Cherry

The words land like a slap.

He knows. He knows how much weight those words carry to you. How many nights you've spent curled against him whispering about the fear that you're not good enough, not smart enough, not strong enough, not careful enough. That every time you come home bleeding it's proof you're still failing the people who count on you. That deep down you worry you're just a liability dressed up as a hero.

And he just called it stupid.

Your throat closes. Eyes burn. You stare at him, waiting for him to take it back, the soft apology he always gives when he realizes he's gone too far.

It doesn't come.

Instead he just stands there, breathing uneven, looking like he wants to reach for you again but doesn't trust his own hands.

You turn away. "Get out."

He doesn't move at first.

"Get. Out."

The door shuts behind him quieter than it should. Like even the hinges are trying not to make it worse.

You don't cry until you're in the shower. Hot water mixes with salt and you press your forehead to the tile, replaying it on loop.

Stupid.

He didn't mean it. You know he didn't. Xavier never means the sharp things that slip out when he's scared. But knowing doesn't stop it from carving deeper.

You avoid him for three days.

Missions. Paperwork. Extra patrols. Anything that keeps you out of the apartment, out of association’s common areas, out of range of those blue eyes that always find you too easily.

He texts once.

I'm sorry. Please talk to me.

You read it. Delete it. Turn your phone face down.

On day four he shows up at your door again. Leaning against the frame like he's been waiting hours. Eyes shadowed. Uniform rumpled. He looks like he hasn't slept.

You freeze in the hallway, grocery bag in hand.

He straightens slowly. "I know you don't want to see me."

You don't answer. Just stare at the floor between you.

He takes one step closer, stops when you flinch. "I was wrong," he says quietly. "What I said... it was cruel. I was angry and terrified and I took it out on you. I shouldn't have."

Still nothing from you.

His voice cracks the smallest amount. "You aren't stupid. You're the bravest person I know. You run into danger so other people don't have to, and I-“ He swallows. "I hate it. I hate that I can't protect you from everything. I hate that every time you leave I wonder if this is the time you don't come back. But that's my fear, it’s not your fault. And I never should have made you feel like your courage is anything less than... everything that it is."

He sounds wrecked. Like saying it hurts more than the silence ever could.

You finally look up. His eyes are red rimmed. Hair falling into his face. He looks smaller than you've ever seen him.

"I didn't mean it," he whispers. "Not even a little. I was lashing out because I can't lose you. Not again." He stops. Shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

You don't move.

He doesn't push. Hands loose at his sides, itching to touch you but he waits.

Minutes pass. Rain starts tapping the hallway window.

Finally you speak. Voice small. "It hurt."

"I know."

"More than you know."

His shoulders drop.

You step forward. Just one step. Close enough to smell the faint scent of cedar and fresh air that always clings to him.

He doesn't reach for you. Lets you decide.

You do.

Your forehead bumps his chest. His arms come around you instantly, careful, trembling. Like he's scared you'll vanish if he holds too tight.

"I'm sorry," he breathes into your hair. Over and over. "I'm sorry. I love you. I'm sorry."

You don't say it's okay yet. Not quite.

But you don't pull away either.

He stays like that for a long time. Rain outside. Heartbeats loud in the quiet. Him murmuring apologies against your temple until the words blur into soft nonsense.

When you finally let him inside, he doesn't try to kiss you. Doesn't push for more.

He just sits on your couch, pulls you into his lap, and holds you like you're the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

And maybe you are.

He spends the rest of the night proving, with quiet words, gentle touches, and the way he refuses to let go even when you pretend to sleep, that he will never let those words live between you again.

ZAYNE

It starts over something small. Or at least, it feels small until it isn't.

You've been pushing yourself lately, extra missions, ignoring the twinges in your chest, the way your evol resonance is getting weaker. Zayne's noticed. Of course he has. He's your doctor. Your primary physician. The one who knows every scar on your heart, literal and otherwise.

He's been gentle about it at first. Texts reminding you to rest. Quiet suggestions during check ups. But tonight, after you collapse into his apartment post mission, dizzy, short of breath, lying about how bad it was, he cracks.

"You're not invincible," he says, voice clipped as he checks your pulse. His fingers are cool against your wrist. "You keep ignoring the signs, and one day your heart won't forgive you."

You roll your eyes from the couch. "It's fine, Zayne. I handled it."

"You didn't." He sets his glasses down harder than necessary. "Your vitals are erratic. Again. Because you refuse to listen."

Irritation flares. You're tired. Sore. The last thing you need is another lecture. "I'm a hunter. This is what I do. You can't wrap me in bubble wrap forever."

His eyes narrow, that rare flash of real anger. "And I can't keep fixing you forever either. Do you even think about what this does to the people around you? To me?"

You sit up too fast. The room spins a little. "What, like I'm some burden you have to carry? I didn't ask for this heart. Or for you to play savior every time."

He freezes. Then, in a voice so low it's almost a whisper: "Maybe if you weren't so hell bent on destroying yourself, you wouldn't be a burden at all. You're not just risking your life, you're making everyone else's harder. Including mine. Sometimes I wonder if you even care about the guilt you leave behind."

The words hang in the air. Sharp and unforgiving.

You've confessed it to him in the dark, tears soaking his shirt,

“I feel like I'm always making you suffer because of me. Like I'm not enough to stand on my own.”

