faye’s stash

XAVIER ⏐ 沈星回

ZAYNE ⏐ 黎深

RAFAYEL ⏐ 祁煜

SYLUS ⏐ 秦彻

CALEB ⏐ 夏以昼

VALKO ⏐ 敖尹

He rounds the corner into the living room and stops, his breath catching in his throat with the familiar sharpness that has become his constant companion these past few years, ever since he realized that the protective warmth in his chest had twisted into something darker, hungrier, something that wakes him in the night with his hand wrapped around himself and her name on his lips.

She is sprawled on the couch, one arm dangling off the edge, her fingers brushing the carpet, the other tucked beneath her cheek. She is smaller than him—she always has been, and she always will be—and the oversized sleep shirt she wears has ridden up to expose the soft curve of her stomach, the waistband of her sleep shorts sitting low on her hips. Her breathing is deep and even, lips parted slightly, hair fanned out across the cushion in a mess that makes his fingers twitch with the need to touch, to tangle, to pull.

Caleb stands frozen for a moment, the weight of his bag sliding from his shoulder to thud quietly against the floor, immediately forgotten in the face of this. 

The house is silent except for his heart and the soft sound of her breathing. 

Gran is gone for three days. 

No one is watching, and no one will know.

His heart hammers against his ribs as he crosses the room, each step is deliberate, his boots are silent on the rug. He stands over her, looking down at the face he has known since childhood, the face he has watched transform from a gap-toothed child into this—this woman who haunts his every thought, his every dream, his every dirty fantasy. 

She calls him gege, still, even now, even when the word feels like a brand on his skin, marking him as hers even as he marks her as his in the secret corridors of his mind.

"Gege's home," he whispers, so quietly it might be a thought rather than sound.

He cannot help it. He knows he should cover her with a blanket, retreat to his room, shower off the day, be the good brother she believes him to be. But the devil that lives in his chest—that possessive, obsessive creature that whispered to him when he locked her in the attic that one time, that urged him to eliminate anyone who looked at her too long at school—that creature stretches and purrs and demands that he pounce.

Caleb kneels beside the couch. His hand trembles as he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. She doesn't stir. Her skin is warm, flushed with sleep, and the urge to feel more of it, to drown in it, overwhelms his restraint.

An arm slides beneath her knees, the other behind her shoulders, and he lifts her effortlessly. She is light, always so light to him, and she makes a small sound—a whimper that sounds more like a sigh—that goes straight to his groin, making him ache with a sudden, painful hardness that presses against the zipper of his flight suit pants. 

He settles himself onto the couch, arranging her carefully on top of him, her back against his chest, her head tucked beneath his chin, her legs draped over his thighs.

The position is perfect. Too perfect, in fact; her ass presses directly against the straining bulge of his cock, and he has to bite his lip to stifle a groan, his eyes falling shut as he rocks upward just slightly, just once, testing the pressure. But she settles deeper against him, trusting and pliant, her breathing unchanged.

"Good girl," he breathes against her ear, his voice barely audible. "Such a good girl for gege. Sleeping so pretty. So peaceful."

His right hand slides beneath the hem of her sleep shirt, and her skin is impossibly soft, softer than anything he has ever touched, softer than clouds or silk or the petals of the flowers he once picked for her. 

Caleb spreads his palm across her stomach, feeling the subtle rise and fall of her breathing, the gentle flutter of her pulse beneath his thumb. "You have no idea," he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice a low vibration that he hopes drifts into her dreams. "No idea what you do to me. Walking around this house in these little shorts, these little shirts. Do you know how many times I've had to take myself in hand in the shower, thinking about you just like this? Soft and warm and mine?"

His hand drifts upward, slowly, giving her time to wake, to protest, to stop him. 

She doesn't. 

A sigh escapes from her mouth instead, and she's pressing back against him, her head turning to nestle into the crook of his neck, and he takes it as permission—the only permission he needs in this moment where morality has fled and only want remains.

He finds her breast, fills his hand with the weight of it, and his vision spots at the edges. She is perfect, full and soft, her nipple a hardening peak against his touch as he brushes his thumb over it, circling, teasing. She arches into his touch in her sleep, a silent plea that makes him throb against her.

"That's it," he praises, his voice shaking with restraint. "You like that, don't you? Even in your dreams, you know it's me. You know gege is taking care of you."

Caleb pinches her nipple gently, rolling it between his fingers, and she whimpers, a sound that goes straight to his cock. He is so hard it hurts, trapped against her softness, and he grinds upward again, unable to stop himself, seeking friction even as he knows he should be still, should be careful, should not wake her to find him like this. "Look at you," he whispers, his free hand sliding down her side, tracing the curve of her hip, slipping beneath the loose waistband of her sleep shorts. "So wet already. Even asleep, your body knows. It knows who it belongs to, who has always owned it, even when I pretended to be the good brother. Fuck, baby, I was never good. I was just waiting; waiting for moments like this when I could have you without you looking at me with those eyes and seeing the monster I've become."

