chikki :p

Trevor enjoyed the quiet moments together, you resting your head on his chest and him lightly tracing his fingers up and down your arms. He liked to use the opportunity to get as close to you as possible, his arms holding you against his frame and lips pressing kisses to every inch of your face. 

You giggled as each kiss was placed, on your cheeks, your nose, and your forehead. He lingered on your lips, deepening the kiss from a playful peck to something a bit more needy. Your fingers threaded through his hair and his hands lingered on the skin between your shirt and skirt. 

Just as the two of you broke apart for air and readied yourself for more, Hetty stepped through the closed door. 

“Oh! My word!” she gasped, a hand on her chest, startled by the intimate sight. 

You pushed Trevor back and he held his hands up like he’d been caught by the police. You pulled your shirt back down in place and smoothed out your hair as embarrassment heated your face. “Hetty! Y-Your back so soon,” you rushed out. 

She scoffed, eyes flickering between you and Trevor. “Apparently I am.” 

Trevor cleared his throat and smiled at her innocently. “We were just-” 

Hetty held up her hand to stop him. “I do not want to know,” she said before turning on her heel and swiftly leaving the room. You buried your head in your hands, embarrassment killing any of the romance that had been built up. 

SASS & ALBERTA

Trevor was a gentleman, despite what he sometimes came off to others as. He was sweet, endearing, and enamored by you. It was difficult to be a gentleman and be a ghost, but he made it work.

While he couldn’t pull your chair out or buy you flowers, he always held your hands on walks and complimented you as if you didn’t look the exact same every single day. He had an endless stash of cheesy compliments and though you weren’t the most talkative, he listened to every word out of your mouth as if it was the most interesting thing anyone had ever said. Trevor also had a habit of needing to be touching you in some way. Whether it was holding your hand, an arm thrown around your shoulder, or a hand on your knee. It was comforting to have him near, but sometimes the constant touchy-feely actions of Trevor were kicked up a notch when you thought you two were alone. 

Even when you two were somewhere not exactly private, it was hard not to be swept up in the sweetness that was Trevor. 

The kitchen was one of the least private places in the mansion, but you two just so happened to be in there when Jay and Sam were out in town and the rest of the ghosts were occupied in other parts of the house. Trevor was being his usual charming felt, his hands resting on your hips as he spoke to you with a small smile on his lips. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, listening intently. 

He punctuated his story with a kiss to your lips and you laughed into it, being pulled closer to him. You kissed him back almost feverishly, enjoying the warmth of his body against yours and the quietness of the moment you could have lived in forever. 

However, before the two of you even needed to come up for air, two voices broke through the quietness of the kitchen. 

“Oh, come on,” Sass grumbled, despite the amused glint in his eyes. 

Trevor sighed and dropped his hands from around your waist to throw them up in the air. “Does no one knock anymore?!” 

Alberta tilted her head to the side, brows raised. “This is the kitchen, lover-boy. No knocking required.” 

“And that’s not exactly possible,” Sass added, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you guys have to rub your happiness in everyone’s faces? Can you not pick up another hobby?” 

You winced, feeling bad. “Sorry.” 

Alberta smiled and lightly hit Sass on the shoulder. “Oh, leave ‘em be. There are worse things they could be doing in the kitchen than kissing,” she said, causing heat to rise up your neck and over your cheeks. “Remember that time we walked in on Flower trying to teach Thor yoga?” 

Sass shuttered. “Don’t remind me.” 

ISAAC 

The upstairs study was half cluttered with items Sam and Jay used for the B&B. They were in the middle of moving things around and trying to make sense of all of the rooms in the mansion. The study wasn’t used that often by anyone, which made it one of the few places of privacy inside the home. You enjoyed the seat in the study, back away from the clutter and beside an old bookshelf with untouched literature that you had asked Sam not to get rid of. The smell of old books made the room feel cozy to you, and from the chair you could see most of the backyard. 

When you wanted a moment alone, you went there. Sometimes, Trevor joined you. He liked to joke that he enjoyed the view as well, but his chair faced yours, and his eyes were not fixed out the window, but rather on you. He’d sit with his chin propped up on his fist and a goofy grin on his face that was laced with admiration. 

On that particular day, you stood at window, watching the birds you had come familiar with go about their day. Trevor joined you, standing behind you with his arms wrapped around your waist and head resting comfortably on your shoulder, watching too. But he had a shorter attention span than you, and when he grew bored of bird watching, he lovingly pressed kisses to your shoulder. 

With a smile, you turned your head and kissed his forehead, which made him light up. Despite being ghosts, there was an undeniable light in his eyes as he spun you around by your hips and brushed his hand sweetly across your cheek. You leaned into his touch before he grasped your face with his other hand, pulled your face closer to him, and kissed you. 

No matter what the moment was, Trevor also started kissing you slowly like he was savoring it. His touches were always gentle and thoughtful, even when his kisses turned more intense. 

Though, lately, any intensity and plunge into more unexplored territory had been halted by interruptions. That time was no different either as Isaac entered the study. 

“Oh!” he gasped out, not in shock like Hetty but in simple surprise. “Uh, my apologies.”

“Man,” Trevor groaned. 

Isaac cleared his throat and stood with his hands behind his back, a slightly apologetic look on his face. “I was just looking for you,” he said, looking at you. “Sam needed some assistance with something, but I can tell her you’re…busy.” 

You shook your head. “No, it’s all right.” You and Trevor bid a short ‘see you later’ before you followed Isaac to where Sam was. 

“I do apologize for ‘ruining the moment,’” he said, trying to mimic modern-day speak that he’d been slipping into his vocabulary as of late. “There does seem to be a distinct lack of privacy in this place.” 

You blew some air from your cheeks before muttering, “You’re telling me.” 

STEPHANIE 

In some form of a miracle, the ghosts, Sam, and Jay were all occupied with outside renovations. Well, Sam and Jay were busy with renovations and the ghosts were busy ‘livings watching,’ voicing their opinions, and causing general chaos for Sam and Jay. 

But the important thing was, the mansion was empty, and you and Trevor thought you’d finally have a moment alone. You spent the last twenty minutes simply talking in the upstairs TV room, laughing at stupid jokes and enjoying each other's presence uninterrupted. 

Your shy nature led you to not initiate anything Trevor; you were too nervous you’d do something wrong or misread a situation. But Trevor was never shy, and seemingly never nervous. He liked you wrapped in his arms, peace filling the empty room between you two as he kissed you between mumbles of compliments he liked to shower you with. 

Even though he was your boyfriend, he still knew how to make you flustered, hot-faced, and giddy like a schoolgirl with a crush. He trailed his hands down your arms before he placed him on your hips, rubbing circles with his thumbs absentmindedly. His kisses trailed down your jaw and onto your neck. You savored it, the feeling of his lips on your skin made you feel on fire. 

Just as Trevor worked his way back up to your lips, your fingers fumbling on his tie, a shriek filled the room so startling you two nearly toppled off of the couch. 

“Are you kidding me, Trevor?” 

Stephanie. 

Trevor, wide-eyed, stood up and smoothed down his shirt and suit jacket. “Looks who’s awake,” he said with forced enthusiasm.  

“W-What is this?” the teenage girl asked, gesturing between you and him. “You were kissing her?!” 

“Yeah, well, she is my girlfriend,” Trevor replied, annoyance flickering across his face. 

Stephanie turned her attention onto you, and if you hadn’t already been dead, the look she gave you would have likely killed you. 

You tried to offer her a polite smile, but she glared daggers at you before returning her attention to Trevor. “Cool,” she said, fake happiness dripping from her tone. “Totally cool.” With a narrowed gaze, she slowly turned around and walked out of the room. 

You buried your head in your hands and Trevor sighed. 

“Well, where were we?” he said. You shot him a look and his shoulders slumped. “Mood killed, huh?” 

With a nod, you added, “Good thing I’m dead already. I’m pretty sure she’s plotting my second murder.” 

Trevor chuckled. “Can’t be worse than the first, huh?” You did your best to copy Stephaine’s glare. 

SAM & JAY

“Believe it or not, I used to do this a lot in high school,” Trevor whispered, standing close to you inside the coat closet. You couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of your situation. Inside a mansion and two of you were sandwiched into a small closet, surrounded by guests' coats. 

“I’m not the first girl you’ve had in a closet?” 

Trevor kissed you before saying, “No, but you are my favorite.” 

With a roll of your eyes, you leaned forward, kissing him feverishly. The number of times you two had been interrupted was starting to add up, leading you to your current situation. All you wanted was some time alone with your boyfriend, which you didn’t think was a crime, but the universe did not feel you two were deserving of that. It kept throwing a roadblock in your way. 

And that time was no different. 

You two hardly shared a couple of kisses before the door was thrown open and Jay entered with Sam standing in the doorway. She was in the middle of saying something when her eyes landed on you and Trevor. 

“Hey!” she greeted, surprised. 

Jay glanced over his shoulder at her. “Hey?” 

“No,” she said. “We’re not alone in here.” 

Jay furrowed his brows. “There’s got to be a less ominous way to put that.” Sam quickly explained that you and Trevor were in the closet. “That’s kind of a weird place to be. What’re they doing in here?” 

Sam opened her mouth before looking at you and Trevor. Your back was up against the wall and his hands were still settled on your waist. She put the pieces together quickly, wincing with realization. “Um, just…hanging out,” she said with an awkward laugh. “Grab the coats so we can go, please?” 

While you appreciated her urgency to give you and Trevor some more alone time, the secrecy of the closet was broken as Thor and Flower passed by, giggling at the implications of the two of you in the closet. So, you two retreated back to the company of the never really quiet home. 

Trevor’s hands were over your eyes he led you somewhere. Once he stopped, he removed his hands and said, “Tada!” 

You stared at the closed door of his shared bedroom. Confused you turned to him. “We’re at your room,” you said. 

He beamed. “Nope, not anymore.” 

“What do you mean ‘not any more?’” 

“It’s our room!” 

At first, you were confused, your mind trying to make sense of what he had just said, but once it did, your eyes widened. “Our room? W-We’re moving in together?” 

“Well, we do already technically live together. Now we just share a room too.” Trevor twisted his hands around in front of him like he was nervous. “Is that…cool?” 

You smiled wide, stepping forward and wrapping him in a hug. “It’s perfect,” you whispered. 

You didn’t consider yourself a very superstitious person, but you could feel the eerie energy radiating from Woodstone as soon as you stepped on the grounds, but you had begun to feel a bit dissuaded from– everything really, and you had been missing your husband for the past… well, two decades, and really wanted to reconnect with him.

Trevor, however, didn’t take the exact same relaxed feelings about the reunion. He watched your car pull in and watched you get out of your car, as humans did, you had aged, but by god in his eyes you aged like absolute wine. Clearly, he looked mortified, though.

Trevor stood frozen in the front hall as he watched you step out of your car. His usual confident smirk was nowhere to be found, replaced instead with a wide-eyed look of panic. He ran a hand through his eternally perfect hair, pacing in tight circles.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. It’s her,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

“Her who?” Alberta asked, leaning on the doorway with a raised eyebrow.

“Her her! My wife! My widow! The woman I married, the woman I—ugh!” He groaned, dramatically flopping onto the couch. “She’s here! What is she doing here? She’s supposed to be… I don’t know, happily remarried or writing a memoir about how awesome I was. Not staying here, with us!”

The other ghosts stared at him in a mix of curiosity and amusement.

“Wait, you’re married?” Isaac asked, his brows furrowing. “I thought you were more of the, ah, bachelor for life type.”

“I was married for six years!” Trevor shot back, sitting up indignantly. “She’s my one true love. You don’t get over someone like that, okay?” He ran both hands through his hair this time, looking almost comically distraught. “And now she’s here, and she looks… amazing, but she’s aged, and I haven’t, and this is going to mess her up, right? Like, emotionally? This is bad, right?”

“Didn’t take you for the sentimental type,” Alberta teased, her tone softening slightly. “But this explains a lot about why you’re extra dramatic today.”

Sam, who had been observing quietly, crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. “Trevor, she’s your wife? Why didn’t you ever mention her before?”

“Because it hurts, Sam!” Trevor threw up his hands. “She was the one. I miss her every single day, but what was I supposed to do? Drop it casually into conversation? ‘Oh, by the way, the love of my life is out there somewhere, and I’m stuck here in the No Pants Brigade for eternity.’ Real smooth.”

“Aw, Trev,” Pete said, his usual warmth shining through. “That’s actually… really sweet. Tragic, but sweet.”

“I know it’s tragic, Pete! That’s the whole point!” Trevor snapped, though his voice cracked slightly. “And now she’s here, and I can’t even tell her I’m here because… ghost rules! And you know me, I’m not good at being subtle. I’m gonna screw this up. I just know it.”

“You’ve already started screwing it up,” Hetty cut in, her tone sharp. “I can practically feel your anxiety polluting the air.”

“Thank you for the support, Hetty,” Trevor deadpanned before turning back to Samantha. “Sam, please, you’ve gotta help me. Tell her I’m here. Drop some hints. I don’t know, maybe do that whole ‘medium’ thing you’re always saying you’re not.”

Samantha gave him a sympathetic look. “Trevor, I don’t think telling her outright is the best idea. She’s here for a reason. Maybe she’s looking for closure. You should think about what she needs right now, not just what you want.”

Trevor groaned again, dragging his hands down his face. “You’re right. You’re totally right. I just…” He looked out the window again, watching as you hesitated near your car, seemingly mustering up the courage to come inside. “I miss her, Sam. Like, really miss her.”

The room fell silent for a moment. Even Hetty seemed to soften, though she wouldn’t admit it.

Samantha finally broke the silence, her voice gentle. “Then maybe this is your chance to give her what she’s been missing too. Just… try not to scare her, okay?”

Trevor nodded, though his lips curled into a sheepish grin. “I’ll do my best. No promises, though.”

“That’s what we’re worried about,” Alberta muttered, shaking her head as she followed the others to watch the unfolding chaos.

“Hello! Uh– you work here, right?” You spoke from the hallway, bags in hands. “Yup! Here for vacation?” Sam asked, getting behind the desk. There was a pause between the two of you before a hum of hesitancy came from you, not wanting to dump all of your dead-husband-trauma within a minute of meeting her, you just nodded. “Basically.”

—

You had got set up in your room, trying to relax despite the energy coming from the property, sitting up on the bed and texting, unaware of the specter of your deceased husband laying next to you. Trevor lay sprawled next to you on the bed, his usual cocky grin tempered with nervous excitement. “God, you’re even cuter than I remembered,” he murmured to himself, though you, of course, couldn’t hear him. “Okay, Trev, this is your moment. Don’t blow it. Start small. Subtle. Like… ghost Casanova.”

Meanwhile, you sat cross-legged on the bed, your phone in hand, scrolling through messages and photos. A faint frown tugged at your lips, and Trevor’s expression softened.

“Hey, don’t look sad. I’m right here!” he said, leaning closer. “Okay, time for step one: the classic ‘move a thing to get their attention’ move. Easy peasy.”

He eyed the pen sitting on the nightstand and focused all his energy on it. The pen wobbled slightly, then fell off the edge with a faint clatter.

You glanced up from your phone, startled. Your eyes darted to the nightstand, lingering for a moment, before you sighed and bent to pick up the pen.

“Must’ve knocked it off,” you mumbled to yourself, setting it back in place.

Trevor smacked his forehead. “Okay, maybe too subtle. Fine. Let’s turn it up a notch.”

He stood, pacing at the foot of the bed like a coach psyching himself up for the big game. “All right, Trev, think… what’s romantic but not terrifying? Candles? Too cliché. Write her a message? No penmanship when you’re a ghost.” He snapped his fingers. “Music! Music’s perfect. Nostalgic, romantic… plus, I know what song we danced to at our wedding. Boom. Easy win.”

He floated toward the room’s Bluetooth speaker, fiddling with the controls. It took a few tries, but soon the opening chords of “Your Song” by Elton John filled the room.

You froze mid-text, looking around with wide eyes.

“What the…” you whispered, putting your phone down. The music grew louder, and your brows furrowed.

Trevor grinned triumphantly, throwing his arms in the air. “Yes! She knows it’s me! Come on, babe, connect the dots. Ghost plus love song equals your amazing husband!”

But instead of looking touched or nostalgic, you grabbed the speaker, inspected it, and muttered, “That’s… weird. Haven’t heard that one in a while.” You turned the speaker off and set it down on the nightstand, shaking your head.

Trevor deflated, throwing himself backward onto the bed in frustration. “Come on! That was our song! How does that not scream ‘It’s Trevor!’?”

The faint smile you gave the speaker didn’t escape his notice, though. “Okay,” you murmured to yourself, “I dunno if I’m just imagining things. Or maybe it’s just… this place.” You paused, looking toward the window with a wistful expression, flashes of moments of your relationship running through your mind at the nostalgic song. “If only he was here…”

Trevor sat bolt upright at your words, his frustration melting into something softer. “I am here,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

For a moment, the room was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning. Trevor stayed where he was, staring at you with a mixture of love and longing, his resolve strengthening.

“All right, babe,” he murmured. “You might not believe it yet, but I’m gonna show you. You’ll know it’s me. I promise.”

He watched as you leaned back on the bed, phone forgotten, and closed your eyes. He stayed beside you, close enough that he imagined you could feel the warmth of his love, even if he couldn’t physically reach you.

“Tomorrow,” he said softly, “I’ll do better. You’ll see.”

–

The morning sun filtered through the trees, casting soft, dappled light across the Woodstone grounds. You walked slowly, arms crossed against the crisp air. It wasn’t the most energetic stroll—you’d never been one for intense hikes, nor exactly cut out for them—but it was peaceful. Quiet. Something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

The weight of memories pressed against you as you stopped by an old oak tree, brushing your fingers against its bark. “He would’ve loved this,” you murmured. The thought brought a bittersweet smile to your lips, though the ache in your chest never quite disappeared.

Inside the house, Trevor was a whirlwind of nervous energy, pacing in the living room. “Okay, okay. Yesterday didn’t go so great,” he admitted, running his hands through his hair. “But today’s a new day. I just need… a plan. A really good plan. So, ideas. Let’s hear ’em!”

Alberta rolled her eyes from her perch on the armrest of the couch. “Trevor, you can’t just throw random ghost tricks at her and expect her to piece it together. What’s your actual endgame here?”

“The endgame is for her to know it’s me, Albie!” Trevor gestured wildly, “I want her to feel like I’m still here for her. Like… in a good, romantic way. Not in a haunted way.”

“Well, you’re failing at both,” Hetty said flatly.

Isaac cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should try something more personal. Something that speaks to your connection with her.”

Trevor groaned. “I tried that! I played our wedding song, and she didn’t even get it! What else am I supposed to do?”

“Then maybe you should think about what she loved about you specifically,” Alberta said, leaning forward. “What was your thing? Your move? The thing that made her fall for you in the first place?”

Trevor paused, a rare moment of introspection crossing his face. “She used to say I had this way of… making her laugh, even when she didn’t want to. Like, no matter how bad her day was, I could always cheer her up. That’s what she loved about me.” He smiled faintly, the memory softening his usual bravado. “Man, she used to laugh so hard she’d snort, and she’d get all embarrassed, but I thought it was the cutest thing ever.”

“Well, there you go,” Alberta said. “You’ve got your answer.”

“Yeah, but how am I supposed to make her laugh if she can’t hear me?” Trevor threw up his hands. “I can’t exactly tell her my A+ jokes from ghost-land.”

Sam, who had been quietly listening, finally spoke up. “Maybe you don’t need to say anything. Maybe you just need to remind her of something funny you did together. Like, recreate one of your inside jokes or a memory that’ll make her laugh.”

Trevor snapped his fingers. “Sam, you’re a genius! I knew I kept you around for a reason.”

“It’s my property,” she deadpanned.

“Details.” Trevor waved her off, already pacing again as he brainstormed. “Okay, funny memory. Funny memory. Oh! Remember that time we went to that fancy restaurant, and I accidentally set the napkin on fire, and we had to sneak out before the maître d’ kicked us out? She loved that story!”

“Sure,” Hetty muttered, “because nothing says love like mild arson.”

Ignoring her, Trevor clapped his hands together. “That’s it. I’ll find a way to remind her of that. Maybe I’ll knock over a candle or something—just enough to jog her memory. Not, like, burn-the-place-down levels. I can do this!”

“Let’s hope you don’t accidentally commit ghost arson,” Isaac muttered as Trevor bolted toward the door, ready to execute his next brilliant plan.

Outside, you had wandered toward the gazebo, sitting down on the wooden bench with a sigh. The quiet was nice, though there was something about this place that made you feel… watched. Not in a bad way, but as if there was some invisible presence hovering nearby, waiting for the right moment.

From the shadows of the house, Trevor watched you with a determined glint in his eye. “All right, babe. Let’s make you laugh.”

–

You sat in the gazebo, absentmindedly watching a pair of squirrels chase each other around the base of a tree. The morning air was crisp, and for a moment, you let yourself relax.

From the shadows of the house, Trevor leaned against the doorway, cracking his knuckles. “Okay, Trev. Channel the glory days. Be suave. Be funny. Don’t… burn anything down for real this time.”

He floated closer, eyeing the picnic table in the gazebo. A small decorative lantern sat on the edge of it, its candle flickering gently in the breeze. Trevor grinned. “Perfect. Just a little nudge…”

He focused his energy on the lantern, tipping it ever so slightly until it teetered on the edge. With a faint clatter, it toppled over, landing on the table.

Startled, you turned to the sound, your brows furrowing. “Huh. That’s weird.”

Trevor winced. “Okay, not enough. Gotta amp it up.”

He scanned the area and spotted a small coffee table tablecloth, reminiscent of a napkin, resting next to the lantern. “This’ll do. Time to bring back the classics.” With a concentrated effort, he managed to slide the cloth toward the lantern’s flame, careful not to let it fully ignite.

The edge of the fabric began to smolder, a thin wisp of smoke curling into the air.

You gasped, leaping to your feet. “What the—?”

Trevor grinned, floating back as he waited for recognition to dawn. “Come on, babe. You have to remember this. Napkin fire? Fancy restaurant? Hilarious escape? It’s me!”

You quickly grabbed the mini tablecloth, smothering the tiny ember with your hands. With the danger gone, you sat back down, shaking your head with a bemused smile. “This place is seriously fucking with me.”

But then you paused, your fingers brushing over the singed edge of the cloth. Your smile softened, turning wistful.

“I’m really losing it now,” you muttered, though there was a glimmer of warmth in your eyes. “That’s exactly the kind of thing he’d do…”

Trevor froze, his grin fading as his expression softened. “She remembers,” he whispered.

You leaned back against the bench, holding the fabric in your hands like it was a precious relic. A quiet laugh escaped you, tinged with both joy and sadness. “Trevor, if this is you… God, I miss you.”

Trevor floated closer, his heart aching at the sound of your voice saying his name. He knelt beside you, though he knew you couldn’t see him. “I miss you too, babe. More than anything.”

For a moment, the world felt still. Though you couldn’t see him, and he couldn’t physically touch you, Trevor sat beside you, basking in the quiet connection of the moment.

“I’ll make sure you know it’s me,” he whispered. “No matter what it takes.”

—

The evening had grown dark, the soft hum of crickets filling the air as you stepped out of the car and onto the gravel driveway of Woodstone. The long, flowing dress you’d chosen for dinner swayed gently as you walked toward the front entrance, your heels clicking softly on the steps.

Trevor had been lounging on the staircase banister, idly waiting for you to return. When the door creaked open, he glanced up, his usual grin fading into wide-eyed awe.

“Whoa,” he whispered, standing straighter as he took in the sight of you. “You look… incredible. Like, seriously incredible. Red carpet-level stunning. Damn.”

You closed the door behind you, taking a moment to adjust your coat and shake off the evening chill. The glow from the chandelier overhead illuminated your features, and Trevor floated closer, unable to stop staring.

“Babe, you always looked amazing, but this? This is next-level. If I had a heartbeat, it’d be racing right now.”

Completely oblivious to his presence, you made your way into the sitting room, setting your clutch down on the nearest table. You looked around, pausing as you took in the cozy ambiance of the room. Something about it felt oddly welcoming tonight, though you couldn’t quite put your finger on why.

Trevor, meanwhile, hovered behind you, practically buzzing with excitement. “Okay, Trev, play it cool. She’s in a good mood. Maybe I can nudge something over—like a little love note or a flower. Yeah, that’s romantic. Not weird at all.”

He turned toward a nearby shelf, spotting a vase filled with dried flowers. “Perfect,” he said, focusing his energy on it. “Just a gentle tap…”

But Trevor’s enthusiasm got the better of him. Instead of the vase, he accidentally tipped the entire bookshelf.

“Wait, no! Nononono!” he yelled, trying to stop the shelf mid-fall.

With a thunderous crash, the bookshelf toppled over, sending books and decorative items scattering across the room.

You spun around, eyes wide, your heart pounding in your chest. “What the—”

The shock of the sound, combined with the sudden adrenaline surge, overwhelmed you. A sharp pain gripped your chest, and you staggered backward, clutching at your heart.

Trevor’s excitement immediately turned to panic. “Oh no. No, no, no. Babe, what’s happening? Are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay!”

You gasped, trying to steady yourself against the edge of the couch, but your legs gave out. The last thing you saw was the chandelier’s light dimming as you collapsed to the floor.

“No!” Trevor shouted, kneeling beside you. His hands hovered over you, futile in their ghostly form. “Please, don’t… not like this. Don’t leave me again!”

Moments later, the room seemed to shift. A strange warmth filled the air, and Trevor froze, staring at your body. Suddenly, your spirit appeared, standing next to him.

You blinked, disoriented, looking down at your hands and then at your body on the floor. “What… what just happened?”

Trevor’s jaw dropped. “Babe?”

You turned toward the familiar voice, your eyes widening as you saw him standing there, looking exactly as he had the day you’d lost him, just— minus some pants. “Trevor?”

He nodded, his voice trembling. “Yeah, it’s me. I… I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I swear, I was just trying to—”

But before he could finish, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him, tears streaming down your face. “It’s you. It’s really you.”

For the first time in years, Trevor felt solid, real. He held you tightly, his own tears falling freely. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” you whispered, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Trevor smiled, a mix of relief and guilt in his expression. “Well, about that… Turns out I’m still pretty good at screwing things up.” He didn’t let go of you for a second, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “And for the record? You don’t look a day over 35, hon’.”

But the ice wasn’t frozen evenly across the pond, leaving spots only shallowly frozen. Somehow, your friends managed to keep on the thicker ice, but you weren’t as lucky. You glided across the ice with a grin, not noticing the cracks that formed under your blades. Before you knew what was happening, the thin ice crumbled, plunging you into the freezing water. 

The aftermath was foggy, a distant memory that lived under a haze in your brain. But the very moment it happened, the feeling of ice water soaking your winter jacket and your skates feeling weightless under the water, you remembered clearly. You should have been scared, but the plunge knocked the fear out of you, leaving it on top of the pond as an odd peace shielded you from the bitter cold. 

The story was retold years later, swapped at parties, and used as an icebreaker, no pun intended. Someone had managed to pull you, but your heart had stopped. No one was sure if it was an answered prayer, you got lucky, or it simply wasn’t your time to go, and the universe knew that. Whatever it was, you survived, a chill forever itching your bones when the weather turned gray. 

A good story wasn’t the only thing you received from that fateful day. Your second chance at life also left you with a newfound look on life, literally. Not only could you see the living and breathing people milling about their lives, but you could also see those in the afterlife. Everywhere you went, ghosts haunted. Some were so far out of time while others you almost mistaken for being alive. 

Once the initial shock wore off and you accepted that no one would ever believe what you could see, you started to befriend the ghosts you saw, especially those who were alone. Your presence was inviting; they were drawn to you, almost. 

For the longest time, well into your adulthood, you believed your talent came in far and few between, but then you met Sam, and learned she possessed the same ability as you. The two of you quickly fell into a friendship, sharing stories of your ridiculous lives and the characters you had met along the way. 

She eventually invited you over to meet the band of ghosts who haunted her house. 

You couldn’t have imagined a more perfect group to inhabit the old mansion. Each ghost had their quirks, wells of knowledge, and passion for drama. You fit into the odd puzzle that was Woodstone, so much so that Sam and Jay offered you a job at their B&B. 

It was almost perfect. You enjoyed the revolving door of guests and got along great with the ghosts. But luck was a tricky thing, and you couldn’t have such luck forever. 

“Is using ghosts technically cheating, or is it using your resources?” you asked, resting your chin on your hand as you lounged at the check-in desk of Woodstone. 

“I think it's a question of ethics, morals, and whatnot,” Pete replied. 

Trevor, who mirrored your position on the opposite side of the desk, replied, “Unless the rules explicitly against supernatural intervention, I think you’re fine.” 

You smiled. “Can’t say most people put that in the fine print. Though maybe they should. Who knows how many people can see ghosts and don’t tell anyone.” 

“People do get into near-death accidents every day, I’d guess,” Pete pondered. “I doubt all of them gain the ability, but if you and Sam had, who knows. That’s not really something you could ask people casually, though, right?” 

“Not without being called crazy by most people you asked,” Trevor said. “I know if someone asked me when I could see ghosts back when I was alive, I’d think they’d smoked something. Unless…” He trailed off, smirking at you with his signature look you had grown to roll your eyes at. It was a playful annoyance; Trevor was the easiest to imagine he was still alive when you spoke to him. The only disconcerting things about him was his lack of pants, but otherwise he reminded you of the cocky frat boys you went to college with, only he was a little softer around the edges. 

You indulged him, tilting your head to the side in question. “Unless what?” 

“Unless everyone who could see ghosts are hot. Based on you and Sam, those odds are looking pretty good.” 

Pete made a face before he made up an excuse to follow Jay around the kitchen instead of remaining in that conversation. 

You scoffed. “You’re hopeless, you know that?” 

Trevor shrugged, the grin not leaving his face. “What can I say? I have a thing for women way out of my league.” 

“Sam’s married, first of all.” Trevor waved his hand dismissively. “Second of all, out of your league is undercutting it a bit, don’t you think? We don’t exactly exist on the same plane of existence.” 

“Semantics.” 

You admired his persistence. You had never admitted it to him, but you liked Trevor. It made you feel silly; he was dead. Of course, you had a crush on a dead man. Trevor was too charming for his own good, a flirt and a constant presence. It was a recipe for disaster, but you never planned on admitting it, let alone indulging such a thought. You couldn’t even touch him. You didn’t see a way where a relationship was tangible or realistic, certainly not outside the walls of Woodstone. 

He made it very hard to act like you hadn’t thought about him in any romantic sense, with his constant lingering and comments he seemed to only direct at you since you had started at the mansion. 

“How exactly would you propose that ever working?” You phrased the question with a sarcastic twinge in your tone, but a part of you wanted to know. 

Trevor thought for a moment, humming as he pursed his lips. “I guess it’d be a little tough. I’m more of a hands-on kind of guy.” You rolled your eyes once more. “What’d they do in the olden days? Just kinda look at each other? That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.” 

You raised your brows in surprise. “Do you think you could handle a relationship without ever touching the person or, you know, leaving the house with them?” 

“All I’m thinking about right now is how it sounds like you’re considering it.” 

