the rose gardens that seemed a little too well-kept, stealing away the âwildâ and ânaturalâ vibe of your typical botanical garden.
The sky above was a whirlwind of blues, whites, subtle purples, and a dominant yellow-white. A soft breeze cascaded past, threading through the strands of your hair and dancing along your skin. It was cool and pleasantâperfectly so. Like the soft spring breeze that blows in February, or the afternoon wind at the shore of a river. It was just right. The perfect temperature to lull you to sleep.
Your mind winded back to the afternoons you spent with Caleb under your backyardâs willow tree. The breeze there would blow just as strikingly as it did here. Leaves would flutter down onto your face, only to be brushed aside by Calebâs warm fingers. You would spend several hours lying there with him. Whether it was to complete your homework (of course, you slacked off and lured him into an endless chat instead) or flip through a book, he would always be there, brimming with that brotherly tenderness of his. It made up for your lack of a father figure in your lifeâGrandma Josephine being your only guardian.
Your heart ached at the memory. Maybe he hadnât changed at all. Even then, Caleb harboured one major purposeâto protect what he loved, you, and to cherish it to the fullest. You had a hunchâwhat if that mysterious chip in his brain did not alter him entirely, but only heightened his preexisting instincts? But still. You found it hard to believe that the chip could truly rewire his brain so severely. You refused to believe such contraband existed. The mind is a fragile thing. Itâs not so easy to suppress its power. Although all factual data pointed towards only a little portion of his brain remaining untouched, you firmly believed it was a front.
Maybe, among his emotions lay one that would be easy to utilise, to take control of and provoke so that he abided by their rules. And the only emotion so easy to manoeuvreâhis only weaknessâwas his love for you. If you hadnât been bornâŚ
âItâs⌠wow,â you let out an audible gasp. Your eyes twinkled with stars. On your heels, you spun around, imprinting every inch of the garden in your memory. Caleb didnât need to be a genius to know that bringing you here was the best choice he had made in a long time. His grin mimicked yours. There was no use in asking whether you were enjoying the view or notâthe way you frantically hopped about the place, skipping from pond to pond and observing the exotic birds from afar, told him everything.
With small, unhurried steps, Caleb approached you as you peeked at the pair of colourful birds drinking from the birdbath. âTheyâre raised here. I feed âem sometimes.â He tucked a strand of loose hair behind your ear. âTheyâre friendly towards humans. Watch.â
He held out his right hand and approached the birds gingerly. The blue jay tilted its head to scan Caleb as he neared. As if recognising him immediately, it leapt onto his arm.
Using his other hand, he gestured for you to come. You approached with silent and hesitant steps. Once close enough, you reached up to touch the blue jay perched on his arm. You nearly jumped into a pond when the bird took off. Your cheeks flushed red, to which Caleb burst out guffawing.
âI forgot to mentionâthey donât like being touched. Sorry, Pip!â he uttered between chuckles.
You gave him the meanest glare you could muster. âHow very forgetful of you.â You brought an accusatory finger to point at his chest. âYou did that on purpose, didnât you?â
âDid I?â
âYes, you did!â
The woman watching from afar could not help but smile at your meaningless banter.
You and Caleb lingered until the sun began to dip below the horizon, until the once-blue skies were replaced with a bright orange-red and purple. The clouds began to darkenâthe battle cry of an impending tempest. Or was it the coming of night? You didnât know. Nonetheless, both of you refused to leave.
âThe world looks so tiny from here.â You compared the size of the structures afar with your fingers. Your other hand gripped the railing for support. âIâm almost jealous. You get to come here every day.â
You mumbled, turning to face Caleb, who appeared entranced by the hues of the setting sun. A smile adorned your face. He looked so peaceful, so content. As if nothing had occurred in the past few months, as if it was still the two of you against the world. You yearned to breathe in his embrace once more, just like old times. You swallowed. You couldnât afford that. The past was gone. Now, only the future awaitedâa future that depended on your actions, your choices, and your diligence. You couldnât back out now. You were too far in.
âDonât you miss that Willow tree?â you started. âThe big one in our backyard. We used to rest against the trunk on the grass.â
âOnce, I had to save you from a grasshopper. It lunged at you from the grass, and you screamed like a child,â he laughed. âAnd afterwards, you ended up avoiding that place for two weeks.â
âI only went after you got rid of them.â
He nodded. âI sprayed the whole area with bug repellentâit killed some of the vegetation as well.â
You smiled at the memory. âGrandma was so mad at us.â
A comfortable quietude ensued, submerging you both into a peaceful state of mind. Then, Caleb spoke solemnly.
âI have patrol tomorrow.â The sun began to disappear below the horizon, leaving swipes of purple behind on the sky. Dark clouds converged. âI wonât be there for you, pip.â
âTruth be toldâŚâ You gazed up at the vanishing sun. âI have some work to do. I came here for a more peaceful and friendly working environment.â
âThen you can busy yourself with that. Just⌠donât burn down my kitchen, yeah?â
You shot him a scheming grin, yet it held no bite. âWhen will you be back?â
âThe day after. Not too long.â
You bit your lip. Couldnât he have stayed for a day longer? You had to be quick on your feet, then.
âDid you think about it?â Caleb suddenly interrupted. The gears turned in your head. Your mind was brought back to the offer heâd made before you departed from Skyhaven the last timeââWhy not live here? You have nothing left in Linkon city to return to. I can get you a position somewhere as a criminologist. You can return to doing what you loved.â
Your gaze returned to him. You hadnât decided yet. Sure, it gave you quite a handful of opportunities to inspect his brain a little closer. But if your plan failed? Youâd be stuck in Skyhaven. You were sure it wouldnât, butâŚ
You took the flesh of your mouth into your teeth. It wasnât the time to doubt yourself. But that wasnât the only concern in your mind. The thought of him bearing so much power over your life and your job put you at unease. It was risky. Terribly so. It made your advantages over him feel insignificant. No matter how passionate you were about your work, and no matter your love for him, you preferred your sanity and wellbeing over all.
You turned to Caleb with an apologetic smile. His eyebrows furrowed, and a flicker of disappointment crossed his face. âSorry, Caleb. Iâve made some friends, and Iâm happy with the quiet life Iâve managed to build for myself.â
You could sense his thoughtsââWhat life? That poor, miserable one devoid of my presence and protection?ââyou were sure that was whatâd crossed his mind at that moment. You could tell by the way his jaw was clenched and his muscles tightened. But at once, the solicitous façade returned, washing away every hint of dissatisfaction thatâd dared to cross his face. âThatâs all right. Youâre free to change your mind whenever you wish.â You forced your lips into a tight smile in return. âI appreciate it.â A part of you winced at the sudden formality in your tones. For some reason, you loathed whenever he got serious. It frightened you somewhat.
âYou know, pip-squeak,â Caleb mused, his voice light, casual. Unnervingly so. Something in your stomach coiledâthat familiar feeling of dread and anticipation. âSomething tells me youâre not here for relaxation.â
You stilled, only for a little while. But it was enough. His gaze sharpened. âTell me.â His eyes bore into yoursâcalculating, scrutinising, leaving no stone unturned. As if you were the experiment, and he, the mad scientist. Something venomous swirled in his violet hues. Like a dagger, or like the teeth of a snakeâsharp, ready to pierce skin, waiting.
Unreadable.
Bolts of lightning ripped through the skies, illuminating a part of Calebâs face to highlight the utter insanity brewing beneath his irises. A strong, dusty wind blew, sending shivers down your spineâthough, you were unaware whether they were from fear or the cold. So, it was an oncoming storm.
Your fingers curled against the railing. Your sweat seeped onto its surface. You hesitated.
âCaleb, thatâsââ A soft voice murmured. You let out a breathless laugh, flustered. âYouâre not wrong.â
The air between you stretched taut. He remained silent, unmoving. Once again, silence had engulfed you, but this time, it wasnât pleasant. Like a watchful eagle, Caleb waited.
You brushed strands of hair away from your eyes and glued your eyes to the birds instead. âYou know, lately, Iâve justâIâve been thinking,â you let your words tremble, âIâIâm sorryâŚâ You gripped your chest. âIâve been thinking that, maybeâŚâ You swallowed, lowering your gaze. Perfect.
You inhaled sharply. âYou were right.â
His brow raised. He seemed hooked.
âI thought about what you saidâabout my security. And youâre right. Although Iâve trained in the police, my combat knowledge is minimal. Linkon city is becoming less safe by the second, especially for me.â You closed your eyes. âAssuming what you said was true, about several corporations being after my headâwell, my heart, I just canât help but feel unsafe. Even when surrounded by my friends, even in my own home.â Your lips quivered. He listened with immaculate patience, as if he were picking apart your words, searching for a hidden subtext. âAnd now, everybody seems like hollow, empty beings. I canât resonate with my patients; I canât have fun with my friends. I feel so⌠isolated. So alone. And I realised,â you continued, âthat despite all, you on the other hand? You were always there for me. In my heart, by my side. I could truly only be safe and happy when with you.â
Silence. The only sound in the air was the crackling of thunder.
You chanced a glance at him, watching how his eye twitched. Had he caught on? Were you in trouble? Was he mad? Your anxiety peaked at the slow inhale as he prepared to speak.
But then, his eyes softened.
âYou shouldâve just said so.â His voice was gentle, lacking the malice it once had. âYou know you can always turn to me for help, right?â
Bingo.
Inside, you smirked. It worked. He fell for it. How could he not? You had been preparing for ages.
Youâd won your first challenge. Arguably, it was the toughest one. If youâd failedâif heâd caught on, or noticed even the smallest hint of it having been a lie, your entire world wouldâve crumbled. All that youâd worked for, gone. Rendered meaningless by your incompetence. You didnât know what you would do afterward if that were to happen.
You let yourself appear small and vulnerable when you looked back at Caleb, attempting to highlight the anxiety in your eyes. âI know. I was planning to say it, but a perfect moment never came. Until now, that is.â
Caleb brought his palm to your cheek and cradled your face in his arms. âYou donât need an excuse to be honest with me. Whenever you feel like it, just lay your heart bare.â
âBut you seemed so happy. Like you were enjoying yourself. I didnât want to ruin it with my embarrassing thoughts.â You argued, forcing a frown on your face. He shook his head. âOnce youâre done, we can go straight back to having fun if thatâs what you want. Besides,â he averted his gaze, âItâs been on my mind all dayâwhy you could be pretendinâ when you couldâve just told me. I was wondering how bad it was for you to be hidinâ it from me so desperately.â
You assumed as much. Explains why he seemed so jumpy earlier during breakfast, and why he kept zoning out the entire way here. It was what gave you the idea of using such deceit in the first place. You were sure if there was a perfect place to confront you about it, it would be here; under the witness of the setting sun, in a place you were bound to feel sentimental and thus, vulnerable and ready to spill it all out.
Unfortunately, you were not willing to fall for such a clear trap.
By the time you had left, the downpour had begun. Weighted beads of water stormed down on you viciously. The two of you rushed out before the storm could catch you. Well, one of you did. Caleb, who so valiantly used himself to shield you against the relentless tempest, had been completely drenched. Blobs of water dragged along the floor as he walked. You swore, if you squeezed him then, a whole waterfall would erupt. It was almost sweetâthe way he so earnestly utilised his behemoth of a body to block out the stormâs ceaseless assault. It was something straight out of a romantic drama, or some sort of clichĂŠ film. But for some reason, you couldnât cringe. You only laughed it off, paying no mind to the gentle flutter in your stomach.
The drive home was thrillingâabundant with giggles and snarky remarks thrown around. Perhaps you were in a better mood because your stomach was fullâCaleb had been kind enough to treat you to supper in a small cafĂŠ situated on the middlemost floor of that building. The chefâs culinary expertise overflowed from the arrangement of exquisitely prepared Skyhaven delicacies. And the best part? They were quite cheap. Had you received a discount in honour of his presence? You didnât know. But at the very least, you didnât go broke after insisting that you split the bill 50/50. Despite having dried off, however, Caleb somehow wetted the seats.
Once home, both of you almost immediately collapsed onto the couch (you threw him off, of course, for soaking the furniture with the remnants of his heroism). He scrambled out of his clothes and cooked you both a warm plate of braised chicken wings shortly after. Dinner ensued normally this time, with a dearth of odd flinches or averted gazes. The two of you simply chatted to your heartâs content, both putting in equal effort to make it seem as if old times had returned.
Of course, it hadnât. You were thrust back into reality when Calebâs phone began to ring.
With a sidelong glance, he excused himself, making haste to his room and shutting the door behind him. You eyed the door, moving only when you were sure itâd clicked shut. Tip-toeing over to the kitchen, you bent down to eye the compartments underneath. There it was. Unmistakable, concreteâa file of unknown origin adorned with a sleek grey cover. You glanced over the counter. He wasnât done yet. Your attention travelled back to the file.
But you paused. Tremors rippled through you as you slipped the ring off your finger and dropped it to the floor. With a measured kick, you pushed it further beneath the counter. Just to be safe. In case you were caught.
You reached into the compartment. Your entire arm was swallowed by darkness before finally, your fingers met the file. Cautiously, you pulled it out. The layer of dust coating its surface sprang up to your face as you dusted it. You made an effort not to cough.
The fileâs edges were worn. Yet the pages inside appeared to be relatively new and untouched, perhaps even well-kept. A plastic sleeve shielded the grey manila folder from all sorts of debris. The pages inside were laminated and contained bundles of new words and information foreign to you. The fileâs contents overwhelmed you. They appeared to be gibberish, nonsensical.
You deftly skimmed through the first few pages. None of the information contained within them seemed worthy of noting. Not to you, at least. There didnât appear to be anything you didnât know and was not known by the public. Then why was he reacting so oddly back then? Why had he flinched? Why had his gaze travelled back to his lapâor more specifically, to this file, as he anxiously fiddled with his fingers? Youâd lured him away on purposeâdragging him outside the moment he couldâve gotten a chance to remove the file before you could grasp it. Was it all for nothing, then? Were you mistaken?
You stilled.
You werenât mistaken after all.
Your fingers hovered over the fifth page.
There, in big, bold letters, was your name.
Inscribed upon the laminated page. And beside that lay your picture, alongside a list of unremarkable data, such as your date of birth, full name, affiliation, and so on.
Before you could investigate further, a voice called out your name. You hadnât heard the door creak open.
You peered up from beneath the counter. Calebâs face was contorted with horrorâhis pupils contracted; his body frozen. The hand holding his phone to his ear dropped to his side. He began to stride toward you.
You shoved the folder lazily into the compartment once more, ensuring no sound was emitted in the process. Adopting the most nonchalant expression you could, you lifted your head to face him. âCaleb,â you called out, a small pout gracing your lips, âI canât reach the ring.â
He stopped. The act seemed to have taken effect. He cocked his head, eyes bearing into yours, as if ripping apart your soul itself for a trace of a lie. But you werenât intimidated by his silent interrogation. You held your resolve, maintaining the façade with determined accuracy. Gradually, Calebâs impishness returned.
âDropped it?â
He fell for it so flawlessly, it almost irked you that he hadnât put up a bigger fight. You pouted internally. Could he not have pretended not to buy it? For the sake of the thrill? Oh, well. A winâs a win.
You nodded. âI canât reach it. Can you help me?â
He hurried to your side and hunched over. You noted the way his eyes skimmed over the document tucked away in the depths of the compartment, right where heâd left it, before it went to the gap underneath the counter. The subtle glint of your ring confirmed your honesty. He raised his hand and twirled his fingers in the air. As if a gust of wind had carried it here, the ring smoothly levitated out of the darkness and onto the countertop. You shot him a sheepish smile before returning to your feet to collect the ring.
Just as you slipped it onto your finger, Caleb grasped your chin between his fingers and turned you to face him. His eyes bore an unnerving intensity as they skimmed over your face. Were you busted? Had he caught on? You didnât let the quiver reach your lips. Instead, you donned a perplexed complexion as he whisked your head around.
Once satisfied, he released you from his grip and ruffled your hair. âJust checking if youâd gotten dust on you.â You rolled your eyes in response. âIâm not a child anymore!â
âAnyway, anything wrong? That call seemed important.â You caught him zoning out, staring into the distance. You waved your hand before his face. âEarth to Caleb?â
He straightened himself. âNot really. I just⌠might return home a little late tomorrow. And I gotta leave tonight.â
You frowned. He had the audacity to lie to your face, knowing you were skilled enough to penetrate through whatever front he puts up. Pushing it would only add to the uncomfortableness of it all, so you sealed your lips instead.
You whined, although it came out a bit prolonged, before swatting his arm weakly. âBut you saidâŚâ
âI know,â he sighed, âBut duty calls.â
âTell you what?â He brushed a stray strand away and cradled your cheek. For a moment, he glanced to the side, lost in thought, before he looked back at you and continued, âIâll make it up to ya once Iâm back. But with that being said, donât stay up too late tomorrow, yeah?â You pretended to be unmoved, but a part of you jumped at the mention of recuperation. You wondered what it would be. Food, perhaps? Or maybe tickets to that movie youâd been dying to watch? Whatever it was, you couldnât deny it enlivened you.
Caleb seemed to have noticed the somersaults you did, and the way you skipped around with joy behind those eyes. He smirked. âIâll be leaving now. Get some rest. Iâm sure youâre tireâachoo!â He hastily covered his mouth with his arm. Another sneeze. And another.
You narrowed your eyes and folded your arms over your chest. âAre you sure you wonât catch a cold? Although you probably already haveâŚâ you muttered the last part under your breath.
Caleb waved his arm dismissively. âDonât worry about it. Iâll beââ And another. âYeah. Anyways, as I was saying, go to bed on time, alright?â
You shook your head, as if disheartened by his juvenile behaviour. âAlright. But, at least take some medicine or something. Itâll probably be one long night.â
When Caleb had left, the tempest roared at its prime. Despite having handed him two umbrellas, a string of worry coiled in your chest. Could he fend off against the raging winds that thumped against the sliding glass doors of the balcony and threatened to knock them over? No matter how strong a man, he was deemed fragile and brittle against the forces of nature. What if an uninvited bolt of electricity had happened to fall upon him as he walked? Was he even walking? You hoped not. At least vehicles were designed to protect people from lightning.
In the end, the quietude proved to be quite pleasant. You could immerse yourself in re-studying Harrisonâs case without the fear of Caleb barging in and catching you red-handed.
You managed to skim over quite a lot of pages before hunger struck. Glancing up at the clock, the realisation dawned upon you that you had been at it for more than two hours. But it was a productive two-hour session with yourself, youâd say. But there were obstacles, nonetheless. As youâd suspected, Roanâs problematic behaviour had a completely different source from what youâd suspected Calebâs to be. He acted on paranoia and insecurity, whereas Caleb seemed more insistent on the idea of protection. Roanâs obsession blinded his wit and caused him to act on impulse.