And he just... threw it back in your face.

Your chest tightens, not from your condition, but from the way everything inside you crumples.

Zayne's expression shifts the second it leaves his mouth. Regret floods his eyes. He reaches for you. "I didn't-"

"Don't." You stand, grabbing your coat. Voice steady even as it breaks inside. "Don't touch me."

He doesn't follow when you leave. Just stands there in the doorway, watching you go with that unreadable face he wears like armor.

You don't go home. You crash at a hotel. Turn off your phone. Cry until there's nothing left.

The next morning, you march into Akso Hospital. Request a transfer of primary physician. The admin looks confused

"Dr. Li is one of our best, are you sure?" but you nod. Firm on your decision.

Dr. Greyson gets your file.

You avoid the cardiology wing for a week. Take the long way to appointments. Duck into stairwells if you spot that familiar figure.

But hospitals are small. You cross paths eventually.

The first time is in the hallway near radiology. He rounds the corner, charts in hand. Freezes when he sees you.

You look through him. Keep walking. His footsteps falter behind you, but he doesn't call out.

Second time’s in the cafeteria. You're grabbing coffee. He's at a table, alone, staring at his untouched lunch. Your eyes meet across the room.

He stands. Mouths your name.

You turn away. Leave the line. Dump the cup in the trash on your way out.

Then, the elevator. Just the two of you. He steps in after you, presses his floor. The air thickens.

"I-" he starts.

The doors open. You bolt without a glance.

He doesn't try again that day.

He’s unraveling in his office.

Zayne doesn't break easy. He's built his life on control; schedules, scalpels, steady hands. But alone, door locked, he crumbles.

Paces the small space. Sits at his desk. Stands again. Checks his phone for the hundredth time, no messages. Your contact photo stares back: you laughing in his arms, snow in your hair from that trip to Chansia.

He slams the phone down. So hard the screen cracks.

Regret coils in his gut. He replays the argument on loop, your face when he said it, the way you recoiled like he'd struck you. Worse than any physical blow.

He skips meals. Works doubles to fill the void. Snaps at nurses over nothing. Greyson mentions your transfer in passing and Zayne just nods. Excuses himself. Locks the office door and presses his palms to his eyes until the burning stops.

Nights are worse. His apartment echoes without you. He lies awake, staring at the ceiling, imagining every scenario where he loses you for good. Your heart failing because he wasn't there. You moving on with someone who doesn't carry this baggage. Or worse, you hating him enough to never look back.

He drowns in his self pity. Whispers apologies to empty rooms.

Two weeks in, he can't take it.

He gives you space, or tries. But seeing you in the hospital chips away at him.

Finally, he corners Greyson. "How is she?"

Greyson hesitates. "Doctor-patient confidentiality, Zayne."

"Just... tell me she's okay."

A sigh. "Physically? She’s fine. Emotionally? She asked not to discuss you."

Zayne nods. Walks away. Punches the wall in the stairwell hard enough to bruise his knuckles.

That night, he breaks. Shows up at your apartment, looking a mess.

You open the door. See him. Start to close it.

His hand catches the frame. Gentle. Pleading. "Please. Five minutes."

You let him in. Not because you want to. Because he looks like a ghost, pale, hollow eyed, like he hasn't slept since that night.

He doesn't sit. Stands in your entryway. "I was wrong," he says immediately. Voice raw. "What I said... it was unforgivable. I was angry. At myself, mostly. For not being able to protect you. For watching you suffer and feeling helpless. But I took it out on you. On the one thing I know hurts you most."

You cross your arms. Stare at the floor. "You knew. You knew how much I hate feeling like a burden. Like I'm just... broken."

He flinches. "I know. And I used it like a weapon. Because in that moment, I wanted you to hurt like I was hurting. It was selfish and cruel. I regret it every second since."

Silence stretches between you. The snowfall outside clings to the windows.

"Why should I believe you?" Your voice is small, unsteady.

He steps closer. Like he’s approaching something fragile. "Because without you, I'm the one who's broken. These weeks... they've been hell. Seeing you in the halls, knowing I've lost the right to even ask how you are. Knowing I drove you to someone else for care because I couldn't be trusted with your heart anymore."

His voice breaks on that last word. Heart. Yours, his.

"I don't deserve forgiveness," he continues. "Not yet. But I'll earn it. However long it takes. I’ll give you as much space as you need. But please... don't shut me out forever."

You look up then. See the tears he doesn't bother hiding. The way his hands tremble at his sides.

It's not okay.

But you nod. Once. "Start by leaving. I need time."

He does. No argument. Just a quiet "I love you" on his way out.

The next day, flowers arrive at your door. Jasmines. Note in his handwriting: I'm sorry. Take all the time you need.

Then chocolates. The ones from that shop you mentioned once.

Then a book, the one you'd been eyeing.

Small things. Consistent.

You ignore him at the hospital still. But the edge softens. A nod in the hall one day. A brief "Good morning" the next.

He clings to them like lifelines.

A month later, you request the transfer back. Greyson's good, but he's not Zayne. No one knows your history like he does.

The first appointment is professional. But when it's over, he lingers. "Thank you," he says softly. "For trusting me again."

You meet his eyes. "Don't make me regret it."

"I won't."

Outside the exam room, he exhales. Leans against the wall. Smiles for the first time in weeks.