You leaned over the counter, nose to nose with Trevor, with the smallest space in between, but that space was much further in reality. Separated by life and death. He stilled, eyes widening. “Unfortunately, I’m pretty hands-on too,” you replied, earning a subtle blush that spread across Trevor’s cheeks. You stepped back with a shake of your head. 

“Wait,” he reached out for you as a reflect, his hand passing right through your arm. With a groan, he threw his head back. “If we could touch, would you consider it?” 

You hesitated, unsure of your answer. He would still be dead at the end of the day, but a part of you did consider it. Trevor was the only person you felt connected to, in a way that leaned romantic, in a long time. Your luck with alive people was slim, but it was difficult to imagine a future with someone who was already dead, while you continued living. 

Instead of giving him a solid answer, you shrugged, at a crossroads. “I don’t know.” 

Instead of looking dejected, Trevor smiled widely. “That’s not a no.” No, it was not. 

“Can I say something that may potentially not help your situation?” asked Hetty as she watched Trevor lament on the sofa. 

He raised his brows. “Since when do you ask?” 

Hetty sat on the armrest of the sofa and folded her hands in her lap. “I’m trying to be kinder on a Thursdays.” 

“Only on Thursdays?” 

“I’m just a woman, Trevor. There’s only so much kindness I can offer,” she huffed. “And I am going to take that as a yes. What exactly do you foresee happening with you and Sam and Jay’s receptionist?” 

A dramatic sigh fell from Trevor’s lips. He had no clue what he saw happening. He knew it was a far-flung idea, a ghost and living being in a relationship. He would settle for a short-lived fling of shared gazes and conversations. That wasn’t like Trevor. He didn’t long for relationships or find himself daydreaming of his crushes. When he saw someone he was interested in, he wooed his way into a date or two, followed by some hands-on activities. Then either they tried to get serious and he ran away, or there was a mutual agreement to keep things casual until someone caught feelings and broke it off. 

Then he died, and suddenly he was acting like someone from the days before the internet and hooking up was cool. He wanted to hold hands, listen to you talk about anything and everything, and all around just be in your presence. His heart was too soft when he was around you; it was weird. 

“Nothing, probably,” he answered after a beat. “She’s alive. I’m dead. I get it.” 

Hetty pressed her lips in a thin line as she observed Trevor with a scrutinizing eye for a moment. “I don’t think I have ever seen you in such a state. You really are torn up over this, aren’t you?” 

“It just seems unfair for us to still have feelings when we can’t do anything about it."

Hetty opened her mouth to say something else, but was interrupted by a panicked Sam, who rushed into the living room. Her cellphone was pressed between her ear and shoulder as she waved over Jay, who had been watching and laughing at videos on his phone for the past hour in his armchair. 

Jay stood up, confused as Sam finished up her conversation. 

“Yes…O-Okay.” Her voice cracked, filled with emotion that was immediately concerning to everyone in the room. “Thank you…You too.” She hung up, dropping her phone onto the coffee table with a sniffle. 

“Babe, what’s wrong?” Jay asked, grasping her shoulders and pulling her into his arms. 

Through tears, Sam explained that you had been in a car accident. Trevor felt his no-longer-beating heart drop into his feet. Your mother had called Sam on your behalf and told her you had died in the ambulance, but by some miracle were resuscitated by the EMTs. You were alive, recovering from surgery in the hospital. 

You were alive, but Trevor felt shaken to the bone. You had died, again. Obvious Trevor hadn’t known you when you were a little girl who fell through the ice, but he knew you now. He cared for you dearly, and the idea of you nearly vanishing from his life hit him much harder than he expected. It felt like the time he was teaching his neighbor’s kid baseball, and the kid swung the bat just as Trevor approached behind him. The bat socked Trevor right in the gut, bruising a rib. That was how it felt to know he had almost lost you and had not even known. 

Hetty’s fingers grasped his shoulder, shaking him lightly with a pinched expression. “She’s alive,” she repeated. “She’ll be all right, right?” 

Sam swallowed thickly but nodded. “According to her mom, she’s set to make a full recovery.” She turned to Jay. “We should go see her. Maybe bring some flowers or…or those cookies you make that she always talks about.” 

Jay wiped a couple of tears from Sam’s cheeks and sniffled himself. “Yeah, of course.” 

Dragging his hands down the length of his face, Trevor tried to soothe the terrible ache in his chest. He wanted to see you, bring you flowers, and ask if you’re okay. But he was suck in that house forever, and you could go anywhere you wanted. He couldn’t even hold your hand or hold you close. 

He wondered if the universe hated him, cursing him with feelings for the last person on Earth he could have. 

It got worse, too, thanks to the questions posed by his ghost-mates. If he didn’t feel so heavy with your absence that haunted Woodstone, he would have strangled Sass for putting the worry in his head. 

“You don’t think a second near-death experience will reverse the effects of the first one, do you?” Sass wondered aloud. 

Trevor stared at him, wide-eyed. 

Alberta hung her head. “Now, why would you ask that right now?” 

“It’s not a bad question,” Hett said. “What does two near-death experiences do to a person if one gives them the potential to see the dead?” 

“Or it could give someone the ability to be even more interactive,” Isaac suggested. 

Trevor nodded vigorously, panic swelling like a balloon in his chest. “Yeah, I like Isaac’s better.” 

“I hope she can still see us,” Flower sighed. “She’s catching me up on the music of today. I need to know more about this ‘One Direction Infection.’” 

Standing beside Flower, Thor furrowed his brows. “Infections no good. Friend lost foot to infection.” 

“Enough talk about infections,” Alberta snapped. “What’s important is that she’s not dead, and Sam said she plans on coming back once she feels better. Until then, we just need to think positively, okay?” She was looking at him, more sympathetically than her usual gaze. 

In the midst of your accident, he realized his crush was far from subtle. The other ghosts, Sam, and even Jay knew. It didn’t help his case that he was clearly the most torn up about it, since he couldn’t come see you at the hospital to ease his worries. Sam tried to tell him you were doing just fine and recovering better than the doctor predicted, but without seeing you with his own eyes, Trevor wasn’t convinced. 

On top of that, he started to worry that you had lost the ability to see him since the accident. What if you couldn’t? What would he do? How would be cope? How would you cope if such a big thing ceased to exist in your life? Would he have to spend the rest of his ghosthood playing telephone with you through Sam? Oh, he just couldn’t stomach all of that. It made him sick, couch-riding for days. He hardly moved, hardly thought of anything else. None of the ghosts, Sam, or Jay could ease his worries. 

It wasn’t until you arrived back at Woodstone did Trevor stop his wallowing. You stood in the doorframe of his bedroom, smiling lightly. Your arm was in a sling, and there were splotchy bruises on your face. 

“Hey, Trevor,” you greeted. He let out a breath he’d been holding since he first heard you were in an accident. His lungs relaxed, his heart unconstricted.

“You can still see me,” he said, more to himself than anything. 

You furrowed your brows, confused. “Of course I can,” you replied. “You were worried about that?” 

Trevor nodded slowly. “I was worried about a lot of things, all of them involving you.” Your expression softened as you entered the room, a slight limp in your step. “Sam said your heart stopped. Y-You died. And then Sass wondered if, when they brought you back, it would change your ability to see us because that was how you got it in the first place. And I kept thinking, ‘what if she can’t see us anymore?’ It freaked me out; really, really, freaked me out and-” 

You approached him, eyes wide and worried, as you said his name softly to stop his ranting. “I’m okay and I can still see you,” you reassured him. “I didn’t think you’d be so worried about me.” 

He scoffed, almost offended. “Are you kidding me? How could I not be? You’re…” he trailed off, a soft sigh falling him his lips before he turned on his heel. He didn’t like being so vulnerable, not in front of someone like you. 

As he turned his back to you, starting toward the window to collect himself without having to look you in the eyes, you reflectively reached out as you would have anyone. It was a hard habit to break with the ghosts, reaching out. Before your mind reminded you that your hand would only phase through him, your fingers brushed against the fabric of his suit jacket. 

Startled, Trevor spun around as you gasped. Your fingers didn’t phase through his ghostly form like they were supposed to. No, your hand grasped his jacket as if he were alive and standing in front of you. 

“What is happening right now?” he asked, staring at your hand on him. 

You sputtered for a response, pulling your hand back before you reached out again, thinking maybe the pain medicine you were on was playing tricks on your mind. But when you neared his arm, you didn’t pass through him again. You touched him, fingers curling around his forearm, which was impossible. 

Trevor stayed impossibly still, scared he’d break whatever weird illusion he found himself in. “Y-You’re not dead, right?” 

A startled laugh escaped your lips. “No,” you whispered. “I’m alive but…” You trailed your hand up the length of his arm, pausing on his shoulder before you met his gaze. “I don’t know how this is possible.” 

Trevor’s hands shook slightly as he reached out too, his fingers hesitantly brushing your sweater. No pain enclosed them, which often occurred when he’d phased through a living. The soft fabric of your sweater met his fingertips, solid and real under his touch. 

He could touch you. He was touching you. It felt like a dream, one he had many times before, but that time he wasn’t sleeping. 

A part of him was scared that whatever was happening wouldn’t last; he didn’t want to waste a moment of the real dream he found himself living. He grasped the sides of your face with both hands, feeling your soft skin under his fingers. That alone was enough for Trevor. To feel you, to feel real himself. 

You studied him with a soft gaze and the prettiest smile on the planet in Trevor’s eyes. You leaned in just a little, brushing your nose against his, a dramatic beat in your heart at the contact. 

Trevor seized the moment, unsure if he’d have another moment outside of that one. He closed the small gap between the two of you, pressing his lips against yours. 

The kiss was the desperate kind, the unknown if it was first and last that you’d share or the start of many. It didn’t matter in that moment. All that mattered was the firm pressure on your lips and the softness of Trevor’s thumbs lightly brushing your cheeks. His hands cradled the sides of your face like you were the most important thing he’d ever held. 

You kissed his back feverishly, savoring the feel and taste in case that was all you got. 

It wasn’t until your lungs started to scream at you did you pulled away from the kiss, but you remained as close as you could get to Trevor, scared to let go. 

When it finally got through your pretty, doubt-prone skull that Clark Kent actually did have feelings for you, every move you made was calculated to monitor the progress of those feelings and track their intensity, so you could best discern how the trajectory of the relationship was going and and at which points new boundaries should be broken. And it was torture. Where you felt like dating was a rulebook, Clark saw it as an open canvas. He just wanted to let whatever happened happen, but he happily compromised for you.

He found you at MetU. He was visiting Chloe and Lana on a weekend, and before he even made it into the building, he tripped over a backpack on the ground beside a bench. Your backpack. As he knelt down to gather up your books and commit a blitz of apologies, he locked eyes with you– looking gorgeously pissed off. Plump cheeks, round hips, tummy stretching the soft cashmere of your sweater. Jeans with rhinestones up the leg. A little military-style cap that was annoyingly artsy and popular for the unusual year of 2006. Your eyes were hooded as they glared down at him, and your pretty blue nails brushed his palm as he handed you your books back. 

“Hi,” he smiled stupidly. 

“Don’t ‘hi’ me! You got mud on my textbook!”

Clark knelt back on his heels and grinned at you, titling his head as he studied the paper brick. “American Modernists? You’re better off.”

You crossed your arms, but a tiny grin began to betray you. “I happen to like the Modernists, thank you very much.”

“You look like you would,” he chuckled, and he finally stood up. Tall. My God, tall… broad shoulders, mop-hair, the most blue-green in an iris you’d ever seen…

“Strangers don’t typically pick on me.”

“I’m Clark,” he held a hand out. “There. Now I’m not a stranger.”

You hesitantly reached out to shake his hand– huge, huge, huge– and muttered back with immediate yield, “Hi, Clark.”

His fingers liked yours. He blushed a bit and hoisted you up from the bench, making your book tumble to the ground again. He flashed his sharp teeth in an innocent smile and said, “You’re pretty. You wanna tell me where I can find room 314?”

You blushed harder than him, book be damned. “How about I tell you my name first?”

He swindled you into a date that night. Before you knew it, you were swept up into the romantic whirlwind that was lovesick Clark Kent. 

He followed every rule for you. He’d do anything for you. He didn’t even try to kiss you until a month had passed– your cheek was fair game, your temple, maybe, but never your lips. Which made him salivate like a dog just to stare at. You had exactly eleven dates before he kissed you, and he did it like a gentleman, on the porch step of your parents’ house in Granville. Albeit, his hands wandered a bit, and you flushed so hard you forgot to breathe. He had to break the kiss just to laugh at how cute you looked, all disoriented like that. 

It had been over a year. You’d been giving where you could, but you were a reserved girl. You let him sleep in your bed a few times, consequently letting him see you in pajamas. You permitted sneaking behind a bookshelf a time or two to press you up against a wall and kiss you breathless. But that was really it. He didn’t mind taking it slow, especially since he was so enraptured by the girl you were. 

One of Clark’s most cherished parts of your relationship was how much you talked to him. Once you believed that he loved you, you opened up like a music box, leaving behind the tight-lipped concern to let him in. 

You told him everything– about troubles with your family, your struggle with your body image, your favorite books. How much you hated church and the way your parents made you feel guilty for not going. The things you loved and hated, the reasons you adored him. All of it. You laughed like an everlasting composition. Your eyes caught the moon in a way he didn’t have the words for. When you got angry with him, you got this little dimple in your brow that he loved to nibble away. Clark knew more about you than he did about himself, and in his customary and slightly unhealthy way, all he ever thought about was you. Every other sentence had your name in it, and it made Chloe want to punch him in his perfect teeth sometimes. He just wouldn’t shut up. You possessed his every thought. 

You’d gotten quite physical once he broke your barriers; you loved to cuddle, you loved to let him kiss you until words stopped forming, but the second his hands began to roam… you’d stop. You’d wriggle free and mutter sorries until he promised you it was okay. And it really was. He would never force you into anything. But God, sometimes he just wished you’d let him… it was so hard to keep his hands off you. You wore these jeans that squeezed you like they were glued on when he was taking you out for dates… Jesus. And every so often you wore this dress that he bought you for your three-month anniversary, this little number that had a milkmaid neckline. That was even more dangerous. Half because he got hard just seeing you in it, and half because you looked so happy that he got your size right that he fell in love all over again.

He knew that your fears about sex were abundant; your insecurities were numberable, for one, but you were also raised so religiously that there was an underlying guilt there, even as you grew out of it in college. It seemed no amount of feminist literature could completely strip you of your virginal mindset. 

So, yes. It was a little perverted. But Clark was a lover at his very core, and there seemed nothing in the world more special to him than getting to hold you, getting to make you feel beautiful, seeing that look on your face when he tells you how deeply in love he is while he–

He had to shake the image out so the blood stayed rushing to his face and not somewhere else as you laid your head in his lap, watching the old box television in the loft. 

It was late. His mother was in D.C. these days, leaving the house mostly to himself, but he still loved his barn. So did you. You had spent hours reading the books on his shelves, leaving little notes in the margin for him to find someday when he picked them up again. On nights like this, when winter wasn’t yet spring but it was tepid enough to let the barn latch fly open, you two would laze on his couch and wait until sleep hit you. 

Clark pet his fingertips over the roots of your hair, tracing the jagged line. You seemed a bit tense, eyes wide awake and trained exceptionally hard on the television. In fact, you’d been a bit strange all day since you got here. Spring break was coming to a close, so he thought perhaps you were having habitual anxiety about returning to routine. But when he tried to kiss you earlier, you sort of… dodged it. He put his hand on your back in the kitchen and you shivered. There was something in him, laying deep beside his sexual frustration, that felt a whole lot like guilt. Maybe you could tell how badly he wanted to sleep with you and he’d turned you off of him completely. He hoped to God that wasn’t true. 

As he traced your hair, he muttered, “You’re awfully quiet, baby.”

You just grunted in affirmation. “Mm…”

“Is everything okay?”

Your voice caught a bit as you nodded. “Yeah. Fine.”

You were, in fact, not fine. Because you’d been having dreams about sex with Clark every night for two weeks. 

It wasn’t your intention. You were sort of… wound up, after a date you’d had, and it just took hold of you. 

He took you to the Smallville Drive-In to of course do anything but watch a movie, and as he smushed you against the seat of the truck cab and kissed you, his hand did this… thing. Nothing crazy. He just took his palm– that big, warm, calloused paw– and he cupped it under your knee. He didn’t force you down. He didn’t ask for more. He just stroked the sensitive skin with his thumb, holding your leg, and dear Lord if that didn’t make you want to melt between the stitching of the leather. 

You dreamed about him hitching that leg up that night and taking what he wanted. And every night after, it went a different way. You and him in the loft, in the truck, in his bed, in the university library. His hand, his mouth, your mouth, much more. You were waking up absolutely tortured, with aching hips and a permanent flush, and it was making you clam up. Every time he touched you, you would get a flashback to something in a dream, and you burned so hot inside that you had to pull away for fear of telling him the dirty things you were thinking about. You were sure he could read it on your face, and you were terrified that after all your prudishness that if he discovered how badly you yearned, he’d think you were a liar– or worse, that you were doing it on purpose. Stringing him out, playing a game or something. You weren’t. But it was as if a switch flipped, and the fears you had about sex were gone– all you had left was the powerful desire to have it, and have it now. 

And this was Clark, wasn’t it? Clark, who worshipped you for some Godforsaken reason. Clark, who told you that you were pretty so many times that it more than supplemented anyone who had neglected to do the same. Clark, who listened to your every problem, who protected you from every panic, who loved you when you couldn’t sleep, or when you fought with family, or when you had a paper due and couldn’t stay on the phone long. This was the boy who got you out of the hole which made you think love was impossible for you. 

So what in the world were you doing?

“You know what? I’m actually not okay,” you muttered, sitting up slowly. You smoothed down your frizzed hair and slumped back into the couch.

Clark’s expression fell and he sat up straighter, twisting a bit to face you. His hand swallowed yours. “What is it? Is it something I did?”

“What? No!” You chuckled softly, a bit heavily. “No. No, it’s me.”

“You?” As if you simply weren’t capable of doing anything wrong, ever.

God, the look on his face was precious. So concerned. Those thick eyebrows knitting together, and his big eyes swelling with love. Lips parted just enough that you saw the sharp edge of one canine. You wanted to eat him whole. 

“I…”

Clark licked his lips. For him, it was because they were dry. To you, it set off alarms in your head. 

“You can tell me anything, bunny, you know that,” he cooed, lifting his other hand to brush some hair from your eyes. 

Bunny. Oh, you just couldn’t take it. 

“I want to have sex,” you blurted, bracing for some divine impact.

Clark blinked at you like a confused puppy, tilting his head as if deciphering a foreign language. That is, until a pretty rose wave washed over his cheeks, and you watched his adam’s apple bob. “You– you do? Like… sex sex?”

You laughed in mortification and nodded, hiding your face in your hands. “I– yeah. Yes.”

“I thought you were waiting,” he asked softly, strong fingers wrapping around your wrists to pry your hands from your glowing cheeks. 

 “Well, I was, but I just– I–” you struggled, chewing the inside of your cheek, “I’m done waiting now.”

Clark felt like he was getting raptured, maybe. Pulled up to Heaven on strings of love. His smile spread like butter across his face as he inquired, “What made you make up your mind?”

You swallowed nervously and avoided his eyes, instead redirecting to your lap. “Um… a dream.”

“A dream.” He quirked an eyebrow. His hand tested you by sliding up the soft curves of your side, fingertips resting where two rolls met. 

“A dream. A-about you.”

“Oh, really?” He purred, and you completely shut down. 

Whining in embarrassment, you turned from him and buried your face in the couch, grumbling. “Don’t torture me!”

Clark cackled and gathered your body back until he could press his chest to you, and he nuzzled your neck with his nose. “Come on, you made that so easy.”

“It’s embarrassing,” you flushed, tensing up a bit. Only when his arm wrapped around your middle and spanned your ribs did you melt. 

“Nothing is embarrassing with me,” he promised, kissing the patch of skin behind your ear that made your fingers flex. 

You wiggled the appendages and felt your skin burn hotter than it ever had before. “I just… I’ve been dreaming about… being with you. And– and I realized that, um…”

“That you can’t hide how horny you are anymore?”

You grumbled and tried to wriggle free. “Clark!”

“I’m just kidding! Kidding, baby,” he laughed, loosening his grip. He waited until you turned around to pout at him, and he used his thumb to play with your bottom lip. “Hey. That’s the look you gave me that day I knocked your book into the dirt.”

You saw how he smiled as if you were the only thing in the entire world that mattered, and it thawed the last of your resistance. You gave into that sheepish smile, because you were beautifully weak against it. 

“I don’t know if I’ll be any good at it,” you admitted, leaning your forehead against his. 

Clark pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You don’t have to be. I know how.”

You peeked a suspicious eye open at him. “Oh, do you?”

“Not like that,” he huffed, nipping your jaw. He placed a kiss, and another, and one more, down your cheek. “I just mean that I’m not worried about pleasing you.”

Your heart flipped. “Oh. Um…”

“Are you worried about pleasing me?”

Hesitantly, you nodded. You pulled back a bit to look in his eyes. 

“What exactly do you think a first time should look like?” He asked. 

The question was far more forthright than you expected– but truthfully, it was very Clark. He never shied from real conversations with you. Of everyone in his life that he’d kept secrets from, you were someone he never felt he had to. That trust was unbreakable. 

You played with your nails to try and expend some of the jitters. “Um… like… Well, I don’t know, I haven't really… y’know.” When Clark just gave you an expectant grin, you sighed and kept trying. “All I’ve seen has been in movies. Or in books.”

“Okay. Did any of it sound appealing to you?”

You winced a bit. “This is so–”

“Baby, listen to me,” he shushed you, pressing a thumb over your mouth. The way he said it was soft, but there was an undercurrent there. Firm. Almost… dominant. Something Clark never tried to be. You listened on instinct. “This is your first time. I don’t want anything to be a surprise, or make you nervous or afraid. I want you to know what’s going to happen. I want you to want anything we do together. So we have to talk about it. If you still feel embarrassed to talk about it, maybe you still aren’t ready.”

A soft panic flooded you and you eagerly gushed, “I really want this!”

He couldn’t help the way his cheeks darkened, but he miraculously kept his cool. “Okay, okay. Then just… take a deep breath and tell me what you want.”

You drew in some air, feeling it fill your lungs, and you knew that you just needed a little help. You threaded your fingers through his and murmured, “Can you just kiss me first? Please?”

Clark never needed to be asked. He leaned in happily, slotting his lips against yours nice and slow, and he could feel the kiss sucking your anxiety right out through your mouth. When he departed, he managed to distill your thoughts to only desire. 

Against his lips, you divulged, “I don’t really know the terminology for it. I’m gonna sound like an old lady.”

Clark snickered and sat back, tugging you with him until you sort of collapsed across his lap. He brushed your hair back from your eyes. “I can modernize it for you, dork. Just tell me.”

“Fine,” you propped your chin on his chest. “When I dreamed about it, um… you would… y’know, sleep with me, obviously. But you usually did some… foreplay.” 

You wanted to die just explaining it. He thought it was adorable. 

“Hands? Mouth?”

Your pupils swelled against your wishes. “Both.”

Clark smirked. “Oh. So you just wanna lay down and let it happen to you, huh?”

With a flustered groan you hid in his chest again. “Well, I don’t know!”

He tipped his head back in warm laughter before tugging your hair gently and making you meet his eyes again. “It’s okay. You’re lucky, actually, because I would much rather give than take. Plus, a blowjob might be… a bit overwhelming for you right now. And probably wouldn’t help me last.” 

You were both shocked and unsurprised at how easy it was for him to talk about this. “You think so?”

“Yeah. It might take practice, definitely some getting used to, and I’m… um…”

It was your turn to smile, albeit bashfully. “Big?”

Clark choked a bit on his next breath. “Yeah. Yeah…”

You rested your cheek on his chest and took a breath. Good news. Also terrifying news. What if you couldn’t take him? What if it hurt? What if–

“Hey,” Clark could feel your body tense. He stroked your arm and answered so astutely, you were afraid he could read minds. “I won’t hurt you, I’ll make sure you’re ready. And it’ll fit. It’s… biology. You, like, open up for it. If your body wants it. I’m pretty sure, don’t quote me.”

Oh, I definitely want it, you thought. Clark chuckled at the flash in your eyes. 

“Alright, how about this, okay? We can go into the house. We’ll go to my room, I can lay you down, and… y’know, explain what I’ll do. You can tell me how you feel. And then we can go from there.”

“Okay.” 

Clark kissed between your brow. “Don’t be nervous. It’s me, baby. I love you. I want you to be happy.”

“I know,” you hummed, finally giving up the first unrestrained grin all night. 

“There she is,” he praised. Then, without any warning, he hoisted you up off the couch.

You yelped a bit and wrapped your legs around his waist, clinging like a limpet. “Hey!”

“Don’t start,” he prompted, nipping your cheek, “You’re not lifting another finger for the rest of the night.”

That shut you up. 

—͙͘͡★—

Clark flopped you down on his old gingham bedsheets and crawled over you, settling his weight between your legs. He grinned at you like a puppy and kissed your stomach. You were red as a rose, but you were smiling. Less afraid. That was all he cared about. 

“Okay, blushy. Time for the talk.”

“Okay,” you ruffled his hair, coaxing your fingers through it playfully. 

Clark crawled up your body until he was close enough to nudge your cheek, and he anchored himself on his forearms above you. “Let’s get some formalities out of the way, because I know you, and I know these thoughts are seconds away. First, I don’t care if you haven’t shaved anywhere. Won’t bother me. I also don’t care if you haven’t showered, because currently you smell delicious, and you’re very clean, so–”

“Clark,” you giggled. 

“What? I mean it! Oh, and I also don’t want you to think you can’t make noise or move, I definitely want you to do whatever comes naturally, do not hold back–”

“Clark!” You covered your face. 

He laughed and shoved your hands away, kissing you softly. “What did I say, huh? If you couldn’t talk about it…?”

“I’m ready, I’m ready, I swear,” you smiled, “You just… fluster me.”

“Clearly.”

“Any other rules?”

“No. I think we can get down to business.”

You watched as he smoothed his palms down your thighs and up to your hips again, pushing his thumbs against your pudgy hipbones. You felt your stomach give a churn as he massaged the skin.

“This is gonna be about you. I’ll warm you up first. I’ll finger you and let you get used to that,” he watched how your cheeks nearly throbbed with blood flow, looking so flustered it was picture-worthy, and then he continued. “And when you’re ready, I’ll eat you out.”

Hearing him say things like that made part of you want to curl up from how dirty it sounded, but that part was completely mowed down by the rest of you, which found it brutally hot.

“That’s when you…?”

“Use my mouth,” he smirked. “Jeez, you really are uneducated.”

“Shut up. They didn’t teach us that part in sex ed, and they certainly don’t call it that in the books.”

“That’s because those Fabio books you read are from forever ago.”

“I like them!”

“They’re for old ladies,”

“The guys are really good, though. And the women… like this stuff, without shame. The books make it sound good. Easy.”

“Well, you’re gonna like this,” he promised with a wiggle of his eyebrows. You shoved his face playfully, watching him teeth at your thumb. “Be nice to me. I’m about to take your virginity.”

“I know.”

Clark nips your nose and concludes, “After all that, we’ll do the whole penetration thing.” 

With a shaky breath, you tried to remember procedure. “Do you have stuff for that?”

Clark rolls his eyes playfully and clambers off of you to tug open his bedside drawer. He pulls out a trail of foil and picks up a little bottle, but one look at it prompts him to say, “We probably won’t need this.”

“Why?” you chewed the inside of your cheek.

“Because, baby,” he purred, settling in beside you and tipping your head in his direction, “I don’t think you’re going to have much trouble getting wet.”

Your lashes fluttered a bit, and by the near-uncomfortable heat between your legs, you knew he was right. 

Clark pecked your chin, and then he pinched your cheek. “One more time for me, honey. Do you want to have sex?”

The answer came easy now. “Definitely.”

The soft enthusiasm in your voice made his heart thump, and he surged forward to kiss you as thanks. You found you didn’t need to try and turn your brain off as his hands mapped your back and sides, it just happened this time. That was proof enough that the time was right. 

Clark tugged you by your hips until you were flat on your back and he climbed on top of you, kissing you into the mattress. His knee snuck between your legs as you arched up a bit to loop your arms around his neck, tugging him down until you felt all two hundred and twenty pounds of boyfriend on top of you. 

“Someone’s eager,” he teased, mouth taking a detour down your neck. 

“Shut up,” you rebutted. 

“Never. I’m gonna talk you through it,” he grinned against the slope of your skin, “I’m the talker, anyway.”

“That you are,”

“And you’re gonna use your words for me, aren’t you, baby?”

Your body buzzed. There was that tone again. Commanding and considerate in the same breath. 

“Answer me,” he nibbled behind your ear. 

“Yes,” you complied. 

“Good girl. Not so hard, now was it?”

Oh, God. That was going to be the part of this that did you in, wasn’t it?

Clark was graciously taking his time, and it made you want to explode. He carefully mouthed down your collarbone and left arm, and you thought you might have to tell him to speed it up before you felt a paw pushing your shirt up to reveal your tummy. He lifted his head and raked his eyes over the valley of flesh, supple and soft, and he glanced up at you with the closest thing to a predatory look in his eyes as Clark Kent was capable of. 

“I’m obsessed with you,” he grumbled, before bending back down to attack your body with kisses and nips. 

You squeaked a bit and laughed as he pinned you down, kissing up your torso until his head snuck under your shirt and disappeared. Your breath hitched as you felt warm presses over the swell of your breasts, and Clark’s hands coming up to cup the cotton of your bra. 

“Clark,” you said aimlessly, and you suddenly had the burning urge to rip your shirt off. 

Clark nuzzled the dip between your breasts and breathed you in, mumbling into the skin, “Sit up.”

You followed orders, and up he came with you. He made no hurry to lift your shirt over your head, and he laughed a little when it tangled over your wrists. He kissed your embarrassment away and let his hand wander to the clasp around your back. 

“How naked do you want to be?” He panted, pulling back. 

You smiled at his care, and you shrugged. “I’ll take it all off if you will.”

“Mm, you wanna ogle me, is that it?”

You giggled at his teasing and tugged at the hem of his shirt. “Please?”

“And she begs,” he grumbled, yanking his tee off in one fell swoop before knocking you onto your back again. “That’ll be useful later.”

You felt a rush of heat wrack your body as he started to fuss with your jean button. He wasn’t shaking, he was sure. He was talking so smoothly. This was definitely, definitely better than the dreams. 

“I always loved these jeans,” he grunted as he tugged them down your thighs, “But they definitely look best off.”

“You’re bad,” you grinned. 

“The opposite, actually. I plan to be very, very good.”

You sucked in a sharp breath as he tugged your panties down with your jeans, leaving nothing to chance. The air conditioning rolled over you as he bared you completely, and you watched how he paused for a second, just to stare. 

You felt a small fear begin to grow, but he stamped it out. “God, look at you… Jesus Christ.”

You didn’t know what to do with your hands as he fumbled with his own jeans– this time shaking, but with something excited. You got a peek of his boxers– just black, but they were the tight kind, and you kind of wanted to make him sit there so you could stare at how they hugged the skin of his hips for hours. He pulled them off, though, and then your hands stilled on the bed. 

Clark saw the way your eyes immediately dropped, and he stifled a laugh. “I wasn’t trying to be cocky before.”

