Zayne, who usually struggled at such events, had invited you as his plus-one with youthful hope in his hazel eyes, and there was no way you could have rejected his offer. At first, you’d been thrilled at the prospect of making an official outing together—you rarely got the chance due to his busy schedule—but as the days passed by, the anxiety of being average in a room of geniuses had caught up to you.

So as you pace back and forth before the full-length mirror, fidgeting with your dress at every turn, you can only hope that he’s right.

As Zayne puts the car in park, your stomach lurches with dread.

In the few seconds you have to panic to yourself while he walks around to open your door, the way your mind formulates last-minute escape plans would put a supercomputer to shame. Maybe you could fake sick—no, you’d told him you felt fine—or maybe with enough pressure you could lightly sprain your ankle in your hee—

The door swings open. 

Fuck.

He takes your hand and guides you out of the car, and as you walk toward the museum entrance, you’re too focused on trying not to trip over your flowing gown to take in the scenery. The lights twinkling in the foggy night, the verdant plants lining the entryway in carefully arranged rows, the opulent fountain flowing over small hills of bronze coins. It’s a lovely setup, really. If only your brain would allow you to enjoy it. 

After passing through the lavish front hall, decorated with colorful displays of ancient artifacts, you’re greeted by a grand ballroom layout. Round banquet tables with crystal centerpieces are scattered throughout the space, and the upscale alcohol behind the bar could probably bankrupt you with one sip. 

All around you, people clad in gold watches and diamond necklaces mingle with thinly veiled scrutiny, and you silently bless Zayne for personally sponsoring your event attire. 

As you head further into the room, a striking brunette woman in her 40s saunters up to you. “Zayne!” she gushes, “It’s so nice to see you could make it! With how antisocial you are, I was afraid you’d find a reason not to come. Oh, and who’s this?” she asks, eyes passing over you dismissively. “I’ve never seen you working with Zayne before—perhaps you’re in nephrology or gastroenterology?” 

You have no idea what either of those words mean.

Luckily, like always, Zayne saves the day. “Actually, this is my partner. She’s accompanying me tonight.”

“Partner,” the woman repeats, her voice raising an octave in disbelief. “…What a surprise! I didn’t realize the aloof Dr. Zayne was seeing someone. How lucky you are to have him,” she finishes with a stiff smile. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it, then. Enjoy your evening!” she calls as she flags down a waiter and scoops up two glasses of wine. 

“That was our chief of staff,” Zayne says flatly. “Surely you can understand how she scored the position with such a charming personality.” 

You chat with—or Zayne chats with, while you stand off awkwardly to the side—a few more guests before the main portion of the event begins.

Dr. Greyson had roped him into a conversation about a thrilling surgery from the day before, and an intern who’d somehow managed to get on the invite list had bombarded him with questions while you watched with a blank smile.

When the lights gradually dim and you’re directed to your seats, you let out a sigh of relief. Finally, a moment to breathe, you think. 

The hours pass. Speech after speech travels in and out of your ear, the jargon too advanced for you to process before the next utterly alien word comes along. 

Flipping open your program in restlessness, you realize you’ve reached the final segment of the gala just as the next speaker takes the stage. 

“Again, thank you all so much for your attendance tonight,” he starts. “I’m proud to announce that we’ve raised a record-breaking amount for medical research involving Protocores—what a historic feat. Each of you should be immensely proud of your contributions.”

Your claps seem too loud in the polite applause. Shifting your gaze to the guests around you, you match their enthusiasm—or lack thereof—with an inward grimace. 

“Now, before the night ends, we do have one more achievement to celebrate. Dr. Zayne Li, who I believe is here with us tonight, has recently passed an extraordinary milestone—in his time with Akso, our chief cardiac surgeon has successfully completed over 800 surgeries. To show our gratitude, we’d like to present him with the Medical Impact Award. Dr. Li, if you’re in the audience, won’t you come up and celebrate this accomplishment?” 

This time, you don’t hold back your applause. As Zayne rises from his seat, an endearing look of bewilderment on his face, your heart swells with admiration. Lucky, was what that woman had called you earlier. You suppose she’d been right.