It's slow after that. Dinners. Walks. Him opening up about his own fears, the nightmares where he loses you, the weight of his oath clashing with his love.

One night, curled on his couch, you whisper: "I forgive you."

He pulls you close. Buries his face in your hair. "Thank you," he breathes. Over and over.

He never lets those words, or any like them, cross his mind again. Not even in anger.

RAFAYEL

You’re both still damp when you stumble back to his studio.

You’d followed him on one of his saviour plots again, not because he asked, but because you couldn’t let him go alone. Not after the way his eyes had darkened when he talked about the latest lead on the people who’d hunted his kind. You’d fought beside him, bled beside him, watched him lose himself in spirits of his past while facing humans who keep his people as decor.

You thought it meant something. That standing in the cold current together, watching him free someone from captivity, meant you were finally crossing the invisible line he always drew between you.

Apparently not.

He’s quiet the whole walk back. The kind of quiet that makes the air feel thick.

You try to break it when you step inside, peel off your soaked jacket, kick off boots, reach for the towel he tosses you without looking.

“Rafayel? You okay?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands by the tall windows, staring out at the black ocean like it owes him something. Water drips from his hair onto the floorboards in slow plinks.

Then, finally: “You shouldn’t have come.”

You freeze mid reach for the towel. “What?”

“You heard me.” His voice is soft. The dangerous kind of soft he gets right before he says something that cuts. “You never should have followed me down there tonight.”

Anger flares fast. “I wasn’t going to let you go alone. You could’ve died.”

He laughs, short, bitter, nothing like his usual teasing lilt. “Died? Please. I’ve been dealing with this for longer than you’ve been breathing.”

You step closer. “That’s not the point-”

“The point,” he cuts in, finally turning to face you, “is that you keep throwing yourself into my wars like it makes you part of them. Like it makes you understand.”

Your stomach drops. “I’m trying to understand. I’ve been trying since-”

“Since when?” He tilts his head, eyes glittering under the low studio lights. Condescending. Almost pitying. “Since you conveniently forgot the first time we met?”

The room tilts.

He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“You think charging into something you don’t understand fixes that?” he continues, voice silky and cruel. “You think bleeding a little makes up for years I carried alone? You’ll never truly understand, will you? Not really. You’re human. You get to forget. I don’t.”

The exact fears you’ve had ever since you’ve gotten closer, that no matter how much you love him, there will always be a chasm. That you’re inadequate because you can’t carry the same weight he does.

And he just… confirmed it. In the most condescending tone he’s ever used with you.

Your throat closes. Eyes burn. You stare at him, waiting for the flinch. The immediate regret. The way he usually backpedals when he sees your face crumple.

It doesn’t come.

Instead he just watches you with that same detached, almost academic curiosity. Like he’s studying how deep the wound goes.

You don’t scream. Don’t cry.

You just turn. Grab your wet jacket. Head for the door.

“Running away already?” he calls after you. Still soft and sharp, all the same.

You don’t answer.

The door closes behind you with a click that sounds final.

You don’t go back to Mo Art studio for days.

You stay at your apartment. Take extra commissions that keep you busy. Avoid every beach, every gallery showing his work, every place that reminds you of him.

He doesn’t text at first. Then one message days later:

Come back.

You delete it.

Days pass and a painting is delivered to your door. A small canvas. Just your silhouette against a stormy sea, the same view from the island where you first kissed after he saved you from drowning. There’s no note, just the painting.

You hang it facing the wall.

Then, he shows up outside your building. Doesn’t come inside. Just stands under the streetlamp in the rain, hair plastered to his forehead, coat dripping, looking like something the tide dragged in.

You watch from the window for ten minutes. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t wave. Just waits.

You close the curtains.

Inside, he’s losing his mind.

Rafayel has always been trying to get your attention, theatrical sighs, exaggerated pouts, the whole artist temperament. But this is different.

He paints obsessively. Canvases everywhere. All of them you, angry, sad, laughing, sleeping. Some half finished, some torn. He can’t get the eyes right. Keeps scrubbing them out until the canvas rips.

He talks to the empty studio. “Stupid. So stupid. Why did I say that?”

He knows why. Fear. The same fear that’s lived in him since the day you walked back into his life as an adult. The terror that you’ll leave again, not because you want to, but because you’ll realize you were never meant to stay. That the gap is too wide.

He drinks too much wine. Smashes a bottle against the wall when the silence gets too loud. Cuts his hand. Doesn’t bother bandaging it. Just lets it drip onto the floor like paint.

Nights are the worst. He curls on the couch where you usually fall asleep against him, hugging the pillow that still smells faintly of your shampoo. Whispers apologies into it like it can carry them to you.

He doesn’t sleep.

On day ten, he can’t take it anymore.

He doesn’t knock this time. He uses the spare key you gave him months ago.

You’re on the couch when the door opens. You don’t move, silently staring at him.

He looks wrecked. Eyes bloodshot. Shirt untucked. Bandage on his hand soaked through.

He doesn’t step farther than the entryway. Like he’s afraid crossing the threshold will make you run again.

“I was wrong,” he says. Voice hoarse. “Everything I said… I didn’t mean any of it. I was terrified. You almost died down there. And I thought- if I pushed you away first, it wouldn’t hurt as much when you finally realized you can’t fix me. That you can’t carry what I carry.”