“My bad,” you muttered blankly, unable to tear your eyes off the look of him. Pink like the lipstick in your purse that was somewhere in his barn and bouncing a bit in anticipation. 

Clark was getting a bit embarrassed himself, so he fell forward onto his forearms again and he pressed a much gentler kiss to your lips, taking a minute to trace the seam of them with his tongue and coax you open. Your jaw widened in his palm, he felt the shifting bone. He smiled and breathed in the smell of your makeup, the foundation that had a rose-powder tinge to it. 

“I’m gonna touch you, okay, baby?”

You nodded eagerly, mind already reeling with what it could possibly feel like. To your dual delight and expectation, it just felt like fingers. For a moment. Just fingers, warm and a bit rough, brushing over the lips between your hips. It was like a tickle. But then you felt two fingertips breach the surface and drag through the slickness there, bottom to top, and they notched under the hood of your heat to press quite confidently against that bundle of nerves men notoriously struggle to find. Not Clark, apparently.  

You gasped and shivered, back shifting. You heard Clark groan, and he mumbled into your shoulder, “Oh my God. You’re so warm.”

Your knees jerked as he drew a circle with his fingers, and he soothed your side with his free hand, lifting up and leaning over you. He watched the way your lips parted as he found a slow rhythm, how your eyebrows tilted so pretty, and he smiled. “Feels okay?”

You struggled to spit out, “Yeah…”

“Good,” he beamed, and he pressed a little harder, rolling your clit between two fingers. As an involuntary moan slipped past your teeth, his eyelids drooped with want. “Oh, there she is… don’t get shy, let it out.”

You squirmed, knees drawing up and flattening out every few seconds. He didn’t restrain you, he only followed your movements so that his fingers never broke contact with you. “Jeez– oh, gosh, Clark!”

“Gosh?” He teased, stroking you frustratingly slow. 

“Don’t m-make fun of me right now,” you panted, hips bucking a bit, “Oh, God.”

“You’re doing good. You look so pretty.”

You gnawed on your lip and fisted your fingers in the sheets, trying to hold onto something. Your breath grew short as a buzzing heat built in your gut, and Clark seemed to sense it, so he drew his fingers back. When you whimpered, he kissed your chest. “Shh… you weren’t gonna last, bunny, I’m trying to make it last.” Obviously not long enough, though, because he quickly directed his attention to your entrance, tracing the spot curiously. 

“Oh, please!” you pouted, accidentally pulling a corner of his fitted sheet free from the mattress. 

“My God, somebody’s strong.”

“Shut up!”

Clark laughed and pressed smooches in a line down to your belly button. “Can I put my finger in?”

“Y-yes, I said please!”

“You did. Good job.”

You let out a pathetic breath as Clark pressed his middle finger inside you, dragging it back out again to feel the way your walls shifted and clenched. He grunted hungrily and started belaboring your hip with kisses before plunging it in again and curling it.

“Jesus!” You exclaimed, hips twitching and toes curling. You could thank the big guy now, since He clearly led you to the one man with fingers long enough to brush your g-spot on the first try. 

“Feel that? Right there?” Clark came up for air, and he prodded the spongy bit inside you with a grin. 

“Oh– mm-hmm,”

“Told you I knew what would feel good.”

“Mhm…”

“Man, they aren’t joking when they say that church girls are freaks–”

“Mmf- Clark, please…”

Clark watched you for a second as he thrust his fingers diligently between your folds, seeing exactly how much made your face and nose twitch. He called you bunny for a reason. There were a few strokes that came with a hard clench, and he could practically hear your heart pounding, so he smiled and nipped your hip. “I gotta ask you something, lovie, and I need you to answer. Can you answer?”

“Wh…hm?” You whimpered, the pleasure weighing your brain down. 

“Use your words.”

You stammered, “I… Y-yes.”

“Good girl. I need to know now before I go too long, do you want to come now or later?”

“Huh?” You swallowed, struggling to focus. 

Clark smiled a little softer and took notice, slowing his fingers to a stop. His hand intently moved up the mattress to lace fingers with you, trying to help you pay attention. He ignored your whine and restated, “Do you want to come now, or do you want to wait until I’m inside you, baby?”

“U-um…”

He couldn’t deny that he loved how hard you tried, and how preciously pathetic it was. His poor girl just needed some guidance, didn’t she? “I think you can survive two, yeah?”

You nodded eagerly. You’d do anything. Anything for more.

“Okay. Deep breaths, then.”

You were halfway through taking one before he thrust his fingers back inside of you and began a brutal pace; not rough, but not merciful. Your hand crushed his in an iron grip as lightning bolts shocked your body. “Ah!”

Clark watched intently, admiring how you fluttered around his fingers, and he swallowed a moan of his own. He pushed your thighs apart and pressed a kiss to your mound. 

“Gonna–”

“Yes,” you interrupted, thighs clamping around his head.

You felt his lips curling as he drew his fingers out and flattened his tongue against your heat, sealing you with his mouth. An immediate arch of your back followed, pushing you against his face as he sucked your swelling bud like he was starving. 

“Good lord, you’re sweet,” he mumbled wetly.

Your hands hesitated above his head, eager to tug but afraid to hurt, and he gazed up your body to meet your eyes. You moaned softly as he winked at you, and he pulled off to rumble, “Touch, honey, s’okay.”

 You threaded your hands into his hair as he dove back in, nudging your clit with his nose and swirling his tongue inside you. If you had half a mind to think right now, you would wager this was the happiest he had ever looked. 

Clark didn’t let up until your thighs were smushing his cheeks hard and you were bucking into him, crying out and biting on his shirt that was tossed near your head. Only when he knew you were on the precipice did he slow down, just to see what you would do. When he looked up, you almost looked pissed, and he laughed between your legs before pressing a third finger into your entrance and making you stretch for it, lapping at you in tandem. You barely lasted a few seconds, shaking against his face and letting out little wails into the shirt. He worked you through the orgasm, massaging your trembling thighs before unlatching his mouth and gently pulling his fingers out. He grinned as you deflated on his bed, and he wiped his slick lips with the back of his hand. 

Your vision was a tiny bit fuzzy as he prowled over you and brushed his mouth to yours, tasting salty-sweet, and you mewled as he tucked his soaked fingers past your bottom lip. A flame licked inside his belly as you sucked on reflex. You always did have gum, or a pen, or at the very least, your finger in your mouth… 

“Good girl,” he cooed, “Good girl. How was that, huh?”

“Good,” you purred around his fingers. 

“You still up for more? You look pretty beat.”

Your eyes fluttered a bit and you kissed his knuckles, smoothing your palms up his chest. “No… I want to.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Clark’s heart pressed against his ribs as he kissed you one more time, whispering, “I love you so much.”

“Love you, too…”

He had to force himself to have patience for this, because he was about to get what he’d been dreaming of since he started dating you. He could only imagine the magnification of pleasure that would come from feeling what he did around his fingers, wrapping around his cock.

“One second, bunny.”

You laid there aching as you watched him grab a foil and tear it open, and you kind of wanted to offer to roll the condom on for him, but he was moving faster than you had the chance. Within seconds he was nestling his hips over yours, letting his length nudge your thigh, and he shuddered. Clark’s hands cradled your head. 

“Tell me if it hurts,”

“Okay,” you panted. 

Gently, he reached down to line himself up, and you felt the head of his cock kissing you. Like magic, your body just shivered, and as he pressed inside, you opened up like clockwork.

The two of you let out a joint sigh as he sunk into the tightness, and his face fell to your chest. “Holy…”

“Clark,” you moaned. 

You were the right amount of ready for him to just bottom out, and he did. All the way. So far in that he felt your spongy muscle throbbing against him. Far enough that you were convinced he was in your stomach. He let out a little whimper and pressed his palm to your chubby middle. 

“Nngh– good?” 

“Fuck,” was all you could say. But that meant Yes, no pain, so fucking good, I love you. 

Clark could barely handle one thrust before he was moaning embarrassingly loud in your ear, slipping his arms around your back to haul you into him, needing as much skin on his as he could get. You locked your legs around his hips and started smothering kiss after kiss on his face, tasting the little beads of sweat forming by his temple and ears.  

“Jesus, I’m not gonna last,” he swore. 

“Mmf– Clarkie, please!”

“Good girl, Christ, baby, you– you’re taking it so– mmf!” Clark cupped under your knee and hitched your leg up higher.

The move. Oh, fuck. 

You experienced a full-body tremor that made you clench tight, and it dragged a guttural whine from Clark. He rutted into you helplessly, fast and shallow and blissful. “You’re perfect, you feel so– mm– so good, bunny, so–”

“Clarkie, I–”

The heat was building way faster than you expected, and the sensitivity in your hips had you tensing and bucking like an animal. So much for making the first time last. 

“Baby, I’m– oh, f–!”

You muffled yourself in his shoulder and held on tight as his hips pressed you hard into the mattress, stuffing you with every lurch until he was whining into your hair and stuttering, cock seizing between your legs. A rush of pleasure made you wriggle and rock against him, not as overwhelming as the first, but equally as exhausting. You felt the warmth of something expanding between you, and a slight worry overcame you until you remembered he had a condom on. But then your curiosity peaked, and you gazed down to see soft white rings coating him. You turned beet red and slumped against the bed, feeling his weight pin you down as he caught his breath against the pillow under your head. 

Clark muttered hoarsely, “You are so unbelievably hot. Oh my God. You are… wow.”

You fell into a weak fit of laughter which melted into a whine as he gently pulled out, taking some of your mess with him onto his sheets. You flushed and draped an arm over your face. 

“M’sorry…”

“No, baby, don’t– don’t say sorry, oh, man,” he grinned, flopping beside you. He shoved you onto your side and jostled you back into a snuggle, and you laughed at his excitement. Clark pressed happy little kisses up your spine and neck. “Was cute. Pretty. Pretty girl, so good at that… mm, what a surprise.”

You couldn’t stop the grin that tugged at your mouth. “I…”

“I’m happy, too,” he finished for you. 

“That was…”

“Amazing.”

“Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re entirely too energetic,” you giggled, eyes drooping. 

“Oh, I wore you out, is that it? I bet you’d hate it if I–”

You squeaked and jolted as he dug his fingers into your hips, tickling you gracelessly. You thrashed and rolled over, trying to escape, but he encircled your thigh with a hand and hauled you back until you were trapped on his chest. He blew some of your hair out of his mouth and laughed, brushing his knuckles over your cheek. Your skin was warm to the touch, eyes all glazed and glassy, and you looked down at him like nothing else existed. You tangled fingers with his palm in the covers.

He asked, “Worth the wait?”

You hummed, “Absolutely.”

“Wanna go again?”

There was just something about you that worked for him. Like medicine, or clockwork. The feeling of your soft hips sinking into his mattress, and the way it dipped under your weight, making his body roll just an inch your way. It was as if the universe was pushing him towards you perpetually, a very loving boulder. Your scent probably had something to do with it, too. The warmth, the sugar and spice and cottony-freshness of your lotion, ruined the smell of clean sheets. If he was ever in a bed that wasn’t his own or yours, he couldn’t quiet the part of his mind that was hung up on how good you smelled. It was a depressant that slowed his lungs and sucked him into REM. Not to mention the low, soft sounds of your breathing. Or the way your feet brushed his under the covers. Or how it felt to have your nails gently scratching just above his belly button, pawing like a kitten, making sure he was there. Or how pretty you whined when he got his hands all over you… What was he supposed to do, sleep without you? It just wasn’t possible. You were more important for sleep than the bed itself. 

But lately, he hasn’t been sleeping. And that is because you haven’t been sleeping. 

Clark knows it’s not something he can control. Your stress was a result of the world, not your own doing. Your job was out to get you both, but the let-it-roll-off-your-back gene was something that Clark inherited, and you didn’t. Every rejected article from Perry, every vetoed edit, every pitch for a new column or a shot at a simple byline– they ate at you. While Clark could live without being the best reporter in the world, you wanted to rip your hair out. Clark’s purpose was saving the world, but yours was writing. Measly human purpose, huh? Reporting the truth. Shining light on good people. And you were good– really good. It was just that damn job, stupid Perry, stupid bureaucracy keeping you down. Three years until you get a solo byline, for now stick to the obits, Perry said. Every week. It made you sick, and it made Clark sleepy. 

You’ve been staying up into the wee hours of the morning for weeks now, trying to strike a golden story that might override the rules. You write and crunch up and throw out and start again, over and over. You’ve been through two composition books and left nearly one hundred Word documents unfinished on Clark’s desktop. It’s showing everywhere. Rings of spilled coffee on various surfaces in his room trace your steps. Your undereyes were almost as purple as your eyeshadow. Your nails were chipped and bitten. You even seemed to be losing the littlest bit of weight, and that had every alarm going off in Clark’s head, because a pound off your plump figure felt worse than losing a war. Therefore, empty plates with crumbs from muffins and dregs of ice cream marked the places Clark had dragged you from writing to feed you something to preserve you. 

Because you haven’t been sleeping, Clark is off his game. More than twice he’s snapped at Chloe, and he accidentally sneezed and shattered a window at work. He’s pouty, he’s grumbling, and he misses you. Don’t underestimate the power of a desperate man.

Tonight was just like the last handful. You were slumped over his bedroom desk, half-dozed in your palm, trying to find a different word to use that would more eloquently describe a broken stoplight. Frizzy hair was in your eyes, or what was left open of them. Your shoulders looked like they were frowning. Clark was sitting up in bed with a book in his lap, nowhere close to reading but intensely watching you, and feeling the spot above his belly button itching to be scratched. He couldn’t take it anymore. He tossed the book into the covers to be swallowed up by the sheet-sea, and he padded across the room. His gentle palms slid down your arms and up again, and he gathered your hair behind your neck to pull it away from the skin.

“Give up, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I can’t.”

“Not on your career. Just give up on this one article, just for tonight. You’re exhausted, bunny.”

“I”m fine, I just need to finish this.”

Clark huffed, brows furrowing in frustration. You smelled so good, and you were withholding yourself from him. Couldn't you see that he was going through withdrawals? Itchy, cold, uncomfortable withdrawals from not kissing your collarbones and squeezing your thighs? This was prison. Personal punishment for not being in control of your universe and making you wonderfully rich and satisfied.

Clark slumped all his weight over your back and frowned. “I’m dying here.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” you grunted, his heavy body smushing your torso against the desk. “Get off. You’re like a big puppy.”

“But I miss you,” he whimpered, nuzzling your neck. His hands pawed at your hips.

“Clark, I swear I’m almost done.”

He was growing impatient. Clark lifted his head to peer over the computer screen. All you had written was this:

𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙵𝚄𝙲𝙸𝚄𝚂 𝚂𝙰𝚈𝚂 𝚃𝚁𝙰𝙵𝙵𝙸𝙲 𝚁𝙴𝚁𝙾𝚄𝚃𝙴𝙳!  

𝙰 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚗 6𝚝𝚑 𝙰𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚞𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚀𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝙱𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝙰𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚔 𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚜, 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚙 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝙶𝚎𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚌 𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚜– 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎. 𝙳𝚞𝚌𝚔, 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝙰𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠, 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚊 𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚓𝚊, 𝚝𝚘𝚘! 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗, 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜– 

Clark snickered to himself and huffed, swatting your hand away and closing the document out.

“Hey! I was working on that!”

“Not anymore,” he determined, and with a quick movement, he scooped under your armpits and lifted you from the chair.

You yelped and wriggled a bit as he tossed you onto the mattress, the bedframe creaking. Rumpled and annoyed, you lifted your mussed head of hair and pouted. “What the hell?"

Clark sighed with relief as he crawled onto the mattress, eager to get you back in his desired environment. You weren’t fast enough; he grabbed your ankles and tugged you down, clambering over you and plopping all his weight on your body. He smiled when he heard your quiet little “oof!”

“You haven’t slept for days, honey,” he mumbled, pressing kisses over your tummy, pushing the hem of your shirt up to reveal a strip of pudgy skin. “Haven’t smiled, haven’t touched me… I’m going crazy. I can’t sleep if you don’t. I can’t live without you.”

“Clark,” you complained softly, but there was very little discontent in the tone. It was hard to be anything but content with his warm mouth stamping your skin. Your heavy hands rested in his hair, curling the locks around your fingers, petting and messing as he smushed his cheek against your belly. 

“I mean it,” he peeks up at you, eyes wide and pleading as a Christmas card.

“You really are like a puppy,” you smiled a little, “puppy.”

 Clark flushed a bit and nuzzled into your hip. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? You’ve got a million for me. Bunny, honey, sugar, sweetie, baby, lovie, pumpkin–”

“Yeah, and they’re all true,” he huffed, crawling up your body until he could bracket his arms by your shoulders. He traced his nose along your rounded jaw before leaving a soft smooch beneath the ear. 

A sated little hum escaped your throat. “I have to write something good,” you mumbled.

“You already have. Be with me for a while.”

“I’m with you every day.”

“I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in over two weeks, bunny,” Clark whispered, snoodling your neck. “Please don’t torture me any longer.”

You chuckled softly, watching how desperately he wrapped his arms around you, snaking them under your back and hauling you into his chest. Clark was a paperweight of a man. You wouldn’t get far if you tried. And if you were being honest with yourself, you knew he was right. You had to stop before you ran out of juice completely. You were exhausted. You wanted sleep, and you wanted him. You never slept better than when he was there to whisper to you, to touch you, to make you feel right again…

“Okay, puppy,” you sighed. 

You felt the curl of his grin against your clavicle, and suddenly the dog’s ears perked up. “You hungry? Need something? I have ice cream. Ma left pie when she came by earlier. Or I can put on a movie, we still have that copy of Clueless, I never dropped it off at the Blockbuster-”

“No, stop, shh,” you giggled, “I just want to sleep.”

“Thank God,” he wheezed, and artfully rolled over, taking you with him.

You fell right into place, hand above his belly button and face smushed in his chest, breathing in the woodsy smell of his old tee. The rise and fall of his happy chest was enough to make you forget why you were working so hard in the first place. 

“I missed this,” he grinned.

“Clearly.”

“Don’t get smart with me,” he looked down at you, petting your hair. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you smirked, tilting your head back. 

Clark’s heart swelled at the sight of your tired eyes, because there was some light there, and it was his. He tugged you up closer so he could slot his lips against yours. Nothing wild– just soft, lazy motions, sleepy jaws pushing and pulling, little bits of saliva collecting in the divot of your chin which his tongue kept tidy. His eager lips crossed your face and down your neck again, and as he felt your heartbeat pick up against his chest, he knew that you needed him just as much as you needed rest. 

Clark suckled on the soft spot beneath your jaw that always made your breath sing, and his thumb hooked into your cheek, giving you something to keep busy with. The heat of your tongue sent pins and needles down to his knuckle. 

“You’re a good writer,” he praised, nipping at the crease of your neck. “You write so well, you’re so smart. I love you, honey.”

“I love you, too…”

“You’re so pretty when you're tired,” he kept on, kissing his way back to your mouth, pulling your bottom lip down with a wet thumb. “My poor baby, always workin’ so hard. You just need a little break, yeah? Just need me to tell you when to stop, huh, bunny?”

“Yeah,” you whimpered, brain and eyes fuzzing over. Your hands twisted in his shirt and you let him hitch your knee over his hip, squeezing you flush between him and the bed. His lethargic kisses felt like they were slowly tapping your lungs for air. 

“Yeah, I know, honey,” he cooed, pushing your hair back from your face and shutting your eyelids with his kisses. “You want me to make sure you fall asleep, sweetheart?”

Your skin began to flush, he could see the pink peeking from under the collar of your (his) shirt. “Maybe a little,” you breathed, mind already reeling with anticipation. You should’ve known he wasn’t lying when he told you he was going insane without you. 

“Okay, yeah, baby… okay…”

You sighed, unburdening yourself of the weight on your shoulders as Clark gently tucked his palm under your pajama shorts and coaxed his fingers across the collecting slickness. He purred happily and sealed his lips over yours, notching his fingers in slow circles, absolutely basking in the warmth of you that’s been missing from his nighttime routine for far too long. 

“Say you love me again,” he slurred against your lips, teeth tracing your cupid’s bow.

“I love you,” you moaned, hips bucking into his touch. 

“My good girl, my good bunny,” he smiled, concentrating his efforts solely on your swollen little bud, knowing it would tucker you out. “Feels good to take a break, hm?”

“Mhm… oh…”

“That’s it, there she is… c’mon, bunny girl… c’mon home for me.”

Your body twitched as heat waves rolled down your legs, the indicators of a slow and deafening orgasm weighing your limbs down. Your breathing drew deep into your lungs, and Clark kept coaxing you to sleep, fingers drawing circles over your hot skin, trailing them up to your hips to your mouth, letting you suck the mess off. 

“That was a quickie. Finally feelin’ sleepy?”

“Mm,” you droned, mouth a bit slack around his fingertips. “Thank you…”

“Oh, you’re welcome, baby,” he grinned, ribs aching from the love rotting him down to the bone. “Just want you to focus on getting some rest, okay? You’re so tired… get some sleep for me, come here, honey.”

You let him collect your buzzing body in his arms and roll you back on top of him, cuddling in, careful not to move your hips too much. Your palm scratched habitually at his favorite stomach spot, and he grumbled with delight, a very, very happy puppy. 

“Atta boy,” you mumbled, eyes already drooping with impending sleep. 

Clark was a brother in Alpha Gamma Rho. He was a backwards-hat, cut-off tank kind of guy. The legend of AGR keggers because he never seemed to get drunk. The very same legend who held doors for everyone, even if it made him late. You could see Clark mowing down brothers on the frat lawn in a game of tackle football, or studying with a pair of crooked, taped glasses in the library. Sometimes he was pulling senior pranks, parking cars on roofs or wrapping an office in Christmas paper. Other times he was exercising his secret duty of negotiating with campus police when a party was coming up, bringing them donuts and promising no problems, if they’ll only let it run its course. Needless to say, the farmboy wore many hats– but he had a core that was simple. Warm, thoughtful, passionate love. Intentional care. Remarkable intelligence. Those were just a few things that you loved about Clark. 

And you– well, who could ever figure you out? The girl with no solid shtick. President of the literature club, occasional peer tutor through the university library, who could often be found committing drunken karaoke offenses at the off-campus bar with your friend and roommate Lois. Nobody would be shocked to see you in fishnets and lacy black everything one day, and mary janes and a denim skirt the next. You walked with your head down and iPod blasting on school sidewalks, but you managed robust debates in class. You even put on the bulldog mascot suit and rushed the field during your sophomore-year homecoming game, because your public speaking professor (assistant coach of the MetU team, coincidentally) offered anyone a pass on the final presentation if they had the guts. When your peers would walk by and see you either hiding in a novel or handing out bookmarks for your club, no one batted an eye – because you were just that girl who did anything. Knowing everyone, yet knowing no one. 

It seemed every expectation of you both was subverted by another facet. Multi-dimensional in a one-note world. College isn’t always the place for fully-formed people like that, but perhaps it can be good for finding each other… can’t it?

You and Clark worked from the beginning.

He liked you when he found you standing in the corner of one of his frat parties, cradling a vodka cranberry (heavy on the vodka) with glazed eyes, staring over the sea of bodies like someone had personally offended you. He thought your dopey frown was sweet. You both remembered that night like it was yesterday.

—͙͘͡★—

“What’s the matter?” Clark had cooed, sauntering over with an empty beer bottle and a torturous little smirk on his face. His eyes were green and bright like the light across from Gatsby’s dock. You loved Gatbsy. Your drunken self thought of Gatsby religiously. Something about drinking and prohibition, and then the thought train just…

“My one friend dragged me here, and I think she’s gettin’ her face chewed over there,” you slurred, pouting, as a black-polished nail pointed across the party to another corner near the kitchen. Your good friend Lois, the only friend you had, really, had a guy in a jersey shoved up against the wall like she wore the pants in that makeout. 

Clark snickered and rested his elbow on your shoulder, laughing softer when you tried to wrestle out from under it. “You’re friends with Lane? That can’t be right. Lois is wild– and she’s here all the time. I’ve never seen you before.”

You lifted your buzzing head and rolled your eyes, sipping your drink– nearly missing the straw, and chasing it with your tongue. “Yeah, well, she needed a resume booster and I needed to get out of the house.”

Clark grinned at your soft mushing words, and he jutted his chin out with a curiously furrowed brow. “How many of those have you had, shortie?”

With a disgruntled scoff, you deflected: “M’not short!”

“Right, you’re just tall among hobbits,” Clark said, and he sat against the windowsill beside you.

He took a second to look you over that night. You had on quite the mix: a dainty little silver necklace that would nod to self-discipline, but it was bracketed by a denim jacket filthy with button pins screaming of new wave and half-niches. A little square neck tank that revealed a freckle by your collarbone. Army green cargos that rose low enough to squeeze the chub of your hips and tummy. Your boots had to have a platform at the very least one inch tall, he deduced, because they were serious and you were still short. And to top it off, there was a plum rim around your lips but a soft, neutral center, which meant you had lipstick on at some point, and had drank it all off. 

All of your small contradictions mixed with your very suspicious glances at him made his heart thump, and he knew then and there that he could see you sitting across from him at diners and nuzzling into his neck at theaters. He saw you kissing his cheek, he saw you crying over a test, he saw you waking up with tank top straps slipping from your rounded shoulders and yawning like a cat. He saw you with him, the little romantic…

“Y’know, you don’t look like a frat party kind of girl.”

“I do what I want,” you scrunched your nose, “Nothing means anything anyway.”

“Oh, do I detect a little nihilism, shortie?” Clark teased.

You swatted his shoulder and whined, “I am not short! And do you even know what that word means?”

“What, you think I’m an idiot?”

“Who coined nihilism?” you sneered, leaning down a bit to study his eyes, to see if they shifted. 

Clark tipped his head back and craned up, giving you a knowing grin. “Nietzsche. But that one guy Jacobi was the first guy to bring it up, Nietzsche just made it big. There was that other guy who wrote about it in Fathers and Sons…”

“Turgenev,” you suddenly smiled, the drunken judgement slipping away. “You know your depressing Germans!”

“And Russians,” he hummed, smiling wider. Your eyes were big as the moon, and his heart felt like it could seize at any moment. He had to find a way to keep you. “What’s your name, smartypants?”

By the way you smiled, it was clear you preferred that nickname. 

—͙͘͡★—

It was unusual, following that fateful encounter. Usually in college you get the couple who dances around each other for years, or you get the two horndogs who can’t even wait until the first date. For you and Clark, it just started… shapeless. 

You were too drunk to walk home that night, and so was Lois, so instead of letting you crash with all the other drunkies on the ground floor of the AGR fraternity, Clark personally put you both up in his room. He slept in his buddy Oliver’s room next door, in case he heard any creepers try to catch you or Lois offguard… or if he heard any puking. Then, when he expected to find you embarrassed the following morning, you were simply precious. A perfect, whiny little picture of a hangover– asking him shamelessly for McDonald’s and hogging his mattress until the fog cleared. When he asked Lois if you’re usually so fond of quick friendships, she just raised an eyebrow and said, “Don’t be stupid.”

And you liked him from the start, too. Let’s get that straight. 

You didn’t really want to, because the reputations of frat guys seemed to lean towards accuracy in most cases– but you couldn’t deny that they could be brutally attractive. When he stalked over with a Sharks cap on backwards, pretty little curls of chocolate peeking out at the nape of his neck, flexing those annoyingly toned arms under an AGR short-sleeve, you felt heat creep up the back of your neck. If you weren’t drunk, you might have been a bit more stuttery. But it was when he gazed up at you like a puppy whilst dropping all kinds of specialized knowledge on philosophy, the soft timbre of his tone cutting through the egregious EDM shaking the house, you felt the butterflies making your toes curl in your boots. He was sweet, non-threatening, and he smiled like a wolf. Something in your gut told you that Clark Kent was hiding a whole lot of beautiful behind that brotherhood insignia on his chest. 

It took you two all but a week to fall disgustingly in love, because Clark fell first, and he was a self-starter. 

He found you at the library the day after your drunken romp at his house and brought you a coffee (his brothers felt the urge to adopt you as their pet, by the way, when they found you rummaging like a racoon through the fridge and Clark sitting on the counter behind you, staring with hearts in his eyes… and Lois asleep at his side.) The day after that, he bribed Lois with five bucks to tell him you would be leaving the literature club at four. He walked you to your tutoring shift. The next, he almost breached the creepy line when he used the student directory at the tutoring center to find your dorm number… but you didn’t mind when he showed up with Chinese food and that God-given grin. 

Then the week was up again, and there was another AGR party. You were formally invited that time; he snuck you up to the roof through a series of window-hoppings, and he kissed you when you were in the middle of a rant about women writing under male pseudonyms…

—͙͘͡★—

“And did you know that they didn’t even let George Eliot get buried in Westminster? All that judgement for being a female writer, and then the thing with her husband dying and finding a new lover, and the Church said no, so now she’s buried in Highgate and she’s never been moved! Such bullshit, because she literally redefined–”

Clark couldn’t take it. Your eyes did this special thing when you got angry over book stuff, this little flash– like someone was starting up a lighter, over and over again– and it made his knees weak. He lurched forward as if he had no control over the urge, and he pressed his lips to yours in a manner that didn’t match the preceding; gentle, like he might hurt you if he wasn’t careful. His big palms, a bit rough around the curves, cradled your cheeks, and he smiled when he felt the way you sucked in a little breath, like he made you lose your place in thought. 

You didn’t even pull away, you only let your lips brush his as you asked, "What are you doing?”

“I think I’m in love with you,” he said, like an absolute idiot. But he wasn’t one. If any girl would take that kind of truth bomb well, it would be you. He knew that for sure.

You nearly knocked him on his back with how excitedly you kissed back, lips slotting against his eagerly and unorganized, head tilting from left to right, trying to find the right way, the right pace, the best feeling. He knew within a second of your sloppy mouth that you had probably never kissed anyone before and were dying to figure it out. 

“Easy, easy!” he chuckled, passing his fingers through the strands of hair around your face. “Jeez, Einstein–”

“Shut up,” you giggled, pulling back. Your eyes were on fire in a whole new way. “You love me?”

“Probably,” he hummed. Definitely. 

“I love you,” you countered. 

“Yeah?”

“It’s probably too soon,” you reasoned, eyes drifting to his lips like they were a magnet. 

“Yeah,” he breathed. 

“Maybe we’re moving really fast,”

“Maybe.”

“What would I be?” 

“My girlfriend.”

“And you’d be my boyfriend,”

“Hopefully.”

“And you want that?”

“Sure I do.”

“You don’t think I'm fat?”

“What?” Clark mumbled against your skin, because he couldn’t take it anymore. He could volley your questions with his lips on your neck. “Stupid question… I like how much you weigh, and if you lose a pound I’ll be pissed.”

“I’ve never had a– mmf– a boyfriend before,”

“That’s fine,” a kiss.

“I might get needy,”

“Mm, please do…” a nip.

Your eyes fluttered when his hands slipped into your back pockets, squeezing happily. “I have a lot of h… homework, all the time,”

“So do I.”

“I vote in every election,” 

“Mhm, so do I,” a squeeze.

“I want to write books for a living, even if it means I’m poor,”

“I have a family farm back home… won’t ever have to worry…”

“I- I want to have kids… three kids and two dogs,”

“Farm’s definitely big enough… they better have your eyes, cutie.”

