chaacoonnee

The car Sylus sent is exactly what you expected—sleek and black and expensive, the kind of vehicle that doesn’t just transport you but makes a statement. The driver doesn’t speak, just opens the door for you with polite efficiency and drives through Linkon’s traffic in silence. 

You’re grateful for the quiet. Your thoughts won’t stop yelling over each other, loud and messy, tangled up in everything you’re trying to avoid.

You passed by the envelope on the counter on your way out the door without meaning to. Half-buried under junk mail were two museum tickets, still untouched. Zayne must have printed them out. Wrote the time in the corner, even underlined it. He had planned for the two of you to go together tonight. Instead, he picked up an extra shift at the hospital and left after breakfast without a word.

You don’t know if that’s better or worse than a fight.

You’re smoothing the hem of your dress with shaking fingers when your phone buzzes.

Tara: OMG ARE U ON YOUR WAY

Tara: i need a pic IMMEDIATELY

The emerald silk that fits like it was made for you, after you finally got the ties right on your own. You have on the nicest pair of heels you could find in your closet. Your hair is down, and your makeup took three attempts and more patience than you thought you had in you. And slung over your shoulder is a tiny black purse that’s just big enough to hold the essentials, if you arrange them with Tetris-level precision. You look like someone who knows exactly what she’s doing.

Even though you absolutely don’t have a clue.

You angle your phone, snap a quick photo, and send it off. The dress catches the passing streetlights, making the silk shimmer like water. You look good. You know you look good. But knowing it and believing someone like Sylus will think so are two different things.

Tara: BITCH U LOOK SOOOO HOT WTF

Tara: he’s gonna lose his mind

You: ahhhh i’m nervous

Your stomach is doing acrobatics. You’ve been on dates before—awkward coffee meetups, dinners that felt like interviews. But this is different. Sylus is different. He sees through you in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying.

Tara: good nervous or bad nervous?

You: both?? idk he’s just so...intense

Tara: intense can be good

Tara: but also be careful okay? u don't really know him

You: i know enough

But you’re not sure you believe it yourself. You met him once. Spent a week texting. That’s not knowing someone. That’s—what? Infatuation? Lust? The desperate need to feel wanted by someone who isn’t afraid to show it?

Tara: do u tho? u met him ONE time

Tara: just...keep your guard up a little. have fun but don't like, fall in love in one night lol

You smile to yourself because she’s not wrong. This is fast. Reckless. Exactly the kind of thing you’ve never done before because you’ve spent too many years being careful, monitored, the girl who follows all the rules and never takes risks.

You: i’m not going to fall in love in one night

Tara: famous last words

Tara: okay but seriously text me if u need anything, okay? and if u ever feel unsafe, LEAVE

Tara: i don’t care if he’s six feet of sin and free drinks. u leave!!!

You: i will. i promise.

Tara: good

Tara: also tell him i said if he hurts u i know people

Tara: i don’t actually know people but he doesn’t know that

You: i’ll be sure to pass that along

Tara: love u slut (affectionate)

You: love you too

You tuck your phone away, heart hammering with a mixture of excitement and nerves and something else you can’t quite put your finger on. The car is getting closer to Obsidian, the buildings getting taller, the lights getting brighter. You press your hand to your chest, feeling your heartbeat. Steady. Strong. You’re okay. You can do this.

The car drops you at an unmarked door tucked around the corner—away from the crowd and the club’s main entrance, where a line still coils down the block. Even on a Sunday, this city never sleeps. 

The door opens before you even reach it, and the same red-haired woman from last week stands in the threshold. This time, she smiles like you’re expected. 

“Welcome back,” she says warmly. “Mr. Sylus is waiting for you upstairs.”

She leads you through corridors you didn’t see last time, then into a private elevator that zooms up, up, up, until you’re spit out into a room wrapped in floor-to-ceiling windows. The whole city glitters beneath your feet, like someone scattered jewels over the skyline just to impress you. 

This is VIP. The real VIP.

It’s both intimate and alive, exclusive yet inviting. Plush seating areas curve around a central dance floor where a handful of people move to live music. The lighting is low, the bar glowing amber in one corner. And standing at that bar—

Sylus.

He looks too handsome for his own good—and definitely for yours. Black button-down with the sleeves rolled. Collar open just enough to be sinful. A watch that probably costs more than Zayne’s car. His silver hair gleams under the light, but it’s his eyes that stop you—ruby-red, drinking you in slowly, filled with something that feels less like desire and more like devotion.

He dismisses whoever he was talking to without a word, without even a glance, and crosses to you in long strides that eat up the distance faster than seems humanly possible.

“There you are.”

“Here I am.”

He stops just in front of you, and for a moment he just—looks. His gaze traces the length of you, eyes sweeping down and back up like he already pictured this moment in obscene detail, and you still managed to knock the breath out of him. Like he already knows you’re going to ruin him, and he’s decided he wouldn’t mind it at all.

“Beautiful,” he says simply. 

He offers his hand. And when you give him yours, he spins you, slow and unhurried, the dress flaring around your legs slightly as you turn. When you complete the rotation, you’re breathless and he’s smiling.

“I knew it would be perfect on you, but seeing it—” He shakes his head in disbelief. “I really do have excellent taste.”

You can feel heat crawling up your neck, but you manage a smirk. “Modest, too.”

You think he might let go then, but he doesn’t. Without meaning to, your fingers shift, slipping between his. He laces them without hesitation, like he’s been waiting for permission, like it’s instinct, like touching you feels inevitable, and letting go isn’t even an option—not unless you make it one.

“Modesty is one of my many virtues.” He squeezes your hand, warm and easy, already leading you across the room. “Come. I have a table, wine waiting, and about a thousand questions I’ve been stockpiling for the occasion.”

He guides you to a curved booth in a prime location, overlooking the dance floor but private enough for conversation. Two glasses of red wine are already poured, the bottle decanted on the table beside a low-burning candle. A small velvet stool sits beside the booth—clearly meant for handbags far more expensive than yours. But Sylus takes your purse from your shoulder anyway, setting it down like it belongs there, like you do. Somewhere nearby, a live quartet plays something soft and slow—strings sliding over a contemporary melody you recognize. Every moment thought through, like he wasn’t just expecting you. 

Like he was waiting for you to make it real.

You slide into the booth, and he sits beside you—close, but not crowding, like he’s trying to keep a respectable distance. Room to breathe, even though you want to drown in him. Still, his fingers stay wrapped around yours, your joined hands resting on the leather cushion between you like they belong there. 

When the silence stretches, it’s not uncomfortable—just full of everything you haven’t said yet, everything you still want to learn. When you glance at Sylus, you find him already looking your way.

“So,” he says, thumb tracing absent patterns on the back of your hand. “How much hell did you catch for coming here tonight?”

Your stomach flips, just a little. “What makes you think I caught any hell?”

“You live with someone. And from what you’ve mentioned, he seems—” Sylus pauses, choosing the words carefully. “Invested in your wellbeing.”

You take a sip of wine, using it as a shield. Talking about Zayne so soon feels dangerous. Like bringing him into this space where he doesn’t belong.

“Given that you left the house in that dress—” His eyes trace over you again. “I’m curious how that conversation went.”

You slip your hand from his—not to push him away, just to steady yourself—and he doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t chase. But his hand lingers for a second too long in the air before settling on his leg, like he’s registering the absence. Like he misses it already.

You busy your fingers with the napkin in front of you, reflecting on the past 24 hours: the look on Zayne’s face when you told him where you’d be tonight, the echoing quiet of the apartment in his absence, the way you expected guilt to follow you out the door.

Instead, you just felt free.

“It didn’t,” you say, shaking off the day like dust. You decide to spare Sylus the details. Or maybe it’s yourself you’re sparing. “I just—left.”

“Brave.” He doesn’t press further, just takes a sip of his own wine. “Or reckless. I haven’t decided which yet.”

“Does it matter?”

“Not particularly.” He sets the glass down gently. “I’m just trying to understand you.” 

He shifts slightly, turning to face you more fully. His elbow rests on the back of the booth, head tilted into his hand as he studies you with the kind of patience that makes your pulse drum louder in your ears.

“You intrigue me,” he says, voice lower now. “You’re careful about some things and impulsive about others. You rejected my invitations all week, but showed up tonight in a dress I picked out. You like following your doctor’s rules, but you came here to break one.” The corner of his mouth lifts subtly, like he’s daring you to deny it. “I want to understand what the pattern is.”

You trace the rim of your glass with your fingertip, avoiding his eyes. Because you can’t deny it. Not entirely. “Maybe there isn’t one.”

“There’s always a pattern. I just haven’t found yours yet.” He refills both glasses, sliding yours back to you with a raised brow. “But I’m a fast learner. Especially when the subject is this tempting.”

You huff out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not that complicated.”

“You absolutely are. But I like complicated.” He lifts his glass, and you follow suit. The crystal clinks softly between you, a quiet little toast to whatever this is—and whatever it’s becoming. “Simple is boring. Simple doesn’t hold my attention.”

You smile against the rim of your glass before setting it beside his. “So I’m a distraction?”

“You’re a full-time job, kitten. Lucky for you, I don’t mind working overtime.” He flicks your forehead like it’s a button he can’t resist. “In fact, I think I’m due for a promotion.” 

“Rude.” You scrunch your nose at him in mock offense, swatting at his hand. “I’m reporting you for workplace harassment.”

“Oh, no.” He catches your wrist midair, grinning like you handed him a trophy. “Guess I’ll have to settle out of court, then.”

He lifts your hand to his mouth, kissing each knuckle—one, two, three, four—all while watching your reaction like it’s the best part. 

“You hit like a kitten, too,” he says against your skin. He presses a kiss to the top of your hand, this one slower. “If you want me to beg for mercy, you’ll need sharper claws.”

He sets the trap, and you spring it with pleasure. 

Your free hand drifts up—fingertip turning to nail as you drag it along the side of his throat, slow enough to feel the rise of goosebumps, the flex of his jaw, the way his throat bobs as he swallows.

He doesn’t stop you. He wouldn’t dare.

You take his chin between your fingers, angling his face toward yours. For a moment, you just look at him, and he looks at you, and it hits you. How dangerous this could get. How close his mouth is to yours—and how little that terrifies you. How easy it is to fall. 

How maybe you already have.

You lean in closer, like you’re about to kiss him—but at the last second, your mouth finds his ear instead.

“You can beg all you want,” you whisper, your lips brushing the sensitive spot just beneath his lobe. “Mercy’s not really in my nature.”

His breath catches almost imperceptibly, but you feel it. Feel a week’s worth of tension ignite all at once, everything that’s only lived in text now taking shape between you, hot and close and palpable. 

He recovers just as quickly with a laugh, low and rough, unraveling at the edges.

“Careful, sweetie,” he warns, gaze dark and hungry now. “That almost turned me on.”

He’s still holding your wrist, not tight enough to stop you, just tight enough to say he won’t let go first. And your fingers still hold his chin, thumb grazing the edge of his bottom lip. The way his eyes go heavy, the subtle part of his mouth beneath your touch—it sparks something fierce in your chest, something possessive. The knowledge that you can do this to him. That someone this powerful comes undone at your fingertips.

You cock your head, voice soft and cruel. “Almost?”

“You want proof, hm?” His eyes flick down to your lips, and for a second, he’s silent, like he’s already playing out the possibilities in vivid detail.

Then he blinks hard, shaking his head with a crooked laugh, like he’s snapping himself out of something dangerous.

“God, you’re good. But not that good,” he mutters. “Don’t you even think about answering that.”

You’re both laughing when he lets go of your wrist, only to wrap his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. His hand settles at your hip—long fingers, broad palms, the kind of hands that could break things but choose to be gentle with you. You can feel the warmth of his touch through the silk, steady and grounding at your side.

You melt into him without thinking, head finding the space between his shoulder and chest like it was carved out just for you. And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, you feel at ease. Happy. Not the breathless, fleeting kind. The kind that settles low and deep and tells you that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

“Now tell me something I don’t know,” Sylus says, and you can feel the curve of his smile press lightly against your temple. “Unless you’re out of secrets so soon?”

You talk after that. Easy conversation that flows like you’ve known each other longer than a week.

He asks about Tara—how you met, what she’s like, whether she approved of him. You tell him about how she showed up at your place one night with ice cream and takeout after a particularly brutal training session, how she convinced you to try karaoke at three in the morning, and neither of you could hit a single note, but you laughed until your ribs hurt anyway. How she’s the kind of friend who doesn’t ask questions, just shows up.

