— 10.5 grams of soul.

You set the paper down on the table beside you, turning back to your work.

Fingers tug at the hem a bit more, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. No, the neckline needs more droop. More skin.

Precisely, you loosen the fabric sightly. Too much skin. Even when visible bosoms were in style, you wouldn’t want Tara to show up to the function with nearly her whole bosom out. Though, the notion would be very on brand for you.

A presence beside you makes itself known with a snobby ahem. “Is that not rather showy, dearest? I do not believe it is appropriate.”

You repress an eyeroll. “Yes, mother, I am clearly not finished.” Your mother had insisted on looming behind you as you drafted your next creation, adding her snide comments as you worked. Ultimately, you drop the hem, deciding it looks perfect as is.

When you first brought up your dreams of becoming a modiste, your mother was delighted. Undoubtedly, she was thanking the heavens that the most eccentric of her daughters had finally settled into a polite hobby most appropriate for a young woman debuting into society next season. ‘Appropriate’ seemed to be your mother’s favorite word, which was why she was absolutely appalled when she saw your gowns- and why she now insisted on supervising you.

You created gowns with lengthier trains and cropped fronts, so that the wearer risked revealing her stocking-clad shins beneath only a thin veil. Gowns that were nearly sleeveless, a style reserved for private eveningwear.

Truly, it was on your mother for not realizing your aspirations would come with the stubborn oddities you possessed. You were well aware of the absurdities of the strict etiquette society and proper images society was rather particular with. Still, you were not immune to adapting into a socially acceptable looking lady as your mother always indoctrinated. You just had other, more artistic ways to express your radical views.

So you took on a boutique. Though your father worked in militia, he often expanded his wealth through land lording. After father had passed, he left wealth and properties typical of any viscount family in you and your sisters’ possession. Mother, blinded by excitement over your uncharacteristically simple request, was easy to convince in letting you run an abandoned boutique.

You didn’t just want to expand your fashion interests, no. You wanted to start a movement. A drastic shift in the traditional tides that would rock nobility out of their comfortable boats.

You had many creations, but this is the first to be subjected to the judging eyes of society. A neckline that dips slightly lower than usual, but not enough to be called out; shortened skirts at the front allowing just a flash of calves; wide, bell-shaped sleeves that dangled. It was new, innovative*.*

Everything the ton hated.

You had wanted to wear it to your next ball, but Mother had denied that immediately. She barred your sisters from wearing it as well. Though, you knew her fruitless resistance would fade in time.

Your friend, Tara, had boldly volunteered to wear the gown. You suppose it is for the better; you could show up in a simpler outfit, let Tara steal the spotlight like she’s your personal model, and let her credit you. Though, you warned her she might be the subject of possibly cruel gossip for some time. But Tara, with similar opinions, strongly wants to carry through with the idea. That is one of the reasons why she’s a good friend, after all.

Mother steps forward, oddly silent. Her eyes widen as they rove the piece. The rich violet with white accents entwined in a symphony of elegance. Her hands brush the layered, almost frilly skirts.

“This is…” she pauses, as if the admission pained her, “bold. But quite beautiful.”

You have long since known that you do not need nor care for Mother’s praise, but the compliment still makes you preen.

“I know. Just you wait. The whole ton will be wearing this style if the next ball goes well.”

She admires your work for a moment longer, dazed. Then, Mother jolts out of her impressed stupor as she looks at the time. “Oh, Lady Blythe is expecting me for tea this afternoon, I nearly forgot.” And she’s shuffling away, pushing the door of the boutique open with a jingle.

“This is why, Mother, you needn’t look after me so much.” You huff, smiling, gaze locked on your work. Yes, the neckline is perfect. It would accentuate Tara’s figure well.

“I will see you at the house in 2 hours, no later,” Mother calls as she’s mounting the carriage.

Finally, some quiet. That is, until the shop bells jingle again, and in walks Tara. “Is it ready?”

As expected, Tara is absolutely delighted with the results of the gown. The dress looks even better when she dons it; you perform some last minute adjustments to assure it fits better.

“You know,” Tara’s gushing, stilling obediently as you tighten the back of the dress, “In this dress, I am sure to attract many potential suitors even before the social season begins!”

You scoff fondly, grinning. “You and your excitement for courting, Tara. I better not see you settling for some old duke just to gain an inheritance.”

She scoffs back at the idea. “Of course not! I will marry for love and love only. Wealth is just…a persuasive trait.”

“Yes, yes. Now still, if you want to be able to breathe in this dress.”

The room goes quiet. You’re concentrated on your needlework until Tara speaks up again, gently prying, “And what of you?”

You raise a brow. “You know I am not against the idea of marrying. As long as it is a man who is keen to agree with my unique thoughts on society.”

“And…what of Caleb?”

You freeze, almost pricking a finger, before sighing wearily. “Tara.”

“I mean, I am merely asking. It has been a while since we spoke of him.”

“Because I do not like speaking of him.”

Caleb Xia, the boy from your childhood- bright eyes, cedar hair, charming features- though you suppose he is more of a man now.

The image sends a pang of feelings through you—guilt, pain, longing.

“It has been 4 years, Tar,” you sigh again, licking a thread. “And he has not written back.”

“Yes, but he did say he would visit, before he left.”

“Tara, please,” you shake your head, more amused than upset now. “I am not going to dwell on old ghosts while I am about to debut both myself and my fashion into society.”

“Are you not just a little curious on when he will visit?”

The thought makes your stomach drop unpleasantly for reasons unknown. “No, because he likely will not visit. I won’t take his word seriously again. He is busy. A young Colonel has no time to frisk about with some girl from his old life. That ship sailed when…his ship sailed out to France.”

Tara catches your palm before you can pull away, eyes bright. “You are right. I hope you find someone this season who keeps all promises and loves you wholly.”

Tara is like this; she can randomly drop heartfelt words she truly means. But you never grow accustomed to it.

A lump forms in your throat, and you blink. “Thank you, Tara. I hope the same for you.”

People around you bustled with a sort of excited energy, while you were buzzing with nerves. Tara should be arriving soon. You snatch another glass off of a server’s tray, taking a rather large swig that has your mother admonishing you.

“Mama, let her be, today is an important day for her,” your older sister muses, hanging off the arm of her husband. She joins your other sister, the eldest, on the other side of the room to socialize. Mother follows, leaving you alone near the entrance.

The function was taking place at some wealthy viscount’s grand country estate. It was flashy, for an off-season event. You hadn’t expected this many people to come. The thought of all those pairs of eyes on your gown makes your heart race.

Stop it, you admonish yourself now. Since when have you cared about what others think?

You steel yourself, straightening your shoulders. No, you cannot afford to be nervous. You have to be on alert, to pay attention to everyone’s reactions to your new product. As any business owner should.

A flash of purple from your periphery makes you turn. Tara is entering, looking just as breathless in the dress as the other day. A hush falls over the crowd, until the music is the only sound. All eyes lock onto her.

As Tara descends the stairs, your eyes flits across faces, cataloging reactions. They’re all appalled, but in different ways. Envy, awe, curiosity- yet no sign of disgust.

A bright flicker of hope swells in your chest as Tara approaches. Before she can speak, she is interrupted by a few women coming over, commenting about her outfit.

“Quite unique-”

“Never seen anything like it-”

“Stunning-”

The flurry of compliments gets a breathless laugh out of you. Tara sends you a secret smile.

“Well, my modiste,” Tara chirps, skirts swaying, “is indeed my best friend over here.” The group turns to you.

You straighten, smiling. “Thank you, ladies. My new boutique is open. You should think to visit some time.”

One woman nods, smiling brightly. “Oh, we will most definitely be making an appearance.”

You bid them farewell, curtsying. As they leave, you turn to Tara, beaming. Some are still staring in awe, others glaring and whispering words behind fans that can only be interpreted as cruel. But ton gossip will not dampen your spirits tonight; you had just earned a handful of potential customers already.

“Looks like all that talent has paid off,” she shrugs, grabbing a drink of her own.

“Oh please, the fact that my model is so stunning has paid off.”

You two laugh, but then Tara stops abruptly. “What is the matter?”

“Perhaps we should have picked a better day to have attention on us. Someone else seems to be stealing the show.”

Most are still socializing, dancing, but the nosy gossips are not looking at you two anymore. No, it seems they are actually facing the other way.

Your eyebrows furrow. “What could possibly be that interesting? What is going on?”

Tara releases a little gasp, standing on her tip toes to peer over heads. “That’s Duke Sylus, of Philos.”

“And so?” Even if she shared your views on society, Tara knew more gossip than you. Though, there’s a fade thud of recognition from the name.

“Don’t you read Whistledown? He has been out of the public’s eye ever since the mysterious dead of his parents six years ago. They both died at the same time, unknowingly. Many claim he did it, and he’s a,” she comes close to whisper, “vampire.”

You huff a laugh. “Please, don’t tell me you believe that folklore.” But your eyes drift curiously, and you finally catch a glimpse of him. A shock of silver hair, deep crimson eyes, sharp features- maybe the tales had some substance to them.

“I know, vampires aren’t real, but there are also many rumors on his shady business.”

“Right. I assume that is how Dukes like him gain so much wealth. But if he is so socially outcast, why is there a flock of women around him?”

“Well, you just said it, dear friend,” Tara smiles, “he is wealthy. And he is not too bad to look at, at all.”

“Whatever it is,” you huff, pushing Tara subtly towards a lord looking her way, all while glaring daggers at Sylus, “he is taking the attention away from us. So go on to the center and dance.”

Tara huffs in amusement, curtsying to the interested man you do not recognize, and she’s whisked into the rhythms of an English country dance.

You remain on the sidelines like a wallflower, watching, observing how the dress sits and flows. Yes, the slight layers did allow more mobility. The corset was loose enough that twisting movements were not restricted.

“Quite the show, hm?” A velvet voice beside you makes you startle. You look up, only to see Sylus beside you.

He is handsome, you think vaguely as you examine him up close. That does not give him a right to steal all the attention, however.

“Yes, quite.” You respond blandly, facing forward again.

A chuckle erupts from the man next to you. He doesn’t seem deterred by your dryness, because he continues, “That gown is different, is it not? Seems to be the talk of this evening.” He’s noticed what you’re staring at.