He swallows. “But you’ve never tried to fix me. You just… stay. Even when I make it impossible. Even when I throw every insecurity I know you have back in your face like it’s nothing.”

He takes one careful step closer. Stops when you tense.

“You do understand,” he whispers. “More than I deserve. You remembered how to find me. How to love me. That’s more than I ever thought I’d get.”

Silence.

Then, quieter: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll spend every day proving I didn’t mean it. That I want you here. That the gap doesn’t matter because you’re already on my side of it.”

He sinks to his knees. Right there in the entryway. Head bowed. Hands loose at his sides like he’s offering himself up for judgment.

“I’ll give you space if that’s what you need,” he murmurs. “But please… don’t forget me again. Not because of something I said when I was too scared to admit how much I need you.”

You don’t answer right away.

Minutes drag.

Then you stand, walk over and stop in front of him.

He doesn’t look up. You can see the faint tremble in him.

You reach down. Touch his hair, still damp. He leans into it like a man starved.

“I’m still angry,” you say softly.

He nods slightly.

“And it hurt. More than you know.”

The shame in his eyes is evident.

You sink to your knees too. Wrap your arms around him.

He breaks then. Arms crush around you. Face buried in your neck. Shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes against your skin.

You don’t promise it’s okay yet.

But you hold him tighter.

Later, when you’re tangled on the couch, he traces your face with careful fingers. “I’ll never say anything like that again. I swear to you.”

You believe him.

Because the way he looks at you now, like you’re the only shore he’ll ever run to, leaves no room for doubt.

SYLUS

You've been at his side for months now, navigating the N109 Zone, accompanying him on deals that skirt legality, quiet nights spent together where he lets the mask slip just enough for you to see the man beneath all of it. Sylus has always been careful with you. Even in anger, he reins it in, turns it to ice rather than fire.

But tonight, after a botched negotiation that nearly got you both killed, a setup from a rival faction, bullets flying, you acting reckless to protect him, the reins snap.

You're in his safe house, adrenaline still buzzing. He's pacing the length of the floor to ceiling windows, city lights casting harsh shadows across his face. Mephisto perches on the back of a chair, head tilted like he senses the storm.

"You shouldn't have jumped in like that," he says, voice low and edged. "I had it under control."

You scoff from the couch, pressing a cloth to the graze on your arm. "Under control? They had almost had you beat, Sylus. If I hadn't-"

"If you hadn't, nothing. I don't need you playing bodyguard." He stops pacing. Turns to you with eyes like shattered rubies. "You're in my world now. Act like it."

Irritation boils over. You're tired. Sore. And yeah, maybe a little scared at how close it was. "Your world? The one where you act like nothing touches you? Like you're above it all?"

He crosses his arms. "Careful, sweetie."

The nickname grates tonight. "No. You don’t want my help? Fine. But if you want people to think you're human, start acting like one. Stop treating everything like a game where you're the only player who matters."

The room goes deathly quiet.

His expression doesn't change at first. Just a subtle tightening around his eyes. A flicker of something raw, hurt, maybe, before it's gone.

You know that line cuts him. You've talked about it before, in more vulnerable moments: how he struggles with his own humanity after everything he's lost, everything he's built from the ruins. The way the world sees him as a monster, and sometimes he wonders if they're right. You've held him through those confessions, whispered that he's more than his this, more than the blood on his hands.

And now you’re using it against him.

He steps closer. Voice dangerously even. "Human? That's rich coming from you. You're barely cosplaying as one yourself, stumbling through my shadows like a lost child, pretending you belong. Pretending you're not exactly like me. Acting blind to who you are like I won’t have to bury one day because you can't keep up."

The words slice clean through.

Your breath catches. Eyes sting. You stare at him, waiting for the retraction.

It doesn't come.

Instead, he just holds your gaze. Unblinking. Like he's daring you to break first.

You don't. You stand. Grab your things and head straight for the door without a word.

He doesn't stop you. Doesn't even move.

The elevator dings. Doors close. And you're gone.

You avoid him for twelve days.

Back to Linkon. Association work. Anything that keeps you out of the N109 Zon. You block his number temporarily, not forever, just enough to breathe. Mephisto shows up on your balcony twice, cawing softly, but you shoo him away with a sad smile. "Not yet, buddy."

The twins text once.

Boss is in a mood. Everything okay?

You don't reply.

In the N109 Zone, Sylus fractures.

He doesn't rage at first. Just sits in his study, glass of whiskey untouched, staring at the city he rules like it's mocking him. Replays the argument on loop, your words first, that barb about his humanity that hit like a gut punch, then his retaliation. Sharper. Crueler.

He skips meetings. Snaps at Luke and Kieran over nothing,

"Get out. Now."

until they slink away exchanging worried glances. Mephisto brings him reports from your side of the city, but he waves them off. Doesn't want to know. Can't bear it.

Nights are endless. He lies in the bed you shared, sheets still faintly scented with you, and stares at the ceiling. Imagines every worst case: you deciding he's right, that you don't belong. You finding someone softer, safer. Or worse, you getting hurt in Linkon because he's not there to pull you back.

He drinks more. Eats less. Paces until the carpets wear thin. One night, he punches the heavy bag in his gym until his knuckles split, not healing them with evol, letting the pain ground him. Like his punishment.

