sweetiz :pp

Xavier

You’d been on edge all week.

First, the joint operation with UNICORN ran two days longer than scheduled. Then came the back-to-back check-ins, debriefs, and weapon calibrations. No sleep. No food you liked. No soft touches. Just hard floors and glowing screens and people who spoke too loud.

And Xavier?

He’d been there. Beside you every step of the way—silent, focused, efficient.

You didn’t blame him.

He wasn’t the problem.

But he also wasn’t the solution.

Not yet.

Not when you needed him to be a little less Hunter and a little more… Xavier. Just Xavier.

The one who wraps you in his coat when the ship gets too cold. The one who lets you hold his hand under the table. The one who doesn't smile often, but always makes it mean something when he does.

You hadn’t touched him once since the mission started. You hadn’t even asked.

You were trying to be strong.

Trying so hard.

And then?

It was something dumb.

You’d finally made it back to your quarters. Kicked your boots off. Flopped on the bed like a body without bones. And when Xavier followed you in—still in uniform, collar slightly wrinkled—he didn’t say anything.

Just stood there.

And blinked.

“Do you want to run diagnostics together?”

You burst into tears.

Real, wet, ugly tears. The kind that crawled up your throat like a betrayal and spilled out without permission.

Your hands curled into the blanket.

Your whole face scrunched.

“No,” you sobbed. “I don’t want to run anything. I want a hug.”

He didn’t move for half a second.

Just stood there with his brow furrowed, processing the unexpected data point that was you, mid-meltdown.

“...You're crying.”

“Obviously,” you sniffled.

“Was it something I did?”

“No!”

“Something I didn’t do?”

“Yes! I mean—no, but also yes—I just—” hiccup “—I’m so tired and I missed you and I didn’t want to distract you and—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

Because Xavier crossed the room in two strides and scooped you into his arms.

Not clumsily.

Not awkwardly.

Like it was second nature.

You buried your face in his chest, sobbing like a storm, and he just held you—arms locked around your waist, one hand smoothing over the back of your head like he’d read a manual for this and memorized every step.

“You were holding it in, weren’t you?” he murmured.

You nodded, hiccuping.

“You don’t have to.”

You blinked up at him, eyes red and puffy. “But I didn’t want to be annoying.”

He tilted his head, completely serious.

“You’re not annoying. You’re soft. Soft is good. Soft means you’re still human.”

That broke you again.

So he sat down on the edge of your bed with you in his lap and let you cry it out. Quiet. Gentle. Unmoving.

And when you finally calmed?

He pressed a kiss to your temple and whispered:

“Next time, don’t wait until it hurts.”

Then he added, awkward but earnest:

“You can crawl into my lap any time. I won’t mind.”

He paused.

“Actually, I might hold you hostage. Just a little.”

Zayne

You hadn’t cried all day. Not during the briefing. Not when you got scolded for missing your last health check. Not even when you dropped your favorite pen down the elevator shaft.

You’d held it together.

Barely.

Zayne had checked in earlier—his usual, low-effort affection. A glance across the hall. A muttered “you look like you forgot to sleep again.” A squeeze to your shoulder as he passed you in the lab.

It was enough to keep you going. For a while.

But then you had your appointment.

Your routine appointment. Just a basic follow-up.

And he walked in with that same unreadable expression, reviewing your chart like your stats were the only thing that mattered.

“BP looks low. Sleep irregular. Protein intake’s—what is this—laughable.”

You smiled, weakly. “Sorry. I’ve been off.”

He didn’t look up.

“You think your body runs on caffeine and stubbornness?”

“…Maybe?”

And then, without warning—

You burst into tears.

Zayne looked up sharply. “What—”

You curled your hands in your lap, sniffling hard. “I’m sorry—I'm not trying to be difficult—I just—”

He dropped the tablet.

Didn’t set it down.

Dropped it.

It hit the floor with a heavy thunk as he stepped forward, hands frozen in the air like he wasn’t sure where he was allowed to touch you.

“What’s wrong? Where does it hurt?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know.”

And that—more than anything—shook him.

Because he couldn’t fix it. Couldn’t bandage it. Couldn’t run a test or prescribe a pill.

He could only watch as your face crumpled, your shoulders hunched, and the tears kept falling.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he asked softly, crouching in front of you now.

You hiccuped. “Because it’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

“You’re busy.”

“I’m not now.”

“I didn’t want to be dramatic.”

“You’re not.”

“I just—” sniff “—wanted a hug.”

And that’s when Zayne—your too-serious, sharp-tongued, emotionally constipated doctor boyfriend—opened his arms.

No hesitation.

Just a breath. A shift of his shoulders.

And then?

You crawled right into his lap.

He let you.

Held you.

Rested his chin on top of your head and finally, finally let his hands move—one at your back, rubbing slow, steady circles; the other covering your knee, grounding you.

“You should’ve said something,” he whispered. “You don’t have to wait until it breaks you.”

You whimpered. “I don’t like being like this.”

“I do.”

You blinked. “What?”

He kissed your temple.

“I like when you let me take care of you.”

And then, after a beat—

“Next time you feel like crying… tell me. I’ll schedule you in for urgent cuddling.”

You hiccuped a laugh against his chest.

“That’s not real.”

“It is now.”

Rafayel

You’d been having a rough afternoon. The kind where nothing major went wrong… but everything felt like too much.

You’d overslept. Missed a call. Lost a drawing you'd been working on for three days. And to top it all off?

The tailor messed up the sleeves on the outfit Rafayel had commissioned for you—and you hated how it fit. You were supposed to wear it to his gallery opening tomorrow.

You didn’t want to seem ungrateful. You didn’t want to ruin his vibe.

So you smiled through it. Even giggled a little.

Until he walked into the room, holding one of your sketchbooks that had fallen behind the shelf.