As Zayne climbs up the steps, the presenter hands him a polished wooden plaque. Saying a brief thanks, he struts to the mic, a practiced look of confidence on his face now that the surprise has worn off.

“Thank you for this honor,” he begins steadily. “It’s with immense privilege that I can stand here before you today, but I’d like to take this time to commend our fundraising efforts tonight. The millions of dollars we’ve raised will be dedicated to investigating the nature of pathological conditions that originate in Protocore exposure. This will allow hundreds of medical personnel in and outside of Linkon to treat previously unsolvable cases. In regards to my own work, I’m particularly grateful—with the generosity you’ve all shown tonight, you’ve made me incredibly optimistic for the future of treating Cardiac Protocore Syndrome. I’ll keep that in mind every day—so the next 800 surgeries can go smoothly and with quick recoveries.”

As his speech ends, your look of admiration melts into a resigned, defeated smile. 

For the first time that night, the room breaks out into thunderous applause. And for the hundredth time that night, you feel like you don’t deserve to stand by his side.

You’d hope that he’d chalked up your silence on the ride home to sleepiness. When he’d walked you to your apartment door and leaned in to kiss you goodnight, you’d merely stood there in indecision, afraid to taint his brilliance with your mediocrity. And then, with a strained smile, you’d shut the door in his face.

That was the last time you’d seen him for the rest of the week. And for half of the next. 

For six days, you’d been completely ghosting him, too wrapped up in your insecurities to respond to his numerous messages. 

Thank you for accompanying me last night. I had a wonderful time, he’d texted on the first day. 

One of the nurses came up to me and gushed over your dress. She asked where you bought it from, but I told her we got it custom-ordered, he’d said on the second. 

The fourth day. Would you like to join me for a meal later? We’ve had to reschedule a surgery. I’ll be getting home earlier than usual tonight.

Last night. Please respond to me when you get a chance.

And no matter how badly you wanted to, each time your fingers hovered over the keyboard, they froze in paralyzing shame. 

You’d passed the time like you had before you met him—hiding from the sun, rewatching comfort movies, and wallowing in bed with gloomy ballads in the background.

But on the seventh day, your doorbell rings.

Thinking it’s the package of pastries you’d ordered from the bakery near Zayne’s house—you always got a box when you were sad—you hastily swing open the door.

And then fight the urge to shut it right back. 

Because standing on your doorstep is a tired-looking Zayne, frowning in hurt and confusion. 

“Hello. Is your phone broken?” he asks worriedly, checking your body for signs of illness. 

“Um…no,” you mutter, suddenly fixated on your navy blue slippers. “Why don’t you come in? If you want to.”

With an infinitesimal squint, he crosses the threshold of your apartment. All things considered, it’s a good thing he’s here, given the way your heart is beating out of your chest.

“You haven’t been responding to my calls or messages since the gala,” he begins carefully. “I was afraid something was wrong. There were so many people present—maybe you’d caught a virus. But,” he continues, taking in your disheveled yet healthy appearance, “it seems I was incorrect.”

The guilt that’s been eating at you for days suddenly devours your insides whole, and your emotional dam bursts open. 

“I-I’m glad you got to go, and that you got your award—your speech was great, by the way,” you sniffle. “But while we were there, the whole time I was thinking how much more successful you are than me. How much more intelligent. I mean, that lady asked me if I was an entomologist, or whatever, and I didn’t even know what she meant! At the end of it I just…thought you’d be better off without me. That you deserve better. Smarter. That’s why I’ve been quiet the last few days,” you finish, eyes downcast.

His puzzled frown deepens at your revelation.

“Why would I expect you to possess medical knowledge when that’s not your field of study?”

Oh.

Oh.

You really were stupid, weren’t you.

“You…don’t think I’m too…average for you?”

“No, have I ever indicated that I do? If so, I apologize for making you feel that way. It’s the complete opposite of how I view you,” he reveals, stepping closer. “I’m also terribly sorry I didn’t notice you were so uncomfortab—”

“No,” you interrupt him shakily. “I tried to hide it. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

Zayne gives you a sympathetic grin before starting over. “Regardless, I regret not being able to take care of you like I should have. And as much as I wish you hadn’t, I understand why you took the time to process your feelings. But to make one thing clear,” he asserts, voice deepening in emphasis. “I’m the one who’s lucky to have you.”