Regret coils tighter. He knows he should give you space, you're not one to be crowded but every day without you feels like drowning in his own isolation. Everything he has means nothing without you there with him.

A week later, he cracks. Sends Mephisto with a small box: your favorite earrings, the ones you left behind.

You keep them. Don't wear them.

A few days later, a delivery. Rare protocore from the N109 Zone, the kind the association’s been looking for.

You set it on your desk. Stare at it for hours.

Eventually, he shows up himself.

Not at your door. Outside your building, leaning against his motorcycle in the storm. Eyes shadowed like he hasn't slept in weeks.

You spot him from the window and your heart clenches.

He doesn't look up. He waits. Hands in pockets. Shoulders hunched against the downpour.

You grab an umbrella and step out.

He straightens when he sees you. Doesn't move closer. Lets the rain soak him further.

"You look like hell," you say. Voice neutral.

He huffs a laugh, short and self deprecating. "Feel like it too."

Silence stretches. Rain patters on your umbrella.

"I was wrong," he says finally, his voice is low. "What I said... it was inexcusable. I was hurt, your words cut deeper than I let on and I lashed out. Hit where I knew it would wound you most. I shouldn’t have."

You say anything.

He runs a hand through wet hair. "You're not weak. Or lost. You're the strongest person I know, walking into my world without flinching, standing up to me when no one else would. And keeping up? Kitten, you set the pace. I wouldn't have survived that ambush without you. Wouldn't want to."

His voice cracks the smallest bit. "I gave you space because I know that's what you need. But these days... they've been empty. I built all that I have thinking it would be enough. It's not. Not without you."

You step closer. Umbrella covering you both now.

"Why should I come back?" Whispered.

"Because I need you." Simple. "You’re what keeps me tied to this world. I wouldn’t want to be human if it wasn’t for you."

He reaches out. Hesitates. Drops his hand.

"I'm sorry," he breathes. "For every word. For letting you walk away. For not chasing sooner."

You remain silent.

But you tilt the umbrella more over him. Let your free hand find his, it’s cold and trembling.

He exhales. Pulls you close slowly. Forehead to yours. Rain mixing with the salt on his cheeks.

"Missed you," he murmurs. "More than I thought possible."

You stay like that for a while. Rain slowing. Him holding you like you're the only anchor he has.

Later, inside your apartment, he doesn't push for more. Just sits with you on the couch, hand in yours, talking quietly about the days apart. His fears and yours.

Because without you, he's just a facade. And he hates how close he came to shattering it for good.

CALEB

You’d just come back from a solo mission, nothing catastrophic. A few bruises, singed sleeve, but you handled it.

Caleb was waiting at your apartment. Not unusual. He’s been doing it more lately, showing up unannounced with takeout, or coffee, or just himself. Always with that same easy smile. Always checking you over like you might vanish if he looks away too long.

Tonight, though, the smile is tighter. He’s already spotted the burn mark on your arm before you even close the door.

“You didn’t call,” he says.

“I didn’t need to.” You drop your gear bag. Head for the kitchen to grab water. “It was routine. I’m fine.”

He follows. Leans in the doorway. Arms crossed. “Routine still means wanderers. You could’ve at least texted when you were clear.”

You exhale through your nose. “Caleb, I’m not a kid anymore. I don’t need to check in every time I step outside.”

His jaw flexes. “I’m not asking you to check in like a child. I’m asking you to remember there are people who-” He stops. Starts again. “People who worry. People who’ve already lost too much.”

The undercurrent is there. Always is. The explosion. The time apart. The way he came back different, harder, carrying ghosts you can’t see but can feel. You’ve talked about it. You’ve held each other through the nightmares. You thought you were past the part where he treats you like fragile glass.

Apparently not.

“I know you worry,” you say, softer. Trying to deescalate. “But I’m not helpless. I’ve been doing this job for ages without-”

“Without me?” he finishes. Voice low. “Yeah. I know. And look how well that turned out.”

You freeze. Water bottle halfway to your mouth.

He keeps going. Like the dam broke and he can’t stop the flood. “You keep acting like you don’t need anyone. Like you can just charge ahead and handle everything alone. But you can’t. Not really. You never could. That’s why you always end up hurt. That’s why you always need someone to pull you out. And if you won’t let it be me-” His voice cracks, just once. “then fine. Keep pretending you’re invincible. Keep pretending you don’t need protecting. But don’t expect me to stand by and watch you break yourself again just to prove a point to me.”

He’s rejecting the one thing you’ve fought tooth and nail to build since Gran’s house burned down: your independence. Your ability to stand on your own. The quiet pride you carry that show you survived. You grew up. You don’t need saving anymore.

And in his eyes, in the heat of fear and frustration, that pride is delusional. Childish. Something you cling to because you can’t accept reality: that you’re still the little girl who needs him to keep her safe. That you’ll always be dependent. That without his protection, you’re just… waiting to fall apart again.

Your throat closes with something colder, something final.

You set the water bottle down.

“Don’t,” you say. Voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t talk to me like I’m still ten years old and hiding under the table during a storm.”

He flinches. Opens his mouth.

You shake your head. “I’m done being the person you have to save. If that’s all I am to you… then I don’t want to be here at all.”

