ailu

he’d caught you in the kitchen, teetering on the stepstool as you tried to reach the sugar, and decided you needed his help. 

and after you lost the ensuing argument—there wasn’t much you could do with all the lemons, cups, and spoons floating over your head—you’d reluctantly accepted it.

so you’d put him to work. he squeezed, and you mixed. you’d been on squeeze duty at first, actually, until he’d slowly nudged you out of the way. a) i’m stronger, he’d said. and b), if the juice sprays in my face, it won’t affect me as much. you know i love sour things.

and so you worked in a steady rhythm, making batch after batch until gran decided it was bedtime. 

the next day, as you set up in the summer heat, caleb had to pull your bottom lip out from your teeth. it’s just so scary not knowing if anyone will come, you’d whined. 

look on the bright side, he’d offered, ruffling your hair. if it’s a slow day, we’ll have enough lemonade to last us a week. 

but as the sun rose in the sky, customers from all around the block trickled in. friends with their parents, the nice lady down the street—even the cranky old grandma with the snobby cat had stopped by. 

and caleb had been by your side the whole time. counting cash when the numbers got too high, fetching more ice when your supply melted, and chatting with the guests you didn’t know that well. 

order up, pip-squeak, he’d called, brandishing two full glasses with a toothy grin. those had been for the newlyweds a couple houses down. you always told him you wanted to be like them when you grew up, but his cheeks got red every time. you never could figure out why. 

when you’d gotten too hot, caleb had even poured you a cup of your own, dropping a few too many crinkled-up bills into your coin jar. it’s called a tip, he’d told you. people give you those when they think you’ve done a good job. 

the last few customers came by after work, when a soft evening breeze cooled the air. before you knew it, the sun was setting, and you wobbled back inside with the overflowing jar you insisted on carrying yourself. 

89 dollars was the day’s total, and with a loud cheer, you gave caleb his share of your earnings. he’d refused at first, but you’d forced him to take it, knowing he’d do the same for you.

He tries to swallow around the sandpaper in his throat, but he can barely move. He doesn't even know if he can open his eyes, settling instead for a half-assed groan.

Explosion, he thought, I had to escape...where?

"You're awake!" a voice cuts through the fog, "Caleb oh my god--".

Slowly the room comes into a sort of focus, and Caleb vaguely registers that he's in a medical facility of some kind. Not again. Before he can panic though, he turns to the sound of the voice and that's when he sees it.

There's an goddess sitting on his bed, holding his hand.

Caleb's heart starts to race, and the monitor next to him beeps angrily. There are purple shadows underneath her eyes from crying, was it something he did? and she's clearly exhausted, but there's no doubt about it. He had been sent a literal angel. Angels are real.

His jaw drops and he stares at her, mouth agape.

The angel looks at him, gaze searching his face, "Caleb are...are you alright? You probably don't remember but--".

Oh my god even her voice is perfect. Caleb thinks. Before he can stop himself, he blurts out-

" Who are you? Are you an angel?"

--

All around the room, jaws drop.

Your eyes widen in shock at Caleb's question. Zayne had warned you that he would likely be very disoriented when he woke up, and that his memories may not be fully intact after removing the Toring chip. You were prepared for that possibility when you signed his surgery waiver, after all, you were more concerned that Caleb was alive and free of the chip, even if it meant forgetting everything that you had built together.

But this wasn't what you were expecting.

Caleb continues to stare at you in wonder as he takes you in, purple eyes slowly going over your form, a look of naked innocent awe as he brings your hands to his cheek. Despite a lifetime together, you've never gotten used to the full intensity of his gaze.

"I must be dead..." he whispers, nuzzling your hand. "There's an angel here to take me away this time at least...right? That's what you're here for?"

Gideon leans forward, grinning, "Oh he's so high."

An emotion you can't name threatens to burst out of your chest.

His speech is slurred, but he continues to nuzzle into your hand, a dopey smile making its way across his lips. Suddenly he groans.

"Oh my god, you even smell good," Caleb declares, "You must be God's favorite. Seriously though, am I dead? If I'm not dead, why did they send a model to my room?"

Gideon starts laughing, "He's even more embarrassing stoned, holy shit".

--

Caleb didn't know that angels could blush. She's looking at him in shock, face warm, so lovely. So lovely, and she smells so good. In his delirium he can't place it, but he wants to live in the scent forever. If he's dead well, he better try to savor this feeling for as long as he can before it all turns to nothing.

She's trying to respond to him, but all she can manage is a very eloquent, "...What?" before turning to the door as a man with black hair steps in.

"You're not dead," this black haired man who looks like a doctor says, " She's your fiancee."

Caleb snorts in derision, "There's no fucking way. Me? Engaged to her? I'm dead and my head hurts, but I'm not stupid."

The doctor, Zayne or whatever based on his name tag, flips through a chart before turning to address her. "We don't know the full extent of his memory loss yet, but his physical signs are trending in the right direction. This is good."

He turns back to Caleb with a sigh, "I swear on my medical license. She's your fiancee. You're also not dead. Now can you sit up? I just need to run some assessments,"

-

Caleb looks at you, fingers tightening around your hand. "It's not funny to lie to someone," he insists. "Angel, are you both making fun of me?".

With some effort, you help Caleb move to a sitting position. He starts a little at the feeling of your hand on his bare back, and you can see his cheeks and ears flush red.

The entire time that Zayne runs his tests, Caleb stares you with a mixture of joy and disbelief. His mouth seems to be on autopilot, unfiltered sentences praising your looks, your voice, the clothes you're wearing, the entire time mumbling about how lucky he was. He's overjoyed when you slip his dogtags back on him, marveling out loud at how of course you picked the perfect gift for him. He listens with rapt attention as you describe your shared apartment, his proposal, the past few years. When you scroll to the engagement photos on your phone, his eyes well up.

"There's just no way. How did I get so lucky? My fiancee is you? You're perfect."

It's all a little bit much, and you giggle. You're not sure how it's possible, but Caleb smiles even harder upon hearing you. "You think I'm perfect?" you ask. "Really?"

With great effort, Caleb sits up straighter, " I know you're perfect. God you're so-- you're so-- really??? I'm going to be your husband?". Out of the corner of your eye, you see Zayne roll his eyes. Caleb had always been forthcoming with complimenting and praising you, but this was on a whole other level.