The kidnapping of Anne Lotte, although seemingly flawless, was conducted on a whim. Harrison executed his plan with merely a gun, a bundle of ropes, and some chloroform to sedate her. The alley Anne happened to be crossing through had no cameras, and as it was a secluded shortcut few were aware of, there were no passers-by to witness the crime. Nobody had gotten injured, thanks to Harrisonâs prior police training, so there was no blood or evidence to be picked up. All other proof happened to be washed away by the rain shortly after.
From this timeline of events, it was clear that Harrison had gotten away with Anneâs kidnapping simply because of luck. If the stars hadnât aligned during his sudden state of paranoia, Anne would be alive and well now. What an unlucky girl she was. It was almost as if fate had abandoned her.
Harrison had strength, but he was dim. That was what caused the inevitable discovery of Anne stashed away in his basement. Caleb, on the other hand, possessed both. Throughout high school, he had topped you almost constantly. No matter how hard you studied, no matter how many all-nighters youâd pulled, he would somehow manage to top you with a mere four or five hours of study before an examination.
You admit, you were envious of him throughout most of your teenage years, and you were appalled when heâd decided to tread a completely different academic path from yours. But nowadays, looking back, you realise that the only reason heâd made such an effort to conquer you was to be a reliable pillar of support if you were to falter. Which, inevitably due to the gallons of caffeine and hoursâ worth of lost sleep, you did. Another irksome consequence of his undying affection that you had to suffer.
Even now, his wits and manipulation are clear. You were sure nobody rose to the rank of Colonel so swiftly without possessing immense intelligence. Calebâs puppy eyes werenât going to fool anyone. Not you, at least. They couldnât hide the terrifyingly adept brain that lay beyond them.
Anneâs decline in mental well-being was predetermined. It was part of Harrisonâs flawed plan all along. His insecurity left little room for actual care and affection to be expressed towards her, and as a result, he determined that breaking her resolve would be the surest way of ensuring submission. Of course, that did backfire for him. It led to her malnutrition, forecasted miscarriages, and her eventual suicide. Although you had no sure way of knowing what Caleb wouldâve done, you were sure it wasnât this.
Someone like him could predict such an outcome from a mile away. Breaking somebodyâs mind, in this case, would be a reckless decision. And most importantly, his fatal flaw is that he loves too dearly and cares too much to be able to leave someone he admires to fend for themselves as he relentlessly shatters their psyche. He is too infatuated for that. His obsession stemmed from a desire to protect, not meaningless paranoia like Harrisonâs. That explains why he would be unwilling to lay a finger on them.
And, of course, Caleb was a âmanipulation>direct actionâ type of man. He had expressed his twisted desires to keep you confined and unable to flee once before, as he had been bandaging up your injured leg. But you were confident that his idea of confinement exists in a psychological state. He would bind your mind and heart to him, maneuver you to fall deeper into a psychical trap you could not escape. He would never directly imprison or confine. He would rewire your brain so that you willingly stuck yourself to him. It was a legal way to get what he wanted. And you didnât doubt he could pull it off.
However, one thing to note was that he needed motiveâproof that you were slipping from his grasp. As long as you remained on good terms, or pretended to, he would not need to resort to such methods.
Maybe.
Despite the dissimilarities, you were sure you could learn more to be able to counter his blows if he were to ever make some. But your main priority was still to cleanse his mind, to provide him with an opening to redeem himself and return to his normal life once more. Never mind your intentions. The contrast between their insanities led you to notice some peculiar things.
You turned to one of the back pages of your book and began scribbling down your thoughts.
Harrison and Caleb were merely two sides of the same coin. A cerberus with two heads. One who is impulsive, led on by rage and desire, and the other that is intelligent, driven by his loyalty to his master. But in the end, the cerberus is one complete being. If you split it in half, it will not regenerate like dividing cells. It will simply perish together. After all, both are two extremes.
Meaning if a lack of foresight could tackle one, then the other would fall for his over-calculation of things. They were both arrogant and full of themselves, believing only themselves and their strategies to be correct. In the end, they couldnât see the 48 other heads lodged between the twoâ48 other ways to be âcorrectâ.
The impulsive head aches to swallow his prey, to make incisions within his heart and stash them away in one of its chambers. And the cunning head too cuts, not his heart, but his loverâs brain, and detangles the strands only to twist them again, only this time in a way that would make them willing to stay. Resorting to such cruel yet more humane tactics implies that the fear of losing their treasure was rooted far more deeply in the intelligent cerberus rather than the dim one.
And what if fear is not another vulnerability to control?
Whereas Harrison is abundant in paranoia and insecurity, Caleb is almost wholly dominated by the extremity of positive emotions like love, care, and an overwhelming desire to protect. His unwillingness to hurt means that if you were to show even a single crack in your mind, the fear of you crumbling would force him to loosen his grip almost entirely, given that his side of the mind games had already begun. That would create the perfect opening for you to slip past and dash out to meet your freedom.
All you had to do was put on one more act.
Harrisonâs impulsiveness, contrasting Calebâs preparedness, also let you peer into another opening. If you continued to think of them as two sides of the same coin, then you could come upon this conclusionâif Harrison had a breaking point, so did he.
Harrisonâs inevitable downfall and his psychological abuse of Anne was set into motion when the thought bit into his brain, whisperingââIf you donât tighten the leash, she will run away.â It was safe to assume that Caleb too had a breaking point. It was simply harder to reach. One side of the coin was made of bronze, whereas the other was constructed of tungsten. Both could melt, just at different speeds.
If you could provoke him up to that point, Caleb would be forced to reveal his hand. But, admittedly, picturing what could happen if he snapped was⌠unsettling. Precisely because you couldnât picture it at all.
And thus, that would remain something you would try if you couldnât get him to falter at all. A last resort, to be more specific.
And now, with your acquired information, you could weave your final plan: if he tried something anyway, you could paint a front of danger, as if his âadvancesâ and whatnot had thrown you into a state of endangerment, and if he didnât back away immediately, it may cost him (and you) something precious. Whether it be your life, blood, or sanity, he cared too much not to abort instantaneously. Unlike Harrison, he wouldnât act blindlyâheâd justify his actions. If you could provide real consequences (consequences that mattered to him), you could alter his idea of justifications and compel him to rationalise his actions differently.
And how, exactly, would you achieve that? Well, that was something to figure out along the way. That was your mottoâhave a vague, surface-level plan, and build upon it as you go. If you had a solid, fool-proof plan, you wouldnât have searched for information after arriving in Skyhaven.
To be honest with yourself, your knowledge on Calebâs behaviour and your predictions on what may have happened next were minimal; certainly not enough to conclude that you were in any real danger, and certainly not enough to deduce that your initial assumptions could be utilised to orchestrate a surefire way of taking him down. You suppose you had to spend more time with him to come to a real conclusion. Of course, that wouldnât be too easy, considering that youâd purposefully invaded at a time where heâd be busy juggling you and his duties simultaneously. You had your reasons. The perfect time to strike was when a manâs back was faced to you, and he was too busy with the happenings before him to notice the footsteps creeping up on him from behind. In short, right now, he was vulnerable. If he found out you were up to something, he would be too exhausted to think straight and thus he would falter. If you face an enemy far stronger than you, wear them down first, and then strike when they are on the verge of tears.
The real problem right now was how you could feign being endangered. For now, youâd come up with a few ways. Perhaps a more logical approach would be best for a start.
Skyhavenâs weather seemed mostly untouched. Save for yesterdayâs storm, it remained relatively stable. With clear, cloudless skies, splashed with a unique blue, it was perfect weatherâperfect air. Too perfect. Maybe the storm from yesterday lingered somewhere beneath the blues. It had to be. Nothing is truly calmâespecially not here.
âBeautiful, isnât it, Rhys?â you hummed. A flock of black ravens flitted past your window. The bitter scent of unbrewed coffee beans drifted in the cafĂŠâs air. It was a scent youâd grown to admire. The perfect place to work, really. It opened your mind (and mouth) wide enough to effectively scribble away at one of your flimsy journals, analysing some patientsâ consciousnesses or just gathering your thoughts. But today, you werenât here for work.
âProbably because weâre so high up,â Rhys grinned, flashing his braced teeth. He was a tall man of dark complexion with thin brown hair kissing his shoulders. Rhys Vaughnâone of the few patients youâd reviewed in Skyhaven, involved with your limited history here. He used to be a drug addict and had nearly run over a child while stoned. To his luck, the child managed to escape mostly unscathed save for a broken limb, and thus, he got off with a relatively lighter charge. He was placed under your care while serving time in prison. Eventually, after a period of two years, youâd managed to lure him into making a full recovery. Now, he appeared before you, a new, clean man with a loving wife. But, above all, working with Rhys had one sure advantageâhe was quite talented in the art of gathering information.
In his line of work as a technician, Rhys was required to have some basic computing skills. As a result, heâd undergone several computer science courses online, and he completely aced them. The coding shenanigans that couldnât penetrate through your thick skull passed through his as if tearing through paper. He was skilled in what you were not; practical work. If there was anyone to call for some ethical hacking and information digging, it would be him. To Rhys, asking him to dig up information was the same as asking him to pass you the remote from across the room. You could put those skills to use.
âHowâs your wife?â you gingerly sipped your coffee.
âSheâs good. Hit a milestone in her art.â
âAnd you? How are you feeling?â
Rhys chuckled. âStill playing psychotherapist, miss?â
You shook your head with a sheepish smile. âForce of habit, you know? Canât take my mind off work.â You waved your hand dismissively. âReally, though, how are you? Answer the question viewing me as⌠a friend.â
âIâm doinâ great!â He raised his hands dramatically in a gesture of joy. âNot delirious all day, actually sane and stable, able to keep relationships and eat something other than scrawny prison food. Yeah, couldnât have been better.â
You smiled. Genuinely. âGood to know.â
Knowing your patient had achieved happiness fulfilled your purpose as both a psychotherapist and a human. Your mind recalled a skinnier Rhys sitting across from you on a long, white couch, lacking the sun in his eyes, which he now had multiple of, swirling about in his pools of bronze. His eyes back then; they were empty. He appeared a lifeless man with mould growing out of the pores of his skin. And now, he was here, sitting across from you, helping you just as you had helped him two years ago. It was a motherly pride that filled your chest, cascading through your nerves like a warm, sweet liquid. You couldnât be happier.
âAnyway, what ya here for?â
You placed your hand under your chin and turned to look out the window.
âI remembered what you said, Rhys.â
He cocked an eyebrow and peered at you from over his cup as he sipped. You took it as a sign to continue. âYou mentioned once that you owe me one, and that if I ever find myself in a stump in Skyhaven, I could call for you.â
âSo,â he added a packet of sweetener into his coffee, âYou want to take me up on that offer now? I thought youâd forgotten about me.â His countenance twisted to display mock hurt. âAll right. Iâm just playing. Whatâs it about?â
âI recently managed to earn myself a boyfriend,â you started, although cringing internally, âAnd I happen to doubt his mental well-being.â
Rhys kicked back on the plush of the chair. Heâd figured it out already, you were sure, but you went on anyway.
âWe just got together about 6 months ago. So, itâll be hard to know enough to be able to help him.â
âSo you want me to dig up some information about him?â He leaned closer. âWhat kind?â
âHeâs an orphan. Doesnât have family, pretends with his friends. But there are a few people he seemed close to. Some workers, mailmen, plumbers, you know. Those types of people I can never seem to get a hold of.â
âShould I fetch their contacts?â
âNo.â You winced at the finality of your words. âI mean, yes, but not just that.â
Rhys cocked an eyebrow. An amused smirk crossed his face. Had he caught your lies?
âItâd be convenient if you could search for his transactions with them. Their backgrounds, history, et cetera. I have some⌠other doubts as well.â
With a large gulp, Rhys slurped up his coffee and wiped his face with a napkin. Only silence swayed between you two as he took his time to reply. He wasnât thinking. Certainly not. But he lingered, nonetheless.
He knew, for sure.
âYou know, little miss, I donât know why you feel the need to fabricate when you know I donât hesitate to dirty my hands.â
You glued your eyes to your lap.
âI owe you. And even if you asked me to kill a man, Iâd do it.â
You let out a shaky exhale. âIf I were still your therapist, Iâd be scribbling on my notebook right now. But, considering Iâm in a pinch, Iâll let it slide.â You smiled. âI appreciate your help, Rhys, and your respect for my privacy. I will forever be indebted to you.â
He swatted his hand about mindlessly. âYeah, yeah. A name, please.â He slid you a slip of paper.
You plucked a pen from your coat and jotted down Calebâs name before passing it across the table. Taking it between his fingers, Rhys eyed the name. He lingered there for a beat too long. Something was up. Your suspicions only spiked with the subtle twitch of his finger. A light of recognition crossed his bronze irises before fading just as swiftly. In a flash, his grin returned, and he pocketed the slip of paper before springing to his feet. âAll right. Tomorrow, Iâll text you with whatever I find.â
You lowered your head. âAgain, thank you.â
That night, Caleb returned late. Uninjured, thankfully, but acting odd nonetheless. In his hands, a small bag was clutched. You recalled his wordsââIâll make it up to you.ââand it took a lot for you to resist leaping from the couch and snatching the bag from his hands. What stopped you, aside from the fear of appearing awfully juvenile, was the exhaustion etched into his face.
When his eyes met yours, however, his complexion brightened immediately. Still clad in his uniform, Caleb kicked off his boots and strode towards you. A weariness weighed his movements. The strongest man youâd ever seen, both physically and mentallyâyour pillar of strengthâstumbled across the room like a golden puppy dragging its injured leg along the floor, wagging its tail and paying no mind to its pain. You felt stabbed in the chest. For a man of such power, he could be absolutely endearing at times.
âMiss me, pip?â Caleb leaned down to ruffle your hair affectionately. You shut off your phone to smile at him. Your eyes enlarged as his familiar face appeared before you, but a frown tugged at your lips at the dark stains under his eyes. You reached your hand out to caress the blackened bags of flesh.
âYou didnât sleep.â
He cradled your face in turn. âNeither did you.â A flick to your forehead caused a pout to form on your face.
âI wasnât working my ass off.â
âAnd I was. I know. Iâm sorry.â He set his colonel cap on your head. The accessory dwarfed your skull, sinking down until it obscured your vision. Caleb stifled a laugh at the sight.
He noted the way your eyes drifted to the bag in his handâthe bag that was coated with crimson and shiny gold accents, which gave away very little about its contents. Sensing your curiosity, he handed the bag to you.
âThe lady asks, and I deliver.â He bowed curtly. You both broke into merry laughter.
Stashed away in the depths of the tiny bag was a rectangular velvety jewellery case, coloured similarly to the bag, down to the gold accents. The mere surface of the case seemed extravagant enough to satisfy your greed even in the absence of the jewellery itself. You stared in awe. Were you truly deserving of the real gem hidden inside? Your fingers traced the engraving on the caseâs surface. A remarkable brand. There was a lump gathering in your throat. It felt sacred to hold something so precious, so expensive. You were no high priestess or beloved queenânot worthy enough to clutch a revered artifact. And yet, Calebâs eyes bore into yours with a gentleness that could bring you to tears. And it did. You felt tears threatening to form. You were sure he noticed.
A sudden wave of guilt knocked the wind out of your lungs. Just hours before, youâd been conspiring against him, digging up information that could potentially be labelled as an invasion of oneâs privacy, and threading together a plan that was catered to go against him, to take him down. You knew you werenât doing anything wrong. You were helping him. Guiding him to a path of happiness, just as you did with your patients, just as you did with Rhys.
Just as you would have with Harrison and Anne.
If only your incompetence hadnât gotten them killed, they could walk their own paths today. You closed your eyes. An image flashed before you. A flimsy blonde girl with scars littering her arms, crossing a bridge, heading towards a field of flowers with her dead child clutching her hand. And a battered older man going the opposite wayâa path towards a blinding light, the path to redemption.
You wouldnât let it happen again.
There was nothing to be guilty of. Your fingers curled tighter against the fabric of your pants. There was nothing to be guilty of. You werenât in the wrong. This was for the greater good. Theyâd understand. They surely would, once they realised that the path you chose for them was a more tranquil one.
But did you risk losing yourself in the process?
âNot going to open it? Your headâs been stuck in the clouds for about thirty seconds now.â Caleb loosened his tie before seating himself next to you. âSomething on your mind? Is the casing not to your liking?â
You shook your head. âIâm just⌠youâre exhausted beyond belief right now, and you went through all that trouble⌠I donât deserve this.â You frowned. âIâm so sorry for making you âmake upâ to me. I didnât know youâd go that far, Iââ
Strong arms coiled around you, drawing you in. You felt the steady, yet surprisingly slow beats of his heart from where you were nestled against his chest. Fingers wove through your hair, offering a sense of solace you hadnât felt in a while. With a low, careful tone, he whispered. His lips brushed against your ear. âDonât say anything.â
And you obeyed.
For a moment, you remained steady. Silent. Your lips were pursed, and your heart beat fastâa stark contrast to his. You sank deeper into his embrace. Your grip faltered, and you eventually gave in to his presence entirely. Your body slumped against his, but he seemed to have no trouble bearing your weight. For a moment, you considered letting the tears flow. But a part of you clawed against the muscular wall of your heart in retaliation, screeching in protest. Something screamed danger, despite you being the safest youâd ever been right now.
With steady arms, Caleb brought your palm, which was weakly clutching the jewellery case, to your chest. âI had this ordered for months. I was just waiting for the right moment to pick it up. So,â with his other hand, he tousled your hair, âDonât think you were a bother. And honestly? I canât name a single woman more deserving of this than you.â
A faint blush coated your cheeks. But you shook it off before he could see. Renewed courage surged through you, and your fingers made their way to the hook of the case.
Carefully, you slid it open.
A white gleam.
There, perched amidst the plush, was a delicate, thin bracelet made of what appeared to be sterling silver. The chain itself was of a unique geometric design consisting of circles, ovals, and a myriad of shapes you couldnât name. The expert craftsmanship showed in the presence of the braceletâs seamless links and its shiny, polished clasp. You ran your fingers over the chain. The material was smooth, devoid of bumps or rough edgesâthings youâd usually find in low-quality bracelets.
You remembered complaining to him once how half of your bracelets used to dig into your skin, to which heâd reply with a smile, âOne day, you wonât have to wear uncomfortable jewellery.â Back then, youâd brush it off with a âOh, that day better come soon!â. But now, considering the significant amount of effort put into smoothing the surface, you wondered if this was what he truly meant.