“Yes, that is the intention. It is the newest fashion movement. The ton needs some diversity,” you do not have to tell him, but if he insists on prying, then you suppose you can take advantage of the opportunity of spreading your brand’s image as far as possible. And maybe you just liked to ramble about fashion any time you receive the chance.

“Ah, so it is made to attract attention. That must be why you were sending me sharp looks when I came in, yes? Assuming you are the modiste.”

Your eyes widen. Oh, he found out fast, and he knows how much eyes he attracts. Arrogant bastard. “I do not know what you are talking about, your Grace. Please disregard any misconstrued ideas I may have caused.” You tell the lie flatly, making him laugh again. “Forgive me, but I would think you are used to such looks, your Grace?”

Sylus adjusts the cuffs of his expensive suit, smiling like he was having a grand time. “From those who engage in cheap gossip, perhaps. Though, you do not seem like the type for that, Lady..?”

Oh, good, he’s asking for your name, you think sarcastically. You reluctantly fill the silence with your name, fanning yourself in annoyance.

“Well, my Lady,” and he takes your gloved hand in his. A crimson gaze bores into you as he leans down, pressing his sinful lips to the ivory. “Allow me to apologize for disrupting your planned out ‘show’ with a dance.”

“Oh,” you blink, stilling.

Your gaze wanders in the moment, to Tara, who is stepping off the floor. The detail is small, unnoticeable to any eye besides one of an experienced dress maker: she’s lifting the edges of her long train, which is catching awkwardly underneath her heals.

”Um, I do believe my friend is calling me. Perhaps another time. Thank you, though.” You snatch your hand away abruptly, leaving his side and heading straight for Tara.

“I must have miscalculated your height,” you mutter as you’re ushering Tara out two arched double doors into the garden, the chatter of the ball fading away in some semblance of privacy. A trinkling fountain’s light spray is carried over by a chilly breeze, caressing up your bare arms. You pay it no mind, focused on turning Tara this way and that to view the damage.

“It is my fault,” she reassures. “I did not visit the boutique enough for you to trim the skirt perfectly.”

“I appreciate your attempts at making me feel better, Tara, but please lift your skirt.”

The delicate lilac edges raise, swaying in the wind. You bend down a bit, examining the edges. No sign of frays, thankfully. It seems the material held up well despite the lengthiness—

“Enjoying the party, my la—oh, dear God,” a voice exclaims behind you. You straighten and turn immediately, eyes narrowing at the stumbling figure.

“Forgive me, I was merely startled at the risqué sight in front of me—ah, not that I would judge such a thing, I am quite inclusive to all—”

“Oh, you misunderstand!” Tara blurts beside you, dropping her skirt as if burned by the fabric. “My friend here was merely fixing my dress.”

You flush deeply at the man’s implications, peering at him when he finally straightens, brushing his waves out of his face. Moonlight illuminates the porcelain-like surface of his face, catching on his high cheekbones and narrow slope of his jaw.

His eyes are as violet as the hue of Tara’s dress when they land on you. An eyebrow quirks.

“Fixing your…your gown, right.” The man is not entirely convinced.

You step forward, head tilting in awe at this strange man’s audacity. “Excuse me, are you assuming something unproper of my friend and I here? We are decorous ladies, I’ll have you know. No rumors shall be spread that claim otherwise.”

Only when he manages to get a good look at you does he raise his gloved hands, tossing a rather carefree smile your way. “Apologies, my lady. It seems I have interpreted the new modiste of the ton the incorrect way. Forgive me.”

The title makes you blink, hot anger washing out of you. “You know of my business?” It seems you were more heard of than you presumed.

“Of course,” he chirps, folding his hands behind his back. “An artist would recognize any unique creator entering the public.”

“An artist,” you repeat aloud, eyes straying to the cherub statue near the fountain. “Do you happen to be the host of this ball, Lord…?”

“Qin,” he bows with a flourish. Yes, you think. Definitely an artist. “Marquess Rafayel Qin. ” He follows your line of sight. “And yes, that is my work. Scattered around this property, they are.”

“Well, My Lord,” you huff, curtsying as well. “Your hospitality is most appreciated.”

“Do forgive us for such misunderstandings,” Tara gushes, bowing her head. “Our lady here is very innovative, and her creations require such care.”

“I can see,” he quips, tilting his head with a cheery smile. Inky curls fall over his eyes, and you realize in the dim light they are purple. “Do you outfit men, as well?”

Bold.

You cannot help but laugh. “Oh, no. Perhaps you’ll have to find a tailor for that, my Lord.”

He pouts. “How upsetting. It seems I will have to take myself elsewhere, then.”

“Yes,” you are about to go on, intrigued entirely by this man, until he clears his throat suddenly.

“Well, the art studio is calling,” he announces briskly, “and so we must part.”

Your excitement is further dampened as he kisses not only your hand, but Tara’s hand as well, before sauntering away somewhere into the garden.

“What a strange man,” you comment, tilting your head at his departing figure.

Tara wrinkles her nose, replying simply. “Quite interesting, but a rake,” she corrects. “Did you see the way he kissed both of our hands and eyed us that way?”

You look at her, unaware. “Is he really?”

She shakes her head. “Really, you must pay more attention to gossip. Rumors can have truth to them, and knowing a man’s true nature would be wise.”

The night draws to a close, guests filing out of the ball. Your mother is immediately on your case, chastising you for not taking a single dance that evening. You are glad she did not see you turn down the Duke’s offer, or she’d be livid. Still, you barely pay heed her lecture, thinking about the new people you met.

When he finally pulls back to allow you a ragged breath, a thin, glistening string of saliva momentarily connects your lips before it breaks. Your lips are puffy and slick, your cheeks flushed a pretty pink. He's ruinously handsome in the dim lighting, his hair a mess from your frantic hands and his mouth wet. You watch him, breathless and aching while he just watches you with that dark, focused way of his, looking perfectly pleased with how much of a mess he's made of you.

You lean back in, desperate to lose yourself in him, desperate to feel his mouth on yours, but his hand moves faster than your clouded mind can track. His long fingers fan out across your jaw, firm and unyielding, stopping you just inches from his mouth. You let out a quiet gasp of surprise, but then he's tilting your head from side to side, his eyes fixated on your lips like he's admiring a particularly interesting piece of art.

"Patience, Kitten." He rasps.

You don't listen. You want him too badly. You try and close the distance once more, earning a teasing huff from him.

"Sylus, please..." You whimper.

"I'm not done looking at you yet." He tells you. The denial has another broken, frustrated whine leaving your lips. You can't believe his audacity, though you consider yourself lucky at the same time. He could have pushed you off his lap, really made you work for him, but he didn't. He's kept you there, and now that he isn't holding your hips so tightly, you take the opening while you still have it.

You roll your hips right into him, the layers of clothing between you two muting the feeling of his cock against you. You don't care. It's good enough for now. You want to see his composure to crack, to feel him lose his breath the way you've lost yours.

But Sylus is not a man who easily gives up control. If anything, your bold display amuses him. Still, the hand on your hip tightens, his thumb hooking into the waistband of your jeans as he grinds back slow and steady. This steals the air right out of your lungs in a pathetic little moan as he guides your rhythm, his hand dictating exactly how and when you move against him.

"Look at you." He murmurs, leaning in to brush his damp lips against the corner of your mouth. "So eager to skip to the end, kitten. And here I thought you were enjoying yourself."

He's mocking you, and you're well aware of it. Usually you'd snap back with some sharp comment, maybe tell him to mind his damn business, but for right now, you don't care. You like it. You like knowing that he knows what he does to you.

But even so, you're done waiting.

"I would enjoy it more if you took my pants off."

This makes Sylus pause. His eyes flick down to the denim hugging your thighs before he meets your gaze once more, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. He's well aware of what you want, but he can't help wanting to tease you a bit. He likes the anticipation.

"I know." He responds as he trails his mouth down your cheek, along your neck, nipping and sucking little bruises onto your skin as if he's perfectly content to do it all day.

Little shit.

"You are such a fucking tease." You whine even as you tilt your head for him. Even as you arch into him. Even as you continue to rub yourself against the bulge in his pants. You wonder if he's going to make you wait all day after all. Just the thought has your pussy clenching around nothing.

But Sylus relents. His hands easily maneuver you in his lap as he gives a sharp tug at your waistband, yanking the denim down your thighs. Within seconds, your jeans are tossed to the floor, his thumb pressed against your aching clit through the thin layer of your slick panties. He's slow as he drags his thumb against you, watching the way your hips twitch, listening to the quiet moans that escape you.

His free hand moves to his own pants, unzipping the leather until he can shove it down his legs and free his cock. He's so hard it physically hurts, precum smeared all along the tip. Your mouth waters at the sight, but he doesn't give you the chance to reach for him. He guides your hips, positioning you just above him before his fingers tug your damp panties to the side.

"This what you wanted, kitten?" He asks, smug as ever. Then he's guiding you down onto him, his fat cock instantly stretching your cunt exactly the way you love. Your velvety walls clench around him, coaxing him deeper, begging for more until the tip is kissing your cervix.

You shudder against him your hands tugging at his hair. You feel so deliciously full, all you can focus on is the way he guides your hips, the wet sound of skin on skin each time he thrusts up into you. It's obscene, the way he fucks you right in the middle of his lounge, but you don't care. You just want more.

One hand shifts away from your hips, dipping behind you only to smack against your ass. The sharp crack echoes in the room, punctuated only by the brutal, wet glide of skin on skin. Your hands grasp weakly at his shirt, incoherent moans and whimpers tumbling from your lips before you can bite them back.

Each thrust is deep, meant to drive the air from your lungs and leave you wondering where you end and he begins. A tell-tale sign of how his composure was barely hanging on. Crack. He smacks your ass again, squeezing the supple flesh before he shifts to the other side.

Crack. Crack-crack-crack.

You writhe on top of him, seeking more of him even while you feel the heat of the sting blooming across your skin. You wonder if he'll leave a nice handprint on your ass if you ask him. You wonder if he already has.

"You want me to cum in this pretty little pussy?" He asks you suddenly, his voice a low, ruined rasp as he squeezes your hips, his movements more deliberate as he guides you down on his cock over and over again. You mumble a response, try to tell him you obviously don't want him to pull out, but it's swallowed by your moans.

So instead, you clamp onto him, honeyed walls squeezing him like a vice. He responds by finding your swollen clit once more, rubbing that sensitive bundle of nerves until you're falling apart around him. A choked cry leaves your lips, high-pitched and desperate as you squirm on his cock. His red eyes never leave your face, watching intently as you cum around him.