You clasp both of his hands in yours. "Look, here's the ring." It's a beautiful band, with stones that you had picked together. He had confessed afterwards that he had purchased the centerpiece with the first few paychecks he got from the DAA, and had been holding onto it ever since. "I'm your fiancee Caleb, I've been waiting for you to wake up from your operation."

Suddenly, he scowls, "I made you wait? God, I'm sorry I should've---" his voice falters as he suddenly looks at your lips, "You're-- can we...kiss? I can kiss my wife right? Can I kiss you?"

Wife.

You laugh, "We can kiss as much as you want", you say as you gently hold his face and press your lips to his.

Just like your first kiss, he stares at you after you pull away, his eyes filled with adoration. It reminds you of how the Caleb is when it's just the two of you, open, honest, exuberant, as warm as a beautiful summer day.

"Holy shit" he whispered, "We're gonna ...I'm not dreaming. You're real."

His exhaustion catches up to him, and he sinks back into the pillows. "Do I....have I treated you right?"

Your heart catches at the question. Despite his addled state, you can hear a trace of fear creep into his voice. The guilt and self-hatred omnipresent in his mind. Softened now, but forever there. His ever present concern for you, despite the state he was in, brings tears to your eyes.

"You're actually a stupid jerk sometimes, but you do," you say, "I love you so much."

His eyes start to flutter close, "Oh good...I have to...keep doing that. I gotta be with you forever."

You lean to kiss his forehead, "I need you forever too. Please stay by my side."

-

"Who are you? Are you an angel?"

Caleb groans as the crowd turns to the screen. Gideon promised a surprise was involved in his best man speech and could he pretty please use a projector too? Unbeknownst to Caleb, Gideon had managed to record the entire episode, and now he's playing it at max volume at your wedding.

"I'm dead and my head hurts, but I'm not stupid."

You turn to him, beaming, " You know I'm going to use this against you for the rest of our lives right?"

He scoffs in mock outrage, "As if you didn't already have enough ammo against me,"

The ammunition is my heart, my soul, it was promised to you since we met.

"I've always made it clear that I love you."

"Yeah but you think I'm an angel, literally sent from the heavens."

Caleb presses a kiss to your forehead, "That's what I thought since the moment we were kids, when we first met. Now I'm the lucky man with an angel for a wife."

When we first met in that sterile room, I knew my destiny was always going to be intertwined with you, is what he doesn't say out loud.

But it's always been obvious hasn't it?

a/n: This was originally way angstier at first but I scrapped all the backstory (it involved a ship exploding and like end-of-life flashbacks). Slinking back to my cave to write Xavier/MC/Caleb next I think. Reblogs and comments and likes are always appreciated!

The silence between them felt heavier than all the sirens that had blared for weeks.

Outside, the news played on loop.

"The lockdown will be lifted after being in effect for weeks... The Farspace Fleet assures everyone that the explosion in the Cascade District will not happen again..."

But none of that mattered now.

Because Caleb was looking at her like she was the only thing left holding him together—and the only thing breaking him apart.

His words struck like thunder in the dark:

"...And if one house isn't enough, I'll build you a whole maze."

She stared at him, chest aching, lungs tight.

"I'll decorate it with everything you could ever want. It will be the most beautiful, stunning garden you've ever seen."

He wasn’t smiling. There was no softness in his expression, no playfulness. Just conviction. Pain. Obsession dressed up in love.

"No one will be able to find you ever again. I'll protect you forever."

And that was when she realized: He wasn’t threatening her.

He was begging her.

Begging her to let him build a world where no one else could reach her. Where she wouldn’t be hunted. Controlled. Hurt.

Where it would just be them. Always.

"Caleb... You can’t just..."

Her voice trembled. Not out of fear—but out of something more dangerous.

Because part of her wanted it.

The world had broken both of them in different ways. The city was a battlefield. Her memories, a minefield. And the only thing that had ever truly felt safe… was him.

Even if he wasn’t the same anymore.

"You used to be... the one I always counted on. My constant. My safe place..."

She said it. And hated herself for it.

Because the words felt like a memory too far gone, like something that didn´t belong to them anymore.

"Is that really what you still think of me?"

His voice cracked. Like a dam giving way.

"...Your biggest mistake, is thinking I was ever willing to keep up playing that role."

And then it shattered.

Whatever had been left of Caleb’s mask, his restraint—it fell to pieces right there.

The echo of his words filled her chest like smoke, choking out the last of her resistance.

She looked up at him. Really looked.

At the man who had followed her into every fire. Fought through every shadow. Killed for her. Lied for her. Loved her.

And now, he was asking for one thing.

Her.

She didn’t even realize she had taken a step forward until his eyes widened.

Then she whispered—soft and wrecked:

—"Then don’t pretend anymore."

The silence snapped like a live wire.

"What?" His voice was hoarse.

She took another step. Closer now. Closer to the edge of the life they’d never dared imagine.

—"Build it." Her eyes didn’t leave his. —"Build the garden. Build the maze. If you still want me there… I’ll go with you."

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

"You're safest only by my side."

His hand twitched. Like he was still unsure this wasn’t a hallucination, some cruel echo of hope.

She closed the distance.

Slowly, carefully, she lifted her hand and touched his chest—right where his heart should be.

It was beating like mad.

And so was hers.

—"Then take me there." Her voice broke. —"Before I change my mind."

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆.

Golden light draped the orchard like a soft veil, seeping through the branches of the apple trees as they swayed gently in the late summer breeze. The leaves fluttered, whispering old secrets to the wind, and the fruit—round, red, sun-warmed—hung low, almost ready to fall. Wildflowers grew at the edges of the grass, dancing lazily in the heat. The wooden fence, half-covered in ivy, cast long shadows across the yard where the earth still remembered their footsteps.

It smelled like ripe apples and dry hay, like cinnamon clinging to the wood, like something familiar and far away. The garden, now overgrown with color, bloomed with clusters of Caleb’s Orange Crush, their fiery petals catching the glow of the sunset like little suns of their own. Bees drifted lazily from bloom to bloom, unbothered by time.

The house sat quietly at the edge of it all.

A humble countryside home, soft blue wood and white trim, worn by years and weather but strong—lived in, not broken. Its porch wrapped around the front like an embrace. One corner had a rocking chair that still squeaked, and the roof bore the stubborn nail Caleb had never gotten around to fixing. The windows reflected the orchard and sky in hazy, warm tones, the way memories blur at the edges.