“She sounds like exactly the kind of chaos you need,” Sylus says with approval.

“She is,” you agree. “The best kind.”

You ask him what he does when he’s not working, and he seems surprised by the question. Like no one has asked him in a very long time.

“I collect music,” he says after a moment. “Vinyl, mostly. Old records that most people have forgotten about. Jazz, blues, classical—anything with history to it.”

“Do you play?”

“Pipe organ. Not well, but enough to satisfy myself.” He lifts his glass, but doesn’t take a sip right away. “There’s something about music—it's honest in a way people aren't. A song can’t lie to you about what it's trying to make you feel.”

You watch him, momentarily disarmed. Not just by the admission, but by what it reveals—something quieter beneath his charm. Reflective. Private. A man who keeps music close, not for performance, but because it tells the truth when words fall short.

And for reasons you can’t quite grasp, that makes you feel…pleased. Like you’ve uncovered a new corner of him, and it’s beautiful and rare and yours to hold.

“I’d like to hear you play sometime,” you say softly.

“Now, trouble.” He glances at you over the rim of his glass, something unreadable sparking in his eyes. “That sounds suspiciously like you’re planning to stick around.”

You smile, head tilting. “I might be.”

He grins, all slow confidence, but his fingers flex a little tighter on your hip. “About damn time,” he says, but there’s something in his voice, like he needed to hear it more than he’ll ever let on.

When the topic drifts to the club, something in Sylus changes. You’ve always known there was more to Obsidian than meets the eye, and now he starts to share it. Not every detail, but enough. Enough to know it’s not just a business, it’s a world. One he’s crafted by hand with care and control. One he’s now letting you glimpse.

“The work I do exists in grey areas,” he says simply. “I make deals. I negotiate. Sometimes I have to remind people that certain lines shouldn’t be crossed. It’s not always clean, and I’ve made choices I’m not particularly proud of.” 

“Like what?”

“Sometimes people forget that respect has to go both ways. That just because I’m willing to negotiate doesn’t mean I’m weak.” His eyes meet yours, making sure you don’t miss the conviction in what he’s saying. “When that happens, I remind them. Firmly.”

This is what Zayne warned you about. This darkness, this violence that lives in Sylus like a second skin. You think about the way Zayne’s voice had gone flat when he said Sylus’s name. The way he’d refused to explain what happened between them, only that Sylus had hurt him. Not physically, he’d said. But hurt all the same.

You drain what’s left in your wine glass before responding. “You mean you hurt people.”

“I mean I protect what’s mine.” There’s no apology in his voice. “This club, my people, the life I’ve created—I don’t let anyone threaten that. And most of the time, just the threat is enough. Most people are smart enough not to push.”

He finishes his own drink and leans back slightly, the crystal of his glass catching the low light as he turns it in his fingers.

“But yes. I’ve hurt people. I’ve killed people. More than I can count. Some who deserved it, some who didn’t.” He doesn’t say it like a confession. He says it like a fact. “And if I have to do it again to keep the ones I care about safe, I will—and I won’t lose sleep over it.”

It should terrify you. You should see the red flags waving, should listen to Zayne’s warnings, should remember that men who murder aren’t safe, no matter how gentle their hands are.

But all you can think is that you want someone to protect you like that. To fight for you. To choose you without hesitation. Not because it’s their duty or responsibility, but because they can’t imagine doing anything else.

And when you look at Sylus—really look at him—all you see is honesty, raw and unflinching. He’s not trying to hide what he is. He’s laying it out for you to accept or reject.

And somehow, that makes all the difference.

“Are you trying to scare me off?” you ask him earnestly.

“I’m trying to tell you the truth.” His hand finds yours again, fingers threading through yours carefully, like he’s not sure you’ll let him. “You said you wanted honesty. So here it is: I’m dangerous. Not to you, never to you, but to plenty of other people. And being with me means being part of that world.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and you watch something war behind his eyes. Your free hand moves without thinking, settling on his thigh. The contact soothes you both, and you feel the muscle tense beneath your palm before relaxing.

“I can’t guarantee your safety,” he says finally. “That’s the reality. I can protect you—I will protect you—but I can’t promise nothing will ever touch you. I need you to understand that this world I live in, the work I do—it’s volatile. Violent. People make plays for power, and sometimes…innocent people get caught in the crossfire.”

Your stomach tightens, but you don’t pull away.

“You think I haven’t thought about this? About what it means that I’m here with you?” Your jaw sets stubbornly. “I know that your world is dangerous. And I’m telling you I don’t care. I want to learn. I want to be part of it.”

“You should care.” His voice is serious. “This isn’t just about danger. You’re trained to be a Hunter. You know how to handle yourself.” His eyes land on yours, fierce and certain. “It’s about going against your training, your colleagues, everything you’ve been working toward. You’d be helping someone your Association would call a criminal.”

You have considered it—too much, if anything. What it would cost. What it would mean. And yes, you’re scared. Scared of what you’re walking into. Scared of what it means for your career, your health, the life you’ve built with Zayne. Scared of being wrong. Of regretting this entirely.

But more than that, you’re tired.

Tired of being treated like you don’t know what you want. Tired of people making your choices for you.

So when you speak again, it’s with fire.

“I know the Association would lose their minds if they knew I was here. Let them,” you continue, heat rising in your voice. “They don’t get to decide for me. Neither does my doctor. Or you. No one does. I’m here because I want to be. I know there are risks. And I’m choosing you anyway.”

Something flashes in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Respect. “You mean that.”

“I mean it.” Your heartbeat is loud, but your voice is strong. “So stop trying to talk me out of it.”

He nods, holding your gaze for a few seconds, like he’s checking one last time for any doubt. When he doesn’t find any, his shoulders loosen and he exhales for the first time in what feels like minutes.

“Can I ask you something?” you say after a moment.

“Always.” 

You hesitate, fingers picking at the hem of your dress without realizing it. “Why are you still single? Someone like you—you could have anyone.”

He laughs, low and genuine. “Someone like me? And what am I like?”

“Confident. Attractive. Successful," you say, the words tumbling out without filter. "Dangerous in a way that’s exciting, not scary.”

His amusement softens. His gaze settles on you like he’s actually listening now, not just teasing. “Is that how you see me?”

“That’s how everyone sees you.”

“But I asked what you see.” He leans in just a fraction, like he wants the answer close. “Everyone else doesn’t matter. I want to know what you see.”

“I see all of those things. But also—” You consider it. Really consider it. Your hand on his thigh presses slightly, unconsciously seeking connection. “Lonely. Under all of it, I think you might be lonely."

He goes still for a moment, and you wonder if you’ve overstepped. But then his expression gentles, and his hand drops from your face to cover yours on his thigh. His fingers dwarf yours, warm and steady.

“I’m not lonely,” he says quietly. “I like being alone. I’ve built a life that works for me. One where I answer to no one, where I don’t have to compromise or explain myself.” 

He pauses, and the silence stretches long enough that you think he might not continue. His thumb traces over your knuckles absently, like he needs the contact to say what comes next.

“But then you walked into my club, and I wanted to share things. Wanted to show you my life. Take you places, hear what you think about them.” He looks down at where your hands are joined, like he can’t quite believe you’re still touching him after everything he just confessed. “Wanted someone to come home to.”

Your breath catches. The honesty in his voice, the vulnerability, the weight of the implication of his words…it’s almost too much to take in. If Tara could hear this conversation, she’d drag you out of here by the hair—because this feels dangerously close to falling in love after one night.

“I’ve never wanted that before,” he continues, and his grip on your hand tightens just slightly. “Never saw the appeal. But with you—” He stops, jaw clenching. “You make me want things I didn’t know I was missing.”

“Like what?”

“Like this. Sitting with you. Talking. Learning what makes you smile. What makes you tick.” His other hand finds your waist, and you realize at some point you’ve shifted even closer to him. “Like taking you to dinner and arguing about whose meal is better. Like showing you my favorite record store and watching you light up when you find something you love.” He leans closer, and you can see the way his pupils have dilated, the way his breathing has changed. “Like waking up with you and knowing I get to do it all again the next day.”

“Sylus—”

“Too much?” He’s watching your face carefully, and you can see the fear there—actual fear that he’s said too much, gone too far, scared you off.

“No, not at all,” you assure him, and your hand on his thigh squeezes gently. “Just—unexpected.”

“You make me say unexpected things.” His smile is soft. “It’s terrifying.”

Your fingers tighten where they rest on his leg, and he glances down at your hand like it’s something sacred. When his gaze lifts again, there’s a hint of shyness there, a tender warmth that makes him look almost younger, completely unguarded.

“Dance with me,” he says abruptly, and you can hear the emotion he's trying to hide beneath the casual request. “Before I say something even more pathetic.”

You laugh despite the emotion tightening your throat. “That wasn’t pathetic.”

“It was close.” But he’s smiling as he stands, offering you his hand. “Now let’s go. I’ve been wanting to get my hands on you all week.”

The dance floor in VIP is more intimate than downstairs—smaller, darker, the music slower and more sensual. Couples move together in the low light, bodies pressed close.

You wrap your arms around his neck first—an unspoken invitation. His hands settle at your waist in response, pulling you flush against him with no pretense of distance or propriety. This isn’t the careful dancing of people getting to know each other. It’s something heavier. Familiar. Like you’ve danced this dance in another lifetime and just now remembered the steps.

“Better,” he murmurs, one hand sliding lower on your back. “This is much better than imagining it.”

You grin up at him. “You imagined this?”

“Incessantly. All week. To a degree that is frankly embarrassing.” His other hand comes up to cradle your jaw. “You, here, in this dress, in my arms…the reality is better than anything I could have pictured.”

The music shifts to something slower, more intimate, and you let yourself melt into him. Your fingers find his hair—soft, surprisingly so—and you toy with the strands at his nape. He makes a sound low in his throat, all heat and satisfaction.

“Tell me something,” he says against your ear. “What are you thinking right now?”

“That you’re very good at this.”

“At dancing?”

“At making me forget why this is complicated.”

“It’s only complicated if we make it complicated.” He spins you slightly, pulls you back against his chest. “Right now, it’s just us. Dancing. Touching. Everything else can wait.”

The song ends, and another begins. And another. You lose track of time, lost in the rhythm and the tension and the way Sylus looks at you like you’re the only person in the room.

You notice it then—the hazy, loose quality to how people are moving around you. The way conversations seem more honest, more intense. Laughter that’s too real.

“They’re on the serum,” you murmur, realization dawning. “The truth serum. Here too.”

“Voluntarily,” Sylus confirms. “VIP floor gets the option. Most people choose it. Helps with—negotiations.”

“Of course it does.” You laugh softly. “If only my doctor could take it. Maybe then he’d finally say what he actually thinks.”

His eyes go wide for a heartbeat. “You want him on truth serum?”

“I don’t know. Maybe,” you admit. You hadn’t thought about it before, but the idea is…tempting. “Maybe then I’d finally know—” You start, but swallow the words down just as fast.

“Know what?”

“If he wants me the way I want him. Or if I’m just—” You gesture vaguely. “Convenient. A burden he can’t shake.”

He scoffs under his breath, not unkindly—more like he can’t believe you’d even think such a thing.

“First of all, you’re never a burden.” He lets that settle, watching the way it lands in you before he moves on. “Second—he wouldn’t come to a place like this, would he?”

“God, no.” You laugh, but this time it’s bitter. “He thinks this place is dangerous. He told me to stay far, far away.”

“And yet here you are.”

“And yet here I am.”

Sylus falls quiet, still swaying with you to the rhythm like he could stay here forever. Eventually, his hand shifts at your waist, his mouth brushing close to your ear. 

“Dancing’s not over,” he murmurs. “But there’s something I'd like to show you.”

He leads you off the floor, through the VIP section, and up a set of stairs to a private corner with a wall of windows overlooking the city. The N109 Zone spreads out below you, all lights and movement and possibility—and danger, lurking in every shadow.

There's a wide ledge built into the wall, almost like a window seat. Sylus stops in front of it, then looks at you with something challenging in his eyes. 

“Up,” he says, nodding toward the window.

“What?”

“You heard me. Up on the ledge, sweetie.” His smile is sharp, almost boyish. “Or you can keep craning your neck like that, and I’ll start thinking you enjoy being under me.”

