yae-lover

[yae-lover]

the cure to his burdens

xavier x non mc || angst & hurt || happy ending || mc is kinda pick me || written after zayne's the cure to his nightmare fic || could be triggering for others so read at your own risk || this is smut - mdni || story masterlist : love and deepspace

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TWO

When had it gone so profoundly, irrevocably messy? So agonizingly complicated?

Oh, right.

Everything becomes a tangled, painful knot when consensual sex without commitment or labels is involved. Especially when one person’s heart is already irrevocably tethered to another.

Who in their right mind falls for their friend?

No, scratch that.

Who in their right mind fucks her friend like a vice, clinging to him, spending countless hours under the same roof, performing domestic rituals with him—yes, him, Xavier, the very man who had just poured out his soul, his aching yearning for MC—and you then, slowly, irrevocably, falls for him?

That wasn't how this script was supposed to play out.

You weren't supposed to fall in love with your fuck-buddy. That was the cardinal rule, wasn't it?

The unspoken, brutal truth of these arrangements: the first to fall in love is the loser.

And you, it seemed, were the undeniable loser.

In all brutal honesty, Xavier wasn't a hard man to love.

He was sweet, in a quiet, unassuming way that snuck up on you. Thoughtful, anticipating your needs before you even voiced them. Respectful, unless, of course, you playfully provoked him not to be. Protective, his strength a comforting presence. He was a provider, spoiling you rotten with small gestures, doting on you with an almost paternal affection. Clingy, yes, and undeniably affectionate in the privacy of your shared spaces.

Did you ever utter those three dangerous words? No. Not on your dear life.

Because, again, you weren't supposed to fall in love with your fuck-buddy. That was the rule.

The one you’d broken.

So, you shouldn't feel sad, right? You shouldn't feel this gut-wrenching hurt, this burning jealousy, when Xavier’s face would light up like a lost puppy finding its way home whenever MC was near.

It should only annoy you, only piss you off, because MC had so carelessly, so brutally, broken your "friend’s" heart.

Right. Your friend.

Or maybe, just maybe, you were more pissed at Xavier.

Because for some inexplicable reason, he seemed obligated to still be in love with her, as if it were his sacred duty, even after she had so blatantly, so carelessly, declared her heart belonged to that Sylus guy.

Was he blind? Could he not see you?

You, who were right here, who had always been here for him. While MC had vanished for weeks after that incident with Sylus, ghosting Xavier, leaving you to painstakingly lick the wounds she’d inflicted upon him.

And then she’d simply reappeared, as if nothing had happened. As if Xavier hadn’t been crying his fine ass over her, as if he hadn’t been trying to forget her by fucking you stupid.

Oh, right. Because you were just fuck-buddies. And you were supposed to only, well, fuck each other.

Or perhaps it was because MC was so much younger than you. So much prettier, her skin softer, fresher with the bloom of youth.

Or maybe, just like you, Xavier was simply madly, blindly in love with her. And people, when they’re in love, do crazy, illogical things.

Crazy, like friends-with-benefits-crazy.

You were so pathetic. So foolish. So stupid.

And you couldn't lie, it hurt so fucking bad.

But you kept telling yourself, kept convincing yourself, that maybe one day, he’d truly see you.

That one day, this fragile, undefined thing between you would solidify into something real.

That maybe the day would come when he would finally, truly, love you.

Or maybe that was just the cruelest lie you whispered to yourself every night as you lay beside Xavier, your body pressed against his, your heart aching.

You’d tell yourself that this was enough. That you didn’t need anything more. That as long as he came back to you every night, that was all that mattered.

And you hated yourself for it.

And yet, despite those lingering glances Xavier cast at MC, those fleeting moments they shared during working hours, he would still find you. He would seek you out. He would eat lunch with you on days when they weren’t out in the field, bringing you coffee, sending you those small, mundane text messages that felt like anchors in a storm.

He would still be there for you, a constant, comforting presence.

But then, he’d also be there for her.

You shouldn't feel jealous when you’d see them walk into the base together, interacting as if nothing had ever fractured, as if everything between them was perfectly fine.

You shouldn't feel this desperate urge to claim him, to pull him close, because he was never even yours to begin with.

You knew that. You told yourself that, over and over.

Yet, every time his touch lingered, every time his lips met yours, every time his arms wrapped around you in a hug that felt too much like home… you would sway back towards him, spiraling deeper into this shithole of a love that should never have been allowed to exist in this setup.

Not when you had knowingly, willingly, agreed to this arrangement.

Call you shallow. Call you whatever cruel name you could conjure, but those damn blue eyes just reeled you in.

Especially when they darkened, deep like the ocean’s abyss, heavy and intense, and when they were focused solely on you—only on you—you truly forgot about everything else.

The world outside, the unspoken rules, the gaping chasm between what was and what you desperately wanted. It all dissolved.

And you hated yourself for it.

You hated yourself for falling first, for being the one who had crossed the invisible line. Because there was no way that he, Xavier, would ever fall in love with you while she was still around.

Not truly.

You shouldn't feel the sharp, piercing heartache whenever MC would post about their downtime, sharing stories of arcade visits, a fleeting respite before another mission.

You shouldn't feel the clenching agony in your chest whenever MC would post pictures of them together, even with their teammates in the frame, her arm linked casually through Xavier’s, a gesture of familiarity that twisted a knife in your gut.

You shouldn't feel the cold dread whenever MC would talk with Xavier, her fingers brushing his arm, a soft, intimate touch that made him smile, truly smile, in a way he rarely did for anyone else.

You shouldn't feel the heartache whenever MC, with her seemingly effortless grace, made Xavier look lighter than ever, despite his heart having been so brutally broken by her just weeks before.

You shouldn't feel the heartache whenever MC would simply do something for Xavier, or with Xavier.

It's painful how well aware that you can never truly, fully have him, not just physically.

And you shouldn't feel this heartache. This very, very painful heartache.

Not when you chose to be in this.

Not when you chose to fall for him.

[yae-lover]

the cure to his burdens

xavier x non mc || angst & hurt || happy ending || mc is kinda pick me || written after zayne's the cure to his nightmare fic || could be triggering for others so read at your own risk || this is smut - mdni || story masterlist : love and deepspace

next

ONE

You awoke to a blinding white, the sterile light of the hospital room searing into your eyes.

Every inch of your body screamed in protest, a dull throb in your head pulsating with each ragged breath. It felt as if you'd been flung from the highest reaches of Linkon, crashing back to earth with devastating force.

Distant, angry voices bled into your awareness, their sharp edges cutting through the fog of pain. You didn't need to open your eyes fully to recognize them :

There was your Team Leader and your team mates, Captain Jenna, MC and her team... and then — him.

You heard his voice, a low rumble that always managed to calm the storm within you, now edged with a raw, desperate anguish that tore at something deep inside your chest.

Xavier. Your… whatever he was.

How had you ended up here?

Your left leg throbbed in its heavy cast, ribs protesting with every shallow gasp, a concussion blurring the edges of reality. Bruises bloomed across your skin like macabre flowers, each one a testament to the brutal assault.

You felt like you'd died and been dragged back, only to find the pain had followed you, searing through your mind, your body, and most agonizingly, your heart.

Confused?

Okay. A bit of a rewind here.

You're a researcher, one of Unicorn's most competent, tasked with sifting through the chaos of wanderers, extracting intel, samples, anything that could make sense of the encroaching threat.

Initially, you'd been trained as a hunter, your Evol—the ability to manipulate and create powerful barriers—making you a formidable force.

But the higher-ups, in their infinite wisdom, deemed your unique skill set more valuable in the quiet hum of the lab than on the front lines.

You could fight, yes. But by choice? Absolutely not. You preferred your bones un-shattered, your limbs intact, thank you very much.

And in some twist of fate, that journey led you to share an apartment with Xavier, the top hunter from the Special Forces Team.

He wasn't what you'd expected of a "top hunter."

Gentle, almost serene, yet possessing a quiet magnetism that drew people in.

Living with him wasn't difficult, not really. Except for one glaring flaw: the man was an utterly disastrous cook.

He could somehow ruin boiling water for instant noodles, even manage to botch a hard-boiled egg. The top hunter of Deepspace, completely inept in the kitchen.

Before you became his roommate, he'd survived on a diet of takeout, a culinary wasteland of msg and convenience. But for the sake of your sanity, and to prevent the man from succumbing to malnutrition or, heaven forbid, blowing up the kitchen, you’d unilaterally taken over the entire culinary domain.

He was banned, utterly, from stepping foot in the kitchen, unless it was for those "no-bake" concoctions—the kind that required no heat, no boiling water, no potential for catastrophe.

Overall, Xavier was a good roommate. Despite his quiet demeanor, he had a surprisingly wide circle of friends, always out meeting them, especially Jeremiah, who you’d met a few times yourself.

Yet, despite your shared living space, the countless hours spent clearing game levels on the console, the movie nights that blurred into early mornings, the binge-watching sessions, and the endless debates over comic book theories, the quiet coffee talks under the stars when sleep refused to come… despite the anecdotes exchanged, the intimate glimpses into each other's lives, Xavier remained a fortress.

He was familiar, closer than anyone, and yet, at the same time, profoundly distant, shrouded in a mist of mysteries and secrets.

But then again, didn't everyone carry their own hidden depths? Xavier had his, just like everyone else.

So, back to the initial question: How did you end up in this mess?

It all started that one night, when Xavier came home. He was a wreck. Distraught. Shaken to his core, completely out of it.

Of course, you were worried.

This was Xavier, the best, the top hunter. To see him so utterly undone, messy, as if his heart had been ripped out and shredded into pieces, it did something to you.

You couldn’t quite name the feeling, but a deep ache resonated in your own chest, a sympathetic pain that mirrored his torment.

And then, he told you everything. What had happened before he came home. He told you about her. About MC.

You listened.

Every broken word that tumbled from Xavier’s lips, every fractured emotion he unburdened, you absorbed it all. You heard the sound of his heart shattering into a thousand pieces, echoing the quiet desolation of your own.

He spoke of her, of MC, of a yearning so profound it twisted in the air between you. He spoke of her affections, her attention, her love—her everything.

And you knew. Of course, you knew.

You had seen it in the way his eyes would soften, a subtle luminescence blooming there whenever she was near, or even when her name was simply whispered.

You’d witnessed the subtle shift in his posture, the way he unconsciously angled himself towards her, as if drawn by an invisible thread.

You had known all along, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that Xavier loved MC.

Yet, that unwavering truth, that cold, hard fact, had done nothing to stem the tide of your own inexplicable pull towards him.

Was it mere interest? Perhaps.

Curiosity? It could have been.

The sheer, inescapable proximity of sharing a life, a home? Another possibility.

But what you knew with absolute, gut-wrenching certainty was that it was, unequivocally, stupidity.

Because, honestly, who in their right mind would willingly be drawn to someone so profoundly, irrevocably emotionally unavailable?

And who, with even a shred of self-preservation, would allow themselves to be caught in such a compromising situation with a heart so clearly, so desperately, yearning for another?

Only a truly stupid, foolish person would willingly plunge into that kind of black hole.

And here you were, floating in the crushing vacuum of it, the stupid, foolish person.

You looked into his eyes, a depth of despair reflected in their familiar hazel, and your heart twisted, a tangible knot of pain in your chest. His brokenness resonated within you, an ache so profound it felt like your own.

Inch by agonizing inch, you drew closer. It started as an innocent gesture, a comforting pat on his back, perhaps a soothing rub of his shoulders to calm the tremor you saw racking his frame.

Just a roommate. A friend. Trying to make him feel better.

But did comforting a friend involve a kiss? On the lips? With a desperate, consuming surge of tongue?

No. Definitely not.

Did it involve fingers fumbling clumsily with buttons and zippers, a frantic need to shed the confines of clothes, to press bare skin against bare skin, hands roaming, seeking, discovering every curve, every hollow, every heated inch?

Again, unequivocally not.

Did it involve hushed whispers of sinful things, breath mingling in the charged air, punctuated by the raw, guttural moan of your "friend's" name, over and over again, as his tongue delved deep, drawing one shattering orgasm after another, his fingers pressing precisely on that spot that made you see a supernova behind your eyelids?

No. Not that, either.

Did it involve murmuring comforting words, your lips tracing the curve of his, then his cheek, his jaw, his neck—a desperate attempt to lick away his wounds, to heal him with every fervent touch—while he, with a primal, instinctual grace, slowly guided your hips to sink down onto his massive, hard length?

A resounding, deafening no. It should never, ever involve that.

But that's precisely what happened.

That's how it started.

Not the mission that had turned your body into a bruised and broken doll, but this mess.

This entanglement, this situation-ship, or more accurately, this shit-uationship with Xavier.

[yae-lover]

Love Between The Lines

⚜ Pairing: Zayne x Non!MC Reader ⚜ Content: Angst ⚜ wc: 3869 words

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　

Dr. Zayne loves quietly. Not with grand gestures or sweet nothings whispered under city lights.

He loves in glances , the way his eyes soften when she’s not looking. He loves in silence, the kind that hums gently between two people who don’t need to fill the room with words.

In the way he sets an extra umbrella by the door when it looks like rain. In the way he memorizes her favorite songs but never sings along.

However as (Y/n) stared at the empty window of their shared apartment she can only heaved out a sigh. He has been busy lately that she has felt like they grew distant.

She knew he was a doctor. She reminded herself of that constantly. When the phone stayed silent, when plans were pushed back for the third time in a week, when he came home with tired eyes and hands that had held someone else’s life just hours before. People needed him, really needed him. They lined up in waiting rooms, clung to hope in hospital beds, looked to him like he was the last light in the dark.

Who was she to compete with that?

Still, there were moments she felt the ache of wanting. Wanting to be his priority, to be missed, to be chosen—not after the emergencies, but before them. And then the guilt would sink in. How selfish, she thought, to want more of him when the world barely had enough of him to go around.

She tapped her finger with impatience as she looked at the clock.

10:45 a.m.

She looked at the snacks she prepared, a box with his favorites. It has been a week since they last talked to each other where they sat down in their dining room, soft smiles and banters. Not where he arrived at dawn where she can feel the warmth on her forehead and embraced when she's asleep and wake up with an empty and cold bed the morning after.

He was busy, she knows that. He’s a doctor—needed by many. Wanting all of his attention might feel right, but when lives depend on him, even love has to learn patience.

It was already quarter to 12. She has just arrived at Akso hospital, with a smile she approached Dr. Greyson. “Good day, (Y/n)!”

“It’s nice to see you, Dr. Greyson. Is Zayne free at this hour?” She looked around hoping to see the Cardiac surgeon.

“He’s still at the E.R. doing some rounds," As he checked the time he noticed the lunchbox (Y/n) has been holding. The smell of macaroons caught his attention. “However, he’ll be done in a few minutes. You can just wait for him at his office.”

She shake her head with a polite smile, “I’ll just sit over there.” She pointed at the bench near the Emergency room. The doctor nodded with a smile as he continued reading his chart.

(Y/n) sat at the bench, holding the box close to her. The emergency room’s door has been slightly ajar, and she can’t help but lean over her seat and have a quick peek inside of it. The smell of antiseptic is strong, however the person standing tall next to a patient caught her attention, it was Zayne.

Who’s she? Why is he smiling?

Confusion was written all over her face as she tried to make out the patient’s face. She decided to scoot even closer to the door, curiosity got the best of her but before she can even make out the face, Zayne was now bidding his goodbye, not before giving her something.

Medicine? Candy?

She was so deep in thought that she didn’t noticed Zayne was standing in front of her. She yelped with surprise as white invaded her vision. “(Y/n)?”

“Oh Zayne!” She stood up from her seat as she handed him the box. “I brought some dessert for you.” His gaze softened as he looked at the blue colored lunch box. He muttered a soft thanks as he offered to eat it with her on his office.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶

“Is it your day off today?” Zayne who’s sitting across from her questioned, looking at his chart while eating the macaroons she bought.

She nodded in response, her gaze softening at the frame on his table. A portrait of them on their last vacation smiling while Zayne’s arm wrapped around her shoulders.

They were silent for a moment, Zayne was busy looking at the chart and on his computer. The blue light emitted from the screen made his features look sharper. She can’t help but remember how he interacted with that female patient, “At the E.R.” She started, contemplating whether to continue or not as she fiddled with her hands.

Zayne’s swivel chair creaked as she caught his attention, “What of it?” He questioned, his eyebrow raised. Now looking at her.

She sucked in her breath, asking herself if it’s necessary to ask him about it. Is it a breach of patient confidentiality?

“I saw you with a patient.” She paused as she looked at him, trying to see his expression, “You’ve given her something. What is it?”

He looked at her with confusion, he tried to recall the patients' he interacted. “You mean, the last patient I checked?” He clarified, (Y/n)’s expression were neutral as she nodded with agreement.

He returned his gaze to the monitor, “It was a candy.”

Oh. A wave of jealousy hit her but she hid it well.

To her it's not just a piece of candy, given Zayne's sweet tooth he won't be giving candies to just anyone.

Zayne glanced back at his monitor, fingers flying over the keyboard while chewing on another macaroon. The faint clatter of keys echoed in the quiet room.

(Y/n) forced a smile as she pushed her fork into the small slice of cake she packed for herself, watching him from across the desk.

“So…” she spoke again, trying to sound casual, “You give candy to patients now? That’s new.”

Zayne didn’t look up. “Only when they used to steal mine in middle school.”

Her eyes flicked to his face. “What?”

“The patient. Adriana,” he replied, still typing. “We grew up in the same neighborhood. She used to bully me for my chocolate stash. I guess she’s still weak for sweets.” He chuckled quietly, then finally looked up. “Why?”

(Y/n) blinked. The smile stayed on her lips, but it faltered slightly. Now remembering her, she was his long time friend.

“Nothing.” She popped a piece of macaroon into her mouth, chewing slowly.

Zayne shrugged, reaching for another chart. “We lost touch for a while. She was transferred here yesterday. She’s under my rotation today.”

“Oh.” Her voice barely came out. "I see."

Zayne oblivious at the blooming chaos on (Y/n)'s mind, checked the time and almost grunted, exhaustion visible on his face, "It's almost 1. I need to do some rounds," he picked up his stethoscope, pen and charts. He's waiting for her to say that she'll go home, given that lunch time is already over. But with her lack of response, he knew she will be waiting here for him.

"I'll be back as soon as I can, just stay here in the office." He pat her head affectionately, "If you are bored you can stay in the canteen. There are some good food there."

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶

(Y/n) had been sitting on the same bench for almost an hour. Zayne continued his rotation, telling her to stay in his office. But it felt suffocating, the silence made her remember the softness of his eyes when he mentioned his childhood friend.

Adriana — just thinking about her name made her heart clenched. Jealousy and insecurity clouded her mind. Is he tired of her? She remembered the stories he told her of his childhood, about his friends Adriana and Caleb.

How they were annoying, an epitome of chaos. But she always notice the softness of his voice whenever he tell her about them.

Through the half-open blinds of the emergency room, she saw him again. There he was. In the same white coat. That same soft smile. But this time, he was sitting by the side of a hospital bed, leaning just a little too close. The patient, a woman, her arm attached to a line of fluids, was laughing softly.

Adriana.

Her name suddenly had weight. (Y/n)’s throat tightened as she watched Zayne place another candy on the table tray. The same ones he kept hidden in his drawer at home. The ones she used to steal when they were watching late-night penguin documentaries together.

She remembered that version of Zayne. Gentle, half-asleep, letting her lean on his shoulder while murmuring something dry but sweet.

The look on his face now, that quiet softness, she hadn’t seen it in weeks.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶

Zayne’s Office, 2:10 PM

The door creaked open as Zayne returned, glasses hanging from his collar. “Sorry, I got held up. A patient had questions about her meds.”

As soon as she saw Zayne exiting the emergency room, she was quick on her feet, returning to his office.

She glanced at him, as she placed the lunch box on her tote bag, a gift from Zayne from his recent business trip.

(Y/n) stood near the coat rack, collecting her things. Already knowing the patient he is talking about.

“Oh, it’s fine,” she replied, voice steady but cold around the edges. “You two looked like you were having a good time.”

Zayne glanced at her, brows pinched. “It wasn’t— It’s nothing like that. She’s just—”

“Your childhood friend,” she said quickly, finishing for him. “Adriana.”

Zayne sighed, rubbing his temples. “Why does it sound like you’re upset?”

“I’m not upset,” she said too fast. “Why would I be? You’re just smiling again, finally just not with me.”

He stared at her, words failing him.

“I brought lunch, Zayne. I sat here with you. And all I got was a nod and half a conversation while you were looking at patient’s chart and lab results. But she gets you — your candy, your smile.”

Zayne opened his mouth, then shut it.

“She’s sick, (Y/n). I’m just trying to—”

“I know,” she whispered, tears burning the corners of her eyes, “but so am I. Just not in a way you can treat.”

He looked at her. “Let’s talk about this,” his brows furrowed, taken aback at how she was hasty on leaving. Suddenly his pager rings, he grunted with frustration as he tried to look at the woman in front of him, he rubbed his temples with exasperation, “…later.”

She huffed, as she glanced at him standing still, his hands placed on his sides. His throat bobbing up and down. With a huffed she tried not to let her anger get the best of her, “What do you mean by later? Later tonight, tomorrow, next week?” Her voice was accusatory.

There was silence.

(Y/n) slowly adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “You can’t even answer it.” Her voice was in disbelief as she tried so hard not to sob, remembering his smile, the candy he has given her. She haven’t seen this side of him for weeks yet she—Adriana—earned it freely. “That’s what I thought.”

The door clicked shut behind her — no echo, no rush. Just a soft, final sound. Like the last page of a story being turned in silence. Leaving Zayne lost in his thoughts as his pager keeps on ringing.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶

The keys jingled at the lock, hesistant.

Zayne pushed the door open slowly. The soft creak echoed through the quiet apartment, a sound he hadn’t heard in what felt like weeks — home no longer felt familiar. It smelled like vanilla and clean laundry, but colder now, like the warmth had been aired out and never came back.

The rain outside was soft—tapping against the window. It was calming yet the coldness made him grimace. He can hear sounds from the kitchen, noting how she didn’t even greet him like she always does.

He called out her name, (Y/n) didn’t even bother turning around as she packed Zayne’s lunch for tomorrow. His gaze softened, feeling warmth that despite them fighting she never forget to pack him lunch.

He placed his bag on the sofa as he sauntered towards her, slowly, hesitantly. He is not one to show emotions, not big with words. Yet, looking at her expression that afternoon, he can’t help but feel frustrated for letting her feel that way.

As he grew closer, (Y/n) spun around now finished with the meal prep. “You’re early.”

“It’s almost midnight.”

She huffed at his response as she placed the piled boxes in the refrigerator.