As you look up at him through glassy eyes, your breath hitches. “What?” you croak, voice hoarse from built-up tears.

“Darling,” he begins gently. “Did you ever consider whether I like socializing with those types of people?”

Mouth parting in a small ‘o,’ you shake your head meekly. 

He smiles wryly. “After every previous one of those events, I’ve gone home with an ear-splitting headache. Last week was the first time I’ve ever enjoyed going,” he chuckles. “Not because of that award—which was flattering but unnecessary considering I was only doing my job,” he quips, “but because you were there beside me.” 

“No amount of medical knowledge can compare to the peace you make me feel. The comfort. I asked you to be my plus-one for one reason only: the person I love makes me happy.”

At the confession, your battered heart soars and your cheeks burn so hot you think they’ll melt off. Timidly, you inch closer to him, instinctually unsure if he’ll welcome you back into his arms. 

He answers your unvoiced question almost immediately, pulling you to him by the waist before he speaks again. “Although,” he pauses, giving you a concerned once-over, “if you were truly in so much distress over attending, you could have just refused. At the expense of my own happiness, I would’ve preferred you had.”

“But you seemed so excited to go,” you groan, laying your head against his chest. You shiver at the contact—you must’ve missed him more than you realized. “I guess I was wrong.” 

“Not entirely. I was excited to go with you.”

At his response, you bury yourself impossibly further into him, and he strokes your back tenderly. “Well, that was one reason I agreed—you looked so cute when you asked, I just couldn’t say no,” you grumble, lightly pinching his waist. “But the other part was…with all the hours you spend at the hospital—800 surgeries and all—we never really get to go to big events as a couple. I just wanted to take the opportunity, I guess. I thought it would feel nice.”

Zayne sighs deeply and presses a light kiss to your hair. “And it felt bad instead,” he surmises. “How can I make it up to you? I’ll ask Greyson to trade shifts with me if I need to, just say the word.”

“Well,” you start, peering up at him shyly. “There is an office party next week that I’ve been dreading going to. All alone,” you pout. “If he comes with me, the illustrious Dr. Zayne will get to see how we regular people socialize.” 

Chuckling softly, he kisses your forehead. “He wouldn’t dare miss out on that. He’ll be there,” he promises, squeezing your hip in confirmation. “Now, if I’m not mistaken, I believe the bakery van just dropped something off at your door. Shall we open it?”

In an instant, you peel yourself off of him and sprint for the door before freezing in your tracks. You were forgetting something. 

“Wait!” you exclaim, turning back around to face him. With a nervous gulp, you say the words you think you’ve known for a long time.

caleb’s thoughts are just so filthy, too — ranging from using your pretty tits to get off to just keeping you home and spending all day, everyday stuffing your cunt full of his cum until the two of you have at least five kids.

but even he knows that’s far too fast for the two of you. no part of him has ever been inside you (save for his tongue when you two make out), and yet here he is, fantasizing about debauching his sweetheart of a girlfriend.

shame on him.

but it’s not like you aren’t thinking the same.

you like walking around his cold house with no bra and a flimsy little camisole. you like wearing tiny shorts with no panties to sleep or short skirts that is, really, but a scrap of fabric. you like accidentally brushing your foot against his crotch during dinner or shifting far too much in his lap whenever you two are watching a show.

caleb’s reactions are priceless — the way his breath gets caught in his throat, how his soft cheeks grow a dusty pink, the subtle jerk of his hips or adjustment of his hardening cock in his pants . .

how could you resist provoking him more, especially when you know he’s doing so much to hold back?

you’ve heard him, whether it be when he’s in the shower, the door cracked open just enough for you to peer in, or late at night when he thinks you’re asleep, fucking his fist like a hormonal teenager or, worse (in his eyes), humping the bed. it’s like he forgets that you’re right there, that you could pop into the bathroom for something while he’s moaning your name or wake up mid-orgasm and watch all that cum go to waste on his toned abs or thighs.