The primary point of attraction, however, lay not in the braceletâs gleam or smoothness, but in the moderately sized white gemstone hanging from itâa gorgeous pendant.
You opened your mouth, but no words came. Caleb chuckled. âWhite sapphire.â
You pressed your lips into a thin line. What could you say? You were surprised your jaw wasnât kissing the floor by now.
Speechless, you ran your fingers along the gemstone. It weighed a bit more than youâd expectedâan insignificant difference, really, but notable nonetheless. Perhaps it was pure. If that was the case, then it didnât help with your simmering guilt.
âHere,â Caleb snatched the jewellery from your fingers, âLet me help you with that.â
Deftly, he slid the bracelet down your wrist and clasped the hook. You raised your arm, watching as the white sapphire that dangled from the thin chain glittered beneath the pencils of light. Your lips parted in awe.
âPromise me,â your attention shifted to Caleb as he brought your jewelled wrist to his chest, âThat you wonât take this off.â
âLike how youâre glued to that dog tag I gave you?â You giggled. His lips curled into a soft smile. âIf thatâs how you want to put it.â
âOkay.â You placed your free palm atop his. âI promise, Iâll cherish this forever.â
âIf you donât, Iâll be really hurt.â He feigned a pout. But the yearning in his eyes was real.
You shook your head. âYouâre impossible.â
âI know.â Caleb brought your palm against his face, sinking into your warmth. You stilled for a moment. This was way too intimate. But the guilt glued you in place, restricting you from moving away. Or was it his endearing affection? Nonetheless, pulling away felt like a crime. Heâd handed you such a priceless treasure; could you not indulge him for a moment and let him bask in your radiance?
You choked back the sinking feeling in your gut to let him have his way with your arm. He was acting like a starved puppy. Cute, yes, but a little overbearing and unsettling. Almost as if the puppy brushing up against you had blood smearing its teeth. Of course, it was just your paranoia, and nothing was really there.
Nothing visible, at least.
In spite of your passionate protests, Caleb insisted on whipping up a late-night snack for you. And so, you were practically forced into your seat on the counter as you were made to watch him scurry through the kitchen. The heated pot sizzled in objection to the cold oil poured onto it. Youâd made up your mind to just observe as he worked, in case you could find an opening or an excuse to help, but you were distracted by a notification on your phone.
Rhys.
You looked up at Caleb. He appeared too deeply immersed in his cooking to notice the small ding of your phone. Bringing the device under the shade of the counter, you opened your chat with Rhys.
âMiss, this is important.â
Your brow furrowed. âFound anything?â
âWell, yes. A few things. But first, I think I really gotta come clean with this.â
You silently typed out a reply. âGo on.â
âThat guy? Caleb Xia? I know him.â
You froze, fingers hovering over your keyboard. Rhys continued typing.
âI worked for him in the past. He needed something installed in his home. I was the one who took up the job.â
âInstall what?â
âCameras.â
A void formed in your stomach. A sudden chill enveloped the air. You shivered involuntarily. Cameras. He had cameras in his house. Your head whipped about the room, scouring every wall and every corner for a hint of something that could be labelled as a camera. Something prickled the skin on the back of your neck. Calebâs back was turned to you. But still, you felt something watching you from the shadows.
Paranoia. You couldnât let it consume you.
âI found it odd back then,â Rhys continued, âHe had it installed in his rooms. The bedrooms,â You studied Harrisonâs case in one of them, âThe living room, the hallways.â Dread crippled into your being. It was as if someone had thrown a pebble across a calm pond, causing violent ripples to tear through the once-steady surface.
âAnd also,â
He paused.
âThe kitchen.â
A clot. In your throat. Your lungs constricted.
He knew.
Caleb knew.
That youâd stumbled across that document.
Images of a collected Caleb smiling down at you as you knelt against the counter resurfaced in your brain. The way he so nonchalantly fetched the ring for you, the act heâd put on just now. The act youâd believed.
You gazed down at the white bracelet clasped around your wrist. What used to be a remarkable work of superior craftsmanship transformed into a heavy chain made to tether you to him. âI promise, I will cherish this forever.â You really were going to throw up.
With shaky hands, you shut your phone. Your eyes returned to the bracelet.
It wasnât a gift. It was an anchor to bind you to him. To trick you into forming a vow you couldnât break.
Shit.
You walked right into a trap.
Blind and oblivious. A moth to a flame.
The circular kitchen lights buzzed overhead. A flicker of light flashed past the windowâa ghastly apparition, watching. You whipped your head towards it in an attempt to catch it before it fled. There was nothing. Were you seeing things? Paranoia. It was simply your fearâyour body preparing itself to become hyper-aware of its surroundings. A consequence of the natural fight or flight response. You were paranoid. You were aware. But that didnât help how every shadow felt darker, how every corner untouched by the kitchenâs dim light seemed to host an entity.
Your whole time here, you were being watched. How much had he seen?
âYou seen a ghost?â
It took every bit of your strength to not leap off your seat. You looked up at him, then eyed the plate nestled in his palm. It was hard to trust him right now.
Under the faint light, half of Calebâs face remained shrouded in an ominous shadow. His violet hues gleamed from beneath the darkness menacingly as they peered down at you. Beyond the cloak of darkness, however, his countenance seemed normal.
But you couldnât shake the dread off.
An invisible shiver tiptoed down your spine. You forced a smile. âI got startled by the flash of lightning.â
âItâs storminâ?â, he placed the plate down on the counter before turning to the large windows. âAgain?â A bolt of electricity ripped through the sky. Caleb turned to you with a smirk. âStill afraid of thunder, pip-squeak?â
Afraid of you., you wanted to say, but you bit your lip. It was best you avoid giving him reasons to put a collar on you. For now, you had to stay low.
âIâm not.â You huffed, folding your arms over your chest. A forced blush crept up your neck. âIâm just⌠anyway, the food looks amazing!â You swiftly snatched the dish from his hands, leaving him slightly dumfounded as he lingered where the dish once was. With the help of his evol, Caleb pushed a pair of utensils your way. You were glad you suppressed the flinch that threatened to ripple through you. For the first time in your life, his evol terrified you.
The bed groaned under your weight as you suspended yourself entirely onto it. The mattress dipped beneath you. Even his bed, which, to you, had once been the comfiest bed in the anthropology of beds, felt like a cage. You could feel metallic tendrils crawling from beneath it, wrapping over your form as you slept, encasing you like a cocoon would. Perhaps thatâs all you were to Caleb. A butterfly, useful only for its grace and the tranquility it brought. Meant to be wrapped away in a cocoon and let out only when it bloomed. The part of you bound to your profession begged to differâclearly, that was not the case. Clearly, his feelings ran deeper than that. A complex tapestry of twisted adoration, infatuation, and perhaps even hatred or rage.
But that didnât stop your feelings from thrashing about in a frenzy, did it?
Itâs a simple truth. Many, if not all, of the patients you reviewed struggled with something similar to it. Their brains were aware of the truth, but their hearts refused to comply. It was a plague, killing them from the inside. Their loved ones resorted to presenting the truth before them. And their brains knew, lodging the processed data as it normally did. But the heart is a stubborn thing. Some things it refuses to accept.
At this point, you would become the patient.
A part of you urged yourself to bash your head against the wall for not predicting such a bold move on his end sooner. You were close to figuring it out. A part of the reason why youâd always gone to the bathroom to change included this subtle feeling of being watched. So, with your hands still gripping the ends of your shirt, you kicked open the bathroom door and changed there instead. You were glad youâd done that, of course, but you couldnât hate yourself more for not pondering a second longer on the feeling of being watched. If you had, you were confident youâd have figured it out before he could notice. You were supposed to be ahead of him.
You were about to reopen the chat, but the sensation of a chilling pair of eyes drilling into your head halted your decision. The bedrooms also had cameras. But where? And how good was their image quality? Could he have read the contents of your journal, perchance? Could he see your chat even from up there? Your initial thought was to position yourself away from the camera. Find a blind spot, maybe. But all those ideas were rendered useless considering you were unaware of its position.
You could open your phone and check for any flashes of red or purple from infrared LEDs, which would most definitely be present assuming the cameras were equipped with night vision. But committing to such a dumb move would expose your knowledge of his âcontrolâ. You were sure twirling about the room in the dark with your phoneâs camera on would leave no room for assumptions. What excuse would you bring? That you were so awe-struck by the lack of artistic interior design in Calebâs room that you felt tempted to record it all and store it on your âtop-10 things to not do while constructing a homeâ list? Yeah, no. He would figure you out faster than Rhys had in the cafĂŠ.
You didnât want to imagine what would happen next.
So, you resorted to the last thing you could think of.
You reached for a thin blanket and threw it over yourself. Protection. He couldnât see what you were up to, even if he tried. And what excuse did one need to huddle up under a blanket?
You switched your phone open and scrolled through the messages you couldnât read.
âIâd gotten it done a few days ago.â Right before your arrival at Skyhaven. He gauged your intentions so swiftly. A chill ran down your spine. You couldnât tell whether it was from the stormâs frosty wind.
âPretty high-tech stuff. With night vision and all. It was odd. I shouldâve questioned it. But it wasnât any of my business. So I left it.â
âI did some digging on his background. And, miss, I have to ask youâare you aware of his profession?â
You sighed, threading your hair through your fingers. You hadnât asked him to dig up dirt on that matter.
âIâm not sure if I should be telling you, butââ
âI know,â you typed back. âI know about it very well.â
âIâm not sure if I should be getting involved in this. Surely, you understand?â
He knew too much. And for that, you had to let him go. Even if he hadnât approached you first. Youâd have to. Because honestly, you were scared of what that man could do. Scouring any further would prove risky for him. The last thing you wanted to do was put a man happily living his married life in inconceivable danger for the sake of your selfish desires. It was a cruel thing to do. Although youâd technically used him, it was your last wish to be selfish.
âI understand. Iâm sorry for getting you caught up in this. Should I pay you for your troubles?â
âNo need for that. I barely did anything. But, I will tell you this.â
You watched as the three small dots enlarged and shrank as he typed.
âRecently, some personnel were recruited under his command to be appointed to more general tasks. Thatâs the most I can tell you. Searching any furtherâs gonna cost me my head.â
You didnât push Rhys any further. You thanked him for his service and were about to log off when he sent one last text message.
âLittle miss, I know youâre determined in whatever youâre tryna do. But please. For your sake, leave Skyhaven and forget about this.â You gripped your phone a little tighter. Exhaling shaky breaths, you shuffled under the blanket. You knew Rhys was right, and that he only spoke from a place of genuine care and respect. You knew you shouldâve taken his advice and ended your vacation here. But you couldnât. Not when youâd gotten so far. You were too deep into this. You were sure that Caleb wouldnât let you leave eitherâhe was (most likely) aware that youâd stumbled upon that document. Whatever it was, it wasnât something he wanted you to see. And he wasnât going to let you flee so easily after unearthing such a disastrous secret of his.
But you had to say, he needed to practice being discreet more often.
âProtect yourself. If things go south, you canât escape. The whole of Skyhaven is controlled by his fleet.â
You sighed. There was nothing to say to that. But you were sure it wouldnât come to you having to physically run from the authorities and escape the land in secrecy. Physical restriction was something Caleb couldnât bring himself to do, even if he was injected with all the liquid courage in the world. His care for you ran too deep, even if he had mentioned it in a fit of rage. Youâd defend that belief with your life.
Why were you defending him again? Oh, well.
But if it came to mentally detaching yourself from him, well, that⌠you werenât so sure. It just so happened that youâd been so full of yourself before arriving here that youâd completely forgotten to ponder the possibility of having to flee on short notice. Simply put, if worst came to worst, you had no plan to save yourself.
You agreed that Caleb did have influence. And, unfortunately, that could often overpower the authority over oneâs mind and heart. After all, the realm we truly resided in was the physical realm, not the psychical one. If anything were to bind you in the physical world, you couldnât escape from it even in your mind. In other words, youâd be trapped here, body and soul.
âDonât worry,â you lied, âI have it under control.â
And with that, you ended your conversation with Rhys.
It was only a matter of awaiting the occurrences of tomorrow now. You wondered what the weather would be like the next day. Would it storm again? Or would Skyhaven finally see an endless period swarmed by the warm west breeze? The only thing you could do was close your eyes and wait and see.
Except, you couldnât sleep.
Three hours had passed as you rolled about on the large contemporary bed, making a sleepless mess of yourself. You winced at the way your hair clung to your head, warm and sticky. Like lukewarm goo. You twirled a lock on your index, only to be surprised at the absence of the goo you were picturing. Were you imagining things? Nonetheless, your body ached for a good, cold shower. You switched your phone open to check the time. 4 AM. Oh, well. What better place was there to collect your thoughts than under the sprinkle of an artificial shower?
You hugged yourself a little tighter as the cold beads of water commenced their assault on your head and dripped down your sides. You trembled heavily, but you let yourself do so. It was the collection of your fear from the past few days bolting out of your body at once. Finally, you could let out the shaky breaths youâd been withholding. It was only within the confines of enclosed foggy glass and under a gentle spray that you could truly let yourself loose and breathe freely once more.
People underestimate how arduous it is to put up fronts. Acting wasnât easy. Especially when your life practically depended on it. It was like waltzing through a stage, but instead of expectant guests and observers anticipating your fall, there were 500 archers and the worldâs best snipers aiming for your head, all while you were bound not to break your dance. Put on a show and attempt to please your pursuers. The chance of failure was almost certain. Even the best of dancers and actors fail to escape such a scenario.
And that was the gamble you were willing to takeâfighting; no, dancing for the nonexistent chance that you may save your head, all in the sake of helping somebody you found yourself caring for a lot more than you were willing to.
Your eyes trailed to the bracelet resting near the sink. When he had handed you that gift, you felt⌠truly happy. A feeling you hadnât felt before. Like your heart had burst open, and a myriad of colours had strewn out in a frenzy. Like your skeleton had been immersed in warm pond water, and a flock of underwater lilies caressed your skin.
For the first time in a long while, you felt as if you were needed for a cause beyond that of your profession.
That you mattered to him as much as your patients did to you, or perhaps even more. In his eyes, you could see a care that extended beyond what you could comprehend. A desire to keep you close and by his side, basking in your warmth forever.
A long time ago, youâd frozen your heart.
All because you believed there was no place in this world for your emotions.
To be someone elseâs haven, you had to forsake your own.
The moment Caleb had handed you that bag, you felt as if your life had gained a new meaning. In the end, you were just a girl like all others, and he had made you embrace that.
For a moment. Only for a moment.
Because now, the silver you once admired reminds you of the silver of a chain. The chain was thin and fine, for it was not made to restrain you, but to help you grow accustomed to the existence of a shackle on your mind. It was suffocating to wear it. But a part of you wonderedâwhat if his affection is genuine? Then, would it be so bad to give in? Well, he was the only one who made you feel alive. Perhaps, if you just stayedâŚ
No. You shook your head. Strings of water flew off your hair and hit the glass walls. This was exactly what he wanted, wasnât it? To make you accustomed to his control. To silently persuade you into giving in out of your own volition.
Caleb wanted a reaction. Any hints that you were being sucked and molded in the black hole he set up for you. If thatâs what he wanted, all you had to do was withhold it from him, no? Just stop reacting. Act normal, put some subtle distance between you two, and watch as he crumbled beneath your finger.
You shut off the shower and rolled your hair back on your head. Thatâs right. You had to submerge yourself back into your monochromatic world. Only then would he falter, knowing all his advances had failed.
You stepped out of the shower, bringing with you a trail of water as you walked. A small white towel was wrapped around your head, and a bigger one coiled around your torso. You snatched the bracelet off the sink after changing into your new clothes. No matter how you felt about it, you made a vow. And for the sake of your ideals, you would not stray from it.
The hardest part about experiencing your first loss was that you had to regain control afterwards. Fail this step, and watch as the spear cuts through your stomach inch by inch. And if you cannot truly regain control, form the illusion of it.
You eyed yourself in the mirror. A crease was present between your brows. Taking the cream off the vanity, you began applying it in long swipes across your skin. Caleb still used the same cream as before, huh?
Act as if nothing had happened. That was the best you could do for now. And to form a plan to actually reclaim your throne, you needed some alone time. Away from this house. Away from the prying eyes perched in every corner of every room, and away from him.
The cream melted into your skin.
It was about time you began searching for an excuse to get out of the house and stray from him. Perhaps you could look for work. A new patient. Something that came up urgently? Or was it better for you to be more subtle? Just whip up an excuse to go hang out with friends? Not that you had any friends in Skyhaven. And if he asked to tag along? What then?
You released yourself from the towel and reached for your shirt.
A sigh passed your lips. Seems it would just be best to find some work. But save for Rhys and a few others, barely any of your patients lived in Skyhaven. And even if they did, would you just go knocking on their doors and creating a new mental issue in their stead that somehow needed urgent fixing? That wouldnât do. You required real work.
Perhaps it was a problem best saved for tomorrow. Right now, your starving stomach demanded some attention.
The kitchen lights flickered on with a buzz. One of them didnât light. Youâd better tell Caleb about it tomorrow.
The hum of the fridge increased in volume as you strode towards it with heavy steps. Inside, an arrangement of food lay: some in boxes, some bare, some bottled. Your eyes narrowed. They seemed to have been recently stocked. You bet his fridge had been empty up until your visit.
You snatched a plate of dinnerâs leftovers and gathered a few utensils to accompany you. And with that, you plopped down on the couch, not bothering to turn on the lights. It risked waking him up, after all. You wouldnât want that. Especially now.
Shuffle shuffle.
Something stirred beside youâa figure shrouded in darkness. You nearly launched your fork into its heart when a familiar arm reached out to wrap around your wrist. âItâs just me,â a groggy voice responded. You threw yourself off the couch and rushed to turn on the lights.
Caleb. It was just him.
You pinched the bridge of your nose. âYouââ Your accusing finger pointed in his direction. âWhy are you awake?â
His violet eyes skimmed over your form, stopping at your toweled hair. âLikewise.â
Sluggishly, you returned to your plate and picked up the fork. Caleb nestled himself by your side. âYou took a shower? At 4:30 in the morninâ?â
âWhy are you here? On the couch? I donât recall seizing every single one of your rooms.â
He breathed a sigh. âIâve made an enemy of insomnia, and itâs been chasinâ me ever since.â He turned to you. âMaybe you can help with that.â
âI donât know what you take me for, but,â you stuffed a portion of food into your mouth, âIâm half-dead right now. Therapists are humans too.â
âBut,â you wiped the corner of your mouth and finished up, âStill, Iâm ready to listen.â
Caleb shook his head. âI was messinâ around, pip.â
âSuch a tease, even when sleep-deprived.â
You pressed your fingers into his temple and soothed the area. Your fingers moved gingerly, as if the slightest slip-up could cost you one of them. The man under you gradually relaxed. His body sank deeper into the couch.