Zayne slowly step forward, “Can we talk?” His voice was silent, even mumbled as he tried to hold her hand. But she moved away, quickly. In that moment he felt a pain on his chest.

“Please…” his voice wavered as he followed her going to their living room.

“If you want to apologize,” she turn around and crossed her arms, “dont.”

“No…” he stopped as he tried to reach for her hand again, but hesitated. “I knew I’ve been busy. Surgeries, meetings, but it doesn’t mean I forgot about you—“ he can hear her leaving. He quickly grabbed her wrist and pulled her close to him. “Please.” He begged, as he nuzzled his head on her neck. “Believe me.”

She nodded silently, “I don’t want to talk about it now.” She murmured, his heart clenched as he look at her pained expression.

“I understand.” He muttered as he swayed her whilst combing her locks. “We will talk about this tomorrow. Okay?” She nodded, although he can feel her hesitance. He is relieved he was able to hug her, like this. Even just for a while.

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶

The room was bathed in shadows, lit only by the soft spill of moonlight pressing through the curtains. It washed over the bed in quiet silver — over the soft curve of her cheek, the rise and fall of her chest, the strands of hair fanned across the pillow like ink on snow.

She was adamant of them sleeping side by side, but later on relented.

Zayne sat on the edge of the mattress. The scent of antiseptic still clung faintly to him, but so did the ache.

She is now asleep. And God, she looked like peace. His safety, his world amidst all the chaos the universe has to offer.

His eyes traced the delicate slope of her features. The flutter of her lashes, the way her lips parted slightly in sleep. The kind of beauty that didn’t scream or demand attention, just existed quietly, confidently. Like she always did.

He felt something pull in his chest. A slow, dragging pressure he didn’t know how to name. He touched her cheeks delicately. Gentle as not to stir her awake.

“I will make it up to you.” He whispered as his hands hovered on her lips, he wanted to kiss her so bad. Yet he’s afraid to wake her up.

Zayne had always been calm — always composed, always professional. In the operating room, he was a fortress. Emotions were distractions. Feelings were noise. A trembling hand could mean a lost heartbeat. A moment of softness could mean someone’s end.

So he locked his heart behind cold precision.

But with her, with (Y/n).

He felt everything. And it terrified him.

His love for her wasn’t loud, but it was vast. It filled every inch of his chest, pressed against the inside of his ribs, and threatened to spill every time she smiled at him like he still mattered.

He looked at her now, her face bathed in silver light, unaware of the storm unraveling in his silence.

“I don’t know how to say it,” he murmured. “But I love you more than any part of my life. More than the work I gave everything to. More than the mask I wear every day to keep the world from seeing I’m not as strong as I pretend to be.”

His voice broke, caught in his throat.

“I want to do better,” he whispered. “For you. For us.”

He reached out then, just once and brushed a knuckle against her hand, tender and fleeting.

“Tomorrow,” he promised, voice softer than breath. “Tomorrow, I’ll show you.”

But deep down, even he wasn’t sure if tomorrow would come easy. Not in the life he chose. Not with emergencies always pulling him away. Not with the silence he still hadn’t quite learned to break.

And yet, he stayed there. In the space between duty and devotion , watching her sleep, loving her with everything he didn’t know how to say.

⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶

It was morning, the chirping of the birds can be heard from the distance. Zayne groaned, trying to wake himself up as he patted the bed where (Y/n) was sleeping. It was cold, empty.

Loneliness. That's what he felt when he can no longer feel her warmth. He was about to call out to her when his phone buzzed violently on the countertop. His brows furrowed as he read the message.

Adriana – Embolism. Code Blue. OR in 20.

He looked toward the door, where the sound of (Y/n) moving in the kitchen reached him — soft clinks, cabinet doors closing.

He walked in, white coat already on, the knot in his chest tightening. He doesn't want to go, but it his duty as her surgeon to be there.

“(Y/n)," he said carefully, afraid that saying it might lose her. “Something came up.”

She didn’t turn around but her heart rate was erratic, disappointment can be heard from her voice, “Of course it did.”

“It’s Adriana. She had an embolism. I’m the supervising surgeon. I have to go.”

Now she turned. Slowly.

Her eyes were unreadable. Blank, but trembling at the edges.

“It’s always her lately, isn’t it?”

Zayne blinked at her words. “What?”

“Every time it’s an emergency, it’s her. Every time you’re too busy, too late, too tired — it’s Adriana.”

He stepped forward, panic rising in his throat. “(Y/n), she’s my patient. My childhood friend, yes, but that’s all. I swear to you—”

“It’s not about her, Zayne.” Her voice cracked. As she avoid looking into his eyes, otherwise she will break. “It’s about me. And how you stopped showing up for us.”

He reached for her, but she stepped back.

“You smile with her,” she said, quieter now. “You soften when you talk to her. I haven’t seen you look at me that way in weeks.” she swallowed her cries as she averted her attention, "You always arrive late. I can only have you for a short while."

His voice rose in frustration, his phone has been buzzing again. “Because with you I have to keep everything together. I can’t fall apart in front of you, (Y/n)! I thought being strong meant protecting you from everything, even myself.”

Her eyes shot wide at his sudden outburst, though his voice wasn't booming. The words were sharper, “But I didn’t need a protector, Zayne. I needed a partner.”

Silence. Painful. Thick. Then louder now.

“I stayed, Zayne. I waited. I kept hoping you’d choose me the way I kept choosing you.”

His jaw clenched. His ears are ringing as he put his phone on silent mode.

“Don’t make this about you being noble,” she spat. “You don’t get to justify neglect with a white coat and a scalpel.”

Her words hit him like a truck. It was hurtful, yes, but the accusation of her saying that he has attraction towards Adriana was even more painful.

“So what? I should’ve let her die instead? Would that have made you feel better?”

Her expression twisted, like he had slapped her.

“That’s not fair,” she said, backing away. “That’s cruel.”

“Then stop acting like I’m cheating on you with my job!” he shouted.

(Y/n)’s lips parted in disbelief. Her hands were trembling now.

“I never asked you to stop saving lives,” she whispered. “I just needed you to stop forgetting I have one too.”

And just like that, the air changed.

Zayne’s chest heaved. (Y/n)’s eyes glistened.

A plate on the counter slipped from her fingers, landing in the sink with a loud crack. Neither of them flinched.

There were no more words left to wound, only the echoes of everything they wished they hadn’t said.

︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

Zayne stood outside the sterile doors, fully scrubbed in. The blue cap was snug against his head, the N95 mask tightly placed.

His hands were clean. Too clean. But they were shaking.

His fingers, the same ones praised for stitching torn arteries and holding fragile hearts wouldn’t stop trembling.

He stared at them.

He had saved hundreds of lives with these hands.

But he couldn’t hold onto hers.

The hallway was buzzing. Nurses moved swiftly, a resident read off Adriana’s vitals. He barely heard any of it. Their voices blurred into the background like radio static. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, loud, hollow, arrhythmic.

All he could see was her face.

(Y/n). Standing in the kitchen with tears she tried to hide.

(Y/n) flinching when he raised his voice.

(Y/n) finally saying the words he feared the most.

“I just needed you to stop forgetting I have a life too.” that statement, echoed on his head the moment he step outside the door.

He wanted to run back home. To throw off his coat, to fall to his knees and beg her not to give up. But the OR doors slid open with a cold hiss.

A nurse called gently, “Dr. Zayne. We’re ready.”

He nodded. Once. Mechanically.

And then, with the weight of his own failing heart, he stepped inside.

︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹

The silence was deafening as (Y/n) sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the small framed photo on the nightstand — the two of them, arms wrapped around each other, drenched in sun and laughter from a time that felt like another lifetime.

Her fingers hovered over it. She almost picked it up.

Instead, she turned it face down. Remembering the words they said earlier, words that could've been avoided

Her suitcase was still by the closet. Unzipped. Half-packed.

Like her — halfway gone, halfway hoping.

She wiped her cheek and whispered into the silence.

“You were supposed to come home to me… not just to the apartment.”

[yae-lover]

Good morning, Shar. Now that your inbox is open, may I request: the LADS men regretting choosing MC over Non-MC Reader when they receive Non-MC Reader's wedding invite; turns out Non-MC Reader had moved halfway across the globe after the breakup and is now a successful career woman.

Regrets in Ivory and Ink

Setup: It’s been years since the breakup. You had loved him deeply, quietly, earnestly. But when he chose MC, you chose yourself. Moved across the globe. Rebuilt. And now, you’re getting married. The invites go out. He opened his. And realize too late what he let go.

Pairing: LADs x Non-MC! reader

Genre: Angst

The Man Who Thought Logic Would Protect Him

He reads the letter once. Then again. Then a third time. He’s sitting alone in his office at Asko Hospital, fluorescent lights humming overhead. The wedding invite sits on his desk, pristine. It’s ivory paper, sealed with your initials and scented faintly of lavender. Of you. A detail only you would bother including, deliberate, quiet, gentle.

You live in Paris now. A renowned neuropsychologist. Head of a research lab. You’ve become the kind of woman he always knew you were capable of being. You’re graceful in interviews, devastatingly sharp in published articles, and always poised in every photograph he comes across. He knows, he’s read every paper. He’s bookmarked every media feature. He’s kept tabs even after all this time. Zayne hadn’t cried when you left. He’d been too certain that what he did was the logical choice. That you’d understand. That one day, perhaps, he’d find a way to return to you with answers and apologies. But he waited too long. When he sees your smiling face in the engagement photo tucked inside the envelope… When he sees your hand laced with someone else’s, a ring where his fingers used to rest. He feels it. The shake in his breath. The pressure behind his eyes. The unbearable silence in a room that used to feel like control.

“She was never just another decision. I should’ve fought. I should’ve known.”

He places the photo face down. Not because he can’t look at you. But because the man beside you is smiling the way Zayne never could, without calculation, without fear. Just love.

The Artist Who Thought You'd Stay In His Gallery

Your name arrives in the post, tied with a ribbon the same color as your favorite lipstick. Rafayel opens the envelope with trembling hands. He’s in his studio, sunlight streaming over half-finished canvases. The scent of oil paint hangs in the air. There’s music playing low in the background, a piano piece you once said reminded you of him. The invite is elegant. Lavish. Dramatic. Exactly like something you would curate. He sees your personal touch in the serif font, the way your initials are embossed. And then he sees the photo, you, radiant, triumphant, full of life. Your gown is unlike anything he ever envisioned, but it suits you far more than any of his sketches ever could. He doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath until the edges of the paper start to crumple under his grip. You’ve got your own gallery now in New York. Your exhibits are internationally celebrated. He watches interviews where you speak with a calm wisdom he remembers from your soft-spoken critiques. He hears you say the words “my fiancé” and something splinters deep in his chest. He stares at the invite for so long Thomas ends up taking it out of his hands. “You okay?” “…No.”

“I painted her into everything I loved, and still… she walked away. Because I made her feel like a second choice. She was the masterpiece, and I didn’t even hang onto the sketch.”

He wonders if you ever kept the portrait he once left in your apartment hallway. The one you never knew was of you. The one you never knew he drew after he chose MC. The one he still hasn’t finished.

The Silent Storm

He’s not expecting mail. Not in the middle of an special hunter operation. But Jeremiah’s voice coming from the back of his flower shop, telling him there's something urgent waiting in his inbox. He opens it. Sees your name. His fingers still on the controls. His breath catches. It’s a wedding invitation. Heavy cardstock. Silver trim. Your initials glinting against pale blue. It's simple and modern and breathtaking, like everything you touch. There's a handwritten note inside, addressed to him by name, just three words: "Hope you're well."

You live in Tokyo now. Built a start-up from scratch. A sleek, ethical tech firm that’s earned international acclaim. You’re radiant in the photo, framed by skyscrapers and neon city glow. You look at ease in your new world, surrounded by progress and peace, everything you said you wanted to build. He shuts his eyes. The stars outside blur with memory. He remembers the quiet nights you spent tracing constellations on his chest. The soft snort you made when he misquoted a poet. The way you once whispered. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, even if it isn’t me.”

“She loved me first. She loved me gently. I made her feel like a fallback.”

He never told MC how often he still looked at the constellation bracelet you once gave him. He never told anyone how often he reread your old messages. And now you’re marrying someone who saw your worth from the start. Someone who never asked you to wait. He floats there in silence for hours. Watching the Earth turn beneath him. Knowing that the gravity you once offered… is gone.

The Man Who Chose Power Over Softness

He scoffs when he sees the invite. At first. Then he opens it. And falls silent. You're marrying a diplomat. A damn good one too. One who used to be Sylus’s rival in negotiations. Someone who stood toe-to-toe with him once and came out smiling. Someone who didn’t flinch when Sylus threatened, who didn't retreat when Sylus pushed. Someone who respected you, even then. You live in Geneva now. You’re an international policy strategist. The girl who once patched wounds in his base now walks marble halls in heels sharper than his knives. You’re still the same, soft when needed, steel when it counts. Only now, you shine in places he never let you reach. The letter falls from his hand. Lands with a thud on his desk. He stares at it for what feels like hours.

“I thought she’d linger in my shadow. I never imagined she’d learn to outshine it.”

He doesn’t attend the wedding. But he does send a gift. An antique music box that once belonged to your favorite record store. A relic of a forgotten time. Inside is a note: “You were right to leave. I would’ve clipped your wings.” He regrets not letting you fly.

The One Who Let Her Go For Loyalty

He reads your name and stills. You’re in London now. Military intelligence liaison. Clean record. Decorated analyst. You’ve done what he once feared most, you moved on.

Your wedding is next month. Caleb had heard rumors of your engagement, but seeing it like this… in ink, in print, in your own hand...it’s real in a way he wasn’t ready for. You even signed the RSVP card yourself, your old nickname for him scratched out before you remembered to write his rank. He grips the invite too tightly, crinkling the corner. Gideon glances over. “You alright, man?” Caleb doesn’t answer. He’s remembering the way you used to laugh into his scarf when Skyhaven was too cold. The way you waited up for him, even when you were exhausted. The way you told him you just wanted to be chosen first. Not for the mission. Not for duty. For once, just for love. And how he didn’t. Not then. Not when it counted.

“I thought I was protecting her. But really, I just didn’t believe I deserved her.”

He presses the card to his lips. Whispers your name like a prayer he’s too late to answer. He hopes your new world is full of the warmth he couldn’t offer. And that maybe, just maybe, when you dance on that altar, you feel a freedom he never dared to ask you to give up.

[yae-lover]

Turbulence of The Heart: Chapter 3

Title: Turbulence of The Heart - Chapter 3

a/u: I recently figured out how to start a taglist. Please let me know if you'd like to be added to it <3

Synopsis: Slow burn. a/u. You’re a first-year junior at Aerospace Academy with a dark secret and a darker past. Your father is the leader of Ever. You were test subject #001. And one day, Caleb found out

Warnings: MDNI please. Minor adult suggestive matter. A few spoilers from Caleb’s Deceptive Solitude card.

WC: 3K. Omg I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it got so long and I just started spiralling.

<< Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 >> (coming soon)

Prelude: His face was closer now. Closer than it should’ve been. You could feel his breath. His hands were still holding the jacket around you, but it felt like he was holding you up from your exhaustion. His lips hovered just above yours. One more inch. One more centimeter. One more breath…

You dreamt of Caleb last night. You didn’t remember much, but one thing stayed with you: his eyes. A deep, quiet purple, like twilight just before night fully sets in. They were soft, but heavy with something unspoken. Strange how something can feel dark and bright at the same time. 

After last night’s events you’re not quite sure how you’ll react the next time you see Caleb. As you slowly slip out of bed, your finger lingers on top of your bandaged leg, the heat on your thighs still linger. You can still feel the remanence of Caleb’s fingers. His gentle touch as he traces the wound, your skirt slightly lifted. You shake your head to pull you back to reality, reminding yourself…

You’re not pipsqueak.

After freshening up and packing up your bag, you make your way to your morning classes. A couple students in your class approach you, in awe of your performance in the centrifuge from the day before. They invite you to a few upcoming parties, but you politely decline, but after some insistence, you agreed to go to one, the largest party held each year at Aerospace Academy  - taking place two days from now. A quick entrance and a quicker escape, shouldn’t be a problem. 

At the end of class, as students trickle out of the lecture hall, your professor asks you to stay behind.

“I saw your performance yesterday. It was certainly impressive.” 

“Thank you professor” you responded

“You’ve consistently ranked top of the class academically, and your inept skills that you showcased yesterday shows your capabilities. I’ve shared your performance with some of the other professors and we would like to invite you to the Advancement Aviation Program.”

The Advancement Aviation Program was the opportunity everyone secretly hoped for but few dared to chase. Created by the Farspace Fleet, it handpicked the best students and threw them straight into real missions - no simulations, no safety nets. The training was intense, designed to push limits and weed out the uncertain. But for those who made it through, the payoff was huge: early access to high-stakes ops, a fast track to the Fleet, and a career that could take off before graduation. It wasn’t just a program - it was a golden ticket. A potential escape from Ever.

Seeing your hesitation, your professor asks you to take a few days to consider and to let him know by the end of the week.

Focused on your studies, the week went by like a blur. The last time you saw Gideon and Caleb was when you were in their dorm. You message Gideon from time to time, but he’s been busy with his own classes, but agreed to meet up at tonight’s party.

The sky was gray when you woke up, the gray clouds blocking the darker gray skies. It looks like it’ll rain today, but you didn’t mind. Something about the storm always brought a strange sense of calm. Maybe it was because you were used to waiting for things to fall apart.

You moved through the morning routine quietly. You put on a plain white T-shirt, and fitted black leggings before tying your hair up in a high ponytail. The fabric hugged your frame, simple and clean. You look like someone who blended in, someone ordinary. You liked the ordinary. 

You arrive at the shooting range, meeting up with your classmates and waiting for the firearms instructor to arrive. A couple of guys in your class pop over to make small talk with you and several female classmates casting glances your way. Jealousy is a scary thing, you thought to yourself. You prefer to stay invisible. Looking around, there were several classes at the facility. You can hear the slight echoes of footsteps as people make their way in.

The shooting range was actually your escape. Back when you were at Ever, you were trained in armed combat, and were taught to use several types of firearms. But there was something about it - maybe it was the silence between shots, or maybe it was one of the only places where you felt … in control. Which is ironic, considering what they did to you. 

Your instructor arrives and after a short demonstration, you are at the helm of the shooting range. Your fingers wrapped around the grip instinctively, your stance steady before you even consciously thought about it. The world dropped away. Just you, the target and the tight little coil of pressure in your chest that never quite went away. And each time you held a firearm, you would whisper a little mantra to yourself. A voice so faint that only you can hear:

Steady your breathing. Align your gaze, the laser sight, and the target. They should all be at the same level. Feel the subtle sway of the muzzle. Steadily press the trigger with your index finger, applying even pressure…

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three shots cracked through the air - clean, fast and precise. Dead centre. And then, everything went still.

You slowly shut both of your eyes for a few seconds, allowing the moisture to coat your dry eyes. And when you open them, you notice everyone else has stopped. All eyes were on you.

And as you turned around, you noticed two familiar silhouettes standing a few metres away from you: Gideon and Caleb. Among them were a few other seniors, who also have their eyes fixated on you. Gideon’s eyebrows raise in quiet silence, his mouth slightly ajar from the shock of you acing your shots. And Caleb, arms crossed, unreadable expression on his face, but those violet eyes fixed directly on you - like he was solving a puzzle. The attention made your stomach drop. 

Your classmates came over to offer you pats on the shoulder and cheers. Luckily, you were good at masking the panic. The attention was suffocating. You internally scolded yourself for your stupidity. You were supposed to be hiding this. You were supposed to be bad at this. You referred to your shots as beginner’s luck, and during the next few rounds, you purposely aimed everywhere else on the target except for the bullseye.

“Gideon, is she your junior? Introduce her to us! Is she single?” Several of the seniors take notice of your rare talent and they’ll definitely be spending more time at the shooting range. You didn’t notice, but Gideon was pretty upset that you attracted the attention of more people. His chest tightens. He catches himself glancing at you from time to time, looking at your back  in those leggings and a simple white t-shirt, he can’t help but be in awe of you. You’re breathtaking, you’re enchanting, and you’re his.

You got to give it to yourself, you were a pretty great actress. You missed several shots after that. You winced. Shook your head. Played it off like nerves. Eventually, the whispers died down. Someone scoffed, another cadet took their place on the line beside you. Like nothing had happened. Perfect.

You stayed behind after class ended. You told your instructor you wanted to clean your gun, and double-check the magazine count. But that was a lie. You just needed a moment to breathe. The shooting range reminded you of your past life, but at the same time, it gave you a serene peace, one you hadn’t felt in a while since the incident. The anxiety of forgetting to message your father, or the fear of Viper’s unexpected visits gnawed at you for several days now. You took several deep breaths, calming your shaky heartbeat.

The target with your perfect first shots was still hanging there, untouched. Mocking you. A perfect, damning little hole through the center. You hated that it felt good to hit it. You hated that your body remembered how to kill better than it remembered how to feel safe. And you hated that for a split second, holding that gun made you feel like you could conquer your deepest fears. How pathetic.

Suddenly the sound of boots behind you made your breath hitch, prompting you to turn around.

“You’re not new to this” Caleb stands before you, his voice low and calm. Not judgmental, but certain.

You swallowed hard and looked away, why was it so hard to lie to him. Play it cool, you dummy. You couldn’t muster a response.

He stepped closer, enough that you could feel his breath on your forehead, sending shivers down your spine. He’s not touching you but he was close enough that your skin still reacted when you two were together.

“I’ve seen people shoot before,” he continued, “I’ve even trained several juniors. This wasn’t your first time.”

You felt like disappearing at that moment, “You shouldn’t be watching me” You responded, your voice small.

“But I do, and I did,” he said. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Did they teach you to shoot?”

You know who he was referring to. But you shouldn’t bring yourself to respond. Caleb grabs you by the chin to tilt your head up, forcing you to make eye contact with him. He then brings himself closer to your ears and whispers softly words that only reach your ears, his tone dark and low.

“I know you shoot like someone who’s been trained to kill, and I know you hide it because you’re scared of what people would think if they saw the truth” Caleb continues, his voice even softer, each breath blowing warm air beside your ears, and radiating down the side of your neck. “But you can’t fool me, you’re a bad liar”.

Caleb then gradually lets you go. He walks past you, brushing his arms against yours and takes your phone which was lying on the bench. After a few moments, he saves his number on your phone. He looked at you afterwards.

“When you’re feeling uneasy, you have two options. You either hit the bullseye,” Caleb pauses for a moment before continuing.

“Or you run to me”

Run to him.

After everything, you didn’t want to go to the party, but the constant messages from your friends and classmates pressured you to attend otherwise. With a big sigh, you freshen up quickly back in your dorm before making your way over.