Inside, the scent of baked apples and cinnamon lingered like a lullaby that never stopped. The living room glowed gold, filled with softness: old cushions, frayed quilts, a stack of books left open on the armrest. On the sideboard near the kitchen door sat a row of picture frames, slightly faded with sun.

One captured her—years younger, knees in the dirt, a straw hat shadowing her eyes as she smiled with flushed cheeks. Gloves too big for her hands, a bloom of Caleb’s Orange Crush in one palm. Another showed him, in a sleeveless tank stained with blue, his face freckled with paint splatters. He stood in front of the house half-painted, hands on his hips, grinning at her through the camera lens like he knew exactly what he was doing. Because of course he did. She was the one behind the lens.

They had built this life slowly. Carefully. With mistakes and laughter, sweat and shared silence.

And now, in the hush of dusk, they sat side by side on the old wooden porch, two worn chairs creaking softly beneath them. She was wrapped in a light blanket, her frame smaller now, curled like a question mark. Caleb sat close enough that their knees touched. His hand found hers without looking—an old habit, familiar as breath.

The sunset stretched long across the orchard, coloring the sky in apricot and wine. The apple trees swayed like they were nodding off to sleep.

“You ever think about it?” Caleb asked after a while, voice gravel-soft, worn by time but still unmistakably his. “What we gave up?”

She turned her head slightly toward him, catching the shape of him in the corner of her eye—silver hair unruly, lines around his mouth deeper, but eyes still full of quiet storms.

“Sometimes,” she admitted. “Late at night. When I hear a ship pass far above.”

He nodded slowly, thumb brushing along the back of her hand. A silence settled between them again, heavy and kind.

“And do you regret it?” The question didn’t sting. It simply hung there like dust in warm light.

She looked at him then. Really looked. At the faint scars near his temple. At the way his other hand rested on his thigh, fingers curled ever so slightly inward from age. She brought their clasped hands to her lips, pressing a kiss into the knuckles before resting it against her cheek.

“Never.”

His chest rose and fell with a quiet sigh, one that let years out all at once. He leaned forward just enough to let his forehead brush hers.

“Me neither, honey,” he murmured.

Their matching rings—simple, dulled with time—caught a last glint of sunset where their fingers tangled.

They stayed like that while the light faded, the apple trees whispering goodnight in the wind. And though the world had long since moved on without them, in this place—this home—they had everything they'd ever needed.

Each other.

5 You do something reckless and then smile about it You say “relax, I had a plan.” He hears: “I almost died, and I’d do it again, because I’m cute and unstoppable.” That smile? That grin you give when you know exactly what you did and you’re proud of it? That’s why he needs stress meds. And maybe a punching bag with your face on it. (Lovingly.)

6 You casually mention the girl he used to date You say it with a smirk, like it’s just some harmless teenage memory. But he doesn’t see her—he sees you. You, standing in the doorway that day. You, catching him with her, both of them half-undressed. And you looking at him like something cracked between you. Back then, you were off-limits. You were the girl he wasn’t allowed to want. So he wanted someone else. Easier. Safer. And now, years later, you bring it up like it’s nothing—while he’s still trying not to remember how badly he wished it had been you.

7 You weren’t his first kiss—but worse, he wasn’t yours It never comes up. Not out loud. But he remembers. Vividly. The hallway. The way your face lit up. The boy leaning in. You smiling. And Caleb—watching from across the room, fists clenched, jaw tight, playing the role of older brother when his whole body screamed mine. You never talk about it. But he never forgot. Never will. Because that moment should’ve been his—and someone else took it first.

8 You walk away during a fight, or shut down emotionally You go quiet. You pull away. You leave the room when things get tense. And for Caleb, that’s not a pause—it’s abandonment. He doesn’t yell. He goes still. Cold. Wounded in ways he doesn’t have words for. The silence is worse than any scream.

9 You cry—especially if it’s because of him You call it “space.” He calls it “psychological warfare.” You shut down. He short-circuits. Nothing drives him more insane than trying to fix something while you’re actively ghosting him across the living room. He’d rather you screamed. Threw something. Anything. But this quiet? This distance? That’s the one thing he doesn’t know how to fight.

10 You secretly try to uncover what he’s hiding from you You call it curiosity. He calls it a breach of protocol punishable by full emotional lockdown. You think you’re clever. He thinks you just walked into classified territory barefoot, blindfolded, and with a target on your back. You were never supposed to see that side of his world. And now that you have? He doesn’t know whether to yell, hold you, or lock you in a room with military-grade firewalls and a blanket.

🍎 Top 10 Things That Turn Caleb Into a Complete Fluff-Mess

You wearing his dog tags / uniform shirt / flight jacket Instant puddle. No chance. He sees you in his gear and his brain just... shuts off. All he can think is mine mine mine, and he gets this dumb, soft little smirk like he’s trying so hard not to combust.

You falling asleep on him—especially mid-conversation You’re curled into his side, mumbling something about dinner plans, and then: silence. He looks down, sees you asleep on his chest, and that’s it. Whole day ruined. Cancel all missions. He’s not moving.

You bringing him coffee exactly the way he likes it—without asking That quiet, thoughtful act? Hits him right in the soldier-shaped heart. He doesn’t even know how to process being taken care of, so he stares at the cup like it just proposed to him.

You absentmindedly touching him—fiddling with his fingers, tracing scars, playing with his hair He pretends he doesn’t care. He does. He cares so much he forgets how to breathe. Just turns into a warm, red-eared statue trying not to whimper.

You whispering “I trust you” or “I feel safe with you” in a soft moment Core memory unlocked. He stores that one like sacred intel. Will literally whisper it back to himself at 3 AM when he’s lying awake, missing you. It breaks him in the best way.

You clinging to him in your sleep / pulling him closer without waking up Caleb.exe has stopped functioning. He will lie perfectly still for HOURS if it means not disturbing that moment. Bonus points if you mumble his name while doing it.

You defending him when someone questions his methods or past He’s used to being the shield—not having someone stand in front of him. The second you raise your voice on his behalf? He falls in love with you all over again. Might even cry. Secretly.

You gently helping him out of his gear after a long day Soft hands on his buckles. A kiss to his shoulder. A low “You’re home now.” That’s how you make a Colonel melt. His fingers twitch like he wants to worship the ground you walk on.