He follows a minute later with a ragged groan, his hands squeezing your hips hard enough to leave bruises later. His hips stutter underneath you as he pulls you flush against him, rocking into you like he's trying to ensure his cum remains deep inside your cunt.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is your frantic, broken breathing as you both try to come down from the high. You collapse onto him, burying your face in the crook of his neck as his arms wrap around you. He holds you so gently like he's scared you might disappear at any moment, a stark difference from the way he'd just been slamming into your cervix.

His thumbs rub small, soothing circles into your lower back as he tilts his head against the back of the velvet chair, a smug sort of pride flashing across his features as he feels you trembling against him.

You set the paper down on the table beside you, turning back to your work.

Fingers tug at the hem a bit more, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. No, the neckline needs more droop. More skin.

Precisely, you loosen the fabric sightly. Too much skin. Even when visible bosoms were in style, you wouldn’t want Tara to show up to the function with nearly her whole bosom out. Though, the notion would be very on brand for you.

A presence beside you makes itself known with a snobby ahem. “Is that not rather showy, dearest? I do not believe it is appropriate.”

You repress an eyeroll. “Yes, mother, I am clearly not finished.” Your mother had insisted on looming behind you as you drafted your next creation, adding her snide comments as you worked. Ultimately, you drop the hem, deciding it looks perfect as is.

When you first brought up your dreams of becoming a modiste, your mother was delighted. Undoubtedly, she was thanking the heavens that the most eccentric of her daughters had finally settled into a polite hobby most appropriate for a young woman debuting into society next season. ‘Appropriate’ seemed to be your mother’s favorite word, which was why she was absolutely appalled when she saw your gowns- and why she now insisted on supervising you.

You created gowns with lengthier trains and cropped fronts, so that the wearer risked revealing her stocking-clad shins beneath only a thin veil. Gowns that were nearly sleeveless, a style reserved for private eveningwear.

Truly, it was on your mother for not realizing your aspirations would come with the stubborn oddities you possessed. You were well aware of the absurdities of the strict etiquette society and proper images society was rather particular with. Still, you were not immune to adapting into a socially acceptable looking lady as your mother always indoctrinated. You just had other, more artistic ways to express your radical views.

So you took on a boutique. Though your father worked in militia, he often expanded his wealth through land lording. After father had passed, he left wealth and properties typical of any viscount family in you and your sisters’ possession. Mother, blinded by excitement over your uncharacteristically simple request, was easy to convince in letting you run an abandoned boutique.

You didn’t just want to expand your fashion interests, no. You wanted to start a movement. A drastic shift in the traditional tides that would rock nobility out of their comfortable boats.

You had many creations, but this is the first to be subjected to the judging eyes of society. A neckline that dips slightly lower than usual, but not enough to be called out; shortened skirts at the front allowing just a flash of calves; wide, bell-shaped sleeves that dangled. It was new, innovative*.*

Everything the ton hated.

You had wanted to wear it to your next ball, but Mother had denied that immediately. She barred your sisters from wearing it as well. Though, you knew her fruitless resistance would fade in time.

Your friend, Tara, had boldly volunteered to wear the gown. You suppose it is for the better; you could show up in a simpler outfit, let Tara steal the spotlight like she’s your personal model, and let her credit you. Though, you warned her she might be the subject of possibly cruel gossip for some time. But Tara, with similar opinions, strongly wants to carry through with the idea. That is one of the reasons why she’s a good friend, after all.

Mother steps forward, oddly silent. Her eyes widen as they rove the piece. The rich violet with white accents entwined in a symphony of elegance. Her hands brush the layered, almost frilly skirts.

“This is…” she pauses, as if the admission pained her, “bold. But quite beautiful.”

You have long since known that you do not need nor care for Mother’s praise, but the compliment still makes you preen.

“I know. Just you wait. The whole ton will be wearing this style if the next ball goes well.”

She admires your work for a moment longer, dazed. Then, Mother jolts out of her impressed stupor as she looks at the time. “Oh, Lady Blythe is expecting me for tea this afternoon, I nearly forgot.” And she’s shuffling away, pushing the door of the boutique open with a jingle.

“This is why, Mother, you needn’t look after me so much.” You huff, smiling, gaze locked on your work. Yes, the neckline is perfect. It would accentuate Tara’s figure well.

“I will see you at the house in 2 hours, no later,” Mother calls as she’s mounting the carriage.

Finally, some quiet. That is, until the shop bells jingle again, and in walks Tara. “Is it ready?”

As expected, Tara is absolutely delighted with the results of the gown. The dress looks even better when she dons it; you perform some last minute adjustments to assure it fits better.

“You know,” Tara’s gushing, stilling obediently as you tighten the back of the dress, “In this dress, I am sure to attract many potential suitors even before the social season begins!”

You scoff fondly, grinning. “You and your excitement for courting, Tara. I better not see you settling for some old duke just to gain an inheritance.”

She scoffs back at the idea. “Of course not! I will marry for love and love only. Wealth is just…a persuasive trait.”

“Yes, yes. Now still, if you want to be able to breathe in this dress.”

The room goes quiet. You’re concentrated on your needlework until Tara speaks up again, gently prying, “And what of you?”

You raise a brow. “You know I am not against the idea of marrying. As long as it is a man who is keen to agree with my unique thoughts on society.”

“And…what of Caleb?”

You freeze, almost pricking a finger, before sighing wearily. “Tara.”

“I mean, I am merely asking. It has been a while since we spoke of him.”

“Because I do not like speaking of him.”

Caleb Xia, the boy from your childhood- bright eyes, cedar hair, charming features- though you suppose he is more of a man now.

The image sends a pang of feelings through you—guilt, pain, longing.

“It has been 4 years, Tar,” you sigh again, licking a thread. “And he has not written back.”

“Yes, but he did say he would visit, before he left.”

“Tara, please,” you shake your head, more amused than upset now. “I am not going to dwell on old ghosts while I am about to debut both myself and my fashion into society.”

“Are you not just a little curious on when he will visit?”

The thought makes your stomach drop unpleasantly for reasons unknown. “No, because he likely will not visit. I won’t take his word seriously again. He is busy. A young Colonel has no time to frisk about with some girl from his old life. That ship sailed when…his ship sailed out to France.”

Tara catches your palm before you can pull away, eyes bright. “You are right. I hope you find someone this season who keeps all promises and loves you wholly.”

Tara is like this; she can randomly drop heartfelt words she truly means. But you never grow accustomed to it.

A lump forms in your throat, and you blink. “Thank you, Tara. I hope the same for you.”

People around you bustled with a sort of excited energy, while you were buzzing with nerves. Tara should be arriving soon. You snatch another glass off of a server’s tray, taking a rather large swig that has your mother admonishing you.

“Mama, let her be, today is an important day for her,” your older sister muses, hanging off the arm of her husband. She joins your other sister, the eldest, on the other side of the room to socialize. Mother follows, leaving you alone near the entrance.

The function was taking place at some wealthy viscount’s grand country estate. It was flashy, for an off-season event. You hadn’t expected this many people to come. The thought of all those pairs of eyes on your gown makes your heart race.

Stop it, you admonish yourself now. Since when have you cared about what others think?

You steel yourself, straightening your shoulders. No, you cannot afford to be nervous. You have to be on alert, to pay attention to everyone’s reactions to your new product. As any business owner should.

A flash of purple from your periphery makes you turn. Tara is entering, looking just as breathless in the dress as the other day. A hush falls over the crowd, until the music is the only sound. All eyes lock onto her.

As Tara descends the stairs, your eyes flits across faces, cataloging reactions. They’re all appalled, but in different ways. Envy, awe, curiosity- yet no sign of disgust.

A bright flicker of hope swells in your chest as Tara approaches. Before she can speak, she is interrupted by a few women coming over, commenting about her outfit.

“Quite unique-”

“Never seen anything like it-”

“Stunning-”

The flurry of compliments gets a breathless laugh out of you. Tara sends you a secret smile.

“Well, my modiste,” Tara chirps, skirts swaying, “is indeed my best friend over here.” The group turns to you.

You straighten, smiling. “Thank you, ladies. My new boutique is open. You should think to visit some time.”

One woman nods, smiling brightly. “Oh, we will most definitely be making an appearance.”

You bid them farewell, curtsying. As they leave, you turn to Tara, beaming. Some are still staring in awe, others glaring and whispering words behind fans that can only be interpreted as cruel. But ton gossip will not dampen your spirits tonight; you had just earned a handful of potential customers already.

“Looks like all that talent has paid off,” she shrugs, grabbing a drink of her own.

“Oh please, the fact that my model is so stunning has paid off.”

You two laugh, but then Tara stops abruptly. “What is the matter?”

“Perhaps we should have picked a better day to have attention on us. Someone else seems to be stealing the show.”

Most are still socializing, dancing, but the nosy gossips are not looking at you two anymore. No, it seems they are actually facing the other way.

Your eyebrows furrow. “What could possibly be that interesting? What is going on?”

Tara releases a little gasp, standing on her tip toes to peer over heads. “That’s Duke Sylus, of Philos.”

“And so?” Even if she shared your views on society, Tara knew more gossip than you. Though, there’s a fade thud of recognition from the name.

“Don’t you read Whistledown? He has been out of the public’s eye ever since the mysterious dead of his parents six years ago. They both died at the same time, unknowingly. Many claim he did it, and he’s a,” she comes close to whisper, “vampire.”

You huff a laugh. “Please, don’t tell me you believe that folklore.” But your eyes drift curiously, and you finally catch a glimpse of him. A shock of silver hair, deep crimson eyes, sharp features- maybe the tales had some substance to them.

“I know, vampires aren’t real, but there are also many rumors on his shady business.”

“Right. I assume that is how Dukes like him gain so much wealth. But if he is so socially outcast, why is there a flock of women around him?”

“Well, you just said it, dear friend,” Tara smiles, “he is wealthy. And he is not too bad to look at, at all.”

“Whatever it is,” you huff, pushing Tara subtly towards a lord looking her way, all while glaring daggers at Sylus, “he is taking the attention away from us. So go on to the center and dance.”

Tara huffs in amusement, curtsying to the interested man you do not recognize, and she’s whisked into the rhythms of an English country dance.