You walk past him. Grab your keys. Coat. Phone.

He reaches for your wrist. Gentle and pleading. “Wait-”

You pull away.

The door closes behind you with a soft click.

You don’t go far. Just a friend’s place across the city. Crash on their couch. Turn your phone to Do Not Disturb.

You stay gone for days.

Caleb doesn’t bombard you. That’s not his way.

But he breaks in slow motion.

He sits in your empty apartment for hours. Doesn’t turn on the lights. Just stares at the spot on the couch where you usually curl against him.

He knows it’s not true. Knows you’ve pulled yourself out of worse than he has. Knows you’ve saved him more times than he’s saved you lately.

He doesn’t sleep.

The next day he flies back to base. Tries to bury himself in work. Fails. Snaps at subordinates over nothing. Gets sent home early.

He leaves a small paper bag in your apartment. Inside is a tiny plush airplane. The one he won for you at arcades when you were kids. Faded tag still reads “To my co pilot.”

You cry then. Quietly. Into the plush.

Nights get worse for him.

He stops going to the fleet. Stays in your room in his apartment instead. Sits on your bed. Holds your pillow like it’s you.

After a week he can’t wait anymore.

He waits outside your place. This time in the morning light. Clean uniform. Shaved. Eyes hollow but steady.

You step out for coffee and see him.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Voice rough from disuse. “I was wrong. Every word. You’re not weak. You’ve never been weak. You’ve carried more than anyone should have to, and you did it without me for years. I had no right to make you feel small just because I’m terrified of losing you again.”

You don’t speak.

He keeps going. “I don’t want you to need me. I want you to choose me. Even when you don’t need saving. Even when you’re stronger than I am. I want to stand beside you, not in front of you. And I failed at that. Badly.”

Silence.

Then, quieter: “I’ll give you more time if that’s what you need. I won’t push. But I need you to know, I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you tell me to leave for good.”

You look at him.

See the shadows under his eyes. The way his hands tremble just slightly. The way he’s holding himself like he might shatter if you walk away again.

You step forward.

Close enough that he can smell your shampoo. Close enough that he stops breathing.

“I’m still angry,” you say softly.

“I know.”

You reach up. Touch his cheek. He grabs your wrist and leans into your touch more.

“But I missed you,” you whisper.

His eyes close. A shaky exhale.

You step into him then. Let him wrap his arms around you. Careful. Reverent. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

He buries his face in your hair. “I’m sorry,” his voice is soft.

You hold him tighter.

Later, back in your apartment, he doesn’t try to fix everything in one night. Just sits with you. Talks. Listens. Lets you set boundaries.

No more showing up unannounced without asking.

No more assuming you need rescuing.

Just partnership.

He still worries. He always will.

But now he channels it differently; quiet support. Pride in your strength. Standing at your six instead of blocking your path.

And every time you come home safe from a mission, he greets you with that same easy smile, only now it’s softer. Grateful.

Because you chose to come back.

you can't help but flinch, not because you’re scared, but because you know that kind of sound. it’s the sound people makes when they're exhausted, frustrated, not very happy with the world. you were used to this energy from others, but you were yet to experience it from your boyfriend.

you peek your head around the corner.

“hey, ryo.” you say in that soft, dainty voice he still hasn’t fully gotten used to. the one that normally made him melt into a puddle of gooey love and adoration, but right now all it does is remind him he’s tired and really agitated. “i got dinner all ready for you, love.”

he grunts, that’s it. a grunt.

he chucks his duffle bag down on the couch, wipes his hand down his face and mutters something under his breath about 'fuckwits at the gym.' you try to ignore the obvious annoyance in his voice and shyly tiptoe back into the kitchen then bring him a pink plate full of dinner, holding it in both of your precious hands, offering it to him like a gift you'd made just to cheer him up.

and then he decides to turn into the biggest dick face on the planet, too frustrated to be civil, apparently.

with no sort of preparation or hesitancy, he sharpens his deep red eyes at you and crosses his biceps over his chest.

“th' fucks this supposed to be?”

you stiffen up a lil. “it's… your dinner?”

you watch as his eyes fall darker and his fists clench. “what? you know i don’t eat before i shower. you put the whole thing together just to let it get cold?”

...huh...?

you'd never been talked to this carelessly by sukuna before... your eyes get the tiniest bit glossy, but you try to fight it off as best you can. “i… i thought you’d want it now because you always say you’re starving when you get back…” you whisper.

“yeah? well, today i’m not fucking hungry.” his voice rises in a way it never has with you. a way he used to talk to girls who’d scream right back at him, get in his face, throw something at the wall. “god, do you ever listen?”

"i- i'm sorry... i just thought-"

"wow? thinking for once? didn't know your dumb little head was capable of that."

...ouch.

you could physically feel your throat pulling tight, it burned to breathe through his venomous insult..

“honestly, the last thing i need right now is some damn girl trying to play house with me after i've just worked my ass off all day, it's fucking annoying,” he shoots, beginning to pace, ignoring the way your face contorted into that adorable yet heart crushing pout.

'some damn girl?...' was that all you were to him?..

he’s not looking at you. he’s talking at you, like you’re just another outlet for whatever’s eating at him. this big, loud, overwhelming presence filling your little apartment with his booming voice rising and rising with each word, and you can’t even process half the things he’s saying because your brain is doing that fuzzy weird panicy thing. you don’t know whether to get up or stay still or just disappear on the spot forever..

you're silently listening, but he just keeeeps on going.