You surprising him with something dumb and heartfelt, like a handmade gift or bad sketch of him He acts gruff—says “the hell is this, Pips?”—but then puts it in his locker or keeps it in his chest pocket for missions like it’s sacred treasure. Because it is.

You calling him “baby” / “handsome” / “sweetheart” when he least expects it He acts like it’s annoying. It is not annoying. It turns him into actual butter. If you do it with a teasing smile? He short-circuits. Might drop something. Might combust. Definitely blushes.

🩺 Top 10 Things That Make Zayne’s Calm Snap Like a Microsurgical Thread

You ignore his instructions when you're sick You had a fever of 102°F. He left explicit care instructions—bed rest, fluids, minimal movement. You, sweating and glassy-eyed, decided this was the perfect time to rearrange the furniture. When he came home and found you dragging a bookshelf across the room “because the light felt wrong,” he genuinely considered sedating you. Not as punishment. As damage control. For both of you.

You order greasy fast food instead of going somewhere “nutritionally viable” He offered to cook. You said no. Twenty minutes later, you’re eating fries from a paper bag while half of it spills on his clean table. You grin. He stares. Not angry at the food. Angry because you rejected his precision, then settled for processed chaos.

You leave wet towels on the floor after every shower He’s not sure when it started. Day three? Day five? But every time he walks into the bathroom and steps into cold, soggy cotton, something in him fractures. You claim you “forget.” He suspects a psychological experiment.

You casually mention spending time with male friends You think it’s harmless. Lunch with Caleb. Training advice from Xavier. You light up when you talk about them—and that’s the problem. Zayne doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t raise a brow. But the sudden over-fixation on his email inbox says everything.

You receive a speeding ticket. Forty miles over the limit. You wave it off like it’s a funny little anecdote. He sits in absolute silence, calculating the stopping distance of your car vs. standard reaction time at that speed. You think he’s judging. He’s actually trying not to scream.

You poke his ass. Specifically, between the cheeks. You call it “affection.” He calls it “emotional terrorism.” He flinches like he’s been electrocuted, whips around with murder in his eyes—and you’re giggling like a gremlin. Later, you regret nothing, but your thighs may beg to differ.

When you diagnose him with internet psychology You’ve read one book on attachment styles and watched three reels about emotional unavailability. Now you’ve decided he has "clinical avoidant tendencies with a hint of fear-based control fixation." He stares at you, deadpan, like he's about to perform your autopsy.

You keep spoiled food in the fridge and expired meds in the cabinet You say “it doesn’t smell that bad” or “maybe it still works.” His eye twitches. His gloves are already on. He’s not even mad at you—he’s mad at entropy. You’ve become its agent.

You watch reality shows. About infidelity. Willingly. You claim it’s “just background noise.” But he walks in and hears someone scream “that’s not even your baby, Kyle!” and your eyes are glued to the screen. His soul briefly leaves his body.

You washed his white lab coat. With your pink unicorn pajamas. It’s not just the color. It’s the betrayal. The symbol of his clinical neutrality now smells like bubblegum and looks like cotton candy. You say it’s cute. He looks personally violated by the washing machine.

🩺 Top 10 Things That Make Zayne Soft Against His Will

You bring him lunch at the hospital He never asks. You just appear—arms full of neatly packed containers, face lit up like this isn’t the third double shift he’s worked this week. He complains about the timing. The smell. The disruption. And then eats every bite with frightening focus. You leave. He stares at the empty container like it’s proof someone still believes he’s human.

You quote him back to himself like a philosopher You remember something he said weeks ago—some throwaway line about time or structure or entropy—and you drop it casually in conversation, like it’s wisdom from an ancient text. He doesn’t know how to react. You turned his logic into poetry, and he’ll never recover from that.

You wear the little seal keychain he made He didn’t think you’d keep it. Let alone turn it into your everyday keychain. But there it is—always with you, worn smooth from touch. You twirl it absentmindedly while talking to him, never noticing the way his gaze lingers. Never realizing how something so small can hit him so hard.

You put a photo of the two of you on his desk It appears one day. No fanfare. Just… there. A moment frozen in light, sitting quietly beside his surgical reports and diagnostic schematics. At first, he moves it to the edge. Then back to center. Now it lives next to his pen. He doesn’t talk about it. But it’s the only object on that desk he wipes clean with his bare hand.

His work shirt smells like you You borrowed it that morning, wore it while dancing around the apartment with wet hair and no real purpose. Hours later, when he pulls it on between rounds, the scent hits him like a loaded memory. He short-circuits mid-button. Everything feels warmer than it should.

You leave your phone with him while you shower No password. No hesitation. You toss it into his lap with a breezy “can you clear out whatever’s making it lag?” and vanish behind steam. He sits there, phone in hand, suddenly trusted with everything. He opens nothing. But the fact that you’d let him? That’s the part that shakes him.

You ask for his opinion on minor discomforts A papercut. A weird freckle. A suspicious sneeze. You hold out your hand, utterly serious, asking what he thinks. It’s laughable. Ridiculous. And it absolutely wrecks him. You could ask a dozen others—but you ask him. Like he’s the one who makes things better.

You’re on top He likes control. Precision. Strategy. But when you climb into his lap, all instinct and fire, hands braced on his chest and lips already parted—his brain stops cooperating. There’s something about you taking the lead that makes him unravel. Quietly. Violently. Completely.

You argue with him about complex theories—and mean it You don’t just nod. You push back. You challenge. You quote sources he hasn’t thought about in years. You spark. You flare. And he watches, fascinated, lips twitching with something dangerously close to pride. No one does this. No one dares. But you? You never flinch.

You whisper “I love you” in your sleep It’s not loud. It’s not even clear. Just a faint breath in the dark, like a dream half-remembered. But he hears it. Every time. And though he never says a word in return—not while you're sleeping—his fingers tighten around your waist like he's anchoring himself to the only thing that matters.

🎨 Top 10 Things That Make Rafayel Absolutely, Irrevocably Annoyed at You

You told him his painting was “nice” You stood in front of a piece that cost him three sleepless nights, a minor existential crisis, and two broken brushes—and said “Nice.” Just like that. No gasp, no poetry, no tears. He aged five years on the spot. Somewhere in the distance, a violin cried for him.

You dragged him to a cat exhibit You thought it would be cute. Enrichment. A bonding experience. Instead, he spent the entire time perched on edge, eyes darting like prey. You said “they’re just kittens.” He said nothing. He was too busy making sure none of them came closer than ten feet.