“Mmf–” It got hard to think when his teeth scraped behind your ear. “Are you even listening? You’re talking crazy,”

“Three kids, two dogs, active citizen of democracy, I’ll keep you fed and pretty and– mm, is this new perfume? – n’ you love me?”

“Oh, god… yes.”

“Good. Then we’re both crazy.”

—͙͘͡★—

So, it worked. Nothing you said turned him off or away. He practically knew what you were thinking before you said it. Clark didn’t have to learn to anticipate your every move, he just did. And you seemed to read his mind, although that wasn’t so innate as it was easy– it was all over his gorgeous, gorgeous face. 

It was one of those things where you seemed to just fit like interlocking fingers. Every strength, every weakness, they melded into a trade of wills. Where he couldn’t, you could, and you shared life like a milkshake. One straw and a lot of kissing between sips. 

Your first time was in your shared dorm room with Lois, when you remembered to lock the door but forgot to deadbolt it, and so she had the misfortune of opening it up and finding the two of your startled into fits of laughter, hiding from her grumblings about ‘boys’ and ‘privacy’:

—͙͘͡★—

You really had never felt anything like it before, and whatever bad porn you watched or had seen in artsy movies did not do it justice. Or, maybe it was just Clark.

Clark had you pressed into the mattress under two hundred and twenty pounds of soft, twisting muscle, his hands wrapped around your back and digging into your sides. You weren’t sure you’d ever be small enough to hold, but maybe you just needed a bigger guy all this time. Everything in proportion, right?

And god, he was a whiner. Clark rutted into you in what should’ve been little motions, but he was so genuinely large that any thrust made your legs shake. It was quite a struggle getting the condom on, actually, because he was so anxious to be sweet with you that his hands shook. You had to roll it on for him, and you couldn’t help but laugh at his blushing cheeks. 

“Oh, god, baby,” he whimpered, nibbling at the joint of your neck and shoulder as the plush heat of your walls throbbed around him. “Oh my god, oh my god…”

You were a hot mess, burning up and completely eager. Every grind was met with a buck of your hips, your knees hitched high and your fingernails– purple this time– digging into the meat of his back. For a first timer, you had no reservations. You moaned into the dampening hair behind his ear, “Ho-oly shit, Clark…”

His hands rushed to touch every inch of your back and sides as he lifted himself up a bit and gazed down at you. His chain dangled against your lips and he watched as you took it in your mouth, passing it between tongue and teeth, batting those sinful lashes up at him. He scrunched his face up with a weak desire and tucked a hand under your knee, opening you up that last bit before driving into you with a force that managed to compromise speed and safety. Just as his hands kneaded your tummy, just as your hands twisted the sheets up, just as the two of you were begging and pleading and whining like little vocal twin flames, Lois unlocked the door and froze in the doorway. 

You startled immediately and Clark flopped on top of you, his first concern to cover you from whoever it was. But a poor moment of judgement caused him to keep going, even when Lois burst into a flurry of curses. 

“Jesus Christ, you guys– oh my god, somebody should’ve just told me, I wouldn’t have come home, couldn’t even put a fucking sock on the door like civilized people– oh my god, are you still going? Fuck, guys, ew! Privacy! Privacy in my own dorm room, that's all I ask! Boys in the room, there’ll never be boys in the room she said– oh, Christ, someone text me when it’s over!”

You devolved into helpless, shocked laughter as she babbled herself out and locked the door again, and Clark smiled into your chest as he made you punctuate every giggle with a moan. He couldn’t get enough of the way you sounded– it was breathy, like a whisper, until it hit harder and your pleasure reached a low register, whiny and hungry. He wanted to chase it out of you until you had no sound left. And he did– until your back arched, until the condom simply couldn’t take any more, until your eyes fluttered shut and wouldn’t open again, until your body twitched and slumped and every other word either sounded like “Clarkie” or “Love you.”

—͙͘͡★—

No matter what first came to pass, or whatever college threw at you, Clark didn’t budge. He knew it when he sought you out at that party. He knew you were the stroke of good luck he’d never find again. So, he kept you. Good choice, because he got a free tutor out of it- not that he needed it. The perks were really just making out in the library. 

He met your parents after a couple months, and they gushed over him. The homegrown farmboy had the good sense to bring flowers, and your parents kept them on the sill for weeks until they wilted to nothing. You showed him your childhood room, and he nearly cried at a little list of birthday wishes you had pasted next to your vanity, to which you laughed and accused, “You sap.”

Then it was his turn; he took you home on break to the farm, and his parents nearly gave Martha’s ring over on the spot. You received five pie recipes free of charge. Jonathan Kent gave you a rigorous tour of the farm, and he even let you brush the horses– one of which sneezed on your nice blouse. Clark took you into town for a new one and you got to see all the places he grew up in, and then you nearly cried, and all he could do was kiss you and tell you just how pretty you looked with grass in your hair. 

Clark bought you exactly one second-hand novel a week, and you wrote him little poems on scraps of paper and tucked them in every place possible, so that when he went through life, he’d find it unexpectedly, and remember that wherever he was, you were, too. 

He went to the slam poetry night your club hosted. You were crowned kegger queen to his kegger king at a particularly rowdy party. His brothers threw you a birthday party and got you delightfully drunk, so you could enjoy a childhood birthday wish of stargazing at midnight next to a cute boy. Said cute boy had to usher his friends to bed just so he could consummate the day you were brought into the world properly (and it was better than the first, somehow.) When you woke up the next morning, hungover in his bed, you smiled to yourself. Your tank top strap slid down your arm. He pushed it up. 

It didn’t matter on your shy or outgoing days, or when you felt dark or light. It didn’t matter when he had to put on the ‘brother’ face and do the stupid shit fraternities do. What mattered was that he protected your heart in a little box, and just when it felt like maybe you two wouldn't meet on some small level, you did. It was synchrony. It was easy.

You had worked at the palace of the kingdom Onychinus for as long as you could remember. You knew every nook and cranny—every secret passage and hidden room in that palace. It was practically your home. You took care of it, making sure that it was clean and pretty every day. Your childhood wish was to work for the royal family, just like your parents did. Your family had served the royal family as maids and whatnot for generations, so it only made sense that you grew up around them, and subsequently, their child.

Sylus Qin.

You don’t regret it. Working for royalty.

In fact, if anything, you’re grateful. Because if not for your position now, how could have you crossed paths with a soul like him?

You still remember the day you met him. Clear as day.

Such a sweet sweet day it was. The memory is still fresh in your mind, like the scent of your childhood room. A scent you never quite forgot. It faded over time, sure. But if you strained your memory even now, you can still smell it. The scent of comfort.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Decidedly, there have been many days in your life. Some happy, some sad. Some you remember better than others while others fade away into the back of your mind. Some are ingrained so deep in your mind that when you close your eyes, you can see every detail as if it’s currently happening. None, however, do you remember more clearly than the day you met Sylus. It had been almost two decades ago; when you were five, and he was six.

You remember being nervous — your parents had brought you along to the castle, to introduce you to the royal family — you used to be a very lonely child, not being able to make friends easily. You were in awe as you walked through the luxurious castle with wide eyes, seeing it for the first time, it was truly a beautiful place.

As a reward for your family’s many generations of loyalty, they got the honour of working directly for the royal family. Your parents were close to the royal family despite that they were working for them. When you were very young, your mother was a personal attendant to the young prince.

It had all been incredibly overwhelming back then, and you’d only hidden further behind your mother’s legs. Until, you’d spotted a boy, looking just as lonely and nervous as you, also behind his mothers legs. The prince.

A fond smile curls on your face as you remember Sylus’ little frame. With cute round cheeks, curious crimson eyes, long silver hair, dressed in fine fabrics that were only made for royal people. He had sparked your curiosity, his intriguing eyes looking at you as if he longed for your friendship already.

Your parents pushed you into his direction, you’d approached him hesitantly. Immediately, he’d give you the brightest gummy smile once you were in front of him. And that one action — that one smile — had sealed it between the two of you. Ever since then, Sylus has been your best friend. He’d stick out his hand for you to take and would tug you along with him down the hall, showing you around the palace as you both giggled.

Nostalgia cascades through you as you continue mulling over your relationship with prince Sylus. You’ve lived twenty-five years, and throughout the vast majority of it - he has been your only constant.

And for as long as you could remember, you’ve had an intense and hopeless crush on the prince, Sylus Qin.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

It was completely unprofessional, of course, your feelings for Prince Sylus, and nothing could ever come to grow from them. You knew that. But you refused to ignore them. Partly because you hadn’t allowed for them to interfere with your work, and if they weren’t hurting anyone, then what was the harm in letting them blossom? But most importantly because they had been a part of you for so long—rooted themselves so deeply in your heart—that you were afraid it would be impossible even if you tried.

So you were trying to be content in admiring him secretly while being his childhood friend. And though you knew he could never be yours, it didn’t stop you from revelling in the sweet swell of your heart whenever he smiled, or from imagining at night what it would be like if he was. You loved Sylus, so deeply and irrevocably, your whole heart and mind was consumed by him at all times.

Of course, you knew that one day, probably sooner than later, he would take a spouse, as was his duty. A noble woman or man, fit to rule by his side. Or perhaps someone from another nation or country, one that would strengthen the bonds between their countries.

Because no matter how badly it may hurt you when the time comes, no matter how much you’d cry, you knew you would try to be happy for him. When he managed to find someone to love, even though that someone would never be you, you would try. Because you wanted nothing but Sylus to experience happiness and true love, even if it wasn’t you.

And you tried to tell yourself you were content, your feelings remaining completely unknown to anyone but yourself.

Or so you thought.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

You sighed dreamily as you stared at him. Prince Sylus, stood across the room, leaning against the wall of the castle's kitchens as he looked over what he wrote on a sheet of paper, probably something important that had to do with the kingdom.

He was ethereal. The way he concentrated, his crimson eyes focused on the paper, scanning his handwriting over and over again. His beautiful long silver hair constantly fell before his eyes, and he’d run a hand through it in a gesture that made your breath catch every single time. His soft lips mouthed the words he’d written as his brows furrowed from time to time, almost as if he wasn’t satisfied with his own work. And most likely, he wasn’t—he was such a perfectionist.

“Quit staring, he’ll notice,” Tara whispered, snapping you out of your reverie. Your fellow servant and best friend didn’t even look up from her work, but somehow she always knew.

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and you tried to hide it with a glare sent her way.

“I wasn’t staring. I was deep in thought,” you murmured, forcing your eyes back to the strawberries you were supposed to be cutting ages ago. The ones that Caleb, one of the kitchen’s cooks, had assigned you two to prepare for a cake.

“Deep in thoughts about Sylus.” she snickered, and you threw a strawberry at her. It bounced satisfyingly off her shoulder and tumbled to the floor.

She was still laughing, and you frowned at her, throwing a quick nervous glance at Sylus—who was already looking at you. Your heart leapt into your throat. You forced a tight smile as the corner of his lips lifted up before he focused his eyes back on the paper. Sighing, you turned back to Tara.

“Stop it! This isn’t funny. Don’t you have any work to do?” you asked through gritted teeth, hating how observant and sharp she could be.

It didn’t help that she moved right next to you, ostensibly to cut several other fruits, which meant she certainly wouldn’t leave you alone now.

“I wasn’t trying to be funny—I was being honest. And yes, but I love annoying you more,” she teased, sticking her tongue out at you like a child.

“Maybe you should focus on your tasks instead of invading my personal space,” you said as sweetly as you could manage.

Tara rolled her eyes. She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You should really find the courage to confess your feelings to him.”

Your eyes widened almost immediately, your mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. Then you shrugged and turned your attention back to the strawberries in front of you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said quietly, your voice barely audible over the kitchen noise.

“Oh please, don’t lie to me. It’s obvious that you do,” she said with a knowing smile that made you want to disappear into the floor.

You were quiet, awfully so, which made Tara’s smile widen with satisfaction. She took your silence as the confession it was.

“See,” she said with that same teasing grin.

You sighed, your shoulders dropping in defeat.

“There’s one thing you seem to forget… he’s a prince and I’m well… me.”

You were ready to steal one last glance at Sylus, but it turned out to be futile—the place where he’d been leaning against the wall was empty, and Sylus was nowhere in sight. Where the hell had he disappeared to?

“What are you two whispering about?”

A low but soft voice sounded beside you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin to find Sylus standing mere centimeters from your table. The scent of vanilla soap and your favourite musky smell filled your nostrils, while a feeling of comfort and familiarity flooded your heart. His silver hair was parted more to his right side, revealing his beautiful, smooth forehead. His crimson-colored eyes twinkled with mischief as he grinned, looking between you two.

You were about to open your mouth to say something—anything—but Tara beat you to it.

“Actually, we were talking about you, silly!” She smiled devilishly as she stared directly at you.

Every ounce of blood in your entire body rushed to your face in a tsunami of total, abject mortification. Your eyes widened at her words. “W-what?” you spluttered, feeling as though your heart might actually beat its way out of your chest. She couldn’t be serious.

“Oh really?” Sylus questioned curiously, his smile growing with amusement that made your stomach flip.

You felt as if the whole world had stopped as you held your breath, waiting for your friend’s next words.

“Yes—about how annoying you are,” she said with a grin before turning back to the fruit in front of her, as casual as if she’d been discussing the weather.

Your whole body instantly relaxed, the tension draining away. You were so relieved she hadn’t told him the truth that you could have kissed her. A small smile formed on your lips as you looked at your two friends. Sylus, on the other hand, looked genuinely offended. His face fell at your friend’s words, and he rolled his eyes as he scoffed. “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s a fact,” she shrugged, continuing to cut pieces of banana after finishing her batch of strawberries.

Sylus then turned to you with the biggest, most exaggerated pout you’d ever seen on his handsome face—a look so ridiculous and endearing that you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?” you said with a small smile, moving back to your task at hand, trying desperately to appear nonchalant.

He huffed dramatically before sneaking a hand between you and Tara to steal a strawberry from right in front of you.

“Hey! Those are for a cake,” you gasped, giving him a playful push as you turned just enough to watch him pop the fruit into his mouth with the biggest, most self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“I’m the prince. I can do whatever I want,” he said cheekily before quickly snatching a piece of banana from Tara’s cutting board.

“Don’t make us kick you out!” Tara warned, jabbing a finger into his ribs with surprising force.

“Ow!” Sylus grumbled under his breath, rubbing his hand against his ribs as he backed away from both of you with an expression of mock betrayal. “And to think I call you both my friends.”

“Be happy that we put up with you, Prince Qin!” Tara shouted after him, using his formal name with exaggerated reverence.

You watched him shake his head from side to side, that small smile still playing on his lips, before he walked out of the kitchen. Even his exit was graceful.

Tara shifted her body, facing you once again as you chuckled at the interaction. She leaned closer, her expression turning serious. “Just because I saved your ass doesn’t mean you get to lie to me.”

You sighed, leaning both of your arms on the table and looking at the ceiling in the most dramatic, depressive way possible.

“Wow, you really do have a crush on him.”

“He’s not my crush! Besides, he’s the prince, which makes it forbidden or something,” you rolled your eyes, took the knife back into your hand, and twirled it around with a frown settling on your lips.

“So? True love always finds its way,” she said with a little smirk, showing her hopelessly romantic side.

You rolled your eyes again before sighing as you continued to cut the strawberries. It was forbidden to feel or show any romantic feelings for a royal when you were a servant. Tara knew this very well, yet she refused to let it go.

“So what if I had feelings? It wouldn’t change anything. He’s a prince, and he’s meant to marry someone from a royal family or someone else important,” you said, looking down at the table as if it were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. “We all know I’m not someone important.”

Tara sighed before whispering your name softly. “You might not be someone of royal descent, but you’re one of the most important people in his life.” She looked at you seriously, her usual teasing tone completely gone. “Hell!” She snorted, “I’m pretty sure you’re the most important person he’s ever met.”

You bit your lip nervously as you looked up at her. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Tara said firmly, moving closer. Her eyes softened as she took in your nervous and uncertain expression. “Come here.” She wrapped her arms around you, enveloping you in a hug that smelled like honey and home. You felt yourself melt and relax into her embrace. “I know I shouldn’t be giving you all this hope, but…” she sighed, “I can’t help but tell you the truth.”

“Thank you, Tara. I appreciate it,” you whispered as you pulled away from her.

Tara smiled warmly before turning back to the fruit in front of you both. “Now, let’s continue before Caleb kills us for talking too much,” she nudged you playfully.

You giggled at her words, shaking your head in disbelief. A smile lingered on your face as you continued cutting the berries. She never ceased to amaze you with her ability to uplift your mood and make your days more bearable, even when your heart ached with impossible longing.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Later that evening, you were reading one of your favourite comfort books in bed when you heard commotion outside your chamber. The noise persisted relentlessly, making it impossible to concentrate. You found yourself reading the same paragraph over and over, the words blurring together meaninglessly. Your curiosity overwhelmed you. Finally, you placed your bookmark between the pages, closed the book, and slid out of bed.

You stepped out of your room into the main hall of the servant headquarters when someone suddenly bumped into you.

You were about to apologize when the person spoke first.

“Oh my god, here you are! I was looking for you,” Tara exclaimed breathlessly.

You barely had time to turn around and greet your friend before she tugged you along the hall. The place was filled with servants, all chatting loudly, and as you passed through the crowd, you heard some of them whispering while stealing glances at you.

Anxiety crept up your spine. You felt increasingly uncomfortable with the idea that they might be talking about you.

“Tara—” you started.

Your name rang out within the crowd. Both you and Tara came to a halt as you realised the voice belonged to one of the royal guards. Anxiety bubbled inside you even more intensely as you made eye contact with the guard. Multiple possibilities swam through your head as you tried to think of a reason why they would be looking for you.

What if your secret had come out?

“Why are they looking for me?” you whispered to your friend. She shrugged at your words, but you could see she was just as nervous about the situation as you were.

The crowd dispersed as two guards made their way toward you. Luke and Kieran—Sylus’s personal and favourite guards. They were twins who always wore their dark masks while on duty. You’d never once seen them remove them while guarding Sylus. Except for moments like these.

Silence fell over the room as they both stopped right in front of you. They gave you a serious look, scanning you up and down before both of them broke into matching grins.

“We have a delivery for you,” Kieran announced, looking at you before opening his satchel to retrieve something from it.

Your body relaxed slightly at his words, anxiety dissipating slowly. Though the whispering in the room continued, now with renewed vigor.

“A delivery? For me?” you questioned. Normally no one sent you anything. You didn’t have many friends outside the castle, and most of your friends and family lived and worked for the royal family, so there was no reason for you to receive anything.

“Aha, here it is!” one of the twins exclaimed triumphantly. In his hands was a deep magenta-colored velvet book. He dusted off the cover with exaggerated care before turning to face you.

His eyes twinkled as he extended the book toward you. You took the object carefully, inspecting it. The velvet material felt luxurious and soft beneath your fingertips. You flipped the book to its cover, and your eyes widened as you read the golden printed letters embossed there:

“THE SECRET LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS”

Your heart stuttered. This book was one of the things you’d always wanted—had dreamed about for years. You loved flowers, but above everything else, you were a hopeless romantic. People close to you knew you’d always wanted to learn about the language of flowers. You’d first seen this book years ago when running errands in town, displayed in a cute little bookshop’s window, and you’d been dreaming about owning it ever since.

You knew the palace had a vast library with countless books you wished you could read one day. Sylus had shown you the room once, knowing how much you loved reading. Unfortunately, you hadn’t had the chance to go there and lose yourself among the shelves because of your demanding work schedule.

You’d always loved learning and were so eager to educate yourself in every way possible. Everyone knew how desperately you wanted to understand the world and its people and everything that existed on this planet and beyond.

But who would have gotten you this book?

“I think there must be a mistake—” you furrowed your brows, still staring at the book in disbelief.

“No, it was meant to be given to you,” Luke interrupted cheerfully.

“By who?” you whispered, finally looking up at him.

“We don’t know,” he said with an exaggerated shrug. You looked at them suspiciously, trying to decipher whether they were lying.

The men tried to keep their faces as serious as possible, but you caught the corners of their mouths twitching upward.

“Luke, Kieran—” Tara complained, crossing her arms.

“Tara,” the guards mimicked her tone in perfect unison, which would have been funny under different circumstances.

“I know you both know who gave it,” Tara narrowed her eyes, poking a finger into both of their chests simultaneously.

“Hey—”

“You three know each other?” you asked, looking between them in confusion.

“Yeah, we’re friends,” Kieran replied with a big smile.

“In your dreams,” Tara teased.

“Hey! That’s not very nice,” they both pouted in perfect synchronization, looking so ridiculous that you almost laughed despite your confusion.

Your friend laughed. “I’m just messing with you guys.”

“Okay,” you said with a deep sigh, rolling your eyes at their antics. “Still, this doesn’t make any sense.”

“What?” Tara questioned.

“This!” you whisper-yelled, pointing at the book you were clutching in one hand like a lifeline. You felt anxiety creeping back as you focused on the whispers of the other servants, your eyes darting all over the room while you gnawed at your bottom lip.

Luke sighed before turning to address the other people in the room. He cleared his throat authoritatively before speaking. “Please return to your chambers. There’s nothing to see here.”

Reluctantly, the servants dispersed, some returning to their chambers while others occupied themselves far enough away to avoid the guards’ glares.

“What’s so interesting about me getting a delivery?” you exhaled deeply, fatigue evident in your sigh.

“Maybe because the twins here made a whole theatrical entrance and announcement about having a gift for you,” Tara chuckled.

“A gift?” You furrowed your brows, staring at Luke and Kieran.

“Yeah,” the men smiled sheepishly, simultaneously scratching the backs of their necks in an endearing display of awkwardness.

“Who would want to give me a gift?” you asked, mostly to yourself, your voice small and uncertain.

Both of them shrugged in perfect unison, matching smirks spreading across their faces, which only made you groan in frustration. “Come on, I feel like I’m the only one who doesn’t know.”

Tara shook her head. “I don’t know, but I’m sure these two do!” She gestured to the twins before crossing her arms in front of her chest.

Luke let out a grunt of protest. “I do not know! Besides,” he said, an amused smile spreading over his lips as he leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, “even if I did know, I wouldn’t reveal your secret admirer’s identity.”

“Secret admirer?” you nearly yelled, your voice echoing in the now-quiet hall.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

A few days had passed, and you still couldn’t get the gift out of your mind. You couldn’t seem to wrap your head around the fact that you had a secret admirer. Let alone the note that had been tucked inside the book.

You called it a note. Tara, on the other hand, called it a love letter—and in her defense, it was far too lengthy and heartfelt to be a mere note. She was right, though you couldn’t quite allow yourself to accept that you could be desired in such a way.

You’d read the words written on the “letter” so many times that you’d memorized them within days, carrying them in your heart like a precious secret:

“My moonlight,

I knew how much you wanted this book, so I thought I’d give it to you. A wonderful person like you deserves everything their heart desires. I cannot believe it has taken me so long to tell you how I feel about you. Unfortunately, I do not have the courage to express my feelings to you in person yet. I hope one day I’ll be able to confess to you who I am, but for now, writing to you will have to suffice. There are no words adequate enough to tell you how I truly feel. When I first met you, I knew immediately that there was something very special about you. You’re truly the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, though I think your heart is even more beautiful. You are kind and so warm to people, and I can see that you treat everyone around you with respect and genuine care. You’re so intelligent and funny. Your smile lights up any room you walk into, like the sun breaking through clouds. You deserve to know that there is someone out there who thinks you’re the greatest person that exists. I am truly enchanted and enamoured by you.

I hope my words have brought warmth to your heart and a smile to your face.

With all my love,

Your Secret Admirer”

You had no idea who would send you such a beautiful letter. Reading it felt like being wrapped in a warm embrace, like being seen and cherished in a way you’d never experienced before. And though you tried not to hope, tried not to let your heart imagine impossible things, you couldn’t help but wonder, couldn’t help but dream, about who might have written such tender words meant only for you.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

It went on for days—this secret correspondence that had become the highlight of your existence. You found yourself rushing to your room multiple times throughout the day, your heart fluttering with anticipation as you checked for a new little note or letter. It had started simply enough, once a day: quotes from your favorite authors carefully transcribed in that now-familiar angular script, or little poems you already knew by heart but somehow meant more when written in his hand.

After a while, your collection of letters grew, tucked carefully into your bedside table drawer like precious treasures. Each one made you smile wider than the last. The letters were always personal, intimate in a way that made your chest ache. You could tell some of the passages were written specifically for you—original words that could only have come from someone who truly saw you, who paid attention to the smallest details of who you were. You would always look around afterward with a grateful smile, hoping that somehow, wherever your secret admirer was hiding, they could see how much these messages meant to you.

One afternoon, you found yourself in the horse stables, tending to the pregnant mare you’d been worrying over for weeks. The moment you’d heard that your favourite horse, Magnolia—a beautiful dark brown mare with soulful eyes and a gentle temperament—was about to give birth to her foal, you’d rushed down to the stables with the biggest surge of excitement you’d experienced in a while. There was something pure about it, something that made you feel like a child again, full of wonder and hope.

You and the veterinarian worked together to care for Magnolia through her labour. While the vet guided the mare with practiced expertise, you took your time to caress her coat, running your hands along her neck and shoulder in long, soothing strokes. You whispered soft words of encouragement to her, your voice low and gentle, telling her she was doing wonderfully, that she was so strong, that it would all be over soon. Magnolia’s dark eyes would find yours occasionally, and you could swear she understood, could feel the love and support you were trying to convey through your touch.

The labor was difficult—longer and more complicated than anyone had anticipated. There were moments when worry knotted tight in your stomach, when the vet’s expression grew tense and focused. You stayed by Magnolia’s side through all of it, never letting go, your hand steady even when your heart raced with concern. You murmured prayers under your breath, bargaining with whatever forces might be listening to keep both mother and baby safe.

After what felt like an eternity but was really only a couple of long, arduous hours, she finally gave birth to her foal. The little baby was just as beautiful as his mother—all long, gangly legs and soft brown coat, still damp and struggling to understand this strange new world. Your breath caught at the sight of him. There was something miraculous about witnessing new life, something that made tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

“He’s perfect,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as the foal took his first shaky breaths.

You took your time afterward, moving slowly and carefully as you cleaned the stable. The scent of fresh hay and horse and new life filled your lungs as you worked, occasionally pausing to tend to both Magnolia and her newborn. You were cooing softly as you gently wiped down the little foal with a clean cloth, marveling at how delicate he was, how his tiny ears flicked at every sound. “You’re going to be so strong, just like your mama,” you told him, your voice sing-song and full of affection. “So beautiful and brave.”

Magnolia watched you with those intelligent dark eyes, her head turning to follow your movements as you cared for both her and her baby. There was trust there, deep and unshakeable. She knew you would never hurt them, that your hands were safe. It made your heart swell with tenderness—this simple, profound act of being trusted by another living being.

Little did you know, you weren’t alone in the stables.

Your secret admirer stood in the shadows near the entrance, partially concealed by the wooden beam and the angle of the afternoon light streaming through the cracks in the stable walls. He had followed you here, not for the first time, though he’d never admit to how often he found excuses to be wherever you were.

He watched, transfixed, as you moved around the stable with such gentle purpose. The way you spoke to the animals with genuine affection, your voice soft and melodic. The way your face had lit up with pure, unguarded joy when the foal had been born, tears glistening on your cheeks that you’d quickly brushed away. The way you’d stayed through the entire difficult labor, never once complaining, your dedication absolute.

This was what he loved most about you—this boundless capacity for care, for tenderness, for finding beauty in simple moments. The way you treated every living thing with respect and kindness, whether it was a prince or a horse or a kitchen mouse you’d once refused to let Caleb trap. You had the gentlest heart he’d ever known, and watching you like this, unobserved and completely yourself, made his chest ache with an affection so profound it nearly overwhelmed him.

He should leave. He knew that. It felt like a violation somehow, to watch you in these private moments, even though his intentions were pure. Even though all he wanted was to memorise every detail—the way the fading sunlight caught in your hair, the soft smile on your lips as you stroked the foal’s nose, the smudge of dirt on your cheek that you hadn’t noticed.

But he couldn’t make himself move. Couldn’t tear his eyes away from you.

You were humming now, some old lullaby he vaguely recognized, and the sound drifted through the stable like something sacred. The foal’s eyes were beginning to droop, lulled by your voice and gentle touch. Even Magnolia looked peaceful, her breathing deep and steady now that the ordeal was over.

And you—you looked radiant. Happy in a pure, uncomplicated way that made his heart clench with longing.

Something tightened in his chest, a fierce, aching want that went beyond mere desire. He wanted to be the reason for that smile. Wanted to fill your days with moments like this, simple and pure and beautiful. Wanted to spend a lifetime watching that expression of contentment cross your face, knowing he’d put it there.

But patience was something he’d mastered long ago. So he remained concealed, content to simply watch over you. You were light itself—his moonlight cutting through the perpetual darkness of his carefully constructed world. The heart he’d thought too guarded, too controlled to truly feel had surrendered to you completely, irrevocably. Falling for you hadn’t been a choice—it had been inevitable, unavoidable, like gravity pulling him into your orbit. And now that he’d fallen, there was no going back.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The next day, you found another note from your secret admirer in the kitchen.

A single note clung to a small bouquet of gardenias, the ink slightly smudged at the end of the writing:

“My affection and admiration for you grows stronger and fonder every day.”

You stared at it for a second too long. The kitchen bustled around you—pots and pans clanking against each other, the sizzle of food cooking on the stove, the chattering and yelling of cooks at one another—but your ears tuned it all out as you reread the handwriting. Angular and sharp cursive letters. A slight right slant. You couldn’t place it, though something about it tugged at the edges of your memory.

“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” Caleb sang, catching sight of the note as he passed by.

Tara snickered next to him as you glanced up at them both. Warmth spread across your cheeks and throughout your entire body as you grew flustered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Caleb snorted. “Sure you don’t.”

Rafayel, passing by with a hefty sack of flour tucked under his arm, paused just long enough to lift a perfectly sculpted brow. “Wait—who has a secret admirer?”

Tara and Caleb said your name in perfect unison.

“No way!” Rafayel exclaimed, his eyes lighting up with delight. “Hold on, let me put this sack away. I need to know everything.”

“Raf, it’s nothing!” you groaned, clutching the note a little tighter. “There’s no need to make a big deal out of it.”

The purple-haired man practically tossed the flour bag onto a nearby counter before rushing back to join the three of you by the chopping table, looking far too invested already.

“It is a big deal!” he said, leaning against the table with a cheeky smile that rivaled Tara’s. “It’s about time someone told you what everybody already sees.”

“And what is that?” you questioned, genuinely curious despite yourself.

“How beautiful and wonderful you truly are,” Rafayel said matter-of-factly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Right,” you murmured softly before continuing, “I don’t think this person means anything serious by this.”

“Sure,” Tara hummed, not even trying to hide her knowing grin. “You literally received a love letter a week ago along with a book about ‘the language of flowers’—your favorite, might I add—and you mean to tell me that all of this means nothing?”

You felt heat crawl up your neck. You picked up the note from your secret admirer, turning it over in your hands nervously, when Sylus entered the kitchen.