The command in his voice makes heat pool low in your belly. You stick your tongue out at him in a quick little dare, then let him lift you anyway, his hands firm on your waist as he lifts you effortlessly onto the ledge. A second later, you’re eye-level with him, the city glowing behind you.

“There we go,” he says, satisfaction in his voice as he steps between your legs. Not touching, not yet. Just—close. “Much better. Now we're even.”

His palms plant firmly on either side of you, framing you against the edge, and the parallel isn’t lost on you. Zayne had you in this same position just last night.

But everything feels different.

Because where Zayne’s nearness was patient, almost painful in its control, Sylus is electric. Like he’s not just holding back—he’s daring you to ask him not to.

“And what do you see?”

“Someone brave. Someone who took a risk tonight.” Now that you’re eye-to-eye, the weight of his attention is impossible to ignore. “Someone I can’t quite figure out yet. But I’m trying.”

“Is that why you brought me up here?” you ask. “To figure me out?”

“I brought you up here because I wanted you closer. Because I like seeing my city behind you.” His gaze shifts from the skyline back to you. “And because every time I look at you, I think about what it would feel like to kiss you, and it’s getting really goddamn hard to think about anything else.”

Your breath hitches, and the wanting hits you all at once. You’ve been thinking about it, too. All night. All week. What his mouth would feel like against yours. If he kisses like he talks—like he’s studying you slowly, like each small detail is something he wants to learn firsthand.

“You know you don’t need to get my permission every time,” you say, voice tight with need. “You can just—touch me. I’ll tell you if I don’t like something.”

“That’s very generous of you, kitten.” His voice is calm, amused, like he’s already seen where this is going. “But I’m not interested in shortcuts.”

He keeps his hands braced on the ledge beside you deliberately, almost stubbornly. So you reach for them, fingers curling around his wrists as you peel them off one at a time and place them on your bare thighs—higher than he expects, right where the silk ends.

For a moment, he just stares. Then his hands tighten around your soft skin, thumbs brushing along your inner thighs.

“Is that how you ask nicely?” he murmurs, a wicked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “By manhandling me?”

“You were taking too long,” you shoot back, eyes daring.

He laughs, low and smug. “Impatient girl.”

“I’m tired of waiting for things,” you say, breath softening, fingers curling lightly at his shoulders as you steady yourself. 

His gaze drops to where your hands linger, then trails up the bare skin of your thigh, where his palms still rest on you firmly now, no longer tentative. 

“Are we still talking about me?” His voice is lower, darker now. “Or are we talking about your doctor?”

Your eyes narrow. You feel bare beneath his gaze, like he’s dissecting every unspoken thought. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.” His thumbs trace slow lines up the inside of your thighs, and you have to fight not to squirm. “Because I need to know—when you’re with me like this, are you thinking about him, too?”

“Sometimes,” you admit. “Is that bad?”

“No. It’s honest. And this—” He stops, and one hand leaves your thigh to cup your face, tilting it so you have to look at him. “—is intentional. You chose this. Chose me. Chose to be here, knowing what it might mean.”

“I did.”

“Why?” His other thumb hooks under the silk of your dress, brushing bare skin underneath. “Tell me why.”

“I like you, Sylus,” you admit, voice low but steady. “I like the way I feel invincible when I’m with you. I like the way you look at me—like I'm someone worth knowing. Like I'm capable. You don't dance around things or hide behind what you think I want to hear. And I like that you don't flinch when I push back. You just—push back harder. Like you want me to.”

He traces your cheekbone, and you can see him processing your words, holding them like they’re precious. You take a breath, and even though it feels too revealing, you keep going.

“I wanted to be here. With you. Not just anyone who’d pay attention to me. You. Because you make me feel alive in a way I didn't know I was missing.” Your voice softens. “And, yeah, maybe a part of me is here because I wanted to feel wanted. Because I’m tired of waiting for someone who won’t ever—” You stop yourself short.

“Won’t what?”

“Nothing.”

“No. Tell me.” He leans closer, brushing hair from your face, fingers lingering at your temple. “Won’t what? Touch you? Want you? Take what you’re offering?”

The accuracy of it makes your chest tight. You can only nod.

“He does want you,” Sylus says quietly. Both his hands find your hips, settling there with certainty. “Your doctor. I’d bet everything I own that he does. But he won’t let himself take it. Won’t cross that line.”

“How do you—”

“Because I pay attention. Because you get this look every time you mention him—like you want something you’re not allowed to have.” His voice drops quieter. “And because no man could have a woman like you under his roof and stay untouched by it.”

You don’t know what to say, only that you want him to keep looking at you like that. Desirable. Like a woman who could wreck a man if she wanted to. 

Maybe even two.

“Here’s the thing, kitten,” he continues, voice dropping. “I meant what I said before. On the phone. About you wanting both of us.”

The memory makes your face go hot in an instant. “That wasn’t—that was just—”

His hands knead the soft curve of your hips, like he’s trying to coax the rest of the sentence out of you.

“Just what, hm? Fantasy?” His eyes are intense on yours. “Maybe. But it’s what you want. And I’m not going to pretend I don’t know that just to make this simpler.”

“What do you mean?”

“He can give you careful. Safe. The kind of love that protects you. And I can give you this.” Sylus's hands flex where they hold you. “Fire. Passion. Everything that makes you feel alive. Why does it have to be one or the other?”

You’d thought about it—late at night when you couldn’t sleep, when the wanting got too big to ignore. When you wore one man’s shirt and thought about the other. The idea that maybe you could have both. That maybe it didn’t have to be a choice.

But then there’s the other part—the part Sylus doesn’t know. The part where your doctor is Zayne, and Zayne apparently knows Sylus, which means Sylus apparently knows Zayne, and suddenly the idea of “both” feels like playing with a fuse you have no business touching.

It’s a conversation you’re not ready to have—not when it might shatter this moment. You’re too much of a coward, too selfish to risk ruining something that finally feels right.

It’s easier to pretend it’s not possible. Safer to believe you never had a real choice to begin with.

“It wouldn't work. Even if I wanted it to.” You look away, but he catches your chin, making you meet his eyes. Dread curls in your stomach, because the way he looks at you makes the next words unbearable. “He doesn’t like you, Sylus. He…knows of you, and he thinks you’re dangerous. That you’re bad for me.”

His expression shifts—something unreadable passing through his eyes. Then his mouth curves into something that's not quite a smile.

"Smart man." He releases your chin, and the absence is instant, like heat lifting off your skin. "I'd think less of him if he didn't warn you away from me."

“Stop saying things like that.” Your hands find his face, forcing him to look at you. “It's not true. I know—"

"No, you don't. Not really." His hands come up to circle your wrists, holding you there even as you hold him. "You know the idea of it. The concept. But you haven't seen it. Haven't watched me become something cold and efficient and—" He stops himself, closing his eyes briefly. "You don't know what it means to be part of that world yet."

He takes a step back, and your hands fall away from his face. He looks out at the city behind you—his city, all bright lights and hidden dangers. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.

"Your doctor sees what I am. And he wants to protect you from it." He turns back to you. "I could never fault him for that."

Something inside you twists, hot and fierce. Because he still doesn't see it. Doesn't understand that you already made up your mind.

“Will you hurt me?” 

You ask it not because you’re afraid he will. You ask it because you need him to understand you already know the answer. That you trust him in ways he doesn't seem to trust himself.

His head snaps back toward you, red eyes sharp and searching.

“Not willingly. Not intentionally. Never, if I could help it.” He moves back into your space, close enough that you can see the fight in his eyes—the want and the fear and the desperate need to make you understand. “I’ll guard you from every angle I can. I’ll take the hit first. Every time. But I can’t guarantee you’ll never feel the impact.”

You swallow, once, hard, because you can see he’s not warning you to create distance. He’s warning you because he cares. Because in his mind, you’re already something he could lose—even if he doesn’t truly have you yet.

Your voice is barely there when it comes back.

“Then none of that scares me,” you whisper. “Not the way being without you would.”

His hands come up to cradle your face, palms warm against your cheeks. You lean into the touch before you can stop yourself, just enough to let him know you want him there.

“You want in? Then I need you to be honest with me.” His thumbs smooth the tension from your skin. “If it’s ever too much—if you’re scared, or unhappy, if you want out—you tell me. Immediately. No judgment, no questions. You just tell me, and I’ll get you out.”

“And if I want to learn more?”

“Then I’ll teach you.” He says it easily, like it’s inevitable. “Everything you want to know. But we go at your pace. When you’re ready.”

You frown. “I want to be ready.”

“I know, kitten. But there’s a difference between wanting it and being prepared for it.” His hand slides to your neck, fingers threading into your hair at the base of your skull. “I’m not going to throw you into the deep end and hope you can swim. I’m going to teach you. Show you how to navigate it. Make sure you know exactly what you’re getting into, so you can make your own choices about whether you want to be in my world.”

You nod into his touch. “So what do we do?”

“We take our time. I show you pieces. You tell me when you want more.” He pauses, searching your face. “And in the meantime, we figure out the rest.”

“The rest?”

“Your doctor. What you want from him. What you want from me.” His thumb brushes over your lower lip, and you have to fight not to take it into your mouth. “I told you—I love the idea of you wanting both of us. Obsessed with it, actually. That wasn’t just dirty talk, sweetie.” His smile is sharp now. “Even if he apparently thinks I’m the devil. Makes it all the more interesting, doesn’t it?”

Your face heats. “Sylus—”

“I’m serious.” One hand finds your hip again, pulling you forward on the ledge. The shift makes your legs hook over his hips, and suddenly you’re pressed against him—center to center—in a way that steals your breath. “I know it sounds like fantasy. And maybe it is. But I also think it’s what you actually want. What you actually need.”

“Even if that’s true, it doesn’t matter. He won’t—”

“He won’t if you don’t push him to.” His eyes burn into yours. “And I’m going to push you to push him. Because I don’t want you living in constant uncertainty. I don’t want you spending another day wondering if he wants you when I already know he does.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I understand wanting you.” His voice drops lower, rough with honesty. “I understand how it feels to have you close and not be able to touch you every way I want. To watch you exist in my space and know you could walk away at any moment.” His grip in your hair tightens just enough to tilt your head up, to keep your eyes on him. “The difference is I’m not pretending I don't feel it. And I’m not going to let you pretend you don’t deserve to have both if that’s what you want.”

Your chest feels too tight. “That’s—”

“Overwhelming?” His smile is soft, a little devious. “Perhaps. But you’re already ruining this pretty dress I picked out for you just thinking about it, and I haven’t even gotten my hands under it yet. So maybe a little overwhelming is just what you need.”

You can feel him hard against you, the pressure perfect where your bodies meet, and it makes thinking impossible. Your hips roll forward of their own accord, seeking more, and he groans, low and broken. The movement drags him right against the lace you wore under the dress, the delicate fabric soaked through and doing nothing to dull the way you feel him.

“Trouble,” he warns, but his hand tightens on your hip, encouraging the movement. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Whatever you want,” you breathe, and his eyes go molten.

“Bold thing to say.” His hand guides your hips again, creating friction that makes you gasp. “I want a lot of things. Should I start a list?”

You’re moving against each other now, the pressure building, when he shifts—adjusts your position so one of your legs slides down, and suddenly you’re straddling his thigh instead. The change in angle is immediate and devastating.

“There,” he says, voice rough as his hands settle on your hips, grip firm. “No more hiding. Let me feel everything you’re trying so hard to hold in.”

And God, you can feel everything—the hard muscle of his thigh, the pressure right where you need it, the heat of his hands guiding you.

One hand slides up your back, fingers splaying wide between your bare shoulder blades, pressing you closer. The other stays at your hip, controlling the rhythm, showing you exactly how he wants you to move.

“You react like you’ve been waiting for permission,” he murmurs against your jaw. “Every touch, every word—like you needed someone to tell you it’s okay to want this.”

You can feel the heat of him everywhere—his chest against yours, his thigh between your legs, his breath on your neck.

“Maybe I did.”

“Then listen to me now.” He kisses your neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin. “You’re allowed to want this. You’re allowed to take everything you need from me.”

You’re moving against him harder now, chasing something you can feel building. His hand on your back slides lower, pressing at the base of your spine to change the angle, and suddenly—

“Oh god.”

“There it is.” His voice is pure satisfaction. “Now give me that pretty little noise again.”