Lying to yourself, you thought maybe, for once, it’d distract you from the way Caleb looked at your at the shooting range, and the way his fingers felt on your chin, how his voice resonated in your ear and down your neck, how close his body was that you could feel the heat radiating from it. The way something inside you had shifted - dangerously.

But what you didn’t realize was that practically everyone in the school was at the party. Stupid. How could you forget this was the school’s biggest party, even the school sponsors it. You spotted Caleb from a mile away - laughing, relaxed, drink in hand - making you wish you had stayed in your room. Out of the sea of people at the party, why did he stand out to you? You shut your eyes and sigh again, you’ve been doing that a lot this week.

When you opened them, you saw her.

She sat close to him, too close. She was tall, beautiful, and one of her hands rested on Caleb’s lap. And Caleb’s arm was wrapped around her shoulder, protecting her from harm and the bustling crowds. You suddenly froze, the rest of the room fading into a distant hum. Your chest felt tight in that awful hollow kind of way.

Gideon appeared at your side with a drink, as if summoned by your spiraling. You jumped when he came into view.

“Oh sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he hands you a drink. “I’m surprised you came to the party, didn’t think this was your scene. Thought you would bail.”

“It’s not,” you replied, “but I may have gotten peer pressured by several of my friends, but seeing how many people are here tonight, I don’t think I’ll be able to find them”. 

Your curiosity gets the best of you. “Who’s that? I would’ve thought Caleb would be allergic to women with the number of people he’s rejected.”

Gideon laughs at your joke, “That’s MC” he then said casually.

“MC?”

“She’s a childhood friend of Calebs’. They practically grew up together. She’s training to become a hunter and from what Caleb has told me, she’s one of the top in her class. They’ve also been working together on a special mission they were recruited for. That’s why Caleb didn’t take any juniors under his wings this year. But it sounds like things have changed since the last time she visited.”

“Change? How so?”

“He’s been calling her his girlfriend. I mean, they do look like the model couple together don’t you think? You should hear the way Caleb talks about her when she’s not around. It’s like she’s the only one he cares about in the world.”

“Oh” That was all you could mutter. Just oh.

You were suddenly reminded of those three words that Caleb said to you.  ‘Run to me’

But now, all you wanted to do was run away. You made a flimsy excuse and left Gideon’s side. You turned away quickly, praying your face didn’t betray the mess happening behind it. The ache in your chest sharpened. You weren’t supposed to care this much. This feeling was foreign to you, and you didn’t like it. You weren’t even close to Caleb for crying out loud, but the way she leaned into him - and the way he let her - it hurt.

As you walked outside, you were engulfed by heavy rain.

Is this punishment for wanting something that could never be yours?

Cold, sharp and merciless. It soaked through your clothes in seconds, your white t-shirt turning see-through, clinging to your skin like a second betrayal. You wrapped your arms around yourself and kept walking, hoping the storm would help drown out your thoughts.

What were you expecting? Just because he says a few nice words to you? Just because he was the only person you opened up to about your past? Just because he told you to run to him when you felt uneasy? You can’t help but feel stupid and small. And this ache in your chest didn’t go away. But at least the rain drowned out the sound of your muffled whimpers. 

“Hey!” You hear someone calling your name, and you can hear fast footsteps running towards you in earnest. You turn around.

Gideon. He was running towards you, soaked, his styled hair a little messy from the rain and he approached you with his jacket already half off. It didn’t take long for him to catch up to you.

He stops in front of you, catching his breath, eyes flickering over you and your drenched form. And then he froze, and you realized why.

Your shirt. Your soaked, white, clingy shirt casting an outline of your bra. You crossed your arm over your chest, burning with embarrassment. 

“Oh my god, I’m sorry you had to see me like this”

“I - I didn’t - shoot, here.” He rushed to pull off his jacket and gently wrapped it around your shoulders. “You’ll catch cold, you’re freezing” The warmth of his jacket envelops you and it comforts your heart. Your chest loosens from the heat.

You expected him to let go of it, but he didn’t. His hands stayed, fingers curled at the collar and brushing against your neck. His cheeks a bit flushed from the alcohol.His eyes not leaving yours. You tried to take the jacket off because you didn’t want Gideon to be cold, but he pulled the jacket tighter around you, his fists slightly brushing against your white shirt.

“Why did you chase after me? You should get back to the party, I don’t like crowds anyway, and it was overwhelming for me. I’m sorry if I worried you”

He looks at you - really looked at you. And for once, the usual calm, collected mask he wore cracked just enough for you to see everything he’d been hiding. 

“Because - Because, for me,” Gideon responds, his voice coming out low and rough. “ Because it was always you. When you walked away, I knew that if I didn’t come after you tonight. I would lose you to someone else, and I would never let that happen”.

You both stood there, breathing hard, rain dripping from your hair, his hands still holding onto the jacket wrapped around your shoulders like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go. 

“I don’t know when it started,” Gideon went on, “but somewhere between mentoring you and seeing you radiating, seeing you smile and watching you hold yourself together when no one else could, I stopped being able to take my eyes off you. I just needed to be near you. Even on days where we just sit together in the library, not talking to each other. When you held my hand for the very first time when we ran together to grab food before the cafeteria closed, I knew I couldn’t get away from you.”

His fingers tightened slightly on the collar of the jacket, eyes scanning your face like he was memorizing the shape of your silence. Gideon looked like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. 

At that moment, he leaned in, just slightly, like he was waiting for you to stop him. You didn’t.

His face was closer now. Closer than it should’ve been. You could feel his breath. His hands were still holding the jacket around you, but it felt like he was holding you up from your exhaustion. His lips hovered just above yours. One more inch. One more centimeter. One more breath…

<< Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 >> (coming soon)

Taglist for our Apple pies: @flamedancer13

[yae-lover]

Imagine being Sylus' significant other. Melody AU

Imagine you never heard a melody.

Imagine not even once, not ever. Not in your sleep. Not in your dreams. Not brushing elbows with strangers in a crowd or in the soft waiting hush of the midnight. Just… Silence.

Imagine for the longest time, you convinced yourself that was okay. Because you had him. And he had you.

Imagjne Sylus was not the kind of man who made you doubt. Not once. When he said he loved you, he meant it. It came not in grand gestures but in quiet ones. The coffee left warm on the counter when you overslept, the sound of his shoes hesitating at the door just a second longer before he left for his task. The way his jacket shrugged over your shoulders when you stubbornly refused to admit you were cold.

Imagine he never made you feel like you were missing something. He made you feel like you were it.

so Imagine, when the melody started. A soft and scattered from his lips, always off key, you pretended not to notice. You told yourself it was nothing. Just a habit. A tune he picked up somewhere.

Imagine even when it returned again and again, threaded into his idle moments, humming while cleaning his guns, while resting his chin on your shoulder at night. You didn't ask.

because Imagine, what would you say? Is that your soulmates song? Is she here? Somewhere close enough that you can hear her now? And if she is, does that mean I'm not…? No. You swallowed it. Every time.

Imagine even when you tried desperately to memorize the tune. Eyes closed, heart open, humming it under your breath while washing dishes. Trying to trace the notes into your bones like they might finally settle there. But the moment always slipped away, like fog. Like it wasn't meant for you. Because it wasn't.

Imagine it only breaks when you hear her.

Imagine you weren't even supposed to be there that day. Just dropping off a file Sylus had forgotten. A small errand. A favor. And then she walked past you in the hall. MC.

Imagine she was sharp, polished. Unbothered. Sylus had mentioned her before. "Efficient" He said. "Easy to work with." Nothing more. No meaning in his tone. No reason to dig.

Imagine that was all until she hummed. That melody. The one you've heard in every corner of your home for months. The one that haunted your sleep. The one you had failed to hold, again and again, like a song made of sand.

Inagine she didn't even notice you standing there. Just passed you by. Humming the tune that never belonged to you. And maybe she didn't even realize. Maybe it wasn't on purpose.

but Imagine, your hands still trembled. Your chest still caved. And in that moment, you understood something cruel and quiet. Fate had always been against you.

Imagine, that night he came home the same way he always did. Dropped his keys in the table. Kissed your lips. Took off his shoes with a sigh like he was glad to be back. He didn't know anything had changed. Because nothing had.

Imagine he still loved you. That hadn't changed. He didn't flinch from you. Didn't compare you. Didn't treat you like a placeholder. Not once.

and Imagine that was what hurt the most. Because you knew he would stay.

Imagine you knew he would keep choosing you. Even as something ancient and cosmic tugged at him. Even as his soul began to recognize a tune it could no longer ignore. He would choose you over the universe. And you love him too much to let him.

so Imagine, you left. Quietly. Deliberately.

Imagine you packed the essentials. Folded the sweater he liked seeing you in and left it on the bed. Took down the picture frames one by one and wrapped them in cloth. Not because you needed them but because the silence afterward felt too sharp.

Imagine you wrote no note. You didn't need to. He would wake up and you'd simply be gone.

and Imagine maybe that was cruel. But staying would be crueler. Because you weren't just walking away from love. You were walking away from the only place it had ever felt like home. And you were doing it for him.

because Imagine, he deserved a melody that didn't go quiet in his presence. He deserved something written into the stars. Even if you were never part of it.

Imagine you the day you left, it was raining. Light, misting. The kind that sticks to your hair and makes the whole city feel muted.

Imagine you don't look back at the apartment. You don't check your phone. You just walk.

and Imagine for the first time in months, there's no tune in your head. Just the echo of a hum you once memorized. Just the ache of a love that was never wrong, only unloved by fate.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: this is basically soulmate melody au in which soulmates hear the same melody only they know.

[yae-lover]

「What Came After Bloom」 Caleb

       ↳ Years after loss and war, Caleb returns to the village where love once bloomed, only to find the son he never knew and the grave of the woman he never stopped loving. In a quiet house filled with memories and unopened letters, he reads your final words and finds peace at last.

The cottage had gone quiet.

The kind of quiet that settles only when a child is asleep and the weight of grief has nowhere else to go but your lungs.

Caleb stood beside the bed, watching the soft rise and fall of his son's chest beneath the blanket. He looked so small in sleep. Smaller than he ever did awake. It struck Caleb then how little time ten years really was. A blink. A breath. And yet the boy already had your softness in the corners of his mouth, your stubbornness in the set of his chin, and something unspoken. Something his in the eyes that looked too much like his own.

He swallowed the knot in his throat and leaned down, pressing a kiss to Ash forehead. The boy stirred faintly, fingers curling into the worn fabric of his blanket and Caleb's hand lingered on the edge of it.

The box, that damn box sat unopened on the nightstand. Still shut tight. Still full of all the years he'd missed. Of all the things you must have tried to say in ink because you knew he might never come. And he couldn't bring himself to open it yet. Not tonight.

Tonight, he had somewhere else to go. So he stepped out into the cold. The wind rolled low through the trees, pulling at his cloak and stirring the lantern light like a memory that didn't want to be touched. But he walked, feet tracing a path he hadn't seen in years. And yet, his body remembered.

The tree was still there. Of course it was. Thick, knotted bark. Wide roots that twisted into the earth like the bones of something ancient and holy. The place where he'd kissed you the first time. The place where you made a promise he couldn't keep. And beneath it now, a stone.

He saw it from a distance and still... Still, his heart tried to lie.

Tried to pretend it was for someone else. That maybe it wasn't real. That maybe it was just a marker. Maybe this was just a nightmare. Maybe if he turned around right now and walked back to the cottage and he'll find you sitting by the fire. Maybe you'd look up at him with tired eyes and that dry smile and say 'Took you long enough, love.'

But the name was carved there. Your name. And once he saw it. Like really saw it. His legs gave out.

Caleb collapsed to the ground like the grief had cut his knees out from under him. Hands clawing at the dirt as he half fell, half crawled the last few steps. He reached out, fingertips trembling as they grazed the edge of the stone like maybe it would still be warm. Like maybe it could hold some trace of you if he just touched it gently enough.

It didn't. It was cold. Final. And he broke.

He didn't cry like a soldier. Not like a Duke. Not like the Commander of Crown's Guard forces. He cried like a man who had waited too long. Like someone who thought he still had time. Like someone who believed happy endings could just be postponed until the war was over.

His hands fisted in the grass. His breath hitched until it turned into sobs that sounded like someone dragging a blade across something already bleeding.

"I thought..." He choked, voice shattering mid word. "I thought it would be alright. That you'd be here." That you'd be waiting. Just like before. He pressed his forehead to the stone, chest heaving. "I was going to come back. I did. I fought, I ended the damn war-"

But the war had already taken you. Quietly. Without a blade. While he'd been spilling blood across foreign soil, you'd been fading. Alone.

"I should've come sooner" His voice broke again. "I should've never left." He cried. "I shouldn't have made that damn arrangement..." He didn't know how long he knelt there. He didn't know how long he cried there.

The moon had risen fully by the time the sobs quieted into a hollow silence, tears drying on his cheeks as he stared at the ground. The grave. The place where the only person he ever truly loved now slept, beyond reach.

The village lights were dim in the distance. And even though no one came near, he knew they heard him. He knew the way grief sounded when it wasn't polite anymore. When it tore out of you, loud, raw and humiliating. When it made you into something that no longer resembled a man. And they heard it.

But they shut their windows. Turned their faces away. Because no one wants to witness the man who once commanded armies. Who was said to be carved from stone, beg the dead for forgiveness.

The wind picked up, brushing through the leaves above like a lullaby too late. He stayed. Until the sky began to pale. Until the world reminded him it still turned. Even if his had stopped.

And when he finally rose, unsteady and broken. The only thing he took with him was a single dried bloom that had sprouted at the base of the stone. He held it in shaking fingers, cradled it like it was your heartbeat. And walked home to the son you left behind.

-

The scent of eggs and toasted bread clung to the quiet.

A pan sizzled lowly on the stovetop, and the kettle gave a faint hiss as it cooled beside him. Caleb stood at the stove, sleeves rolled past his forearms, hands steady even though he had barely slept. He moved with practiced familiarity, not from habit but memory.

The memory of you, in this same kitchen, moving between the cabinets barefoot and humming some half forgotten song. He tried not to look at the empty chair by the hearth. The one that still leaned a little to the left.

Instead, he focused on the task at hand. Cooking. Something simple, something warm. Something that might look like the life he was supposed to have if only for a few hours.

The soft patter of feet across the wooden floor pulled him gently from his thoughts. Ash stood at the threshold of the kitchen, his dark brown hair tousled from sleep, cheeks still creased with the shape of his pillow. There was no greeting. No yawn. No bright eyed curiosity. Just the still, unsettling stare of a child who had seen too much and said too little.

Caleb straightened slightly, brushing a hand down his apron like it mattered. "Morning." He offered, voice low, careful. "You hungry?" The boy said nothing, only moved slowly to the table and climbed into one of the chairs.

Caleb placed a plate in front of him, then one for himself. Eggs, lightly salted. Toast browned just a little too much. A small dish of berries. The ones Ash had picked with his friends in the grove just last week. Caleb had learned that from the headwoman. She doesn't want to tell him anything at first. But grief softened even the hardest lines.

He sat across from his son, watching as the boy stared at the food. "You don't have to eat it." Caleb murmured, trying not to sound nervous. "But I made it the way your mother used to." Ash blinked, then slowly reached for his fork. Still, no words. Just silence. Heavy and pulsing like a second heartbeat between them.

Caleb tried to eat. He managed two bites before the food began to taste like ash. He set the fork down carefully, fingers twitching in his lap. Then he cleared his throat, bracing himself against the chair's edge.

"I was thinking." He said, voice as even as he could make it. "That maybe… you might want to come with me. Back to the duchy." The fork paused halfway to Ash's mouth.

He looked up. Slow, unreadable and stared straight at Caleb with his eyes. "What if I say no?" Caleb met his gaze, trying not to flinch. "Then… I won't force you." He said. "But I wanted you to know the door's open." He added. "I'll stay here with-" Ash leaned back, chewing slowly. Then, quietly. "I'll go."

A rush of something. Relief? Hope? bloomed and then withered just as quickly in Caleb's chest. "But I have a condition." Caleb stilled. "Of course." "I won't call the princess my mother." Ash said flatly. "And I won't treat her like one. My mother is dead. She'll always be my mother."

The words hit like a blade. Caleb swallowed around the sudden tightness in his throat. "You won't have to." He said softly. "She's not- she never was. We were never married. It was a political arrangement. Nothing more." Ash didn't move. Didn't nod. His gaze was cool, distant.

"That's not what everyone else said." "I know." Caleb's voice dropped. "But the truth is... The only person I ever wanted to marry was your mother." There it was again, the flicker of disbelief in Ash's face. Not overt. Just a tightening of the jaw. A downward twitch in his brows.

You used to do that too, when you didn't believe something but were too tired to argue.

"I know it doesn't mean much now." Caleb continued, quieter. "But it's the truth. I never stopped loving her."

Ash didn't reply. He went back to his plate, taking a few more bites in silence. The weight of it. Of not being believed has settled in Caleb's chest like sand. He pushed back from the table after a while. Clearing some of the plates with a mumbled excuse. "I'll just- clean up."

But instead of heading to the kitchen, he headed to the small bathroom at the end of the hall. He shut the door behind him quietly, like if he made a sound, it would crack the fragile truce between them. And then he broke.

Silently, violently, with his back pressed against the door and his hand clenched over his mouth to stifle the sobs. His whole body shook with it.

Not just for the boy outside the door or the wife he never got to call that or the years lost to silence and war. But for the awful question that haunted him now.

Did you believe it? Did you spend your final days thinking he had chosen honor over you? Duty over love? Did you die thinking he let you go willingly?

His knees buckled and he sank to the floor, trembling. "I came back." He whispered, voice raw. "I swear I did. I just... I didn't know how much time I'd lost." He pressed his hand over his mouth again, trying to breathe.

In the other room, his son cleared the table quietly. And Caleb stayed where he was. Not just because he couldn't face him yet. But because he didn't know if he could survive the answer written in Ash's eyes.

-

Caleb didn't ask to join him. He just followed.

Ash didn't say much, didn’t offer directions. But he didn't tell him to go away either and that, in itself, felt like something. So Caleb walked three steps behind his son through the quiet village letting the boy's smaller boots set the rhythm of their day.

They stopped by the well first. Ash helped the older woman who always came too early and left too late, steadying her bucket without being asked. Caleb recognized her vaguely from years ago. She gave him a long, pointed stare but said nothing. The water sloshed once and Ash kept walking.

Next, they passed the small chapel at the edge of the hill. The priest sweeping the steps looked up sharply, paused mid motion and Caleb nodded politely.

Then came the bakery. A boy around Ash's age ran out and handed him a small bag. Ash muttered something too low to hear. Pressed a few coins into his friend's hand and kept walking, tearing off a piece of bread to share and only handing half to Caleb without a word. He accepted it with a quiet. "Thank you." And tried not to let the silence feel like punishment.

They continued down the lane. Caleb couldn't help but feel the stares. Villagers paused in their chores to glance over their shoulders. Conversations softened when he passed. He heard his name whispered once. Not Duke Xia, not the Commander. Just Caleb. The familiarity stung more than the suspicion.

He couldn't blame them. They had known you in ways he hadn't in seasons he had missed. They had watched you walk with swollen ankles and unspoken worry, raise a child with gentle hands and a quiet laugh, all while waiting. While hoping. And he hadn't come.

So now, they looked at him not with fear, or awe, but with something colder. You're too late. Ash didn't seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn't react.

He led Caleb to the riverside where the wildflowers grew. Sat cross legged beneath the tree. Caleb sat beside him, not too close. Just enough to be near. They didn't speak for a while. Just sat in the breeze and watched the water move.

It was peaceful, almost. Or it could have been, if not for the tension lingering in Caleb's chest. The weight of unsaid things, the dread that Ash might never truly forgive him and the deeper, quieter fear that maybe he shouldn't.

But Ash spoke first. "When are we leaving?" Caleb blinked. "Soon." He said. "I sent word to my army days ago. They should be near. Once they arrive and rest, we'll head out." Ash only nodded.

The sun was dipping low when the sound of hooves reached them. The unmistakable beat of trained horses, fast but disciplined. Caleb stood, instinct sharp, eyes scanning the road as familiar banners crested over the hill.

The army had arrived. And at their head rode a man Caleb trusted more than most, his first lieutenant, Sir Ryns, whose armor caught the dying light in silver glints. His expression shifted when he saw Caleb waiting by the road.

"My Lord." Ryns dismounted quickly, bowing once before speaking in a low voice. "We've arrived as ordered. The men are camped near the eastern ridge. We came straight when we received your last raven-" Then his gaze drifted past Caleb.

To the boy standing a little behind him, quiet and watchful. Ryns frowned. His eyes narrowed faintly, curious. "My Lord." He asked cautiously. "Is that…?" Caleb turned slightly. "Yes." He said without hesitation. "This is my son. Ash Xia."

There was a beat of silence. Many of the soldiers exchanged glances. Caleb saw confusion flicker in Ryns' eyes. Ash stood still, his hands in his coat pockets, his face blank but guarded. He looked like he expected the questions, maybe even the judgment.

One of the younger knights finally spoke, hesitant. "My Lord… Forgive me, but... We were told you came to this village to... See her. Is she-?" He didn't finish. The assumption hung in the air. You're alive, aren't you? Caleb's jaw clenched.

Ash looked up at the man and answered before his father could speak. "She's dead."

Silence fell. It wasn't a dramatic thing. There was no gasp, no collective outcry. Just a sharp shift like the wind had suddenly turned too cold. The soldiers' expressions changed. One by one, Caleb saw their eyes fall to him registering the tightness in his shoulders, the hollow in his face.

Only then did they truly see him. Not the Duke. Not the Commander. Just the man who had lost something he'd come too late to claim.

Caleb gave no explanation. There was nothing left to explain. He simply turned to Ryns. "We leave at dawn. Have a carriage prepared, one comfortable for a child. And make sure the escort is discreet. I don't want attention drawn on the road back." Ryns nodded, his voice quieter now. "Yes, my Lord."

The soldiers began to disperse, respectful in their silence. No one dared ask more. Caleb looked down at Ash, who still hadn't moved. For a brief second, their eyes met. Neither of them said a word.

But Caleb saw it. The question buried behind the boy's quiet stare. Why now. And though he couldn't answer it yet, he would spend every day trying to.

-

The carriage rocked gently over the dirt road. Its wheels cutting through the morning hush like a lullaby too tired to sing.

Outside, the house of Xia's banner trailed behind the lead riders. Catching what little breeze the early day allowed. The army rode in disciplined silence. A formation tight enough to shield but respectful enough to keep their distance. No one said anything. No one dared to intrude.