You remain on the sidelines like a wallflower, watching, observing how the dress sits and flows. Yes, the slight layers did allow more mobility. The corset was loose enough that twisting movements were not restricted.

“Quite the show, hm?” A velvet voice beside you makes you startle. You look up, only to see Sylus beside you.

He is handsome, you think vaguely as you examine him up close. That does not give him a right to steal all the attention, however.

“Yes, quite.” You respond blandly, facing forward again.

A chuckle erupts from the man next to you. He doesn’t seem deterred by your dryness, because he continues, “That gown is different, is it not? Seems to be the talk of this evening.” He’s noticed what you’re staring at.

“Yes, that is the intention. It is the newest fashion movement. The ton needs some diversity,” you do not have to tell him, but if he insists on prying, then you suppose you can take advantage of the opportunity of spreading your brand’s image as far as possible. And maybe you just liked to ramble about fashion any time you receive the chance.

“Ah, so it is made to attract attention. That must be why you were sending me sharp looks when I came in, yes? Assuming you are the modiste.”

Your eyes widen. Oh, he found out fast, and he knows how much eyes he attracts. Arrogant bastard. “I do not know what you are talking about, your Grace. Please disregard any misconstrued ideas I may have caused.” You tell the lie flatly, making him laugh again. “Forgive me, but I would think you are used to such looks, your Grace?”

Sylus adjusts the cuffs of his expensive suit, smiling like he was having a grand time. “From those who engage in cheap gossip, perhaps. Though, you do not seem like the type for that, Lady..?”

Oh, good, he’s asking for your name, you think sarcastically. You reluctantly fill the silence with your name, fanning yourself in annoyance.

“Well, my Lady,” and he takes your gloved hand in his. A crimson gaze bores into you as he leans down, pressing his sinful lips to the ivory. “Allow me to apologize for disrupting your planned out ‘show’ with a dance.”

“Oh,” you blink, stilling.

Your gaze wanders in the moment, to Tara, who is stepping off the floor. The detail is small, unnoticeable to any eye besides one of an experienced dress maker: she’s lifting the edges of her long train, which is catching awkwardly underneath her heals.

”Um, I do believe my friend is calling me. Perhaps another time. Thank you, though.” You snatch your hand away abruptly, leaving his side and heading straight for Tara.

“I must have miscalculated your height,” you mutter as you’re ushering Tara out two arched double doors into the garden, the chatter of the ball fading away in some semblance of privacy. A trinkling fountain’s light spray is carried over by a chilly breeze, caressing up your bare arms. You pay it no mind, focused on turning Tara this way and that to view the damage.

“It is my fault,” she reassures. “I did not visit the boutique enough for you to trim the skirt perfectly.”

“I appreciate your attempts at making me feel better, Tara, but please lift your skirt.”

The delicate lilac edges raise, swaying in the wind. You bend down a bit, examining the edges. No sign of frays, thankfully. It seems the material held up well despite the lengthiness—

“Enjoying the party, my la—oh, dear God,” a voice exclaims behind you. You straighten and turn immediately, eyes narrowing at the stumbling figure.

“Forgive me, I was merely startled at the risqué sight in front of me—ah, not that I would judge such a thing, I am quite inclusive to all—”

“Oh, you misunderstand!” Tara blurts beside you, dropping her skirt as if burned by the fabric. “My friend here was merely fixing my dress.”

You flush deeply at the man’s implications, peering at him when he finally straightens, brushing his waves out of his face. Moonlight illuminates the porcelain-like surface of his face, catching on his high cheekbones and narrow slope of his jaw.

His eyes are as violet as the hue of Tara’s dress when they land on you. An eyebrow quirks.

“Fixing your…your gown, right.” The man is not entirely convinced.

You step forward, head tilting in awe at this strange man’s audacity. “Excuse me, are you assuming something unproper of my friend and I here? We are decorous ladies, I’ll have you know. No rumors shall be spread that claim otherwise.”

Only when he manages to get a good look at you does he raise his gloved hands, tossing a rather carefree smile your way. “Apologies, my lady. It seems I have interpreted the new modiste of the ton the incorrect way. Forgive me.”

The title makes you blink, hot anger washing out of you. “You know of my business?” It seems you were more heard of than you presumed.

“Of course,” he chirps, folding his hands behind his back. “An artist would recognize any unique creator entering the public.”

“An artist,” you repeat aloud, eyes straying to the cherub statue near the fountain. “Do you happen to be the host of this ball, Lord…?”

“Qin,” he bows with a flourish. Yes, you think. Definitely an artist. “Marquess Rafayel Qin. ” He follows your line of sight. “And yes, that is my work. Scattered around this property, they are.”

“Well, My Lord,” you huff, curtsying as well. “Your hospitality is most appreciated.”

“Do forgive us for such misunderstandings,” Tara gushes, bowing her head. “Our lady here is very innovative, and her creations require such care.”

“I can see,” he quips, tilting his head with a cheery smile. Inky curls fall over his eyes, and you realize in the dim light they are purple. “Do you outfit men, as well?”

Bold.

You cannot help but laugh. “Oh, no. Perhaps you’ll have to find a tailor for that, my Lord.”

He pouts. “How upsetting. It seems I will have to take myself elsewhere, then.”

“Yes,” you are about to go on, intrigued entirely by this man, until he clears his throat suddenly.

“Well, the art studio is calling,” he announces briskly, “and so we must part.”

Your excitement is further dampened as he kisses not only your hand, but Tara’s hand as well, before sauntering away somewhere into the garden.

“What a strange man,” you comment, tilting your head at his departing figure.

Tara wrinkles her nose, replying simply. “Quite interesting, but a rake,” she corrects. “Did you see the way he kissed both of our hands and eyed us that way?”

You look at her, unaware. “Is he really?”

She shakes her head. “Really, you must pay more attention to gossip. Rumors can have truth to them, and knowing a man’s true nature would be wise.”

The night draws to a close, guests filing out of the ball. Your mother is immediately on your case, chastising you for not taking a single dance that evening. You are glad she did not see you turn down the Duke’s offer, or she’d be livid. Still, you barely pay heed her lecture, thinking about the new people you met.

Silence usually meant that something was wrong. That something was building and chaos would erupt soon. Silence was deadly. 

But right now, in this moment, with you curled up against him, chest rising and falling, he thought maybe he could learn to love the quiet too. This moment of peace was far too precious, too perfect that he’d be willing to wage war on anything that dared to break the stillness.  

Poor thing.

You’d fallen asleep so quickly, curled on his lap. Your body warm and trusting, your cheek pressed against his chest. He could feel the soft puffs of your breath against the skin bared beneath his robe, the way your fingers had instinctively curled around the fabric at his waist before going slack. 

It was too much. Too tender. Too perfect. 

His heart squeezed dangerously, threatening to burst with emotions he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for milenia. Still, he couldn’t take his eyes off you. 

His hand moved on its own, trailing down your spine, smoothing over the curve of your back, fingers brushing lightly over your hair. 

Each tiny shift came with the softest little noises of contentment, sounds he wanted to bottle up and keep forever. 

This is what love feels like.

He’d experienced it before, with you. Love that was shouted from rooftops, that set cities aflame and was declared loudly, passionately. 

But this was something else. Quieter. Deeper. Unassuming. An entirely different kind of love to the ones he'd experienced before. 

It crept up on him in the silence and wrapped itself around his heart, squeezing tightly, narrowing its focus to only you. 

It wasn’t a sudden, violent force, like a city razed to the ground. 

No, this was entirely different. It was the moment that lobster realised that the pot was too hot to survive, the only choice was to surrender. 

And in the end, wasn’t that feeling of giving in a relief? 

His throat tightened. His eyes stung.

Sylus exhaled softly, shaking his head gently. “You really do trust me, don’t you?”

The words were barely more than a breath, a desperate attempt to preserve the quiet of the room, but they made that grip on his chest tighten imperceptibly harder.

You had no idea what it meant, how it affected him, to have you like this. Warm and safe in his arms. Completely unguarded. 

Completely his.

He scoffed lightly, remembering the way you had first met in this life. The fear, the hatred in your eyes, the anguish in his. 

“You're impossible,” he murmured, his voice even quieter now, almost reverent. “You know that?”

You stirred slightly, nuzzling into his warmth, but didn’t wake. 

“Of course you don’t. You have no idea.” 

Another sleepy noise escaped past the pout of your lips, and he smiled, warm and soft. 

A little while ago, Luke and Keiran had knocked on the door, the soft sound enough to make a frown crease between your brows. They’d entered to find a glare fixed on them, red piercing eyes telling them that whatever they had to say could wait. 

They left quickly, smart enough to forget the sight before them. 

Sylus’ fingers traced idle patterns along your arm, his touch featherlight. 

You’d tell him off, if you were awake. Tell him to start his day. Order him to tend to Onychinus. You were so selfless, so giving. You’d put anything and anyone else before yourself.

Luckily, he had no such ideals.

Somewhere, far away, the world still existed. There were people waiting for him, needing him. Things that needed his attention, his approval. None of it mattered. 

There was no past. No future. Just this.

Just the steady rhythm of your breathing. Just this moment, stretching infinitely, like a dream he never wanted to wake from.

He was selfish when it came to everything but you. And even then, he was still a little selfish. 

He would keep anyone waiting, if it meant he got to hold you, like this. He’d run his business into the ground for the taste of your lips. 

He had, and would again, raise entire continents to the ground to ensure your safety, uncaring of anyone that resided there. 

Yes, he was selfish.

And he didn’t care. 

A quiet sigh left him. He didn’t deserve any of this. Did he? He had ruined too much, burned too many things and left too many ghosts in his wake. Yet, here you were. Pressed against him, completely at ease. 

His throat constricted. How? How could something as good as you ever belong in the arms of someone like him? 

No he didn’t deserve it, but he would keep it anyway. A dragon’s nature was to hoard. 

His eyes roamed your face, memorising everything. Each freckle. Each eyelash. The soft curve of your lips, parted just slightly with sleep. He reasoned that you had to have been made by some higher force. That somewhere, there was a god that claimed you proudly as their creation. 

He was torn by that. By the idea that there was something or someone else out there that had a right to you. But you were a masterpiece and it was the only way you made sense. 

So if there was a god, let them bear witness. Let them take notes. That his devotion, his heart was offered in quiet surrender to that creation. To you. 