You’re making sounds you don’t recognize, desperate whimpers and gasps, and he’s encouraging every one. His mouth finds your throat, sucking hard, then soft, and the sting of it makes you move faster.

“I'm so proud of you,” he breathes against your skin. “You needed this so badly, didn't you, sweetie?”

The praise breaks something in you. Your hands fist in his hair, pulling him back from your neck, and you see it—the way his lips are parted, the way his eyes drop to your mouth and stay there. The way he’s not moving, not closing the distance, just waiting. Begging without words.

So you take it.

You pull him to you and finally—finally—you kiss him.

It’s messy and graceless, the way your tongue slides against his the second your mouths meet. He groans like you’ve gutted him, one hand immediately cupping the back of your head while the other tightens almost painfully on your hip. You bite his lip just to feel him react, and the low sound he makes goes straight to your core. He kisses you harder for it, dragging you closer like he needs more skin, more friction, more of you, like he doesn’t care if the world burns as long as he gets to have this.

When you finally break apart for air, he doesn't go far. His forehead rests against yours, both of you panting.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice absolutely wrecked. “You have no idea—” He kisses you again, quick and hard. “—how long I’ve been waiting for you to do that.”

Your grip in his hair tightens, using it as leverage. “I should’ve done it sooner.”

“And miss the fun of watching you squirm all night? Not a chance, sweetie.” His eyes are blazing as they drop to your mouth again. “Now be honest with me.”

You steal another kiss, lips barely grazing his before you breathe, “Always.”

“Your doctor—would he kiss you like this?” 

The kiss is soft. Slow. Barely there. The kind of kiss that aches with everything withheld, like he’s memorizing your mouth instead of claiming it. Like he’s afraid to ruin something fragile.

“Or like this?” 

The second kiss hits like a storm, wet and full of urgency. His tongue claims your mouth in long, filthy strokes—hot and greedy, like he’s already imagining what the rest of you tastes like. He groans against your mouth, fingers digging into your hip, the other fisting in your hair like he’ll come apart without something to hold.

And then he breaks away again—barely—eyes searching yours.

“Or maybe like this.”

The third kiss begins with restraint. Almost gentle. His lips skim yours like he’s tasting the moment, teasing it out, dragging the tension until your whole body hums with want.

He kisses you slow, deep, like he’s learning the shape of your mouth—like he wants you to feel every drag of his tongue against yours. It’s quieter than the last one, but it makes your pulse riot, because you can feel him holding back.

And then—he doesn’t.

His teeth catch your lower lip in a sudden bite, sharp enough to make you gasp. He doesn't pull away. Just holds there for a beat, tongue soothing over the sting, breath hot and ragged against your mouth.

And in your mind, it’s Zayne kissing you like that, too—rough and desperate, finally letting go of all that control. The image spurs you on, makes you move faster. Your lip throbs, and his eyes flare as he watches your reaction.

“You’re thinking about it,” Sylus says, and there’s pleasure in his voice. “Imagining him here. Watching you. Or maybe letting you use him like this.”

“Yes,” you gasp, because lying feels impossible right now.

“Would he let you do this?” His hand at your hip tightens, guiding you harder against his thigh. “Pull his hair like that? Use him to get yourself off?”

​​The image flashes through your mind—Zayne beneath you, watching you take your pleasure, his hands on your hips just like this. The thought makes you moan.

“Would he touch you like this?” His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, fingertips dragging up the sensitive skin slowly. “If he were here, would he push your panties to the side and slide two fingers in while I watched?” His hand moves dangerously close, and you’re certain you stop breathing. “Would he be able to handle it, the way your body moves when you’re this close to coming? Or would he lose his mind the second he felt how wet you are—how tight you’d grip his fingers if you let him put them in?”

“I don’t—I don’t know,” you manage, dazed, but you’re imagining it—Zayne’s careful hands, the way he’d touch you like you’re something irreplacable even as he takes you apart.

“Would he tell you how badly he wants to put his mouth on every inch of you—or would he make you beg for every touch like you don't already deserve it?” His hand on your back presses you somehow closer. “Would he tell you how beautiful you look right now? How gorgeous you look like this, fucking yourself on my thigh like that?"

“Sylus—please—”

“No? Then allow me.” His mouth finds your ear, teeth grazing. “Allow me to tell you how breathtaking you are like this—dripping wet all over me, riding me like it's the only thing keeping you alive. And knowing you’re thinking about both of us while you do it?" He exhales, breath ragged against your throat. "His tongue between your legs, my hands spreading you open, the way we’d both make room for you—fuck, no wonder you’re soaked.”

The words hit you like a physical thing—permission to want both, to imagine both, to have both. Your rhythm falters and he feels it, his hands tightening on you.

“You feel that?” he groans, thigh flexing beneath you, and you nearly sob from how perfect it feels. “I know. I know. God, you're close. Come for me, kitten. Come for us. Show us both how pretty you are when you let go.”

The us breaks you. You’re right at the edge, everything pulled tight and desperate, pleasure coiling hot and insistent at the base of your spine—

And it snaps.

Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, making you cry out against his neck as he holds you through it, murmuring praise you can barely hear over the rushing in your ears.

“You're unbelievable. Unbelievable,” he murmurs, still catching his breath. “You didn't hold back. And fuck, it was beautiful.”

You’re shaking, aftershocks rolling through you, when his hands slow your movement—gentle but firm.

You can’t form words. Can barely breathe. Your face is buried in his neck, and you can feel his pulse racing under your lips.

“Still with me?” he asks, brushing your hair back with careful fingers.

You nod against him, but your hand moves on its own—over his chest, down his stomach. You just want to give something back. You feel like you took so much. 

But then your palm brushes the hard outline of him. He sucks in a breath between his teeth—like it took everything in him not to thrust into your hand.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” He laughs quietly, and you feel it rumble through his chest. When you finally pull back to look at him, his eyes are soft. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You feel him beneath your hand—twitching, aching—and it hits you just how much he’s holding back.

“I think I’m starting to get a pretty good idea.” You tilt your head, lips brushing his jaw. “But I want to see what else I can do to you, too.”

His fingers close around your wrist and guide it upward, pressing your palm flat against his chest. His heart slams like it’s trying to speak for him. 

“Now you’re just showing off.” He laughs again, more genuinely this time. “Give me a minute. Please. Let me think about literally anything else.”

“Like what?”

“Inventory. Tax forms. Anything that isn’t how good you feel against me.”

You grin, feeling powerful. Wanted. “Is it helping?”

“Not in the slightest,” he says, helping you down from the ledge carefully. Your legs are unsteady, and he keeps his hands on your waist until you find your balance. 

Then, gently, he tugs your dress back into place, smoothing the fabric over your hips with slow, lingering fingers. You blink at him, dazed, and he gives you a look that’s part affection, part amusement.

“Don’t look at me like that.” He leans in, brushing a kiss behind your ear. “Trust me, kitten. I’m not exactly suffering.”

You open your mouth to protest—to offer something, anything—but he cuts you off with a hand at your lower back, steering you forward.

“Now let’s get you some water. Before I disgrace us both in front of a security camera.”

Back at the booth, there’s a new drink waiting, along with two glasses of ice water. The cocktails are colorful and elaborate, garnished with what looks like strawberries and mint. 

“House specialty,” Sylus says, sliding one toward you. “I had them make it fresh.”

You eye it warily. “What’s in it?”

“Good things. Try it.”

“No, seriously. What’s in it?” You’re always careful. Always asking. Can’t afford not to be.

“Some kind of liqueur. Fruit juice. The bartender’s secret recipe.” He’s already drinking his own. “It’s good. Trust me.”

You hesitate. You should ask more specifically. Should confirm every ingredient. Should be careful.

But you’re tired of being cautious. And Sylus wouldn’t give you something dangerous. He wouldn’t.

“Okay.” You take a sip.

It’s delicious. Sweet but not too sweet. Complex. The strawberry flavor is fresh and bright.

You take another sip.

“Good?” Sylus asks.

“Really good.” You set it down. “You’re trying to get me drunk.”

“I’m trying to get you relaxed.” His hand finds yours on the table. “You’ve been tense since we got back.”

“Wonder why,” you say dryly, and he grins.

“Fair. That’s my fault.” He brings your hand to his lips. “But you enjoyed it.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t.”

“Good. Because I plan to do it again. When you’re ready. When we have more time and fewer clothes and—” He stops himself. “I’m getting ahead of myself.”

“Mmm,” you hum, “but what if I like it when you get ahead of yourself?”

“Trouble.” But his eyes are warm. “You’re trouble for me.”

You swirl the straw around in your glass, and you feel him watching your fingers move. A sly smile tugs at your lips. “I thought you loved trouble.” 

“I do,” he says, brushing his thumb under your chin. “Especially when she looks at me like that.”

You freeze. Emotion floods in before you can name it, soft and dizzying and entirely too much. You think of Zayne like a reflex—the man you've waited for, ached for, trusted with every part of yourself except this. But Sylus is right here, looking at you like he’s already yours. And in just one night, he’s reached places Zayne never dared to touch.

It doesn’t make you want Zayne any less. But now there’s this—something new, something real—and it sits too close to your heart.

“Dance with me again,” you say, too quickly. You stand, needing motion. Distraction. “Please.”

His mouth twitches, like he knows exactly what you’re doing—because it's the same dodge he used when things got too close. And now he’s letting you get away with it, just this once.

“Say please again,” he teases. “Slower this time. Like you mean it.”

You roll your eyes—but your fingers are already curling around his, tugging him toward the floor.

This time is different. Closer. More urgent. His hands on your waist, your arms around his neck. Moving together like you’ve done this a thousand times.

He kisses you between songs. Deep, hungry kisses that leave you gasping. Small kisses pressed to your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. Like he can’t help himself. Like touching you is the only thing keeping him sane.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs against your lips. “Do you know that? Perfect.”

“I’m really not—”

“You are. For me. Right now.” His hands slide lower on your back, pulling you impossibly closer. “Perfect.”

You kiss him to shut him up, and he makes a sound—pleased and hungry and almost pained. His hand fists in your hair, angling your head so he can kiss you deeper.

“I want you,” he breathes when you finally pull apart. “God, I want you.”

“I want you too, Sylus.”

“Come home with me.” His forehead rests against yours. “Please. I just—I need more time with you. I’m not ready for tonight to end.”

You want to say yes. Want it so badly it physically hurts.

But something holds you back. Some instinct that says if you go home with him tonight, you’ll wake up tomorrow and realize you’ve fallen too far, too fast. That you’ll be in over your head before you even realize you’re drowning. 

“I can’t. Not tonight.”

He pulls back to look at you, disappointment barely visible before it tempers to understanding. “Fair answer.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to—”

“I know, sweetie.” He kisses your forehead. “We have time. I’m not going anywhere.”

You keep dancing. Keep touching. Keep existing in this bubble where nothing else matters.

You’re dizzy. From the drinks. From him. From the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that exists.

Your throat feels tight.

You ignore it. Keep dancing. It’s probably nothing. Probably just the heat of the club, the exertion.

The tightness gets worse.

You pull back slightly. “Sylus—”

“Yeah?” He’s looking at you with such warmth. Such want.

“I feel—” Your chest is tight now. Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. “I think something’s—”

Your throat is closing. You can’t breathe. Can’t—

“Sweetie?” His expression shifts immediately to alarm. “What’s wrong? Talk to me—”

You try to speak. Can’t. Your vision is blurring. Your chest—you can’t breathe—

Your legs give out.

Sylus catches you before you hit the ground, lowering you carefully to the floor.

“HELP!” His voice is loud, commanding, cutting like a blade through the music. “I NEED HELP. NOW!”

The music stops. People are gathering. Someone is on the phone with emergency services.

“What is it?” he’s asking frantically, hands on your face, keeping you focused on him. “Where does it hurt?”

You can’t answer. Can’t breathe. Everything is tightening, darkening, slipping.

Your hand lifts weakly, pressing against your leg in a desperate mimic of a stabbing gesture. He goes still, tracking the movement—then his eyes widen.

"Her bag," he barks. "I NEED HER BAG."

Someone hands it over amidst the chaos, and he tears it open without hesitation, dumping the contents on the floor: Wallet. Keys. Phone. Lip gloss.

And there—your EpiPen.

He grabs it with shaking hands, staring at it like he’s never seen one before. Maybe he hasn’t.