Inside the carriage, Caleb sat across from his son. He hadn't wanted to impose. Had considered assigning Ash a separate space. A smaller, lighter carriage fitted for comfort. But the thought of being even a stone's throw away from his boy made something inside him twist too tightly. So he stayed. And hoped it didn't make things worse.

Ash didn't complain. He didn't talk much either. He sat with his knees tucked close, arms loosely folded, gaze fixed on the passing trees. The morning sun painted his profile in soft gold. His silence wasn't hostile, not exactly. Just… Practiced. Like he'd learned to speak only when the world gave him a reason to.

Caleb watched him in the quiet. Noticed how his shoulders didn't quite relax. How his fingers picked absently at a loose thread in his sleeve. A nervous habit. One Caleb had once had himself.

Halfway through the ride, Ash finally spoke. "What are you going to do when we get there?" Caleb blinked. "To the duchy?" Ash gave a small nod. "Well." Caleb started slowly, choosing his words with care. "The first thing I'm going to do... Is declare you as my son."

Ash's brows lifted a fraction. Not in shock. More like he had expected it eventually, but hadn't thought Caleb would say it so plainly. "And then?" The boy asked, voice quiet. "Then." Caleb exhaled softly. "You'll live your life. However you want to. You'll have a room, a library, land if you want it. But mostly, I just want you to be a child. To grow up safe."

Ash tilted his head. "Don't I need lessons? Or etiquette stuff? Nobility things?" Caleb shook his head gently. "You'll have tutors, yes. But only the basics. No one is going to shove the whole court on your shoulders. I won't let them." He paused. "You've carried enough already."

Ash looked down at his lap. His fingers stilled. "… So I can just live?" "Yes." Caleb said firmly. "That's all I want for you." That's what you'll want for him too.

There was another stretch of silence, broken only by the soft clatter of the carriage wheels. Then Caleb smiled faintly and murmured. "Ash…" But the boy looked up. "Mavius." He corrected, tone neutral. "My name is Mavius Caelum Asher."

Caleb froze. The air left his lungs. He hadn't heard that such familiarity in years. Not since- He blinked once, twice, and looked at the boy more closely. Mavius. Caelum. Asher. "… You named him after her." Caleb whispered.

Ash didn't meet his eyes, just turned to look out the window again. "Yeah." He said, voice distant. "Mama said she named me after someone important. Someone you lost."

Caleb felt his throat tighten. He remembered now. MC, his little sister. Bright eyed, fever sick, too young to go. The necklace he had given you once had belonged to her. You had kept it, even then. Even when things were falling apart. You remembered. Of course you did.

He pressed a hand over his mouth. Told himself no. Not here. Not in front of the boy. But the tears came anyway. Slow and silent. He turned his face to the side, away from Ash, eyes shut tight against the sting.

He had told himself he had no tears left to shed. That he'd mourned enough for a lifetime. But then his son, your son, said that name. The name that came after hers. The grief returned like it had been waiting all along, patient and sharp.

Across from him, Ash said nothing. He didn't reach out. Didn't offer comfort.

He just stared out the window, his profile still and unreadable, as the Duke, the Commander of the Army, the man called a legend in five kingdoms quietly broke beside him.

Outside, the army rode in perfect formation. Inside, a father wept for the love he had lost... And the family he was only now learning how to hold.

-

They stopped in a modest trading town just near the duchy's border. One of the outer territories under Caleb's name, tucked between sloping hills and terraced farmlands. It was quiet but prosperous, the kind of place where news came late but pride came early.

Caleb thought it best to ease the transition here. To soften the sharp edges of what was coming. So he took Ash shopping.

It wasn't extravagant, not in Caleb's eyes. Just enough to ensure Ash had clothing suitable for court, for winter, for meals that didn't happen on wooden benches. But Ash moved through the shops with the same quiet expression he wore on the road. Unbothered, unexcited, composed in a way no child should’ve had to learn so early.

He let the tailor measure him. Nodded when shown fabrics. Said nothing when asked preferences. Caleb finally broke the silence. "I'm sorry." He said, standing beside Ash as a shopkeeper carefully adjusted a collar near the boy's shoulder. "About the suddenness. The change. I know it's a lot."

Ash didn't look at him, but his voice came out flat. "I'm used to change." Caleb's mouth went dry. He tried again. "I used to come here with your mother." He said quietly. "Before the war. Before… before the agreement. It was one of the few places we could go without anyone recognizing me." Ash blinked. Finally turned his head a little, just enough for Caleb to see him.

"She liked the old bookshop two streets down." Caleb added. "Used to complain that they never dusted the top shelves, then spend hours there anyway. I once had to drag her out with her hands and a whole bag of books she swore she'd return." He gave a soft, nostalgic chuckle. "She didn't."

Ash looked at him now, fully, and though his expression remained guarded, he asked. "Did she laugh a lot?" Caleb's breath caught. "She did." He said. "Gods, she did." And so he kept talking.

As they moved through the square and stopped by the cobbler and then a modest jeweler, Caleb told him stories. About the time you nearly got kicked out of a tavern for arguing with a chess hustler. About how you once braided a red ribbon into his hair and threatened to tell the barracks it was tradition if he took it out. About the stolen apples from a merchant's cart, the nights spent beneath a shared blanket, counting stars and whispering names for constellations that never existed.

Ash didn't speak much. But he listened. And for once, Caleb didn't mind the silence. Not when it felt like this, like remembering.

By the time the carriage rolled toward the duchy gates, the sun was beginning to dip behind the tall white towers that stood in the distance. The roads widened. The banners came into view.

And the people. They were waiting. The crowds lined the outer walls, nobles and commoners alike. Some carried flowers, others waved embroidered flags. There were children on shoulders, elders holding lanterns, merchants standing still in the middle of their trade stalls just to catch a glimpse.

Because the hero had returned. Their Duke, their Commander. The man who had come victorious at the war. The man who gain everything, power, status, honour. But he was also the same man who lost everything he had.

Caleb looked straight ahead but he could feel Ash watching him. He didn't wear armor today, but the weight of expectation wrapped tighter than steel ever could. He wondered, faintly, how long it would take before Ash felt it too.

The carriage slowed. Trumpets began to sound. Ash leaned toward the window, just slightly. "… They're here for you." He said, voice unreadable. Caleb looked at him. "No." He replied softly. "They're here for us." Ash didn't answer. But he didn't look away either.

And as the gates opened wide, letting them pass beneath stone arches and golden banners, Caleb let his hand rest. Briefly, gently on his son's shoulder. It wasn't much. But it was a start.

-

The duchy castle was colder than Ash expected.

Grand, yes. Its marble floors and soaring ceilings soaked in light, with chandeliers like frozen stars and banners heavy with heraldry. Every inch of it whispered of history, of victories won by men with unbending spines and names carved into stone. But still, it felt cold.

Caleb, however, moved through it like a man who had shed his armor but not his discipline. He walked with his hand resting lightly on Ash's shoulder, guiding him gently toward the entrance hall before leaving him with Sir Ryns, his most trusted aide.

"I'll be away for a few hours." Caleb murmured to his son. "There's something I need to settle. You'll be safe with him."

Ash didn't argue. He simply nodded and watched him go. Tall, cloaked in command, disappearing into the echoing halls where power liked to gather. Sir Ryns gave a respectful nod. "Shall we?" Ash followed.

In the court council chamber, the temperature was different.

Not the air. The mood. Stiff collars and older men, faces lined not by time but by caution. A place where no voice raised unless it had weight behind it.

Caleb stood at the head of the long table, straight backed, unshaken, in the same travel worn coat he arrived in. He didn't need titles or emblems today. He was the title.

"Mavius Caelum Asher Xia" He said, voice steady. "Is my son. By blood. By name. By will." He didn't smile when he said it. There was no softness in the way he spoke of it, only certainty.

It didn't take long for the murmurs to begin. "My Lord Duke." One of the elder vassals said, clearing his throat like it might buy him courage. "Surely such a proclamation should be delayed until-" "No."

Caleb's eyes didn't waver. "It will be announced before the week ends. The court will bear witness. The documentation will be sealed in my name." "But the boy." Another tried. "He's not been raised in noble society. He may not be-" "He's my son." Caleb said again, this time like it was a weapon.

There was a pause, brief and sharp. "And the mother?" A third man asked, cautious. "Will she be named? Brought forward?" Caleb's jaw tensed. "She died. Years ago." The silence thickened. "Your Grace." Someone dared again. "This decision... May unsettle the houses who've pledged their banners-" "Then let them be unsettled."

The words dropped like stone into still water. "I've served this duchy for years. Given it my youth, my loyalty, my blood. And I have buried every dream I once had for the sake of peace. But not this. I will not bury my son."

He leaned forward slightly, hands braced on the table. "Let me make this simple. I am not here to ask for your approval. I am informing you. As Duke, as Commander, as father, that Mavius Caelum Asher Xia is my heir. You will recognize him. You will show him the respect his name demands. Or you may leave your posts before sundown."

No one spoke after that. There was nothing left to say.

Meanwhile, Ash followed Sir Ryns down a quieter wing of the castle.

"This part of the keep isn't shown to most visitors." The aide said mildly. "But your father asked that you be given access. These halls are his private wing." Ash barely nodded.

He walked slower now, fingertips grazing the stone as if memorizing the shape of it. The rugs here were more worn. The windows opened onto smaller courtyards. It didn't feel like a palace. It felt like someone's home.

They rounded a final corner. And that's when he saw it. At the end of the hallway, tucked quietly across from the Duke's chamber door, hung a portrait. It wasn't regal. It wasn't formal.

You were painted sitting beneath a great blooming tree, one hand resting over your lap, a gentle smile dancing at the corners of your mouth. The sky behind you was warm with color.

Ash stopped. Sir Ryns paused behind him, then gave a small bow. "I'll give you a moment." He stepped away. And Ash stared.

You looked... Alive. Not like the worn memories, not like the soft dreams that blurred at the edges. This was clearer, sharper. He could almost imagine you laughing just out of frame.

And the way the painting was placed, nnot in a public gallery, not in the halls meant to impress but here. Here, where only Caleb would see it every time he passed his chamber.

Ash took one step closer. Then two. And just like that, something broke inside him.

Because all this time, despite everything you told him. Everything you left behind, some small, childish part of him had wondered if it was just a story. If his father had loved you less than duty. Less than legacy.

But this? This was not a thing done out of guilt. This was devotion. Frozen in oil and light.

And just for a moment, he let himself imagine what might've been. You, laughing down these halls. Your hand in his father, watching over him. The warmth of something that wasn't stolen by silence or time.

But it was only a painting now. And Ash? He turned away before the ache could swell too wide.

-

The garden had always been yours.

Even when the rest of the duchy bore the mark of lineage and strategy, marble and bloodline. This garden remained untouched by politics. It was a space you claimed not with words but by presence. By laughter echoing against the ivy. By your barefoot steps on wet grass at dawn. By the scent of jasmine clinging to the folds of your dress when you came in from the evening mist.

Now? It had grown wild in your absence.

The path was nearly swallowed by moss and wandering weeds. The lavender stalks bent heavy from months without pruning. The peonies, once carefully coaxed into bloom by your touch, were wilted. Their heads drooping as though even they were mourning.

Caleb stood beneath the worn stone archway, the sky already softening into late dusk. A breeze passed through, stirring the overgrown hedges, sending petals drifting onto the stones.

He didn't step forward just yet. Because there, between the tangled hedges and forgotten rosebushes, was Ash.

The boy moved slowly, quietly, his small hands brushing against leaf and bloom with an odd reverence. As if, instinctively, he knew this garden had once meant something. As if he could sense that someone, you, had once walked here every morning, humming softly to yourself, hands filled with shears, ribbon and soft flower threads you tucked into your hair.

Caleb swallowed hard. He couldn't bring himself to speak. He just watched, hand tightening around the edge of the pillar beside him, eyes following every movement like they were watching a ghost retrace your steps.

Ash crouched down near the base of the old stone bench. The very one where you had once curled beside Caleb with a worn book in hand. You always fell asleep midway through your stories, cheek pressed to his shoulder, your words slurring into nothing, warm breath fogging the pages.

It hurt. Gods, it hurt.

Caleb's throat ached from how tightly he clenched it. He hadn't stepped foot in this garden since the war began. It had been years. He had ridden out with armor and banners and men at his back, chasing glory that never filled the hollow parts of him. He never came back. Not until now. Not until everything else had already been lost.

How many things had he missed?

His son's first cry. His first steps. The first time he scraped his knee. The way he might have tugged at your sleeve and asked about the stars. The way you might have lit a lantern when he had nightmares, pulled him into your arms and told him stories about a man named Caleb, far away, fighting for peace.

Did you tell him you loved him for the both of you? Did you tell him he was worth all the waiting?

The wind stirred again. Ash turned his face toward the breeze and closed his eyes. The exact same way you once did. Caleb's heart broke in a quiet, restrained kind of way. No dramatics. Just pressure. Like something cracked deep in his chest and kept splintering.

He stepped forward. Ash opened his eyes at the sound of boots brushing against gravel but didn't turn. Just kept staring out over the garden. Caleb stopped beside him. "I used to come here with your mother." He said, voice low, almost too rough. "She always said this garden looked better wild."

Ash tilted his head. "She came here a lot?" Caleb nodded. "Every day. Before everything. She would talk to the plants. She hated when the gardeners trimmed too much. Said flowers should be allowed to reach for whatever they wanted."

Ash didn't respond. Just reached down and picked up a fallen peony petal, curling it between his fingers. The boy didn't speak for a long time. Then, softly. "Mother told me you were a hero." Caleb swallowed.

"Mother told me stories about you." Ash continued, fingers tracing a small blooming flower. "Said you were brave. That you were fighting for everyone, not just us. But some nights… I think she cried when she thought I was asleep." Caleb closed his eyes. "I'm sorry." He said. "For not being there. For not coming home sooner. For… Everything."

Ash looked down at the petal in his palm. Caleb crouched down beside him, fingers trembling as he rested a hand over Ash's shoulder, tentative, unsure. "I don't deserve forgiveness." He whispered. "But I want to try. For you. For her."

Ash finally looked at him. And for the first time, there was something softer in his eyes. A recognition. Maybe even… A beginning.

They stayed like that for a while, father and son, in a garden left wild by grief and time. And near them, the first bloom of the flower unfolded. Quiet, patient and unafraid to reach.

-

The halls of the duchy were quiet that night, save for the faint sound of torches flickering against the stone walls. The air held a kind of stillness that only came before something irreversible. Not quite dread, not quite anticipation. Just the soft weight of change, gathering like fog on the edge of dawn.

Caleb stood just outside Ash's door, hand hovering over the latch. He told himself to walk away. Let the boy sleep. Let him have the only peace he could offer before the court tried to take it away. But his hand moved anyway.

The room was dimly lit. A candle flickered low on the desk, half melted wax trailing down its base. The boy was curled on his side beneath a heavy quilt, not asleep. Just staring toward the window, as if the stars outside had something more comforting to say than Caleb ever could.

Caleb stepped in and closed the door behind him. "Can't sleep?" He asked softly. Ash didn't turn but his small voice broke the silence. "Too much noise in my head." Caleb pulled a chair close to the bed and sat with a quiet exhale. "I know the feeling."

They sat in silence for a while, just the two of them, the gap between their pasts too wide to be bridged with words. But Caleb was learning that closeness sometimes started like this, not with conversation but with presence. With showing up and staying put.

Ash shifted slightly under the covers. "I don't know how to do any of this." He murmured. "You don't have to." Caleb replied. "Not yet. You just have to be yourself." Ash's brow furrowed. "That's not what everyone else expects, is it?" Caleb smiled faintly. "I stopped caring what they expect a long time ago."

Ash didn't respond to that. Instead, after a beat, he asked. "Do you think mother be proud of me?" Caleb's heart clenched. He reached over, gently brushing a bit of hair from Ash's forehead. "She'd be proud of you for waking up in the morning. For breathing. For surviving." His voice faltered. "She'd be proud of how brave you've been."

Ash looked at him then, eyes shinier than before and with some hesitation. "Are you proud of me?" "I've only known you for a short while." Caleb said, voice rough. "But yes. Every single day, I'm proud of you. And I wish I could've been there sooner to say it."

The boy blinked and turned his face away. But not before Caleb saw the wetness in his eyes. "You're not alone anymore." Caleb added gently. "I'm here. I'll always be here." And for once, Ash didn't pull away when Caleb tucked the blanket tighter around him.

The next morning came with ceremony.

The great hall was transformed into something out of legend. Tall banners unfurled from the rafters, tapestries lined the walls with the crest of House Xia. Black and purple, the colors of night and their eyes. Every noble family of note stood waiting, their formalwear glittering, their expressions carefully controlled.

Caleb stood at the head of it all. The Duke, Commander, war hero returned from the frontlines after uniting the warring kingdoms, take back some throne for the right ruler to lead. All for the sake of peace. And beside him stood Ash.

He wore a suit cut to fit, his brown dark hair brushed neatly though his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. Caleb placed a steady hand on his shoulder. And stepped forward.

"My people." He began, voice resonant through the hall. "I have led you through war. I have fought beside you, bled for your families, and returned peace to this land not through conquest, but through righteousness." Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"But I come before you not as a hero." He continued, eyes sweeping across the nobility. "I come as a father." The air shifted, tense, expectant. "I stand here today to name my son. The heir of House Xia. The rightful child of my blood." Gasps whispered down the aisle, hushed disbelief tugging at curious glances.

"He was raised far from the court." Caleb said, lifting his chin. "But not from love. His mother, though not of noble birth, bore the heart of a saint. She raised him with strength, compassion and grace. His name is Mavius Caelum Asher Xia, my son and my legacy."

There was silence. Then applause. Hesitant at first, then thunderous. But even as they clapped, the nobles whispered behind fans and under breath. A commoner. Was he conceived before the war? How could the Duke hide such a thing? Who was the mother? Was it that village woman from the old rumors? Caleb heard it. He always did.

"My Lord." One older vassal began. He must have missed the first meeting. "We mean no disrespect. But surely the title of heir must pass through... Clearer channels. The duchy-"

"Will be inherited by my son." Caleb interrupted. His voice cut cleanly through the chamber. "Not because of his blood, but because of what he represents. He is my future. That is not up for debate."

Another tried. "But his mother-" "Will not be spoken of with anything less than honor." Caleb said, tone sharper now. "She gave her life raising him. She gave me a reason to come back. If you cannot speak of her with respect, then you do not deserve to speak at all." That silenced them.

And in the shadow of his words, no one dared challenge him again.

That night, Caleb sat in his chambers. The old box you left him still untouched on the bedside table.

Ash had long since gone to bed. But Caleb sat quietly, the moonlight pooling across the desk, and whispered your name like a prayer.

"I'm doing my best." He murmured. "I don't know if it's enough. But he's here. He's safe. And I won't let him face this world alone."

The box remained closed. Not yet. He wasn't ready to open the past. Not until he could face it with something steadier in his chest than grief.

-

The duchy was never silent, not even in the early hours.

There was always movement. The shuffle of boots on stone, the hum of court gossip, the rustle of silks as nobility drifted through the corridors like ghosts dressed in gold.

But within one particular wing of the castle, one newly opened after years of being shut. There was a kind of hush that wasn't born of reverence, but of adjustment.

Ash sat stiffly at the edge of the chair, back too straight as though posture alone could hold him upright through this.

The tailor buzzed around him, muttering about hem lengths and shoulder seams, fussing over measurements like his thread held the fabric of the kingdom.

Caleb stood near the door, arms crossed loosely, a patient look on his face. Ash caught him watching. "I can do this alone." He muttered. Caleb only shrugged. "I know." "Then why are you still here?" A soft smile makes its way on Caleb's lips. "Because I want to be."

Ash didn't answer, just looked down as the tailor moved to adjust a sleeve. It was like that most days. Stiff, clipped responses. Ash kept his emotions guarded. His trust locked behind layers of survival. But Caleb didn't push. He stayed.

He was there in the mornings, walking Ash through the halls and introducing him to the staff. He was there at meals, quietly explaining noble etiquette while pretending not to notice when Ash refused to use the proper cutlery out of spite.

He was there during riding lessons. Though Ash already knew how to ride. You had taught him, after all. But Caleb still showed up, still walked beside the horse, still held the reins steady when the stallion bucked just slightly.

Ash never said thank you. But he didn't push him away either. That was enough.

At night, they played chess by the fire.

Caleb let Ash win the first few games. After that, he didn't need to. "You're holding back." Ash said during one match, brow furrowed. Caleb smirked. "Am I?"

"I'm not a child." "No." Caleb said, moving a rook. "You're my son." Ash stared at the board. "You don't know me." "I'm trying to." Caleb replied gently.

For a moment, Ash didn't move. Then he said, quietly. "You missed a lot." Caleb nodded. "I did." Ash made his move. "Why didn't you come sooner?" The words were like flint, soft but capable of sparking every buried grief between them.

Caleb met his gaze. "Because I thought I'd have time." Ash didn't look away. "You didn't." "No." Caleb's voice was barely above a whisper. "I didn't."

Ash stared at him a moment longer. Then, finally, looked back down at the board. "Your move."

-

It was small things, after that.

Ash asking him to join for tea in the afternoons. Caleb fixing the saddle on Ash's horse without being asked. Ash staying just a little longer at the dining table instead of retreating to his room. Caleb brushing his hand over Ash's shoulder when they passed in the hall, the way fathers do without thinking.

They didn't speak of love. Not yet. But it was there, beneath the silences. The kind that didn't need words, only time.

-

The snow had fallen without mercy that night.

Pale and soundless, it coated the roofs of the duchy and swept down the narrow roads like a silken veil. It blurred the horizon until the world outside the windows looked like something imagined. Soft, distant, dreamless.

But inside the west wing, there was no dream. Only fever. And the ragged breathing of a child calling out for someone who would never come.

Ash had not been well for days.

What began as a stubborn cold had twisted into a high, searing fever that clung to him like a curse. The court physicians had done all they could. Steam, broths, tinctures too bitter to keep down. But Ash fought them. Resisted, pushed away hands trying to help.

He was crying again. "Mama..." The boy whimpered, thrashing under the heavy blankets, eyes glassy and faraway. "Where's Mama…?" And then. "I want to go home..."

The servants wept quietly in the hallway. They didn't know which home the young lord meant. Be it the one made of wood and warmth tucked at the edge of the forest or the one now buried beneath the tree near the river side. Either way, neither could be returned to.

The physician knelt helplessly beside the bed. "He won't take the medicine." He muttered. "He won't-"

The door slammed open. Boot steps thundered against the stone floor. The Duke had returned.

Caleb didn't say a word as he stormed into the room, frost clinging to the edges of his cloak. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. His hands were still red from the reins, his shoulders dusted with snow. But none of it mattered.

Because his son was screaming for someone who couldn't answer.