His fingers find her heat, slick and swollen and hot, and he has to press his face into her hair to muffle his groan. 

She is drenched, absolutely soaked, and the realization that she is this wet in her sleep, that her body responds to him even in an unconscious state, shatters what little control he has left. "Jesus, look at this," he breathes, spreading her folds with two fingers, circling her clit with the lightest touch, watching her face for any sign of waking. She only breathes deeper, her hips shifting slightly, seeking more. "Soaked for me. This pretty little cunt is weeping, isn't it? Crying because it wants gege's cock. Because it knows who it belongs to."

He presses a finger inside her, slow and steady, feeling her walls clench around him, hot and tight and perfect. 

She makes a sound and he freezes, his heart pounding, but her eyes remain closed, her face peaceful, lost in whatever dreamscape he has invaded.

"Good girl," he croons, beginning to move his finger, curling it to find the spot that makes her squirm, even unconscious. "Taking gege's finger so well. So tight, and so fucking perfect. You were made for this—made for me. I knew it the first time I saw you looked at me. I knew I would ruin you, ruin us; and I don't care—I don't care as long as I can have this, as long as I can feel you come apart on my hand while you dream of me."

He adds a second finger, stretching her gently, scissoring them inside her tight heat, feeling her grow wetter around his knuckles. His other hand continues to work her breast, pinching and rolling her nipple in time with the thrust of his fingers, building a rhythm that has her hips rocking now, seeking, chasing. "That's it," he encourages, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper, his own hips bucking against her ass, grinding his cock against her through his pants, seeking the friction that will send him over the edge. "Chase that pleasure. Gege's got you. Gege's giving you what you need. This is what you want, isn't it? My fingers deep inside you, fucking you open, preparing you for when I finally take you for real. When I spread you out on my bed and eat this pretty cunt until you scream, until you can't walk, until you forget your own name and only know mine."

Caleb crooks his fingers, pressing against her sweet spot, and her breath hitches, her back arching sharply. He feels her clench, feels the flutter of her walls around his fingers, and he knows she is close, so close, hovering on the edge of orgasm even in her sleep.

"Baby, my pretty baby, cum for me," he commands, his voice shaking, his own pleasure mounting, his cock pulsing with each thrust of his hips against her softness. "Cum for gege. Let me feel it. Let me feel you squeeze my fingers. Milk them like you'll milk my cock one day. Fuck, yes, that's it, good girl, such a good—"

She breaks with a keen, her body going rigid, her back bowing against his chest, her cunt clamping down on his fingers so hard he sees stars. She is beautiful in orgasm, even unconscious—mouth open, brows furrowed in pleasure. He feels her pulse around him, drawing out her peak, and he keeps fucking her through it, gentling his touch but not stopping, dragging out every aftershock until she goes limp against him, boneless and satiated, her breathing deep once more.

"Pretty," he breathes, his voice wrecked. "So fucking pretty. My good girl, my perfect girl."

But he doesn't stop—he can't. 

The sight of her coming undone, the feel of her wetness coating his fingers, the pressure of her ass against his throbbing cock—it is too much. He continues to thrust his fingers, shallow and slow, milking her sensitivity, even as his other hand releases her breast and slides down to grip her hip, holding her steady as he grinds upward, seeking his own release.

"Look what you do to me," he pants against her neck, his tongue darting out to taste her skin, salty and sweet. "Look how hard you make me. Just from touching you. Just from feeling you come. Fuck, I'm going to—I'm going to—"

He buries his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of her shampoo—something floral, something innocent—and lets go. His hips jerk upward, once, twice, three times, and then he is spilling into his pants with a choked groan that he barely manages to muffle, his cock pulsing in waves of pleasure that make his vision go white at the edges. It is messy and shameful, feeling the wet heat spreading in his underwear, but he doesn't care.

When it is over, when he can breathe again, when his heart slows from its frantic hammering, he carefully withdraws his fingers from her. 

They are coated in her arousal, glistening in the afternoon light, and without thinking—without the ability to stop himself—he brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean, groaning at the taste of her, sweet and musky and perfect.

He needs more, and he needs to taste her straight from the source.

Caleb shifts carefully, manoeuvring her limp body until she is lying on her back on the couch, her head turned to the side, her legs parted slightly. He kneels between her thighs, his hands trembling as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of her sleep shorts and her underwear—both soaked through, both ruined—and slides them down her legs, lifting her feet one by one to free the fabric completely.