âCome on, Caleb. Whatâs the hold-up? I know youâre hiding something,â you cooed. His sealed eyes didnât help with trying to see through him. But you pressed on nonetheless.
You leaned forward slightly, pinching his forehead a little harsher than you would have. Finally, he opened his eyes, only to glue them to the ceiling instead.
âIâm not going to force you into a 12-step rehabilitation programme.â
âI know, itâs justâŚâ his eyes never left the ceiling, âYouâre tired. Iâm tired. We all need a break. Youâre not entitled to help me.â
You hummed. âYouâre right. Iâm not.â
Caleb let out a small sigh of relief as you pressed down on that one spot on his forehead. You continued to massage the area for a while before moving on to the next.
âIâm doing this out of my own volition. I want to listen to you. And whether Iâll help, well, that depends on what it is.â
Picking up on the slightest droop of his lips, you continued, âBut, unless itâs a tedious task like climbing a skyscraper with nothing but my bare hands, I wonât refuse you.â
Calebâs eyes didnât move from the ceiling lights as he contemplated. You could see the weight of decisions bearing down on his mind, and you worked your fingers accordingly to soothe him whenever he faced a mental obstruction. Your smile widened.
With one finger, you moved his gaze to you instead. âAll right, mister. I know the ceilingâs looking quite lavish today, but Iâm sitting right here, fighting for your attention.â
Caleb grinned. Subconsciously, his eyes travelled to your lips. You found yourself tensing up for a moment, but you swallowed it. Just how you were trained. But uneasiness overtook your nerves. Why was he looking at them like that? As if he yearned to devour them whole?
âYou canât outsmart me at this hour, Caleb. See?â You lifted your arms before placing them back on his temple. âIâm not writing any notes or anything.â
âItâs not that.â
âYou make it seem like it is.â You sighed. âYou donât need to use big words. Just tell me what you need.â
âAll right, then. Can I ask you for a favour?â
You hummed. âDepends on what it is.â
His eyes fluttered. You tensed as they lingered on your lips once more before they moved to meet your eyes. He seemed incredibly exhausted. âI have a friend,â he began, âAnd sheâs been⌠off.â
âA fleet member?â
âYes.â He let out a soft groan as your fingers continued to massage his temple. âYou met her. Sheâs the guard at the garden we visited.â
Your mind recalled her stature. Tall, brooding, albeit intimidatingly, with curly ginger locks and tan skin. You remembered her.
âIâve been worried about her mental well-being. She experienced a devastating divorce lately. And ever since, sheâs been acting⌠you know. Distant. Violent. Is a little rougher with her underlings. I gave her a break, demoted her temporarily to the position of a guard. But she isnât improving.â
Your brow furrowed. The behaviour he described seemed like the usual displays of pent-up anger and resentment following a horrid event. But what bothered you wasnât the normalcy of her situation.
It was the fact that youâd failed to pick up even a sliver of negative emotions from her as your eyes landed on her face.
A therapistâs eyes were made to penetrate flesh and scour the soul with ease. Especially yoursâconsidering your previous position. How come Caleb just happened to notice, whereas you entirely missed it? You were unsure whether his eyes were better than yours, or you were simply dozing off at that moment and unable to catch a glimpse, orâŚ
Was it a hole in his story?
Still, the kindness and concern Caleb had shown towards his fellow colleague filled you with a sense of warmth you loathed. It felt genuine. But you couldnât feel like this. Not with somebody like him.
âSo, I guess you figured it out by now.â
Your fingers halted. Your eyes drifted in thought. âWhen should I visit her?â
âTomorrow. Iâll give you the address. Should I tag along?â
âNo,â you winced at the severity of your tone. In a frenzy, you reiterated, âShe might be unwilling to open up if you tag along.â
He nodded in understanding. âTomorrow, then. For now, letâs get some sleep.â In a swift motion, he pulled you onto him and buried your head into the crook of his neck. A red tint coated your cheeks, but you didnât protest. Act normal.
Youâd called for work, and work came to you. Sometimes, fate (and perhaps your luck) left you awe-struck.
But, this time, for some reason, you werenât sure whether this was Godâs plan or the Cerberusâ.
No storm crackled through the air that day. Only an endless mass of grey clouds hovered over Skyhavenâs sky, still brewing, lingering, as if the storm were awaiting the right moment to unleash its shower. The air was damp, humid, but stiflingly hot. In spite of the absence of the sun, the heat rendered you as disgraceful as a panting dog. The metro was stuffed to the brim. People squeezed against you as you struggled to grip onto something. The heat radiating off the enraged passengers did not help in cooling you down. Quite a contrast to your initial thoughts that you could find a moment of respite in the metroâs air conditioning. Unfortunately for you, you couldnât even manage to find a seat.
Luckily, trains moved fast. It was only a matter of five minutes before you pushed your way through and out of the suffocating swarm of people. Perhaps, you shouldâve taken up Calebâs offer for the car. But who knew what trick he had installed in there? Another camera? Or even a tracker? You were better off walking.
You fidgeted with the pendant of your bracelet. Carolineâs house was eerily quiet. Not a single beam of light peered out of her curtained windows. Only darkness emerged from underneath the front door. She lived in an isolated villa, something akin to a bungalow. Red-bricked, with mould growing off the walls, the small garden before the house was overgrown with ferns and invasive plants. Mushrooms grew off one side of the house. A foul stench permeated through the air.
She had a pool as well, somewhere near the back of the house that you could only catch a glimpse of as you arrived at the front gate. But that small glimpse was enough to know the state it was inâthe water was rotting. Fallen leaves decayed on its surface, turning the once-blue waters into a murky yellow-green. If you werenât any smarter, and if the decay had been any faster, youâd think it was a pond, not a pool. It smelled like wildlife as wellâthe damp, fungal musk of rot.
It surprised you how bad the smell near the house had accumulated, considering how large the bungalowâs verandas were, how abundant the number of windows, and how open the air around it was. Her house was isolated from the main roads. Only strips of vibrant green land stretched around it for acres. And to add to the advantages of the location, you were standing atop the windiest parts of the land. Knowing this, you wonderedâwhere was the ammonia-like stench coming from? It was as if an entire crowd had relieved themselves across the garden and into the pool. If you hadnât known better, youâd have believed it, if not for the large iron gates that were padlocked shut.
You rang the doorbell. No response. Your head craned to the top floors. The sliding glass doors near the veranda were open. The white curtains drifted in the air. Somebody was home.
You pressed your finger against the doorbell again. Once more, only silence greeted you. Something felt wrong. Youâd imagined it to be a result of depression at first, but now, something felt off. Something lurked beneath the waters, threatening to erupt.
After a few more tries, you stepped away from the door. If she wasnât going to let you in, youâd just leave.
Walking across the pavement, you pulled out your phone to quickly type a short apology message to Caleb. But that was when something caught your eye.
The back gate. It was open.
Your feet came to an abrupt halt. To get a closer look, you maneuvered your body and took a few steps. You werenât mistaken. Alongside the gate, the back door was pried open as well.
You strode past the black pool until you were directly facing the looming red door. The stench was only increasing in intensity. But this time, you could smell something else. Something you couldnât catch before.
Old blood and flesh.
You opened your phoneâs camera and aimed it at the door. Just in case, you thought. With your free hand, you pushed it open.
The room inside was dark. Pots and various random clutter were littered on the ground. You made an effort not to step on them, but you found yourself stumbling nonetheless. In a hurry, your fingers worked to pry the curtains apart and swing the windows open one by one. You subconsciously breathed a sigh of relief at the sudden gust of fresh air passing through the openings. Finally, some ventilation.
The phoneâs recorder blinked.
The little light from outside illuminated the room just enough for you to be able to spot the light switch. Hurrying over, you flicked it.
The lights flickered on with a static buzz. The back door led to the kitchen. Or, well, you assumed it was one. You couldnât tell because of the ruckus. It appeared as if a fight had occurred here. Either that, or Caroline was one messy individual. You doubted the latter.
The kitchen sink was clogged. A broth of mould, discarded food, and fish bones lay inside. You stopped yourself from gagging and throwing up your breakfast. The kitchen didnât need another mess. It was suffering enough.
On the floor lay dirt tracks. Footprintsâmessily removed by rubbing more mud on top. Somebody was here. Could they still be here?
Dread finally seized you. Your foot stilled, and you found yourself unable to move any further. As if fate itself urged you to leave. To turn and leave out the back door as swiftly as youâd entered. But you couldnât. Something was up, and a greater scandal couldâve been at play. You couldnât leave. Not now. Not when youâd sunk one foot in already.
You dragged yourself along the battered tiles, entering room after room and flicking the lights on before swinging the windows open each time. Downstairs was empty. Youâd checked everywhereâin the two living rooms, dining, and across all the hallways. You even made sure to check under the sofas. The static in your mind grew louder. It pierced through your ears painfully from the inside out, busting your eardrums until your head throbbed so violently you thought it would implode. The nothingness told you to not go.
You pushed yourself back onto your feet and bolted up the stairs. You searched all the rooms, throwing the doors open and spinning about the entire area before moving on to the next. Eventually, youâd scoured all the rooms. Save for one.
The demon gurgling inside you moved as your eyes landed on the door. The master bedroom door.
You held the camera up to your face and placed your hand on the doorknob.
With a sickening and loud creak, the door crept open.
You held your palm against your nose. The scent of ammonia was strong, paired with the decaying flesh youâd picked up from outside the bungalow. And to fuel the disgusting stench, your nose could also pick up the faint scent of bleach. Your face contorted. Bleach?
The bile rose, threatening to spill out of your throat. You swallowed it down. Bitter. You were really about to throw up. Everything inside was dark. But thanks to the light in the hallway, you could make out the debris scattered across the floors. Cigarette boxes, open and sealed, were present among most of the junk. Other than that, empty beer bottles and discarded laundry could be seen. From the ceiling, large decorations hung. Decorations or more clothing, you couldnât tell. The scent of bleach engulfed your lungs.
Hesitantly, you reached for the lights.
Your phone fell to the floor with a thud. Your fingers curled into your palm. A tremble rippled through you. You couldnât move.
They werenât decorations at all.
A step.
Nor were they more ugly clothing.
Your hand met skin. Cold, lifeless skin.
There, from the ceiling, hung a ginger-haired woman, ghastly and pale.
A corpse.
Caroline.
Thunder drummed through the clouds. A flash illuminated behind you. But you were too still to be afraid. Your body shivered, even under the cloak of the warmest, fuzziest blanket Caleb owned. Your numb hands clutched a mug of hot cocoa. Its bittersweet aroma rose from the cup, entering your nostrils. But your mouth didnât water at the scent. You only sat still, as lifeless as a corpse, as the wide-screen television played on, broadcasting the news of Carolineâs death.
Suddenly, a pair of strong arms wrapped around you from behind. âDrink up, pip. Itâs going to get cold.â
He was right. The fingers curled around the mug only felt coldâa sign of the drinkâs dissipating warmth. But how could you eat? Your teeth had tasted flesh not long ago.
The figure behind you sighed. âI shouldnât have sent you there.â
âI went too late.â You curled against yourself. âIf I had been faster, Iââ
âSheâs been dead ever since that day at the garden. It was inevitable. We didnât know.â
Your body slumped in his embrace, threatening to give in.
âShe was my patient. Iâm still responsible.â
âIâm so stupid.â Calebâs arms left your torso, leaving you cold once more. A part of you ached to reach out, to grab him and bury yourself into him and justâdisappear. Vanish from existence. It was what you deserved. What youâd brought upon yourself. âI shouldnât have sent you on a job. I ruined your vacation.â
âCaleb, I canât.â You buried your face in your palms. âWe were having fun. We were laughing, joking around, all while sheâŚâ You couldnât finish the sentence. You didnât have to. Caleb empathised, nonetheless.
Coming to your side, he gently pried the mug from your hands and cradled your face. âLet me warm it up for you.â He switched off the television and returned to the kitchen.
You curled up on the couch. This wasnât meant to happen. Someone wasnât supposed to die. Unrelated to your mission or not, experiencing a death head-on was not part of your predictions. This was supposed to be executed flawlessly. You were supposed to be in charge.
Nonetheless, you felt more of the control slipping from between your fingers with each passing second. You were losing. Devastatingly. Youâd prepared for various outcomesâlosing because of yourself, losing because of him, but youâd completely forgotten to consider that you could lose to independent external factors as well.
In short, you thought you were invincible.
You thought none grasped the situation better than yourself.
But alas, it was indeed the devil himself whoâd intervened in your fate. The opening for a temporary escape from him was timed too perfectly. It was too good to be true.
And it wasnât. What youâd thought would be a normal, perhaps exhausting, session with a new patient, morphed into a traumatic, arduous twist of fate that would throw you entirely off course, flicking you so far from your path that crawling back was rendered both physically and mentally impossible. How could this have happened? You just lost twice in a row. Fate had abandoned you, just how it had abandoned Anne.
You gritted your teeth.
None of this was fair. Caroline shouldnât have had to die. Nobody deserved death. Images of her intimidating visage flashed across your mind. Just a few days ago, you heard her speak. Just a few days ago, she was blinking, moving, talking, eating, breathing. And now, she was off to God-knows-where. Perhaps her body was stored in some cold machine, or she was placed in a stretcher as the morgue worked with her body. In a blink, the life was sucked out of her. And she was rendered nothing.
You eyed your arm. Everything felt so surreal. What if this was all just a dream? An alternate reality, or a sick nightmare you couldnât wake up from. You shut your eyes and attempted to drift off into another land. It was too taxing to process this overload. It was better just to sleep it off, or just disassociate so you didnât have to make peace with the truth.
You pressed your lips into a thin line. No matter how hard you tried, you couldnât get a moment of shut-eye. The sight of the corpse flashed before your eyes. A noose was tied around Carolineâs neck as she hung from the ceiling fan; dead, lifeless, gone. So close yet so out of your reach. Her once-vibrant ginger locks were tainted a sickly orange. Her once-intimidating eyes were sealed eternally shut. The lips sheâd spoken with that day were dry, blue. Blood had stopped circulating inside them. Her heart had stopped beating long ago. You knew you couldnât have saved her even if youâd tried.
Counterfactual thinking. You sighed. At this point, you really were turning into the patient.
You wrapped the blanket tighter around yourself, paying no mind to the way its soft edges cut into your skin. Countless what-ifs pried into your brain. You covered your ears with both hands, attempting to shut it off. If only your brain could shut up.
A familiar pang resonated in your temples. Your head began to throb violentlyâjust as it had before you went up the stairs of Carolineâs bungalow. Those thoughts werenât as evil as youâd made them up to be. If only you hadnât looked. If only youâd stopped and messaged Caleb instead. Then, you wouldnât have to be involved in such a complex scandal. Paired with the recent discoveryâyour recent lossâthe whole situation, you were afraid, was going to render you completely mentally senile. Just like Anne.
Anne. The moment youâd gazed upon herâall shrivelled up and curled into a ball at the side of the black couch youâd owned in your previous officeâyou felt a sense of sympathy youâd never felt before. Something about her resonated with you. Her whimpering eyes, her clammy hands, her knitted brows, or the dimming fire that had blued years ago crackling in her eyes. You didnât know which of those had piqued your curiosity. Something about that woman, so gorgeously broken, sparked something within you.
Perhaps, it was her eyes. Those dread-filled eyes that bore into yours. The spark that ignited when she saw you. The hope sheâd regained upon your visage. Like sheâd been starved of a true friend for millennia, and you were the one meant to be the ailment to her wounds. Sheâd looked at you like a newborn gazing upon its motherâits protector, saviour from the cruelty of the world. She looked at you with⌠hope. And in your heart, you swore to protect her. To be the one to show her the beauties of life, and to guide her onto a path of bliss and tranquility so she could return to the life she once had.
And what did you do?
You failed her.
The dread that tingled your limbs that day was the same one that numbed it now. That horrid purple, fanged beast. When the detective knocked on your office door in a delirious state, and had brought to you the news of Anneâs attempt, you couldnât move. The air lumped in your trachea, refusing to release, as if your body itself had decided you were unworthy of life, and your fingers went cold. You almost fell to your knees, unable to rush to Anneâs side immediately. She was not dead yet. She was alive, blinking, here. And that only made it worseâhow would you face her? You couldnât bear to see the look in her eyes deform from hope to animosity as she looked at you one last time. You couldnât let the one who abandoned her be the last person she saw, felt, and breathed.
So, you didnât go.
Shortly after, a messenger knocked on your door. His knocks were calm, unhurried, as if the weight of everything had already settled into his heart. He brought the news, low and steady, that Anne Lotte had breathed her last.
The first tear fell from your eye. Youâd cried for her before, and you would do it again. The first time, you wept silently because she couldnât. And the next time, you wept out of your own free will. Because nobody was there to mourn her death.
Anne had an empty funeral. Abandoned by all, loved by none.
Carolineâs death was only a reminder of your past shortcomings, a visceral punch to the gut, the reality that life and death were beyond your control, and that even you couldnât shoo the poison away from eating at your patientâs brain.
You couldnât even save yourself.
You failed as a psychotherapist, as a human, as an organism.
A type of survivorâs guilt. You bit your bottom lip, tearing at the dry skin coating it. The migraines worsened. Drowning in your thoughts, you failed to process the shift in weight beside you as another figure seated himself on the couch.
âI re-heated the cocoa. Come. You have to eat.â With unnerving gentleness, Caleb lifted your body off the couch and brought the mug to your lips. Defeated, you gently sipped. You winced as the hot liquid seared your tongue. âToo hot?â he cooed before setting it down on the glass coffee table. Even then, his arms never left you. Cautiously, as if to not scare you away, he positioned you on his lap and began to run soft circles on your back. You melted into his touch. As much as you hated to admit, he knew exactly what to do to help you feel at ease and lift your mood just enough.
You rested your chin on his shoulder, and suddenly, the world reverted 15 years back. A young girl sat atop a boyâs lap, whimpering, sniffling as she rubbed her tears and snot onto the boyâs shirt. But he didnât seem to mind. He only hummed a soothing tune and cradled her head tenderly. âThey said the cat deserved to die,â the girl choked a sob, âTell me it didnât, Caleb, tell me!â
A small smile graced your lips at the memory. Back then, and even now, only to him could you lift the dam and let your tears flow free. Only in his embrace could you breathe once more, and only here did you truly feel at home.