"you think i want you shoving shit in my face the second i get home?! let me take a damn break for once in my life, woman!”

...

behind your ribcage you can feel the crack, crack, crack, of your heart with each piece falling into your stomach and smouldering into a thick ash, like you were an insignificant bug that wasn't worth this man's time.

and it’s right there in the silence that something finally flickers in his stupidly ignorant brain.

because this is the part where someone should yell back, where someone should tell him to go fuck himself, or throw the plate down, or call him an asshole, or storm out. or anything!

but you don’t.

you just stand there ever so sadly, you hold your arms around your body like they might save you from the stomach pains you'd suddenly gotten, the feeling of immense guilt for making him more angry than he already was.

you're stuck staring down at the floor, your eyes feel hot and so full of tears as you gently whisper out the softest and heartfelt apology sukuna thinks he's ever heard in his fucked up life..

“...i’m so sorry.”

ryo's ready to yell something completely unnecessary and rude because he’s still riding the high of adrenaline from lifting too much and dealing with that asshole at the gym today. he’s still acting like he’s dealing with someone who’ll fight him tooth and nail, not his pretty little girl who's easier to rattle than a maraca.

your lashes flutter with wet tears and your pouty lip wobbles, you set the plate down carefully on the counter before your hands can shake too hard and it smashes on the floor.

and then you look up at him.

you look at him like you’re scared you'd messed up big time, like you’re scared you hurt him or made him upset in any way. like you’re scared he might walk away, abandon you. like all of this was your fault.

this is about where sukuna starts to feels like his heart had just been flipped over and fucked in the ass by a 6"3 rugby champ.

he didn’t even know it was humanly possible for his chest to sink into the pits of fiery hell that fast. like, physically, his heart plummets to his feet.

“sweetheart,” he says, but it’s too late. he can already see the tears filling up your eyes as you wrap your arms around yourself tighter than before, so small and so nervous.

“i... i’m really sorry,” you whisper again, voice cracking in that heart stabbing kind of way. “i didn’t mean to make you mad, i was just trying trying to help, i thought you’d be hungry and.. i'm so sorry, it won't happen again."

your voice cuts off as you wipe at your cheeks, embarrassed at the tears that keep falling so freely down your flushed cheeks.

and then, before he can even take a step toward you to console, you beat him to it.

you walk right up to his big, stupid, irritated self and gently wrap your arms around his waist, like you’re apologizing to him even though you didn’t do anything wrong.

your cheek presses against his chest, soft and warm and trusting, yet still so small and scared..

all that rage and tension drains out so fast he actually gets lightheaded. he didn’t notice. god, he didn’t realise! he was yelling. at you. his pretty girl, his soft girl.

the only girl he’s ever dated who doesn’t treat every fucking conversation like a competition. the girl who holds his hand with two hands because his palm is so big. the girl who apologises when someone bumps into her. the girl who triple checks she's not burdening someone before she starts speaking. the girl who’d never raise her voice at him, even if he deserved it.

he was yelling at you.

you huff and puff in uneven spouts against his chest, softly like you’re giving him space to push you off if he wants to. you whisper again in a smaller voice than before.

“i’m sorry. i’m really sorry, ryo. i didn’t mean to ruin your day.”

his throat clamps shut.

he feels something sting horribly behind his eyes and he hates it, because he never cries. never. not for breakups, not for fights, not for injuries. but this? this is different. this is you. and realising he scared you or hurt you, even in some tiny emotional way, is making him physically ache with the pain of a thousand knifes stabbing his chest over and over and over..

“baby, no. no, no, no, you didn’t do anything wrong. i’m the one who’s being a fucking idiot. i shouldn’t have yelled. i shouldn’t have even raised my voice at you, baby.. shit.”

you can feel his biceps crushing you tighter. he’s huge and so warm, yet trembling in the tiniest way, like he’s holding himself together with the sheer willpower of not letting you see him too broken.

you sniff against his pec, trying to steady yourself, because you’ve never heard him sound like this before, so guilty and worried.

his voice cracks, cracks as he tries to spew out another line of consolement, and when you blink up at him, there are salty tears at the corners of his eyes. massive, scary, ryomen sukuna falling apart while hugging you, a soft and quiet little thing.

you just shake your head against him, heavy little sobs shaking your shoulders. “i’m sorry i messed up. i’m sorry you had a bad day and i made it worse.”

oh he’s the worst man alive. actually the worst. he can feel it in his bones.

“baby…” his voice cracks again and he hates it but he can’t stop it. “you didn’t do anything wrong.”

you cling a little tighter, like you’re scared he’s gonna pull away. that alone almost makes him sob hysterically on the spot.

your voice comes out all wobbly. “i just… i don’t want you to be mad at me.”

fuuuck..

that’s the moment sukuna’s entire psyche caves in on itself and implodes indefinitely.

“god, y/n,” he whispers. “i’m so, so sorry.”

the apartment goes still and quiet for a good minute before you can whisper out, “it’s okay...”

“no,” he says immediately,“ no, it’s not. i shouldn’t have yelled at you like that, sweetheart. i shouldn’t have said any of that. i just… i had a shitty day and i was being a dick. that’s on me. you didn’t make anything worse.”