Slowl, with infinite care, he raised a hand to cup your cheek, brushing his thumb over your lips in a barely-there touch. Soft. Delicate. Sacred. He wanted to kiss you, but he wouldn’t. Not yet. He wouldn’t wake you. 

Instead, he leaned in and pressed his forehead against yours, your breaths’ mingling, breathing you in. You smelled warm, like sleep and something sweet, something inherently you. He shut his eyes, just for a moment, letting the sensation settle in his bones.

And when he pulled back he just stared.

Memorising you. Worshipping you.

It had been a long time since he said those words to you.

Reluctant to break the sanctity of the precarious relationship the two of you had, he’d kept them inside. But here, in the hush of the night, with you deep in sleep, he could be honest in ways he never could before. 

“You have no idea how much I…” He swallowed, tilting his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling, willing away the fullness that threatened to spill from his eyes. “How much I love you.”

A single tear dripped down his cheek, tracing a glistening path, evidence of his quiet confession. 

His heartbeat increased, loud and strong in the quiet of the room. He willed it to still, wished he could make it stop beating lest it wake you from your slumber. 

And then-

A sleepy hum. 

A shift of your body. 

And a murmured, drowsy, “Luh you too.”

His breath stopped.

You were barely conscious, probably didn’t even know what you were saying, but his chest ached all the same. A deep overwhelming ache.

He looked down to see your bleary, unfocused eyes gazing back at his. Heavy with lingering sleepiness and slow blinks. 

Your hand cupped his face and swept away more tears that had fallen from his eyes. 

Hands wrapped around his shoulders, holding him tightly, like you were afraid he would let you go. 

Silly thing, he would never let you go. 

Your head nestled into his neck and you pressed a soft kiss to his racing pulse. 

“Love you, Sylus.” 

His arms tightened around you in response, pulling you closer, needing the physical closeness to ground himself, to remind himself that this was real. 

Your breathing deepened again, soft breaths tickling the skin of his neck in a way that promised he’d have a patch of condensation there in a little while. 

He didn’t care. 

“I love you too,” he whispered into the silence of the room. 

His arms flexed around you slightly. His heart, beating a pattern just for you. A silent vow.

This, the two of you, would never be a fleeting moment. It wasn’t something he would allow to slip through his fingers like smoke, something he would lose in the chaos of the life he led. 

No. 

This was eternal.

He would build up a world from dust to ensure your place by his side. To keep you safe, protected, his. 

No matter what happened, he would never let this go.

Never let you go. 

And just like that, he let the silence have him.

➽──────────────────────────────────❥

It was a Saturday night—which, in your world, meant a sacred ritual of staying in your dorm, reading a good book, and letting Spotify decide your fate with its chaotic shuffle.

A peaceful, introvert’s haven.

Your roommate had long since abandoned you for brighter, sweatier pastures, hollering, “I’m gonna get laid tonight!” as she tottered out in an outfit that could’ve doubled as a napkin.

You’d only offered her a solemn nod and returned to your paperback and playlist, cocooned in your sofa bed like a content little hermit.

Nothing could disturb your peace.

Until something did.

A knock.

You blinked at the door. Once. Twice. Frowned. Who knocks past 10 p.m.? Who dares?

Your mind immediately went to one person—your best friend, Sylus. The same Sylus who had texted earlier, bragging about some frat party he was going to “grace with his presence.” You had rolled your eyes then.

You were rolling them again now.

Still, you peeled yourself from the embrace of your blankets with a martyred sigh.

“Coming,” you muttered like a wronged Victorian heroine.

And there he was.

Sylus, leaning on your doorframe like a drunken Greek tragedy. The unmistakable scent of alcohol hit you in the face like an offended slap.

“W-Wha—Sy??” you gasped, arms flailing as you caught his teetering form.

He slumped against you dramatically, mumbling something that suspiciously sounded like “Need… y-you,” into the crook of your neck.

Your entire spine straightened. Goosebumps. Betrayal.

“Again?” you asked, somehow dragging his dead weight into your dorm like a disgruntled EMT.

You dumped him onto the sofa, where he sprawled like a starfish in distress.

“How much did you drink?” you asked, already grabbing your emergency water bottle—standard best-friend-care protocol. You tilted it to his lips.

He tried to drink it sideways.

You sighed, loud and long. “Of course you’re useless.”

His eyes fluttered open just a crack as he sipped at the water, managing to prop himself up with one wobbly arm like he was posing for a very tragic Renaissance painting.

“You’re so… nice,” he slurred, dragging the word out with an attempt at a smirk that looked more like a sleepy grimace.

You exhaled sharply through your nose. “Yeah, yeah. Save the drunk flirting for someone who didn’t just haul your dead weight off the hallway floor.”

This wasn’t your first Sylus Situation.

Probably wouldn’t be your last.

You and Sylus had met on the very first day of college. You’d been an eager, introverted bookworm just trying to get to your dorm before anyone could talk to you.

And then—bam—Sylus. Tall, cocky, and very lost, standing in the middle of the corridor looking as confused as a cat in a swimming pool.

He’d stopped you by physically planting one muscled arm across your path and declaring, with absolute seriousness, “I need help finding the toilet.”

A moment you would never forget, nor forgive.

You had rolled your eyes back then too—but still showed him the way, mostly because he had somehow clamped onto you like a gym-sculpted koala.

To this day, you had no idea why someone at age eighteen had the physique of a Marvel extra, but you had learned not to ask too many questions when it came to Sylus.

Especially when he was drunk and whispering compliments like you were the second coming of hydration.

Now, two years in, you and Sylus were pretty much inseparable.

Not exactly by your choice, of course. He had basically crammed himself into your life like a determined cat forcing its way into a box half its size—and then refused to leave.

Ever.

But you, being the kind-hearted, ever-patient soul that you were cough pushover cough, didn’t really complain. Much.

In his own chaotic way, Sylus had proven… useful.

He was your self-appointed human shield against overly confident frat boys who thought “You read? That’s hot” was a seductive line.

More than once, he’d slung an arm around you and declared, “She’s taken. By academia. Leave her alone.”

You, in turn, had helped him survive the academic hellscape that was calculus. Which mostly meant sitting beside him during study sessions and watching him squint at formulas like they were written in ancient Sumerian.

At one point he tried to bribe you with tacos to do his entire homework.

You took the tacos and still made him do it.

It was an odd, messy sort of friendship. One built on sarcastic banter, mutual blackmail, and late-night ramen runs.

And maybe—just maybe—a little too much unspoken something lingering in the quiet spaces in between.

Like right now, for example.

He blinked blearily at you from your sofa, shirt slightly rumpled, hair a tousled mess, water bottle still clutched like a lifeline.

“You know,” he mumbled, “you’d make a great wife.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Drink your water before I drown you in it.”

He grabs the bottle and downs it in one dramatic go, like he was auditioning for a Gatorade commercial.

Then he thrusts it back at you with all the triumph of someone who just solved world hunger.

“There. I finished it,” he announces, his arm swaying a little as he wobbles in place, clearly very proud of his accomplishment.

You roll your eyes but take the bottle anyway, muttering something under your breath about man-children and alcohol tolerance.

You place it on the table and then, with the kind of exasperated sigh that only comes from long-term best friend duty, plop yourself down next to him on the sofa.

He immediately slouches, his shoulder knocking lightly into yours, like his body had decided it belonged at a thirty-degree angle from yours. You don’t move.

It’s not like this is the first time he’s drunkenly ended up in your space.

Sylus had a talent for turning up half-conscious on your couch like some sort of overgrown housecat that went out, got into a fight, and came back demanding affection and snacks.

Still, as he leaned a bit closer, you caught the faintest scent of his cologne beneath the layers of beer and poor decisions.

That same one he always wore—the one you refused to admit you liked.

He gave a tired little groan and let his head loll toward you. “You’re warm,” he muttered, barely above a whisper. “Like… those fuzzy blankets. But with better insults.”

You blinked. “Thank you, I think?”

He gave a lazy grin, eyes barely open. “Anytime, wifey.”

You smacked his shoulder with a throw pillow.

“OW.”

You had to admit—though only internally, and only under very specific, delusional circumstances—you might have feelings for the guy.

Not that you’d ever admit it out loud. Absolutely not. You’d rather eat a raw onion whole.

Besides, you and Sylus were practically heaven and earth. He walked through campus like he owned the place, girls tripping over their own feet just to bat their lashes at him. Your dorm mate had been one of them, once.

Keyword, once.

That ended the moment she got bold and tried to drape herself all over him like a weighted blanket in heat.

Sylus, being the tactful gentleman he was, had responded by physically lifting her off and shoving her away with all the grace of a bouncer at closing time.

She hit the floor with a squeak and a very visible bruise forming on her hip.

You’d been mortified.

While Sylus looked mildly annoyed, you were busy apologizing profusely, scrambling to help her up while simultaneously smacking him on the arm.

“What is wrong with you?” you’d hissed.

“She was being gross,” he’d replied simply, like that was an acceptable answer. “And touching me.”

“She’s a human being, not a leech!”

“A touchy leech,” he muttered, unfazed.

That was the thing with Sylus.

He never asked to be popular. Girls just looked at him like he was the answer to all their bad decisions.

But you? You were the one dragging him by the ear out of messes he caused. The one making excuses.

The one covering for him when he showed up drunk or bailed on class or told a professor their quiz “was an act of violence.”

You were the constant.

And somehow, in a very twisted way, you were okay with that. Even if your feelings stayed buried beneath layers of sarcasm and very loud sighs.

Especially now, when he was leaning half-asleep on your shoulder, muttering something about you smelling like books and cinnamon and safety.

And damn it, you liked that too much.

Your expression softened despite yourself when you heard the soft, steady rhythm of Sylus snoring.

He had slumped a little more against your shoulder, completely out cold now, mouth slightly parted in the most annoyingly adorable way.

With a small sigh, you leaned forward, grabbing the throw blanket from the armrest and carefully draping it over both your laps. He didn’t stir.

Just exhaled, warm and slow against your collarbone.

You reached for your book again, flipping back to the page you had abandoned during The Great Drunken Entry of Sylus.

And then, as if summoned by the universe purely to torment you, your Spotify decided to betray you.

Under the Influence by Chris Brown began to play.

Your heart dropped straight to your stomach.

“Oh, no,” you whispered like you were in a horror movie and the killer had just creaked open the door.

Because you remembered the last time this song had come on while Sylus was drunk—less drunk than tonight, unfortunately.