You cleaned his studio You thought you were being helpful. But you moved The Pile. The sacred, unholy, perfectly calibrated mess. Now he can’t find his favorite brush, and also he’s deeply offended by how cheerful you looked doing it.

You didn’t reply to his messages for over an hour He sent three texts, one meme, and a “thinking of you 💭” voice note. You replied 67 minutes later with “sry was showering.” By then, he’d already decided you were breaking up with him, joining a cult, or possibly dead. He had a whole monologue planned. And now you’ve ruined it.

You cut your hair He loved your long hair. Adored it. Worshipped it. You showed up with a sharp little bob and said “it’s just hair.” It is not just hair. It is the collapse of a visual era. He’s still adjusting. And by adjusting, he means mourning with wine.

You made fun of his driving You muttered “technically, you were meant to let the tram go first” He muttered “technically, silence is golden.” His driving is instinct. Vibe. Energy. If you didn’t want drama, you shouldn’t have sat in the passenger seat of a man who parallel parks like he’s in a ballet.

You woke him up too early He went to bed at 4 a.m. because inspiration struck. You woke him at 7:12 like it was nothing, and said “you have that interview, remember?” He does remember. He also remembers specifically telling you that if he ever falls asleep before sunrise, you are to let him die peacefully, cancel all earthly obligations, and throw his alarm clock into the ocean where it belongs.

You hid your phone screen when a message came in You were probably teasing. Just being playful. But now he’s spiraling. Who was it? Why the secrecy? What do you have to hide? Congratulations—you’ve just activated his inner opera villain.

You got jealous Which is absurd. He’s the one who invented possessive affection. But you being jealous? That makes him unreasonably indignant. What do you mean you “didn’t like the way that gallery girl looked at him”? Of course she looked. But he didn’t see her. He saw you.

You burned the bacon You say “it’s fine.” He says it’s charcoal. The entire kitchen smells like culinary war crimes. And now he’ll have to burn incense and replant three garden beds to recover emotionally. Who even let you near the stove? Who hurt you? Was it… the bacon?

🎨 Top 10 Ways You Accidentally Turned Rafayel Into a Purring, Love-Drunk Work of Art

You massage his head He’s mid-rant. Arms crossed. Absolutely furious about the lighting in that gallery. And then your fingers slip into his hair—and just like that, the war is over. His entire body melts like he’s been tranquilized. He’ll deny it later, of course. But the way he leans into your hand? Case closed.

You claim him in public It’s an art gala. He’s dressed to ruin people. And then you slip your arm through his, fingers just tight enough to say mine. You smile like a goddess. He pretends he’s unaffected. Inside, he’s writing vows in ten languages and considering printing matching business cards.

You actually listen to his advice He knows he can be dramatic. Unfiltered. Emotionally volatile. But when you sit there, really listening, nodding like his words matter—you destroy him. Suddenly he’s not the chaos. He’s the compass. And that? That’s love.

You share every detail of your day over dinner You talk about everything—the lady at the store, the funny email, the awful latte. You give him your day like a story, like he’s the only one you wanted to tell. He leans in, listens too closely, files away each emotion like a collector of rare art.

You’re always down for his wildest ideas It’s 3 a.m. He wants to hike 2.5 miles along the beach, take a boat to a tiny island, and watch the sunrise with wine. You say “give me five minutes.” And just like that, you become the only person worthy of his wildest, most beautiful chaos.

You let him photograph you Nothing compares. Not awards. Not praise. Nothing rivals the moment you look into his lens—bare, unfiltered, unashamed. Especially when you’re nude, glowing, and laughing like the world doesn’t exist. That’s when he falls in love with you all over again. And again. And again.

You let him choose your dress You come out in the one he picked. Elegant. Perfect. You spin for him. And the way he watches you? Like he made you. Like you’re the gallery and he’s the only one with the key. It’s not fashion. It’s trust. And he adores you for it.

You sing when you don’t know he’s home Wearing socks and earbuds, dancing with a broom, serenading your way through burnt pancakes. You’re off-key. Glorious. Real. And he stands in the doorway, silent, just watching. Because in that moment—you’re not posing. And he’s never loved you more.

You take care of him when he’s sick He has a fever of 99°F and insists he’s fading. You bring tea, stroke his hair, whisper that he’s “very brave.” You don’t mock him. You take his dramatics seriously. He will never forget it. He may also write you into his will.

You join him in the bathtub without asking He’s already halfway submerged, music playing, steam curling in the air—and then you slip in behind him, no warning. You nudge your legs around his hips, hand him your shampoo, and let him wash your hair while you giggle. He tries to act unimpressed. But when he starts kissing your toes? Yeah. You win.

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You break an agreement—even if it's “just a small one” It’s not about control. It’s about structure. You promised. And when you bend the rules—just slightly—he doesn’t react outwardly. No visible shift, no sharp breath. But something behind his eyes goes cold. Because for him, even small deviations mean recalculating everything. And that means risk. To you.

You create drama “just to get a reaction” You push. You poke. You escalate. And he gives you… nothing. No outburst, no flinch. Just that flat, unreadable stare while he mentally exits the room. He doesn’t get angry—he just shuts off the part of himself that wants to stay.

You refuse his protection—on principle You call it independence. He calls it a strategic vulnerability wrapped in pride. He won’t argue. He’ll just be one step farther back the next time, quietly cataloging how to stop caring just enough that it won’t kill him if something happens.

You call him cold—especially when he’s holding himself together for you You see stillness. He feels restraint. You accuse. He remembers what it takes to not become the darker version of himself. If only you knew how much energy it took to stay composed. If only you knew it was for you.

You’re late Five minutes. Ten. No message. No explanation. And his pulse ticks upward—not with impatience, but with pure, trained alertness. He starts looking for signs. Traffic reports. Emergency alerts. By the time you arrive, he’s smiling. But it’s the tight kind. The kind that says never again.

You skip training You’re tired. You had a long day. You say you’ll make it up later. He doesn’t argue. He just recalculates survival probabilities and mentally adds you to the list of people who might die because they were unprepared. And he will blame himself for letting you get soft.

You pull away from his touch when you're angry It’s not the rejection. It’s the meaning behind it. He reaches out—small, careful, calculated—and you shut the door in his face with a single backward step. He doesn’t try again. He doesn’t ask why. But the space you leave behind? It echoes.