If youâd lost your memories, youâd just want to stay here forever. By his side. In his arms.
But you couldnât forget. A part of you wished you could.
Rain pattered against the windowsâits sound being the only one besides your breaths intertwined with his. His fingers found their way to your wrist, pressing down gently on your pulse point and watching as the fragile vein beat. A content sigh passed his lips. But something about it irked you. How could he be so calm when the colleague heâd shown so much care for yesterday night wound up dead? You suppressed your anger. Blowing up on him wouldnât fix anything. In fact, youâd only end up pushing away the ones who cared for you. You knew you couldnât cope without him.
A warm, smooth object pressed against your lips. The scent of chocolate filled your senses, and for the first time, your mouth watered. Your stomach growled in response, as if it had awoken from a long slumberâempty and unfulfilled.
"Drink up," Caleb hummed. "And then, I'll tuck you in."
You opened your mouth and slowly sipped the hot cocoa. The warm, fudgy liquid enveloped your tongue. Saccharine bursts of flavour erupted in your mouth. Steadily, his hands guided you to slurp up the entire mug, granting you occasional breaks to collect yourself in between. His demeanour was gentle, unhurried.
The butterflies in your stomach stirred from their dormancy, flitting about once more. It was an odd sensationâthe serenity of butterflies mingled with the bitterness of guilt, resentment, and anger. A combination never meant to exist.
The next thunderclap sent a jolt of pain through your skull. You gripped your head and winced. Taking note of your discomfort, Caleb pressed his fingers against your aching temples.
"You should really get some rest."
"I tried. I can't sleep."
"I'll get you a sleeping pill."
Your brows furrowed. How could you trust him with medicine after that? Nonetheless, he had a pointâif you didnât sleep now, the weight of your burden would end up crushing you into smithereens. Sighing, you nodded.
Caleb disappeared into the darkness before returning with a bottle of medicine. He scurried over to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water and was back at your side shortly after. You plucked the bottle from his hands and inspected the label. Ibuprofen. You eyed him warily.
"Your headâs killing you, right?"
"And the sleep medicine?"
He opened his palm to reveal a relatively large pill. You cocked an eyebrow. Since when were sleeping pills that large? Maybe it was a stronger dosage.
You swallowed the ibuprofen before turning to the pill resting in his palm. Your eyes narrowed. Carefully, as if handling a radioactive sample, you pinched the pill between your fingers and brought it to your nose. You sniffed. A strong medicinal scent.
This wasnât a sleeping pill.
A sharp breath. Your shoulders slumped. Suddenly relaxed, you calmly returned the pill to Calebâs hand. He stared at you with half-lidded eyes.
"A predetermined provocation. You knew Iâd catch on." An empty smile graced your lips. A breathless laugh followed. "You know I know a lot about medicine. This was no attempt to drug me." Your sharp glare met his violet hues. "You deliberately planned this."
Caleb curled his fist and placed the pill on the glass table alongside the water. "I was tired," he mused, "of dancing along as we played this stupid game."
"Oh," you lifted your head and smirked. "No, you were enjoying every part of this. Playing with me, driving me to the edge."
"I had to." His fists curled. "You were being a brat. You thought I wouldnât catch on, right? But your relaxed composure gave it away."
Crossing your arms, you let out a huff. "Iâ"
Before you could finish, Caleb pressed on. "You were conspiring against me. Treating me like some damn lab experiment. Is that all I am to you? A deranged patient in need of saving? Another victim of the fleet?" He looked up at you, genuine hurt lacing his eyes. You gulped.
"You were studying that case all day in my bedroom while I was away, youâ"
"You spied on me," you retorted. "Twice. First, with my personal information, and again, with your damn cameras!"
Calebâs teeth sank into the plush of his bottom lip.
With eyes blazing with unrestrained emotion, you went on. "Last time, you actually drugged me. Kept me captive for three days. Threatened me. Terrified me out of my mind! And you try to insist you're above a deranged patient? Youâre delusional and in need of help. I wanted to help you. I wanted to bring you back."
If Caleb had ears, theyâd be lying flat against his head right now.
Your heart withered with guilt. You knew you shouldnât have called him a deranged patient. But even then, his reaction wasnât a response to that insultâit was something deeper. It emerged from the darkest recesses of his mind, the parts even you could never access.
Had you gone too far?
"Was it," his lips trembled, "was it all a lie? What you said in the car? That you were willing to make peace with the new versions of ourselves?"
"You know that to be a lie very well."
"Youâre wrong." He lifted himself onto his feet. "I trusted you. I trusted in us."
"There was no us!" You lashed out, overwhelmed by the sheer force of emotions that inevitably laced your tone. "Iâve been alone ever since you left meâusâfor the DAA! Ever since you blew yourself up with Grandma!"
You watched as Caleb clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. Youâd struck a nerve. It was enough. You got the reaction you wanted, but you couldnât stop. Not when he was finally listening to you, looking at youâtruly looking. For the first time in years, you could tell him how you felt.
And so, the words kept tumbling out of your mouth like an unstoppable avalancheâcold, all-consuming, and doomed to self-annihilate.
"I didnât talk to anyone. For years after you left, I shut myself off. I found solace in my patientsâ despair because you were never there!"
You looked up. His eyes were glued to his feet, his clenched fists trembling. Darkness overcast his face. You couldnât tell what he was thinking, much less how he felt. You searched his face for a signâanything. Anger, resentment, agony, indifference, tears, or a smile. But you found nothing. It was all hidden away behind that invisible veil. Another mask.
You gritted your teeth. It only fuelled your rage further. At that moment, you wished you could tear open his skull and peer inside his mind.
"And you know what? I was such a fool. When I saw you again, I was willing to forgive your every flaw! I was willing to forget and move on with you. But guess what? The man I was madly in love with since high school had become so intoxicated by his newfound power and authority," you spat the last words with venom, "that heâd forgotten of my existence entirely! And still, I trusted you nonetheless! I thought it was my shortcomings when you were the insane one!"
"YouâŚ" Caleb lifted his head. The darkness dissipated from his face, only to be replaced with a flicker of hope. "You loved me?"
You slapped your palm against your face and threw yourself onto the couch, oblivious to how painfully you'd bumped your leg. You couldnât believe youâd said that. Stupid, stupid.
"Why else would I be so obsessed with bringing you back?"
In a flash, Caleb was on his knees before you, bringing your palms together and pressing them against his chest. His heart pounded with fervour. His eyes gleamed with something raw, something terrifyingly close to unraveling. This was no act.
"CalebâŚ" You spoke his name with such softness, he gulped. "What are you doing? Get upâ"
"You loved me." His grip tightened. "Do you still feel that way? Do we have a chance?"
The loudest bolt of lightning ripped through the stormy clouds. You turned your gaze to the tempest outside.
"I donât think so, Caleb."
"Iâll make this right. Letâs live together."
"CalebâŚ"
"Iâll return your position as a criminologist. You can work under the fleet. Youâll have a better salary and a better working environment. And if you donât want that, Iâll move the whole clinic here."
"Caâ"
"You like lively atmospheres, right? Weâll decorate this house. Or we can move to a new one. Itâll have the largest windows and the warmest winds. Iâll build you a garden full of your most treasured flowers, in a place far away where nobody will find us."
You tensed. A tremor rippled through you, but Caleb didnât seem to notice. And if he did, he didnât care. His eyes gleamed with desperation, restraint, and a love-fuelled mania that terrified you. Yearning. Could a mere emotion become so haunting? So intense?
"Letâs rebuild our life. We can be married. Have a bunch of kids, or not. If itâs what you want, we can take it slow. One step at a time. JustâŚ" He nuzzled both your hands, his eyes lingering on the bracelet. "Just be by my side. Youâll never have to be alone again."
"Caleb."
You affirmed firmly, making him halt mid-sentence. His brows furrowed noticeably. A flicker of anger ignited in his eyes.
"Youâve gone too far. I canât be with you."
You retracted your hands. The frown deepened on his lips as the absence of your warmth settled in. Gone was the adoration. Only wrath remained where it once was. He acted as if youâd stabbed him in the back, as if youâd plucked the feathers from his bionic wings and crushed them before his eyes. Faster than heâd knelt by your side, Caleb sprang to his feet and caged you within the couch. A familiar scenario. Your mind raced.
"You just donât understand, do you?"
You averted your eyes. He forced your head parallel to his with a firm grip, ensuring your gaze remained locked onto his. You squirmed under the inferno alight within them. Whatever swirled inside was darker, crueler, and far more monstrous than anything youâd faced in the past few days. It was far more ruthless than what had lurked the last time you found yourself pinned to the couch. Honestly, it truly terrified you. Even in Harrisonâs frantic eyes, you hadnât spotted such ferocity.
"Iâve given up my life, my heart, and a limb for your sake. You breathe today because I sacrificed my breaths in your stead."
You thrashed against him, trying to pry your face from his grasp, but nothing worked. He loomed over you with monstrous strength.
"What? Werenât you wondering what happened after the explosion? Iâll tell you, alright? If you give me something of yours."
Mustering all the strength you could, you barely managed to knock the behemoth of a man off you. As if regaining his self-control, Caleb eyed his hands before turning to you. The mania in his gaze dissipated, leaving only that desperate yearning.
But it was too late. The damage had been done.
"Pipâ"
"Iâm leaving Skyhaven." You picked yourself up and stormed off into yourâwell, his room. "Try to stop me, and Iâll show you hell."
And with that, you slammed the door shut.
That night, while Caleb had (not so) blissfully stashed himself away in his temporary room, you gathered your things and silently fled the estate.
Before walking out the front door, you spared one last glance at the empty house. You eyed the barren shelves, devoid of colour or antiques, the dim lights that were rarely granted the opportunity to welcome any host, and the uninspiring grey paint coating his solid walls.
Perhaps these walls were meant to imprison him, not you. Beyond any shadow of a doubt, Caleb had sufferedâimmensely. But you couldnât let him drag you into the sizzling depths with him. He may have abandoned joy, but you would not. You would return to Linkon, maybe flee to another city nearby, and leave your past behind in pursuit of a joyous futureâa future where, this time, you would be in control, not your listless feelings from decades ago.
You yearned to take another look, to glimpse his slumbering, pained face one more time before departing. But a saying from a precious individual circled in your mind: Donât look back at me. If you do, itâll be more difficult to leave.
Or, in other words, do not look back before leaving. If you do, you will be bound to them eternallyâheart and soul. That was what he meant back then, wasnât it?
With a relieved smile, you stepped out the door and into a new beginning.
âGoodbye, Caleb,â you murmured under your breath. âI love you.â
But in actions, I always look back.
There were only a few trains active at night. As a result, the station was relatively quiet, save for the occasional sweep sweep of the cleaning ladyâs brush or the robotic echo of the AI announcing the next rides. The aged cleaning lady eyed you suspiciously. Perhaps you were suspiciousâa woman sitting all by herself at a station at eleven at night, with barely any luggage to accompany her. You clearly werenât mourning or panicked, so it likely wasnât an emergency you had to return to.
Even then, the way her gaze kept returning to you was⌠odd.
Ding!
You fished through your pockets and retrieved your phone. Had Caleb caught wind of your absence? No. Odd. It wasnât Caleb.
It was Rhys.
You quickly opened his chat and skimmed through his messages. A sinking feeling settled in your gut.
"Miss," he hastily followed, "youâre on the news."
You stilled. Why would you be on the news? Surely, a woman alone at a train station at night wasnât such a revolutionary event that it had lured in the mass media?
"?" you typed back. "Iâm famous now?"
"Itâs no joke. Look."
A video file popped up. The thumbnail appeared to be Rhysâ TV. You could spot a snippet of his wife from one of the corners.
The throbbing ache in your head returned, begging you not to click on the file. Alas, your curiosity took hold of you, and your fingers hovered above the play button.
Hesitantly, it met the screen.
The woman announcing the news spoke your name. You immediately lowered the volume.
Your name. Your full name. Something was wrong.
"A suspect has been found." She said your name again. "Skyhaven authorities are actively searching for the suspect in connection with Caroline Maydayâs death. According to local reports, the individual was seen near the estate a day prior to the incident."
You slapped your clammy palm onto your mouth to silence the gasp that was about to escape your lips. The only person you had met that day was Rhys. Surely, there had been some sort of mistake. Surely, you hadnât murdered a woman whose address you werenât even aware of.
"Evidence, including fingerprint analysis and multiple witness testimonies, has linked the suspect to the scene."
Testimonies? Witnesses? Had people perceived a ghost? How could they have witnessed a woman who wasnât even there?
Your hand stilled. Suddenly, the thoughts in your brain quieted, leaving nothing but unnerving, unmoving silence. The gears turned in your head. And then, it all made sense.
Caleb. Utilising his authority.
That bastard.
"A search warrant has been issued, and officials confirm that she will soon be taken in for questioning before the court of law."
Shit.
Shit.
You turned off the video and returned to the chat. Rhys had sent another message.
"Miss, you have to leave. Iâll get you tickets to Linkon."
"No need," you typed back. "Iâm at the station. I was just about to leave anyway."
After a brief pause, you asked, "Rhys, do you believe Iâm guilty?"
For a moment, he didnât reply, leaving you on seen. Your body stiffened. If he didnât believe youâŚ
"No. We were at the cafĂŠ right about the time the witnesses claimed to have spotted you. And even if you werenât, well, how do I put this nicely? Miss, you donât have the balls."
Despite his half-insult, you couldnât help but smile. At the very least, there was somebody who trusted you.
"I know it was that colonelâs doing. He isnât to be trusted. Please, for your sake, never get involved with him ever again."
"I wonât."
And this time, you were being honest. You couldnât return to him. Not after this.
"Stay safe, Rhys. If Iâm not caught and executed, I promise you, we will meet again."
The train rolled into the station. Its wheels hissed against the cold metal rails.
You had to leave, now.
A handful of people lined up against the entrance. Some of them had their faces glued to their phones. Could they be watching the news? You hoped not. It was safer to go last.
You fished through your luggage and pulled out a cap you happened to bring along, placing it low on your head, shielding half your face from the gazes of passers-by.
Donning the calmest demeanour you could muster, you stepped into the trainâs carriage and seated yourself far away from all. Sort of counterintuitive, now that you thought about it. Attempting to appear normal whilst actively isolating yourself from the crowd like a child who had shoplifted a candy bar. It made little sense. But how could you think logically when danger was quite literally breathing down your neck each second? Half of Skyhavenâs forces were after you, and you were practically tethered to a determined fate.
With a slow rattle and a monotonous announcement, the train began to move.
Your eyes trailed to the bracelet clasped around your wrist. Your promise to Caleb. But what did that matter now? It was merely a chain. A bad-luck charm, even. Ever since you had put it on, misfortunes followed close behind. You kept experiencing losses ceaselessly.
You contemplated tossing it away, but it would be such a waste of a valuable item.
You peered from below the capâs shade to eye the modern tablet displaying the trainâs destinations. The last stop wasnât Linkon. It was a town two cities apartâNimbura. The land of storms and tempests. Perhaps the storm that had been looming over Skyhaven for the past few days originated from there.
Nonetheless, Nimbura was a town of little population. Due to the never-ending downpour, most citizens had moved to greater cities. It was the perfect place for an escape. You could sell your bracelet to a local broker for a small fortune. You reckoned it would get you enough to kickstart your new life there. Perhaps open another clinic or begin to achieve the dreams you had long since abandoned.
This time, you would live your new life the way you wanted to.
With Caleb manipulating the press from behind the scenes, any chance of achieving justice and clearing your name was lost to the wind. Though a cowardly move, fleeing was your only choice.
You shut your eyes. Oh, Caroline. If only she knew how her death had been exploited by her higher-ups for such selfish purposes.
Of course, starting anew was easier said than done. You still had to fetch yourself a new identity, a house, and somehow evade the authorities for the rest of your life. It was fun to dream, but you knew you had to embrace reality soon.
Or else, you would be caught in the dumbest way.
At the very least, you could put up one hell of a fight before being whisked away in shackles. Enjoy your last remaining days of freedom before he caught up.
Your breath hitched. Caleb wouldnât give up, would he? Heâd comb through each city and town, overturning even the smallest villages in search of you.
You couldnât picture what drastic measures heâd take.
Perhaps heâd even drain the oceans and pluck you from the seabed if you decided to live freely as a sea turtle.
Wherever you were, he would find you.
Some things were only possible in the presence of power. No matter how intelligent you were, your helplessness was undeniable. You bore not even a sliver of authority and thus were incapable of turning the tide against him. You could run from a man, but you couldnât escape a whole fleet of deranged, cybernetic militants.
You chuckled at the inevitability of your fate. In time, he would find you. The government wouldnât protect you. Not when you were a wanted criminal on the loose. If anything, they would hand you overâto himâon a silver platter. Nobody wanted to make an enemy of the farspace fleet. They were a ruthless bunch. What would one insignificant sacrifice mean when it had been made for the greater good? For eternal peace?
Just like Anne, the world had abandoned you as well.
And this time, you truly had no home to return to.
An unfamiliar feeling coiled in your chestâa yearning for home. A yearning to sit across the white couch of your clinic, listing away your patientâs traits on a clipboard as a frigid wind drifted in from the window. A coveting for the warmth of your bed, the bitterness of the coffee you brewed each morning, and the intimacy of your workspace.
This was all a mistake. You should never have embarked on this journey in the first place.
So much for bringing someone back. Someone who had lost their heart long ago.
If only you hadnât let your emotions blind you. If only you had moved on from him.
You squeezed your eyes shut. A single tear slipped down your cheek. This was no place to cry. What you should have been focusing on was a planâa means of saving yourself. You barely had any money. Would it even be enough to buy you transport to the nearest broker?
You didnât have any weapons on you either. Nothing to defend yourself with. Just you, yourself, and a lightweight bag with nothing valuable inside.
You should have stolen a few bucks from Caleb. His position surely paid well, so what would a hundred dollars mean to him? You really should have. And the worst part was that you knew he would have handed it all to you without a second thought. Something churned in your chest.
"I donât know what to be when I grow up, Caleb. What should I do?"
You kicked your feet on the bed, lying on your back as you watched Calebâs attentive gaze remain glued to his homework.
"Why are you askinâ me?" A young voice replied. "Itâll come to ya, pip-squeak. Youâre only ten."
"But," you pushed yourself off the bed and nudged his shoulder, "the teacher asked us to write an essay on our dream careers. Help me, please? Youâre really smart!"