That time, he had turned to you, eyes low and voice deep, and said with a completely straight face, “This song represents the things I want to do to you.”

You had choked on your drink. He had passed out shortly after.

You had spent three business days trying to pretend it never happened.

And yet, for some completely inexplicable reason, you never removed the song from your playlist.

Why?

That was a question for your therapist.

You shot a nervous glance at Sylus’s sleeping form. He twitched a little, mumbling something unintelligible.

“No, no, no, no,” you whispered under your breath. “Don’t you dare wake up.”

He let out a soft sigh.

You stared at your phone, debating if skipping the song would be too loud and risk waking him.

You decided to risk it.

Your finger hovered—then paused.

Because deep down, despite your better judgment, part of you wanted to hear what he might say if he woke up again.

And that was the real betrayal.

You scrambled through your playlist like a woman on a mission, muttering curses at your past self while frantically searching for something—anything—less incriminating than Chris Brown.

Eventually, you landed on something soft and unassuming, a gentle acoustic ballad that sounded like it belonged in a rainy café montage.

Peace.

At last.

You settled back in, the weight of Sylus still warm beside you, blanket tucked around your legs, your book finally resting in your hands again.

You exhaled slowly.

And then, without warning, the air was violently knocked out of your lungs.

“Wha—!”

One second you were comfortably seated.

The next, Sylus had flipped you flat on your back, your book flying out of your hands with a soft thud.

A startled yelp escaped your throat, legs tangled in the blanket, brain scrambling to catch up to the fact that you had just been ambushed.

He hovered over you, forearms braced on either side of your head, eyes half-lidded but open—definitely awake now. Great.

“Sylus!” you hissed, face heating. “What the hell?!”

“Shhh,” he murmured, voice low and hoarse, like he hadn’t fully emerged from dreamland yet. “You moved.”

“I was reading.”

He blinked slowly, eyes flickering across your face with an intensity that made your breath catch.

Then he mumbled, almost like a confession, “Thought you left.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I—Sylus, I live here.” You tried to squirm, but he just shifted closer, lowering himself so his forehead bumped gently against yours.

“You smell like lavender,” he whispered.

You were going to die. Right here. Of cardiac arrest and secondhand embarrassment.

“And books,” he added softly, eyes fluttering shut again. “You smell like home.”

Your hands hovered awkwardly in the air, unsure whether to shove him off or pull him closer.

You did neither.

Because the worst part?

You liked hearing that more than you should’ve.

“Why are you… so cute?” he slurs, eyes glassy and unfocused, his breath warm against your lips.

You barely had time to process the question—if it was a question—before he leaned in and slammed his lips against yours with all the grace and coordination of someone who definitely shouldn’t be operating heavy machinery.

Your brain short-circuited.

Yep. He’s super drunk tonight.

It wasn’t even a kiss, really.

More like a very committed face-plant. His lips mashed clumsily against yours, all instinct and zero finesse, like his drunk brain had gone, “Target acquired—initiate smooch protocol.”

You froze. Arms still mid-air. Eyes wide. Mind absolutely screaming.

It lasted all of two seconds before he let out a satisfied little hum and promptly collapsed against you like a human pancake, burying his face into the crook of your neck as if the kiss had been a casual prelude to nap time.

“…Seriously?” you croaked.

No response. Just light snoring and a very warm, very solid Sylus draped across your body.

You stared at the ceiling.

This was fine. Everything was fine.

You were definitely not blushing.

Not still feeling the ghost of his lips against yours.

Not wondering why the hell your heart was racing like you’d just run a marathon.

Nope.

Totally. Fine.

—•

The next morning, sunlight peeked through the blinds, warm and accusing. You blinked groggily, only to realize that your limbs were pinned.

Sylus was still slumped against your body, face buried in your shoulder, arm thrown around your waist like a weighted blanket with abandonment issues.

He was out, dead to the world, breathing softly like last night hadn’t been a whole fever dream.

You stared at him for a long moment.

Then, very carefully—like you were defusing a bomb—you began to wiggle out from under him.

One leg. Then the other.

You held your breath as you slipped free, standing over him like some war-weary survivor of battle. He didn’t stir.

Honestly, you were impressed. You could have probably vacuumed the room and he’d still be there, drooling peacefully.

You didn’t have time to process it. Class was calling.

And you had never gotten ready so fast.

By the time you made it to your seat, slightly out of breath and still pulling your hoodie over your head, your mind was already spiraling.

The lecture blurred into a series of droning syllables you couldn’t quite absorb.

Because God, you hoped he didn’t remember.

If he did—if he looked at you with that signature smirk and said anything about last night—your soul might physically evacuate your body.

You kept your head down, notebook open but blank, your pen frozen mid-air.

And still, your thoughts wandered.

Back to the feel of his lips on yours—sloppy, warm, unexpected.

Back to the sound of his voice, low and slurred, calling you cute like it was a sin he couldn’t forgive.

Back to the way your heart had reacted like it was hearing something it had been waiting for.

Your teeth grazed your bottom lip, and before you could stop yourself, you caught it gently between them. Just to see if you could remember.

And—damn it—you could.

Which was exactly the problem.

Class ended faster than you realized.

One moment you were lost in a daze of accidental kisses and existential dread, the next, students were filing out around you and your professor was reminding everyone about next week’s quiz that you absolutely did not hear.

You packed your stuff in record time and bolted, telling yourself you’d walk it off. Or compartmentalize. Or, ideally, both.

It was a crisp morning, birds chirping, sun shining, world spinning just fine without dragging your dignity behind it. You were just starting to calm down, your feet falling into a steady rhythm along the pavement, when—

An arm slung over your shoulder.

You stiffened like someone had just hit your internal panic button.

“Thanks for not waking me,” came a familiar, smug voice from your right, laced with far too much amusement for someone who had been drooling on your hoodie six hours ago.

You turned your head slowly—like in a horror film—and there he was.

Sylus.

Disheveled but well-rested. Hair tousled. Hoodie slightly crooked on his frame.

Looking every bit like someone who had zero regrets and somehow still got eight hours of sleep.

And worse?

He was smirking.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then you exhaled, long and slow, a rush of relief loosening your spine. “So… you don’t remember anything?” you asked as casually as you could.

His smirk deepened. “Nope.”

You nodded, clutching your bag a little tighter. “Good. Great. Fantastic.”

He glanced sideways at you, amusement dancing in his eyes. “You look tense,” he said, as if you weren’t actively reliving one of the most unhinged nights of your life.

You kept your face blank. “Do I?”

“Mm-hm.” He leaned in slightly. “We didn’t do anything weird, did we?”

Your soul briefly tried to exit your body.

You cleared your throat, gaze fixed straight ahead. “Define weird.”

Sylus chuckled, his grip around your shoulders tightening playfully. “Knew I could count on you to protect my innocence.”

You resisted the urge to shove him into a bush.

Because he didn’t remember.

And maybe that was for the best.

Right?

—•

Later that afternoon, Sylus had peeled himself away from your side with his usual casual flair, stretching like a cat and shooting you a wink over his shoulder.

“Got a date,” he’d called, walking backward with that insufferable grin. “Don’t miss me too much!”

You managed a forced smile, waving him off like it was no big deal.

But it was.

Because the moment he turned the corner, a sharp, unwelcome pang bloomed in your chest. It wasn’t jealousy—not exactly.

Just… something heavy. Something tight.

Something you couldn’t name without digging into places you weren’t quite ready to go.

You sighed, long and low, and forced your feet toward your next class, pretending that maybe you’d feel better if you just kept moving.

Spoiler, you didn’t.

Classes passed in a blur, lectures droning like white noise in the background.

You tried to focus, really, but your mind kept drifting—back to last night, back to his weight against you, his breath on your neck, the taste of his lips.

Back to the way he didn’t remember.

And now here he was, out on a date, completely unaware of the emotional chaos he’d left you in.

You returned to your dorm that night with your brain fried and your heart somewhere under your shoe.

You flopped onto your bed face-first, ready to disappear into the mattress forever, when your phone buzzed.

Sy: getting drunk again tonight lol

You groaned, dragging your pillow over your head like it could block out both the light and your bad decisions. You tossed your phone aside with more force than necessary.

“He better not come here again tonight,” you muttered to yourself.

But even as you said it… a tiny, traitorous part of you kind of hoped he would.

And that was the worst part.

Of course he did.

Because why wouldn’t he?

You stared at the door for a solid five seconds after the knock. It was almost comedic at this point.

Like the universe had a twisted sense of humor and Sylus was its favorite punchline.

You dragged yourself up, already exhausted before you even turned the knob.

And there he was.

Leaning casually against the doorframe like he hadn’t been out on a date just hours ago, like he hadn’t already hijacked your emotional equilibrium last night.

The now-familiar scent hit you immediately—his signature cologne, warm and clean, now drowned under the unmistakable sting of alcohol.

Not subtle this time.

He smelled like he’d gone swimming in a cocktail shaker.

He grinned at you, lazy and lopsided. “Hey, wifey.”

You stared at him. Blinked once.

Then sighed. “I literally said, ‘He better not come here again tonight.’”

He tilted his head. “But I always come here.”

You resisted the urge to bang your head against the doorframe. “You have a room. A perfectly good room.”

“But yours has you in it,” he said, like it was the most logical argument in the world.

And just like that, your heart did the thing again—the flutter, the ache, the full-body sigh of someone dangerously close to caring too much.

You stepped aside wordlessly, letting him stumble in and flop onto the sofa with all the grace of a drunk swan.

He missed the armrest entirely and groaned into your throw pillow.

You closed the door.

“Don’t throw up on anything,” you warned.

“Never,” came his muffled reply. “I have standards.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sure you do.”

As you fetched the water bottle—again, you glanced over at him. Hair a mess, face flushed, shoes still on.

And yet, somehow, despite it all—despite the alcohol and the chaos and the absolutely maddening way he lived inside your head—he still looked like home.

And that was the problem.

You sighed—again—and knelt beside the sofa, already in caretaker mode. It was routine now. Predictable. You unscrewed the cap of the water bottle with one hand and gently lifted it to his lips, not even bothering to ask this time.

But tonight was different.

Because he didn’t drink.

He didn’t even move.

He just stared at you.

Silent. Still.

Your brows furrowed as you held the bottle there, confused. “Sylus,” you said softly, nudging the rim against his bottom lip.