You use a photo of Lumiere as a bookmark You think it’s cute. Maybe even sweet. He sees it—and freezes. He’s not jealous. Not exactly. But the idea that you might admire that version more—the legend, the mask, the sharpness—it unsettles something deep. Something he can’t name.

You secretly believe you’re not good enough for him You never say it out loud. But he sees it—in your deflections, your nervous jokes, the way you doubt his love like it’s a glitch. It doesn’t anger him in the usual sense. It just…hurts. Because you’re the only one who never had to earn it.

You throw yourself in front of him during a mission It’s instinct, you say. Split-second decision. You didn’t even think. And that’s the problem. He does. Always. Every variable, every movement, every risk is accounted for—except you breaking formation to protect him. You think it’s brave. He sees it as catastrophic miscalculation. Not because you acted without logic. But because you decided his life was worth more than yours. And that? That’s the one conclusion he refuses to accept.

✨Top 10 Things That Quietly Break Xavier’s Walls and Leave Him Unreasonably Soft About You

When you start reading the same book he’s readingYou don’t announce it. You just show up with the same title, a few chapters behind, and start casually asking questions. He plays it off. But inside? He’s spiraling. Because this—this—is how you speak his language. Silently. Precisely. Together.

When you knock on his door like you’re trying to break it downIt’s loud. Impatient. Inappropriate for the hour. But he knows that knock. That rhythm. That you. You need him. Not his solutions. Him. And somehow, that chaos pounding on his door feels more like home than anything else.

When you hug him from behindYou wrap your arms around his torso mid-task, face pressed between his shoulder blades, palms splayed across his chest like you’re anchoring yourself to something ancient and steady. He stills. Every time. Like someone just whispered a secret to his bones. He never asks why. Never moves away. He just tilts his head slightly—listening, as if your silence said everything he needed to hear.

When you touch his sword (the actual weapon, calm down)He never lets anyone handle it. Not even for cleaning. But your fingers skim the hilt, gentle, curious, reverent. And somehow… it’s okay. You’re not just touching steel. You’re touching him. And he lets you.

When you act like a little girlYou scrunch your nose. Say something ridiculous. Blush like you didn’t mean to. And he watches—utterly disarmed. Because he knows exactly what you want. You want him to carry you. Wrap you up. Keep you safe. And he will—without hesitation.

When you join him on a morning runYou complain. You lag. You swear this is “not your vibe.” But you still show up. Same hour. Same route. And when you match his pace for those few precious minutes? He doesn’t say it—but he’s proud. Painfully proud.

When you share your dreams—and say “we”You’re rambling. Light spilling from your words. Talking about the future, the maybes, the next steps. But you don’t say I. You say we. And that sound? That tiny shift in grammar? It settles deep. Irrevocable. Permanent.

When you make matching braceletsYou say it’s silly. Handmade. Slightly uneven. There’s a charm shaped like a rabbit. He never takes it off. Not in combat. Not in sleep. It rests against his wrist like a pressure point—and grounds him better than anything else.

When you remember his habitsYour shopping list always includes his cinnamon. His brand of shampoo. The exact instant noodles he pretends not to love. You don’t make a show of it. You just know. And that knowing? It destroys him in the softest possible way.

When you trust him completely in bed—even when his darker side surfacesThere’s a moment—quiet, charged—when the softness shifts. He waits. Watches. Braces for resistance. But you don’t pull back. You open your hands. Arch into him. Let him take control without fear. That? That’s what breaks him. Not the pleasure. The trust.

🖤Top 10 Things That Push Sylus Into Maximum Sarcasm and Mildly Homicidal Disapproval

Your outdated, unreliable weapon Yes, he gets it. It’s vintage. It’s “standard issue.” It’s approved by the Hunters Association. Congratulations. That won’t matter when it jams and gets you killed. Every time you return one of the sleek, upgraded firearms he hand-delivers like he’s your personal armory concierge, he has to resist asking if you've already made a draft of your death wish. Alphabetically sorted. With floral headers.

You chew gum—and pop it It’s not the gum. It’s the snap. The sudden, violent pop of sugary air bubbles that hits his trauma response like a trigger. He knows it’s just a noise. His shoulder still twitches. He’s this close to reaching into your mouth and extracting the gum like a gentleman. A very sarcastic, deeply annoyed, half-feral gentleman.

You try to shake your tail (him) You use stealth tech. You block your signal. You go dark. Adorable. You’re forgetting that the very system you’re relying on was developed by his own syndicate. The only person who ever really evades Sylus is Sylus. And maybe the cat that lives under his car. But not you. Never you.

You don’t introduce him as your boyfriend to your old classmates You panicked. He gets that. You called him “a friend.” And now he’s deeply committed to the bit. For the next seven days, every time you said anything, he replied with “Of course, as your friend…” in front of waiters, dealers, and one extremely confused ambassador. You only managed to shut it down by hastily posting a photo of you two with the caption “my boyfriend and the love of my life.” Acceptable recovery. Barely.

You refuse to use his resources His private jet? Untouched. His cars? Collecting dust. His black card? Sitting unused like some kind of insult in your purse. You say you’re “independent.” He says you’re actively offending his entire lifestyle philosophy. Do you have any idea how disrespectful it is to ignore an entire walk-in wardrobe prepared for you in his estate? Honestly, it’s almost admirable. Almost.

You once smoked a cigarette, and he saw it He didn’t say anything. At the time. Just looked at you. Silently. Like someone had drop-kicked a kitten in front of him. He’s not judging. He’s just picturing your lungs in an ashtray. And adding another page to your death wish list.

You speak in riddles and expect him to “get it” You want something—time away, a trip, his attention—but instead of asking, you sigh dramatically and murmur, “It’s fine. I guess some people just don’t want to escape the city with their girlfriends…” He blinks. Slow. Dangerous. “Was that a request, a riddle, or an emotional booby trap?” If you want something from him, Kitten, try using nouns and verbs. Not cryptic guilt puzzles.

You suggest another woman would be “perfect for him” It’s a joke. Offhand. Barely a breath. But your voice wavers—just slightly—and that ruins it. He doesn’t want her. He doesn’t want options. He wants you. And now, thanks to your charming lapse in self-worth, he has to waste the rest of the evening reminding you that this face, this power, this entire empire already belongs to someone. Guess who.