Your breath caught in your throat as you took him in—hair still slightly damp at the ends from his bath, the strands curling softly against his neck in a way that made your fingers itch to touch them. He wore a loose black button-up shirt with the top few buttons undone, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of his toned chest, paired with loose dark trousers. And for once, he was wearing his glasses, which sat low on the bridge of his nose, giving him an unfairly attractive scholarly look.

He looked so… normal and effortlessly handsome. Like he wasn’t literally royalty. Like he was just a man who’d overslept. He looked like a dream you didn’t dare have in daylight. Like every secret longing you’d ever tucked away in your heart had taken physical form just to torment you.

The moment his crimson eyes locked onto yours, he walked deliberately toward you, and your heart kicked into a gallop. The scent of him reached you first, vanilla soap from his bath and that intoxicating musky undertone that was purely him, familiar and comforting yet somehow making your knees weak.

Your friends somehow—suspiciously—found something else to do, busying themselves with chores around the kitchen and leaving you completely alone with him.

“Morning, sweetie,” he said, his voice warm and a little rough around the edges, like he hadn’t spoken yet today. The intimacy of it made your stomach flip. “What were you all talking about?”

His question sent a burning heat rushing across your face, from your neck to the tip of your nose, prickling just beneath the surface. You looked anywhere but at him, suddenly finding the carrots in front of you fascinating, hoping your newfound interest in vegetables would somehow ease the fire tightening beneath your skin.

Quickly, you tried to regain some semblance of normalcy. You cleared your throat. “You look like you just rolled out of bed,” you said teasingly instead of answering his question, desperately trying to deflect.

Sylus laughed—a rich, genuine sound that made your heart ache. Then slowly, a knowing smirk spread across his face—the kind that made your stomach flip dangerously. “Maybe I did,” he said, leaning one hip against the table beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. “I was up late last night. Woke up late because of it too.” He pushed his glasses up with one finger in a gesture that was somehow both casual and devastatingly attractive. “Haven’t eaten yet, so I thought I’d come find you. Come have breakfast with me.”

It wasn’t really a question, more like a statement wrapped in velvet, and the confidence in his tone made your pulse quicken. You didn’t answer right away. Because his eyes had flicked toward the chopping table, specifically toward the little bouquet of gardenias sitting at the edge. And the note attached to its stems.

He froze. Just for a second. A micro-hesitation. One breath caught too long in his chest. It’s nothing, you told yourself.

Except… it wasn’t nothing. You’d known him too long not to notice.

His jaw tensed almost imperceptibly. His fingers twitched at his side. And for just a moment, something flickered behind those crimson eyes—something that looked almost like panic, or maybe longing, or perhaps both tangled together.

Then it was gone, replaced by that easy confidence as he shifted his gaze back to you. But his voice had dropped lower, more intimate. “So what do you say? Want to eat breakfast with me? Or do I have to resort to begging?”

The way he said it, the slight tease layered over something more serious, made your cheeks burn hotter.

“Sy, it’s literally almost noon,” you said with a small giggle, grateful your voice came out steadier than you felt. “It’s a bit late for breakfast, don’t you think?”

He tilted his head, and the movement made a strand of silver hair fall across his forehead. “When have I ever cared about convention?” His smirk deepened. “Besides, remember what we used to say? It’s never too late for breakfast.”

“We were kids back then, Sylus.”

“And?” He leaned in just slightly—not enough to be improper, but enough that you had to tilt your head up to maintain eye contact. “Some things don’t change. Like how much I enjoy and cherish your company.” His voice softened on those last words, and the sincerity beneath the playfulness made your heart stutter.

You tried to compose yourself, pretending to consider his request even though you both knew you’d never refuse him. “Hmmm… I suppose if you ask Caleb nicely to make us a ‘late’ breakfast, I could be persuaded.”

“Persuaded?” Sylus chuckled, a rich, warm sound that seemed to wrap around you. “I’ll take those odds.” He straightened, his hand coming to rest briefly on your shoulder—a touch that was both casual and possessive, his thumb brushing once against your collarbone before he pulled away. “Don’t go anywhere, kitten. I’ll be right back.”

Then he was gone, striding toward your friends and teasing them about something you couldn’t quite hear. But whatever he said made Caleb laugh and shove him playfully, made Tara shake her head with fond exasperation, made Rafayel throw a dish towel at his head. The easy camaraderie between them all made you smile despite the confusion swirling in your chest.

You were left standing there, staring at the flowers. At the note.

You ran your thumb over the last letter again—that elegant, looping y—studying how cursive and pretty it looked. There was something oddly familiar about the penmanship. Almost perfect. Neat and romantic, controlled yet passionate, like whoever wrote it had been very deliberate with every word. Like they’d meant every single syllable. As if the person who wrote it couldn’t stop once they’d started.

Your mind drifted back to that moment, the way Sylus had gone still when he’d seen the flowers. The intensity in his eyes before he’d masked it. The way his voice had dropped lower, more possessive.

You couldn’t help but think about the meanings of the flowers you’d received along with the note.

You thought about gardenias, and what they might mean in the language of flowers.

About how they symbolized love, purity, trust, and refinement. But they also represented secret love or affection, and sometimes signified themes of hope, renewal, and sincerity.

You didn’t say it aloud, not even to yourself, but the truth was whispering at the edge of your consciousness.

It looks like his. It feels like his.

But no. That would be— Sylus Qin was thoughtful, sure. With you mostly. He was the kind of person who remembered how you liked your food and always let you lean on him when you needed to. He held doors and rarely interrupted, and he stayed up late with you when you were still working even though he technically didn’t need to.

He was the kind of person who brought you a jacket during late-night walks without asking. He was the kind of person who made you laugh without trying.

But he couldn’t be the secret admirer.

…Could he?

No, you told yourself firmly. Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a prince. Your childhood best friend. He could never—

You glanced toward the direction where he’d been standing just a minute ago. You couldn’t see him at the moment, but you could still feel him. The way his presence always lingered, somehow warmer to you than everyone else’s. Gentle.

You tucked the note into one of the front pockets of your skirt.

Just in case.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Later that evening, Sylus had asked you to meet him in the royal gardens. Specifically, at your favorite spot—the heart of the mini labyrinth tucked away in the garden’s farthest corner, where few others ventured.

The labyrinth itself was a masterpiece of carefully trimmed hedges that twisted and turned in an intricate pattern, creating a sense of delicious isolation from the rest of the world. But it was the center that took your breath away every single time. A small pond sat like a mirror beneath the evening sky, its surface so still it reflected the heavens perfectly. Multiple cherry blossom trees surrounded the water, their branches heavy with delicate pink blooms that drifted down like snow whenever the breeze stirred. Red lanterns were scattered throughout the space—hanging from branches like glowing fruit, nestled between roots, floating on the pond’s surface—bathing everything in a warm, ethereal light that transformed the already beautiful spot into something almost otherworldly.

The air was perfumed with cherry blossoms and night-blooming jasmine, sweet and intoxicating. Petals carpeted the ground in soft pink drifts, muffling your footsteps as you made your way to the wooden bench positioned to face the pond. The lantern light danced across the water’s surface, creating rippling patterns of gold and shadow that seemed alive, magical.

It wasn’t just your own favourite spot—it was yours and Sylus’s collective sanctuary. Your shared spot.

You came here often when your heart raced too fast with feelings you couldn’t name, when thoughts of him consumed you so completely you could barely breathe. Whenever your mind scattered in a thousand directions, you’d find your way here to seek inner peace, to let the tranquil beauty calm the chaos inside you.

As you settled onto the familiar bench, you let yourself sink into the serenity of the moment. The gentle whisper of leaves, the quiet lap of water against stone, the soft glow of lantern light—it all wrapped around you like a comforting embrace. You let your eyes slide shut, tilting your face up slightly to catch the cool evening breeze. Your shoulders dropped, tension melting away as the calm atmosphere worked its magic on your restless body and racing thoughts.

Here, you could almost pretend that loving him wasn’t impossible. That the ache in your chest was something that could be soothed rather than endured.

You didn’t hear his approach—Sylus moved too quietly for that, with that predatory grace he’d always possessed—but you felt him. The way you always felt him, like a shift in the air itself, a change in temperature that made every nerve ending come alive. Your awareness of him was instinctive, immediate, as if your body recognized his presence before your mind did.

The bench dipped slightly as he sat beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, and could catch that familiar scent of vanilla and musk that made your heart stutter. Close enough to touch, if you were brave enough. If you had the right.

You didn’t know how long you both sat there in comfortable silence, but you cherished every second of it. These quiet moments together had become precious, sacred even—increasingly rare as his duties pulled him in a dozen different directions. But here, in your hidden sanctuary with lantern light painting his features in gold and shadow, with cherry blossoms falling like blessings around you both, it felt like time stopped. Like the world beyond the labyrinth ceased to exist, leaving only the two of you and this perfect, fragile peace.

Your heart ached with how much you loved him. With how badly you wanted to reach out and take his hand, to lean against his shoulder, to turn this friendship into something more. But you held still, held silent, content to simply exist beside him for as long as he’d allow.

Sylus was the first to break the silence. “It’s so magical here during spring,” he murmured, his voice low and soft, almost reverent. He released a breath that sounded relieved, like he’d been holding tension you hadn’t noticed. “I love how this is our spot. How we always come here whenever we need it. How it’s just… ours.”

The way he said that last word—ours—made something flutter dangerously in your chest.

You hummed in response, not trusting your voice, content to listen to him speak. You could listen to his deep voice forever, you thought. Would gladly let him read every book you owned, every poem you’d memorized, just to hear that rich timbre wrap around the words. His voice brought you so much joy, soothed something restless and yearning inside you whenever you were alone together like this. It felt like a gift, these moments when his voice was meant only for your ears.

But it wasn’t just soothing—it also set your entire body aflame. There was something sensual in the way he spoke when it was just the two of you, something intimate in the lower register he used, the careful way he shaped words. It left you flustered and warm.

You talked for a while after that, the conversation flowing easily between comfortable silences. You discussed everything and nothing—his frustrations with a particularly tedious council meeting, your favorite passages from a book in the library he’d given you, childhood memories that made you both laugh, observations about the stars beginning to emerge overhead. Just like old times.

In many ways, nothing had really changed between you, your bond remained strong, your friendship as solid as ever. Except now you were both older, more aware. His duties had multiplied, responsibilities weighing heavier on his shoulders. And your feelings had deepened from childhood affection into something far more dangerous, far more consuming.

And sometimes, in moments like these, you wondered if perhaps you weren’t the only one feeling the shift.

“There’s something I need to discuss with you,” Sylus said suddenly, his tone changing.

Your heartbeat picked up immediately, pulse thrumming in your throat. He sounded so serious, so solemn—so unlike the easy warmth of just moments before. There was a weight to his words that made anxiety spike through your veins, sharp and immediate.

But there was something else too. Unless you were imagining it, he also sounded… nervous? Uncertain? Your eyes snapped to his face, studying him in the flickering lantern light. And unless it was a trick of the golden glow, there was definitely a light dusting of pink across his cheekbones, creeping up to the tips of his ears. His jaw was tight, and he wouldn’t quite meet your gaze.

Your breath caught. Prince Sylus Qin—confident, controlled, unshakeable Sylus—looked genuinely nervous.

That couldn’t be right. You had to be seeing things, reading too much into shadows and wishful thinking.

So you ignored the flutter of hope trying to take wing in your chest. You straightened slightly, folding your hands in your lap to keep them from trembling. “Okay, S-Sylus,” you managed, cursing the little stutter that betrayed your own nerves. “So, um… What is it you wanted to speak with me about?”

You would do anything he asked. Anything at all. Because he was a prince—the future king—and because you loved him with every fiber of your being, even if he could never know it.

A conflicted look crossed his handsome face, emotions flickering too quickly to name. His jaw worked as if he were trying to find the right words, and you watched, transfixed, as he took a deep breath that made his shoulders rise and fall. “I, um—” He paused, cleared his throat, and the pink on his cheeks definitely deepened. His fingers drummed once against his thigh before he caught himself, stilling the nervous gesture. “I wanted to tell you—”

“Your Majesty.”

The voice cut through the moment like a blade, shattering the intimate bubble you’d created. Both of you jumped slightly, heads turning toward the entrance of the clearing where a royal guard stood, looking apologetic but insistent. “Your Majesty, the King is requesting your immediate presence. It’s urgent.”

The disappointment that crashed over you was physical, painful. You felt your shoulders sag, felt something vital deflate in your chest. Another moment stolen. Another conversation interrupted. Another chance lost to his endless, inescapable duties.

You caught the flash of frustration that crossed Sylus’s face—the tightening around his eyes, the way his hands curled into brief fists before he forced them to relax. He looked at you for a long moment, and the longing in his crimson eyes was so raw, so naked, that it made your breath catch. Like he was on the verge of saying something important, something that couldn’t wait. Like he was trying to memorise your face in the lantern light.

But duty called, as it always did. As it always would.

“Right,” Sylus said finally, his voice carefully neutral though you could hear the thread of resignation beneath it. He stood with that fluid grace you’d always admired, and suddenly the bench felt too empty, too cold without him beside you.

He turned to face you fully, and what he did next made your heart stop entirely.

He took a bow—a proper, formal bow that a prince should never give to a servant—and then reached for your hand. His fingers were warm as they enclosed yours, his touch gentle yet somehow possessive. He lifted your hand slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving yours, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles.

The touch of his lips against your skin sent fire racing through your veins. You felt branded by it, claimed, like he’d marked you as his even though that was impossible.

“Have a good night, kitten,” he whispered, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register that was meant only for you. The nickname—one he only used for you, one that felt dangerously affectionate—made your stomach erupt with butterflies.

Your entire body burned with heat, skin too tight and too sensitive. Words completely failed you. Your mind went blank except for the feeling of his lips on your skin, the warmth of his breath, the intensity in his eyes as he finally pulled back and straightened.

All you could manage was a jerky nod, your hand still tingling where he’d kissed it.

He regarded you for a second too long, his gaze searching yours as if giving you one final opportunity to speak, to say something, anything. The moment stretched taut between you, filled with unspoken words and swallowed confessions.

The guard cleared his throat pointedly, and the spell broke.

Sylus’s expression shuttered, that careful princely mask sliding back into place. With one last lingering look he turned and walked away, his footsteps muffled by fallen petals. The guard followed, and then you were alone.

Alone with your whirling thoughts and racing heart. Alone with the ghost of his kiss still burning on your skin. Alone in your sanctuary that suddenly felt too empty, too quiet without him.

You lifted your hand slowly, staring at your knuckles as if they held answers. Your fingers trembled slightly as you touched the spot he’d kissed, finding it still warm.

What just happened? What had he been about to tell you before the interruption?

The cherry blossoms continued to fall around you like pink snow, and the lanterns cast their warm glow across the pond’s surface, but the magic of the evening had shifted into something else entirely. Something that felt like possibility. Like hope.

Like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t the only one whose heart ached with impossible longing.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The castle was alive with an energy that hummed through every corridor and chamber. Servants rushed through the halls with purpose, their footsteps echoing off stone walls as they prepared for the evening’s unexpected event. The King had invited select staff members and his closest advisors to a private dinner—an unusual occurrence that had set the entire household buzzing with speculation.

It was meant to be something small, intimate even, yet everyone was curious. Whispers followed you throughout the day as you went about your duties. What could this be about? Did the King have an announcement to make? Was it about the prince? The questions multiplied with each passing hour, spreading like wildfire through the servant quarters and into the kitchens.

You’d tried not to think about it, tried to focus on your tasks, but the anxious flutter in your stomach refused to settle.

The preparations had begun at dawn. The dining room—the one reserved for family gatherings and private councils—was transformed throughout the day. You’d glimpsed servants carrying in fresh flowers, polishing silver until it gleamed, pressing linens until they were crisp and perfect. Caleb had been in the kitchens since sunrise, barking orders and tasting dishes, his usual easy demeanor replaced by focused intensity. The menu was refined, elegant: roasted pheasant with herbs from the royal gardens, vegetables glazed in honey and butter, delicate pastries that looked almost too beautiful to eat.

Tara had found you in the afternoon, her eyes bright with nervous excitement. “Have you heard anything? Do you know what this is about?” You’d shaken your head, though the weight in your chest suggested you knew exactly what this might be. You just didn’t want to voice it aloud, as if speaking the words would make them real.

The atmosphere in the castle had shifted as evening approached. The nervous energy transformed into something more formal, more significant. Servants changed into their finest uniforms. Advisors arrived in their formal attire, their expressions serious and speculative. You’d dressed carefully, your hands trembling slightly as you smoothed down your skirts, as if looking presentable could somehow protect you from whatever was coming.

When the doors to the dining room finally opened that evening, your breath caught in your throat.

The space had been transformed into something magical, almost dreamlike. Candles were everywhere—tall tapers in silver candelabras marching down the center of the long table, smaller votives clustered on every surface, their flames dancing and flickering with each breath of air. The grand chandelier overhead had been lit as well, its dozens of crystals catching the candlelight and scattering it across the room in glittering fragments, casting a warm but vibrant glow that made everything seem to shimmer and pulse with life.

Red, black, and golden accents were woven throughout the room—the kingdom’s colors displayed with elegant intentionality. Deep crimson table runners flowed down the center of the table like rivers of wine. Black napkins were folded into perfect shapes at each place setting, each one held by a golden ring embossed with the royal crest. The chairs were upholstered in black velvet with golden embroidery, and crimson curtains framed the tall windows, pulled back to reveal the darkening sky beyond. Even the china bore the kingdom’s emblem in gold leaf—a striking design that reminded everyone present exactly where they were and who they served.

The table itself was a work of art. Crystal glasses sparkled at each setting, catching and refracting the candlelight into tiny rainbows. Polished silver gleamed against the white tablecloth beneath the runners. Arrangements of deep red roses mixed with black calla lilies and gold-painted branches created dramatic centerpieces that somehow managed to be both opulent and tasteful.

It was beautiful. Breathtaking, even.

Soon, the royal family arrived. The door at the far end of the dining room opened, and a hush fell over the gathered guests. The King entered first, his posture straight despite his years, the weight of the crown he’d worn for decades evident in the dignified way he carried himself. The Queen followed at his side, elegant and serene, her hand resting lightly on his arm. And then came Sylus.

Your breath stuttered in your chest.

He was dressed in formal attire—a deep black jacket with red embroidery that caught the candlelight, the kingdom’s crest embroidered over his heart in crimson thread. His silver white hair was mostly styled back from his face, revealing the sharp lines of his features, and those crimson eyes swept across the room with calm authority. He looked every inch the prince he was born to be. Every inch the king he would become.

He looked untouchable.

They entered with such graceful, measured steps—a family born to rule, moving through the world with the quiet confidence of those who’d never questioned their place in it.

“Welcome,” the King said warmly, positioning himself near the head of the table. A small, grateful smile graced his weathered face as he looked around at the assembled guests—advisors who’d served him faithfully, servants who’d become like extended family over the years. “Please, come. Let us all sit together.”

He gestured broadly, an invitation that somehow felt more intimate than formal, and the gathered group began to move toward their designated seats.

Your heart hammered against your ribs as you found your place at the table. The seating arrangement had been carefully planned. You could tell by the small name cards written in elegant script at each setting. You were positioned diagonally across from where Sylus would sit, close enough to see his face clearly but far enough to maintain propriety. Close enough to hurt.

Zayne, the royal doctor and a mutual friend to many in the room, took the seat to your right. He was a handsome man in his own quiet way—tall and lean with dark hair and intelligent green eyes that seemed to notice everything. He’d always been kind, always took the time to speak with everyone regardless of their station, to genuinely care about their wellbeing. As he sat, he offered you a small, polite nod and a gentle smile that you tried to return.

Tara claimed the seat on your left, and you felt an immediate rush of gratitude for her presence. She reached under the table and gave your hand a quick, reassuring squeeze. She knew you were anxious. Of course she knew. She always knew.

Around you, others settled into their places. Luke and Kieran sat further down, their usual playful energy subdued by the formality of the occasion. Caleb was there, looking exhausted but pleased, no doubt already critiquing his own cooking in his mind. Various advisors and senior staff members filled the remaining seats, their expressions ranging from curious to knowing.

Once everyone was seated, the King remained standing, and the nervous energy in the room intensified. You felt your nerves return tenfold, anxiety coiling tight in your stomach like a living thing. The candlelight seemed too bright suddenly, the room too warm, the air too thin.

“Now that everyone is seated,” the King began, his voice carrying easily through the room, “I’d like to express my gratitude—for this wonderful meal, for the care everyone took to make this evening so beautiful, and for your years of loyal service to this kingdom and to my family.”

The atmosphere was strange, caught between celebration and anticipation. Some guests smiled warmly, already raising their glasses in premature toasts. Others looked curious, almost nervous, sensing that something significant was coming. The advisors wore careful, neutral expressions that suggested they already knew what would be announced—they’d probably been part of the discussions. But for the staff, for people like you and Tara and Caleb, this was unknown territory.

You could feel the weight of expectation pressing down on the room like a physical force.

Soon, servants began bringing out the first course, and the dinner officially commenced. Plates were set with quiet efficiency—Caleb’s and the other cooks beautiful creations arranged like works of art. The pheasant was perfectly golden, the vegetables gleaming with their honey glaze, everything plated with meticulous care.

Everyone began to eat, the soft sounds of silverware against china filling the spaces between murmured conversations.

But you felt Sylus’s gaze on you almost immediately. It was like a touch, tangible and warm, impossible to ignore. You didn’t look up—didn’t dare—but you could sense his eyes tracking your movements as you picked up your fork, as you took careful, mechanical bites of food you couldn’t taste.

The King continued to speak as the meal progressed, his voice a steady backdrop to the quiet dining. He talked about the kingdom’s prosperity, about successful harvests and peaceful borders, about alliances strengthened and problems solved. He spoke with pride about his council, about the people who’d helped build and maintain everything they’d achieved.

You mostly tuned it out, focusing instead on the physical act of eating, chewing, swallowing and breathing. Trying to keep your expression pleasant and neutral while your mind raced with dark possibilities. Trying not to let yourself think about why you were all really here.

But then the King’s tone shifted, became more serious, more weighted with meaning.

“I know everyone is probably curious about why I’ve hosted this special dinner,” he said, and the room fell into complete silence. Even the servants along the walls seemed to still, sensing the importance of the moment.

The King stood fully now, setting down his napkin with deliberate care. His expression was solemn but peaceful, resigned in the way of someone who’d made a difficult decision and found peace with it.

“I have an announcement to make.”

The pause felt eternal. You could hear your own heartbeat, could feel Tara’s leg pressed against yours under the table—grounding you, keeping you present.

“I have been feeling the weight of my years more heavily lately,” the King continued, his voice gentle but firm. “I have ruled this kingdom for nearly five decades, and it has been the greatest honor of my life. But I am tired.” He smiled, almost apologetically. “I feel in my bones that it is time to step down, to pass the crown to someone with the strength and vision to lead us into the future. To my son—Sylus Qin.”

The dining room erupted in gasps and sharp intakes of breath. Murmurs rippled through the gathered guests like a wave—some shocked, some clearly having suspected, all affected by the magnitude of what had just been announced.

You felt as if your heart had stopped entirely before lurching back into a frantic, painful rhythm that made your chest ache. Your fingers tightened around your fork until your knuckles went white.

You’d known this was coming. Of course you had. You’d always known that someday Sylus would be king. But someday had always felt distant, theoretical—a problem for a future version of yourself to handle. You’d hoped, foolishly, that you’d have more time. That someday wouldn’t arrive so soon, wouldn’t feel so immediate and inevitable and real.

But here it was. One month. In one month, everything would change.

“It is time, Sylus,” the King said, his voice warm with paternal pride. He lifted his glass, and the candlelight caught in the crystal, sending fractured light dancing across his face. “To my son, who will be an amazing leader to our kingdom. Who will be crowned king in one month’s time.”

The room lifted their glasses in unison, a chorus of “To Prince Sylus” echoing from every throat.

Except yours. You managed to lift your glass, managed to move your lips in some approximation of the words, but no sound came out. Your throat had closed completely, and you felt nauseous, your stomach churning dangerously. The food on your plate that had already been difficult to swallow now seemed impossible, the smells suddenly overwhelming and wrong.

Your eyes found Sylus’s face almost against your will. He was looking at his father, his expression carefully composed—grateful, humble, dutiful. Everything a crown prince should be. But you knew him, had known him your entire life, and you could see the tightness around his eyes, the way his jaw was clenched just slightly, the tension in his shoulders that no one else would notice.

Then Sylus stood, the movement fluid and graceful, commanding every eye in the room. He placed his hand over his heart and bowed—a gesture of respect and acceptance that somehow managed to be both humble and regal.

“It would be my greatest honor to serve as your king,” he said, his deep voice carrying clearly through the room. “I promise to lead with wisdom, justice, and care for all who call this kingdom home. I will do everything in my power to be worthy of the crown my father has worn so well.”

It was a perfect response. Exactly what everyone needed to hear.

The room erupted in applause, genuine and warm, and Sylus straightened, offering a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Then he sat back down, and you thought perhaps the worst was over. Perhaps you could survive this dinner, could escape to somewhere private and let yourself fall apart in peace.

But the King wasn’t finished.

“Of course,” he continued, still standing, still holding his glass, “a king needs a queen to rule beside him.”

The bottom dropped out of your world.

No. No, please, not yet—

“I’ve been in discussions with several noble families over the past months,” the King went on, seemingly oblivious to the way all the air had been sucked from your lungs. “We’ll be hosting potential matches here at the castle in the coming weeks. The Duke of Verlaine has a daughter of marriageable age. The Prince Xavier of the Pagrarus has expressed interest. There are others as well.” He smiled benevolently, as if he were announcing something wonderful rather than driving a knife through your chest. “We want to ensure Sylus has the opportunity to meet suitable candidates, to find a partner worthy of standing beside him.”

Your whole world was collapsing. The walls of the beautiful dining room seemed to be closing in, the candlelight too bright, too hot, suffocating. It took every ounce of strength you possessed not to break down right there in front of everyone—not to let the sob building in your throat escape, not to let the tears burning behind your eyes fall.

It took every shred of willpower you’d ever had to simply sit there and smile. To blink rapidly, forcing back the wetness threatening to spill over. To keep your breathing steady when your chest felt like it was being crushed.

The room erupted again—cheers, applause, excited chatter. Everyone was so happy, so celebratory. Advisors were already discussing which alliance would be most advantageous. Some of the female staff were sighing dreamily about how romantic it would be. Caleb was grinning, already planning what feasts he’d prepare for the visiting nobles.

You tried to paste on the fakest, brightest smile you could muster. You brought your hands together in applause, the sound hollow and distant to your own ears. You watched yourself from somewhere far away as you played the part of the loyal servant, the supportive friend, the person who was thrilled for her prince.

But inside, you were screaming.

All you could feel was numb—a blessed, horrible numbness that spread through your limbs like ice water, dulling the overwhelming pain and sadness threatening to consume you entirely. It was a mercy and a curse, this numbness. It kept you functional, kept you upright and smiling.

But you knew that later, when you were alone, it would melt away. And then you would shatter completely.

Your eyes met Sylus’s across the table—just for a moment, just a heartbeat—and what you saw there made everything so much worse.

Because he wasn’t smiling either. Not really.

And when his eyes locked with yours, the carefully neutral expression he’d maintained for everyone else cracked—just for you, just for a second. The expression on his face nearly undid you completely. His eyes traced over you with intimate familiarity—cataloging the rigidity of your posture, the false brightness of your smile, the way you’d stopped breathing properly. No one else in this room would notice, but he did. He always did. The raw concern in his gaze, layered with his own barely concealed anguish, told you everything: he knew exactly what this announcement was doing to you, and it was killing him to watch.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The night had already slipped well past the acceptable hour for a young lady to be awake, but sleep had refused to claim you, fluttering just out of reach like a skittish bird evading capture. The royal family had hosted a dinner that evening to celebrate the announcement that Sylus would be crowned soon—a gathering meant to be warm and celebratory, filled with laughter and music and polite admiration. And while it had been all of those things to everyone else, there had been something else lurking beneath the surface whenever Sylus’s eyes found yours across the table, something that tightened the air between you until your breath caught without warning.

You weren’t just nervous.

It was anxiety and sadness that braided together so tightly you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

You’d known this would be coming for a long while. It was only a matter of time before Sylus would have to find a bride—a princess or prince or someone else of importance and station. You’d told yourself you’d make peace with it once it happened, had practiced acceptance in the quiet hours of night, had built walls around your heart to protect it from the inevitable. But now that the time had actually come, now that it was real and immediate and inescapable, you found you couldn’t be happy for him at all. Your heart broke a little more with every second, shattering further the more you allowed yourself to think about it.

You’d slipped out to the gardens wrapped in a thin shawl, desperate for air that didn’t taste like champagne and false smiles. The cool night breeze brushed over your heated skin like a gentle caress, and you let it wash over you, hoping it might carry away some of the heaviness pressing down on your chest.

The royal garden was one of your favorite places in all the world. It was a sanctuary where you could lose yourself in the beauty of nature and the serene quiet that felt increasingly rare. The scent of roses and cherry blossoms wafted through the air, carried by a gentle breeze that rustled the leaves and made the flowers dance in the darkness. The gravel path crunched softly underfoot as you walked deeper into the garden, your feet carrying you automatically toward the labyrinth, toward the hidden center where you and Sylus had shared so many stolen moments.

You breathed slowly, deliberately, trying to settle your racing thoughts. But they wouldn’t quiet.

It felt impossible that Sylus would be King in only a handful of weeks. Impossible that his life was about to change so completely, so irreversibly. Impossible that Sylus would marry someone soon—some beautiful princess or elegant noble who deserved to stand beside him—and it wouldn’t be you. It would never be you.

Your mind began to spiral downward, consuming your whole soul as the gravity of the situation crashed down on you like a wave. With trembling fingers, you carefully pulled out the first love letter from your front pocket—the one you’d been carrying close to your heart like a talisman. You felt tears well up in your eyes as pain overwhelmed you, wracking your body with silent sobs as you reread the familiar words.

“My moonlight, I knew how much you wanted this book…”

The words blurred as tears spilled over, and you didn’t bother wiping them away.

Soon, you heard footsteps behind you—soft but deliberate on the gravel path—and you turned on the bench, expecting perhaps Tara sent to find you, to drag you back inside before anyone noticed your absence. Quickly, hastily, you tried to fold the letter and tuck it back into your pocket, to hide the evidence of your foolish hopes.

But the moment you saw him, tall and unmistakable in the dim lantern light, your heart leapt into your throat and lodged there, making it impossible to breathe.

Sylus.

He stopped a few feet away, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders straight but not stiff. The formal jacket he’d worn to dinner was gone, leaving him in just his white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, the top buttons undone. He looked less like a prince and more like the boy you’d grown up with, the one who used to climb trees with you and steal pastries from the kitchen.

His expression softened the moment he took in your tear-stained face, his brows drawing together with immediate concern.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked quietly, his voice a warm rumble in the still night air, gentle and careful like he was afraid of startling you.

“No,” you admitted, trying desperately to sound calm even as your voice wavered. “Too much thinking.”

Sylus stepped closer, slowly, until the soft glow of the nearest lantern touched his face and revealed something achingly tender in his eyes—something raw and vulnerable that he rarely let anyone see. “About what?”