Still nothing.

You looked up, properly meeting his gaze—and froze.

He wasn’t out of it this time. His eyes, though glassy, were clear. Awake. Watching you with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

Your hand slowly lowered the bottle.

“What?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

His head tilted slightly against the pillow, eyes never leaving yours. “You were biting your lip in class today.”

You blinked. “Wha—how do you even—?”

“I wasn’t that drunk,” he murmured, almost like an apology.

Your heart dropped.

He remembered.

He remembered.

The kiss. The things he said. The way he collapsed on you like you were something he could fall into without consequence.

He remembered everything.

Your voice caught in your throat. You straightened up a little, putting distance between you. “You said you didn’t remember.”

He smiled faintly. “I lied.”

And just like that, the air shifted—heavy, warm, dangerous. The room felt smaller. Your heart louder.

You didn’t know what to say. So you didn’t.

You just stared back, bottle still in your hand, feeling everything you’d tried to bury clawing its way to the surface.

He sat up with a sigh, rubbing a hand through his hair as if he could shake off the tension clinging to the air between you.

You watched him closely, bottle still in your hand, heartbeat pounding like a warning.

Then he looked at you—really looked at you—and said quietly, “I didn’t go on a date.”

Your brows lifted.

“I didn’t even drink tonight.”

That made you pause.

You stared at him, eyes narrowing slightly. And?

Your expression said it all. So?

He shifted, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced like he needed something to hold onto.

His frown deepened, not from annoyance but from something far more raw.

“Don’t you get it?” he asked, voice softer now—less teasing, more real.

You blinked.

No smirk. No sarcasm.

Just Sylus, stripped of his usual bravado, staring at you like he didn’t know what else to say—like the weight of what he felt had finally grown too heavy to carry without showing it.

And suddenly, everything felt louder.

The silence. The breath you didn’t take. The confession waiting just on the other side of his words.

Because maybe… you did get it.

You just weren’t sure you were ready to.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face in frustration like he couldn’t believe he was having to spell it out.

“Come here,” he muttered under his breath—low, almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it.

But before you could even react, his hands were on either side of your face, warm and certain, pulling you toward him.

And then—he kissed you.

Not like last night.

Not messy or sudden or slurred with alcohol and adrenaline.

This kiss was different.

It was gentle. Intentional. His lips moved slowly against yours, like he was trying to say everything he hadn’t had the courage to say out loud.

Like he wanted you to feel it—feel him.

There was no rush. No stumble. Just soft, quiet honesty.

Your hands, unsure at first, slowly rose to grip the front of his shirt. His thumb brushed along your cheek, steadying you, grounding you.

And for a moment, the noise in your head stopped.

No questions. No what-ifs. Just the feeling of him—real, solid, and heartbreakingly tender.

When he finally pulled away, barely an inch, his forehead rested lightly against yours, breath mingling with yours in the stillness between you.

“I remember everything,” he whispered.

“And I meant all of it.”

“I’ve liked you for a long time.”

The words settled between you like something fragile and warm, and terrifyingly real.

You barely had time to absorb them before he sighed, shaking his head with a look that was equal parts fond and exasperated.

“For someone who’s considered a nerd,” he muttered, thumb brushing against your cheek again, “you’re so stupid.”

Your jaw dropped slightly. “Excuse me?”

He gave you a look—the one that always came right before he said something that would both annoy and fluster you to death.

“You seriously didn’t notice? Two years of me practically living in your room, fending off every guy who looked at you twice, ‘accidentally’ falling asleep on your shoulder, telling you a Chris Brown song described what I wanted to do to you—”

“I thought you were drunk!” you hissed, flushing.

“I was,” he admitted, smirking. “But that doesn’t mean I was lying.”

You stared at him, heart a riot in your chest.

He leaned in again, voice softer now.

“I liked you even before I knew what to call it. When you helped me find the toilet on the first day, and I thought, ‘Well. That’s it. Guess I’m not letting her go now.’”

You blinked, wide-eyed. “That was… the first day of college.”

“Exactly.” He grinned, nose brushing yours. “And you’re just now catching up?”

You opened your mouth to argue. Nothing came out.

He laughed under his breath, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth. “God, you’re lucky you’re cute.”

You were still staring at him, wide-eyed, frozen in the moment like your brain had blue-screened.

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

You had so many things to say, but your thoughts were tripping over each other in the hallway of your mind, arms full of emotional baggage.

He just chuckled.

Low. Warm. Smug.

That infuriating smirk curved at the corner of his lips again, the one that always spelled trouble and somehow still made your heart flutter.

“You really are slow,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Guess I’ll just have to make it clearer.”

And before you could process that ominous statement—

He kissed you again.

But this time, it wasn’t sweet or tentative.

This kiss was deeper. Hotter.

Full of all the pent-up feelings he clearly hadn’t been hiding as well as you thought.

He pressed you back into the sofa, one hand cradling the side of your face while the other slid around your waist like he already knew he belonged there.

You gasped softly against his mouth, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt, body reacting faster than your brain could.

And he groaned—low in his throat, like just the sound of you was enough to unravel him.

He pulled back only a breath’s distance, lips barely brushing yours, voice rough. “Still think I’m joking?”

You couldn’t think at all.

And maybe, for once, that was okay.

You didn’t answer him.

You couldn’t.

Because the second your breath hitched, the second your lips parted like you might say something—he kissed you again.

And this time, it wasn’t hesitant.

It was consuming.

All heat and hunger and tension finally unraveling between two people who had been orbiting each other for far too long.

Sylus pressed you further into the cushions, his body aligned with yours like he belonged there. Like this had always been inevitable.

His hand slid from your waist to your hip, fingers curling just enough to make you shiver, while his mouth moved against yours with growing urgency—soft and then firm, teasing then demanding.

Your hands were in his hair before you even realized, pulling him closer, needing more. He groaned into the kiss, low and strained, like he’d been holding himself back for too long.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough with restraint. “Always walking around in those stupid sweaters, acting like you don’t know what you do to me.”

You whimpered as his mouth trailed along your jaw, down the slope of your neck, finding that spot just below your ear that made your back arch slightly into him. His name slipped out of you before you could stop it—breathy, half-plea, half-warning.

He stilled for half a second, like he needed to hear it again.

“Sylus,” you whispered, and just like that, the last thread of control snapped.

His hands were under your sweater now, fingers splayed across your waist, not rushing—just feeling. Like he wanted to memorize you. Commit every inch of you to memory.

You gasped when his lips found yours again, this time slower, deeper. As if he were trying to tell you something he didn’t quite know how to say.

And in between every kiss, every breath, every graze of skin, you heard it loud and clear.

I want you.

I’ve always wanted you.

Only you.

You broke the kiss with a gasp, lips tingling, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths.

Your hands were still fisted in his shirt, your bodies still pressed close, but you needed a second—needed to breathe. Because what the hell just happened?

“Holy shit,” you whispered, voice raw and dazed.

Sylus stilled, eyes searching yours, flushed and breathless. “Too much?”

You shook your head, still trying to catch your breath. “No. I just…”

Your brows furrowed, a stunned laugh escaping you.

“I’ve been walking around thinking you didn’t feel the same for two years?” you said, incredulous, voice cracking on the last word.

Sylus blinked, then tilted his head slightly, a small, helpless smile tugging at his lips. “You seriously didn’t know?”

“You hid it ridiculously well!”

“I practically moved into your dorm.”

“You ate my snacks and called me wifey. That’s not a confession, that’s just being annoying.”

He laughed, the sound husky and breathless. “I flirted with you constantly.”

“I thought that was just your default setting! You flirt with the barista.”

“I don’t press her against the sofa and kiss her like I’m about to lose my mind,” he muttered, his voice low, his thumb brushing along your jaw. “Only you.”

Your heart clenched, hard.

The air between you shifted again, softer now—less fire, more gravity.

He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. “You really didn’t know?”

“I didn’t want to know,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “I thought… if I hoped too much, I’d ruin it.”

His fingers curled gently around the side of your neck, grounding you. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

You opened your eyes and found him looking at you like you were the only thing that had ever made sense to him.

“I’ve been yours,” he said quietly, “since the first day you showed me where the toilet was.”

You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh—and kissed him again.

This time, you didn’t stop.

You kissed him like you were catching up on everything you hadn’t let yourself feel.

He kissed you like he’d been waiting for this moment since that first awkward hallway encounter.

There were no more games. No more pretending. Just whispered names and stolen breath, soft laughs between kisses, and the feeling of finally, finally being seen.

By the time you fell asleep tangled in each other on the sofa—his hand on your waist, your head tucked under his chin—it was quiet.

Not the lonely kind.

The peaceful kind.

The kind that only comes when you’ve stopped running from something… and finally let yourself fall.

You never thought much of why she would wriggle and kick up a storm in your stomach whenever he touched the swell of your belly, but you now had an inclination that it was because she didn’t like his hands there.

It was strange and upsetting, but he didn’t seem too hurt by it so far, only silently helpless as he watched you do everything. You were two weeks postpartum, so your emotions were already all over the place. It seemed as though Sylus was holding his own feelings back to make room for yours, and when you had asked him about it, he simply kissed your forehead and reassured you that he was fine. All while your screaming daughter cried for you against his chest.

Not that he opened up to you all that often. You did manage to get things out of him with a push sometimes, but he was like an unyielding gate, refusing to open to anyone.

Your exhaustion was only adding to the toll on your fragile emotions. The baby only wanted your touch, and sleep was almost impossible for you because of that very reason. Only you could feed her. Only you could soothe her. Only you could touch her.

That was one thing that was really getting to Sylus. The bloodshot whites of your eyes as you rocked the fussy newborn to sleep and fed her at all hours of the morning. The barely touched plates of food that ended up stone cold and in the bin. Not to mention the completely non-existent ten minutes you needed to at least have a wash without having to run out of the shower to her aid.

He must have felt quite useless in the weeks where you should be recovering, but he didn’t want you to worry about his feelings by indulging you in his thoughts. 

Your pregnancy had been smooth, ending with a good twenty-seven hours of rather torturous labour, and pushing that went on for an agonising two hours. It had all been worth it, though. Your little bundle of joy with tufts of platinum hair had finally greeted you both with a piercing wail, but eased her protests once placed against your heaving chest.

You just wished she would settle with both parents.