You sneak up on him You never mean to. But somehow, you're always the one person who slips past every alarm, every trained instinct, and ends up whispering behind him when his brain is still in kill mode. It takes everything in him to not react on pure reflex. You think it’s cute. He thinks it’s potentially catastrophic.

You don’t believe him when he says he’s fine Yes, he’s bleeding. Yes, his shirt is soaked. But he said “it’s a scratch,” and when he says that—he means it. His body heals like a myth. Your worried face? It makes something in him ache. Because the real wound isn’t on him—it’s in you, for thinking he’s anything less than unbreakable.

🖤 Top 10 Things That Make Sylus Dangerously Soft for You (And Yes, He’s Keeping Score)

When you finally spend his money It started with coffee. Small. Harmless. But the alert hit his phone and, for a moment, he genuinely wondered if his card had been stolen—until he saw your name. And something in him shifted. Not because of the cost. Please. He could buy the city it was brewed in. No, it was the fact you used it. You. Willingly. Now? You’re bolder—little dresses, shoes, jewelry you don’t need. And every time you do, he rewards it like you just proved you understand the assignment: what's his, is already yours.

When you give orders to his men like you're the boss You don’t ask. You instruct. Calm, certain, completely in charge. One of his men hesitates—just once—while you’re directing them to rescue a terrified kitten stuck in a tree. Sylus doesn’t interfere. He just watches, arms crossed, a grin tugging at his mouth as armed professionals scramble to obey you like you're the patron saint of lost animals. Somewhere in his mind, he’s already fitted you for a crown. With tiny cat ears.

When you secretly pet Mephisto The mechanical raven used to drive you insane. Now? You’re sneaking him treats and absentminded scratches under the jaw. Sylus sees it. Says nothing. But deep down, he knows: if you’ve accepted the bird—you’ve accepted all of him. And that’s lethal. To him.

When you make him a playlist You never explain them. Just send a link and say nothing. But he listens—every time. Alone. In his car. In the bath. Eyes closed, calculating your every choice like it’s encrypted intel. Each track? A hint. A mood. A coded message from you to him. He doesn’t ask for them. He just waits for the next one. And when it arrives, he treats it like gospel.

When you leave a trail of chaos in his car Your hair on the seat. Your gum wrappers in the cup holder. The seat so close to the wheel he practically has to fold in half. And the music? A full-volume love ballad ready to ambush his eardrums at ignition. It's obnoxious. It’s inconvenient. It’s perfect. His life, now featuring you.

When you eat from his plate You swore you weren’t hungry. You said “no carbs this week.” And now? You’re stealing fries from his hand and dipping into his steak sauce like it’s your birthright. He doesn’t stop you. He just watches you chew with that look that says: mine. forever.

When you talk and talk and talk Something happens. You spiral. Words spill. Thoughts tangle. You’re not even aware you’re rambling—but he is. He listens to everything. Stores it all. Because there’s something magical about your voice when it’s unfiltered. You don’t realize it, but he falls a little harder every time you forget to censor yourself.

When you crawl into his lap while he’s working He’s in the middle of paperwork. Calculating things. Dangerous things. And suddenly—you. Right there. Knees on either side, arms around his neck, like the world’s most beautiful interruption. He tells himself he needs to finish. But his hands are already on your hips.

When you call and ask for help A jar. A stuck zipper. A ride. It doesn’t matter. You’re a trained hunter—you’ve faced things with claws, fangs, and no name. But you still call him. Because you want him. And that? That wrecks him in ways he’ll never admit. He’s already on his way before you hang up.

"I'm sure it looks pretty, I'm really thankful!" You winced as you adjusted your sleeve to cover more of your skin as one of your fingertip painfully stuck to the cold surface. "But I'm scared I might drop it, and we're in the middle of the street."

You were expecting an offer to perhaps hold the box, maybe open it for you and pass the flower instead but - "Then let me take you somewhere private so you don't have to struggle -"

"On second thought, I just realized I have something urgent to go to!" Red flag, red flag, red flag. You didn't even hesitate to show your defiance as you evade his hand that wanted to hold your wrist, quickly walking backward towards the bazaar's main doors. "Thank you for the gift! We can talk about it next time!"

And you disappeared behind the double doors, steps heavy as you made haste to your home before the stranger could see which direction you went to.

In the safety of your home, you couldn't help but laugh a breathless laugh at what you thought was exaggeration. It's not the first time you met a persistent suitor, nor received an odd gift, but somehow that foreigner just rubbed you wrong.

Perhaps next time you meet, you can offer an apology for your actions. If the gift is good, at least.

Looking at the glass case on your coffee table, you can help but admire it now that you weren't being pressured to. It was thick enough that it might not even break if you were to drop it from shoulder height, but the lid was made of a thinner material to see the content inside - if there wasn't a fog rolling inside it.

Pulling the lid off and quickly putting it down on the table before the frostbite hits your nerves, you watch in awe as the fog inside seemingly spills over the walls of the container on to the tabletop.

The flower itself looked like it was made of a deep blue glass with gold-like pollen surrounding an illuminated pointy crystal in the middle. There are also icy crystals nestled between the other petals. This is definitely from outside of Sumeru, you surmised as you plucked it off the dry ice bedding.

It was cold to the touch, the frostbite biting painfully like pinpricks on your fingertips before it numbed away almost immediately. You only got to admire it for a few seconds before your limbs started to feel heavy.

Bracing yourself on the table, your body started to slump forward against your will until your arms sent the glass and the ice off to your tiled floor. But you didn't hear a single thing when you should have heard the loud clatter, no, instead a piercing ringing sound invaded your ears.

Everything felt so heavy and so cold, yet you could feel your skin breaking out into a sweat. What's happening to you? Trying to focus on your dwindling breathing, your barely open eyes caught sight of your front door opening, a black and white figure entering your home.

It only registered in your mind that everything is washed in monochrome colors. But you know that build anywhere even without color.

Only did you hear Alhaitham's muffled call of your name did you finally feel safe enough to close your eyes.

Investigation

Alhaitham praised himself for following his gut feeling when he passed by your house that day, hearing the muffled but loud sound of items falling on the ground. Then a standstill.

If he had let it go as a mere accident, he wouldn't have been able to see the state you were in and administered the proper first aid: body cold and covered in sweat, nails a purplish blue, heartbeat slow and breathing low, and that darned flower slowly freezing your fingers.