"Mama-!" Caleb's heart twisted so violently he thought it might finally split in half. "I'm here." He breathed, crossing the room in a heartbeat. "Ash. I'm here."

But Ash didn't see him or if he did, he didn't recognize him. He was somewhere else. Somewhere safer. Somewhere warmer, where your arms still waited and your voice still sang.

The boy's body shook with sobs. "Please- I want Mama- I want- her-" Caleb sat on the bed and pulled Ash into his arms. The boy didn't resist. He clung. Like drowning. And Caleb, for once, didn't know what to do.

He held him tighter, rocking him gently as the boy cried and gasped and called for the one person neither of them could return to.

The physician hesitated. "Your Grace, the medi-" Caleb reached out, took the cup, and held it to his son's lips. Ash turned his head away violently, a sound breaking in his throat like a wounded animal. He trembled, gasped, cried. "No- no- no-"

So Caleb pressed his forehead to Ash's temple. "You want her." He whispered, voice cracking. "I know. I know." His eyes stung. He bit back the tears, but they came anyway, hot, silent and furious. "I want her too."

The boy hiccupped still half in delirium. "I miss her so much." Caleb whispered. "Every day. Every breath. You might not remember it, but I know she used to hum when you couldn't sleep. I know she'll kissed your forehead when you had bad dreams. I know she carry you when you wouldn't stop crying. I know she loved you more than the stars, Ash. She would've fought the gods themselves for you."

Caleb paused. Swallowed. "But I'm here now. And I won't let you go. Please- Let me stay. Let me take care of you. For her. For you. For us."

Ash whimpered. Then slowly like something inside him recognized the grief in that voice, he opened his lips. Caleb raised the cup. Ash drank. Not all of it. Not without difficulty. But enough.

The boy collapsed against him after, exhausted. And Caleb held him through it, through the shallow breaths and the sweat and the half conscious murmurs that still whispered for you.

He brushed the damp hair back from Ash's forehead. Kissed his brow. Wiped away the tears neither of them knew how to stop.

Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, time stood still.

Later that night, long after Ash had fallen into a fevered sleep, Caleb remained by the bed, hunched forward with elbows on his knees, your son's small hand still wrapped tightly around his finger.

He stared into the fire, eyes hollow. "I should’ve come sooner." He whispered to no one. To you. To the silence. "I should've given it all up. Just for one more year. Just to hold him like this, while you were still here."

The flames didn't answer. But your presence was everywhere. In the scarf folded on the nightstand, the lullaby Ash had murmured before sleep, the faint scent of lilies that lingered on the Ash's blanket.

You were gone. But you were in everything. He looked at the sleeping boy. Pale. Fragile. He was all that remained of you. And he was everything.

-

The fever had passed.

Ash was on the mend, stronger with each passing day, the heat of illness gone from his skin, the distant haze fading from his eyes. But the space between him and Caleb remained quiet, still slightly tense. Not cold. Just… Uncertain.

Ash didn't avoid him anymore. He no longer pulled away when Caleb adjusted his blanket or sat beside him during meals. But neither did he reach out. Not yet. There were no arguments. But no real conversations, either. Not about the things that mattered. Not about her.

He didn't hate his father. He kept telling himself that. But sometimes, when the shadows settled in just right, he remembered the years spent wondering why the door never opened. Why the man in his mother's stories never arrived.

It was easier to pretend he didn't care. Harder to accept that he did.

So one afternoon, while the palace was caught in the lull between meetings and duties and Caleb was tucked somewhere in council, Ash wandered.

Down the halls echoing with memories he wasn't part of. Past portraits he didn't recognize. Through rooms filled with polished furniture and untouched heirlooms. Until he found the door. It wasn't locked.

Not his father's main office, no. This was smaller. Tucked away behind a quiet hallway near the west tower. A study, maybe. Or something older. He hesitated, hand on the latch. Then pushed it open.

The room smelled of aged parchment and cedar wood, soft and worn. Bookshelves lined the walls, dustier than they should be. A map of the old provinces lay unfurled on a desk, corners curled from time. And on the far wall. A painting. He froze.

You, his mother and Caleb. Young. Laughing. Radiant. Your hands in his. His arm around your shoulders, a look on his face that Ash didn't think he'd ever seen in person. You were smiling at him in that painting. And Caleb. His father wasn't looking at the artist at all. He was only looking at you.

Ash stepped closer. His heart beat too fast. Beneath the painting, there were boxes. Not marked. Not sealed. He knelt, fingers trembling slightly, and opened the first one. Letters.

His breath caught. Dozens of them. Some torn at the edges. Some ink-smudged. Some wrinkled as if they'd been carried in the rain. He unfolded the top one.

At the same time. The west wing was quiet. Quieter than the rest of the castle.

Even the wind seemed to hush as it pressed against the high windows, like it, too, knew not to disturb what lay behind that half opened door.

Caleb hadn't been in that room for years. Not since before the war. Not since before everything unraveled and was never stitched back together again. It was a personal room, not the Duke's office, not the public study. It was a room only he had reason to enter.

And now, the door was open. And the silence inside was not the silence of emptiness. It was a silence full of grief. He pushed it open slowly.

Ash sat on the wooden floor, legs tucked beneath him, small fingers curled around a sheet of yellowing paper. Around him lay scattered envelopes, some torn open, some still sealed. The box that once held them had tipped onto its side.

The boy didn't look up. Not even when Caleb stepped fully into the room. Ash's voice was small when he finally spoke.

"You wrote her." Caleb's chest tightened. "I didn't know you ever did." Ash's eyes were red, but dry now. His throat worked as he swallowed. He glanced down again and began reading aloud voice trembling, fragile.

I still see you in my sleep. I wake up thinking I'm back at the old tree, and you're lying beside me with grass in your hair. I reach out, and you're never there. That's how I start my mornings now.

Ash picked up another.

They tell me to forget. They tell me duty matters more than anything. But if they saw you, just once, they'd know why I couldn't.

Caleb froze in place, unable to move, unable to speak. Ash kept going.

I heard rumors you had gone south. I spent a week riding with no name, no insignia. I searched every village. Every market. Nothing. No trace of you. I started to think you were a ghost, sent to haunt me just long enough to remember what love felt like.

Another.

I'm sorry I left you behind. But I would make it right. After the war I'll find a way back to you. I know we had more time ahead of us.

Ash's voice cracked. He reached for another. And paused. This one had your name on the front. Just your name, in Caleb's slanted, uneven script like he had written it in a moment of weakness and haste. He opened it, carefully. His voice dropped. Ash's hands trembled.

I know I wasn't enough. I couldn't protect you. I couldn't choose you. But gods, if I could turn back time, if I could see you one last time… I would give away this title, this honour just to hear you laugh again. To hold you. To say goodbye properly.

The letter slipped from Ash's fingers. And when he finally looked up, his eyes were brimming.

"You didn't know about me." He whispered. "You didn't know I exist." Caleb finally found his voice. "No." He said softly. "I didn't." Ash nodded slowly.

Then like the dam finally cracked, the tears spilled over, full and messy and childlike.

"But why didn't you try harder?! Why didn’t you come sooner?!" He shouted suddenly, voice breaking. "She waited for you! She told me you'll come back! Every year she said it, every year! And then she got sick! And you weren't there! She said you were a good man! She said you'd come back! But you never did! You never came!"

Caleb stepped forward, kneeling down, hands open. "I didn't know-" "You should've!" Ash cried. "She believed in you! And I did too! And you weren't there when she died! She died! She died before you came! And I was alone! I was- I didn't know what to do-!"

He hit him then, small fists pounding against his father's chest. Caleb didn't stop him. "She said you loved us." Ash sobbed. "She said you loved her! And I kept waiting and you never came!" "I'm sorry." Caleb said, voice hoarse. "I'm so sorry."

Ash's fists slowed. His little body trembled with the weight of grief he shouldn't have had to carry alone. Caleb wrapped his arms around him gently. "Everyone told me stories - stories about you- about how you married someone else- that you forgot us- and I didn't know what to believe-! I hated you- I hated you so much-"

Ash finally crumpled against him, the fight falling out of him all at once. "She always said you'd come back." He hiccupped. "I kept believing. I waited. I really… I really did." "I'm sorry." He whispered into his son's hair. "I'm so, so sorry."

"I wrote to her because I didn't know where to go." He whispered. "Every letter was a prayer. Every day I thought I could find her, I thought- gods, I thought I had time. I thought once the war ended-" He couldn't finish.

"I missed your whole life." He choked. "I missed everything." Ash hiccupped against his chest. "She always told me stories about you." Ash whispered. "She said you'd come back. That you were brave. That you had a good heart. But sometimes... I didn't believe her. I thought she was lying. I thought you'd left us."

"I didn't know I had a son." Caleb whispered. "But I knew I had a reason to live. I just didn't know it was you." Ash pulled back slightly, looking at him. "Do you still love her?" "I always will." Caleb said.

Ash hesitated. Then, in a tiny voice, asked. "Can I call you Dad?" Caleb's breath caught. He nodded, one slow, shaking nod. "Yes." He whispered. "Yes. Please." And Ash, still sniffling, wrapped his arms around his father.

"I don't hate you anymore." Ash said. "And I forgive you." He said quietly. "But you have to promise to stay this time." "I will." Caleb said burying his face in his son's hair. "I swear. I won't lose you too."

-

Time had softened the ache, but never erased it.

Years passed, as they do in places built from stone and silence. The Xia Duchy become prosperous from war given the fact that they played a big role taking the princess side who was now the queen of her own kingdom. It was rebuilt beneath its people's pride and their Duke's stern discipline.

And through it all, Caleb ruled with the quiet steadiness he had always been known for. Colder now, more distant perhaps, but respected without question. And beside him, his son.

Mavius Caelum Asher Xia, now older, sharper, taller than before. He had moved through the estate like someone born to its halls yet always with a piece of himself withheld. He was polite in court. Composed in lessons. Exceptionally bright in every diplomatic event or noble function Caleb took him to.

But he smiled less than most boys his age. And he trusted even fewer. His heart, after all, had already broken once. And while it had learned to beat again, it remembered. Always.

Caleb tried not to think about how many nights he had missed. How many birthdays, how many mornings, how many firsts. But in the years since he had brought Ash home, he had never spent another one away. He did not plan to.

Ash had become his world now and every day Caleb tried to become the kind of father you would have wanted him to be.

But grief did not stop time. And time did not stop society.

It started with a letter. Then a visit. Then three more. Ladies, noble blooded, marriageable, politically useful arriving with simpering smiles and folded hands, trailing daughters as carefully dressed as they were clearly rehearsed. They came with tea and embroidery, cloaks lined with lace and intention.

Each one mentioned Ash with practiced warmth, with concern, with a motherly tone none of them had earned.

And Caleb? Caleb refused them before they finished speaking. "I am not looking for a wife." He said coldly, every time. "But my daughter-" "Is not her." He cut in once. And that was the end of that conversation.

But then came the bold ones. The ones who sought out Ash. In the garden. In the stables. Near the training fields. With carefully measured smiles and low voices.

Once, a lady bent to place a hand on Ash’s shoulder and said softly. "You must be so lonely without a woman's care. A boy needs a mother to-" "I had one." Ash said flatly, stepping away. "She died. I don't need a replacement." And he walked off, back straight, face unreadable.

Another tried to invite him for tea. Brought a cake she claimed to have made herself. Ash took one look at it, smiled politely and handed it to the kitchen staff without taking a bite. "Looks heavy." He said. "Just like your expectations." The staff nearly choked on their breath.

By the time he was thirteen, word had gotten around the court. Mavius Caelum Asher Xia, the heir of the Duke was not a boy easily charmed. And if you approached him with pity, manipulation or anything less than honesty, you were going to walk away very embarrassed.

Once, someone tried it in front of Caleb. A highborn woman, twice widowed, always circling. Had the nerve to say. "Ash is such a thoughtful child. I've always dreamed of being a mother to a boy like that." Ash glanced up from his book. "You dream too much."

The silence was palpable. Caleb didn't hide his smirk. Didn't wven try to hide his chuckle.

Later that evening, in the privacy of the Duke's study, Caleb leaned back in his chair and looked over at Ash, who sat curled up in one of the armchairs reading. "You know." Caleb said mildly. "There are more diplomatic ways to discourage suitors."

Ash didn't look up. "You want me to stop?" "No." Caleb said. "Just wondering if you took more after me or your mother." Ash shrugged. "I take after her." "Clearly." There was a beat. Then Caleb added, quieter. "She would've liked that."

Ash looked up. For a long moment, they just looked at each other. Then Ash said softly. "Do you miss her even now?" "Every day." Ash set his book down, carefully.

"I don't want another mother." He said. "No one could be her." "I know." "Some of them think they can just… smile their way in. Like she didn't matter. Like they can take her place." "They can't." Caleb said. "And I won't let them."

Ash tilted his head. "Even if it helps the court? Even if people say it would be good for your image?" "I've never cared much for appearances." Caleb said, smiling faintly. "I let them say what they want."

"Even if it hurts your reputation?" "Even then." Caleb said. "Because you're my son, our son and has more sense than the entire court combined."

Ash blinked, not used to compliments. He looked away, pretending to read again. But Caleb could see the smallest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. That was enough.

And that night, as they passed each other in the hallway. Ash heading to his room, Caleb to his study and the boy, his boy paused, turned slightly, and mumbled. "I think she would've liked you now." Then he disappeared behind the door before Caleb could say a word.

-

The halls of the duchy were once again filled with light.

Banners fluttered from balconies and carved archways, catching the late spring breeze that danced through stone colonnades and across the open courtyard.

Servants moved briskly. Nobles arrived in their finest. And in the grand ballroom where years ago Caleb had once stood beneath a crown of duty, the people now stood for a different Duke. A younger one. One born of quiet strength and hidden roots. Of love, not arrangement.

Ash stood at the center of it all. Tall, sure footed, his features a blend of both memory and legacy. Dressed in a deep indigo regalia stitched with silver thread, he wore the weight of his title like it had always belonged to him.

But today was not just about ascension. It was also about love.

Because standing beside Ash, hands clasped in his, was a young woman in a simple cream gown. No crown, no courtly title, only a soft look in her eyes that said she saw him not for his name but for the boy who once cried for his mother in fevered dreams.

She was from the duchy. Not noble, not titled. Just kind. Clever. A girl with ink stained hands and warm laughter who had met Ash under an apricot tree, the one Caleb planted all those years ago, with you. And argued with him over books, not bloodlines. And somehow, she became his future.

From a distance, hidden in the far end of the courtyard, away from the clamor. Caleb watched it unfold. He stood in shadow, still in his formal clothing but without the heavy cape. Age had crept into his bones more fully now, silver threading through his dark brown hair like early frost. His posture remained dignified, but there was a weight in his gaze.

The quiet ache of a man who had spent his life carrying the consequence of choices.

But in his eyes… There was peace. Because Ash had done it. He had broken the cycle. He had chosen love. And Caleb, though it cost him years and memories and the warmth of you beside him was here to see it.

When the crowd erupted in cheers and the lovers were announced, Ash looked up. Searched the courtyard. And found him. Their eyes met. Ash smiled. So did Caleb.

Later, after the festivities had dimmed and guests wandered off into courtyards and wine drunk laughter, Ash found his father standing beneath the veranda near the old marble fountain. The air smelled of roses and old stone. His footsteps were soft.

"You're not staying the night." Ash said gently, already knowing the answer. Caleb smiled faintly, not turning. "No." "You really are going back to the village, father?" "That's always been the plan." Caleb said, looking out at the stars. "I kept a promise, once. That I'd live simply. Return to the roots where it all began. It's time I kept it."

Ash looked at him, expression unreadable. "And you're fine with that? Leaving all this?" "All this." Caleb echoed, gesturing around. "Was never mine to keep. It was only ever a placeholder for something I lost. Now… Now, it belongs to someone who still believes in it."

Ash was quiet. Then, quietly. "Will you be lonely?" Caleb turned, finally. "Not if you come visit once in a while." Ash's face softened. "I will." Caleb reached forward and fixed the clasp on Ash's cloak. The way you used to do for him. He stepped back. Nodded.

"You look just like her when you smile." Caleb murmured. "But you live better than I ever did. I'm proud of you." Ash swallowed hard. "She would've been too." They stood in silence a moment longer.

Then as Ash was called back to the celebration, he gave his father one final look, half smile breaking the serious line of his jaw. "Don't forget to water the tree." He said dryly. Caleb chuckled. "Brat." "Old man."

They parted with quiet hearts and full ones. And as Caleb left the duchy that night, cloak fluttering behind him in the wind, he felt for the first time in years. Like he was going home.

-

The house stood at the edge of the forest, just beyond where the village road curved and gave way to thickets of pine and soft grass. It hadn't changed much.

Still weather worn, still crooked in the corners, but sturdier now. As though someone had seen the cracks and mended them with care. The roof no longer sagged. The fireplace, though cold, was clean. The porch steps creaked less than they used to.

Caleb stood at the doorway for a long time, hand on the wooden frame, just... Stare. He had brought little with him. A trunk of clothes. A satchel of books. A few mementos he never quite had the strength to throw away. But most importantly, he brought the box, that box. Still sealed, still untouched after all these years.

He didn't open it yet. He didn't feel ready. He set it on the table where you once used to leave wildflowers in a chipped vase. For now, that was enough.

The village welcomed him quietly. They nodded, offered faint smiles, and went on with their lives. They knew who he was. What he had lost. What he was trying, quietly, to remember.

Caleb spent most mornings walking. Sometimes to the baker, who remembered still sell the kind of bread that you like. Sometimes to the tailor, who once helped stitch Ash's baby clothes. He didn't speak much but his presence was never unwelcome.

In the afternoons, he wandered down the path to the river, the same way you used to. The tree was still there, that same old tree, roots like fingers pressed into the dirt, still standing guard over the world the two of you had tried to build.

He would sit beneath it, right next to your tombstone as if siting right next to you for hours. Watching the way the sun reflected on the water. Listening to the breeze as it rustled the leaves. It was quiet, peaceful. The kind of quiet he used to hate when he was younger.

Now, he craved it. Because in that stillness, you lived again. He saw you in the way the river curved around the stones. In the way the light filtered through the canopy, golden and soft.

In the echo of children laughing in the distance. The same way Ash once did, toddling across these fields before either of them knew his name.

Sometimes, he would hum. A tune only you would remember. The one you used to sing when you were cleaning or when you danced barefoot by the firelight, coaxing him to join you even when he said he couldn't dance.

Caleb never responded to those memories with words. He just closed his eyes. Let them hurt. Let them stay.

Each night, he would return to the house, make tea the way you used to and sit by the window and write. Not letters, he had written too many. It was just thoughts now. Notes. Fragments. Pieces of love, tucked between lines of grief.

He wasn't waiting anymore. He wasn't chasing anything. But every now and then, he'd glance at the box on the table. The one filled with your handwriting. Your last truths.

And he would wonder if maybe, tomorrow, he would be brave enough to open it. Just not tonight.

Tonight, he would light the lamp. Pour another cup. Sit by the fire. And remember you as you were. Laughing, brilliant, alive in the only place you ever truly belonged.

Home. With him.

-

The fire had dimmed to embers.

Caleb Xia sat in the worn wooden chair by the window. The same one you used to claim on restless nights, knees tucked to your chest, voice soft with laughter. The air was still, the kind of stillness that only comes when life has slowed into memory. Even the wind outside hushed for him, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath.

He had lived many lives in one. Soldier. Commander. Duke. But none of them had ever felt as heavy, or as holy, as being yours. And then, being a father.

The box sat beside him now. Old, weatherworn, the latch loose from travel and time. He had carried it for years, across courts, across time, through years of frostbitten regret. A box he dared not open because some part of him was afraid that once he did, the last thread tethering you to this world would snap.

But now, he was ready. And the lid creaked open.

Your handwriting was the first thing that struck him. Still familiar, still you, the loops and softness of your letters holding time like pressed petals between pages. He read.

Caleb,

If this letter reaches you, maybe I'm gone. Maybe you're back. Maybe you're sitting under our tree again, pretending not to cry. You never did cry easily. Always so composed. Always carrying everything alone.

But I hope you let yourself cry this time.

He smiled faintly, tears already slipping past his lashes. Another letter.

Ash took his first step today. It was clumsy. Beautiful. He fell straight into the garden soil, laughed, and held his hands up to me like he'd just conquered the world.

He looks like you. But when he sleeps, he curls into himself the way I do.

I tell him stories about you. I call you his brave father. The hero who fights so no other child has to lose their home.

And sometimes, when I'm tired and the house is too quiet, I let myself imagine you're just late coming home.

He bowed his head, fingers clutching the edge of the parchment. His shoulders trembled. The words blurred.

Letter after letter, unfolding like spring after too long a winter. Telling stories of scraped knees and lullabies. Of hopes you never voiced out loud. Of a love you never regretted, not even once.

I never blamed you. You must know that. I chose this. I chose to keep him safe. I chose to stay hidden, to keep you from the shame and blood of scandal.

You always said love was dangerous. But I think ours bloomed because of that. It bloomed in the cracks between duty and longing.

It bloomed in silence.

His hand moved to the pendant at his throat. The one that used to be yours. The one he'd found around Ash's neck that day in this village. The moment that changed everything.

If you ever come back here... Tell him I'm sorry. For everything I couldn't be. For every night he cried and I couldn't stop missing you enough to smile.

But remind him, our son, that I loved him. And remind him you loved him too, even before you knew he existed.

I see you in him, Caleb. Every time he looks at me. Every time he stares off like the sky is whispering something only he can hear.

You don't have to carry guilt. Just love. That's what we leave behind, isn't it? What was left to bloom.

Caleb exhaled, long and slow, like his heart had finally been given permission to rest.

What was left to bloom. Yes. That had been Ash. A child born from love that never got to finish saying everything it wanted to. A child raised with stories, not presence. But still full of roots and meaning.

He placed the last letter back in the box. Closed the lid gently.

His eyes drifted toward the window. Beyond it, the tree stood tall. Your tree. Their tree. Our tree. Blossoms just beginning to peek out from its tired branches, defiant against the last bite of cold.

Caleb's breath came slower now. He leaned back in the chair, fingers curled around the box. And there, in the final quiet of early spring, with sunlight pooling at his feet like an old friend, Caleb closed his eyes and let go.

-

Ash arrived just before dawn.

He'd brought fresh bread. He was planning to convince his father to come into the village square for tea. Maybe watch the river again. Maybe talk, like they'd been doing more lately.

But when he stepped inside and saw his father still and peaceful in the chair, the box of letters on his lap, the quiet smile on his face. He knew.

He said nothing at first. Just knelt beside him. Held his hand. Then whispered. "She waited." His voice broke. "And you found her."