it’d be so easy to interrupt. a little too easy, actually, as if he’s subconsciously wishing that you would catch him and scold him for being so perverted, so disgusting.

but you won’t, no matter how badly you want to take his dick into your mouth and clean it up until he’s quivering with the force of another orgasm or slip into the shower behind him and help him work himself over with softer and smaller hands.

you’ll keep playing the long game, teasing caleb with feigned naivete, sending him pretty pictures while he’s at work and pushing him further and further to the brink until he has no choice but to snap and take you for himself, ripping clothes and spitting and spanking.

Because for all those handful of years you had to develop faster then him (being far ahead enough to always have the upper hand in helping him learn how to navigate education and schoolmates and those expected hurdles of age) you never seemed to wise up to him. You knew everything about him. His tics, his fears, his likes and dislikes. But you never seemed to notice the feelings he now realized he'd worn on his sleeve. Maybe it had been willful ignorance. Or maybe only he had thought his heart had been as obvious as it was, thundering for his ears alone as it had found itself aching to be with someone so close as to be unreachable.

At some point caleb had realized that there was something wrong with him. Something that didn't like standing still so you could shield him, that didn't like hearing your pretty name in the mouths of other boys. And for a while he'd thought it was simply part of growing up. Lots of of classmates stopped calling their siblings by title.

So he'd stopped calling you by jiejie. Started calling you by your name. Started trialling nicknames or other call bys that you wouldn't associate with a bumbling little brother.

It didn't really matter though, did it, if he stopped calling you jiejie? Not when that was how you perceived yourself in relation to him, and thus him in relation to you. He could grow taller and you'd simply marvel at how fast he'd grown up. He could flaunt the rewards of his hard work and training and youd tease him about trying to catch the neighbor girls eye. He could lay with his head in your lap, and youd tut at him as though he were just a spoiled little boy looking for attention.

Do you even realize, he wonders, where he's crossed lines? Or do you simply meet him where he's at and draw them between your feet and his?

Jiejie loves him.

Caleb knows that. Not the way he wants. Not the way he loves you back. All he has to do is call you his big sister and you smile soft and indulgent, a familiar expression, as if hearing him speaking such nostalgic tones brings you joy. It makes him want to retch. It makes him want to hold you in his arms. Not like a brother but like a lover. Like a man would hold the person he'd loved since he was five years old and lost and afraid and-

Jiejie takes care of him.

Even if caleb doesn't want to be taken care of. Even if he wants to do the caring. It's hard for you, he knows. To step back and let someone else be in charge. To let someone else dote on you and protect you and comfort you. But he could, caleb knows it. He was taught by the best, after all (he was taught by you, after all). And maybe if you stood in his spot you would finally understand. Maybe if you let him hold his hand to your cheek like you do to his, if you let him run his fingers through your hair or press his lips to your face, you would finally know what it's like to-

Jiejie will do anything for him.

All he has to do is call you jiejie and you give him anything he wants. Sometimes you pout. Sometimes you wrinkle your nose. Sometimes you say no but then he looks under his pillow and the console you swore you had bought just for yourself and would never ever (ever!) share with him is laid just beneath. Once, and only once, he had made you call off a date for him. You'd been so excited and caleb, well, he had been so scared--had felt you slipping through his fingers so fast and-- you had come back to him. Still in your pretty clothes he'd never seen. Dressed sweetly in perfume he'd never smelled. He hadn't known what made him more sick. More angry. More disgusted with himself. How could you ever see him as a man if he resorted to such tactics like these- how could you ever see him as your man if he-

You'd asked him to open the door. Promised that you'd give him anything if only he let you see him. And he had. Shoulders drooped in defeat. Teeth grit and eyes flitting over the worried tilt of your pretty mouth. Stinking of self disgust that you could not even begin to understand. And you'd hugged him. Held him in your arms and sighed a breath of relief as he stood before you in his shame. You'd asked him what he wanted.

If he says jiejie you'll give caleb anything right?