“About everything.” You hesitated, your fingers twisting in your lap, crumpling the letter still clutched in your hand. “I don’t know what to think anymore. I feel… lost.”

Sylus’s eyes softened even further, as though he understood that feeling better than anyone in the world. As though he’d been feeling exactly the same way. “What are you feeling?” he questioned softly, taking another step closer.

You exhaled shakily, your gaze drifting toward the garden—toward the cherry blossoms swaying in the breeze, their petals occasionally falling like pink snow. Anywhere but at him. Instead of answering his question directly, you countered with your own, deflecting. “Aren’t you overwhelmed?”

Sylus moved so quietly, with such fluid grace, that you didn’t realize he’d stepped directly beside you until the warmth of him brushed against your arm. You looked up, startled by his proximity, by how close he was standing—close enough to touch, close enough to see the flecks of deeper crimson in his eyes.

But you weren’t displeased. You could never be displeased by his nearness.

Your breath caught in your chest. “Are you?” you whispered, needing to know, needing to understand if he was suffering too.

“Yes,” he murmured, his voice rough with honesty as he nodded slowly. “I know it was a long time coming, that I’ve always known this day would arrive. But I thought I had more time.” He paused, and something flickered across his face—pain, regret, frustration. “I feel overwhelmed about all the changes that are about to happen, about everything that’s going to be different.”

He took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice dropped even lower, more intimate. “But I’m more worried about how you’re feeling. About what this is doing to you.”

You lowered your eyes, unable to hold his gaze as the burning sensation behind your eyes intensified, threatening to spill over again. You’d grown accustomed to his charm over the years, to his intelligence and wit, to his occasional bursts of honesty. But when he spoke with this kind of raw sincerity, when his voice softened like silk and honey, when he looked at you like you were the only person in the entire world who mattered—you felt undone in ways you couldn’t name, couldn’t protect yourself against.

As you stayed silent, unable to form words past the lump in your throat, Sylus took a seat beside you on the bench. The wood creaked softly under his weight, and then his hand found yours, found the hands that were wringing anxiously in your lap, still clutching that damned letter.

His touch was warm and gentle as he covered your trembling fingers with his own, his thumb brushing soothingly across your knuckles. He squeezed softly, grounding you, anchoring you to this moment.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, and the endearment nearly broke you.

You shook your head frantically, and despite your best efforts, tears finally slid down your cheeks in silent streams. You refused to voice how you were feeling, couldn’t bring yourself to share the burden crushing your chest. Not only because you didn’t want to weigh him down with your pain, but also because you knew that speaking it aloud would make it real, would drown you even deeper in the sadness and grief threatening to consume you whole.

Sylus released a soft, pained sigh. Then his other hand lifted, cupping your cheek with infinite tenderness, tilting your face toward his so gently you could have resisted if you’d wanted to.

But you didn’t want to.

“Sweetie…” he breathed as he took in the devastation written across your features, the tears tracking down your face, the way your lips trembled as you tried not to sob. His thumb brushed away your tears with such care it made your chest ache. “I hate seeing you like this. It’s killing me.”

“Sy—” you started, but your voice broke.

He shook his head, cutting off whatever you’d been about to say. “This shouldn’t have happened this way. I should’ve been honest with myself a long time ago,” he said, his voice thick with regret and determination.

You looked at him carefully, your vision blurred by tears, but you could see the intensity burning in his crimson eyes. Curious. Hopeful. Terrified.

“I should’ve been honest with you and my parents a long time ago,” he continued, his hand still cradling your face like you were something precious and fragile.

“What do you mean?” you croaked, your heart hammering so hard you thought it might bruise your ribs.

Sylus took a slow, deliberate breath, searching your face with an intensity that made your pulse race wildly. His hand remained on your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with such tenderness that fresh tears spilled over. “There’s something I need to tell you. Something I should have said that night in the garden, and every single day since then—”

“Your Majesty, forgive the intrusion.”

The voice cut through the moment like a blade, and you both froze.

Zayne stood at the entrance to your hidden sanctuary, his expression apologetic but serious. “The King has requested your presence. He said—” The doctor’s words died as his eyes landed on you, taking in your tear-stained face, the way Sylus was holding you. “Are you unwell?” His tone shifted immediately to professional concern. “Should I examine—”

“Can you please give us a moment?” Sylus interrupted, his voice tight with barely restrained frustration. His jaw clenched, and though his eyes never left yours, you could feel the tension radiating from him like heat.

“The King insisted that it was urgent, Your Majesty,” Zayne responded respectfully, though his gaze kept drifting to you with obvious concern.

Sylus closed his eyes, and the expression that crossed his face was so painful it made your heart twist. When he opened them again, they were filled with frustration and resignation and something that looked heartbreakingly like desperation.

He sighed—a sound that seemed to come from the depths of his soul—before slowly standing. But before he pulled away completely, he leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to your forehead. His lips lingered there for a moment too long, warm and soft and achingly gentle, as if he were trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into that single touch.

When he finally straightened, you could see the reluctance in every line of his body.

“I want to continue this conversation,” Sylus said, his voice rougher now, edged with gentle determination as he looked down at you. “Tonight. Please…” His voice dropped, became almost pleading in a way you’d never heard from him before. “Wait for me. Please don’t leave. Promise me.”

Your chest tightened at his tone, at the raw need in his voice. He sounded like he was begging, like your answer might determine the course of his entire life.

Sylus waited, his crimson eyes locked on yours, searching, hoping, needing your response.

Words failed you completely, your throat too tight with emotion to form them, so all you could do was nod. A small, jerky movement, but it was enough.

Relief flooded Sylus’s features, and he gave you a small but genuinely hopeful smile—the first real smile you’d seen from him all evening. Then, surprising you completely, he bowed to you. A real bow, deep and respectful, the kind a prince should never give to a servant.

He hesitated for just a moment, his eyes drinking you in as if memorizing this moment, before finally turning away. His footsteps were reluctant as he walked toward the entrance of your beautiful sanctuary, disappearing into the labyrinth’s shadowed paths, the cherry blossoms falling around him like a benediction.

The silence he left behind felt deafening.

After Sylus departed, Zayne lingered, standing a respectful distance away but clearly unwilling to leave you alone in your current state. After a moment, he moved closer and sat down beside you on the bench. Silence fell between you—not uncomfortable, but heavy with unspoken things.

And then the tears you’d been trying so desperately to hold back came more frequently, harder, until you were shaking with the force of suppressed sobs.

The doctor didn’t speak. He simply, silently, offered his handkerchief—a square of soft white linen that you accepted with trembling fingers.

As you cried, as your shoulders shook and your breath came in gasps, Zayne offered quiet comfort. His hand came to rest gently on your back, rubbing soothing circles between your shoulder blades the way one might comfort a distressed child. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t press for explanations. He simply sat with you in your grief, a steady presence in the darkness.

“I apologize for the interruption,” he said quietly once your breathing had evened out slightly. “I wouldn’t have intruded if the King hadn’t been so insistent.”

You shook your head, wiping at your eyes with his handkerchief. “It’s not your fault,” you managed, your voice hoarse. “You were just doing your duty.”

“Perhaps,” Zayne said carefully. “But I know timing when I see it. And mine was spectacularly poor.”

Despite everything, you let out a watery laugh at that.

Zayne waited until you’d calmed down completely, until your tears had slowed to occasional sniffles and your breathing had steadied. Only then, when he was certain you were stable enough, did he speak again.

“Whoever wrote those letters is a fool if they don’t fight for you.”

He said it with such serious determination, such unflinching honesty, that it left you speechless for a long moment. You turned to look at him, finding his expression completely sincere.

“How did you—” you whispered, your eyes widening in shock and embarrassment.

Zayne interrupted gently, “I know because I once saw you reading those letters in the library, and I’ve noticed you carry them with you wherever you go.” He continued with a small, knowing smile. “And also because Tara told me. She’s quite worried about you.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “This is so embarrassing! I feel like almost everyone knows at this point.”

“Not everyone,” he assured you, and there was something kind in his tone. “But either way, I stand by my statement. You deserve someone who will treasure you, who will fight for you. And whoever is writing those letters—” He paused meaningfully. “They would be a fool to let you slip away without trying.”

Silence fell as you absorbed his words. He was so serious, so earnest about it, and there was something in the way he looked at you that made you wonder if he meant more than he was saying.

Then he stood gracefully, brushing off his trousers. “Please allow me to escort you back to the servants’ quarters. I want to ensure you get back safely. It’s late, and you shouldn’t be walking alone.”

You hesitated, glancing back toward the labyrinth where Sylus had disappeared. He’d asked you to wait for him. Had made you promise. But how long would he be? What if he couldn’t get away? What if his father kept him occupied for hours?

What if you waited and he never came?

The fear was almost paralyzing.

“I…” you started, uncertainty thick in your voice.

“You can decide what to do once you’re back in your room,” Zayne said gently, reading your hesitation accurately. “But out here, in the garden at this hour, alone and upset—it’s not safe. Not for your physical wellbeing or your reputation.”

He was right, of course. Reluctantly, you stood, your legs slightly unsteady beneath you.

You walked together in heavy silence through the garden paths, the gravel crunching beneath your feet, the night air cool against your tear-stained cheeks. Zayne kept a respectful distance but stayed close enough that his presence felt protective rather than intrusive.

Once you arrived at the entrance to the servants’ quarters, he turned to face you fully.

“You are someone extraordinary,” he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of absolute conviction. “And you deserve someone who will fight for you and your love every single day. Someone who won’t let duty or station or fear stand in the way. Remember that.”

Your eyes widened at his words, at the intensity behind them. As you stood there processing what he’d said, trying to understand if there were layers of meaning beneath the surface, silence stretched between you.

Was he talking about Sylus? About himself? About the mysterious letter writer?

Eventually, the doctor spoke again, breaking the spell. “Goodnight,” he said your name with such unexpected gentleness that it made your chest ache all over again.

“Goodnight, Zayne,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He gave you a small, respectful bow before turning and walking away with that same quiet grace, his footsteps fading into the night. Soon he was swallowed by shadows, leaving you standing alone at the threshold of your quarters, left to ponder and process everything that had happened.

Sylus’s almost-confession. His desperate plea for you to wait. Zayne’s knowing words and careful comfort.

The letters that suddenly felt heavier in your pocket.

The impossible hope trying to bloom in your chest despite every attempt to crush it down.

You looked back toward the garden one last time, torn between the promise you’d made and the fear of what keeping it might mean.

In the end, fear won.

You slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind you, and didn’t wait for him to return.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

As the days crawled by, each one blurring into the next in an endless cycle of forced normalcy, you threw yourself into work with desperation. You tried so desperately to keep yourself busy, to fill every waking moment with tasks and duties so there would be no space left to think about Sylus. No room for memories of his hand cupping your cheek, his voice breaking as he’d tried to tell you something important, his lips warm against your forehead.

You also became uncharacteristically social, a shift that didn’t go unnoticed by those who knew you well. You started accepting every invitation, volunteering for extra shifts, participating in activities with other servants that you’d normally decline. You helped in the kitchens even when it wasn’t your assigned duty, joined the laundry maids in their gossip sessions, accompanied the groundskeepers on their rounds. Anything. Everything. As long as it kept you occupied, kept your mind from wandering to places that would break you.

You smiled until your cheeks ached. You laughed at jokes you didn’t find funny. You pretended that everything was fine, that your world hadn’t shattered into a thousand irreparable pieces.

But exhaustion clung to you like a second skin. Dark circles bloomed under your eyes no matter how much sleep you pretended to get. Your appetite had vanished. Your hands trembled when you thought no one was looking, and sometimes you’d find yourself staring at nothing, lost in thoughts you couldn’t escape.

Tara obviously saw right through your carefully constructed facade. She knew you too well, had been your friend for too long to be fooled by false smiles and deflecting conversation. She could see how much pain you were in, could read it in every forced laugh and averted gaze. She tried to be there for you, tried to create opportunities for you to talk, to let it out, to lean on her the way friends should.

But you pushed her away every time, your voice bright and brittle as glass.

“We knew this would happen sooner or later,” you’d say with a shrug that was meant to look casual but came across as defensive. “It’s not a surprise. I’m fine, really.”

Or: “We should be happy for Sylus. This is what he was born for. It’s a good thing.”

The words tasted like ash in your mouth, but you kept saying them. As if repetition could make them true. As if you could convince yourself along with everyone else.

Tara would look at you with such sadness, such frustration, but she didn’t push. Not yet. She just stayed close, a silent presence reminding you that when you were ready to stop pretending, she’d be there to catch you.

Whenever you crossed paths with Zayne, which happened more frequently than you’d like, he would look at you with an expression that combined professional care with deep personal sympathy. His eyes would search your face, cataloging the signs of your suffering with a physician’s attention to detail—the exhaustion and the barely concealed grief.

Somehow you felt as if he knew. Not just that you were struggling, but the specific nature of your pain. He knew about your feelings for the prince, understood the impossible situation you’d found yourself in. And though the knowledge should have embarrassed you, should have made you avoid him out of shame, there was something comforting about being seen. About not having to pretend, at least with him.

Deep down, you knew he would never share your secret with anyone else. Zayne was nothing if not discreet, bound by both professional ethics and personal honor.

Still, you found yourself trying to avoid the doctor as well, because he reminded you too vividly of that night in the heart of the labyrinth. Every time you saw him, you were transported back to those moments—Sylus’s hand on your cheek, his desperate “wait for me,” the promise you’d made and then broken. The hope that had bloomed so brilliantly in your chest before you’d crushed it down out of fear.

You’d had so much hope in that moment, had let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, the impossible could become possible.

But it was too good to be true. It had to be. Sylus was a prince, soon to be king, and you were just a servant. The love you carried for him—vast and consuming and eternal—could never be reciprocated. Not in any way that mattered. Not in any way that could overcome the insurmountable distance between your worlds.

When you were finally alone at night, though, when all the distractions fell away and there was nothing left but you and the darkness and the truth you couldn’t outrun, your mind wouldn’t let you rest. The thoughts you’d managed to suppress all day would come flooding back with a vengeance, drowning you in what-ifs and if-onlys and the echo of Sylus’s voice saying things you couldn’t let yourself believe.

You’d pull out those letters—those beautiful, devastating letters—and read them until the words blurred, until you’d memorized every loop and curve of the handwriting, until your tears made the ink run.

“My moonlight… I am truly enchanted by you… My affection and admiration for you grow stronger and fonder every day…”

The words that had once filled you with such joy now felt like cruel mockery.

You spiraled in those dark hours, your thoughts turning vicious and self-destructive. And unfortunately, shamefully, you cried yourself to sleep almost every single night, your pillow damp with silent sobs, your chest aching with a grief that had no outlet.

And Sylus?

You avoided him like the plague, like he carried some contagion that would destroy you if you got too close—which, in a way, he did.

You always manufactured excuses when he tried to summon you through official channels or when he sent messages asking for a private moment. “I’m needed in the kitchens.” “I’ve been assigned to help with the guest chambers.” “I’m not feeling well.” The lies came easier each time, though they tasted more bitter.

Whenever he tried to enter spaces or rooms where he knew you’d be—the library where you used to read together, the kitchens during meal preparations, the servants’ dining hall—you would either studiously refuse to look at him, keeping your eyes fixed on your work with desperate intensity, or you’d excuse yourself from the room entirely. Mumbling something about forgotten duties or remembered tasks, fleeing before he could corner you, before he could say whatever it was he’d been trying to say that night.

You just couldn’t face him. Not now. Maybe not ever.

The cowardice of it ate at you, but the alternative—actually talking to him, hearing whatever explanation or gentle rejection he had prepared—felt impossible to survive.

And whenever you did avoid him, whenever you felt his gaze on you and deliberately turned away, whenever you saw him entering a room and immediately found a reason to leave, you couldn’t help but notice the pain that flickered across his face.

It was brief, quickly masked behind princely composure, but it was there. In the tightening around his eyes, the way his jaw would clench, the slump of his shoulders when he thought no one was watching.

You knew Sylus was hurting. Of course you did—you knew him better than anyone, could read him like one of your beloved books.

Except you never once believed it could be for the reasons your traitorous heart wanted to imagine. No, you told yourself firmly, he was hurt because his best friend was pulling away. Because the person he’d relied on for support and companionship since childhood was suddenly unavailable. It was the pain of losing a friend, nothing more.

It couldn’t be anything more.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t see because you’d been so careful to avoid him—was the true extent of Sylus’s torment.

You didn’t see how he’d return to his chambers each night and stand at his window, staring out at the gardens, at the labyrinth where he’d almost told you everything, his reflection in the glass looking haunted and hollow.

You didn’t know that he’d stopped writing the letters because what was the point when you wouldn’t even look at him? When you’d promised to wait and then disappeared?

You didn’t see him during his meetings with potential brides and their families, how he’d go through the motions with mechanical politeness while his eyes remained empty, how he’d compare every woman to you and find them all wanting.

You didn’t know that Luke and Kieran had started avoiding him during his darker moods, when his temper would fray and his control would slip, when the mask of the perfect prince would crack to reveal the desperate man underneath.

You didn’t see him clutching the letter he’d written but never sent—the one that explained everything, that laid his heart bare—his knuckles white, his hands shaking.

You didn’t know that he’d asked about you obsessively. “How is she? Is she eating? Is she sleeping? Did she seem well?”

You didn’t know that your absence was slowly destroying him.

One day, unbeknownst to you, Sylus sought out Tara, his desperation finally overcoming his pride.

He found her in one of the many halls of the castle, carrying fresh linens toward the guest wings. His heart hammered in his chest as he called out, his voice rougher than he’d intended, “Tara. A word, please.”

She stopped and turned slowly, and the moment her eyes met his, Sylus felt the full force of her anger like a physical blow.

Tara had never been particularly good at concealing how she truly felt, had never bothered to master the art of courtly composure. And right now, she looked visibly irritated—no, beyond irritated. She looked furious in a way that would have made most people back away.

She glanced around the corridor, noting the other servants passing by, the guards stationed at intervals. She waited, jaw tight, until the last person had rounded the corner and they were as alone as they could be in the castle’s public spaces.

Then she marched toward him with such aggressive intent that Sylus actually took a step back.

“You better fix this,” she hissed, jabbing a finger hard into his chest—hard enough that he felt it through the layers of his formal jacket. Her eyes blazed with protective fury. “I don’t care how you do it, but you need to fix this mess you’ve created. Now.”

The disrespect of it—a servant speaking to a prince this way, touching him without permission, making demands—would have been shocking to anyone else. But Sylus had known Tara almost as long as he’d known you, and he understood that her anger came from a place of love. Love for you. Her best friend who was falling apart.

“She won’t talk to me, Tara,” Sylus said, and he hated how desperate he sounded, how his careful princely facade crumbled in the face of her righteous anger. His hands clenched at his sides. “She won’t even look at me. How am I supposed to fix this if she won’t give me a chance to explain?”

“You’re smart, Sylus. Everyone’s always going on about how brilliant you are, how strategic, how you’re always three steps ahead.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm that cut like a blade. “So use that big brain of yours and figure it out.”

She stepped closer, her voice dropping but losing none of its intensity. “She deserves better than whatever this nightmare is, and you know it. She deserves better than secret letters and almost-confessions and being left in the dark while noble families parade their daughters in front of you like prize horses.”

The prince stood there in heavy silence, each word landing like a physical blow. The inner turmoil that had been building for days—weeks, if he was honest—was becoming unbearable. He felt like he was being torn apart, caught between duty and desire, between what was expected of him and what his heart demanded.

“I know you’re hurting too, Sylus,” Tara said, and her tone shifted slightly, became marginally more sympathetic though still edged with frustration. “I can see it. You look almost as bad as she does.”

For a moment, something vulnerable flickered across his face.

“But she doesn’t deserve someone who whispers the prettiest words in secret but never has the courage to back them up with action,” Tara continued, and the sympathy vanished, replaced by disappointment that somehow hurt worse than the anger. “She doesn’t deserve to be kept in the dark, to be made to hope and then abandoned. She doesn’t deserve to cry herself to sleep every night while you hide behind your duties and your crown.”

At her words, Sylus’s eyes widened, genuine shock breaking through his composure. “She’s been—” He couldn’t finish the sentence. The image of you crying alone, suffering because of him, because of his cowardice, made something crack in his chest. “I didn’t… I thought she was avoiding me because she didn’t—”

“Didn’t what? Didn’t care?” Tara laughed bitterly. “Are you really that clueless?”

“I—” Sylus started, but Tara quickly cut him off.

“Sylus, I’ve known you for years. Since we were children running through these halls together.” Her expression softened just slightly, became almost pitying. “I know how you look at her. I’ve seen it since we were young—the way your eyes follow her across a room, the way you smile differently when she’s around, the way you’ve always made excuses to be near her.”

She crossed her arms, fixing him with a knowing stare. “It was pretty easy to connect the secret admirer letters to you. Who else writes with that specific slant? Who else knows all her favorite things? Who else would use phrases like ‘my moonlight’?”

Sylus felt heat creep up his neck. He’d thought he’d been so careful, so subtle.

“I know you’re in a difficult position,” Tara continued, and now her voice carried genuine understanding alongside the frustration. “I know the pressure you’re under, the expectations, the weight of the crown. I’m not unsympathetic to that.”

She stepped forward one final time, her voice dropping to something fierce and protective and absolutely unyielding.

“But if you truly love her the way you wrote that you do in those beautiful letters, if even half of what you said was real, then you need to fight for her like your life depends on it. Because hers certainly feels like it does.”

The words hung in the air between them, a challenge and a plea all at once.

Sylus stood frozen, his mind racing, his heart hammering. Everything Tara had said was true. Every accusation, every disappointed observation, every demand. He had been a coward. He had let his fear of duty, of disappointing his father, of the complications and scandal override what mattered most.

You.

He’d let you slip away when he should have been holding on with both hands.

“She deserves the best,” Tara said, and her voice cracked slightly with emotion—worry for her friend, frustration with the situation, exhaustion from watching two people she cared about destroy themselves. “And right now? This is a literal nightmare for her. She’s breaking, Sylus. Slowly but surely, she’s breaking apart.”

She turned to leave, but paused, throwing one final look over her shoulder.

“So fix it. I don’t care what it takes, what rules you have to break, what expectations you have to shatter. Just… fix it. Before it’s too late. Before she’s so broken that even your pretty words can’t put her back together.”

And then she was gone, leaving Sylus standing alone in the corridor, her words echoing in his mind like a death knell.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

Then, slowly, determination began to harden in his chest, replacing the despair and helplessness that had been consuming him.

Tara was right. He’d been a coward. He’d been letting circumstance and duty dictate his life when he should have been fighting for what—for who—mattered most.

He thought of you crying yourself to sleep. Of you avoiding him because you thought he didn’t want you. Of you suffering while he suffered, both of you too afraid to bridge the distance between you.

No more.

He was done with secret letters and stolen moments and almost-confessions. He was done letting fear win.

If he had to defy his father, if he had to cause a scandal, if he had to turn the entire kingdom upside down—so be it.

You were worth it. You had always been worth it.

He just had to make you believe that too.

And he knew exactly how to do it.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

A day after Sylus had his confrontation with Tara, he summoned you.

You’d been in the laundry rooms, mechanically folding linens with the other servants, your mind blissfully blank from the repetitive work, when Luke and Kieran appeared in the doorway. The moment you saw them, your stomach dropped. You knew—instantly, instinctively—why they were there.

“His Majesty requests your presence,” Luke said, his usual playfulness notably absent. His expression was serious, almost apologetic.

“In his private office,” Kieran added. “Immediately.”

You felt panic spike through your veins, sharp and immediate. Your hands stilled on the sheet you’d been folding, gripping the fabric too tightly. “I… I’m in the middle of—”

“It wasn’t a request,” Luke interrupted gently but firmly, cutting off your excuse before you could fully form it.

The words hung heavy in the air. Not a request. An order.

Your mouth went dry. In all the years you’d known Sylus—through childhood games and adolescent adventures and the complicated feelings of adulthood—he had never once used his title or position to command you. Never pulled rank, never treated you as anything less than an equal despite the vast difference in your stations. He would only do so now if it was absolutely necessary, if he’d exhausted every other option.

Which meant you couldn’t refuse. Couldn’t make another excuse. Couldn’t run.

“I see,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. You carefully set down the linen with trembling fingers, smoothing out wrinkles that didn’t exist. “Of course. I’ll… I’ll come now.”

You followed the twins through the castle corridors, your heart hammering against your ribs with each step. Nervous didn’t even begin to cover what you were feeling. Anxious as hell was closer. Terrified was probably most accurate.

Your mind raced with possibilities. What could he possibly want? Was he going to formally ask you to stop avoiding him? Demand an explanation? Tell you that your behavior was inappropriate and you were being reassigned? Or worse—much worse—was he going to gently, kindly, tell you that he knew about your feelings and that while he cared for you as a friend, that was all it could ever be?

The walk felt endless and far too short all at once.

When you finally reached the ornate doors of his private office—a room you’d been in countless times before but which suddenly felt foreign and intimidating—Luke knocked twice.

“She’s here, Your Majesty,” Kieran called through the heavy wood.

There was a pause, a moment of suspended silence, and then you heard his voice. That deep, familiar voice that haunted your dreams.

“Let her in.”

The twins pushed open the doors and stepped aside, gesturing for you to enter. You caught Kieran giving you an encouraging look, something almost pitying in his expression, before the doors closed behind you with a soft, final click.

And then you were alone with him.

Your anxiety and nerves multiplied tenfold, flooding your system until you felt almost lightheaded. Your hands began shaking at your sides, and you clasped them together tightly to hide the tremor.

Sylus stood near the window, backlit by the afternoon sun streaming through the glass, and for a moment he was just a silhouette—tall and broad-shouldered and achingly familiar.

Then he turned to face you fully, and your breath caught in your throat.

When his eyes—the very same piercing red eyes you love—find yours across the room, they ignite with a spark of longing, and you swear your whole world stops spinning.

As you regarded him—truly looked at him for the first time in over a week of careful avoidance—you couldn’t help but notice how utterly exhausted he looked. How truly bad he looked in a way that made your chest constrict painfully.

There were dark circles under his eyes that rivaled your own, deep shadows that spoke of sleepless nights. His silver hair, usually immaculate, looked like he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly. His formal jacket was slightly rumpled, his collar not quite straight.

He looked like a man who’d been suffering. Like a man who’d been slowly coming apart at the seams.

You didn’t know if it was even possible, but somehow seeing him like this made you feel even more heartbroken than you already were. Because he was hurting too, and some terrible part of you had hoped—had needed to believe—that at least he was fine. That your absence hadn’t affected him beyond mild inconvenience.

But clearly, devastatingly, that wasn’t true.

He looked at you with such raw vulnerability, such naked longing, that it did something to you—cracked something open in your chest that you’d been trying desperately to keep sealed shut. His crimson eyes traced over your face like a man dying of thirst finally seeing water, drinking in every detail as if he’d been starved for the sight of you.

You both stood there in heavy silence for a long moment, neither moving, neither speaking. Just staring at each other across the space of his office like there was a chasm between you instead of a few feet of expensive carpet.

The air felt charged, electric with everything unsaid.

“Sy—” you whispered finally, your voice cracking on his name.

“Sweetie,” he breathed at the exact same moment, and the endearment nearly broke you. “I can’t express how sorry I am.” His voice was rough, raw with emotion he wasn’t bothering to hide. “How much I’ve missed you. How empty everything feels without you.”

He took a half-step forward, his hand lifting slightly before falling back to his side, as if he’d stopped himself from reaching for you.

“I’m sorry for how much I’ve hurt you,” he continued, his voice dropping to something more gentle, more tender. “I never wanted that. God, I never wanted that. But I… I handled everything wrong, and you paid the price for my cowardice.”

The sincerity in his voice, the genuine remorse and pain, made your eyes burn with unshed tears. A small voice inside your head—the part of you that loved him desperately and wanted nothing more than to close the distance between you—told you to accept his words. To listen and believe what he was trying to tell you. To let him explain, to give him the chance he was asking for.

But the destructive part of you, the part that had been whispering cruel things in the darkness for weeks, that had convinced you that you weren’t worthy of being loved by someone like him—that part wouldn’t let you. Couldn’t let you.

You felt your hands tremble even more violently as you stood there, frozen between wanting to run toward him and wanting to flee entirely. Your throat tightened, making it hard to breathe, hard to speak.

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you muttered, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue. You looked away from his intense gaze, unable to hold it, unable to face the vulnerability and honesty you saw there. “I’ve just been busy. That’s all. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

His jaw ticked in response, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. You could see the disappointment flash across his face, the way his shoulders tensed. He’d hoped—desperately hoped—that you would believe him, would listen to him, would meet him halfway.

But you couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The silence that stretched between you then felt suffocating, uncomfortable in a way silence with Sylus had never been before. It left you wanting to squirm, to apologize, to take back your words.

But you stayed still. Stayed quiet.

Finally, Sylus spoke again, and his voice had shifted—still gentle, but with an undercurrent of determination that made you look up despite yourself.

“I asked you to come here for two reasons,” he said carefully, watching your reaction. “One, I needed to tell you everything I wanted to say that night in the garden. Everything I’ve been trying to say for weeks, for months—maybe for years if I’m being honest with myself.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

“But I can see that you need more time,” he continued, and something that looked like pain flickered across his face. “That you need more than just words from me. You need proof. Action. Something tangible.”

He paused, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Unfortunately, I don’t have much time to give you. Which brings me to the second reason I summoned you.”

You finally looked up at him fully, meeting his gaze with wide, uncertain eyes. Your pulse thrummed in your throat.

Sylus straightened slightly, and you caught a glimpse of the prince he was—the leader he was about to become. Authoritative. Decisive. But underneath it, you could still see the man you loved, vulnerable and hopeful and desperate.

“I’m being summoned to one of the borders of our kingdom,” he explained, his tone becoming more formal, more official. “The region that borders our neighboring country of Athana. There have been some tensions, some concerns about our alliance. They need me there to strengthen diplomatic relations, to negotiate, to ensure peace.”

He took a breath, and his voice softened again, became more personal.

“It will be several days’ journey, and I’ll need to stay for at least a week, possibly longer depending on how the negotiations proceed.” His eyes searched yours, intense and unwavering. “And there’s no one I trust more than you. No one whose counsel I value more, whose presence I need more.”

Your breath caught as you realized what he was about to say.

“So I want you to come along on this trip. As my personal advisor. My companion.”

The word hung between you, loaded with meaning.

“Surely there’s someone else more qualified—” you started automatically, your mind scrambling for escape, for any excuse that might save you from days of forced proximity, from the torture of being near him while maintaining your walls. “One of your actual advisors, or—”

“No,” Sylus interrupted, and his voice carried such controlled determination, such absolute certainty, that it cut through your protests like a blade. “And it wasn’t a request.”

There it was again. The authority. The command.

You gulped nervously, your throat clicking audibly in the quiet room. You couldn’t look away from him, caught in the gravity of his gaze like a moon trapped in orbit.

For a moment, Sylus’s commanding expression melted into something infinitely more gentle. His hands, which had been clasped behind his back in a formal pose, twitched at his sides as if fighting the urge to reach for you. His eyes roamed over your face with such tender concern it made your chest ache.

You looked so beautiful to him, even exhausted and hurting. Maybe especially then, because at least you were real and present and in front of him instead of a ghost he kept catching glimpses of around corners.