“This yours?” he asked, flipping it open. “Ooh. A whole page of me with devil horns. How flattering—wait, is that me in a crop top?”

You were already crying.

It happened too fast to stop it. Too sudden to explain.

One second, you were standing there, trying to keep your voice steady.

The next?

Tears.

Big, shimmering, silent tears.

Rafayel blinked. “Wait—wait, are you—are you crying?”

You sniffled. Looked down. Nodded miserably.

He panicked. “Why?! Was it the crop top? I thought it was funny—oh my god, do you hate me—?”

You shook your head.

He dropped the sketchbook like it burned.

“Sweetheart. Babe. My muse. My soul. What happened.”

You mumbled something about the dress and the drawings and the day being stupid and—

“No, no, no. Come here.”

He dragged you into his arms like he was the one falling apart.

You collapsed into him instantly.

“I’m sorry,” you sniffled. “I’m being dramatic—”

“You’re being adorable,” he said into your hair. “Also pathetic. But mostly adorable.”

You laughed through the sob.

“See? You’re already recovering.”

He picked you up. Just—picked you up.

Carried you over to the couch like a precious sobbing sack of flour and sat down with you in his lap.

“You wanna cry on me? Go for it. I’m waterproof.”

“You’re not.”

“Figuratively waterproof.”

He wiped your cheeks with his sleeve. Kissed your forehead. Whispered something about how “your tears taste expensive” and “you’re ruining my aesthetic in the best possible way.”

And when your breathing finally calmed?

He pulled a tiny marker from his pocket, flipped your sketchbook open, and under the drawing of him in a crop top wrote:

“She cried. I panicked. We’re in love.”

Sylus

You were unraveling.

Quietly.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t sob. But everything felt wrong.

Your comms were glitching. A Wanderer nearly caught your blindside. You’d spilled tea on a datapad, misplaced your jacket, and stubbed your toe in front of two UNICORN officers who didn’t even look at you—just kept walking.

It wasn’t the worst day you’d ever had.

But it was the day that tipped the scale.

So when you walked into Sylus’s room—unannounced, barely breathing—you didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

He was already looking up from his desk, one hand stilling over a datapad, eyes narrowing in that clinical, calculating way he always did when things felt off.

“What happened?”

You shook your head.

“Speak.”

You opened your mouth.

And instead—

You crawled into his lap.

No warning. No lead-up. Just walked over, dropped to your knees beside his chair, and climbed into the space between his legs like your whole body belonged there.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t move.

Just watched—intently, almost startled—as you tucked your knees to your chest and folded into him, face against his collarbone, arms around his waist like you were anchoring yourself there.

“You’re crying,” he said, voice lower now.

You sniffled. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

His hand hovered for a second.

Then it landed at the base of your spine. Firm. Warm. A little unsure.

He didn’t say it’s okay. He didn’t ask you to talk.

He just let you sit there.

Wrapped in silence. Wrapped in him.

You felt his thumb move slowly—back and forth. A careful stroke across your lower back. Not to soothe. Not to control. Just to let you know he was still there.

After a few minutes, he finally murmured:

“Is this what you needed?”

You nodded into his chest.

He nodded once, like he understood something unspoken. Then:

“You can stay as long as you want. I’ll work around you.”

And he did.

For the next hour, he kept one arm around you and the other on his datapad, typing one-handed, entirely unfazed.

Until he realized you’d fallen asleep.

Then?

He shut the tablet.

Wrapped both arms around you.

And whispered, “Mine,” like a promise he didn’t know he was allowed to make until now.

Caleb

It was barely a bad day.

You told yourself that over and over.

Nobody yelled. Nothing exploded. You got your tasks done. You smiled at the right people and didn’t flinch when they looked through you.

But it still felt like you were being slowly hollowed out. A thousand tiny paper cuts. No single moment bad enough to cry over. But together? Crushing.

So when you made it back to his place, you didn’t say anything.

You walked straight to where he sat on the couch, black flight jacket half-zipped, sleeves pushed to his elbows, reading reports on his tablet with that low, focused furrow in his brow.

And you dropped your datapad.

And you crawled into his lap.

No words. No warnings.

Just the soft sound of your breath hitching as your knees met the cushion and your arms wrapped around his shoulders. You climbed into his lap like you belonged there. Like you were trying to make yourself smaller. And safer.

And Caleb?

He froze.

Just for a second.

Then the tablet hit the floor.

And his arms wrapped around you so hard you gasped.

“You’re crying.”

He said it like an accusation.

You pressed your face into his neck.

“I didn’t want to. I just—everything felt wrong. And I didn’t know where else to—”

“No.” “No, you don’t get to finish that sentence.”

His voice was low. Shaking. Not with anger.

With fury.

Protective. Obsessive. Feral.

“You come to me. Always. I don’t care if the sky is falling—I don’t care if the world forgets your name—you do not cry alone. Not when I’m yours.”

Your fingers fisted in his shirt. “I didn’t want to bother you—”

“Bother me?” he growled. “Baby, I would stop breathing if it meant you wouldn’t cry again.”

His hand slid up your back. Into your hair. The other arm curled under your thighs—pulling you fully into him, like closer still wasn’t close enough.

He kissed your cheek. Then your jaw. Then your temple. Again. And again. And again.

“Let them look through you. I’ll burn their names off the stars,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours.

“You need comfort? I’m yours. You need worship? You already have it. You want the world to get on its knees for you? Tell me where to start.”

You whimpered.

And that broke him.

He shifted with you still in his lap, pressing you back into the couch—his body over yours, shielding, cradling, reverent.

“Stay here. Right here. Let me hold the weight for a while.”

You nodded.

You didn’t have to ask him not to leave. He’d already sworn it—every kiss, every word, every breath.