She is exposed to him now, her sex glistening and swollen from her orgasm, pink and perfect and his. He stares for a long moment, memorizing the sight, filing it away in the vault of his obsession where he keeps every stolen moment, every glimpse of skin.

"Gege needs to taste," he whispers, more to himself than to her. "Just once. Just this once."

He leans forward, his hands spreading her thighs wider, and presses his mouth to her. She tastes like heaven, like sin, like everything he has ever wanted and cannot have. He laps at her slowly, licking up her folds, circling her clit with his tongue, cleaning away the evidence of her pleasure and his own transgression. She is sensitive, twitching beneath his mouth, making small sounds that drive him wild, but she does not wake. She is too far gone, too deep in sleep, too trusting that she is safe in her own home.

If only she knew; if only she knew that her brother is currently between her legs, feasting on her like a starving man, his cock already stirring again in his wet pants, desperate for more.

Caleb kisses her there—her glossy cunt, her perfect sex—and whispers against her folds, "Goodnight, my love. Sweet dreams of gege."

He lingers for one more moment, pressing a final kiss to her clit, feeling her shudder, before he forces himself to pull back. He cannot leave her like this, exposed and messy. He retrieves a warm washcloth from the bathroom, returns to clean her gently, thoroughly, wiping away every trace of his touch, his mouth, her own arousal. 

She sighs in her sleep, peaceful, sated.

From his room, he retrieves a fresh pair of her panties—not the sexy kind, but the soft cotton ones she wears to bed, the ones he has imagined peeling off her a thousand times—and a clean pair of sleep shorts. He dresses her carefully, lifting her hips, sliding the fabric up her legs, tucking her back into her clothes as if nothing has happened, as if he hasn't just defiled her in the most intimate ways while she slept.

He stands back to survey his work. She looks innocent again, untouched, her breathing steady, her face relaxed. No one would know. No one but him.

And the trophies he has taken.

Caleb picks up her discarded underwear and sleep shorts from where he dropped them on the floor. The cotton is drenched, heavy with her scent, with her arousal, with the evidence of what he has done to her. He brings them to his face, inhaling deeply, his cock twitching one last time, and then he folds them carefully and slips them into the pocket of his flight jacket.

They are his now, his treasure. The first of many, he knows.

He lifts her again, cradling her against his chest, and carries her to her bedroom, laying her down on her bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. He stands over her for a long moment, watching her sleep, his hand in his pocket, fingers brushing the damp fabric he has stolen.

"Soon," he promises softly. "Soon you'll wake up. And you'll know. And you'll want it too."

He leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead, then her lips—chaste, but possessive.

"I love you," he whispers. "My little sister. My girl. Mine."

SAINT'S NOTES ! originally uploaded in the server back in the 31st of may, before the entire shitshow and my decision to move past canon content, so don't quote me on this lol—past me was idealistic about this game while present me simply does not give anymore fucks about it.

It was endearing how keen he was to bring you into his space without worrying about when you would have to return to Linkon. Not once did he leave your side, always making sure you wouldn’t lose your balance while carrying boxes or overexerting yourself. It was the domestic fantasy you had always dreamed about.

As smooth as Caleb made the moving process, your boss had been a thorn in your side from the get-go. He had refused to sign your transfer request to the Skyhaven facility, staunchly opposed your leaving, and said he didn't want to have to train someone else on the job. It took a week of back and forth for him to finally sign, his attitude on the matter doing a complete 180°, now eager to get you out of the building and wishing you great success. You furrowed your brows, unsure where this sudden change came from, but frankly, you were too excited to tell Caleb that the transfer had been approved to dwell on it. You didn't see his sigh of relief when you were finally leaving.

Caleb had gone as far as to take time off to help you settle in and unpack, but it soon became abundantly obvious that he had ulterior motives. Though he had lived there for some time, he still proclaimed that now that it was a family home, the rooms would have to be christened. Even if it wasn't a new place, it was a new, joint life, and that was good enough for him.

As promised, there was not a single room that Caleb hadn't indulged in your body. You think you spent more time that week wrapped in his arms, under him, and, occasionally, on your knees for him, than you did actually unpacking. Unfortunately, as much as you loved being doted on, that single week was all the time you had been allowed before resuming your work, albeit in a different location.

“Just a few more minutes, Pips,” Caleb groaned, pulling you tighter against him, refusing to let you get out of bed.

“You said that ten minutes ago,” you answered, pushing on the arm that was snuggly wrapped around your waist, laughing as you did so. “We’ll both be late, and then what? I can’t be late on the first day.”