He wanted to cross the room and pull you into his arms. Wanted to hold you until you stopped trembling, until you believed that he would never willingly hurt you. Wanted to pour his heart out in a way that left no room for doubt or fear. Wanted to console you, to take care of you, to prove with actions what his words hadn’t been able to convey.

But he held himself still. Held himself back. Because he could see you weren’t ready for that yet. Could see that you’d bolt if he pushed too hard, too fast.

So instead, he just whispered with aching sincerity, “There’s no one else better. There’s no one else I want by my side. Just you. It’s always been you.”

The words landed between you like a confession, like a promise.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, unable to form a response. Your mind was spinning, your heart racing so fast you felt dizzy.

Sylus held your gaze for one more long moment, letting the weight of his words settle, before he straightened again and added with quiet finality, “We leave tonight. I’ll have someone sent to your quarters to help you pack. Be ready by sunset.”

It wasn’t a discussion. Wasn’t a negotiation.

And somehow, despite your fear, despite every instinct screaming at you to refuse, to run, to protect yourself—you found yourself nodding.

Because maybe Tara was right. Maybe Sylus was right.

Maybe you did need more than words.

Maybe you needed time. Proximity. A chance to see beyond your own fears and insecurities.

Maybe this trip would break you completely.

Or maybe—just maybe—it would finally put you back together.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The journey was long and excruciating in ways that had nothing to do with the rutted roads or the endless miles.

The ride in the carriage felt interminable, each hour stretching into eternity as you sat across from Sylus in a space that was somehow both too small and too vast. You weren’t able to talk to him no matter how hard he tried to draw you out, and the silence between you felt like a living thing—heavy and suffocating and wrong in a way that silence with Sylus had never been before.

It hurt you just as much as it clearly hurt him. You could see it in the way his jaw would tighten when you gave another one-word answer, in the flicker of pain that crossed his face each time you looked away. But you just couldn’t find the words, couldn’t push past the wall you’d built around yourself. You felt numb and hurt and so desperately confused that speaking felt impossible.

Sylus tried, though he was careful not to push too hard. He’d offer gentle conversation starters, then let them fade naturally when you didn’t respond. He never pressed, never demanded engagement—just left the door open for you whenever you might be ready to walk through it.

He’d point out landmarks as they passed, his voice soft and undemanding. “That tree marks the border between regions,” he’d mention quietly, not expecting a response. Or he’d share a brief story about a previous trip, keeping his tone light and easy, giving you the option to listen or let the words wash over you like background noise.

He talked about small things—the beauty of the countryside, a funny incident from his childhood, observations about the changing landscape. Never anything heavy. Never anything that required you to engage beyond your comfort level.

And you? You sat mostly silent across from him, your hands folded in your lap, your eyes fixed on the passing scenery outside the window. Occasionally you’d nod or offer a soft “mm-hmm” of acknowledgment, and each time you did, you’d catch the small, grateful smile that would flicker across his face. As if even that tiny bit of interaction was a gift.

In your defense—not that you were sure you deserved defending—you were honestly exhausted from all the traveling. The constant jostling of the carriage, the lack of proper sleep, the emotional turmoil that had been your constant companion for weeks now. It all weighed on you until even keeping your eyes open felt like a monumental effort.

You stopped occasionally for meals at small roadside inns, and to camp out overnight when no suitable accommodations could be found. During these stops, Sylus was quietly attentive without being overbearing.

He’d make sure food was available for you but never forced you to eat more than you wanted. He’d suggest you sit closer to the fire if the evening was cold, but accepted without comment if you preferred to stay where you were. He’d ask once if you were comfortable, if you needed anything, and then let it be.

It was gentle care—the kind that didn’t demand gratitude or acknowledgment, that didn’t make you feel smothered or pitied. Just… thoughtful. Considerate. The way Sylus had always been with you, even as children.

The sleeping arrangements were decided quietly on the first night. “You should take the carriage,” he’d said simply. “It’s more comfortable and private. I’ll be fine with Luke and Kieran.”

You’d started to protest, feeling guilty, but he’d just given you a small, tired smile. “Please. I’d feel better knowing you were resting properly. That’s all I ask.”

And because it was phrased as a request rather than a command, because he’d looked at you with such quiet hope that you’d accept this one small thing, you’d agreed.

He was respectful in a way that made you feel cared for without feeling obligated. There was no hovering, no constant checking—just quiet consideration that left space for you to breathe.

But the destructive part of you—that terrible, insidious voice that had taken up permanent residence in your head—would whisper that it was just friendship. Just the natural kindness of someone who’d known you forever and felt responsible for you.

*He’s only being considerate because you’ve been friends since childhood. It doesn’t mean anything more.*

Yet whenever you tried to sleep, alone in the dark carriage with only the sound of the horses and the distant murmur of voices around the campfire, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

About the man who was so respectful of your boundaries that he’d give you space even when you could see it hurt him. About how he’d looked at you in his office with such quiet longing. About the almost-confession in the garden that haunted your dreams. About the letters from your secret admirer, those beautiful letters that spoke of devotion and enchantment.

You felt safe in the carriage, surrounded by his scent and wrapped in blankets he’d quietly arranged before stepping away. But you also felt restless, your mind refusing to quiet, your heart aching with want and fear in equal measure.

You didn’t sleep much during those nights. Couldn’t sleep, really. Just dozed fitfully, waking at every sound, every shift of the carriage, replaying conversations and moments over and over until they lost all meaning.

Sylus noticed, of course he did. He’d always been quietly observant when it came to you, noticing things without making you feel watched or scrutinized.

On the third day of travel, after you’d nearly dozed off during a rest stop, he’d mentioned gently, “There’s an inn about three-quarters of the way to the border. We could stop there tonight if you’d like. Proper beds, a chance to rest.”

He’d phrased it as an option, not a decision he’d made for you. Giving you the choice.

“That… that would be nice,” you’d admitted quietly, and the soft relief in his expression made your chest ache.

As evening approached and the landscape began to shift from open countryside to a small village, you felt your heart rate pick up with nervous anticipation. The thought of a real bed, a proper room, maybe even a bath—it sounded like heaven.

The inn appeared as the sun was setting, bathing everything in warm golden light. It was a large, cozy-looking building with smoke curling from multiple chimneys, warm light glowing in the windows, flower boxes beneath the sills even this late in the season. It looked welcoming. Safe.

As soon as the carriage rolled to a stop in the courtyard, Sylus stepped out first with fluid grace. But instead of walking toward the entrance, he turned back and stood beside the carriage door, his hand outstretched toward you.

Not demanding. Just… offering. His crimson eyes soft in the fading light.

Your breath caught at the gesture—so simple, so gentlemanly, yet somehow intimate in a way that made your pulse quicken. You placed your hand in his, feeling the warmth of his palm against yours, the gentle strength as his fingers closed carefully around yours.

He helped you down from the carriage with such careful attention, his other hand hovering near your waist—not quite touching, just there in case you needed the support. When your feet touched the ground and you wobbled slightly from stiffness, his hand settled lightly at your side to steady you.

The touch was brief, respectful, but it burned through the layers of your traveling clothes, making you acutely aware of every point of contact between you.

For a moment, you were standing close enough that you could see the flecks of deeper crimson in his eyes, could feel the warmth radiating from him in the cooling evening air.

Your eyes met and held.

Time seemed to slow, the sounds of the inn and the village fading into insignificance. His hand was still wrapped gently around yours, not gripping or holding tight—just connected. Present.

You could see everything in his gaze—the longing he couldn’t quite hide, the tenderness, the quiet hope. It was all there, offered freely without demand or expectation.

Your heart thundered in your chest. Heat crept up your neck and into your cheeks, and you knew he could feel your pulse quicken through your hands.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. You just stood there, hands clasped, lost in a moment that felt fragile and precious.

You were the first to break it, looking away with a flustered and shy expression, your eyes dropping to focus somewhere around his collar. You couldn’t handle the intensity, the vulnerability, the way looking at him made you want things you’d convinced yourself you couldn’t have.

From your peripheral vision, you caught the small, soft smile that curved his lips—not triumphant or possessive, but gentle. Understanding. As if he knew you needed to look away and didn’t hold it against you.

He released your hand slowly, his fingers trailing against yours for just a moment before letting go completely. Then he stepped back slightly, giving you space, before gesturing toward the inn with a quiet, “Shall we?”

His hand settled at the small of your back as you walked—so light you almost couldn’t feel it, just enough to guide without controlling.

Once you both entered the building, you were greeted by warmth and the smell of woodsmoke and cooking food. The interior was cozy and well-maintained, with dark wooden beams, a large fireplace crackling in the main room, and the general atmosphere of a well-loved establishment.

Luke and Kieran were already at the front desk, speaking with the innkeeper—a rotund, friendly-looking man with a welcoming smile. But as you approached, you noticed the twins’ expressions looked… odd. Confused. Almost suspiciously so.

Luke glanced up as Sylus approached, and something flickered across his face. “Ah… Your Majesty, there seems to be an issue with the accommodations.”

Sylus, who looked quietly exhausted from the long journey, simply waited. “What kind of issue?”

Kieran spoke up, his tone sheepish in a way that felt almost… deliberate. “The rooms we reserved ahead of time… well, there was apparently a miscommunication with the courier.” He gestured apologetically at the ledger. “They only have one suite available. The rest of the rooms are occupied by some Duke’s entourage who arrived earlier today.”

Your heart plummeted straight to your stomach.

One room. One suite.

“I can stay in the servants’ quarters,” you said immediately, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Or—or I’m sure there’s a small room somewhere, even a storage room would be fine—”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Sylus said quietly, and there was something almost hesitant in his voice. Not commanding. Almost… asking. “The suite should have a sitting area, and I can take the couch. Would that… would that be acceptable to you?”

He was giving you the choice. Actually asking rather than deciding for you.

You looked at him—at the exhaustion in his face, the gentle hope in his eyes, the way he was clearly trying not to pressure you while also obviously not wanting to be separated.

“I…” you started, your cheeks burning. “If you’re certain it’s not… I mean, if it’s not improper…”

“I’ll be perfectly respectful,” he said softly. “I promise. I just…” He paused, something vulnerable crossing his face. “I’d sleep better knowing you were safe and comfortable. But only if you’re comfortable with the arrangement.”

The sincerity in his voice, the way he was leaving the decision entirely in your hands, made something loosen in your chest.

“Alright,” you whispered. “We can share the suite.”

The relief that flooded his features was so profound it made your heart ache.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

As Sylus opened the door to your room, you both stepped inside and took in the view together.

The room was bathed in the warm, flickering glow of candlelight, casting soft shadows on the walls and pooling on the wooden floor. The space was cozy and inviting in its simplicity. Warm wooden furniture gave the room a rustic charm—a sturdy dresser, a small table with two chairs near the window, and a wardrobe in the corner. Fluffy cream-colored rugs were scattered across the floor, soft enough to sink into. A stone fireplace sat ready to be lit when the evening chill set in, with a neat stack of firewood beside it. The balcony doors were slightly ajar, allowing the cool evening breeze to drift in, carrying with it the scent of pine and distant rain. Beyond the balcony was a picture-perfect view of the distant forest and dreamy landscape—rolling hills disappearing into twilight, the first stars beginning to emerge.

The room was beautiful in its simplicity. Intimate. Sweet. And there, dominating the center of the space, was one large bed with a quilted coverlet and an abundance of pillows.

Just one bed.

No couch. No chaise. No secondary sleeping option whatsoever.

You heard Sylus swear quietly under his breath behind you, the curse so soft you almost missed it. When you glanced at him, you saw he’d stopped in the doorway, his expression caught somewhere between resignation and concern as he took in the sleeping arrangements.

“Look, I can always just sleep on the floor,” Sylus said quickly, already moving into problem-solving mode. He grimaced slightly, scrubbing a hand over his face in a gesture of exhaustion before walking toward the plush rug positioned beside the bed. “It’ll be fine. This rug looks comfortable enough.”

You swallowed nervously, your heart suddenly beating too fast, your palms going damp. You tried to steady your breathing the best you could before speaking.

A thousand thoughts overwhelmed your mind as you watched him lower himself to sit on the rug, testing it as if genuinely considering spending the night there. Your chest tightened with a mixture of emotions—guilt that he’d sacrifice his comfort, confusion about what this meant, and something else. Something warm and terrifying that you didn’t want to examine too closely.

This was Sylus. Your Sylus. The man who’d just traveled for days, who looked exhausted, who’d been sleeping on the ground to give you the carriage. And now he was prepared to sleep on the floor again rather than make you uncomfortable.

“Sy, wait,” you whispered, cringing internally at how desperate you sounded. The plea came out softer than you’d intended, more vulnerable. “The bed is clearly big enough for the both of us.”

“I’ll be fine,” he replied, and to demonstrate, he laid back on the rug and stretched his limbs out as if to prove its adequacy. “See? Comfy.”

But you could see the lie in the tension of his shoulders, in the way he shifted almost immediately to find a better position.

“Sylus…” you sighed, crossing your arms loosely in front of your chest—more to give your hands something to do than out of any real frustration. “We both know that’s not true.” You huffed out a nervous laugh, your eyes darting around the room to avoid direct eye contact with him. Your hands trembled slightly as you picked up your bag from where you’d set it down, carrying it carefully to the wooden dresser across from the bed.

“And besides,” you continued, your voice quiet but firm, “you’ll be sore tomorrow and won’t get proper sleep. You need rest too.”

You smiled nervously, timidly, at him as you pushed some stray hair back behind your ear—a nervous gesture you’d had since childhood. Your cheeks felt warm.

Sylus remained sitting on the rug, looking up at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read. Uncertainty? Hope? Fear?

“Please,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around yourself. “We’re both adults. And you’re the future king—you shouldn’t be sleeping on the floor like… like you’re being punished or something.”

There was a long pause. You could hear your own heartbeat in the silence.

“Right,” Sylus finally replied, and his voice was just as nervous as yours, touched with something almost shy. He sat up slowly, running a hand through his silver hair. “Are you sure?” he tried again, and you could see genuine concern in his eyes. “I truly don’t want to make you uncomfortable. That’s the last thing I want.”

“Sy,” you looked at him properly then, your hands fidgeting nervously at your sides as you frowned slightly. All your previous worries came rushing back tenfold, crashing over you like a wave.

Of course he wouldn’t want to share a bed with you. You were sure you looked like a wounded kitten right now, but you couldn’t help it. The thought that sharing a bed with you might terrify him or disgust him made something crack in your chest.

“Am I really that awful to share a bed with—” you started, your voice small and hurt.

“No!” He cut you off immediately, standing up as his eyes went wide with something close to panic. The word came out too quickly, too forcefully, and he seemed to realise it because he cleared his throat, a blush coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears in obvious embarrassment.

“I mean, no, of course not,” he said more gently, softer. “I just… I truly don’t want to make you uncomfortable. That’s all. I’d never—you could never be awful. That’s not… that’s not what this is about at all.”

Your heart warmed at his words, at the sincerity bleeding through every syllable. Relief flooded through you, loosening the knot of anxiety in your stomach.

“You won’t make me uncomfortable, I promise,” you reassured him with a small but genuine smile that you hoped conveyed your honesty. “As long as you’re fine with it too? I don’t want to force you into anything you’re not comfortable with.”

Sylus’s expression softened into something achingly tender. Slowly, carefully, he reciprocated your smile and nodded. “Of course, sweetie. If you’re certain, then… yes. Thank you.”

They both stood there, smiling at each other across the small room, and for a moment everything else fell away. The awkwardness, the tension, the confusion of the past weeks—it all dimmed in the warmth of that shared smile. In the familiar comfort of just being together.

The moment stretched, gentle and sweet and fragile.

Then you realised you’d been staring at him for too long, and warmth flooded your cheeks and neck, rising up like a tide. You felt flustered and shy and completely exposed under his soft gaze, like he could see every thought racing through your mind, every feeling you’d tried so hard to hide.

“S-sorry,” you stammered, mentally cursing yourself for the stutter. “Let me go find my nightgown.”

You turned quickly, reaching for your pack with slightly trembling hands. When you pulled out your nightgown—a simple, modest thing—reality struck you like cold water.

There was no changing screen. No separate room. No privacy. How were you supposed to change in front of him? You hadn’t thought this through at all.

You stood there frozen, clutching the nightgown, feeling increasingly foolish.

“What are you apologising for?” Sylus questioned gently from behind you, his voice closer than you’d expected but not uncomfortably so. “There’s nothing to apologise for.”

Your back was still turned to him, and you felt vulnerable, exposed in a way that had nothing to do with clothing. But his gentle words worked like a balm, and you felt your stiff shoulders begin to relax despite your nervousness.

You heard the soft sound of Sylus walking from the rug, heard his careful footsteps as he walked slowly toward you. Not rushing. Not demanding. Just… approaching.

At your continued silence, he spoke again, his voice low and achingly soft.

“If anything, I should be the one apologising.”

Your eyes widened. You froze completely, your hands stilling on the fabric you’d been nervously twisting. Your whole body felt like a live wire, every nerve ending aware of his proximity. Slowly, trembling slightly, you turned around to face him.

The breath left your lungs in a rush.

He was so close. Close enough that you could see the exact shade of crimson in his eyes, could count the individual strands of silver in his hair. Close enough that his warmth seemed to wrap around you like an embrace. Your whole body felt like it was burning, heat spreading from your chest outward until even your fingertips tingled.

“Why didn’t you stay that night?” Sylus asked quietly, and there was such raw vulnerability in the question it made your throat tight.

“Sy…” you whispered, looking away from his intense stare because it was too much, too open, too honest.

“I just can’t help but wonder why you didn’t—or wouldn’t—wait for me,” Sylus continued, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I understand that I probably ruined everything with my cowardice, with my inability to just tell you the truth when I had the chance. But I had hoped…” He paused, swallowing hard. “I’d hoped you might give me the chance to explain myself. To make things right.”

You could see his hands twitch at his sides, could see how badly he wanted to reach for you but was holding himself back. Could see the desperate need to comfort you, to close the distance, to touch you—but he remained still, respectful of your space even as it clearly cost him.

“I know I probably don’t deserve you,” he added, even more quietly, and the pain in his voice made your chest ache. “I know I’ve handled everything terribly. But I also know that I want to fight for you. That I need to fight for you. That you’re worth fighting for.”

His eyes found yours again, holding them with gentle intensity.

“I’m tired of being a coward,” he said, and there was steel beneath the softness now. Determination. “It’s time I’m honest with you. Honest with everyone. No more hiding. No more fear.”

Your eyes started to burn with the telltale prickle of tears, and your whole body trembled beneath his gaze—not from fear, but from the overwhelming emotions crashing over you. Slowly, you tilted your head back up to look at him properly.

And what you saw there nearly broke you. He looked vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before. Open and raw and hurting. But also hopeful. So desperately, achingly hopeful.

Sylus took a shaky breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely audible.

“I wrote those letters.” The world seemed to stop spinning. “I am your secret admirer.”

Your eyes widened impossibly further as you gasped quietly, the sound catching in your throat. Your mind went blank, then flooded with a thousand thoughts all at once.

“You?” The word came out as barely a breath. “H-how? When? Why didn’t you—”

You couldn’t finish any of the questions tumbling through your mind. Couldn’t process what he’d just said.

Sylus closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering his courage, drawing on some inner strength. When he opened them again, they were bright with unshed tears and blazing with gentle, intense determination.

“My moonlight, you are everything I desire,” he whispered, and the words landed like a physical touch.

You took in a deep, shuddering breath as Sylus moved closer—slowly, carefully, giving you every opportunity to step back if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

His hands lifted, trembling slightly, and cupped your face with infinite gentleness. His palms were warm against your cheeks, his fingers spreading to cradle more of you, as if you were something infinitely precious that might shatter if held too tightly.

“There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of you,” he continued, his voice thick with emotion. “Not a single day where you don’t consume my thoughts. I dream of you every night. When I wake, you’re my first thought. When I sleep, you’re my last.”

His thumbs brushed across your cheekbones with such tender care it made fresh tears spring to your eyes.

“There is no one as mesmerising as you. No one as enchanting. No one who makes me feel the way you do.” He paused, swallowing hard, his eyes never leaving yours. “You consume my very being. Every part of me belongs to you—has always belonged to you.”

He breathed out your name like a prayer, like a confession, like the most important word in any language.

“You’re the love of my life,” he whispered, and his voice cracked slightly on the words. “I love you. I’m so deeply, hopelessly, completely in love with you.”

The tears that had been gathering in your eyes finally spilled over, sliding down your cheeks in warm streams. A sob hiccupped out of you as you looked at him—this man you’d loved for so long, who was looking at you like you hung the moon and stars.

“Y-you love me?” you stammered, needing to hear it again, needing to be sure this wasn’t some beautiful dream you’d wake from. You blinked repeatedly, trying to clear your vision through the tears that kept forming. “You really—”

“Yes, kitten,” he smiled with such profound tenderness it stole what little breath you had left.

The endearment made your heart skip. You’d heard him call you that before, but now it felt different. Weighted with meaning. With love.

His thumbs continued their gentle stroking across your cheeks, catching tears as they fell with such careful devotion.

“I’ve loved you from the moment I met you,” he continued, his voice soft but absolute. “Do you remember? We were children. You’d just arrived at the castle, so small and frightened, and you looked at me with those eyes and I just… knew. Even then, I knew you’d be important to me.”

A watery laugh escaped you at the memory—you, barely seven years old, overwhelmed by the massive castle and all the strangers, and Sylus offering you his hand and a shy smile.

“I’ve always loved you,” he went on, and you could hear the tears in his voice now too. “Always adored you. You were always the only one I wanted. The only one I needed. I am so hopelessly, so deeply, so irrevocably in love with you. There’s never been anyone else. There never could be.”

As you looked into his eyes—those beautiful crimson eyes that had always seen you, truly seen you—all you could see was pure adoration and love written in them. Devotion so complete it took your breath away.

For all those years, you’d been so terrified to tell him how you felt. Had convinced yourself it was impossible, that you were foolish for even hoping. Had spent countless nights crying into your pillow over the love you thought you could never have.

Only to discover he’d felt the same way all along.

You’d always been his. From the very first moment. Just as he’d always been yours.

But fear still lingered, creeping in despite the joy. Reality crashing back.

“B-but what about your parents?” you whispered, confusion and worry threading through your voice. “I mean, the King and Queen? You’re going to be King soon. They’ll never accept—I’m not noble, I’m not—”

Your breathing quickened with anxiety. This felt too good to be true. There had to be some obstacle, some reason why this couldn’t work.

Then Sylus smiled—widely, brilliantly, like the sun breaking through clouds.

“Before I summoned you to my office, I told them the truth,” he said, and relief was evident in every word. “I told my father and mother that I only wanted you. That I refused to marry out of duty alone, that I wouldn’t accept any match made for political gain. That I would only marry for love. That I would only marry you.”

Your breath caught. Your heart felt like it might burst from your chest.

“My father struggled with it initially,” Sylus admitted honestly. “He’s a traditional man, and he wanted to uphold certain expectations. But he was never truly against the idea of me being with you. He’s known how I felt about you for years—I think everyone has except you.”

A soft, slightly watery laugh escaped him.

“And my mother?” His smile grew impossibly softer. “She’s been hoping for this since we were children. She’s always loved you. She told me I was a fool for waiting so long, that she was beginning to think she’d have to orchestrate situations to force me to confess.”

He paused, his eyes searching yours.

“They gave us their blessing. Both of them. Completely. You’re already part of our family—you have been for years. This just… makes it official. Makes it real.”

A sob wrecked through your body as you took in his words, the reality of them sinking in like warmth spreading through frozen limbs.

“You—you truly love me?” you asked again in disbelief, shaking your head because this couldn’t be real, couldn’t be happening. “This isn’t… I’m not dreaming?”

“My kitten,” he whispered with such tenderness and intimacy it made you shiver. “I’ve only ever loved you. I will always only want you, need you, desire you, adore you. In this life and every life after.”

Then he pulled you into his arms—gently, carefully, as if you might break. He wrapped his arms around you securely but not tightly, holding you close against his chest.

“You’re the love of my life,” he murmured into your hair. “My soulmate. My everything.”

You felt like you were floating, like this had to be one of your dreams. The beautiful, impossible dreams you’d had countless times before, only to wake up alone and heartbroken.

“Am I dreaming?” you hiccupped against his chest, your hands clutching at his shirt. “Please tell me I’m not dreaming. I don’t think I could bear waking up from this.”

“No, my beloved,” he cooed softly, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head while the other rubbed soothing circles on your back. “It’s real. I’m real. This is real. I promise you.”

You nuzzled your head against his chest, feeling his heartbeat—strong and steady and real—as more sobs wracked through you. These weren’t tears of sadness anymore. They were tears of relief, of joy, of overwhelming emotion you didn’t have words for.

“I’ve been in love with you since the first time we met,” you confessed, your voice soft and muffled against him but steady with truth. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything for anyone else besides you. Ever. It’s always been you.”

You felt him tense slightly, felt his breath catch, and then he was pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were bright with unshed tears, his smile trembling with emotion.

You were still trembling against him, crying with the weight of all these overwhelming feelings—years of longing and fear and hope finally finding release.

“You’re my everything,” Sylus whispered, cupping your cheeks again with such reverence, such tenderness.

Then slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, he leaned down and pressed the softest, most gentle kiss against your forehead. His lips lingered there, warm and tender, and you felt more tears slide down your cheeks.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you again, his thumbs brushed away your tears with such loving care.

His grin was contagious, warmer than the fire that’s crackling in the fireplace, brighter than the sun on a warm summer day and you swear that in that moment you felt as if it’s just the two of you in this universe.

You leaned your face closer to his to then graze your nose against Sylus’.

“My kitten,” He smiled, blinding and it only widened when you looked at him timidly. His nose then moved down to press against your cheek, lips just brushing yours.

“My Sylus.” You whispered as you bit your bottom lip bashfully.

Slowly he brushed his lips against yours before pulling away just slightly. His tongue poked out to wet his lips, and you had to hold back a moan at the delicious, inviting sight. “Kitten,” he whispered lowly, sending shivers down your spine, as his gaze shifted from your lips to your eyes repeatedly. “Can I…?”

Your heart stopped, then started again at triple speed.

“Please,” you breathed.

And then his lips were on yours, soft and gentle and perfect. The kiss was tender, almost chaste—a question and an answer all at once. You felt his hands trembling slightly as they cradled your face, felt your own hands come up to grip his shirt, anchoring yourself to him.

You whimpered as he gave your bottom lip a little nip, swiping his tongue against it afterwards to soothe the sting. You gasped, and Sylus took the opportunity to access the inside of your mouth with his tongue. You moaned, feeling lightheaded and dizzy as the kiss turned more heated.

You always knew that he’d be an amazing kisser, but this was something else. His hands gripped you and crushed your body to his with fervour as he licked and sucked at your tongue. All you could do was melt into him, your arms hanging loosely around his shoulders. You let out more little moans and sighs into his lips as he continued to massage the inside of your mouth with his tongue just right.

When you finally parted, both of you were breathing hard, foreheads resting together.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips.

“I love you too,” you whispered back. “So much. For so long.”

And standing there in the quiet inn room, wrapped in each other’s arms with tears drying on your cheeks and the taste of your first kiss still lingering, you finally let yourself believe it.

This was real. He loved you. And everything was going to be okay.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Throughout the evening, neither of you could stop touching, holding, or kissing each other—like two souls trying to memorise every second. You eventually moved to the bed, both curled up on the bed, nestled in his lap, lips moving languidly together in an unhurried rhythm that spoke of longing and tenderness. Every kiss deepened with time, slow and reverent, before turning more fervent—more hungry—as his hands began to explore your body through the barrier of your clothes.

The air was thick with anticipation, a heady mix of desire and nervousness that seemed to cling to every surface. Sylus sat underneath you, his tall frame commanding yet gentle, his crimson eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your heart flutter. His lips, full and inviting, found yours once more, the kiss deepening as his hands slid down to your waist, pulling you tighter against him. You could feel the heat of his body through the fabric of your dress and little panties, his heart racing against your chest, his breath mingling with yours, hot and much deeper.

“I love you… my Sylus,” you whispered breathlessly, as he leaned he reconnected your mouths together and kissed you passionately on the mouth, his blunt nails digging into your plush hips. “I love you so much.”

“Please, will you say it again baby? I need to hear you say it once more.” He pleaded as his eyes fluttered.

“I love you.” You whimpered as his mouth connected with yours again.

He groaned into you, tilting his head to kiss you deeper, and you opened your mouth for him when you felt his tongue tracing your lower lip and licking into your mouth. His hand raised to cup your cheek, the other wrapping tighter around you as he kept your body pressed to his.

His mouth then moved from your lips to your cheeks as he whispered his love for you again and again. He started to trail long, hot kisses down your jaw and neck. You whimpered pitifully as he suckled lightly on the side of your neck, tilting your head back instinctively to bare more of your soft skin to him.

As he continued to move lower down your skin, Sylus his tongue would poke out every now and then to lavish your skin with it. Lapping, kissing and sucking at your body. His kisses became longer, hotter and more fervent as he continued on. You whined, squeezing your eyes shut as you pulled him closer against you.

Sylus groaned and bit down gently on the junction of your neck and shoulder. You cried out, impulsively grinding your hips against his in a desperate search for some much-needed friction against your aching core.

You gasped, your eyes flew open at the hard bulge you felt against your pussy. You whined as your core instinctively started clenching around nothing, begging for attention, his attention.

Instinctively you started moving your hips against his making him groan against your skin. The feeling of his desire pressed against your heated skin is heavenly, and you roll your hips down into his to feel some friction against your throbbing clit.

“Need you so bad baby,” he groaned against your skin. You shuddered against him and felt a heated and wet sensation pool down low between your thighs. You were certain that your tiny underwear was ruined by now.

A high pitched whimper slipped past your lips as he started to move along with you, grinding against your clothed cunt.

“My kitten,” he murmured against your mouth, his voice a low, husky whisper that sent shivers down your spine. His hands were trembling slightly, his fingers brushing the hem of your dress as he spoke. “Can I… can I undress you? Let me help you into your nightgown.”

You hesitated for only a moment, your breath catching in your throat as you considered the weight of his words. This was it—the moment you had both been wanting and needing to happen for so long, the moment that would change everything. Your voice was barely above a whisper, trembling with a mix of excitement and nervousity. “Yes,” you replied, “please.”

With hands that were both gentle and reverent, Sylus began to unlace your dress. His fingers moved slowly, deliberately, each movement a tender caress as he exposed your skin inch by inch. The room was silent except for the soft rustle of fabric and the sound of his soft kisses against your skin and your shared breaths, heavy and anticipatory. As the dress slowly fell away from your shoulders, pooling at your waist, you sat before him in your shift, your body eager and flushed with heat.

You trembled beneath his warm, intimate, and intense gaze, waiting for what he would do next. You felt yourself grow nervous under his watchful, hungry eyes. As much as you wanted him, anxiety bubbled up in the pit of your stomach.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asked, worry threading through his voice. “You’re trembling.”

“Y-yeah,” you stuttered before exhaling shakily. “Are you sure you want me?”

“Yes, of course,” he replied gently, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. “There’s no one I want more than you.”

You took a shuddering breath, bracing yourself for what you were about to confess. “I want you too… so badly. I just— I’ve never done this before. I’m afraid you might be disappointed.”