"Why worry about that? Iâm here, arenât I? Iâm smart enough for us both."
"Really?" You grinned stupidly. "That means your money is my money?"
He reached over without averting his eyes from the textbook to flick your forehead softly. You whined in response.
"Hasnât it always been like that? But still. Youâre good with people, right?"
You hummed. "I donât have many friends other than you."
"But you understand people."
You nodded.
"Then why donât you become a psychologist?"
"A⌠what?"
He sighed. "Never mind. Youâre too young to think about that." And with that, he ruffled your hair and sent you off.
Little did he know you would cling to that word for the rest of your life.
The train whirred along the tracks, speeding readily through the various stations. One by one, the passengers departed, until you and an old man were the only ones remaining.
Before long, the train passed by Linkon. You watched with a solemn gaze as the doors slid shut. A part of you imagined yourself stepping outâhappy, grinning from ear to ear, returning home. This cap wouldnât be on your head, and your face would be devoid of worries. You would be free. On your way to a new life in the absence of Caleb. Into a new normalcyâa reality you could embrace this time.
You shut your eyes and rested your head against the window. Two fresh tears slipped past your lashes. Home. The word called to you from amidst the darkness. You envisioned two gentle arms cradling your form. The ghosts in your bed would welcome you home. Theyâd open their arms and tuck you in.
Just yesterday, the âghostâ would have been none other than Caleb. But now, you wanted nothing to do with him.
Now, they had become two fleeting, ghastly apparitionsâechoes of the past, lingering somewhere in your psyche.
The flesh may forget the sting of steel, but our minds will know.
You didnât recall where you had heard that line. Perhaps it was a lyric from a melodious choir, or maybe a fragment of dialogue from a show you once treasured. You couldnât recall the exact words either. At first, you had only nodded at its proclamation. It was right. There was nothing to refute.
As the new you emerged from the epicentre of a vicious battle, wounded by the likes of steel, its choir rang within your heart.
The mind never forgets. It is a being of its own. A tranquil entity, a lifeless organism so equally abundant with life. It may not respire, but it bears the authority to decide whether you do so.
And sometimes, it chooses for you not to be able to breathe.
Caleb would never vanish. He might perish while executing his unethical duties, or he might fade from your life altogether. He might even heal and reform. But that wounded man lived in a hollow within your heart, a cavity carved out with a knifeâan unhealing wound, a permanent abyss.
A dark, bottomless pit you could never truly move on from.
No matter how achingly you worked to normalise his absence, his ghost would linger.
And so would the ghost of your former self.
For that wounded man didnât just win,
He devoured you. He plucked your ribcage open and fused with your heart.
The burden of exhaustion weighed on your bones, dragging your body down against the trainâs plastic seat. Your mind kept drifting homeâto the warm lighting of your kitchen, the abomination stashed away under your bed, the mess coating your desk that you never quite found time to clean up. Their images flashed before your eyes, like a boat drifting back to the seas it had departed from, pushed there by a storm.
Now, it was up to you to decide what home meant.
You would make sure that this time, home wouldnât be a place that breathed Calebâs name.
âNimbura. Doors will open from the right.â
You hauled your luggage alongside you as you exited with the old man. From beneath his drooping eyebrows, he shot you a wary glance before inching forward. A flimsy brown cane supported his weight as he walked. You hoped you would never again encounter a situation where youâd need to rely on someone elseânot until you reached seventy, at least.
A cool gust of wind sent flyers fluttering through the air before your face. You shivered, hugging yourself a little tighter. An earthy scent lingeredâdamp soil, the kind you could always smell before an impending downpour.
Of course, the town hadnât bought its name with cash.
It bought it with its perpetual rain.
âExcuse me,â you called out to the old man. âDo you know where the nearest brokerâs is?â
âTheyâre all closed by now,â he croaked. âGet some sleep, girl. Go tomorrow.â
You let out an audible sigh before returning to your pocket to count your cash. Just enough for a nightâs stay, but beyond that? You werenât so sure.
To your surprise, the man turned back. âNeed a place to stay, child?â
You eyed the money on your palm before returning to his face. He appeared wise. From the way his brows were furrowed, you could tell he had seen much in his long life. A part of you secretly loathed these types of people. Those who had seen it all were especially hard to deceive. They could spot any hint of trickery, no matter how ethical, from a mile away.
Your gut told you he probably knew you were on the run.
You needed a place to stay, but your instincts flared up. You didnât know him. Anything could happen to you in a town this small, and it would go unreported for the most part. This was a matter of survival. Although your expertise insisted this man was no threat, your wariness begged to differ. So, with a polite smile, you turned down his offer.
Defeated, the man showed you the way to the nearest inn.
You followed his directions only to end up at a run-down inn around the corner. Its sign hung loosely, threatening to fall at any second. But clearly, the owner hadnât cared enough to fix it. On top of that, the place stank. It reeked of alcohol, vomit, and cigars. Youâd rather sleep out on the streets than stay here.
Thunder flashed in the sky behind you. You jumped.
Okay, maybe sleeping under a stormâs embrace wasnât the best idea.
You were on the run, after all. Now wasnât the time to be picky.
A short, blonde-haired woman sat on the other side of the counter, chewing gum as she scrolled mindlessly through her phone. The electric bell above the door chimed as you pushed it open. In a few swift movements, she spat out her gum and shoved the phone into the cavity under her desk.
âHello, how may I help you?â She flashed the brightest grin she could muster.
She appeared young. Most likely still in high school. Your gaze travelled to the photo frame behind herâa clean picture of a family with a mix of blondes and brunettes. So, her parents owned the place, huh? A lucky child with a stable future. You envied her.
âHow much for one night?â
âOh, uhmââ She fished through something under her desk. You could hear the faint crumple of paper as she moved. That agility⌠was she in hunterâs school?
She named the price. You reopened your wallet and counted the bills. Just enough for one night, plus transportation.
âIs the food free?â
âNo, maâam. Only water.â
A deflated sigh passed your lips. You hadnât eaten dinner, and you were practically starving. If you wasted money on food now, you doubted youâd make it through tomorrow.
Oh, well. A dayâs fast wouldnât kill you.
âAll right. Can I have a room?â You smiled, placing the cash on the desk.
She opened her register and quickly handed you the change before fetching a pair of keys from the shelves behind her. Tossing you the keys, she showed you to your room. Despite her persistent offers, you ended up carrying your bags yourself.
Your room was relatively cleaner than expected. Initially, youâd envisioned a room as run-down as the front of the inn, with broken beds and a toilet that didnât flush. Of course, the room was nothing like the average hotel rooms you could rent in Linkon, but it would do.
At least you discovered where most of the innâs funds went.
You fetched one of the sealed bottles of water from the desk and buried yourself in bed. Having finally achieved a moment of respite, you whipped out your phone and began scrolling through your messages.
Oddly enough, there were no texts from Caleb. He was offline on all his socials.
Perhaps he hadnât caught wind of your absence yet? That would suggest the idea of framing you for murder was something he had planned beforehand. Possibly after the argument.
You were about to head to bed when suddenly, your phone lit up with a notification.
You guessed it was Rhys again before even looking at the screen. He was the only one youâd been texting (or, more accurately, whoâd been texting you) over the past few days.
If he was texting you, it could only mean trouble.
With numb fingers, you opened his chat.
âMiss, run.â
âYouâre in Nimbura, right? They know your location.â
You froze as he kept bombarding you with short, panicked, back-to-back messages.
âHe discovered our relationship. My wifeâs dealing with the fleet.â
âTheyâre at our door.â
âPlease, run.â
âForget about us. Leave Nimbura. Immediately.â
âThe police know where you are.â
The adrenaline was so deeply coded into your DNA that youâd gotten used to it by now. Only a deafening numbness lingered where anxiety once resided.
But, more importantly, how did he know where you were?
Your eyes trailed to the bracelet. The pendant gleamed under the light.
Now that you thought about it, the pendantâs size was oddly convenient, was it not?
And it was quite a bit heavier than you had expected.
Could it be�
Caleb had revealed his final card. The ace up his sleeve.
Blood drained from your face. You paled.
A tracker.
You jolted up to the sound of police sirens slicing through the air. They were already here.
In a hurry, you snatched the bag you hadnât yet opened and rushed to the door. Your other hand fidgeted with the bracelet coiled around your wrist. You hissed. Why were these things so hard to unclasp with one hand?
Pushing through your bodyâs sheer exhaustion and numbness, you bolted down the stairs, tripping over some of the steps. A knock resounded at the innâs front gate.
âSkyhaven authorities. Open up.â
The perplexed blonde girl eyed you awkwardly. Tearing the bracelet forcefully off your wrist, you tossed the jewellery to her and muttered an apology.
âGotta run. Take this as an apology.â
And with that, you stormed out the back door. Rain poured from above, thumping against your bare head relentlessly. No time to equip an umbrella. Just run.
With trembling legs, you skidded across the empty alleyways. Multiple pairs of footsteps slapped against the damp pavement close by. They were closing in. Fast. You had nowhere to go.
But perhaps you could make it to the train station before it closed. There was one last train heading to Linkon soon. If you could make it, maybe you could throw them off your trail for a while?
You bit your lip. You werenât so sure. Chances were the authorities had already surrounded Linkonâyour home and clinic were under their jurisdiction.
But that was a problem for future you. Right now, you had to run.
Mustering up all your strength, you pushed yourself forward, darting through the desolate streets. The commanding voices of the officers pierced through the rain, declaring how they would use force, how resisting would only worsen your case. You paid no mind to their warnings. Only the worst would happen if you were arrestedâyouâd be thrown into jail, executed by the fleet, or sent straight into Calebâs arms. And he would definitely rather skin himself bit by bit than let you go once more.
How much worse could it get?
The walls of the world seemed to shrink in on you, confining you within Nimburaâs insignificantly sized territory. All sounds blurred together, contorting into one singular noise that thudded violently against your eardrumsâthe pulse of your own quickening heartbeat. The heart that once beat in love for a man now pounded in terror of the very same one. You no longer flinched at the bolts of lightning, no longer cared for the heavy droplets of rain smashing through your skull.
At that moment, you were reduced to a cowardly mess of a woman who knew only how to run. She ran from her life, her job, her stability, her friends, her problems, her mistakes. And now, that woman realised she had spent her entire existence fleeing. She buried her troubles in the desolation of her patients, abandoned the life that had given her everything, and flung herself into the arms of a stranger. A stranger who, due to her naĂŻvetĂŠ, received her love as she foolishly gave herself away.
Hot tears streamed down your cheeks. Or was it rain? You didnât know. Didnât care. And for the first time, you let the tears fall freely. You sobbedâyour face contorted in despair. Your lips curled into an unsightly frown, your brows knitted dramatically. Vision blurred. Your pace faltered.
Your legs begged for respite. To stop, to collapse onto the wet asphalt, to simply wail to your heartâs content. But the footsteps behind you suddenly grew louder. Your brief moment of weakness had allowed them to close in. You were screwed.
Forcing yourself forward, you pushed through the pain. Your shoes stretched against your feet, groaning under the pressure. The soles were likely torn by nowâperhaps even left behind a few metres ago. You didnât know. There was no time to stop and check.
Then, through the curtain of rain, the silhouette of a tall stranger emerged. He walked parallel to you, treading calmly beneath the shelter of a large, black umbrella. Your heart lurched. You couldnât stop now. You were bound to collide.
Squeezing your eyes shut, you braced for impact.
You crashed into a solid chest and, from the sheer force, went stumbling back. Before you could hit the ground, a firm hand seized your waist, steadying you.
âIâm sorry,â you gasped, lifting your head to catch a glimpse of his face. âIââ
Your body froze. As if your entire being had shut down, every gear in your mind clogged at once. The pitter-patter of rain and the approaching footsteps of the police faded, drowned by the roaring static in your head.
That long, black uniform. Those leather gloves. That sleek cap.
And, most importantly, those innocent violet hues scrutinising your face.
For a long while, there was only silence.
You parted your lips, but no words came. Finally, you choked out, âHowââ
A chuckle. One you recognised all too well.
âAre you hurt?â A familiar voice cooed.
Caleb.
You turned on your heels and bolted in the opposite direction.
A flight of uniformed personnel obstructed your path, caging you in against Calebâs form. In tiny, panicked steps, you inched backwards.
The leader announced your name. âYou are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Sergeant Caroline Mayday. Youââ
âIâll take it from here,â the figure behind you commanded firmly. âIâll escort our criminal personally.â
Hesitantly, the officer backed away with a curt tilt of his head, signalling for his troop to stand down. You watched helplessly as they retreated.
A part of you wanted to reach out. To beg them to throw you into jail instead. An axe to your neck would be far kinder.
But no. They tossed you right into the vicious, merciless jaws of the beast, leaving you to a fate you couldnât determine.
The world stilled. The patter of rain against the road was all you could hear, aside from his steady breathing contrasting with your short, quick spasms of breath. In that moment, it felt as if it were only the two of you in the world. As if only you both truly mattered.
But those werenât your feelings, were they?
They were his.
You gulped. Unhurried footsteps inched from behind. âYou look tired. Have you eaten?â Calebâs fingers interlocked with yours. Gently, he spun you around. The cap hung low on his head, obscuring half of his eyes. If only youâd spotted it from afar. Maybe if youâd picked up on his presence earlier, you could bolt in the opposite direction and avoid clashing into him.
He appeared from seemingly nowhere. Perhaps his appearance was also a calculated move that slipped past your radar.
Your final, most fatal loss.
Your reckoning.
You snatched your hand away. âYou,â you cocked your head to meet his gaze, âWhat did you do to Rhys?â
You endured a long, deafening silence. The weight of it all pressed against your chest, squashing you against the mud. Like an insignificant, pesky bug meeting its end under the sole of oneâs shoe.
A cold, frosty wind wafted through the atmosphere. Goosebumps prickled as frostbitten air slipped beneath your skin. The chill gnawed deep within your bones, causing painful pangs to crackle through you. Your knees buckled, unable to bear your weight any longer.
Expectedly, an arm wrapped itself around your waist and hoisted you up, pressing your body against his own.
Strings of water slid down from leaves nearby, splashing onto the pavement. Your forehead pulsatedâthat familiar sensation of dread that emerged each time you found yourself caught up in a complex, seemingly inescapable web. Usually, youâd bear the scissors to free yourself. But this time?
The webs cut into your skin, threading through your nerves. Every fibre of your being was tangled. The slightest movement would cause the intertwined nerves to be ripped out of your skin. A violent flash of lightning illuminated half of Calebâs face.
âWho?â He lifted his chin, gazing at the sky as if buried deep in thought. When he looked down at you, he did so with a familiar darkness in his eyes. Envy. âOh. Him.â His frown curled deeper as he uttered the last word.
âWhy would that matter? Itâs about us now.â
You locked your jaw. âWhat did you do?â Tears threatened to fall from your eyes.
As if able to distinguish between the rain and the remnants of your despair, Caleb brought his gloved hand and cradled your face. His thumb brushed against the tears, tossing them away as though they didnât belong on your cheeks, and didnât deserve to be shed from your eyes.
Not regarding another man, that is.
You flinched at his touch. A new, unsettling calm dawned over his countenance. And in a flick, all emotion dissipated from his eyes. His lips relaxed into a neutral line.
âI got rid of him.â
Your lips parted, but no words were uttered. A lump of saliva knotted in your throat. Your tongue was overcome with foreign saltiness.
âWhat do you meanâŚ?â
No response.
âCalebâŚâ you stuttered, placing your palm on his hand, more to comfort yourself than to coerce him, âWhat did you do?â
His fingers trailed over your own. A tremor ran down your spine at the sheer tenderness he displayed, treating you as if you were a precious glass ornament ready to shatter at the slightest prick. âYou donât have to worry about him anymore.â
Your arm dropped to your side. âYou⌠did you hurt him?â Caleb didnât reply. He only leered down at your trembling lips with an impenetrable mask. Or perhaps it seemed as such to you because you couldnât be bothered enough to pick him apart.
You sucked in a breath and exhaled audibly. Your head lowered until you were staring at the surface of your mud-coated shoes. Think. What could get you out of this situation? Your eyes lingered on your feet for a while. The cogs whirred in your brain, working, but producing no reliable output.
A flock of thoughts flooded youâirrelevant, unimpressive, shrill, and horrid thoughts. What would he do to you once heâs got you in his grasp? You swallowed the saltiness, nearly gagging at the taste of your own bodily fluids.
But then, a thought emerged.
Bodily fluids. Bodily gases. You smelled ammoniaâa common gas released upon the decay of a corpse. But amidst the urine-like stench, you smelled something else.
A strong stench of bleachâsomething you only picked up once youâd ventured inside the room. Meaning it was present nowhere else. The corpse crime scene hadnât been cleaned. There was no need to tidy up after a corpse that hadnât bled. And there was no residue of liquid bleach anywhere within the room. If there was, you certainly wouldâve noticed.
âChlorine.â You lifted your head to meet his gaze.
Finally, Calebâs eyes flashed with a hint of emotion.
âI smelled chlorine in Carolineâs room.â
With an amused tilt of his head, Caleb wordlessly challenged your wits.
âShe didnât commit suicide. She was murdered with chlorine gas.â You glared up at him. âIn gas form, chlorine is extremely noxious. Seventh grade chemistry stuff. You made it too easy.â You shook your head. âOnce she expired, you didnât hesitate to take her out.â
His lips curled to form a smirk you couldnât shake off. It felt so out-of-place. So visceral. As if it didnât belong on his pretty face.
Itâs an expression heâd donned countless times in the past. But each time, it was a playful, giddy smirk. A boyish grin, more so. The one youâd flash before committing a silly act.
But this one conquered your nerves with an uneasy rattle.
Eyebrows slightly curved, his eyes subtly squinted, a feral glint alight in his gorgeous violets, and with his lips angled oddly. Your stomach churned. It felt as if you were being preyed upon and tested.
Nonetheless, you stood your ground. You ensured that every bit of you would exude defiance, from your visage to your body and to the hairs of your neck. But your insolence only seemed to rile him up. The lunatic look in his eyes deepened alongside his uncomfortable smirk. Your fire exhilarated him, as if watching you ablaze with passionate rebellion was the prettiest you could be.
Like it was one of the many things he absolutely adored about you.
In spite of his admiration, he wouldnât let you have your way, though, would he?
âA harsh accusation. But,â his hand returned to your face, as if it was unable to keep itself from it, as if it belonged glued to its side, âThe world knows you to be the killer.â
âYou werenât raised to be a monster.â
Caleb cocked his head to the side. He hummed.