It was another day of desperate wailing, your arms becoming so heavy with the exertion of having no option but to hold her. You tried to put her in her pram for Sylus to push her around for a while, but her cries only increased to the point of her little face turning purple. You couldn’t sit and just listen to it, and you absolutely would not ignore her—no matter how much Sylus pushed for you to go and get some sleep.

“She wants me,” you say for what felt like the millionth time that week.

Sylus was evidently reluctant to stop trying, but he wouldn’t keep you from her. He conceded with a defeated huff, watching your every move as you gently lifted your screeching daughter out of the plush pram. Her screams died down quickly as you placed her against your chest, her ear-piercing wails whittling down to soft whimpers.

“Of all the dangerous paths I’ve crossed and violent challenges I’ve encountered, it’s our newborn daughter who finally defeats me,” he mumbles quietly, trying to make a lighthearted joke about it.

You tried to smile at his attempt to add a bit of humour to the situation, but the comment only made you cry. Hard.

“Hey.” He immediately stepped toward you, rubbing a large hand up and down your back soothingly. You had to give it to him, his patience with you in the last two weeks had been immaculate. “Don’t cry, sweetie.”

You couldn’t stop, your ragged breaths and shaking shoulders refusing to relent. “I d-don’t get it,” you bawl. “What are we doing d-differently?”

Sylus sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. His hand continued to rub soothing circles against your back to ease your upset. “Well, she did live inside you for nine months. Besides, you didn’t exactly like me either when we first met.”

He smiled faintly, tilting his head down to capture your gaze. Despite the obvious tease, he still seemed to be holding himself back. It was frustrating him more than he wanted to admit to you. You knew he was protecting your feelings, but you wished he would just show some sense of vulnerability.

You don’t dare set your sleeping daughter down in her moses basket, knowing full well that she would just wake straight back up. So the rest of the afternoon is spent with your tiny newborn curled up against your chest, a few feeding and changing breaks in between.

Once the day turned into night, nothing in the world sounded more appealing to you than a hot shower, a hot meal, and a hot cup of tea. But letting her scream and cry while you did that was not an option. It wasn’t fair on her, and it wasn’t fair on Sylus.

He didn’t leave you unless he absolutely had to throughout the day. You watched him every time he heard a little whimper from the baby, his hands flexing and twitching. Every time you had to get up to do something for her, he was either at your back or side.

He wanted to help.

The chef brought through a very large bowl of marinated chicken and pasta for you, upon Sylus’s instruction. As soon as the bowl was set on the little table beside your recliner chair, you almost began drooling. You hadn’t managed to eat much at all in the chaos, and Sylus wasn’t amused when you didn’t even get the chance to finish the two biscuits he’d brought you earlier in the day.

You reached a careful hand over to the fork, not even lifting it before your daughter began to wriggle and whine in your other arm. Dropping it immediately, you retract your hand, only making it halfway back to the fussy newborn before long, slender fingers wrapped themselves around your wrist.

“No,” Sylus says firmly. “Absolutely not.”

Your initial response is to immediately go on the defence. “She’s cry—”

“I know she’s crying,” he interrupted tightly. “I know. But you’re going to eat while your food is hot, and you’re going to do it without our screaming daughter on your chest.”

“But—” 

“No buts.”

He had that commanding look in his eye, the one that would intimidate most, but was only used on you when he was especially adamant on you doing something necessary for yourself. 

You were a little relieved to see him so passionate, if you were being honest. He had been treading on eggshells to not upset you or the baby for fourteen whole days, and it wasn’t good for anyone. You felt the tension on him every time you both managed to get into bed together for more than five minutes. He needed this little outburst.

“This needs to stop now. I’m going to figure her out, and you are going to eat. Alright?” His tone left no room for argument, and the more your daughter protested against your intention to eat, the more hungry and tired you felt.

It wasn’t easy, but you handed her off to him carefully, swallowing a lump in your throat. You couldn’t take your eyes off of her distressed little face as Sylus attempted to cradle her.

You were practically twitching, your legs about to push the footrest of the recliner down to retrieve her in the first thirty seconds she was away from you. Sylus noticed immediately, and pushed it back up with his foot before you could close it down fully.

“She’s not in any danger,” he said calmly, but his whole body was visibly tense. “She’s right here, I won’t leave the room. Just eat, sweetie.”

You wanted to protest further, but he wasn’t going to yield this time. His eyes remained trained on you until you finally sagged back into the chair, and it wasn’t until you picked up your fork that he finally turned away, focusing on the distraught newborn kicking up a storm against his chest.

He held her the way you did, one hand cupped over her head to keep it steady while the other hand softly patted her back. Why she didn’t want to be near him was an utter mystery to you, he wasn’t doing anything incorrectly. 

You couldn’t eat while the two most important people in your life were quite clearly in a distressing situation before you. “Are you alright?” You asked him gently, hoping that he would answer you.

“I will be if you eat,” he quickly responded, not looking at you.

Sighing, you stab a slice of the chicken onto your fork, just looking at it for a moment. Your brain had managed to kick itself into gear as you forged a new approach to his silence. 

This was an opportunity to head in the right direction.

“I’ll eat if you speak to me.”

Blood red eyes shot in your direction, an eyebrow raised. “Blackmail?”

You quickly shook your head. “You were right, this does need to stop. Starting with you shutting yourself off from me.” 

“Eat.”

The forked piece of chicken points straight at his unamused face. “Talk.”

He shook his head a little in clear annoyance, the stress consuming him. Your daughter continued to wail, immune to the warmth and safety of his arms. He was basically trapped after promising to remain in the room with you.

Your bleary eyes held his irises of rubies, neither of you conceding. It was a mental challenge to ignore the fragrant aroma of garlic and fresh basil beneath your nose, but you were not eating until at least one of the two beautiful people before you had calmed down.

Sylus visibly swallowed, finally giving in as he noticed your lack of a bluff. “Do you think she knows?” His voice was quiet, barely heard over your newborn’s cries.

“Knows what?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again, nodding his head towards the piece of chicken on your fork. You shovel it into your gob, eager for him to continue.

His eyes flicker down to your daughter before he speaks again. “Do you think she knows that I’ve done terrible things? Do you think that’s why she doesn’t like me?”

“I—” you grumble and roll your eyes as he nods to your plate of food again, waiting for you to take another mouthful that you end up having to speak through, “I don’t see how she could. Is that why you’ve been so quiet?”

The corner of his mouth curled upward ever-so-slightly. “Missing my tongue, kitten?”

You couldn’t help your own smile as his shoulders sagged a little from where they were practically touching his ears. It wasn’t often that he opened up to you like this. You almost always had to pry or throw in a proposition to coax him into speaking.

You took another bite of your food, moving the plate from the small table to your lap. “Do you really think she doesn’t like you?”

His smirk faded away quickly, a gentle thumb brushing over your daughter's head. She continued to cry, but the volume had dropped a little. “Do you not think that?” He asked.

You didn’t know how to answer that question. To tell the truth, you did think that, but not for the same reason he was thinking.

“I think she may be a little attached at the moment. We’re very different shapes and sizes. Maybe she feels—”

“Unsafe?” 

His tone had dropped an octave—something you didn’t think was possible considering the already bone-chilling vibrations of his voice. Never before had you witnessed him in a state of such vulnerability. He was insecure about this, and it was finally starting to show.

You went to stand up to be near him, but he immediately stepped forward to halt your movement.

“Eat.”

Not wanting to lose this free-speaking Sylus you had barely met before, you did as he said, twirling a fat mouthful of pasta onto your fork for extra brownie points.

You both remained in silence for a few moments, only your fork scraping against the bowl in your lap marrying with the sounds of your baby’s cries surrounding the small sitting room.

Sylus’s gaze didn’t leave the newborn cradled in his arms, a gentle sway in his hips as he tried to keep her moving. All you could do was study his composure, seeing it as it cracked.

After a moment, he looked back at you. “I don’t want to keep failing you.”

You coughed on the mouthful of the creamy pasta at his words, completely in awe of his confession.

Failing you? How did he get to that conclusion?

“You’ve done everything for her,” he continued, not allowing you to immediately reassure him. “I want to be able to do everything, too. For both of you.”

The all too familiar sting in your wet eyes built in intensity by the second, and you quickly found yourself sniffling.

Not only was he insecure about your daughter not feeling safe in his arms, but he felt that he’d failed you both in the past two weeks. It was heartbreaking for you to hear.

“Don’t cry—”

“You’re…fuck, Sylus. You’re not failing anyone,” you tuck your fork back into the pasta with a loud sniffle, ignoring his glare that silently demanded that you continue to eat. “How the hell did you come to that conclusion?”

He looked entirely reluctant to answer, his head dropping back down to stare at his tiny twin. You didn’t want him to stop speaking again, so you quietly picked your fork back up, hoping it would capture his attention.

The silence stretched between you as you made the effort to eat for his sake. Even your daughter's cries became a little weaker—like she was pitying him.

He didn’t look at you as he said, “I’m the bad guy. The boogie man. The kind of monster that parents threaten their kids with visits from in the middle of the night if they don’t brush their teeth before bed.”

“Not in our story, you’re not,” you quickly reassured him earnestly. “You’re the husband and father who keeps the monsters away from your family. That’s the only Sylus she will ever know. The real one.”

He still didn’t look up from the newborn, now almost completely silent in his arms, but you catch a subtle bob in his throat. You didn’t need him to respond to you. You knew you had said the right words to soothe that self-deprecating thought in his complicated mind. You could see it.

“Have I told you how perfect you were two weeks ago,” he asked, knowing full well that he’d told her every day since then.

Your mouth curled into a soft smile. Even after all these years together—after welcoming your first child into this scary, yet beautiful world—Sylus had no trouble giving you butterflies.

“I think you might’ve mentioned it,” you hummed softly.

And on that very note, the baby was fast asleep in his hold for the very first time in two whole weeks. His face didn’t reveal anything, but you knew he was relieved. All he wanted to do was make this easier for the both of you.

Finally, you had managed to figure out what the problem had been all this time.

“You were too tense,” you point out quietly, noticing how openly at ease he now was. “That’s what she didn’t like.”

He hummed in response, unable to tear his gaze away from the sleeping babe in his arms. You didn’t say anything further, letting him enjoy that special moment in peace while you proceeded to enjoy the rest of your meal.

Despite the challenges of becoming new parents, things were going to be alright from that point onwards.