“but you seemed so upset…”

“oh my love, not at you.” he swallows “never at you, baby. i swear.”

...

your fingers contract into the back of his muscle shirt, holding on so gently it rips at his fragile soul, though, your tears have almost stopped.

he squeezes you harder, he’s not letting you go until he’s sure you're really okay.

“you’re… you’re really precious to me,” he whispers into your hair, the words tumbling out before he can stop them, way too honest for how he normally talks. “i don’t ever wanna scare you. i don’t ever wanna make you cry because of me.”

you move to peek up at him with those big watery eyes, and he absolutely breaks down for the fourth time that night. he feels the liquid in his own eyes and tries to blink it away, but nope. a tear slips down anyway.

your breath catches. “ryo…? d-did i make you upset?- i'm so sorry!”

he shakes his head quickly, gripping the back of your head as he tucks you back under his chin. “you didn't do anything, y/n. just don’t look at me right now,” he mutters. “just… let me hold you.”

you mumble a quick “okay.”

your gentle response calms him more than anything else ever has.

his arms slip under your thighs and your back in one careful swoop, lifting you off the floor like you weigh less than air, because to a colossal guy like kuna, you do.

you let out a noise of surprise and curl into his arms on instinct, holding onto his shirt as he carries you through the little apartment, the whole 9 yards of princess treatment.

“cmon angel,” he mumbles against your forehead in a sweet kiss, “let’s get you in bed.”

he pushes the bedroom door open with his foot and stands next to the bed, lowering you onto the mattress as gently as he possibly can. the second your back hits the sheets he reaches for the blanket and tucks it around you so fast and frantic you almost giggle. he’s acting like he's scared you’re gonna get cold or crumble into star dust if he doesn’t wrap you up right this second.

“stay here, sweetheart,” he says while brushing the pad of his thumb across your cheek. “i’m gonna eat your dinner real quick and shower and then i’m coming right back. don’t move.”

you nod with your body engulfed under the blankets, and he gives you one last kiss on the cheek before heading back out.

it’s almost funny how different the apartment sounds now, he’s trying to be quiet. him. the guy built like a tank who normally stomps around like godzilla. you hear the plate clink, hear the microwave door shut, hear him crushing to himself like he’s scolding his own reflection, which he should be. then you hear the shower switch on, and everything is chaotic as if he’s racing against some imaginary clock because you’re alone in the bed for more than five minutes and that simply will not do for sukuna.

you hear the bathroom door whip open.

he’s back in seconds with his salmon hair damp and a white tank top thrown on crooked, water still beaded on his fair skin because he didn’t even bother drying properly. he climbs onto the bed quickly, grabbing you like he needs to feel you to be happy and content with his life.

your back hits his chest as he pulls you right onto his lap and you can just tell he's feeling possessive and territorial.

“hey baby.. are you okay?”

you nod softly, but he shushes you anyway.

“it’s alright,” he smiles, kissing the side of your neck. “you don’t gotta say anything. i got you.”

his hand rubs little circles over your hip bones with the other sliding up to hold your jaw with this gentle care no one would ever believe he’s capable of, ever. your tears dried a long while ago, but he still treats you like you’re a precious gem. he rocks you a little in his lap, soothing you like it’s instinct.

“you’re so beautiful, yknow that?” he whispers suddenly, voice hushed like he’s telling you a secret not meant for the rest of the world. “so damn beautiful and sweet and good. you’re… y/n, you’re so perfect.”

you feel your cheeks heat up and he smiles against your skin, just barely.

“i mean it,” he says again, burying his face into your shoulder. “you’re precious to me, baby. so precious i don’t even know what to do with myself sometimes.”

yeah, obviously.

you lean back into him a little more and your hands settle over his wrists. he squeezes you immediately like he’s scared he imagined the whole thing and he might be in some lucid dream still yelling at you.

his voice drops even lower, so soft you almost miss it.

“you’re it for me,” he murmurs. “you hear me? you’re it. i’m done with dating. i’m yours for the rest of my damn life.”

you blush deeply and hide your face in your hands at how bold he's being.

"ryo..."

“i’m never talking to you like that again,” he says quietly. “never yelling. never making you cry. i’m not losing you because i don’t know how to deal with my dumbass moods. you’re too important to me.”

your fingers slide over his hand, giving it the cutest squeeze and he just melts behind you. melts completely with his chest going all gooey and soft.

“you’re my girl,” he whispers against the shell of your ear. “forever, or for as long as you’ll have me, baby."

he rocks you gently again, humming in his throat while his hands smooth and stroke over you like he’s memorising the shape of you.

he presses one last kiss to your cheek.

“sleep, angel,” he breathes. “i’m not going anywhere.”

sukuna was used to dating brats, the ones who threw tantrums and screamed like banshees in his face, but now he had you. and he knew in his heart that this whole time he was missing out on the pure bliss that was a calm and sweet relationship, with you.

never in his life had sukuna shed a tear over a girl, but tonight he did. he let a few slip because he couldn't handle the thought of making precious little you feel any sort of negative emotion, and he wasn't even trying to hide it. that how much you meant to sukuna, how soft you'd turned him.

and he was damn well never going back.

A/N i took a break from studying to write ts for you chat that's how much i ❤️ u guys 🥀