âSure it wasnât you? Donât worry, you can tell me.â
Your balled fists trembled. âSo,â you drooped your head, letting your hair fall before your eyes, âI was right.â
âThen, tell me,â you continued, âHow do you know the fleet wonât turn on you next?â
âOnce you reach a certain rank, youâre free from those risks. She was merely a sergeant.â His shoulders jerked to a casual shrug. âThe media needed a culprit. The law doesnât care who it is, they just need a scapegoat. A person to throw into a cell.â
âWhich was me.â You eyed him in disbelief.
In a sharp movement, Caleb squeezed your chin and brought your face to his, forcing you onto your tiptoes. âBut,â an alien, hoarse voice rasped, âI wouldnât let them have you. They wouldnât take you from me. Not again. Not afterâŚâ You could see fragments of a memory flash in the reflection in his eyesâa memory you seemed to share with him, but one that wasnât yours.
Normally, youâd pry further. Coerce him, utilise his vulnerable emotions to spill the truth from his lips without having to properly ask. But by now, youâd given up on his rehabilitation. Now, your most vital priority was survival.
âYou put a tracker in that bracelet.â A proud grin spread across his face. He had the audacity to silently congratulate you after all that.
âThis?â He held up something near his face. A shiny, silver chain with a sparkling white sapphire pendant dangled from his fingers. âYou forgot it at the inn. Here.â
Gentle fingers grasped your arm. He slid the chain onto your wrist before hooking it shut. âYou were made to be clad in jewels. A Goddess.â You shuddered at the abrupt softness of his voice. Sincerity was engraved into his movements.
For a moment, it felt as if he were simply a man in love, and nothing more. A man awarding his partner with a treasure purchased by hours of his hard work, made only for the one he loved so dearly. You yearned to close your eyes, to let your world sink into darkness so you could paint a picture of your ownâone where the two of you were simply a happy, normal couple, living a humble, free life. But dreams were merely dreams. In the end, you had to wake up.
A frown graced your lips. Your bad luck charm had followed you into your doom. And once more, the shackle was clasped to your wrist.
âDid they touch you anywhere?â He gripped your arm. His eyes poured over your body.
âWhat?â
âThe authorities.â He affirmed. âDid theyââ
You pried your form away. A visible tick emerged in his forehead. âNo, they didnât.â
âWhyâŚâ his eyeballs quaked, rolling about in his head with fervour, âWhy canât you justâŚâ His teeth sank into his bottom lip viciously, drawing blood. âAre you afraid of me? Of what Iâve become?â
If it were just this morning, when heâd sourced you with the warmest form of solace as he cradled you on his lap, you wouldâve denied that claim. You wouldâve fought back with all your heart, with passionate proclamations on how you feel the safest when with him, and how nobody feels like home other than him.
Just a few days ago, youâd approached him out of fascination. Love, yes. But above all things, you were intrigued. Lured by his mystical, webbed, and broken mind. Eager to pick apart the strands of his brain tissue and see for yourself how they operated.
But now?
You werenât just afraid.
You were terrified of him. Of whom he had become. And who he could transform into in the near future.
So, you simply let your head hang as you pursed your lips into silence.
The man didnât move. He didnât shift, whimper, nor shout. He simply stood there with you. Beneath the cloak of the large, black umbrella. A gentle thunder ruptured the air. The gale softened. The tempest was nearing its end. The grey storm clouds were returning home.
âIf you love something, you should work hard to earn it.â You wiped a few stray droplets off your eyes. âIf you love me, you should work hard to be a better person for me. You canât just⌠do this.â
With slow, sincere motions, Caleb lifted your arm and slotted it with his.
âLetâs go home, then. Iâll work hard for you this time. We can make things right.â
But you didnât move. You simply stood, pulling back your arm ever so slightly. Not desperately, not angrily, just⌠subtly. As if your own games had tired you out. Because they had. What use was there in fighting back? You had already lost.
âThere is no home to return to, Caleb.â A soft voice spoke. His lips twisted into a frown. Brief anger flashed in his eyes, but he didnât speak. What was there to say? He knew you were right.
âLetâs go build one, then. Weâll begin from nothing.â His fingers tightened around yours. âOne step at a time.â
âMy home,â you averted your gaze, hesitant to continue, âdoesnât include you.â
The wrath returned, spreading through his visage like poison dipped onto a pondâs still surface. His grip tautened painfully. âWhat? Donât you love me?â There was a scoff in his voice, a forced friendliness. âAll right. I get it. Youâre shy, is that it?â he grinned. But his smile didnât reach his eyes. Much like a lot of his smiles nowadays.
You stared back at him with a worn countenance, unresponsive to his tease. But something subtly stirred in your chest. Nothing pleasant. Fear. He was at it again. He was walking a fine line between mania and sanity, and he threatened to topple over and fall into the clutches of psychosis at any moment.
Knowing what it was scared you more. Most would mistake it for hurt, for desperation or any other normal feeling in the book. But you knew all too well it wasnât that.
He was losing himself. You were, both physically and psychically, driving him mad.
Calebâs smile slackened. âPip-squeak.â He shut his eyes in an attempt at self-restraint. When he opened them, your nerves screamed. âYou donât have a choice.â
âEither,â a step forward, âyou come with me, help me fix what I broke, orâŚâ he stopped. His lips neared yours. His hot breath fanned over your eyes. The knot in your stomach tightened. Tears rose to your eyes.
You should move away, display the last bits of your dimming defiance. But what was the point? It was all over. Heâd caught you, and now, the victor would claim his prize. Your soaked clothes clung uncomfortably to your torso, moulding to your shape. It pressed against your chest. Suffocating, revealing, vulnerableâthe words raced in your mind. Bile rose to your throat. The weight of the clothes dripping down irked you, but not more than how you felt practically revealed under his gaze.
You gulped.
âYa know, killing an important member of the fleet is a serious offence.â His eyes skimmed over your body. You tensed right as he caught himself and deflected his gaze.
You understood what he implied. Granting you a swift, painless execution was the kindest decision the fleet could come upon.
âBut,â the coldness in your eyes matched his, âyou wouldnât let that happen to me, would you?â
âSmart girl.â He ruffled your wet hair. âEither you come with me, or I drag you home kicking and screaminâ.â
The lack of reluctance in his voice startled you, paired with the sheer casualness of his tone. You could tell he wasnât lying.
âI donât have a choice.â
âYou donât,â he confirmed. âSo, shall we go home?â
You donât respond. You only look at him. With empty, broken eyes, with a dimming spark of defiance still lingering in them.
And in his eyes, you spotted emotion. His brow furrowed, curled. His lips threatened to drag into a frown. He was recollecting. Zoning out on the image of your face, drifting away into the land of memories. Your patients often entered this semi-delirious state, so youâd naturally learned to pick up on it. During those times, youâd simply offer silence. Because for most, the memories they recalled whilst vulnerable and overwhelmed were the ones they hid from themselves the most. If you were to interrupt his thoughts, heâd never confront himself again.
You didnât know what burdens his heart bore. You didnât know how many times his flesh tasted the bite of steel. And you certainly didnât know whether what he felt had justifications. But one thing you knew for sure was that Caleb had to confront his past soon. If he didnât, heâd lose himself to his obsession.
But you knew it was a matter you couldnât manipulate. It was not something you could push and pull behind the scenes to manoeuvre them the way they should be moved. There were parts of the human mind that even the most talented psychologists couldnât access, and if they could, they were not to interfere.
And because of that, most patients embraced a similar decision each time.
He tilted his head. The onslaught of broken memories fragmented before disappearing entirely amidst the purple voids. Just like most, Caleb had chosen to run. And then, without hesitation, he took your arm and pulled.
âAtta girl,â he cooed.
The faltering rain drowned everythingâthe drum of your heartbeat softly thumping against your ribcage, slowed by the exhaustion biting your limbs. In the distance, the last train to Linkon rattled past.
With a crestfallen gaze, you stepped towards him. Caleb wrapped his arm around your waist and gently lugged you close. The cage you couldnât see before clamped shut. And so did any possibility of his rehabilitation that youâd initially planned on.
And then, together, you stepped into a new beginningâa future that was no longer yours.
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Echoes
Part I , Part II , Part III , Part IV , Part V , Part VI, Part VII , Part VIII
Summary: Fleeing the wreckage of your heartbreak, you land in the chaos of Zaun, pouring drinks at a dingy bar. You're still facing unresolved feelings and emotions towards Ellie, but theyâre easier to bury when Vi storms into your lifeâa whirlwind of sharp words and reckless energy. You start off bad, really bad but it's enough for you to think of something else for a bit.
warnings/themes : angst, heartbreak, lots of trauma, kind of enemies to lovers, unresolved feelings, a bit of violence, au
word count : 3.8k
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Back at it again, falling just where you started , completely alone , full of sorrow and regrets. Moving away to a completely unknown place was the best escape plan - literally. You knew nothing about this city, save for a few stories your best friend had told you. Yet, even the thought of staying in the same place as her couldnât outweigh your choice - you'd rather wander off Zaun's shadowed streets, losing yourself for a lifetime than remain bound to the familiar.
City was close to what you have imagined. The fractures that happened few years ago helped to a great extent , after decades of suffering, the city had finally exhaled, though it had not lost its soul. Cleansed of its grime, its fumes, and its shadowed figures, the streets and the people remained exactly as your friend had described themâa perfect echo of her tales.
Finding a job wasn't hard , from now on you'd serve drinks in one of the cityâs dim, suspiciously isolated barsâbarely more than a shadow in the corner of a forgotten street. Pay wasn't good but it was enough for an apartment and food, nothing else mattered to you. You were trying your best to take as many shifts as you could, working whole night helped you not think about her , during daytime you would typically crash out , exhausted from your job. And yet, she always found a way to reappear.
At the bar, you distracted yourself by watching customers. Most of them came for a drink and a chance to ease their burdens, but for you, the real game was observing themâpiecing together their stories from a glance, a gesture, a half-heard conversation. Sometimes , thought of her would reappear . Something would remind you of her scent, her voice, slipping into your mind without warning. But you had mastered the art of distraction, shifting your focus before the memories could take root.
It was in your dreams where she would visit most frequently, escape from her was almost impossible, as though she determined to remind you of what you wanted to forget: that no change of address, no new life, could erase her. She was etched into you, inescapably, a part of you as much as your own breath. But you had to move on , that's what you were best at, carrying pain and suffering throughout your life, god knows you've been doing that since the day you were born.
* * * * * * * * * *
âCan we talk?â she asked, her tone calm but firm, as she stepped closer to you.
You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. âEllie,â you whispered, bracing yourself for the inevitable fallout. âI shouldnât have said what I said.â The words spilled out in a shaky breath.
Her green eyes searched yours, unreadable but sharp. âWhy is that?â she asked, her voice softer now, almost careful.
âYou already know why,â you said, your gaze flickering over her faceâher furrowed brow, the tightness in her jaw. Anxiety clawed at your chest, every emotion colliding at once: fear, anger, love, and a desire that burned despite everything. Losing her wasnât an option, not like this.
âThatâs the problem,â she said, stepping even closer, her boots scraping softly against the floor. âI donât know why. You told me how you felt and then ran off, didnât even wait for my answer.â Her voice broke slightly, frustration seeping through, though she was clearly trying to hold it togetherâfor your sake. âThatâs not fair.â
âI couldnât take it anymââ you began, but your trembling words cut short as Ellie moved.
Her forehead rested against yours, her breath warm and steady against your skin. âI need you,â she whispered, her voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. âMore than you could ever need me.â
âNothingâs going to change that,â she said, her voice unwavering now, as if it was the most certain truth in the world.
* * * * * * * * *
Once again, your own screams tore you from sleep, Ellie had found her way into your dreams.
âFuck,â you muttered under your breath, the echo of her voice lingered in your ears. You glanced at the clock hanging crookedly on the wall and exhaled in reliefâit was almost time for another shift.
You moved through your routine on autopilot: a quick shower, clothes and out the door. The walk to the bar felt like a blur, your thoughts still tangled with fragments of the dream you couldnât shake.
âHey there,â you greeted Revek, arguably only person who could be considered as your friend in Zaun , as you stepped behind the counter.
He glanced at you with that signature smirk of his, tossing his apron onto the counter. âWell, well, look who decided to show up. Twenty minutes late, no less.â Leaning against the bar, he crossed his arms and tilted his head. âAlright, what is it this time? Lost your keys? Got cornered by some hooligans? Or let me guessâlost track of time again?â His smirk widened as he tapped the counter, signaling for his usual drink.
âCut me some slack, you asshole,â you shot back, rolling your eyes. âItâs not like theyâre paying me enough to show up on time.â You reached for the shaker, pouring his drink without missing a beat. âI just⌠had a bad dream, alright?â
The smirk faded slightly as he took the cup from your hand, his gaze softening. âNot again,â he said, his tone shifting to something more serious. He took a long sip before adding, âYou know, if you ever want to talk about it⌠Iâm here.â
âThereâs nothing to talk about,â you said quickly, brushing him off with a weak smile. âSeriously, itâs no big deal. Now scoochâyouâre scaring off my customers.â
Revek gave you a knowing look, but he didnât press further. Instead, he pushed himself off the barstool, raising the cup in a mock toast. âFine, fine. Just donât forgetâIâve got a hell of a good ear for this kind of thing.â
You watched him walk away, trying to shove down the unease crawling up your spine. Fixing your hair in the reflection of a glass, you turned to face the empty bar. The night was long, but at least behind the counter, you could pretend your mind wasnât a battlefield.
The day had been dragging. The bar was dead slow, with only a few regulars stopping by for a drink and a bit of small talk. You made an effort to keep busyâwiping down the already spotless counter, rearranging bottles, polishing glassesâanything to make the hours pass. Not until she walked in. The air shifted instantly, the tension almost suffocating as the door swung shut behind her. You froze, your hand mid-reach for a glass, and looked up. Youâd seen countless faces walk through those doors. From the desperate to the careless, from the downtrodden to the troublemakers, the bar had welcomed them all. Nobody ever stood outânobody cared about anyone else here. Thatâs what you liked about this place. People came in, had their drinks, exchanged a few words, maybe played a game or two, and left as if theyâd never existed to one another. But her? She shattered that silence like glass. You didnât know who she was, but everyone else seemed to. Heads turned, conversations halted, and even the usual clamor of the old jukebox seemed to dull in her presence. She strode toward the bar, brushing off the stares that trailed her like shadows. It was obvious she didnât give a single fuck about anyone in the room. Whatever power she held over the crowd, she didnât seem interested in wielding itâat least, not tonight. Stopping at the counter, she gave the drinks menu the briefest glance before tapping the laminated surface with her finger.
"Can I have this?â she muttered, her voice low and uninterested, pointing to a drink. Then, without looking at you, she added, âMake it a double.â
âSure thing,â you replied, watching her as you reached for the bottle. She didnât meet your gaze, didnât acknowledge you at all, but that only gave you the chance to study her features: pink hair cut into a sharp mullet, light blue eyes that didnât seem to care about much, and freckles scattered across her nose like theyâd been painted there.
âHere you go,â you said, sliding the drink toward her. She grabbed it without a word, her attention flickering to the room around her. Even now, she seemed utterly uninterested in youâor anyone else, for that matter. She didnât sip the drink so much as down it, her throat working as the liquid disappeared almost too quickly. You found yourself leaning slightly forward, unable to look away. There was something about her, something impossible to read. You liked puzzles, and she was the hardest one youâd come across in a long time.
Who was she? Some kind of criminal? Or maybe she was the exact opposite? Why was she here? Trying to get drunk, or waiting for someone? Before you could settle on an answer, she tapped the counter sharply, her empty glass sitting in front of her. The message was clear. Another. You poured the drink without hesitation, the silence between you stretching long and tense. As you set the glass down, she didnât so much as glance your way.
âYouâre welcome,â you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm, hoping to at least provoke some kind of reaction.
It workedâbut not the way youâd hoped. She turned her head, finally looking at you, and you almost wished she hadnât. Her glare was sharp, cutting, and filled with barely-contained anger.
âJust do your job,â she said coldly, her voice low and cutting. âI didnât come here for chitchat.â
She turned back to her drink, dismissing you entirely, but the tension she left behind lingered in the air, coiling around you like smoke. Whatever game you thought you were playing, she wasnât interested.
âWhat an asshole,â you thought bitterly, dragging your gaze away from her and down to the bar. The question lingered in your mindâshould you say something? Not because you couldnât stand up for yourself, but because, you werenât sure if she was even worth it.
She tossed back another drink, her sharp eyes cutting across the room as she motioned lazily for someone to come over.
âAgain,â she muttered, her gaze flicking back to you. For a fleeting second, it softenedâjust barely. But the moment was gone as fast as it came, replaced by her usual aloofness when a tall man approached her with an appearance that screamed trouble. You busied yourself making another drink, ears pricked to catch their conversation.
âDidnât think Iâd see you here, Vi,â the man greeted her, his tone carrying an edge of wary excitement.
She chuckled dryly, grabbing her fresh glass without even looking at him.
âWhat are you playing over there?â she asked, dismissive, like she hadnât even heard him.
He hesitated, glancing at his buddies like he was searching for backup. It was obvious he didnât want her involved, but too afraid to say no.
âJust some boring cards,â he replied with a strained grin. âYouâre, uh, welcome to join.â
âIâll be right there.â Her words were ice-cold as she turned back to you. âAnother one.â
You stared at her silently, letting your expression say everything your words didnât. She noticed. Of course, she noticed.
But instead of acknowledging it, she took the drink you handed her and headed over to the table of men, sliding into a seat among the kind who spent their nights gambling away the last shreds of their dignity. Vi. That was her name. At least you had that much now. But she was still a puzzleâa unsolvable one. You watched her, lost in your thoughts, until Revek appeared from the back of the bar, his sharp eyes scanning the room before settling on her.
âHavenât seen her in a while,â he muttered, settling onto a stool.
âWho even is she?â you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop yourself.
Revek leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. âRemember I told you abour shit that went down three years ago? Piltover, Zaun, all that Hextech chaos?â
You nodded.
âShe was part of it. A big part.â
You squinted, piecing it together. âThat explains why everyone knows her down here.â You frowned, the anger bubbling back up. âSheâs an asshole.â
Revek chuckled, shaking his head. âYeah, you could say that. After everything went to hell, she holed up in some dump around here. Doesnât talk to anyone. Just drifts between bars, sometimes⌠worse places, drowning herself in cheap booze.â
âWas she always like this?â you pressed, desperate to understand.
âThatâs a long story,â Revek began, but his words were cut off by the sharp sound of glass shattering across the room.