“How do I—” He’s reading the instructions printed on the side, hands trembling so badly he almost drops it. “Okay. Okay. Remove cap. Hold against outer thigh—”

His free hand pulls your dress up slightly, finding bare skin.

“This is going to hurt. I’m so sorry—”

The injection is sharp and immediate. You gasp—air flooding back in shallow, wheezing gasps. Your throat opens just enough to breathe.

“That’s it. Breathe. Just breathe. I've got you.” His hand is on your face, thumb stroking your cheek. “Ambulance is coming. You’re going to be okay. Just stay with me.”

You try to nod, try to show him you understand, but everything is swimming. Your vision keeps blurring. Your chest still feels too tight.

“Do you have an emergency contact?” Someone is asking. “Someone we should call?”

“Her phone,” Sylus says, and someone hands it to him. He pulls up your emergency contact. There’s only one name listed:

Zayne Li.

His face goes white.

“Is this—” He looks at you. “Your doctor. Is his name Zayne?”

You manage a small nod.

You see it happen, the moment everything clicks into place. The recognition. The horror. The understanding of exactly who you've been living with. Who you’ve been wanting.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Fuck.”

But there’s no time to process. He hits the contact. Holds the phone to his ear.

He picks up on the first ring.

“Hello?” Zayne’s voice comes through, a little worried, like he knows something’s wrong just from seeing your number. “Do you need me to come get you? I can be there in—”

Sylus closes his eyes. “Doctor Li.”

Zayne’s entire world stops for a fraction of a second.

It’s a voice he hasn’t heard in seven years. A voice he thought he’d successfully buried under years of work and distance and the careful construction of a new life. A voice that belongs to someone he’s tried very, very hard to forget.

“We need milk.”

“We have milk.”

“We have oat milk. I need regular milk for the dessert I want to try.”

“What dessert?”

“Panna cotta. Thought I’d finally attempt something that requires more than mixing things in a bowl.”

“And you’re making this for...?”

“For you, obviously. Someone has to feed your sugar addiction.” You give him a knowing look. “I’ve seen your secret chocolate stash in your office. Don’t even try to deny it.”

“That’s for emergencies.”

“What kind of emergencies require dark chocolate?”

“Long surgeries. Difficult patients.” His lips twitch. “Stubborn women who ignore medical advice and test my patience.”

You’re pushing the cart through the produce section while Zayne examines apples with what can only be described as surgical precision.

“These are overripe,” he says, setting one back carefully.

“They’re apples, not organs. Just pick some.”

“I have standards.”

“You have issues,” you tell him, but you’re smiling. This is normal. Easy. Your Saturday routine—grocery shopping together, him being unnecessarily particular about produce, you teasing him for it.

He places three perfect apples in the cart with care. “What’s next on the list?”

You consult the list on your phone. “Coffee. ‘The good kind,’ you wrote. What’s the bad kind?”

“The kind you bought last time.”

“It was on sale!”

“It tasted like punishment.”

You’re laughing, turning down the coffee aisle, when an older woman smiles at you both. “You two are just adorable. How long have you been married?”

The words hit like a physical blow.

“Oh, we’re not—” you start.

“Three years,” Zayne says smoothly, already moving past her. “Excuse us.”

You stand there frozen for a second before catching up to him.

Your mind is reeling. Married. She thought you were married. And Zayne just—went with it. Didn’t correct her. Said three years like it was true.

Three years. It’s how long you've been living together. How long he’s been taking care of you. How long you’ve been doing this—grocery shopping on Saturdays, him cooking for you, falling asleep on his couch during movie nights, wearing his clothes.

Three years of playing house without ever acknowledging what it looks like from the outside.

What it feels like from the inside.

“Why did you say that?” you ask quietly.

“Easier than explaining the actual situation.” He’s studying coffee bags now, not looking at you. “This one. The dark roast.”

But your heart is still pounding. Because for a second let yourself imagine it. Actually being married to Zayne. Waking up next to him every morning. Not as his patient or his roommate or his responsibility, but as his wife.

And the thought didn’t scare you.

It should have. It didn’t.

“The imported kind is better,” he’s saying, adding a dark blue bag to the cart.

“That’s twenty dollars for coffee.”

“It doesn’t taste like punishment.”

You push the cart along, still thinking about the woman. About three years. About how easy it was for her to see what you’ve both been tiptoeing around all this time.

You’re in the dairy aisle, him comparing expiration dates on milk, when he says it.

“I got us tickets to the new exhibit at the museum,” he says casually, eyes still on the milk. “The one on ancient civilizations. It opens tomorrow. I thought we could go. Make an evening of it.”

Your heart skips. The ancient civilizations exhibit. You’d mentioned it weeks ago—showed him the article, talked about how they were bringing in artifacts from three different museums, pieces that were rarely displayed together. How you’d been counting down the days for it to come to Linkon.

He remembered. Of course he remembered.

“Oh."

“Our tickets are for six o'clock. We could get dinner after.” He puts the milk in the cart, finally looking at you. There’s something hopeful in his expression, something almost vulnerable. “I made a reservation at that Italian place we’ve been meaning to try. The one with the—”

“The wine list I wanted to see,” you finish quietly. He remembered that, too.

“That same one.” There’s a small smile on his face now, pleased that you remember. Expectant. Like he’s waiting for you to be excited. “What do you think?”

Tomorrow. Sunday. When you’re supposed to see Sylus.

He’s planned this. Remembered the exhibit you wanted to see, got tickets before they sold out, made dinner reservations at a place you mentioned once in passing. He’s trying. Actually trying to spend time with you doing something you care about.

And you have to say no.

The words taste like ash in your mouth.

“I would love to. So much. But I…can’t. I already have plans.”

He goes very still. “Plans.”

“Yeah. I’m—I’m going out tomorrow night.”

The change in his expression is subtle. But you know him well enough to see it—the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes shutter.

“I should have asked first. That was presumptuous of me.”

“No, it’s not—you didn’t know—”

“It’s fine.” But his voice is flat now. “We can go another time.”

“Zayne—”

“What else do we need?” He’s already moving down the aisle, not looking at you.

The guilt crushes you. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—if I’d known you wanted to go, I could have—”

“You don’t need to apologize for having plans.” He’s examining yogurt containers now with unnecessary focus. “You’re allowed to have a life.”

The words sting more than if he’d been angry.

“We can reschedule,” you offer weakly. “Next weekend, maybe—”

“Maybe.” But he doesn't sound convinced. He puts Greek yogurt in the cart. “This is the kind you prefer, right?”

“Yeah.”

He’s still being considerate. Still taking care of you. Even though you just turned him down. Even though you can see the disappointment he’s trying to hide.

You finish shopping in near silence. He pays—he always pays. You load groceries into the car, Zayne carrying most of the bags because he insists.

“I really am sorry,” you say as he closes the trunk. “About tomorrow.”

“Don’t be.” He looks at you then, and something in his expression makes your throat tight. “I should have checked with you first. That was my mistake.”

“It wasn’t a mistake—”

“It was.” He opens your car door for you. “You have your own life. Your own plans. I can’t expect you to always be available.”

The words are reasonable. Logical. Everything Zayne always is.

Still, they sit wrong—heavy and crowded between you on the drive home, split between the groceries in the trunk and your phone burning a hole in your pocket.

The package arrives later that evening.

You’re sprawled out across your bed, half-watching some cooking show on your laptop, when the doorbell rings. The delivery man hands you a large, elegant box—matte black with a silk ribbon.

There’s no return address, but you know immediately who it’s from.

You carry it inside, taking it back to your bedroom. There’s a note tucked under the ribbon, heavy cardstock with bold handwriting:

The little green number is for tomorrow night. I can’t wait to see you in this.

The shirt is for right now—I’ve been thinking about you wearing it since the moment I picked it out. 

Stop stealing from him. This one’s yours to keep.

—S

You open the box carefully. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, is a dress. Not just any dress—it’s stunning. Deep emerald silk that catches the light, short and elegant with a halter neck. Backless. Expensive. The kind of thing you’d never buy for yourself.

Underneath it, folded neatly, is a shirt. Black, soft cotton, clearly worn-in. His.

You pull it out and bring it to your face without thinking. It smells like his cologne—dark, woodsy, expensive. Nothing like Zayne's clean, crisp scent. 

Not that you're comparing.

You take the dress to the bathroom to try it on. It slides on like water, the cool silk against your skin, draping across your body perfectly. But the halter ties are impossible to reach, dangling uselessly down your back. You twist, trying to grab them, arms at an awkward angle.

“Do you need help?”

You freeze at the sound of Zayne’s voice from the doorway.

“I—yes. The ties. I can't reach them.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

You glance over your shoulder and there he is, completely still, one hand braced on the doorframe like he had to forcibly stop himself from walking in. He’s still in his work clothes—dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, silver glasses perched on his nose. His jaw tightens. His eyes flicker lower down your body, then snap back up, but not fast enough to hide the way they darken.

He steps into the small bathroom without a word. It’s too small a space for both of you. He’s too close, his presence filling every inch of available air.

“Turn around.” He says without meeting your eyes. “And hold your hair back for me.”

You face the mirror, watching him in the reflection as he gathers the silk ties.

He loops the fabric once, twice, but his movements are slower than necessary. His fingers graze your skin, just once, and he stills again. His breath catches so subtly you almost miss it. After tightening the knot, his hands linger at your neck, then slide down to your shoulders—warm and heavy and maybe even a bit possessive. 

You shift under the weight of his palms, the silk brushing the tops of your thighs like a secret. The dress fits perfectly—obscenely so. You don’t need to turn around to know what Zayne is thinking. You can see it, raw and unfiltered, in the mirror. His eyes stay locked on the curve of your back, the dip of your waist, the way the fabric clings like it was made to be peeled off.

Made for someone else's hands.

“What's this all about?” His voice is low and controlled, but you can hear the strain underneath.

Something sinks in your chest. “What do you mean?”

“The dress. The expensive packaging I saw by your door.” His eyes meet yours in the mirror. “Your plans for tomorrow night.”

Your heart hammers. It’s like being caught in a spotlight—his gaze, the words, the mirror. All of it pinning you in place.

“I told you. I'm going out.”

“Out.” He repeats the word like it tastes wrong. “With whom?”

You can’t bring yourself to answer.

Zayne's hands slide away from your shoulders, but he doesn’t step back. His palms find the counter on either side of you, gripping the marble edge, caging you in—so close you can feel the heat of him against your bare back, his breath unsteady at your neck.

“With whom?” 

You’re trapped between him and the sink. Between his body and the mirror.

This moment was inevitable, really. You couldn’t hide from him forever. But the mirror makes it harder—forces you to watch your own mouth form the betrayal.

“Sylus.” The name feels like a confession. “I’m going to see Sylus.”

His grip on the counter tightens. You watch his knuckles go white in the mirror, watch the muscles of his forearms flex beneath the pale lines of his old scars.

“You’re seeing him again.” His voice is firm, but you can hear it fraying at the edges. “You’ve been talking to him all week. That’s why you’ve been so distracted. So different.”

“Yes.”

“After everything I said. After I asked you to stay away.”

“You didn’t ask. You ordered.” You turn your head slightly, not quite looking at him. “And you never told me why.”

He closes his eyes, and you can feel it—the way every muscle in his body goes taut, the way his breathing stops.

When they open again, there’s something wounded there. A war happening behind his eyes that you don’t entirely understand.

“You don’t know him.” It comes out strained. Tense. “You met him one time.”

“That’s what dates are for, Zayne. Getting to know someone.”

“This isn’t you. You don’t do this.” You can see the veins in his forearms jump with each word. “You think things through. You’re careful.”

“Maybe I’m tired of being careful.”

“Or maybe he’s in your head.” His voice is tight. “Making you think you want things you don’t actually want.”

“How do you possibly know that?” The question bursts out. “You won’t tell me anything real. Just…vague threats with no evidence. What actually happened with you two?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“It is my concern!” You speak a little too fast, a little too loud. “If he’s truly dangerous, I deserve to know how. Did he hurt you?”

His pause is a fraction too long.

“Not physically.”

The two words are enough. It’s the way he says them—quiet and clipped, like he’s bracing for a blow that already came. 

And he still won’t look at you. Not even a glance.

His eyes fix on the wall instead, distant and unblinking, like if he focuses hard enough, he can keep the memories where they belong. Locked down. Buried deep, deep down where even he can’t find them.