-

Outside, the river moved slow and sure. The breeze brushed past the blooming tree with a hush, as if the world itself was bowing.

And in the years to come, when Ash would walk through those woods with his own children, he would point to that house, that tree, and say. "This is where love once bloomed. And this is what came after."

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: not sure if this really hurts or I'm just being dramatic cuz I actually cried writing this. Also, the content of what actually happened in the war would be explain in the other guys fic. Bye.

[yae-lover]

Submerged Devotion 🌊 - part one

cw: major spoilers for Submerged Eclipse myth, character death, fem!reader, reverse isekai situation, non-mc!reader, minors dni, references to The Shape of Water.

Synopsis: Who would have thought taking a walk on the beach led to the discovery of a brand new aquatic creature that looked exactly like Rafayel in his Sea God form from the Love and Deepspace game you were playing?

author’s note: hello, and welcome~! For those who may or may not know, this concept was put to a vote as to what I should be focused on for a 10k writing challenge and it won by a landslide~! I didn’t beat the challenge sadly, but writing almost 7k in a single weekend is nothing to scoff at~! This is a collaborated project with the incredibly talented @dissociativewriter, so we will do our best in updating the chapters for this series, though we may not do it on a regular basis because of our other writing projects, schedules, etc. Special thanks goes to @jinwoosbabyboo for not only helping out with the final edits but also fact-checking the research I’ve done for this project so that everything is accurately depicted. If there any misinterpretations or missing pieces of information, please let me know~.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

“Reclaim this heart, and end our everlasting bond.”

Rafayel’s eyes widened as he heard his bride’s solemn words. He struggled against the magic of the bond, against her sudden strength, but the shunk of a blade sinking into mortal flesh reached his ears. He lunged forward, cradling his bride’s body close to him, trembling as he saw the blood from her chest steadily drip into the ocean, the blade disappearing beneath the tides. Their story has ended like this? No, no, it can’t. It shouldn’t.

“I refuse to accept this betrayal!”

His bride smiled, her glassy eyes darkening with each passing moment. “This heart can save you,” she murmured. “It can save…Romirro. My death,” she continued while the Sea God pawed at her wound, desperately trying to staunch the bleeding with his trembling fingers. “is worth more than my life.”

A sob tore through Rafayel as tears pricked the corners of his eyes. “The Sea God doesn’t need this heart!” He exclaimed passionately. “Our bond…it cannot end this way! I won’t allow it!Suddenly, golden light enveloped the Sea God’s bride’s body, making her seem more ethereal than ever. The sight terrified Rafayel as she raised a hand to cradle his face.

“Although our covenant is broken,” she rubbed a thumb against his wet cheek, wiping away the tiny pearls that escaped and hearing them steadily fall into the ocean with a plinkplinkplinkplink. Like the sound of rain against stone walls. “I’ll become one with the sea…and stay with you forever.”

And then, just like that, she was gone, the weight of her stiff body vanishing from his grasp like sea foam. Rafayel’s sobs grew louder with the rising tides, the pearls continuing to fall yet he barely felt them. All he could feel was the gnawing ache in his chest, grief overflowing every part of his body as the memories of his bride overwhelmed, threatening to pull him downdowndown -

Then his eyes widened. A shocked, shaky breath left his lips as he felt the briefest warmth rub against his cheek, the soft murmur of a voice echoing in the shell of his bejeweled ear.

“I’m so sorry, Rafayel. I’m sorry that the story ended like this. I wish you could’ve had a happier ending.”

The Sea God turned around - left, right, but there was no one else in the ocean except him.

“My beloved bride.” He murmured. It was her. She had been here. He felt it. Even though she no longer possessed a body for him to embrace, her spirit was with him as he mourned for her. Perhaps…perhaps that was enough, for now.

“No matter how it takes, even if the oceans dry up and I am forced to walk amongst the humans, I will find you. We will be together again, my love. I swear it in the name of Lemuria.”

Submerged Eclipse was probably one of the saddest myths in Love and Deepspace, and that is saying a lot considering the amount of angst sprinkled in the Main Story.

Rafayel had been your second favorite character in the game, but after seeing this story for yourself, your affection and understanding of him grew. Although he had originally been painted as a pouty man-child who used the lamest excuse in the book to get close to the protagonist, seeing what happened in the past pieced together the reason behind his clingy behavior. His lover, the bride and castellan of Romirro, had taken her own life so that he could live. She had promised to be part of the ocean, to always be with him, and yet those waters dried up. It would be centuries before they met again in the desert of a post-apocalyptic world; he would no longer be a god, but an assassin who protected the reincarnated protagonist, who at the time was a princess coveted for her Evol.

Ironically enough, you were more immersed in Rafayel’s route than the others because the aquatic creatures you'd seen in the cutscenes or the Memories reminded you of the ones you work with at the aquarium.

You weren’t one of the praised trainers who swam with the dolphins or orcas during the shows. You were the backbone behind the scenes, keeping the animals fed and comfortable. Before you fed them, you inspected the tanks to make sure they were clean and the water’s temperature was within optimal range. To avoid complacency, the management rotates everyone around to different areas, so no one stations anyone at the same exhibit every day. You could be at the Waves of Wonder looking after the sharks and sea turtles on Wednesday, then the next day you’re asked to cover the Stingray Lagoon or work at the gift shop by the main entrance. It was a big place, and they paid you well for the work you did. But as much as you enjoyed working alone and clocking out on time, that almost never happens because there are rules that every aquarist like yourself must follow to the letter:

Rule 1) Never go into an animal’s tank or environment that isn’t part of your schedule without notifying someone or going alone. Some of these animals can be aggressive.

Rule 2) Sort of ties in with the first rule and that if someone is on their menstrual cycle, they are absolutely not allowed anywhere near the animals. That includes the sharks, orcas, and all reptiles.

Rule 3) The aquarium’s mission statement is to take care of the animals and show the visitors how important they are to the ecosystem, and to educate the future generations who aspire to study in marine biology, environmental sciences, etc. It isn’t a place to brag about expertise or to hold a pissing contest. Do that outside of the workplace.

Rule 4) Keep up with your own education and licenses.

Rule 5) Don’t dismiss your co-workers’ opinions just because you think you are better than them in any capacity. Refer to the third rule.

Rule 6) Don’t date your co-workers.

Rule 7) If you are supposed to work at the research facility across the street for the day instead of the aquarium, arrive twenty minutes early. The shuttle runs from seven in the morning until closing time.

There are many more rules, but these are the main seven you can remember off the top of your head. You took your job seriously; you came in at exactly seven forty-five in the morning and left when the gates closed at nine o’clock. Sometimes you stayed later to help with cleaning the stands, checking on the animals, inventory, or anywhere else they needed help. You worked so much that if it weren’t for Juno, the only one who works the ice cream stand by Arctic Aquatics, you would’ve never known about the existence of Love and Deepspace. It didn’t take long for you to get hooked onto playing the game.

Now? Now it was time to step away from this pixelated world and focus on reality; get some fresh air at the beach and enjoy the next two days of your compensated leave. Slow season had rolled in like clockwork, giving you a much-needed break you deserved after the peak rush in the summer months. The weather will get colder in October, and then the snowbirds will come in droves. The money earned during the winter was triple the amount of any other time of the year — spring and summer included. Hiring more employees would also mean the end of your overtime pay. Better to cash in all your PTO now while you still could before you got stuck training the newcomers, getting on their asses to finish up on their certifications or the scuba diving lessons Nicole was in charge of.

Travel magazines hailed Whalefall Beach for its white sands and crystal-clear water every year. You thought it was weird that the name was like one of the fallen cities mentioned in the game, but for all you know it could just be a coincidence. Maybe the creators of the game got the inspiration for Whalefall City from here? You weren’t sure; nothing on the website or the forums confirmed where they got most of their ideas for game locations, not even on Reddit.

The early afternoon sun was high in the air as you walked across the boardwalk, a familiar song reaching your ears: children laughing and splashing, the tide crashing and receding, the seagulls’ cries above. Rows of multi-colored umbrellas dotted near the water, with people reading their books or on their phones or had their eyes closed, getting a tan. Just a normal Sunday in your cozy corner of the world. The sand was warm beneath your toes as you stepped off of the boardwalk; you carried your sandals in one hand, phone in the other, and a straw beach bag slung over your shoulder with a towel. What was supposed to be a quick walk to the fishing pier changed to a visit.

Who knew when you would get another chance to relax on the beach with a book before it became overcrowded with tourists? Least you brought enough money with you to rent out a cabana and some snacks. You’d need to figure out what to make for dinner later. There had to be something in the fridge that you could whip up real quick without too much hassle or a special grocery trip.

You were able to read a couple of chapters before you decided to go for a walk, get your feet a little wet. You concealed your bag by throwing your towel over it, shoved your phone in your pocket, and took off towards the pier. You were at the halfway point when some oblivious kids, who weren’t watching where they were going, knocked into you as they sped past you on their skim boards. The world seemed to slow down as you watched your phone tumble from your hand and land right in the water with a splash.

If seeing it sink and the screen go dark hadn’t been bad enough, the tide had receded back towards the ocean, carrying your device with it before you could grab it. Oh. My. God.

You wanted to scream, you really did, but the only sound that came out of your mouth was something between a gasp, a squeak, and then a string of nononono’s. You tried to chase after it, follow it, but your phone disappeared beneath the waves.

“Fuck!”

Now you were going to have to use your next paycheck for a new phone instead of saving up to preorder the Zayne panda plush keychain or the other LADS merch you had your eyes on purchasing. Wait, was your phone even still under warranty?

As you lamented the loss of your only communication to the world, forever lost to the depths of the ocean, it short-circuited. The screen went black, then pulsed back to life with a dark red screen before a gigantic shadow swam out of it with a powerful flick of its light-blue tail, towards the deeper waters.

Rafayel had sensed it. It had been brief, but he had felt her. His bride was here, and she was alive.

taglist: @pa1nrema1ns @hikari-michiko @jurijyuu @aixaingela @moonieper @applefishiedragonluvin @loserbaby @soft-dots @sleep-all-day-everyday @peacias @shugar-mama @craftnkittn @krysthalina @akae-writes @anonmeansanon @kittzu @tremendoustragedybard @fiendsgf

[yae-lover]

This Shouldn’t Have Happened: Zayne

@scentedrebelcat thank you for the inspiration to finally write about LADS. @koyagifs this is also for you bby!!! I know we talk about needing more angst... it's gonna get real angsty soon because now I wanna do the rest of the guys

->Starring: Soulmate!ZaynexMc, Soulamtes!ZaynexSoulmate!non!mc!Fem!Reader, non!MCFem!ReaderxRafayel ->Genre: Angst, with a little comfort??? ->Cw: Rejection, cheating (ZAYNE), Zayne gets jealous, he seems a little stalkerish but he's not, I promise.... it's the mark

Masterlist

You weren’t supposed to exist. At least, that’s what Zayne told himself every day after meeting you.

He had gone his entire life without meeting his soulmate. The soulmark on his wrist never appeared, no matter how long he waited. Eventually, he accepted it.

Maybe the universe had simply forgotten him. Perhaps he was meant to choose freely. So he did. He built a life with someone who loved him, someone who had been there when he was lost, someone he thought he could spend forever with. MC

Then you walked into the hospital, and everything changed.

You were just there for a check-up. Your regular physician had retired after decades in practice, and you’d been passed off to someone new. It was supposed to be a ten-minute appointment, blood pressure, a few questions, some labs, nothing major.

You sat quietly in the exam room, the scent of antiseptic lingering in the air, your phone buzzing faintly in your lap. But then, a sudden, sharp heat bloomed along the inside of your wrist.

You froze. The burning wasn’t exactly painful, but it was alive, familiar even though you've never felt it before.

Right outside, Zayne was standing with your file in hand when he felt the same burn ignite beneath his skin. He winced, rubbing his wrist, brushing it off as fatigue, having pulled long shifts all week. He took a deep breath, straightened his coat, and pushed the door open.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Zayne. I’ll be your—”

He stopped.

And so did you.

The moment your eyes met, something shifted. The air grew still, heavy, and strangely electric. You sat up straighter without meaning to. Your chest felt tight, but not in a painful way, more like something inside you had suddenly woken up.

It was him.

But as your expression softened in awe and wonder, Zayne’s hardened.

And then it happened.

A sharp burn flared across your wrist. You gasped, glancing down just as the skin beneath your sleeve began to glow. You yanked it up, heart racing.

There it was. A small, intricate snowflake blooming silver-white across your skin. Your soulmark.

Your mouth fell open.

This was it. This was the moment you had waited your entire life for. You’d wondered if you’d missed your chance, if fate had forgotten about you. But no, it had just been waiting. Waiting for him.

You looked up, smiling through your shock, overwhelmed with awe and gratitude and the dizzying relief of finally knowing.

But Zayne didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He was staring at his own wrist, at the matching snowflake that had just appeared.

And then… his expression changed.

Like shutters slamming closed behind his eyes, his face hardened. He pulled his hand back as if burned.

“…I’m married,” he said, flatly. Coldly. Like a warning.

The words echoed in your skull, sharp and surreal.

Married?

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

Zayne straightened, clearing his throat, slipping effortlessly back into the detached professionalism of his role.

“I see,” you whispered, the words hollow on your tongue.

You tried to speak once, your voice cracking. “Have you known her long? Your wife?”

Zayne froze. His hand hovered over your chart.

“Yes,” he said, stiffly. “We’ve been through a lot together. I chose her a long time ago.”

You nodded again, slowly. Swallowed the lump in your throat.

“Right,” you whispered. “And then fate just… got it wrong, huh?”

That made him look at you.

His eyes, usually sharp and unreadable, flickered with something that looked like guilt. Or maybe it was regret.

“I don’t know what this is,” he said. “But I can’t walk away from her. I won’t.”

You didn’t expect him to. But it still hurt. God, it hurt.

“You can request a transfer at the front desk. I won’t be able to continue as your physician.” And then, almost as an afterthought, “This shouldn’t have happened.”

You blinked at him, your lips parting. But what could you even say?

You had waited for this moment your entire life. You’d watched friends find their soulmates, felt your heart ache every time someone looked at their mark with pride. You believed in fate. You trusted it.

And now, the person fate had chosen for you… was rejecting you.

Your wrist still burned faintly. The glow was soft now, barely visible. As if it too had dimmed under the weight of reality.

Zayne didn’t look at you again as he stepped back toward the door. You thought maybe he’d hesitate. Maybe he’d say something more.

But he didn’t.

The door clicked shut behind him.

And you were alone again.

Zayne tried to move on.

He went to work like always. Held MC’s hand at dinner like always. Kissed her goodnight like always. It was fine. It was routine. This was the life he had chosen. The life he’d built. The one that made sense.

But everything was different now.

Because you existed.

You, whose eyes had widened like a sunrise when you first looked at him. You, whose wrist bore the same snowflake-shaped mark that haunted his skin. You, who made his chest ache every time he tried to forget.

He kept telling himself it meant nothing. Just a cruel joke from the universe. A delayed connection. A glitch.

He loved MC. He chose her.

But for some reason, he kept seeing you.

At the café three blocks from his apartment, your usual place, sipping your favorite drink, eyes buried in a novel.

At the small bookstore near the hospital, where you sat on the floor reading the poetry shelf.

At the ocean-themed restaurant tucked on a side street, the one with string lights and herb planters on every table, your restaurant. He hadn’t even realized you were the owner until he walked in one day for lunch and saw you laughing with your staff.

Every time, he told himself it was a coincidence.

But it kept happening. For weeks.

And each time he saw you, it got harder to pretend he didn’t feel the pull.

One night, the rain was coming down hard, smearing the city lights into streaks of gold and red. Zayne found himself walking. No umbrella. No direction.

His thoughts were loud and unbearable. His soulmark was burning.

Before he could question it, he was standing in front of your apartment building. Soaked to the bone, heart pounding like a warning he refused to listen to.

You opened the door in a hoodie and shorts, blinking in disbelief.

“Zayne?”

His eyes swept over you like he didn’t know how he got there. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe the soulmark had led him.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he said, voice tight. “I just—”

You stepped aside silently, letting him in. You should’ve closed the door. You should’ve told him to leave.

But you wanted him to stay.

“I can’t get you out of my head,” he muttered, not meeting your gaze. “It’s like, you’re under my skin. In my blood.”

You swallowed hard, your heart cracking open like glass.

“Then stay,” you whispered. “Just tonight. Stay.”

That night, he kissed you like he needed to breathe. Held you like the world was ending. Your soulmark shimmered between your tangled bodies, glowing brighter than ever.

And for a moment, you let yourself believe that maybe… maybe this meant something.

That maybe, if you gave him everything, he’d finally choose you.

But when you woke up the next morning, he was gone.

No note. No call. Just silence.

You stared at the empty side of your bed, the sheets still warm, and felt the soulmark on your wrist burn with betrayal.

The hurt bloomed, and tears seemed to fall endlessly

To make matters worse, a week had gone by and not a word from Zayne. You haven't even seen him either.

Not peeking around the bookshelves or glimpsing through the cafe window.

You decided you had had enough.

You couldn’t keep waiting for someone who so clearly didn't want you.

The ocean helped.

It always had. You drove until the sky opened up over a quiet beach just outside the city. The wind was salty and wild, the waves steady and loud. You walked barefoot in the sand until your thoughts slowed.

That’s when you saw him.

A man sitting alone on a folded blanket, sketchbook open on his lap. He was drawing the sea, quick, bold lines, lost in the movement. When he noticed you, he smiled gently.

“You look like you needed this place as much as I do,” he said.

You nodded. “More than you know.”

"I'm Rafayel." He gazed up with a smile

"Yn"

The whole afternoon you sat watching the waves and talking. You learned he was a painter with a soulmark that never meant anything in the end. Rejected by his supposed other half as well. He’d made peace with it.

He was easy to talk to, easy to laugh with.

Like you didn’t have to shrink yourself to be enough. Like you could breathe.

You started seeing him more. Long walks. Coffee. Painting sessions where he taught you how to hold a brush, even if you were terrible at it. You taught him how to flambe, nearly burning his eyebrows off. You laughed together. You healed.

But Zayne?

Zayne was falling apart.

Every night he told himself it was better this way. That he was doing the right thing.

Mc would always ask if he was okay, if they were okay. He would give her a smile and tell her he loved her with all his heart.

Did he actually mean it? He thought he did.

But then came the sharp, unfamiliar ache in his chest. A hollow, gnawing pain. And the soulmark, God, the fucking soulmark. It pulsed like it was grieving. Like it was calling.

Until one day, it pulled him again.

Through alleys and side streets, past the busier parts of the city, until he stood in front of a white brick studio with light spilling through the windows.

He stepped inside and froze.

You were there.

Laughing.

Sitting cross-legged on a blanket with him, with Rafayel, on the studio floor, surrounded by candles and takeout boxes.

You were wearing one of Rafayel’s hoodies, your hair a mess, and your face glowing with joy.

Rafayel was brushing paint off your cheek with his thumb. You swatted him playfully. He leaned in to kiss your temple.

Zayne's hands curled into fists.

His mark burned. His chest ached.

His feet moved before his brain could

"What the hell is this?" His expression soured as he approached.

You and Rafayel both turned, startled. The warmth on your face vanished instantly when you saw who it was.

“Zayne?” you said, your voice caught between shock and disbelief.

Rafayel rose slowly from the floor, his expression calm but cautious. “Can I help you?”

Zayne’s eyes weren’t on him.

They were on you.

“You disappeared,” he said, his voice low and sharp. “And now you’re just, what, playing house with him?”

"Excuse me?" Your jaw tightened. “I didn’t disappear. You left. Don’t pretend you didn’t make that choice.”

He stepped closer, ignoring Rafayel’s presence completely. “That night, what we shared meant something.”

You rose to your feet, facing him head-on, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. “It meant something to me. But clearly not to you. Because you left. You didn’t even say goodbye.”

“I was protecting you,” he snapped. “You don’t know what it would do to her, what it would do to me, if I stayed.”

“No,” you said, your voice cracking with restrained fury. “You were protecting yourself. Because you couldn’t stand the idea of choosing. Of feeling guilty. So instead, you took what you wanted and ran.”

Rafayel stepped forward now, standing between you and Zayne. “I think you should leave.”

Zayne’s eyes flicked to him, his tone turning cold. “And I think you should mind your business.”

“First of all, this is my business, literally and figuratively,” Rafayel said, pointing a finger. “Secondly, she’s not just your soulmate. She’s a person, and she’s been through enough because of you.”

You laid a hand on Rafayel’s arm, gently pulling him back. You didn’t need him to fight your battles.

“I waited for you,” you told Zayne, your voice low and trembling. “I waited like a fool, thinking you’d come back. That maybe you just needed time. I made excuses for you. I even let you use me because I thought love meant being patient.”

Zayne opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off.

“But I’m done. You made your choice, and now so have I.”

Zayne’s expression cracked.

For the first time, he looked truly devastated. Like he’d just realized what he lost. Like it wasn’t just the mark that burned now, it was his heart.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Even when I’m with her. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

"Well, that's too bad, Zayne. You should've thought about that before using me, then pushing me to the side."

[yae-lover]

This has been an idea I had in my head for a while and I'd be honored if you would write it: Hurt/comfort fic of Non-MC learning about the LIs' past/relationship with MC. For whatever reason, Non-MC wants to know what MC is to the LI and he chooses to be honest. Cue feelings of inadequency because what's our love compared to one that's spread throughout lifetimes? And then the LI assures us that we are the love they chose this time/a different kind of love/something like that

The Love I Chose Is The Love That Stays

Setup: You didn’t mean to ask. But some silences demand to be broken. One quiet evening, after weeks of unspoken distance, you finally look him in the eye and ask what she meant to him—MC, the girl who lingers in his story like an echo.

You already know she mattered. What you don’t know is if you’ve ever stood in her place.

Pairing: LADs X Non-MC reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

You ask while seated beside him in his home office, a soft blanket draped around your shoulders. The room is dimly lit, filled with quiet warmth and the faint scent of brewed herbal tea. He’s reviewing medical reports on a tablet, his expression unreadable in the glow of the screen. You’ve watched him like this before—composed, clinical, detached. The Zayne everyone else sees. But not the one who closes his office door when you’re cold. Not the one who adjusts the lights for your comfort. Not the one who sets aside everything when you cry in his arms.