Your head snapped toward the noise. Of course, it was her, standing over some poor bastard, yelling and swearing. Revek shot you a look and stood, ready to step in, but you stopped him with a firm hand.
âIâll handle it,â you said, your tone leaving no room for argument.
âYou sure?â he asked, hesitation in his voice.
You nodded, already moving toward the chaos. By the time you got there, she was on top of the guy, fists flying with a fury that could have leveled buildings. The crowd around them was frozen, too shockedâor maybe too entertainedâto intervene.
âHey!â you shouted, but she didnât even flinch.
âStop it! Now!â you tried again.
Still nothing. She was too far gone, lost in her rage. Without thinking, you moved in to pull her offâbut before you could, pain exploded across your face, and you found yourself on the ground, disoriented.
The room went silent.
When your vision cleared, you realized, she had hit you.
Vi stood over you, her expression flickering with something almost like regret. âShit,â she muttered, reaching a hand toward you. âI didnât mean toââ
âGet the fuck out,â you snapped, cutting her off as you staggered to your feet.
She hesitated, her gaze locking with yours. You made sure she saw every ounce of your anger, your disgust.
âNow,â you commanded, stepping closer.
For once, she didnât fight back. She just turned and walked.
Days passed, and thankfully, she didnât come back. Still, every time you stood behind the bar, her face crept into your mindâher cockiny, her sharp eyes, her unbearable attitude. It filled you with rage. You already had too much on your plate; the last thing you needed was to waste energy hating some pink-haired asshole. But despite yourself, you couldnât stop thinking about her. It wasnât all bad, you supposed. At least thoughts of her kept you from thinking about Ellie. But replacing heartbreak with anger wasnât exactly a healthy trade.
It was another calm day, the kind youâd come to appreciate in the wake of the chaos sheâd brought. If anything, her outburst had earned you some respect. The regulars gave you a nod, a look, as if standing up to her had proven something. But the peace didnât last. The bar doors swung open, and the room fell into an all-too-familiar hush. You didnât even need to look to know who it was. The tension in the air told you everything.
Vi.
Revek appeared at your side almost immediately, his eyes darting toward her. âThis gonna be trouble?â he asked, his voice low.
âIâm fine,â you replied, keeping your gaze locked on her as she strode toward you. There was something deliberate in her steps, something⌠different.
Her eyes met yours from across the room, and you stood your ground.
âI think I made myself clear last time,â you said coolly, though your voice carried that simmering edge of anger you couldnât quite hide. âYouâre not welcome here.â
âI know,â she replied, stopping in front of the bar. Her tone was calm, almost subdued. âIâll leave. But first, I wanted to say Iâm sorry.â
You narrowed your eyes, studying her. There was no cocky smirk, no sarcastic retort. Just⌠awkwardness.
âI was drunk,â she continued, her voice low. âThat guy said somethingâsomething that pissed me off. I lost control.â She hesitated, her eyes searching yours. âItâs not an excuse, but⌠I didnât mean to hit you. I would neverââ
âBut you did,â you cut her off sharply, though you could already feel the fight draining out of you. She was being honest. You hated that you could tell, but you could.
âI know.â Her voice softened even more. âI didnât see you. And Iâm sorry. I really am.â
You exhaled, your shoulders dropping slightly as you leaned against the counter. You werenât ready to forgive herânot entirely. But you were exhausted from carrying so much anger.
âFine,â you said at last, pouring her the drink sheâd ordered last time. Sliding it across the bar, you added, âI appreciate your honesty. I donât appreciate assholes, though. And you? You were an asshole.â
A flicker of surprise crossed her face as she accepted the drink. For a moment, she looked like she wanted to say something else. But instead, she downed it in one quick motion, set the glass back on the counter, and walked out without another word.
She started coming back. At first, you thought it was a flukeâa one-time thing. But no. A few days later, she was there again. And again.
Sometimes she was alone, sometimes with a new girl on her arm, but the pattern stayed the same. Sheâd order a few drinks, stay for a while, and leave without so much as a word in your direction. Sheâd read your message loud and clear. But what you couldnât figure out was why. Zaun was filled with barsâplenty of them even filthier than this one. So why keep coming back to this one? Was it defiance? Did she just not care about the fact that you didnât want her here? Then there were the moments that left you even more confused. The way her gaze would linger,as she was hanging out with some random girl, her eyes flicking over to you when she thought you werenât looking. It wasnât often, but it was enough to notice. Enough to keep her lodged firmly in your thoughts.
Vi was a mystery. An infuriating, captivating mystery. And for some reason, you couldnât stop yourself from wanting to figure her out. Maybe it was the distraction she provided, pulling you away from the ache of Ellie. Or maybe it was something else. Something about the way she carried herself, the way she owned a room even when she was silent. Whatever it was, she had you hookedâand you hated her for it.
Today was no different. She strolled in like she owned the place, another girl trailing behind herâa new one this time. She made a beeline for the bar and ordered a round of drinks before sliding into a table suspiciously close to where you were working. Maybe you were imagining things, but it felt deliberate. There were plenty of empty tables scattered throughout the room, especially ones better suited for whatever this was supposed to be. An intimate date? That hardly seemed like Viâs style. The girl with her seemed sweet. Blonde hair with blue highlights that caught the dim lights of the bar, bright eyes, a soft smile. She leaned toward Vi as they talked, her body language screaming interest. But Vi? She sat back, arms draped casually over the chair, her expression distant, detached. It was like she craved the closeness but couldnât bring herself to let anyone in.
It was⌠familiar. Too familiar.
You turned back to the counter, your hands working on autopilot as you wiped down the surface. Yet, no matter how much you tried to ignore her, your gaze kept drifting in her direction. And every time it did, you caught her watching you.
You didnât like it.
Pouring yourself a drink, you told yourself it was just to take the edge off. One drink turned into two, and before long, the alcohol made everything sharper, more noticeable. You were too aware of herâevery glance, every quiet laugh, every time her eyes flicked toward you. When it happened again, you decided enough was enough. You locked eyes with her, letting your gaze trail over her features, daring her to look away. She didnât. At first, she looked confused, but that quickly morphed into something smugâa slow, cocky smirk creeping across her face. She leaned over, whispering something in the blondeâs ear. The girl nodded, and just like that, Vi stood and headed straight for you.
âHey there,â she said, her voice calm but carrying that familiar edge of arrogance. Her eyes bore into yours, steady, confident.
âWell, look at you,â you quipped, leaning casually against the bar. âTurns out you can talk.â
She smirked. âCan you blame me? You called me an asshole and made it pretty clear you didnât want me to talk to you.â
âBoth of those things are true,â you replied with a dismissive shrug, though the faint trace of a grin played on your lips. You blamed the alcohol.
âSo let me get this straight,â she teased. âYou donât want to talk to me, but you want me to talk to you? Maybe even acknowledge you?â
âOh, Iâve noticed you acknowledging me,â you shot back, your tone dry. âNot with words, though.â Your hand idly wiped at the counter with a cloth, pretending nonchalance.
Vi chuckled, brushing off your jab. âFair enough. Since youâre so insistent, let me drop the âasshole behaviorâ for a minute.â She leaned in slightly. âI donât even know your name.â
You rolled your eyes, leaning forward to meet her halfway. âItâs Y/N,â you said, your voice firm. A beat of silence lingered between you, tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Then, with a small smirk of your own, you added, âNow get back to your date. Donât keep her waiting.â
You didnât wait to see her reaction. The sudden surge of emotions made your chest tighten, and you dropped the cloth and glass onto the counter, heading for the backroom.
Intimacyâit wasnât something you wanted. Not now. Not with her. Even the smallest brush of warmth from someone else felt like an open wound. You were comfortable in the cold, with the pain. Examining Vi had been easy, safe. She was uncertainty and sharp edges, not softness. You closed the door behind you, leaning back against it and exhaling deeply. Maybe one of these days youâd figure out what Vi was really doing to you. But not tonight. Not yet.
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Note from author: It's my first time writing something ever please please please let me know if you liked that! I think that this fic will have 6/8 parts , so there's a lot unfold here. I kinda changed finale of Arcane, because Vi and Caitlyn don't end up together. Also, I have included Ellie as reader's ex girlfriend, so she will have more appearances in future. It would mean world to me if you shared my work (if you liked it of course) and please don't hesitate to message me, ask me questions about it or let me know what are your thoughts! Thank you!
#vi x reader#vi x you#vi arcane#violet x reader#violet arcane#ellie x you#ellie williams#ellie the last of us#arcane
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Ok ok Johnny but he canât accept the fact that people love him?
First girlfriend. Went south real fast and realised he was gay.
First boyfriend. Was bi-curious. First heartbreak too.
Second boyfriend. Only wanted him for his body. Self explanatory.
Third boyfriend. Way too emotionally unavailable, felt like they werenât even dating at a point. Turns out he already has a partner.
You get the gist.
At a very young age, Johnny was aware of his unfortunate personality. School fights, family scoldings, bedroom sobbing, itâs all just a blur to him now. Itâs not like he had the worst life out there, no. But he canât shake the fact that he canât really remember anything about his childhood. The trauma stuck though, unfortunately.
He could never really seem to shake off that âunloveableâ blanket on his shoulders.
Itâs not that bad, in retrospect. His friends like him, sure. They tolerate him. He knows heâs loud, he knows heâs brash, heâs a lot to deal with! He understands. So every once in a while, heâll justâŚback off. Leave everyone alone and just spend some time alone. The horrors do get to him when heâs alone in his room, clutching the fabric of his shirt and trying to get ahold of his breathing, but itâs basically nothing to what everyone else has to endure! Heâs selfish, he knows it already, always needy, always wanting. This is the least he can do to make sure that his loved ones arenât tipped over the boiling point and actually leave him for good.
He doesnât know what to do with himself at times.
Then he meets ghost.
Powerful, strong, admirable Ghost. He blew his fucking lid. Heâs even bigger than the rumours suggest. Heâs professional, clean. Heâs everything that Soap wishes to be.
Heâs jealous right off the bat. How could he not be?
Honestly, he feels a bit bad for the guy at the start. Soapâs laying it on thick with the touching and the questions. Heâs obviously fucking with him a bit, bit to be fair heâs not really doing much to stop him either. As time goes on, it becomes a weird sort of admiration/jealousy thing. He still is jealous of Ghost, but not to an extreme extent that he could be.
Ghost is another very peculiar case, one that Soap doesnât seem to mind prodding. After a few missions together, he could see why he was so infamous. But still, Ghost wasnât pushing back. Has anyone done this to him before? Why was he just letting this happen? Ghost might find him weird, sure, but heâs the most curious disturbing motherfucker soapâs ever met.
The army isnât exactly a place to find someone to get their dick wet, homophobes around the corner at every turn. Soapâs just accepted it as part of life now, not really wanting to think much on it but having that fact lurk at the back of his mind. Itâs a bit depressing, sure, to not have anyone get to know his actual self, but then again he was sure that anyone who truly got to know him wouldnât talk to him ever again. If itâs not the gay thing, itâs the army thing. If its not the army thing, it the personality thing. Whatever. Johnâs gotten used to it.
However, though some unexplainable force (the SAS and Price), Soap and Ghost had become some sort of dynamic duo now. Theyâd fought together, lost together, gone through some of the most horrific weathers known to man, and theyâd both survived under some miracle. Well, soap survived. He never doubted ghost would.
He got very close though. Way too close for Soapâs liking. They were in some fuck-ass country upside down the earth, down to his last mag and ghost clipped in the shoulder. They were hauling ass just- away. They didnât know when exfil would get there, or where. Their main objective was just to survive. Ghost was making a very vulnerable wheezing sound from his throat and Soapâs gun was overheating, burning though his gloves.
âSoap- Sargent.â Ghost whispered, somehow always remaining calm in the most chaotic situation Soapâs been in so far. Either that, or heâs just really fuckin tired.
âNoâ now, L.T, tryna get us to safety.â
âSoap, leave me behind.â
âWhat? Listen, Iâve got no time for your stupid heroism crap, okay? Just- shut up.â
âMacTavish, im serious. I have nothing waiting for me. Iâll be okay. Just go. Stay safe.â
âWhot the hell did i just say?â He snapped, turning towards him. âIâve goâ no time for this. Youâre coming wit me whether you like it or not.â Soap jabs a finger into his chest, leaning in close until heâs sure Ghost can see the faintest scar on his right eyebrow from screwing around with a razor with his friends, trying to give himself a eyebrow slit.
âYouâve got me, havenât ya? Youâve got Price, and the people on your team are counting on you. Iâm counting on you. So you can die somewhere else, in the bumfuck aâ nowhere, but youâre not allowed to die today, now. Ya hear me?â
Like this, gunpowder and dust making his nose itchy, looking intensely at Ghost to make sure his point is drive home, thereâs a look in his eyes that soap thinks heâs never seen before. He- he kinda looks like-
How Soap looks at Ghost.
With admiration.
Oh.
So, yeah. They ran out of there on the air of their asses, Soap laughing as the final hits of adrenaline pulses his heart, Ghost leaning against him with the same look in his eye, and theyâve never exactly been the same after that.
Soap chalked it off as it being in the heat of the moment kinda thing, but heâs been consistently catching Ghostâs eye staring at him from a distance away, just staring, with that strange look in his eye. Not always with the same emotion, Soap guesses, but still. Itâs close enough. He doesnt know whatâs happening, or what he did, but something changed. And itâs driving him insane. Itâs not that Ghost wasnât already friendly in his own weird ghost way, but now heâs being friendly in a normal way.
Itâs so weird.
Heâll be waiting at the gun range for Soap like he knows heâd appear there, toss him an apple when he feels peckish, slap his hand away when he needs to change bandages muttering something about him not doing it properly. Itâs weird, and itâs nice, and itâs making soap feel all itchy and hot. he canât even scratch himself anymore as a soothing tick, Ghost will just slap his hand away and grumble a âstop that.â
Itâs weird, and soap canât help but enjoy it.
He feels a bit selfish, feeling like heâs somehow taking advantage of ghostâs kindness, but for what? Heâs feeling guilty but what exactly is he being selfish about? Maybe a mental checkup is in order, heâs losing his mind a bit. Theyâre friends, thatâs all. Itâs notâŚthat unheard of that ghost would have friends, isnât it? He should feel honoured to be hisâŚfist? Again, Soap doesnât know a lot about him.
Time passes. He dips his toes in guerrilla warfare for the first time, canât say heâs a fan. Been backstabbed, shot, and survived. Hes earned his nickname, and sticks by it. (Hah) Though thick and thin, Ghostâs been there throughout it all. An angel guiding him to the churches, a leader who he would follow to the pits of hell, a friend when he needed one. After all that, the questions just never seemed to slow down. About his family, himself, his hobbies⌠to keep him awake, to pass the time, just whenever. Mostly Soap would get grumbles and short answers, proper sentences if heâs in the mood (which is all the time) or drunk enough. Heâs flustered under all the attention and he knows it, itching beneath the helmet and the layers of armour. Soap is brash, and loud, and a little bit of a pyromaniac. He knows it. Heâs fine with it. All jagged edges, no slowing down in sight. He doesnt know what to do with the change coming. He does the only thing he knows to do. He runs. After all of it is said and done, with makarov in the streets now, not much is to be done other than waiting for further instruction.
Applies leave for a few days, rented a airbnb online, have some alone time. Reset. Easy. Simple. Hes done this all his life. But when he was just about to slip out, Ghost suddenly appeared right in front of him.
âGah- Jesus, fuck, ghost. Whatâs wrong?â
âYouâre leaving.â
âYeah, I am. You signed off on the papers.â
âWhy?â
âJustâŚsome time. To myself.â
âIs that it?â
ââŚyeah?â What else does he want me to say?
Ghost looks like he.. squirms a bit, which is weird. Ghost doesnât squirm.
âJust⌠the countryside. And stuff.â This is the worst casual conversation heâs ever had with Ghost.
âUm⌠i got you something.â Then heâs holding something out.
âHuh? Really- this is a rock.â What the fuck.
âItâs a rock from Las Almas.â
âYou⌠kept a rock. From Las Almas. What, you couldnât have stopped by an actual gift shop just around the corner? I think i saw one right around where i found your knife lodged into-â
â-You done yet?â He snaps.
âApparently not, sir. You wanna explain the rock?â Soapâs being a bitch.
âJust that⌠youâre going to be alone⌠and. Makarov.â
âItâs a legitimate place, ghost. you wont find anyone there.â
âNot just that, itâs like-â He groans slightly and scratches the back of his head. âYouâre going to be alone, and the last time you were alone..â
Oh.
âItâs just a reminder that like, I wasnât going to give it to you this soon but, i was there. With you. You werenât truly alone, johnny. And.. youâre going to be alone now. Actually alone. And i justâŚ.its. Iâm here. At Redhill. Iâm going to be here. You know where to find me.â
Youâve got me, havenât ya?
Oh shit.
Soap doesnât know what to say. He can feel the tip of his ears burning, pricking down his cheeks and flush down his neck. He doesnt know how to stand properly, what to say, how to think. Because everything he;s thinking right now should not be applied to his lieutenant.
This doesnât mean anything, right? It doesnât change anything. Itâs still the same. Soap knows that Ghost cares about him. Heâs his Sargent. Heâs his Sargent. But not in that way. Theyâre friends. The rock from Las Almas. Heâs fine. Theyâre fine. Itâs just like the rock is a physical manifestation and real evidence that Ghost may or may not like him. Jesus, he shouldnât think like that. Heâs too quiet. He should say something. His lips twitch.
âThank you.â THATâS IT?? SAY MORE.
âIâll know where to look, then.â Soap gives the most half flustered, half assed smile heâs ever given to anyone. He cant even begin to imagine how he looks right now. His heart pulls. Ghost looks away. He feels like heâs going to be swept off his feet in a bad (good) way.
âRight then.â He clears his throat, disappearing down the corner of the hallway. Soap gapes as he stares after him. What was that? What was him? What? He looks down at the heavier-than-it should-look rock in his sweaty palms, and swallows.
This doesnât change anything. Theyâre still working together. Theyâre the lieutenant and Sargent of the 141 Taskforce. Heâs fine. Theyâre fine.
Everything is okay.
#PLS READ UNTIL THE END I SWEAR ITS WORTH IT#did yall catch that tv girl reference#me winging this entire thing and pulling the plot straight from my ass#can you tell Iâve been studying other peopleâs writing styles#anyways this draft was from⌠(blows dust) Jesus July??#wow#sure glad thatâs gone huh#pointedly ignores the 12 other drafts#robs ramblings#call of duty#john soap mactavish#simon ghost riley#ghoap#ghostsoap
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