“Zayne.” Your voice softens. “What did he—”

“I’m not discussing this.” His tone is defensive now, sharp and loaded with everything he’s holding back. “Not now. Not with you.”

“Why not?”

His nostrils flare. He shakes his head, jaw tight like he’s biting back too many answers and none of them safe to say. “Because telling you won't change anything.”

“It might change my mind.”

“Would it?” He finally looks at you. His eyes are dark, intense, searching your face for something. “Or would you go anyway? Because you want to prove something. Because he’s paying attention to you.”

The accusation hurts more than it should. Because maybe there’s truth in it. Maybe you are craving the attention. Maybe you’re being reckless. Maybe you have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” His voice is quiet. Devastatingly quiet. “Be honest. Would anything I say actually stop you from seeing him?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Because you don’t know. You genuinely don’t know if you’d stay away even if he told you everything. Even if he gave you proof that Sylus was dangerous.

“It’s something I need to find out for myself.”

His eyes still study your face in the mirror. “And what if finding out means getting hurt?”

“Then I get hurt," you say matter-of-factly. "Then at least I’d actually be living my life instead of just—existing in it.”

The words hit hard. You can see it in the way he flinches, in the way his throat works when he swallows.

“Is that what you think I’m doing? Existing?”

“What else would you call it? You work. You come home. You take care of me like it’s an obligation. You never—” You stop yourself.

“I never what?"

“Nothing.”

You try to turn away, but he moves with you, caging you harder against the counter until the marble bites into your hips.

“No. Say it.” His breath ghosts over your ear, and the tremor it sends down your spine is instant. “I never what?”

“You never let yourself want anything!” You don’t bother hiding the fury anymore. “You’re so careful, so controlled, so—safe. Don’t you ever want something just because you want it? Not because it’s logical or right or professional?”

His hands flex where they grip the counter like he doesn’t know what to do with them. For a moment, it looks like he might step back—run from this like he always does.

Instead, he moves closer.

“You have no idea.” His forehead hovers at the nape of your neck, chest brushing your spine with every uneven inhale, like he's grounding himself on the shape of you. “What I want.”

“Then tell me, Zayne.”

The silence stretches. He’s so close, looking at you like he’s never looked at you before. Not the patient. Not the obligation. Just you.

And something in him is breaking.

You can feel him trembling with the effort of holding himself still, feel the heat of his body radiating over you like a current, and every second he doesn’t speak feels louder than words.

“Tell me,” you whisper again. “Please.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. The bathroom feels too small, the air too thick, everything balanced on the edge of something that could shatter everything between you.

Then his hands fall away from the counter.

Cold air rushes in where his warmth was. You feel the absence of him like a physical thing. Like something vital has been taken away.

“Lock the door next time you're changing.” His voice is flat as he moves toward the hallway. “And enjoy your date tomorrow. I hope Sylus is everything you think he is.”

You hear the finality in the way he says it. And by the time it sinks in, he’s already gone.

You stand there for a moment in the empty bathroom, suddenly aware of how ridiculous you look—dressed up in expensive silk with nowhere to go, makeup-free and barefoot. Walk back to your room carrying it like something precious and hang it carefully on the back of your door.

The black shirt—Sylus’s shirt—is still on your bed where you left it. You pick it up, pull it on, let the fabric swallow you.

Your phone buzzes on the bed.

Sylus: Did it arrive? Do you like it?

You stare at the screen, heart still pounding from the bathroom encounter. From Zayne’s voice, his retreat, the ache he left behind.

This is different. Lighter. Easier.

You: it's beautiful

Sylus: That’s not what I asked. Do you like it?

You: yes

You: i like it a lot

Sylus: Come over tonight. Try it on for me properly. We can call it a rehearsal.

You laugh—actually laugh, which feels ridiculous after the way your chest felt splintered five minutes ago.

You: you’re insatiable.

Your phone vibrates again—this time with a voice note.

You hesitate, thumb hovering over it. Then you press play.

Sylus: “Now, trouble—you say I’m insatiable like you don’t love every bit of it. Like you didn’t type that with a smile. I can hear it in your voice—oh wait, you're not using yours yet. Tsk. We’ll fix that tomorrow. Wear the dress. I’ll take care of the rest.” 

You bite your lip, because he’s not wrong. You’re already grinning like a fool. 

“Are you in my shirt yet, kitten? I hope it falls on your thighs just right, teasing you every time you move. I bet you’re warm underneath. Squirming a little just thinking about seeing me tomorrow, aren’t you?”

Your breath catches. You are squirming, damn him. He shouldn’t know you this well, not from a distance, not already. And yet your body hums at the sound of his voice like it’s been hard-wired to respond to him.

“Be good tonight. Or don’t. Either way, I’ll see you in my dreams—and I expect you to show up wearing my shirt.”

There’s heat rising under your skin again—different from before. Not guilt. Not heartbreak. Just the hot, addictive promise of being wanted.

You set your phone on your nightstand, still smiling, and wrap your arms tight around yourself. Sylus’s shirt smells like him. Feels like him. Like permission to want things. Like someone who isn’t afraid to say what they mean.

But when you close your eyes, you feel Zayne’s hands on your shoulders. His breath on your neck. The way he caged you in and almost broke. Almost said something real. Almost gave you what you’ve been wanting for three years.

You want them both.

One who won’t admit he wants you. One who won’t stop saying it.

One who knows your body inside and out but won’t touch you the way you need. One who wants to touch you everywhere but doesn’t know you yet.

You don’t know how to choose between them. Don’t know if you even want to. Don't even know if you're allowed to.

Tomorrow night, you’re going to wear that dress. You’re going to let Sylus take you to his club. You’re going to let yourself want something, be wanted by someone who isn’t afraid to show it.

But tonight, you’re alone in an apartment that feels too big, wearing one man’s shirt while thinking about another man’s hands, and there’s a closed office door between you and three years of almosts.

You’re tired of almosts. 

You just don’t know what comes after them.

The week starts innocently enough.

A text from Sylus here and there. Good morning messages that make you check your phone before you’re fully awake. Observations about his day, questions about yours. Back-and-forth conversation that makes the day feel less monotonous. Casual. Friendly.

Until it’s not.

By Wednesday, you’re texting constantly. Zayne notices at breakfast. He notices everything about you—your elevated heart rate before you even feel anxious, the slight limp after a hard training session, the way you pick at your food when something’s bothering you.

And now, the way you keep glancing at your phone.

You’ve positioned it face-down on the table, but you’re hyper-aware of every buzz against the surface.

Buzz.

You take a sip of your coffee, keeping your eyes on your place.

Buzz.

You reach for the jam, smoothing it across your toast way too carefully, like putting all of your energy into your breakfast will stop your heart from pounding and your phone from vibrating. 

Zayne looks up from his tablet. “You can check that.”

“It’s fine. Just Tara.”

“Tara.” His eyes monitor you with the same look he gives when he's evaluating symptoms. “She’s been texting you frequently.” 

“She’s...chatty.” The lie sits wrong in your throat, but you force casualness into your voice. “You know how she is.”

He’s quiet for a moment, returning his attention to his tablet. You can feel him still watching you peripherally. “I have a long shift today. Emergency consult, then a difficult surgery. I’ll be late.”

Another late night. Another dinner alone. You’ve stopped being surprised.

“Okay.”

“There's leftover soup in the fridge. The one you like.” He stands, gathering his keys, his badge, his wallet. “Heat it properly this time. Don’t just eat it cold because you're too impatient.”

You can’t help but smile. “I’ll heat it.”

“And if you go out—” He pauses, lacing up his shoes by the door. “Let me know where you are.”

“I'm not going anywhere. I have training this afternoon,” you tell him, and the words are finally honest. “After that, my only plans involve the couch, bad TV, and an unhealthy amount of chocolate chip ice cream.”

“There’s no such thing.” You can hear the grin in his voice, and with it, a flicker of ease. Like your answer let him breathe again. “Sounds like a solid evening.”

“I’m a woman of simple pleasures.”

He’s quiet for a moment, adjusting his bag on his shoulder. 

“I worry less when you’re home.” He says it simply, like it’s a fact. Like worrying about you could never not be an option. “Though you somehow manage to find trouble even here.”

“That was one time!” You scoff, sticking your tongue out at him playfully. “And the kitchen fire was barely a fire.”

“It required a fire extinguisher. That qualifies as a fire,” he corrects, but there's the ghost of a smile on his lips. It fades as his eyes cut to where your phone still lies on the table, then drag back to your face, studying you intently. 

You force yourself not to look at it. To keep your attention on him.

“Text me when you’re done with training,” his words sound detached now, like he's already pulled back behind the wall. “Let me know you’re alright.”

You nod. “I will.”

He pauses at the door, keys in hand. “And—thank you. For having breakfast with me.”

The words catch you off guard. “We have breakfast together all the time.”

“I know. But—” He stops. “I appreciate it. That’s all.”

There’s something underneath it. Something unspoken. But before you can ask, he’s already heading out.

“Take care today,” he says quietly. “And don’t work too hard.”

“Same to you.”

You let your coffee grow cold after he leaves, pick at your food a little while longer. 

When your phone buzzes again, you reach for it.

Sylus: Ignoring me already? I'm wounded.

Sylus: Your doctor is watching you, isn't he? I can tell.

It's silly, this whole thing—hiding your phone like you're some lovesick teenager sneaking around after curfew. You usually hate feeling too young, too inexperienced. But something about Sylus makes you feel giddy. Daring. Alive.

You: how can you possibly tell?

Sylus: Because you're not responding. And you want to. I can feel it.

You: that's presumptuous

Sylus: It’s observant. 

Sylus: What are you doing today?

You: nothing exciting. errands. training. boring things.

Sylus: Tell me about it anyway. I want to know.

And somehow...you do. You text him throughout the day between drills and lectures. He asks about your training—not just surface-level things, but questions born out of genuine curiosity. Asks if you got hurt during sparring (yes, bruised ribs). Asks if you won (also yes, by a long shot). He tells you he’s not surprised.

He responds with observations about the club, about dealing with suppliers, about the mundane aspects of running a business that shouldn't be interesting but somehow are when he tells you about them.

It’s nothing. Just two people killing time. That’s what you keep telling yourself, anyway.

And yet—for the fourth night in a row, here you are again. Curled up under the covers with the lights off, phone in hand, smiling like an idiot every time it buzzes.

Sylus: Still thinking about me?

You: bold assumption

Sylus: Not an assumption. A hope.

You: well aren’t you sweet.

Sylus: I’m many things. Sweet isn’t usually one of them. But you seem to bring out interesting things in me.

You: like what?

Sylus: Honesty. Impatience. An alarming lack of focus.

You: poor baby :(

Sylus: You’re cruel. I like that about you.

You: i have many likable qualities.

Sylus: Tell me three.

It’s such a simple request, but it stops you cold. People ask about your health, your training progress, your career goals. People don’t ask what you think is good about yourself. Especially not someone who might actually care.

You: seriously?

Sylus: Seriously. Three things about yourself that you think are likable. Go. I want to know if your list matches mine.

You: you have a list?

Sylus: I've had one since about five minutes after you walked into my club. 

Sylus: So. Three things. Tell me.

You: this feels like a trap.

Sylus: It's not. I'm genuinely curious what you think of yourself.

It shouldn’t matter what he thinks. But you’re not used to someone trying to peel back the layers. And definitely not used to liking the attention this much.

You: fine. i'm...persistent. I don't give up on things easily.

Sylus: I can tell. That’s a rare thing. What else?

You: i'm honest. sometimes to a fault.

Sylus: That’s not a flaw. Not with me. Now one more.

You: i’m...i don't know. this is weird.

Sylus: Finish the list. 

You type slowly, each word a little harder than the last. You could say something easy, something that doesn’t matter. But you don’t want to give him the version of you that hides.

You: i don’t hold onto people easily. but once i do…i don’t really let go

The three little dots appear immediately.

Sylus: Then hold on. I’ll make it worth your while.

You release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Sylus: Now do you want to hear my list?

You: should I be worried?

Sylus: Probably. 

Sylus: First: You're brave. You came to my club, faked taking the serum, and didn't back down when I called you out on it. That takes courage.

You: or stupidity

Sylus: You’re not stupid. Don’t insult my taste.