You nibbled your bottom lip as his eyes widened in realization. He understood what you were admitting. You were a virgin.

You wanted Sylus so much, you had dreamed of this for so long, but you would have been lying if you said your nerves weren’t fraying.

“Baby,” Sylus murmured softly, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your temple as he wrapped you in his arms. Your body relaxed instantly beneath his affectionate touch. “I’m certain you could never disappoint me. It doesn’t matter whether you’re experienced or not—you’ll always be the best lover I could ever ask for. Because you’re perfect for me.”

Then, in a quieter voice, he added, “Besides, my sweet girl… this would be my first time as well.” He looked at you with so much tenderness that you melted against him all over again. “Please don’t worry about that,” he whispered, nudging his nose against yours with a warm smile. “I’ll take good care of you.”

He gazed at you with such adoration and love that it stole the breath from your lungs. “I trust you, Sy,” you whispered with a timid nod—just before he leaned down to claim your lips in a slow, deep kiss.

Warmth spread through your body as his hands began to wander. You whimpered into his mouth when his palms traced the length of your thighs, his touch both grounding and electrifying. Your head grew hazy with desire, with the overwhelming love you felt for him. Your thoughts dissolved into soft, sweet nothingness as your lips moved together in hungry, passionate kisses.

Slowly, his hands traced your naked skin, gliding toward your lower back as his fingertips followed the soft contours there. You began to move your hips desperately against his, moaning into his mouth, hoping Sylus would understand your silent plea soon enough.

The kiss deepened with an intensity that had you gasping for breath. You rolled your hips into his, rubbing your throbbing clit against him just to gain a bit of friction against your aching core. You moaned into his mouth as you pressed harder, and the front of his dress pants strained as he ground against you in return.

Suddenly everything felt overwhelming—the rising heat in the room, the wandering warmth of his touch sliding over your skin, and the head-spinning truth that you were crossing into unfamiliar yet deeply intimate territory with your best friend. You felt hot all over, your body thrumming with need.

He groaned when you kept grinding against him, his hands tightening around your hips to still your movements. You whined in protest, and in one fluid motion he rolled you both over, hovering above you as he gently pinned your arms against the mattress. You were so desperate to feel him again.

“So impatient,” he chuckled, a devious smile curving his lips as he pulled back just long enough to catch his breath. “Such a needy kitten, begging for my touch.”

“Please,” you whined, your voice soft and desperate as you squirmed beneath him.

Moments later his mouth claimed yours again. The kiss grew hotter, deeper, each pass of your lips stoking the fire between you. His hands moved down your body once more while yours slid to the back of his head, your fingers tangling in his hair. When you gave a soft tug, he moaned into your mouth. One of his hands trailed slowly up your stomach while the other held firmly at your hip. His touch made you weak, heat pooling between your thighs as you kissed and touched each other with unrestrained hunger.

His fingers brushed delicately along the sides of your ribs, moving up and down in slow, reverent sweeps, his fingertips tracing every dip and curve as if memorizing your body.

“You’re so soft,” he whispered against your lips. A moment later, his hands slipped away from your ribs only to settle at the hem of your little dress. “Can I take this off, sweetie?”

You bit your lip and nodded frantically, unable to find your voice in that moment. His smile deepened as his hands slipped beneath your dress for just a second before he hooked his fingers into the fabric and slowly drew it upward. You raised your arms to help him remove it, the air brushing your newly exposed skin.

Heat bloomed across your body under the way his eyes roamed over you, drinking in every detail. The way Sylus looked at you—eyes filled with nothing but love, awe, and adoration—made you feel so alive.

You didn’t know what to do with your hands. They trembled helplessly, and your core trembled just as much, while he tossed the discarded clothing aside and lowered his mouth to your collarbone. His lips moved there with such affection that it sent a sweet shiver down your spine.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, letting his mouth wander over every inch of exposed skin. “So divine… ethereal.”

Your bare chests pressed together, skin against skin, every point of contact setting you ablaze. You stared up at him with wide, overwhelmed eyes as he continued kissing his way across your body.

His large hands slid to the curve of your waist where it met your hips, gripping you firmly as he scattered damp kisses and gentle nips over your shoulders and down the path to your breasts. You whimpered softly when he traced the tip of his nose over the swell of your breast, savoring the moment before his lips followed.

He leaned down and pressed the softest, sweetest kiss to the side of your breast before lifting his gaze to yours. “Are you okay?” he murmured. His forearms rested on either side of your body, caging you in gently. When you nodded, he brought one hand up to stroke your cheek, his thumb warm and tender against your skin. “Kitten… if we’re gonna go any further, I need you to talk to me. I need verbal communication. Think you can do that?”

You stared at him for a moment, breath catching, then nodded again. He raised a brow and gave you that knowing look that sent warmth spreading through your chest. “Sorry,” you whispered. “Y-yes, Sy. Yes… I think I can do that.”

“Good girl,” he praised softly, a gentle smile curving his lips. “And if you want me to stop—” His mouth pressed back to your heated skin, trailing barely-there kisses down the valley of your breasts. Your eyes fluttered shut as your fingers twisted in the sheets. “—you tell me right away. Okay?” he muttered, his voice raw and strained with want.

“Y-yes, Sylus… I understand,” you whimpered.

“Good.”

He breathed in through his nose, inhaling your scent, and you shivered when he exhaled warm breath directly over your nipple. “Fuck, angel… you’re so beautiful.”

Then he wrapped his lips around your nipple, teeth skimming lightly over sensitive skin as he sucked and licked with slow, hungry passion.

“Sy…” you mewled, hips lifting helplessly as your cunt sought any kind of friction.

Sylus looked up at you, his mouth curling into a soft, adoring smile. Heat crawled up your skin under his gaze. He could see everything on your face—want, need, desperation—and he welcomed it. His lips returned to you, long, slow, lavish licks from the flat of his tongue over your pebbled nipple while his other hand rose to squeeze your other breast, kneading gently.

Impatient, trembling, you guided the hand on your breast downward—down your stomach, down to the heat between your thighs. His breath hitched. As his fingers slipped beneath the band of your underwear and down to where you needed him most, his mouth fell open with a loud, helpless groan right against your nipple. His fingers slid between your slick folds, tracing your pussy softly, savoring.

He worshipped you there for a moment—just his fingers teasing, learning every response—before he suddenly pulled back. Completely away from you.

You whimpered as he sat up, watching through hazy eyes as he took his time removing his clothes. Every button, every movement felt agonizingly slow. You shut your eyes briefly, whining, desperate to feel him again, desperate for his heat on your skin.

When he stripped down to just his underwear, you felt the bed dip as he moved back over you. He leaned down, his lips immediately finding your neck, licking and sucking softly as his hands cupped your sensitive breasts and massaged them with tender, reverent fingers. Heat flooded your body as Sylus kissed down your shoulders, then your chest, his mouth leaving warm, fluttering trails.

Your trembling hands slid into his silver hair, threading through the strands as he continued to kiss and taste every inch of exposed skin. Sylus’ lips moved slowly down your body, worshipping you with unhurried kisses, while his hands traced the lines of your shaking form—mapping every curve, every soft place, every breath you took beneath him.

He leaned forward, breathing in the heat of your core as he ran his nose slowly along the patch of dampness clinging to your panties. You tugged at his hair when he inhaled your scent, his breath catching. “Fuck, kitten,” he hummed, looking up at you with an intense, hungry gaze. His hands left your skin to curl into the waistband of your panties. “You smell so good… I can’t wait to taste you.”

A shuddering breath slipped past your lips as you lifted your hips instinctively, silently begging him to take them off. He slid the fabric down your legs, and once he pushed your thighs open for him, you whimpered as the cool air kissed your wet slit. Sylus stilled for a moment, his eyes devouring the sight of you—your glistening center clenching around nothing as he watched your pussy pulse with need.

He licked his lips slowly before leaning down, placing lingering kisses along your inner thighs. His tongue dragged warm, teasing strokes over your soft skin, sucking gently, worshipping. His mouth was so close to where you needed him most, but each kiss felt like sweet torture, keeping him just out of reach.

“So pretty,” he murmured as he guided your legs up and over his shoulders, settling you perfectly beneath him.

You were about to beg—about to plead for him—when his lips left your thigh… only for him to nuzzle directly against your pussy a moment later. He smeared your slick across his lips, savoring the taste as he opened you for his tongue.

You gasped, your body arching as his wet tongue finally met your throbbing heat.

He pulled back again briefly, only long enough for his fingers to slide in and spread your outer lips for him. Sylus smirked as he eased a single finger inside you, watching your body react—the way your hips twitched, the way your walls fluttered around the intrusion, how greedily your wet hole swallowed his digit. You moaned into the pillow beside you, trying to muffle the desperate sounds.

Those little whines—soft, needy, helpless—only drove Sylus to chase more of those heavenly noises from your lips.

“Fuck… such a tight little pussy,” he moaned as your cunt clenched repeatedly around his finger.

Your whines grew louder as the pleasure washed over you. His fingers were so much bigger than yours—just one of his was more overwhelming, more delicious, than anything you had ever done to yourself.

You whimpered as your core kept fluttering and gripping around him, silently begging for more. He pumped his finger in and out of you at a slow, unhurried pace, savoring every reaction. Instinctively, your hips began to move with it, grinding into his hand. Sylus groaned at the sight, his gaze burning into you as he continued to finger-fuck you. His eyes couldn’t stay still—they drifted over your face, down your trembling body, drinking in the way you writhed beneath him.

You panted heavily, thoughts dissolving, barely able to think as he slid two more fingers inside you. Sylus worked them slowly at first, giving your tight pussy time to adjust to the stretch. It was overwhelming, but the kind that felt so unbelievably good. Little whimpers spilled from your lips as he fucked you with his fingers, curling them deep, then spreading them apart. He leaned down and kissed you, swallowing every mewl as your hands tangled in his hair, pulling at the strands, your body moving helplessly with the rhythm he set.

You gasped when his tongue slipped into your mouth, kissing you with desperate devotion. “That feels good, doesn’t it, baby girl? You like it when I touch you like this?” Sylus groaned—right as his thumb found your clit. You bucked into him, nodding frantically.

“Use your words, kitten,” he teased darkly.

“Yes—please, Sy, please… feels so good,” you whimpered, voice breaking.

He kissed his way down your body again, making you whine and beg in soft, breathless sounds—even as his fingers kept thrusting inside you.

Sylus inhaled your scent as soon as he settled between your thighs, but he didn’t keep you waiting. He wet his lips, then dipped his head to drag his tongue in a slow stripe from your dripping folds to your clit.

“Fuck, Sylus!” you shrieked, hips lifting off the mattress.

Senseless, needy noises poured from your throat. Your hips stuttered against him, and he simply sighed—like there was nothing in this world he wanted more than to eat you out right here, right now.

His name tumbled from your lips again and again, chanted like a prayer. Tears pricked your eyes as pleasure overwhelmed you. His mouth wrapped around your clit, his fingers still pumping inside you while his other hand held your hip down, pinning you to the sheets as you bucked, urging him to give you even more.

He worked your arousal expertly—his fingers curling to hit that spongy spot inside you while his tongue flicked and suckled at your clit. The familiar coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter. Your abdomen clenched as he quickened his pace, fingers stroking that sweet spot with perfect precision. Your toes curled, thighs shaking as they squeezed around his head.

“Aah—too much!” you squeaked, voice strangled as you teetered on the edge. “T-too— I-I—fuck!”

“Easy, kitten,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your thigh as his fingers stilled for a moment.

“Sylus…” you mumbled, face buried in the pillow.

“It’s okay, baby. I know. I’ve got you,” he cooed, his voice teasing but tender. “It’s a lot. Will you let me continue?”

“Y-yeah… just—just wait a second,” you whined.

“Anything for you.”

But waiting became unbearable—your body aching, throbbing, desperate. And he felt it too. Sylus leaned down, tongue sliding between your folds before licking upward to your clit.

You sighed at the same moment he did—yours high and breathy, his deep and dreamy. He lapped at you with clear intention, fucking you with slow, careful strokes of his fingers this time, keeping you just where you needed to be.

“Oh—my god,” you whimpered, trembling hands gripping his silver hair with one hand while the other clamped over your mouth to silence yourself. “F-Fuck… Sy, f-fuck…”

He moaned into your pussy, lips sealing around your clit. You jerked at the sensation. “Fucking hell— you taste so good. You feel so good. You’re everything,” he groaned against you.

“Fuck, baby—oh my fucking god,” you cried out. He sucked lazily on your clit while curling his fingers inside you, then sucked harder as he circled your little bud with his tongue. His fingers moved faster, deeper, hitting your sweet spot over and over. You moaned his name between breathless mewls, now gripping his hair with both hands.

Your whole body trembled violently, heat spreading everywhere, your hips grinding helplessly into his face and hand.

“A-Ah! I’m coming—please, please—”

“Cum for me, kitten,” he murmured before sucking your clit again.

Your body snapped tight as your orgasm tore through you. Your mind exploded into blinding stars, pleasure crashing through your nerves so sharply you cried out his name. You trembled uncontrollably as you came against his mouth, your soul unwinding in his hands.

“You’re doing so well for me, sweetie,” he whispered proudly as his fingers slowed, sliding out to softly rub your swollen slit while he kept licking your clit—guiding you gently through every last wave.

You were a sputtering, helpless mess, trembling as he pushed you right to the edge of overstimulation.

As your senses returned in shaky pieces, you felt his fingers slip away from your heat. Your pussy clenched around nothing, desperate and empty. You felt like a fevered storm, soaked from the waist down, dripping onto the sheets, whimpering helplessly.

You needed him. Badly. Your pussy pulsed insistently—begging to be filled again. Begging for his cock.

Your eyes were still closed when you felt your legs being spread open even wider by his strong hands. A loud, broken moan spilled from your lips as Sylus dove between your thighs again, licking a slow stripe up through your folds and teasingly dipping his tongue into your needy hole before traveling up to your clit, spreading you with his wet muscle and sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth.

You practically cried at the sensation, your back arching slightly off the bed. Your whole body trembled, desperate and overwhelmed. You needed more—so much more. Instinctively, you tried to grind your wetness against his lips, chasing any friction as your body shook uncontrollably.

But his arms locked around your thighs, biceps caging your hips in place, holding you still despite your attempts to ride his mouth.

“Taste so good, kitten… could eat this pussy all day,” he growled against you.

The man you loved more than anyone in the universe was between your legs, sliding his tongue up and down your soaked slit. Every soft mewl, every helpless noise escaping your lips only urged him on. His mouth returned to your clit, sucking the nub softly between his lips, savouring every reaction you gave him.

Eventually he leaned in deeper, slipping his tongue into your entrance. He curled it upward, brushing your walls, and the way your fingers bunched the sheets in a tight, trembling grip made him repeat the motion with even more intent.

You were a mess—his mess—a whimpering, needy ruin beneath him. Your hips kept trying to move against his face as breathless moans tumbled out of you uncontrollably. Writhing beneath him, you felt him lick up again, pressing his tongue against a sensitive spot inside that made your vision blur, your hips bucking hard against his mouth. Your thighs clamped around his head as another orgasm drew frighteningly close.

Greed and desperation overtook you. Your fingers dove into his silver hair, tugging harder than before, your hips pushing against his face to force his tongue deeper into your aching cunt.

“Ahh—Sylus…” you moaned, voice breaking. You were so close—you just needed one more push.

You moved your hips against him helplessly, fucking yourself on his tongue as he pressed firmly into that sensitive spot inside you. His thumb circled your clit in slow, perfect circles that made stars dance behind your eyes.

“Be a good girl and come for me,” Sylus moaned against your pussy before plunging his tongue back inside you.

That did it. With the added pressure on your clit and the sound of his deep, commanding voice, you came with a loud, shattered whine. Your vision went white, your ears rang, and your movements against his face turned sloppy and uncoordinated.

Your hips stuttered until the final waves of aftershocks rolled through you. He stayed with you gently, lapping at your release until the overstimulation made you twitch away.

“You did so well, angel… so good to me. So beautiful. And you taste so good. So sweet,” he murmured against your inner thigh, voice thick with praise.

You whimpered softly at his words, gently trying to pull your hips away from his mouth. He grinned up at you, eyes locked with yours as he brought his glistening fingers to his lips.

Your whimpers shifted into embarrassed giggles as he licked his fingers clean, and you brought your hands up to hide your heated cheeks. But Sylus wasn’t having it. He caught your hands and kissed them all over—soft, slow kisses—before pulling them gently down. Then he leaned in, peppering kisses across your nose, your forehead, your cheeks, until finally his mouth landed on your lips with a smile, both of you laughing softly between each kiss.

He pulled back with a satisfied sigh, his expression warm and tender as he reached to touch the side of your neck, tracing his fingertips up and down.

You melted at the gentle contact and pressed a kiss to his thumb when it brushed your lips. Your still-shaky legs wrapped around his hips as you gazed into his eyes, breathless and utterly in love.

“I think I’m ready.”

His breath stilled. “Sure?” he asked softly, as though he was afraid to sway you either way.

“Yes.” You nodded, voice small but sure, and reached between your bodies to cradle his cheek. Your thumb brushed his skin in a tender little stroke that made his eyes soften instantly.

“We can stop at any moment if it becomes too much,” he reminded you in that gentle tone he saved only for you. “I need you to know that.”

You pouted up at him, letting your fingers trace his soft skin. “I know I’m nervous,” you admitted, voice fragile. “But I… I don’t want to stop.”

His expression melted. “My sweet girl,” he breathed, brushing his nose against yours. “I only want you comfortable. If you changed your mind, I would hold you just the same. I would adore you just as much.”

Your chest tightened. Tears welled helplessly at the tenderness in his voice. No one had ever loved you like this. No one made you feel so treasured, so safe, so seen. You wanted him with every trembling beat of your heart, and somehow—and impossibly—his gentleness and reassurance only made you want him more.

You inhaled shakily and lifted both hands to cup his face. He held your wrists lightly, reverently, as if your touch alone steadied him.

“I want to experience this with you,” you whispered, eyes locked with his. “I trust you. I love you with everything that I am.”

The look he gave you then nearly undid you—pure adoration, awe, a devotion that made you feel like you were something sacred placed into his hands. Your cheeks warmed, your heart fluttered, but your nerves eased beneath the warmth of his gaze.

He lowered his head, kissing you deeply—slowly first, then with a growing hunger—as he cupped your face. Your legs tightened around his hips, drawing him closer. You felt his hard cock pressing against your soaked core through the thin barrier of his underwear, and the slow drag of heat made your breath catch.

Letting instinct guide you, you let your hands glide from his jaw down the sculpted lines of his torso, pausing when your fingers dipped beneath the waistband of his boxers. He inhaled sharply, watching you with parted lips, his entire body attuned to your touch. When your hands stilled on the band, he exhaled softly and sat back just enough to slip them off.

He dragged the fabric down his legs, tossing it aside. And suddenly he was bare to you—completely, beautifully bare.

Your breath hitched as your gaze roamed over him. He was… breathtaking. And also massive. Thick and long, heavy, flushed with desire, precum leaking from the tip, catching in the low light. Heat surged straight to your still-clenching core as you imagined him filling you—stretching you—yet the sight also sent a tremor of nerves through your belly.

Sylus moved back over you, brushing a soft kiss to your lips, then another. It felt like he was trying to soothe every tremor inside you. “What is this beautiful mind of yours thinking?” he murmured against your mouth.

“H-how…?” you whispered, wide-eyed, cheeks burning.

A quiet laugh escaped him—warm and fond and impossibly gentle. “I promise, angel, I’ll fit,” he whispered, cupping your cheek with his big, warm hand. “I’ll go slow. I’ll take such good care of you.”

You melted into his touch.

He aligned himself with you, the warm tip of his cock brushing your entrance, and the contact made you shiver. Sylus rested his forehead against yours, eyes locked with yours as if grounding you.

You rolled your hips up in a shy, needy motion, wanting to feel him. Slick heat spread as your wetness coated him. A deep, strained moan vibrated through his chest as he moved with you, letting the head of his cock glide through your folds.

“I love you,” you breathed, nudging your nose against his before kissing him softly.

His eyes glowed with a warmth that wrapped around your heart like a promise. “And I love you,” he whispered, sealing your mouth with another slow kiss. “More than anything.”

Your lips moved lazily together, savoring each stolen breath. But soon the kisses deepened, slow turning hungry, your fingers curling against his back while his hands held your hips. Every moment burned sweeter than the last.

Holding his length in one hand, he dragged the head of his cock from your entrance up over your clit—slowly, teasingly. You gasped softly at the sensation, your body arching into him. He circled your sensitive bud with the slick tip, spreading his precum and your arousal together until you were trembling beneath him.

He groaned as he watched you writhe. “You’re so wet for me,” he whispered, voice low and reverent. “So perfect.”

And he kept teasing you, dragging back down to your entrance, then up again—drawing out every soft whimper you gave him like it was a gift.

The thought of Sylus finally entering you — really having him inside you — made your body grow impossibly wetter, a molten ache blooming deep in your core. Sylus swallowed every trembling whine you gave him, kissing you with a hunger that made your head spin, rolling his hips slowly with yours as if he could soothe the anticipation building inside your entire body.

You trembled beneath him, every inch of you alive with need. His body covered yours completely, warm and solid, grounding and overwhelming all at once. You writhed softly, helplessly, yearning for him to fill you, to be inside you so deeply that the world blurred into white.

“I’ll try to go slow, okay, kitty?” he murmured in that low velvet tone, brushing a brief kiss to your parted lips. His hand slid down between you both, curling around the base of his cock as he lined himself up. The head of him pressed gently between your slick folds, rubbing slow, deliberate strokes that sent sparks across your skin.

“P-please, Sylus,” you stuttered, voice breaking beautifully. Your body trembled even harder beneath him. “P-put it in, please…”

He exhaled shakily, clearly as affected as you were, and kept teasing himself up and down your slit — spreading your wetness, feeling you. You arched your back in desperation, a broken whine ripping free of your throat.

“Relax, little kitten,” he whispered against your lips, brushing them again as if he could calm your trembling through touch alone.

His forehead rested against yours. His breath warmed your cheek. And then — finally — he nudged the tip of his cock against your entrance. Your legs quivered around his hips, nerves and need tangling together.

The moment he notched himself inside you, both of you gasped. It was only the tip, but the stretch already stole your breath. Sylus moved so carefully it almost broke you — inching forward as though he was afraid to hurt you, his muscles trembling with the effort of restraint.

A long, fragile whine spilled from your lips as he slowly pushed deeper, and deeper still. He was so big. So impossibly thick.

“Too big, Sy…” you mewled, voice broken and trembling.

Slowly—carefully—he pushed just a little further inside you, his breath warm against your cheek as he whispered, “You can take it, my kitten. You’re doing so so good for me. Such a good little kitten.”

You tangled your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling gently, clinging to him as he breathed heavily above you. His forehead pressed to yours, his warm breath fanning your lips as he inched forward. The sting of the stretch made your eyes squeeze shut, but his slow, deliberate pace kept it from ever tipping into too much.

He pressed another centimeter into you — then another — until your nails dug into his scalp and a sharp gasp tore from you. He stilled instantly.

His hands framed your face, kissing your cheeks, your temple, your lips. “Doing so good for me, kitten,” he whispered between each kiss. “So, so good.”

“Please…” you whimpered, eyes fluttering shut as tears prickled.

He kept moving with excruciating patience, letting you adjust to every bit of him. After a moment, your body began to relax around him, slowly easing into the stretch. You clutched his shoulders, your walls fluttering around him helplessly as pleasure began to unfurl in the pit of your stomach.

“Such a good girl,” he breathed — and your body clenched around him, growing even wetter at the praise.

At last, with a deep, shuddering breath, he bottomed out. A soft, startled gasp escaped you as the head of his cock kissed your cervix. You could feel his precum mixing with your slick, hot inside you, and tears finally spilled freely down your cheeks — a mix of the overwhelming fullness, the relief, the trust, the love, all of it tangled together.

He held you tenderly, lips brushing your forehead as he whispered encouragement, soft as prayer.

When you finally opened your eyes, he was already watching you with deep concern, thumb brushing away your tears. “I’m fine,” you whispered with a shaky smile, nodding. “It’s just… a lot.”

And it was. You felt stretched perfectly around him, filled in a way that made your entire body buzz. As you adjusted, the fullness began to bloom into something sweeter — deeper.

You clenched around him without meaning to, and Sylus groaned low in his chest, his face tightening with restraint.

“Sy…” you breathed, lifting one shaking hand to brush the hair away from his eyes. “You can move.”

His eyes softened into something tender, grateful, undone. When your hips tilted up, inviting him, he let out a deep moan and lowered his forehead to yours again. His lips grazed your cheek as he pulled back just slightly—

Then he rolled his hips forward in one slow, deep stroke.

You gasped, back arching at the sensation. His thrusts were careful, controlled, slow enough that you felt every inch of him dragging through you. He didn’t pull out far — only enough to rock inside you, the movement gentle and intimate and achingly deep.

The sting faded quickly, replaced by a warmth that curled into your bones. Every slow glide had your breath hitching, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your walls fluttering around him with every tender, deliberate thrust.

He kissed your lips, your cheek, your jaw. “You’re perfect,” he whispered against your mouth. “So warm… so tight… so good for me.”

And he kept moving — slow, deep, worshipful — as if savoring every second inside you.

Slowly, you were getting used to his girth, anticipating it every time he pulled out of you before sliding forward again. Your legs were splayed open on either side of his hips as he ground his cock into you. The angle was perfect—so deep, so consuming—that Sylus gradually picked up his pace, leaving you a whimpering, breathless mess beneath him. As he fucked into you with long, languid strokes, the room filled with the wet, desperate sound of slick skin meeting slick skin.

Every time he sank into you, his pelvic bone dragged against your throbbing clit, making you cry out his name in pure, helpless ecstasy.

“You’re taking me so well, sweetie… doing so, so good for me,” he whispered against your skin, his voice warm and adoring as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck.

Soft grunts fell from Sylus’ lips whenever he hit that specific deep spot inside you. You whimpered as his mouth returned to yours, capturing your lips in a heated, dizzying kiss. One of his hands slipped down between your bodies, finding your clit with practiced ease as he rubbed two slow, deliberate circles over your sensitive nub.

When he slid into a hidden pressure point deep in your core—paired with the relentless way his fingers circled your clit—you clenched around him like a vise. Your eyes rolled back as pleasure surged violently through you, overwhelming and new. Your whimpers climbed higher in pitch as he picked up his pace, fucking you deeper, the sound of his breath growing ragged as he watched you unravel.

“Feeling good, baby?” Sylus moaned, lips curling into a soft, tender smile as he admired the way your face contorted in pleasure—so overwhelmed, so beautifully undone just for him. Filth and praise slipped from his mouth like honey. “This pussy was made for me.”

His mouth covered yours again, swallowing all your little noises, smothering your trembling breaths. The tightness in your belly returned, coiling and pulling tighter with every thrust, every touch, every kiss he gave you.

Your whimpers and gasps grew louder as ecstasy and warmth flooded your senses.

His hands couldn’t get enough of you—sliding over your hips, your waist, your back—touching every part of you like he wanted to memorize it. You whimpered at the speed of his thrusts, feeling another orgasm build rapidly, your legs locking tightly around his hips. He felt it too—the way you squeezed around him with every thrust—so he drove harder into your heat, shifting his hips, searching for the exact spot he knew would shatter you.

Your arms trembled as they wrapped around him, nails digging into his back, earning a deep, helpless groan from him. The coil in your belly tightened, tingling down to your legs—ready to snap at any moment.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice strained, cursing softly when you purposefully tightened your walls around him. “Bet you’d look even prettier with my cum inside you… all full and messy.”

“Please…” you moaned, your mind hazy with want. “Please, Sy… baby… fill this pussy up.”

He groaned into your neck, fucking you harder, the bed rattling beneath both of you with every desperate thrust.

“You want to cum, sweetheart?”

You nodded frantically, your eyes squeezing shut as you bit your lip, your body trembling beneath him. You bucked up instinctively, nails sinking into his skin as his hand moved back to your clit. His other hand found yours, intertwining your fingers before pinning them gently to the bed. He rubbed your clit with firm, perfect pressure—just enough to push you over.

“Cum for me, kitten,” Sylus demanded softly, his voice a warm breath against your cheek.

And when he nudged that one perfect spot inside you—paired with his deep, commanding voice—you exploded.

You shattered, coming undone so violently it ripped a cry of his name from your throat. Blood rushed wildly in your ears, drowning out the sound of your own sobbing breaths as Sylus crashed his lips onto yours, swallowing every broken noise. Your head fell back, your back arching sharply as your body twisted under the force of your release.

Sylus groaned into your ear as your walls spasmed around him, clenching desperately, begging for him—needing him to fill you.

“Fuck…” he moaned, pushing himself up as he thrust harder, deeper, the head of his cock hitting your spot repeatedly. “You want me to fill this pussy up? Make it all messy?”

You were dazed, trembling, but still able to nod vigorously, whining as overstimulation mixed with need. Your pussy squeezed around him with greedy pulses. “Please…”

His hips stuttered, thrusts turning sloppy as the pleasure overtook him. Then—

with a raw, broken moan—he spilled inside you.

Warmth flooded your core, spreading thickly through your walls as he kept himself buried deep. You whimpered when he finally pulled out, his cum dripping out of you and down your thighs.

Everything was a soft, blurred haze when you came back to yourself. Your body ached, but in the sweetest way—completely relaxed, thoroughly ruined, and glowing with the kind of exhaustion that felt like bliss.

Once both of you had caught your breaths, Sylus leaned his forehead against yours and kissed you tenderly.

“That was…” he breathed, smiling in awe at the beautiful mess beneath him—your hair tousled, your skin flushed, your lips swollen from his kisses.

“Oh yeah… that was amazing.” Your voice came out hoarse, softened by pleasure. You cleared your throat gently and smiled up at him.

Your skin was sweaty and sticky, but he didn’t seem to care at all. He pulled you closer, hands roaming lovingly over every inch of skin he could reach, still dazed by how breathtaking you looked coming apart for him—because of him.

Overwhelmed with affection, you cupped his cheeks in both hands and pulled him down into another slow, tender kiss—soft, deep, and full of emotion.

And that’s how the rest of the night went, tender kisses and soft and intimate touches shared between you two as you enjoyed each other’s company. Feeling so loved and at home as you melted in his embrace.

You’d once thought Sylus was forever out of reach—close enough to touch but impossibly far from claiming. But as his arms tightened around you and his lips pressed another gentle kiss to your forehead, as he whispered your name like a prayer in the darkness, you understood the truth: he’d never been out of reach at all. He’d been yours from the very beginning, just as you’d always been his. You’d just both needed time to find the courage to bridge the distance. And now, finally, gloriously, there was no distance left at all. In the quiet hours before dawn, with moonlight spilling through the balcony doors and Sylus’s heartbeat steady beneath your ear, you finally understood what the poets meant when they wrote about love—this overwhelming sense of rightness, of completeness, of coming home to a place you’d been searching for your entire life.

And as his fingers traced lazy patterns on your back and he murmured sleepy words of devotion against your hair, you knew with absolute certainty that this was only the beginning. That every day forward would be filled with moments like these—tender, true, and entirely yours.