Did you love her?" He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t need to. "Yes." It’s a scalpel-sharp honesty. You flinch. Zayne finally sets the chart aside. Turns toward you. "She was the first person I tried to save. And the first one I lost." He pauses. His brow creases. "Not just once. Every time. Every lifetime. She died in my arms more times than I want to remember. Different faces. Different wounds. Same end." You can barely breathe. "And I spent years," he continues, quieter now. "Making decisions as if she might still be here. As if every moment was just another attempt to fix what fate refused to let me undo. I defied fate more times than I can count—rewriting timelines, breaking sacred laws, gambling everything for a different ending. And every time, I paid the price. In blood. In memory. In silence." Your throat tightens. You nod. "And me? What am I?" Zayne leans in, taking your hand. His fingers are cold. But his grip is sure. "You are the reason I stopped counting how many I couldn’t save. The reason I remembered how to hope. You brought me back to myself." He brushes his thumb across your knuckles. "You reminded me that love doesn’t always have to end in loss. That I don’t have to lose you to prove I loved her." Your lips tremble. "But what if she returned? What if fate asked you to choose again?" He exhales. The kind of breath that sounds like letting go. "I'd still walk toward you. Even if she stood in the way. Because I don't want a ghost. I want a future." His voice drops lower, more tender. "With you, I don’t feel like a surgeon trying to hold back death. I feel like a man who gets to live." And you believe him. Because Zayne does not say what he does not mean.

The Onchinus base hums low in the distance, underground machinery echoing in the walls. You and Sylus stand in the quiet alcove of his private quarters, lit only by a flickering terminal and the low burn of wall-mounted lights. The tension between you has nothing to do with the mission reports spread across his desk. Not really. It was already there, a heavy silence trailing both of you for days. A silence that had everything to do with her. But she came up anyway. "You loved her," you whisper, arms wrapped around yourself. "Didn’t you?" His back is to you. The war table glows faintly beneath his fingers. He says nothing for a long time. Then, slowly: "I loved what she meant. What she gave me permission to believe in. That I could be more than this." He pauses. The machinery behind him groans like a warning. "We weren’t just a moment. We were a loop. Again and again. And each time, I reached for her. And each time, I lost her. Sometimes to war. Sometimes to betrayal. Sometimes... to me." Your breath catches. "And I let it happen," he murmurs. "I let fate shape me into something that could never hold her long enough to keep her alive. Even though she carried half my soul. Literally. We were made of the same fire." You swallow. "And me? What do I mean?" He turns, eyes dark. Not angry. But stripped bare. You are not a myth. Not a prophecy. You are the reality I wake up for. The reason I no longer beg the stars for answers. The reason I look in the mirror and see someone worth saving.

You shake your head. "But I wasn’t fate." He closes the space between you. Each step deliberate. Measured. "Exactly. You weren’t written into the story. You disrupted it. You made me question it." His voice lowers. "She was the cycle. You are the change. Even with half my soul still tethered to her memory, I chose you. I choose you still. Because fate never asked me what I wanted. You did. And you stayed." His hand finds yours. Tight. Real. "I broke the loop when I loved you. And I’m never going back." And maybe that kind of love is fiercer. The kind that doesn’t dazzle—it endures

It happens in the quiet of his apartment, the light from the window slanting just right across the cover of an old poetry book left on the coffee table. One you’ve never touched, but always noticed. The kind of book that smells like memory, like a version of him that you never got to meet. He hums faintly as he waters a small plant near the window, his fingers gentle with the leaves. The same gentleness he uses with you. But tonight, it feels distant. Absent. Like something is missing. "What is she to you?" you ask. Your voice is steady. But only just. He freezes. Slowly, he turns, his hand still cupped around the stem of the plant. His eyes search your face. You can see him preparing to lie. But he doesn’t. He never does. "She was a beginning," he says softly. "In this life. In every life. The same song with different chords. Always the same ending. Always... gone." He sits beside you, gaze distant. "She was once my queen, and I her cursed king—a mad king, they called me, and maybe they weren’t wrong." "We sat at the end of a great battle in the middle of the wastelands, and I held her as we both died in each other's arms more times than I have pages left in my journals." You nod, gaze drifting to the book. The poetry she once quoted to him is written in the margins, ink faded but never erased. "And me?" Xavier walks over, kneels beside the couch you’re curled on, and rests his forehead against your knee. "You are the peace that longing led me to. The life that followed the story. The light that came not from stars... but from staying." You let out a shaky breath. "It doesn’t feel like enough." He looks up, expression fierce in its tenderness. "It is. Because you are the one I would still choose, with or without fate's hand. Even if I never knew your name, I would find you again." He presses a kiss to your hand, then your cheek. "She was a chapter. But you are the home I returned to after the book closed." And somehow, that becomes the line that tethers you back together.

It comes late on Skyhaven, wind whispering through the grass near the launch pad. Caleb lies beside you on the deck, staring up at the constellations. You’ve traced them with him countless times. Tonight, they feel heavier. You’ve both been quiet. Until you ask, "Were they brighter with her?" He exhales slowly. You feel his hand twitch against yours. "She made me want to chase them. To fly so far I forgot what it felt like to land." His voice is quiet. "They made us together, you know. Me and her. Test subjects. Enforcers in training." "We were never supposed to love, only obey. But we did. In every loop. Every life. We fought back. And at the end of each rebellion, we died in the wreckage we tried to stop." You close your eyes. "Sometimes, I caught her," he continues. "We'd escape together for a moment. But I always lost her. Not once did we get to the end of the story together." Your chest aches. You look up at the same sky, feeling smaller than ever. "And me?" He doesn’t speak right away. Just takes your hand. "You made me want to stop running." You blink, but tears come anyway. "But you were in love with her." He turns to face you. "I was in love with what we used to be. With the war, with the resistance, with the burn of hope that always cost us everything. But I love you for who you are, not who we were." He brushes your hair behind your ear, his thumb trailing the shell of it like it matters. "She was the sky I chased. You are the earth I came home to. And for the first time, I want to build a life that doesn’t require wings to be meaningful." His hand tightens around yours. "You are my gravity. And I’m not afraid of staying grounded anymore." And you realize he stopped flying because he wanted to build something here. With you.

The question escapes in his studio, between unfinished canvases and scattered sketches. The scent of linseed oil clings to the air. You see her in the curve of a shoulder he just painted. In the way light kisses the imaginary cheekbones on a half-done portrait. "She was your muse, wasn’t she?" He doesn’t flinch. Just sets down his brush. "She was the tragedy I painted over and over again. The kind of beauty that only lives in sorrow." He glances at a drawer he always keeps locked. "There are canvases I've painted with her face in every life that I've lived. In firelight, moonlight, and starlight." "She was meant to be my bride, a sacrifice to the sea. A binding written in myth and blood. I carried her to the edge of every ending. And each time, I lost her before I could sign the final stroke." You step back. Arms crossed. Voice quieter now. "And what am I?" Rafayel walks toward you slowly, as if you're something holy. His hands still smell of turpentine, and his eyes carry too much light. "You're the relief. The stillness. The breath between lines. You're the art I never thought I’d deserve. The one painting I don’t fear finishing." You bite your lip. "But I’m not as bright. I don’t make you chase the stars." He smiles. Not like an artist. Like a man. "No," he says. "You make me want to wake up in the morning. You make me want to stay." He takes your hand and presses it against his chest. "She was a masterpiece I never finished. But you are the one I hang in my gallery." " "Because you are complete. You are here. You are real. And despite the gods and the sea and all the weight of stories, I chose you." "I choose you still." And you realize maybe you always were. Maybe he sees you not in brushstrokes, but in the colour he finally allows himself to live in.

Because sometimes the loudest love is not the one that echoes across lifetimes.

Sometimes, it's the one that remains when no one is watching.

The love that stays.

The love they chose.

[yae-lover]

Doodles for my latest Patreon character, Yandere! Rock Star Demon. Some headcanons can be found here. :)

[yae-lover]

Does anyone else get the feminine urge to spoil your dangerous, criminal pookies with the kind of gentle love they never received in their entire life before you, or...

[yae-lover]

Yandere!Penpal lives on the other side of the world and is an ever-flowing source of entertainment. You can't even remember how you'd stumbled upon this adventurous spirit; one day, his curious letter made its way to your fingers, and the rest is history.

Yandere!Penpal makes sure to write you back promptly despite always being on the road. He tells you all about his latest journeys, the people he encounters, the food, the views. Yet his fascinating escapades never take the spotlight of the conversation: he will dutifully ask about your own life, down to the finest detail. He remembers everything you tell him. He's become your closest friend, your most loyal confidant.

Yandere!Penpal is running out of ideas. After all, it's hard to narrate brilliant travels from the comfort of your attic. He scans over drafts with increasing panic, his tired eyes searching for the faintest glimmer of inspiration. That's when he happens to hear muffled fragments from the documentary you're watching. He lifts his pen, then begins. "Dear (Y/N), you won't believe where I am right now."

Yandere!Penpal has gracefully dodged your occasional plead to meet in person. The globe demands to be explored, he writes with enthusiasm. In truth, he's terrified of the idea you'd ever lay your sweet, innocent eyes on him. His dark, unkempt locks, his gloomy expression, his long, crooked fingers that have been endlessly gripping onto the pen. Oh no, you simply can't. He places an ear over the aged floorboards and concludes you're finally asleep, then carefully tiptoes downstairs.

[yae-lover]

Imagine falling in love with Sylus across dimensions. You think there’s a ghost in your house, when in truth, it’s this dude in another universe trying to communicate with you. Watching you navigate your daily life, manipulating the threads of space-time to keep you from succumbing to the same fate the “you” in his universe did. Messing with your clocks, the metronome on your desk, the Bluetooth speakers in your home. Somehow, you’re able to communicate. And then…yeah. Idk. Don’t mind me.

[yae-lover]

You were just meant to help him adjust to having three little ones, now they're calling you momma and their dad has this look in his eye...

This is not written with a gendered reader in mind, but I think it's funny if regardless of what your gender is they call you momma cause they have a dad so that means you must be mum.

This is a longer one cause I wanted to really establish the idea more.

Part 2 of (This)

The first few days are the hardest, having to shadow the father of the three little hybrid kids and figure out what needed to be done to help and what needed to remain firmly in his domain. Bathtime is for the dad, and bedtime can be done together. Breakfast is better handled by you than by Dad, as he needs to adjust to getting ready for his new job instead of scrambling to rangle the kids, and tussling with the little ones is easy so long as you can remember what each one likes doing.

The youngest is sleepy and tends to spend the most time napping, but don't let them nap too much else bedtime is hard. The middle kit is more of a reader than a talker when on his own, but with the other two kids, he is a chatterbox. The oldest is the most energetic and needs to be entertained and worn out over the day so that bedtime is as easy as tucking them in and turning off the lights.

Working out how you can help the dad is harder.

Waking him up is not an issue; he's accustomed to early mornings, as the little ones often end up in his bed during the night for various reasons, and preparing food for them is a good start. Taking breakfast off his shoulders and having a decent lunch waiting to grab and go will work wonders, as is prepping dinner for when he returns home.

It takes a week or two for your routine to settle in and become part of the household chaos.

Waking up and making breakfast for all of you and packing the dads lunch as the family comes to the table to eat, wrangling the kids into helping with the dishes in exchange for a trip to the park or setting up a movie for them, making sure they say goodbye to their dad as he leaves and making sure he takes his lunch with him before he leaves for his new job.

Sitting outside with the youngest on your hip as he has a doze, the middle child and eldest doing tricks and showing off to you as they chatter and squabble, having to break up tug of wars and little fights over petty things.

Some reading with the kids in the afternoon and a nap for the middle and eldest as the youngest has his lunch, getting them up for a round of 'human questions' as they clamber all over you again, asking about the difference between them and you in every way they can think of, even if that just means asking where your tail is four times in a row with no changes to how they ask.

Then their dad is home, and it's his turn to be climbed on and have tiny claws digging into his legs as they hug and jump around him, giving him privacy to spend time with the kids while you make dinner.

After dinner, you join them in their bedtime routine, helping the kids brush their tails and clean their teeth. There are still attempts to talk with their toothbrushes in their mouths. Still, mostly now it is when you help brush out their tails that you get more 'human questions', you mostly watch as their dad applies oils to their ears and tails, mostly just holding the bottles and distracting whichever kit is still energetic and just a little too awake for bedtime.

The routine works, and you have come to enjoy your days with the kids and the free time you get on the weekends when their dad takes over and fills in all the time he missed out on as he has worked during the week.

Around a month into being the family's helper you make a report and send it off to the coordinator behind the scheme, noting the progress and how things will change when the kids are school-aged, suggesting a change to the contract when that comes around and perhaps even a change in support personnel to be a more baby sitter role them live in helper like you are currently.

It's around the youngest birthday that it begins to shift slightly in the house, the kids look at you and tilt their heads, sometimes switching between calling you by your name and calling you momma. Even with gentle reminders that you're not their mother or even a parent to them, it continues, and you have to chalk it up to being as young as they are and not quite understanding the idea of a helper just yet.

Eventually, you begin to respond when they call you momma, knowing that it isn't helping, but their father promised that he has been trying to tell them not to call you that, but there have been a few crying tantrums after even the most gently used words to tell them to stop.

It's about six months into your helping that you're sitting on the couch writing your progress report, the family out and enjoying the good weather, that you realise that it's not just the kids calling you momma anymore.

Recently, their father had begun to call you that as well.

Settling to try and lay this to rest when they come home, you pick up your phone and send a text to the fox hybrid you're helping and ask what the little ones want for lunch when they get back.

Standing in the kitchen with the father, his tail wrapped around your leg as the two of you watch the kids make a mess of the requested baked beans and toast for lunch, you speak quietly and look at the side of his face as you ask him why he had started to call you momma as well.

Watching as his ears flick, he heard you, you know he had, but he doesn't respond, unwinding his tail from your legs and heading over to the table to get the boys to settle in for an afternoon nap. Sighing as you resign yourself to waiting for him to come back before you press the issue any more, if you're honest with yourself, you don't mind, but it's still slightly abrupt to be called momma after what feels like such a short amount of time.

Leaning against the kitchen bench, watching as the father returns to the kitchen, you can read the anxiety on him now. The tail twitches and hangs almost straight behind him, his ears swivel and move as if listening for threats, despite the house only having his kids and the two of you in it, he's anxious and nervous, but it almost seems like excitement as well.

He sits himself across from you and reaches out, gently holding your hand as he hangs his head, steadying himself for whatever he is going to tell you or reveal, but when he looks up at you, there is hidden hope in his eyes.

He explained that he had been the one to tell the kids to call you momma, and that he was sorry if you didn't like it and the they could think of another term to use for you if made things better but since the moment you had walked through the door and handled his kits he had felt like you should have a more permanent role in their family, not just as the hired human helper from some government scheme or someone he has around till he can do it alone again.

He wanted you to fill the role of the other parent, and the kids did too.

The entire time he is talking he is gently rubbing his thumb across your knuckles and squeezing your fingers, ears flicking and twitching wildly as he keeps speaking and asks if he could take you out one evening, hire a proper baby sitter and try his hand at courting you like he should have been since before he started getting the kids to call you by a title you might not have been ready for yet.

There's nothing that comes from you in response as you look down at him, genuinely flabbergasted by this revelation, but beginning to connect the dots on things that had stood out to you, helping the little ones oil and brush their tails probably was a very intimate thing for parent and child, but he had been guiding you on it since the third week, there were other smaller actions and decisions that make things clearer to you.

Squeezing his hand back gently as you take a deep breath and kneel to his level, placing a hand on his shoulder like you had that first day, reassuring him as you take note of the panic blooming on his features, soothing him before gently telling him you would have to think about it and that you had grown attached to the little ones over the time here but it would be a big step to go from helper to actual co-parenting them as equals.

Letting your words sink in you stand and try to let him gather himself a little more, pulling away for a second before he stands and wraps his arms around you, hugging you as he burries his face into your shoulder, sniffling and whimpering for you not to leave them, he needs you, his kits need you, they cant loose you after just getting used to you.

Sighing as you return the hug, supporting the hybrid that likely had done so much alone and not with adequate support, was latching onto the first person that stayed and helped, even if you were getting paid to do so.

Once the sniffles stop and his shoulders steady out, you tell him that the kids can keep calling you that, but he needs to use your name, and that you will genuinely think about his offer of making you "officially" family. Watching as he pulls back, arms still around your waist and tail wrapped around your leg, he takes a deep breath and looks at your eyes, determined before he leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek.

Mumbling about making it an easy choice as he unwinds himself from you, hearing the sounds of the kids coming running down the stairs as he turns and smiles at them, picking up the youngest as he turns to face your stunned form, inviting you to come out into the yard to play with them as the other two kits run circles around you.

[yae-lover]

There's something wrong with your husband nowadays. He's been too warm, too focused, too...

He's been around too much.

It first came around when you were planning dinner for the night, tossing up between pasta or some random rice-based dish you had seen on TV recently, opening and closing cupboards as you took stock of what you had on hand and what you would need to purchase. Hearing the main door open and calling out a greeting as always, semi-focused enough to know he was coming to the kitchen but still looking through the cupboards as he entered.

Looking up at him, you notice it; the smile is just a little too wide, teeth more exposed than usual. But all together it is still him, still the same person who heads to the fridge and grabs some canned soft drink and dumps the containers from his lunch in the sink. So what of his smiling, a little too big, nothing changed.

Life continues on, finds a way, even as you watch TV next to him late one evening, and you swear you can see his iris and pupil split into a second separate one that's looking directly at you.

One too many horror movies can do that to a person, you think as you let ignorance be bliss.

But ignorance can only stave off so much. After his eyes, you see that same smile again, too big, too wide, too many teeth, like he was relearning how to use his face or to smile at you in general.

He touches things now, rubs fabrics between his fingers and hisses to himself, jolting to smile at you when he sees you watching him, making comments about shirts going threadbare and needing new ones soon, despite the one in his hand still having the tag dangling off the collar. You've seen him scowl at the comforter more than twice in twenty minutes before bed, finger digging their nails into the quilted sections and almost crying to tear at them.

Like the texture he had hand-chosen now offended him.

Where are your wedding photos? Out of the countless pictures, not a single one of what would have been a happy day is hung. Walking down the hall, you count the photos that have you and your husband in them. Not a single one is of you as a couple; in fact, not a single one has your husband in it at all.

Come to think of it, as you stand in the hallway of your home moving to hang some picture on a free hook, you look over the others that surround it. They make sense, holidays, graduations, your wedding...

Wait.

Reaching out to touch a group photo, a shot full of your friends, there's no ring on your finger; it feels like there is, but your hands are bare.

You've never worn a ring.

Looking at the more recent photos as you pace the hall, no ring, none of them have a ring in them, not even the one you were going to hang from this Christmas past has a ring. The picture doesn't even have your husband in it, but you know he was there, stood next to you, held your hand, kissed you, helped give presents.

You know he was there, but he's not in the picture.

Standing in the hallway staring at your pictures, your hands, the life that is on the walls before you, it's jarring, it's wrong. Something twists in your gut as you hear the lock click over, and the door opens, looking up as your husband steps into the house. He's taller now, sharper, cheeks defined and lanky in a way that your mind thinks is right, but you know just yesterday he filled out his suits perfectly.

As he approaches, you hold a hand up, grimacing as your mind rejects the notion of something having changed. Keeping him at an arm's length as you try to make sense of what you are looking at, the photos and then at your husband...

The sound of shattering glass makes you flinch. You'd thrown the picture, frame and all, at his feet, knees giving out as you dug your fingers into your forearms. Kneeling on the floor as your husband wraps his arms around you and coddles you, mumbling about it being okay, relaxing as you feel the warmth of him against you, and the pressure of something wrapped around your waist.

You can feel as his fingers rub and knead at your shoulders, trying to soothe you, as you calm down. Opening your eyes and seeing the mess of glass and shitty craft wood from the broken picture frame, sighing as you try to stand, only being stopped by what is around your waist, there are another set of hands holding your waist.

Seeing them, feeling them, and knowing you can still feel the hands on your shoulders, something breaks. Shatters and rings in the back of your mind like the memory of a loud noise.

You were never married.

[yae-lover]

💔LaDS men realising they still love MC💔

•--––——✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧——––--•

Dating him made you feel loved, wanted — cherished. Yet, you couldn't help but notice the look he gave her. He told you about her, how he once loved her, but how her heart belonged to another. Seeing the pain in his eyes, you comforted him — gave him all your love and much, much more. Nothing could stop the two of you. You felt like you were on cloud nine and then some...

But, it came tumbling down into a fiery pit of anger and heartache once you realised the unbearable truth.

He loved her. Always has. Always will.

...But not you.

a/n: hope the intro was captivating enough! drafting when it's nearly midnight is always fun lmfao. anyway, guess who's got into love and deepspace? MEEEE :3 enjoy this absolute angst-fest <33

info: you're dating the lads men, but realise that he still loves emcie. so, what do you do?

extra notes: mc's name is emcee for the sake of clarity! you are not mc in this! also sorry if i made any of the boys ooc! i tried to stay as true to their character as possible (yes i'm apologising for the long caleb chapter i am so sorry caleb girlies </3)

genre: angst

word count (minus intro): 5.4k

remember to drink water and enjoy <3

•--––——✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧——––--•

⭐️Xavier⭐️

Xavier. Your calm, sleepy boyfriend. Despite not showing it much in public, he shows his affection towards you in the comfort of your own home or his apartment, much preferring to watch your reactions in private than in front of other people. Other than work or napping, he likes hanging out with you and going on dates.

Yet, whenever you go over to pick him up from work, you always notice his blue eyes staring at Emcee with a look that he never gives you — devotion. A lost, longing devotion. He always manages to snap out of it once she looks your way and waves to you, his hand gently resting on your waist with a twinge of hesitation.

And you always notice. It goes on for almost a year, and you ignore it. For the first few months, he only looks at you — focuses on you. But after that, his mind and eyes seem to wander off to Emcee.

It comes to a head when you confront him about it after ignoring it, thinking he'd eventually look at you that way once more. But you can't handle being the second thing he looks at, the hesitant thing he touches. It's driving you mad.

"What are you talking about?" Is the first thing out of his mouth once you start confronting him about it that night as you sat in his apartment. Sitting up on the bed next to him, you look down at your lap, trying desperately to articulate your next words coherently.

"It's just..." You trail off, glancing at him as he copies your movements, sitting up next to you and looking at you, yet not quite seeing you. And that's what annoys you the most. "Whenever I pick you up at work, I notice your eyes don't land on me when I walk through the doors. You just... You stare at Emcee. And you only stop until she greets me..."

And that's what causes your relationship to crumble. You tell him everything that is on your chest that night, and he listens. He holds you, apologising from the bottom of his heart. He even takes you out on a date the next day...

But that doesn't bridge a gap or close the smidge of distance between the two of you. It only creates a slowly growing cliff in your relationship, making the distance unbearable.

He is much quieter, if that was possible. He barely glances in your direction, barely touches you, rarely asks you to come over or go on a date. It's like he doesn't want to do anything with you. You feel the final thread holding you two together finally snap in the car ride back to his apartment.