Sylus: Which brings me to #2: You're sharp. Quick. You see through bullshit immediately and you're not afraid to call it out. I watched you shut down three different guys at the bar before I even came over. You were quite impressive.

You blink at your phone. He was watching you before he approached? You didn't even notice him until he was right there.

Sylus: Third: You're reactive. Not just physically, though that's...memorable. But emotionally. You’re passionate. You feel things. You don't hide it even when you probably should.

You stare at the screen, your heart doing something complicated at the way he seems to see straight through you.

You: well, if we're making lists...

Sylus: Oh? Do share.

You hesitate for a moment. Because this feels different than listing things about yourself. This feels like admitting something. Like showing your hand. 

But he showed you his. It's only fair.

You: you're direct. no games. i appreciate that more than you know.

Sylus: I wouldn’t waste your time with anything less than the truth. 

Sylus: Keep going.

You: you're confident without being arrogant. or maybe you're both, but you make it work somehow.

Sylus: I'll take it.

Your fingers still mid-sentence. This one feels harder to say. More revealing.

You: and…you make me feel seen. not like something fragile or in need of protection. just...like i’m interesting exactly as i am.

The three dots appear and disappear several times. When his response finally comes, it's simpler than you expect.

Sylus: You are interesting. Exactly as you are.

Sylus: And for the record, you're anything but fragile. Anyone who treats you like you are is a fool.

Your throat tightens. He doesn’t know about Zayne—not specifically. Doesn’t know who you live with or how carefully you're monitored or why. But somehow he sees it anyway. Sees the ways you’re treated like something delicate. Something that might break.

You: you pay a lot of attention.

Sylus: Only to things worth paying attention to.

Sylus: Let me pay more attention. Let me learn the rest. At my club. 

Sylus: This whole pen pal situation is charming, truly. But it’s getting in the way of all the things I want to do to you that require significantly less distance between us.

You have to pull the covers over your face for a second. This is so dumb. So dangerous. So fast.

You type, then delete. Then type again.

You: i don’t know…that sounds an awful lot like a date.

Sylus: That's because it is one. I thought I was being obvious.

Sylus: And what don't you know? Whether you want to see me? Or whether you're allowed to?

The question hits too close. You blink at the screen, unsure how to answer. 

As if he can sense your unease, he texts first:

Sylus: Let me make this simple for you.

Sylus: I'll send a car. And a dress, if you'd like.

You roll your eyes, but your pulse betrays you. It’s absurd. Over the top. And wildly, stupidly effective.

You: you don't need to send me anything.

Sylus: I want to. Let me.

You: what if it doesn’t fit?

Sylus: It will. Trust me. I have excellent visual memory.

You: that’s not creepy at all.

Sylus: Call it what you want. I prefer detail-oriented.

Sylus: So, while I'm at it—any other details I should be aware of? Music preferences? Strong feelings about wine? Turn-ons I should know about?

You: classical is good. no sweet wines. and you're not getting the third one that easily.

You think about watching people at the club—how loose they were on the serum, how unguarded. You faked it last time for a reason. The idea of saying things without your usual filter, of not being able to control what comes out…it’s not exactly appealing.

You: there is one thing…

Sylus: Anything. I’m listening. Closely.

You: no truth serum, right?

Sylus: Not unless you want it. But I don’t think we need it.

You: why not?

Sylus: Because you're already honest with me. And I plan to be honest with you.

Sylus: The serum is optional. Always.

Something in your chest gets lighter.

You: okay

Sylus: Okay you believe me? Or okay you'll come see me?

You: okay i believe you.

Sylus: I’ll allow it. For now.

Sylus: Now, do you prefer long or short?

You: hm?

Sylus: The dress. Long or short? I'm trying to picture you in both and I need you to narrow it down for me before I order one of each.

You: you're not ordering two dresses.

Sylus: Not if you tell me which one you prefer. So. Long or short?

You: ...short

Sylus: Color preference?

You: you're really doing this, huh?

Sylus: I'm really doing this. And I’m savoring every minute of it. Color?

You: i like darker colors

Sylus: Perfect. I can work with that.

Sylus: The offer stands whenever you’re ready. Though for what it's worth, I hope it's soon.

You stare at the words, and you can’t help but start imagining it. A short dress in deep green or midnight blue, something that fits right, makes you feel confident. Walking into the club wearing something he picked out for you. The way his crimson eyes would light up the second he saw you.

If he knew the way your stomach just flipped, he’d never let you live it down.

You: we’ll see. maybe i’m busy.

Sylus: You're not. But your attempt at playing hard to get is admirable.

You: you’re full of yourself.

Sylus: I’m optimistic.

Sylus: Goodnight, sweetie.

You: goodnight, sylus

You set your phone down, heart racing. You've been seen by Zayne for three years—monitored, cared for, watched over. But this is different. Sylus sees you and doesn't immediately try to protect you from yourself.

He just…wants you. Not to fix. Not to save. Just to have.

And you’re not sure when that stopped sounding like a bad idea.

You’ve been texting back and forth for a few days now. It's constant. Addictive. Every time your phone buzzes, you hope it's him. 

Sylus: I dreamt about you last night.

The text comes at 8 AM on Thursday. You're eating breakfast, alone. Zayne left early for work.

Your mouth goes dry.

You: fine. i’ll bite. what kind of dream?

Sylus: The kind where you were wearing that black dress you had on the night we met. And I was slowly taking it off you.

You nearly drop your phone. The two of you have been flirting, sure. But this? This is new territory. 

You: oh wow

Sylus: Too much? I can be good if you want me to be.

You: i didn't say that

Sylus: Dangerous girl. What are you wearing right now?

You look down at your makeup-stained t-shirt and mismatched socks. You’ve been nothing but honest with him, and see no use in starting to lie now.

You: pajamas…not cute ones.

Sylus: I’ll be the judge of that. Send me a picture.

You: absolutely not

Sylus: Worth a try. 

Sylus: And for what it's worth, I think you'd look good in anything. Or nothing.

You: subtle.

Sylus: Subtle has never been in my vocabulary, sweetie. 

Sylus: I want you. I've wanted you since you walked into my club. And if I have to pry you out of your doctor’s perfectly sanitized hands to prove it, I will.

The conversation shifts back to safer territory, but there’s a new charge underneath everything now. An awareness that wasn’t quite there before.

And he doesn't stop asking.

Every day, sometimes multiple times a day, he finds new ways to invite you back.

Sylus: Come to Obsidian tonight. I’m prepared to plead my case. 

Sylus: And I'm very good at using my mouth to get what I want.

You: i'm sure you are. but no.

Sylus: You're killing me here.

You: good. rejection builds character.

Sylus: I have plenty of character. What I don't have is you in my club.

You: you’ll survive

Sylus: You're cruel. Has anyone ever told you that?

You: actually, yeah. this guy i've been texting won't stop complaining about it.

Sylus: He sounds like a masochist. Probably has his hand halfway down his pants just thinking about the word ‘no’ coming out of your mouth.

You: oh my god

Sylus: And he’s right. You’re cruel and beautiful and I want to see you. Soon. 

He makes you feel powerful. Wanted. Like your resistance is something he enjoys rather than something he's trying to break through.

He makes surrender feel like a game. One you’re starting to lose on purpose. 

You: soon.

On Friday, you're doing laundry.

It’s a mundane kind of task that usually bores you to tears. But today you're feeling...good. Training went well this morning—you finally nailed that technique you’ve been struggling with. The sun is streaming through the windows. Your playlist is hitting all the right songs without skips.

You’re folding Zayne’s clothes, separating his shirts from yours, when you pull out the white button-down. The soft one. The one you’ve been stealing for months now because it’s absurdly comfortable.

On impulse, you slip it on over your tank top and shorts. It’s enormous on you, hem brushing the tops of your thighs, sleeves falling past your hands. You roll them up, leaving a few buttons undone at the top.

You catch your reflection in the hallway mirror and pause.

You look...pretty. 

The shirt is swallowing your frame, your hair is pulled up messily, sunlight streams in behind you. There’s something about it—the casual intimacy of wearing someone else’s clothes, of being comfortable in your own space.

It’s too intimate to think about for too long. 

So you don’t.

You lift your phone and snap a photo. Nothing suggestive—just you in the shirt, a small smile you didn’t mean to make, laundry basket visible in the background. Casual. Unexciting. 

You pull up Sylus’s contact and type a caption. Short enough to pretend you don’t care, sharp enough to hide how much you do:

You: don’t get used to this

You hit send before your courage can evaporate, and immediately return to sorting underwear like it’s the most fascinating thing on the planet.

Your phone stays quiet for a few minutes. You assume he’s busy—he’s always busy during the day, running the club, dealing with business matters he patiently explains to you that you still don’t fully understand.

Then it rings.

Your heart skips a beat.

He’s never called before. 

It’s always been texts, back and forth, safe behind screens. A call is different. A call is real. 

You stare at his name on the screen, frozen. It rings again. Again. 

Your hands are shaking slightly when you finally answer.

“Hi.”

“You.” 

The word comes out rough. Accusatory. Like you’ve committed a crime and he’s caught you red-handed.

His voice sounds different over the phone—deeper, more intimate somehow. Strained in a way that sends heat straight through you, wraps around you in a way his texts can’t.

Your stomach flips. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Do you have any idea—” He pauses to take a breath that sounds unsteady. “I was in a meeting. Important people. Money on the table. And I looked at my phone and saw you in that shirt and I—”

He cuts off, and you hear the sound of footsteps, fast and uneven.

“And you…?”

“And I got hard. Immediately. Sitting across from three suppliers trying to negotiate contracts.” You hear a door close, a lock click. “Had to sit there for thirty seconds trying to focus on inventory numbers while all I could think about was those perfect fucking legs. How much of them I could see. How that shirt barely covers you. How easy it would be to slide my hands up and—” 

He stops himself, like he’s physically pulling himself back from the edge.

“Had to come up with some bullshit excuse to lock myself in my office before I nearly ruined my pants like some teenage boy who’s never seen a pair of legs before.”

The image does something sinful to you: his cock straining against his slacks. Having to hide how affected he is from important people during a meeting. Needing to excuse himself because he just couldn’t take it anymore. 

All because of you.

You will your voice to stay neutral, forcing your attention back to the shirt you’re folding even as your thighs press together involuntarily. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“It is absolutely a you problem.” He lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Talk to me. Please. I need to think about anything else, or I'm going to start making poor decisions.”

“Mmm,” you hum. “What kind of poor decisions?”

“The kind where I cancel everything and drive over there just to see if you’re wearing anything underneath.” His voice drops deeper. “Are you? Fuck—don’t answer that.”

You can hear it—the way he’s spiraling. The way the question slipped out before he could stop it.

You bite your lip, loving this a little too much. Loving the way you’ve made smooth, confident Sylus lose his composure. 

“That shirt is enormous on you, by the way,” he says, clearly trying to redirect to safer territory. 

Your voice drips with sarcasm. “Wow, nothing gets past you, does it?”

“Whose is it?” His tone changes, loses some of that playful edge.

Your pulse quickens. You pull the shirt tighter around yourself. “Does it matter?”

“To my ego? Possibly. To my curiosity? Absolutely.” There's a pause. You hear wood creaking as he shifts in his chair. “Hold on. Let me guess. Daddy Doctor’s?”

That humiliating nickname makes your face heat. “It’s just a shirt.”

“Just a shirt. Of course.” He’s clearly not convinced. Actually, he sounds—amused? Intrigued? “So does your doctor have any idea that you steal his clothes and send photos to strange men you meet at clubs?”

“Just one photo,” you clarify, “to one strange man.”

“That’s a no, then.” There’s something warm in his voice now. “So he doesn’t know you’re doing his laundry right now. Wearing his shirt. Looking like you belong in his space. In his life.”

“It’s not—”

“And he certainly doesn’t know you’re thinking about him touching you when you put it on.”

Heat crawls up your neck. “I never said I did that.”

“You didn't have to.” His tone is almost affectionate. “I remember how you felt against me at the club. How you moved under my hands. How you responded to every touch like you’d been starving for it.” He pauses for a beat. “You don’t pull away from touch. You lean into it. Melt into it. Like you’ve been waiting your whole life for someone to actually reach for you.”

Your cheeks burn because he’s right. He’s absolutely right.

You do want to be touched. You do think about Zayne in ways you probably shouldn’t. And you are talking to Sylus right now while wearing Zayne’s shirt, which says something about you that you’re not ready to examine.