He was admittedly scared beyond insanity, the usually well-kept Scribe was a mess upon arrival, words louder than he wanted as he demanded for a doctor.

Only when you stabilized did they break the news to him: symptoms that match syncope, but with a side effect of paralysis. The recovery is slower than any of the cases they had dealt with and so there was nothing they can do without any leads other than to wait.

Even the best of the Amurta scholars cannot identify the flower when he asked around, careful not to touch the flora itself. The powerful Akasha terminal had nothing to offer either, restricted records exhausted yet yielding no results.

Alhaitham rarely left home at this point, only leaving when there was a lead or something to get when you request it. His work as Grand Scribe was forgotten to focus on his goal, and when the Grand Sage himself visited to reprimand him for his work ethic, the only answer he got was to bring his work to him instead.

Day and night he spent his time glued to his study table with a permanent frown, papers stacking to a tall pile either from the Akademiya or his research, never once stopping until his desk was clear.

Kaveh initially thought that Alhaitham was playing you with a loveless relationship when he first heard of your relationship. But as he stood by the doorway, presence unnoticed by the Scribe as he fought to stay awake for 3 days now, he remembered that the man had always had a strict work setup:

Alhaitham never brought his work home, always putting a boundary between his work and personal life.

Yet here he was, throwing away his stability and vices to help you. Kaveh had never been so convinced that the Scribe was truly in love.

Recovery

The idea of kicking Kaveh out of the house crossed his mind once when he decided that you had to stay under the same roof until you recovered. He didn't have an extra room and the only other room up to his standards would be his -

And so began your confinement to his bedroom. With how you spend more time staying there than him sleeping in his own bed, it may as well have been named your room.

The first few days of recovery passed by quickly on your end, as the fatigue and the lack of freedom to do anything quickly coaxed you to long period of sleep. Your lover stuck by your side the whole time to make sure you at least drank and ate something, even if they are in small increments.

But the situation came crashing down in your mind one day, Alhaitham finding you crying quietly, eyes wide with fear, chest heaving with desperate breaths. You couldn't even squeeze his hand when he held it close, couldn't reply when he asked if you're struggling to breathe. He was also powerless on that situation, unable to do anything but hold you close until you cried yourself to sleep.

It was embarrassing, demeaning even, having to be taken care of like this. Alhaitham became your arms and legs, practically nothing without him, and on more than one occasion the thought affected you more than your condition.

After all, your relationship with Alhaitham is still in a fragile state. Not quite friends yet not quite lovers - before this incident, he was still in the process of courting you. Your wary glances towards him when he's caring for you may be obvious, but whether he noticed or not, he never addressed it.

Ever since the start of your care, Alhaitham had developed a habit you never foresaw: how he's always holding your limp hand. While he's not exactly aversive to physical affection, he was never this confrontational about it.

Every time he's in the room, the first thing he does is hold your hand and only letting go when absolutely necessary. Often you find your eyes lingering there, guilty that you can't squeeze his hand.

One day, with the pillows propped up against the headboard so you can sit up and rest against it, you were in the middle of teasing Alhaitham about the memory of your first date when his head snapped towards his hand.

His eyes were wide and bewildered as he squeezed your hand, and that's when you realized it - your fingers twitched in response to the pressure. "Do that again." And soon, you managed to curl your fingers, loosely wrapping around his own.

Progress, it was progress. With your blurry vision and happy tears, you do not notice the way Alhaitham's eyes glossed over in unshed tears, head bowed as he brushed his lips over your hand.

With your hope reignited and your energy returning from the prospect of recovery, the gloom that hangs over the Scribe's shoulders started to dissipate.

Whenever you feel sore from being in bed all day, he would call up a massage therapist with your consent. A few visits after, instead of the therapist he'll start massaging your arms himself daily.

Daily check-ups are a thing, by the way. Testing your grip and the weight your hand can hold, how high you can lift and twist your arms, at some point he stopped helping you to sit up (not because he's neglecting you now, he simply knows you'd rather not be babied all the time).

And as the road to recovery became clearer, you can see Alhaitham also change with you. More open with his emotions and feelings, doing things out of his norm (reading you story books from Inazuma to pass the time, ESPECIALLY when he started voice acting the lines), and generally just a stark contrast to how he was before the incident.

Your doubts and fears that Alhaitham would leave after taking up the burden of helping you soon disappeared. Leaving nothing but love-stricken smiles and warmth.

Aftermath

You'll never know the full extent of his research and sacrifices to find out your attacker and your illness. So you were surprised to find the General Mahamatra visiting to inform Alhaitham that they had found the suspect.

The Scribe carried you to the Akademiya with Kaveh tagging along. And when you saw the sight of the Snezhnayan merchant, the fatui agent being escorted to his trial in chains, your lover passed you to Kaveh.

Your bubbling fear at the sight of the criminal was replaced by shock as you all watch Alhaitham pull his arm back and deliver a right hook to the man's now broken jaw. No one, not even the Matra, dared to reprimand him.

Everyone knew the crime the criminal committed by now. After all, the whole of Sumeru had seen the Scribe walking around with you in his arms or in crutches, always by your side as you slowly regained control of your lower-half.

Your unfaltering resolve and tireless effort had everyone respecting you, some subtly helping here and there to make things more accessible for you.

In turn, the citizens and scholars of Sumeru began seeing Alhaitham more as a human than just the Akademiya's lunatic.

The flower was an extinct flora once found in Snezhnaya's tundras. It is the only surviving sample and the extent of its effects is still under research in the Amurta. When you asked about the criminal one day, Alhaitham simply said that you didn't need to worry about him anymore.

A full recovery would never be a thing and you accepted that fact long ago. But walks became your favorite past time with Alhaitham after being stuck in his room for months.

And now you only needed a cane to bring to your walks, the one you have now was a gift that he commissioned from Kaveh, its design and gems fashioned to mimic the style of his clothes. It was his gift for your first date after you became stable enough to walk by yourself.

One night, you quietly and carefully tiptoed from your shared room to sneak up behind Alhaitham, slightly making him jump when you wrapped your arms around his shoulders over the back of the couch.

Slightly turning his head, he took note of the absence of your cane. "I love you." His hand on your twitched for a second and you thought for a second that he stopped breathing. But only when he squeezed your hand did he finally reply, "I love you." Exchanging those three words for the first time.

Fun Fact: the flower is actually the flower in the Blizzard Strayer artifact set!