After walking him to his door, you break the silence rather abruptly, taking his hand before it could reach the door handle. He turns to you, a brow slightly raised. It's the first time he has looked at you at all that day.

Silently, he watches as you reach behind your neck and take off the necklace he had gifted you, handing it to him as you speak.

"I can't take this anymore," You begin, forcing your voice to steady as you place the jewellery in his palm, giving his fingers a gentle push to close around it. "This distance. The silence. I can't do it. I'm sorry, Xavier, but we're done. I'm breaking up with you."

He just stares at you as you speak, unsure of whether to fight for this relationship or comfort you or... Well, do anything, really. It's only when he sees the tears you've been so desperately holding back fall down your tinted cheeks that his brows furrow, his pupils shrinking and slightly dilating as he stares at you. He blinks once, maybe twice, before he clutches the necklace in his hand and looks down at the dangling chain.

"...Y/N, I-" He gazes up to answer, only for you to be halfway down the hall towards the elevator. His shoulders tense as he watches you walk away, his foot lurching forward to chase you, only to stop once you get in the elevator and disappear as Emcee exits the elevator with a concerned look. Her gaze meets Xavier's as she walks over to him, a bag of ingredients in hand.

"Xavier? What happened? Is Y/N okay?" Her question falls on deaf ears for a moment before Xavier shakes his head.

"...It's... Nothing..." He trails off, eyes darting to the bag of ingredients. His fist clenches around the necklace, letting the metal chain and pendant dig into his palm. With a shake of his head, he dismisses her. "Sorry, Emcee. I'm not in the mood to cook with you right now... I'll... See you later." Emcee watches as he disappears into his apartment, leaving her confused and concerned for her friends.

•--––——✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧——––--•

🐟Rafayel🐟

Thomas leads you into the studio, thanking you for coming.

"He's been locked up in there for a while, muttering things under his breath," He speaks, rather concerned. "He was staring at his phone all morning when the workers and I walked in, but he suddenly shooed us away. We thought he needed space and silence to paint, but when an hour passed and we heard nothing, we tried to get his attention. Rafayel told us to go away every time. The reason why you're here is obvious," He turns to you once you stand by the door. "You're his partner. Do you think you can get through to him?"

"I can try," You mumble, raising a fist to the door and knocking rhythmically. "Raf?"

"Go away!" His muffled voice chimes through the door. You sigh, knocking again.

"Raffy, it's me," You try, your voice softer now. "Can you let me in? We're worried about you..."

"No! I need space!" Thomas and you exchange a look of exasperation before sighing.

"Good thing I called back up. Here she is," Thomas beams, eyes darting behind you. Turning, you see Emcee approaching, worry in her gaze as she enters with Caleb behind her. A pang of jealousy stings your heart at the sight of her, but you push it down. You can't be mad at her, after all — she knows nothing of Rafayel's feelings for her like you do. But seeing Emcee and Caleb hold hands as you step aside to let her reach the door gives you a pit in your stomach that you never knew existed.

After knocking, Emcee calls for him. On the other side of the door, you can hear Rafayel basically sprint and trip over to the door, mumbling curses under his breath before he opens it. His face lights up upon seeing Emcee.

"Miss Bodyguard! You're here--" His eyes dart to Caleb, then to their connected hands, before he frowns and slams the door in their faces. There's a stunned silence between you all before you shake your head and gently usher Emcee and Caleb aside to speak to Rafayel through the door.

"Rafayel! Don't be so rude," You scold, hand on the door knob turning it left and right. It's locked, of course. "Come on, just tell us what's going on! We're worried about you!"

Silence from the other end. You feel tears brimming your eyes, a lump in your throat becoming hard to swallow. Thomas places his hand on your shoulder, the reflection of light from his wedding ring distracting you for a moment as he speaks.

"...Perhaps you should go home," His gaze falls onto the couple behind you. "You, too. I'll let you know if he's alright by the morning."

"No," You hiss, voice determined despite the ache in your chest. "Raf's my boyfriend. I'm too worried to go home now! I'm staying right here until he's ready to talk." Emcee and Caleb exchange concerned glances as Thomas sighs, shaking his head as he grabs a chair.

"Alright, take a seat. I'll order takeout for you," He says, slightly exasperated. You sit down on the chair and thank him, crossing your arms and trying not to look Emcee in the eyes in fear of tearing up.

Soon after, Emcee and Caleb leave and so does Thomas, rubbing his temples to soothe the headache that's forming. As you wait in the chair, you fail to swallow the lump in your throat, a choked sob bubbling out of your lips before you could stop it. You place your hand over your mouth and take some breaths, hoping no one heard you.

But someone did.

Footsteps approach the door you're waiting in front of before it swings open, revealing a dishevelled Rafayel whose eyes are glassy and bloodshot. Upon seeing you, his gaze darkens slightly.

"...Come in," He says, voice dull as he steps aside. "We need to talk." Your stomach drops.

Once inside, he's the first to speak.

"...I thought I was over her," He admits, sitting down on one of the sofas. "I thought that, with you as my partner, I'd finally be able to leave her behind. But after seeing her with..." He trails off, fists clenching before he glances up at you. "I'm sorry, Y/N, we can't be together anymore."

"What?!" You exclaim, tears threatening to spill again. "No! No, don't say that! We can still be together--"

"No, we can't! Not after I just admitted to using you," Rafayel argues, making you pause. His Adam's apple bobs with a heavy swallow, tears falling down his cheeks as he watches your expression change to utter despair. He hates this, but it has to be done. "I'm sorry... But you need to leave. Please."

"...Raffy-"

"Now," He interrupts, eyes boring into yours. The way his gaze proceeds to darken strikes something deep within you, and you're unable to keep yourself together. Tears fall from your eyes and a sob rips from your throat — your heart feels like it's burning from the inside out as you stare at him for a moment, stifling a sob, before you turn and swiftly leave the room, grabbing your bag and pushing past Thomas on the way out while you cry.

Thomas, after quickly glancing at your face as you dash out, sighs and enters the room. On the sofa, Rafayel hangs his head between his knees, hands threading and pulling tight on his hair as his body trembles. Thomas leans against the doorframe, unsure of what to do or say to comfort him or you in that moment.

This is a mess.

•--––——✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧——––--•

🐦‍⬛Sylus🐦‍⬛

Eyes fluttering open, you squint as the sun filters through a gap in your curtains, birds chirping and cawing reaching your ears through the slightly open windows as the morning greets you with a smile... And a crow in your face.

You yelp, heart hammering in your chest as you immediately jolt awake before your tired eyes recognise who it was. Sighing, you reach out to pet Mephisto's tiny head, a sleepy smile on your face.

"Good morning, Mephie," You wearily speak, eyes then landing on the note in his beak. You take it and he caws rather... Sadly? "What's this, hm? What's wrong--"

As you read it, your face drops. Your eyes widen, suddenly awake with every written word you read. It's his handwriting, that's for sure. But the usual passionate, devoted tone is gone, replaced with solemn strokes of expensive pen ink.

This wasn't a good-morning letter like usual. This was a break-up letter.

Y/N, I'm sorry to spring this on you so early in the morning — I expect Mephisto has given you quite the wake-up call. Unfortunately, I have no desire nor time to tell you this in person, so a letter will have to suffice. I'm going to be upfront with you, like I have been from the start: I don't love you anymore, Y/N. We can no longer be together. This letter will be the last you hear from me and the last you see Mephisto. I'm sure that, with time, you will find someone who truly treasures and adores you. Goodbye. — Sylus.

You stare at the letter, stunned to silence as you re-read it over and over again. Sitting upright, you look up from the letter to glare at Mephisto, a heartbroken rage engulfing you.

"...Give me 10 minutes," You demand, clutching the letter so tightly in your hand it crumples. "Then take me to Sylus immediately."

Mephisto doesn't bother arguing, as ten minutes later he's taking you to one of Sylus's many safe houses. Ignoring Luke and Kieran, you push past them and burst open the door to Sylus's room. His back is turned to you and he seems to have anticipated this reaction, so he sighs a little. But, before he can turn around and speak, you talk first, letter in hand.

"What the fuck, Sylus?!" You exclaim, furious. You wave the letter around. "Who the hell does this?! Writing a break-up letter instead of calling me or telling me face to face?!"

"Keep your voice down," He spoke in that same, arrogant tone you grew to love overtime. But now, it just feels condescending. "I have a headache."

"Oh, I'm sorry," You sarcastically retort. "Do you want me to come back at another time where I'll still be pissed off?!"

There's a beat of silence in which Mephisto softly caws and flies away, leaving you two alone in the room for the tension to boil over. You burn holes into the back of his head with your fiery gaze as the silence stretches. Until you break it.

"You're a coward, Sylus," You hiss, lowering the hand that holds the letter. The atmosphere in the room shifts, becoming cold and uptight. Sylus turns around slowly, almost as if he doesn't expect that insult coming from you of all people.

"...What?" He questions though gritted teeth, as if trying to keep himself in check. You swallow the lump in your throat and tremble slightly. Not out of fear. But of heartbreak and anger.

"You heard me loud and clear," You reply, crumpling the letter into a ball in your hand while maintaining eye contact. Even as tears well up in your eyes, you don't look away. "Only a coward would break up with their partner through a letter. I want you to say it to my face, Sylus. Tell me you're breaking up with me to. My. Face."

Sylus steps toward you until he's right in front of you. You watch as his face flickers an unreadable expression — guilt, or rage, you think — before he leans down and speaks.

"We're over," He states coolly, his tone biting and cold. Hateful, even. Your heart drops along with your tears. "Now get out."

You stare at him for a while, your expression dropping to one of slight shock before you clamp your lips together, trying oh so desperately to stop your bottom lip from wobbling.

"...Fine, I'll go," The way you speak is far from the angry tone you used. It seems more bitter now than it did before, Sylus notes. He watches as you turn and walk to the door, before you pause and look at him over your shoulder, bottom lip trembling violently as you glare at him. "But I'm not coming back. And I never want to see you again."

SLAM.

Another distant slam echoes throughout the safe house, signalling that you have left. Sylus doesn't move for the longest time, brows furrowed and eyes glued to where you once stood by the door. His chest heaves up and down, blood boiling as he remembers every inch of anguish on your face. Shaking his head, he turns and sits on the edge of his bed, busying himself with an upcoming auction.

He can't afford distractions, after all.

•--––——✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧——––--•

❄️Zayne❄️

Your boyfriend and primary care physician is at work yet again. After meeting with him earlier for a scheduled check up, he had told you he'd most likely be home late. He also told you not to wait for him. So, what are you doing right now?

Waiting for him, of course! In your shared — yes, shared — living room, you sit on Zayne's sofa, wearing his shirt and a pair of leggings while a blanket is draped over your shoulders. You expect for him to be home by around midnight, or even past that. What you don't expect is to be so tired while waiting that you eventually pass out on the sofa.

When you wake up, you realise that the blanket has been draped over you and a figure is walking toward you, placing down a mug of coffee on the coffee table. Rubbing your eyes, you regain your senses and notice it's Zayne in front of you. You smile as you make eye contact.

"Good morning, honey," For some reason, his eyes dart away at that pet name coming from your lips. You sit up, stretching your arms before reaching for the coffee. The bitter taste awakens your taste buds once you take a sip. "...How was work? What time did you come back home in the end?"

"...It was fine," He responds dryly as he sits down on the other sofa, resting his elbows on his knees and interlocking his fingers together. You take a better look at him now that he's awake; his hair is slightly messy and there are bags under his eyes. Your brows lift slightly as you grip the mug a little tighter. His eyes meet yours. "I told you not to wait for me."

His tone, not teasing, makes you freeze. It's much colder than what you are used to.

"...Well, I wanted to..." You mumble, looking at him with concern. You place the coffee down on the table again and look away briefly before speaking. "Is everything okay, Zayne? You seem tense. If it's because I waited for you, then I'm sor-"

"No," He interrupts rather quickly. His green eyes soften a little as your eyes meet again, watching as your expression shifts into confusion. "...We need to have a talk. A serious one..."

The way he speaks sounds sorrowful yet final, and that makes your heart drop just a little. You sit up a little straighter and silently urge him to go on. But what he says strikes you right where it hurts — your heart.

"...I can't keep leading you on like this," Zayne begins, hesitating as if to choose his words carefully. He's never been good at delivering bad news unless it's in a medical setting. "...Leading you to believe that my heart belongs to you, when in reality..."

When his eyes drift to yours, he stops. Dripping down your cheeks and onto the back of your hands, you silently let tears fall as you look at him with a trembling, weak smile. There's a look in your eyes that make his lips feel suddenly dry — resignation. It's like you already know what he's going to say.

"...I understand," You speak after a while, the shake of your voice hard to ignore and even harder to control with the way he was looking at you now, green eyes speaking their own apologies. You reach for his hand and he lets you take it. "Go to her, Zayne. The only thing I ever wanted for you, was happiness. So, if she's the one that will make you happy, then go to her."

Zayne's Adam's apple bobs twice, as if he's trying to swallow a heavy pill or a lump that just won't go away. He subconsciously squeezes your hand gently just before you pull away. Wiping your eyes to attempt to stop the tears from falling, you stand.

"...I'll pack my things," You say, voice just above a whisper. As you leave the room, Zayne follows, his heart beating rapidly in his chest.

"Do you have a place to stay...?" He questions softly. You pause before nodding.

"I can go back to my apartment," You say. "My old roommate won't mind if I return." Zayne says nothing in response, only nodding. In silence, he watches as you carefully fold your clothes and pack everything away in bags until barely a trace of you belongings are left, apart from a few items of furniture that looked too heavy to carry.

The two of you move to the entryway of the front door, your hand reaching for you coat and putting it on along with your shoes. Gripping your bags with one hand, you reach for the door, only for Zayne to open it before you get the chance to touch the door handle.

You stare at each other for a while, as if you were both reminiscing on the time you shared together without uttering a word. Feeling your eyes brim with tears again, you make the decision to momentarily let go of your bags and wrap your arms around Zayne's waist, your head buried in his chest as you force yourself to speak your parting words.

"Thank you for putting up with me, even if it felt wrong. You were the best boyfriend I could've asked for," Your voice, albeit muffled and strained, reaches his ears as he stiffly wraps his arms around you. You feel him take a deep breath. As you pull away, you force a smile as you look at him, your arms dropping and one hand gently squeezing his hand. "Take care of yourself, yeah? Goodbye, Zayne."

Just like that, you're out the door and in your car with your bags in the backseat. He watches with a distant gaze as you drive away.

Time passes. A week. Two weeks. Three weeks. A month.

He notices you haven't showed up to any of your appointments or answered any of Akso Hospital's calls. Your disappearance is... Horrifically familiar to him. His anxiety spikes, then dips, then spikes again. Zayne can't get that look of grief and acceptance you gave him out of his mind. No matter how many times he distracts himself with work, or closes his eyes for a brief moment, you're there. Much like today.

Sitting in his office, typing away at his computer in an effort to distract himself from the civil, yet hurtful breakup, his focus shifts momentarily to that same look on your face. Haunting. Aching. The doctor takes a momentary pause to take his glasses off and pinch the bridge of his nose with a sigh of frustration. His heart, his love, doesn't belong to you. So why is it that you're haunting him with a look so powerful, it shakes his focus?

A knock at his door shifts his attention.

"Come in," He speaks, putting his glasses on and repositioning himself to make it seem like he wasn't stressing out. In walks Greyson, holding a paper in his hand. His brows crease, as if he's nervous about something. He approaches and places the paper face down on Zayne's desk, pushing it toward him slightly. "...What's this, Greyson?" Greyson swallows thickly.

"Just something for you to sign," He says, nudging the paper further towards him. "...It might be urgent to you." Zayne raises his brow, reaching for the paper and turning it over.

Rolling his chair closer, his eyes read over each word before they come to a halt, his heart sinking in his chest. So this is why he hasn't seen or heard from you. You've requested to switch back to your old doctor. Greyson watches as Zayne takes a deep breath and grabs a pen, uncapping it and letting the nib hover over the empty dotted line at the bottom.

Zayne hesitates. He knows why you're doing this and he understands completely, but the reality that this is happening hurts him more than he likes to admit. With slight hesitation, he signs the letter in agreement and hands it back to Greyson, who swiftly takes it and leaves.

Now all alone in his office, he rolls back his chair a little bit and leans, looking up at the ceiling, deep in thought as a familiar, icy chill runs down his arm.

•--––——✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧——––--•

🍎Caleb🍎

As you stir the homemade gravy to go with the dinner you're making, your brows furrow. Your shift as a nurse for the Farspace Fleet ended two hours ago, and you've taken it upon yourself to clean up around his Skyhaven apartment and make dinner for yourself and Caleb when he gets back.

When.

He's supposed to be home in an hour, yet he's been coming home much later, seemingly avoiding your calls and texts. He says he's busy — and you get it, he's a Colonel after all — but surely he can't be so busy as to avoid his partner entirely. That's just one of the issues you have with him, but you love him regardless.

By the time he gets home, you're already plating up the food with a small hum, your back turned to him. You can sense he's stopped in his tracks for a moment as you can feel his eyes piercing through the back of your head, but the moment your gaze turns to meet his, he's gone into the bathroom and started up the shower. With a small sigh, you turn back to the food you're plating up and perfecting... While also reflecting.

Your relationship with him has been rocky for a while now — you're not even sure when the arguments started, but they've gotten worse as of late, especially since he keeps comparing every little thing you do with how Emcee does things. You just hope tonight will be a peaceful night where you don't go to sleep angry.

Just as your mind is about to be swept away by a tidal wave of negativity, your thoughts are pulled away by his arms wrapping around your waist from behind. You tense slightly. It's something he always does, yet it always catches you off guard.

"...Smells good," Caleb murmurs, his chin on the crook of your neck. He eyes the plated food in your hands before speaking again. "Looks good, too." He wants to say more, you know he does, but he doesn't. Instead, he kisses the side of your face hastily before moving to sit down at the dining table.

You murmur a stiff 'thanks' as you take the plates of food and set them down on the dining table, taking a seat across from Caleb. You picked at your food for a little bit before eating, something Caleb was quick to pick up on but do nothing about, sensing the tense atmosphere. His purple gaze lingers on the way your hair is styled this evening, a spark of familiarity in his gaze. As soon as you catch him staring, he looks away. You immediately know what — or who — he's thinking about.

Midway through your meal, you hear him hum. Cocking a brow, you look at him quizzically.

"Everything okay, Cay?" You ask, tilting your head a little. He looks at you for a moment, placing his fork down gently as he hesitates. You get a bad feeling in your stomach.

"...Yeah, it's just," He trails off, eyes trailing from your hairstyle to the food in front of him. He sighs, pushing his plate away to rest his elbows on the table, his hands covering his face as he mumbles, "Everything is reminding me of her again."

"...Are you shitting me...?" You mutter under your breath, the food on your tongue suddenly tasting awful. In contrast to how he placed his fork down, you let it drop onto the plate with a heavy sigh. You pinch your brow in frustration. "Can we please go one day, just one day, without you mentioning Emcee?"

The way he looks at you, lifting his head slowly from his hands, makes your blood freeze slightly.

"Oh, so I'm not allowed to miss her now?"

"What?! No! I never said that. You're allowed to miss her, Caleb, but you bring her up every single day," You respond, exasperated and irritated that this same argument was happening all over again. "I get it. You want to see her now more than anything else, especially after you were pronounced 'dead' — you want to surprise her. But there has to be a line somewhere in this specific relationship; a boundary. I've told you time and time again that it's okay to bring her up sometimes, but you've been doing this for months now. She's not dead, for fucks' sake--"

"Don't you fucking dare say that," Caleb abruptly gets up from the dining table, chair scraping across the floor with a harsh, echoed yell. You flinch slightly, eyes widening a bit as you hold eye contact with him. "Do you know how many nights I've gone without sleep, thinking that she was out there in danger, or worse? I think about her all the time, Y/N. All the time. It's like she's the only thing on my mind these days, and you saying shit like that truly pisses me off."

He flinches, falling back down on the chair with a hiss, one hand on his head as pain shoots through it. You rush over to him, only for him to use his Evol on you to hold you in place before you could even reach him.

"Caleb..." You whisper, concern etched onto your features and a question hanging from your lips. "...Isn't our relationship on your mind, too?" He looks at you then, hand in his hair and an unreadable look in his eyes. You swallow thickly, as if trying to gulp away the fear and anger. "...I know how much you care about Emcee and her life. But it's like you don't care about us — about our lives together. You bring her up so much that I know too much about her. We argue all the time because you're so... So obsessed with how she's doing or where she is-"

Caleb flicks his wrist, landing you as gently as he can against the wall before releasing you and stalking over. His expression is... Cold. Purple pools of hatred, is one way you could describe them. Instinctively, you lean back against the wall, as if trying to create more distance. You've never seen him this angry before, and it's rubbing off on you.

"Obsessed?" He remarks, tilting his head a little.

"...You heard me, Caleb," You respond softly, hands flexing. "Have you not thought about us? Even once?"

"No," His response is immediate as he steps closer, stopping just in front of you. The rage you've been stewing in for months, finally sets itself free. Your fists clench as you stare at him, brows furrowing and cheeks flushing a soft shade of pink. You can feel a burn behind your eyes, a wetness resting at your waterline. Urgently, you fight back tears, but he can see them clearly, his reflection mirrored in your angry, glossy gaze. His face softens a little, but before he can say anything, you move. "...Where are you going?"

You enter the bedroom and open your area of the closet, grabbing two bags and a suitcase that you haphazardly throw onto the bed. He enters just as you're packing every item you own into them. Caleb stands in the doorway, his face falling completely as he watches you stuff one item after another into the almost full suitcase. He goes to stop you, but you swivel your head to look at him.

"Stop," You hiss, trying to keep your voice steady. "Don't try to stop me, Caleb. You've done enough — said enough. I'm... I can't stay with you anymore." His heart drops.

"I..." He trails off, stepping back as you finish zipping up the last of your stuff. Grabbing your bags and suitcase, you walk past him toward the front door. He stands by you as you put your shoes and coat on, slinging one of the bags over your shoulder. He knows he fucked up when you open the door with your cut of the keys before tossing the keys to him with tears cascading down your cheeks. But he doesn't say or do anything. You knew he wouldn't, partially due to that damn chip in his head.

"We were never meant for each other, clearly," You mutter, looking at him with a sniffle. "Go and find Emcee, since she's the only thing on your mind nowadays. Maybe finding her alive and well will finally put your mind at ease and make you happy."

With those parting words, you leave his apartment, the slam of the front door echoing in the silence. Caleb's sunset eyes stick to the door like glue, brows furrowing as he glares at it. After a while, he slumps against the wall and sinks down to the ground with a sigh.

"...Fuck."

•--––——✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧——––--•