“It’s not like that—”

“No?” he says, not quite teasing, not quite challenging. Just…assessing you. “Then tell me. What do you think about when you wear his shirts?”

Your grip on your phone tightens. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I’m trying to figure out what I’m competing with. And because I’m genuinely curious what goes on in that head of yours.”

The word ‘competing’ catches you off guard. Competing. Like it’s one or the other. Like you have to choose. But you don't want to choose. You want—

“Honestly?” you say quietly.

“Always.”

“I think about both of you.”

He doesn’t bother trying to contain the low groan that escapes from somewhere deep inside him. 

“Both.” He repeats the word slowly, testing it. “Explain that to me.”

You don’t know why you say it. Why you’re telling him this now, in the middle of folding laundry. Maybe because he asked. Maybe because he actually wants to know. Maybe because you’re tired of keeping it all locked inside.

“I put it on because it's his. Because it’s comfortable and familiar.” Your voice drops to barely a whisper. “And I imagine him noticing. Actually seeing me instead of just monitoring me. Looking at me like I’m more than just his responsibility.”

“And what does he do? In these imaginations?”

Your heart pounds so hard you’re sure he can hear it through the phone.

“He loses control. Just for a moment. All of the restraint he’s been holding onto just—breaks. And he touches me like he actually wants to. Like he can’t help himself.”

“Fuck.” He’s breathing harder now, the sound humming through you like static. “And me? Where do I fit in?”

“I looked in the mirror and thought about you. About how you’d react.”

“The answer is I lost my damn mind.” He takes an unsteady breath. “Have I not made myself clear? I want you so much I can’t think straight. I keep picturing what those legs would feel like wrapped around my waist. How tightly those thighs would—” He stops suddenly. You imagine him tipping his head back, running a hand down his face. “But that's not what you're really asking, is it?”

You don’t answer.

“You want to know if I’m bothered.” He says it so sincerely. “That you want him too.”

You swallow hard. “...Yes.”

“I’m not. I’m the opposite of bothered.”

“Which is?”

“Fascinated. Obsessed. Turned on beyond reason.” He takes a breath. “You want to know what my fantasy is? Watching you get everything you want. Everything you deserve. Seeing you touched the way you’ve been imagining. Being the one to give that to you.” Sylus's voice drops lower. “Both of us giving that to you.”

“Sylus—” His name comes out breathless, needier than you mean for it to.

There’s a low, strangled sound on the other end of the line. A groan, maybe. Or a curse. “You were supposed to help calm me down, sweetie. Not make me fantasize about dragging you under my desk.”

Your hand drifts down without thinking, fingers brushing the hem of Zayne’s shirt, and you can practically feel it: the way he’d sound if you showed up at his office like this, bare-legged and wanting. His chair swiveling as you drop to your knees, pretending you’re there to apologize. The way he'd look at you like he always knew exactly how this would end.

You should probably let it go. Should play nice.

You’re not feeling nice.

“Well, you did say this was my problem...” Your fingers slip under your shorts, and your skin feels too hot, too sensitive even through the fabric of your underwear. “...so maybe I should help fix it.”

“Indulge me. I’m all ears.” You can almost hear him lean back in his chair, processing that. “What’s your expertly crafted solution to the mess you made?”

“If I were there right now—” Your fingers trace slow circles over your underwear, barely a touch. “I could kneel between your legs, under your desk. Help you...relax.”

“Relax.” He sounds darkly amused. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“What would you call it?”

“Let’s see. You, on your knees, under my desk. My hand in your hair, guiding you how I want you. You, looking up at me with those wide, eager eyes while you take every inch of my cock in your mouth like you’ve been dying to prove to me just how helpful you can be.” 

There’s a pause. A long one. When he finally speaks again, his voice is thick with desire. “No, sweetie, I don’t think relaxing is the word that comes to mind.”

Your whole body feels like it’s buzzing. You press your thighs together, then apart again, restless. Aching. Your free hand grips the fabric of Zayne’s shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

You press your fingers just slightly where you need them most, and you can’t help the small sound that escapes.

“Are you—” You hear fabric rustle, like he's leaning forward. “Kitten. Are you touching yourself right now?”

“I—”

The front door opens.

You freeze, hand jerking away like you’ve been burned.

“Sweetie?” Sylus says. “You still there?”

You don’t answer—just shove the phone into the laundry basket, covering it haphazardly with clothes. Your hands are shaking as you grab the throw blanket from the back of the couch, pulling it over your bare legs. You snatch up a pair of pants and try to look casual. Normal. Like you’re just folding laundry.

Zayne appears in the doorway.

“I thought you were at work,” you say, voice higher than normal.

“Needed to grab some files from my office.” His eyes scan you—the slight tremble in your hands, the sweat on your brow, the color staining your cheeks—and you watch his expression shift. “Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m fine. Just—doing laundry.”

“You’re flushed. And your respiration—” His hand comes up to your forehead on instinct, and you flinch before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, hand hovering. “Sorry. May I?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. 

The back of his hand presses against your forehead, clinical and careful. “You feel warm.”

“I'm fine, really—”

“Humor me.” He's already moving toward his medical bag. “This will only take a minute.”

You’re acutely conscious of everything: your flushed face. Your elevated heart rate. The wet heat gathering between your thighs. Your phone inside the laundry basket.

Zayne returns with the thermometer.

“Open your mouth,” he says gently.

The word sends an inappropriate flash through you. After what you were just saying to Sylus. After the image of being on your knees, mouth open—

You part your lips, face burning, and he slides the thermometer under your tongue. His fingers are cautious, and you’re painfully aware of Sylus listening to all of this. Of what Zayne would think if he knew what you were just doing. What you were just saying.

The wait is eternal. His eyes are focused on you with genuine concern. The thermometer under your tongue—hard, intrusive, nothing like what you were imagining moments ago but somehow making you think of it anyway. 

It beeps.

“Slightly elevated.” Zayne frowns, checking it again. His knuckle brushes your lower lip as he removes it, and the intimacy of the gesture makes your breath catch. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright?”

He can’t read you, and it’s bothering him. You never hide things from him. Nothing like this.

“I’m fine,” you manage. “Just—warm. From doing laundry.”

“You’d tell me if something was wrong?” His voice is quiet. “If you needed something. Anything. If you—” He stops himself with a shake of his head. “You’d tell me?”

The guilt crashes over you like a wave. Because no, you wouldn’t tell him. You haven’t told him. You’re sitting here in his shirt, lying to his face, with another man listening on the phone three feet away.

“Of course,” you assure him with a small smile.

He studies you for another moment, like he knows something’s wrong but can't figure out what. Like he’s waiting for you to trust him enough to say it. 

But you don’t.

“Get some rest,” he says finally, voice flat in the way that means he’s pulling back. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will.”

He stands, but pauses in the doorway. His eyes land on you once more—on the shirt you’re wearing. His white button-down.

“That’s mine, isn’t it?”

You go still. “I—yeah. Sorry, I can—”

“No. Keep it.” His voice is rough. “It looks better on you, anyway.”

Then he’s gone.

Your chest tightens. Because this is what you wanted, isn't it? For him to notice. To care. To see you wearing his things and react.

And he does notice. He does care.

Yet still chooses to keep his distance.

You wait. Count to ten. Twenty. Until you hear the front door close. Until you’re absolutely sure he’s gone.

Then you dig your phone out of the laundry basket with shaking hands.

“You’re still there?”

“You thought I’d hang up?” Sylus’s voice is wrecked. “And miss the most erotic doctor-patient interaction I’ve ever witnessed? Not a chance, sweetie.”

“That was—”

“Incredible. That was incredible.” He sounds almost awed. “Your doctor is very attentive. Does he always take your temperature orally? How very thorough of him.”

Your face burns. “Can we not—”

“Oh, we are absolutely discussing this. You were just getting started. And then he comes in with that thermometer and—” He groans. “I nearly came just listening to it.”

“Sylus—”

“Be honest. Were you thinking about him? About me? About what we were just doing?”

You close your eyes. “All of it. I was thinking about all of it.”

“Good girl," he says, soft and approving. “You deserve to want all of it. And you deserve to have all of it.”

Heat floods through you at the words, the silence stretching for a second too long.

And Sylus, of course, notices.

“Well, well,” he murmurs, low and satisfied. “Someone likes being praised.”

You scoff, but you’re shifting in place anyway, as if your body’s already chosen sides—traitorous and aching and far too eager to be told it’s good again. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I don’t need to." You can hear the cocky grin in his voice. "Your breathing just told me everything I need to know."

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Save it, kitten. I’ll remember that for later.” He sounds insufferably smug. “Don't think for a second you're off the hook. This isn't over. Far from it. But right now, I need to go salvage this meeting, and you need to go finish your laundry. And sweetie?”

“Yeah?”

“Keep sending me photos. Anytime. Anything. Any reason." The teasing is gone, replaced by something more sincere. Like he would cherish whatever pictures you sent him, no matter how trivial. "I don't care if I'm in meetings or dealing with business or sleeping. I want to see you.”

“Even if it causes problems?”

“Especially then. I like the problems you cause.” He lets out a quiet laugh under his breath. “But I’ll be taking this photo with me. Fair warning. Might have to ‘step out for a call’ again just to look at it some more.”

Your heart beats faster. “Taking it where?”

“Everywhere. It's my phone background now.”

“Sylus—”

“What? You look good. I want to look at you. And frankly, I’m not sure how to change it back even if I wanted to.” He sounds almost proud of this. “Besides, now every time someone asks about my phone, I get to tell them about the beautiful woman who's driving me insane.”

“You’re not going to tell people about me.”

“I certainly am. Starting with my business partners this afternoon, when they ask why I had to leave so abruptly.”

You shouldn’t feel this way. It’s too much, too fast. It’s barely been a week. 

You clutch the phone a little tighter, like that’ll help you hold on. Like you’re afraid if you breathe wrong, this will all disappear—the voice in your ear, the feeling in your gut, the dizzy, giddy swirl of being wanted like this.

“Fine. But tell them I bite.”

His voice drops low with interest. “Do you, now?” 

“Only if you ask nicely.”

“Goddamn. Trouble, trouble, trouble.” But he sounds pleased. Impressed, even. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”

You grin. “Just one reason?”

“Many reasons. All of which I’d be happy to list. In person. At Obsidian. This weekend.”

Your response comes effortlessly:

“Okay.”

The other line is silent for so long you worry he might have hung up. 

When his voice finally comes through, it’s careful. Surprised.

“Okay?” He pauses. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” you confirm. “Yes. I’ll come to the club.”

“You’re serious.”

“I'm serious.”

“What changed?”

You hesitate, just for a moment.

The answer catches in your throat—not because it isn’t true, but because it’s too true. Because it wasn’t just one thing. It was everything. The cold and quiet ache of being wanted and still not chosen day after day, year after year. The pull toward Sylus, hot and loud, that doesn’t ask you to shrink or behave or wait your turn, that doesn’t make you feel like too much.

“I’m tired of saying no to things I actually want.” The raw truth of the words makes your throat tight. The rest comes out quieter than you mean it to. “And I really want to see you, Sylus.”

You hear him stand abruptly, pace around his office like he’s plotting something. Or maybe just grounding himself.

“Fuck. Okay. Yes. Sunday? Sunday.” He sounds almost thrown, like he still expected resistance. “I’ll send a car at 8. And the dress. It’ll arrive tomorrow afternoon.”

“You already have a dress picked out?”

“I’ve had it picked out since Wednesday. I was just waiting for you to say yes.”

“Confident.”

“And apparently right to be.” You can hear the pleasure in it. Relief, even. “You have no idea how glad I am you said yes.”

“I think I might.”

“Good. Then we’re on the same page.” He takes a breath. “I need to go. Before I say something that makes you change your mind.”

You lean back against the couch, a warm and terrifying feeling flooding your chest in the best way. This is real. This is actually happening.

"We’ll talk later," he says with certainty. "And thank you, truly. For saying yes. For the picture. For the conversation. For being exactly as much trouble as I hoped you’d be.” 

You can’t help but smile. “You’re welcome.”

“Bye, sweetie.”

He hangs up before you can respond.

You sit there on the couch, heart racing, still wearing Zayne’s shirt, thinking about Sylus thinking about you in it. About what it means that you said yes so easily when you’ve been saying no for days.

This is getting complicated.

And you're starting to think that’s the point.