He nuzzled his nose into your shoulder, giving you one final squeeze before relenting and letting you go. You rolled over, kissing his cheek softly before reluctantly leaving the comfort of both your boyfriend’s strong arms and the warmth of the bed. He didn't take his eyes off you, watching the way the morning light illuminated your figure and caressed the sliver of skin that was exposed when you raised your arms to stretch. He was beginning to regret hitting snooze instead of using his time to admire the mouthwatering sight. It helped, though, knowing that his home was now your home. He had the rest of his life to cherish and adore you.

“You're so beautiful,” he murmured, his expression soft as he gazed at you. Heat rushed to your face. Despite his constant praise, there would always be a part of you that got flustered with his every compliment. How had you found such a perfect guy? Despite not having the time to do all he wanted, Caleb wasn't deterred from slipping his hands under your shirt and stroking the soft skin as you prepared breakfast in the kitchen.

As much as he insisted on driving you to work, you were no stranger to the public trains of Skyhaven, having visited so much. You settled on him driving you to the station, talking your ear off about how he wanted to know everything when you got off work, and how great he was sure it would be. Like your former boss, you didn't see the way his features hardened when you got out of the car, observing the other commuters.

The ride was uneventful, and you passed the time by scrolling on your phone. You frowned when your message to a friend didn't go through. Everything else seemed to be working fine, but no matter how many times you tried, the message stubbornly kept that little red exclamation mark signifying that it couldn't be delivered. You sighed, choosing to worry about it later. Maybe it had something to do with being on a floating island. You'd never had issues before, but there was a first time for everything.

When you arrived at your stop, you stood smoothly from your seat, sliding your phone into your bag and readjusting the straps on your shoulder. You were pleasantly surprised to find that, unlike most other public transportation you had been on, it seemed as if the passengers here were acutely aware of personal space. Not one person bumped into you on their way in or pushed you forward to follow the crowd of those disembarking. 

From the train station, your work was a short walk away, the tall office building visible before you had even left the station. You hesitated when the doors came into view, your nerves getting the better of you. You hated feeling like the new kid at school, but such was life. You took a deep breath to calm yourself, pulling the door open with a confidence you didn't actually possess. You soon learned that there was no reason to be so nervous.

Upon entering the facility, the woman at the front desk startled so hard she nearly knocked over the mug of steaming coffee on her desk. She rose from her seat to welcome you. “Hi, you must be the new employee! My name is Penny. Mr. Burbank told me we were expecting you today,” she said, her smile a little too wide, and her voice a little too chipper. She grabbed something from the desk, handing it to you. “Here’s your employee ID. Mr. Burbank is in his office just down the hall. You can't miss it. It has his name on it and everything,” she joked in that overly-friendly tone.

You returned the smile. “Thank you so much! It was nice to meet you, Penny.” You made your way down the hall, scanning the doors looking for “Burbank” written on one of them. You found it towards the end, and before you could so much as raise a fist to knock it swung inward, revealing who you assumed to be your new boss.

“Ah! And you must be our newest member of the team!” he greeted you, even more enthusiastically than the receptionist had, if that was even possible. You put on a polite smile, though it was becoming a little unnerving how unnaturally upbeat people seemed to be, even as your boss gave you a tour of the space and introduced you to your coworkers. You brushed it off as them just trying to be welcoming and accommodating to the newcomer.

It should be easy enough to get in the groove of things. After all, it was the same job you had been working previously, just at a new location and with new people. Mr. Burbank cut his over-the-top hand gestures short, patting the edge of a sleek, modern desk. “And this is where you’ll be working! We wanted to make sure you felt right at home, so it’s already been supplied with pens and such. If you need anything, absolutely anything, my door is always open!” With a final, blinding smile, he marched back to his office, leaving you to settle in at your new desk.

You let out a long, quiet breath as you settled into the office chair, surveying the array of supplies that came with the desk. Oddly enough, the mesh organizer was already filled with the exact gel pens you had always sworn by. You hummed, pleased that you wouldn't have to worry about finding your original ones in one of the many unpacked boxes still cluttering Caleb’s home.

“He’s a lot to deal with on a Monday, isn't he?”

A head of soft curls popped over the partition separating your desks. The girl attached to them gave you a sympathetic smile, a knowing glint in her eyes. “I’m Evelyn,” she said, leaning her elbows on the divider. “Don't let Burbank scare you. He’s a big fan of extra espresso shots, if you couldn't tell. You’ll get used to it.”

You laughed genuinely for the first time today as you introduced yourself. “Good to know. I guess I’d rather have a passionate boss over a rude one.”

Evelyn nodded understandingly, eyeing the pens in the mesh holder before shifting back to your face. “No question about that.”

You thought that would be the end of the conversation, but she spoke up again. “Well, as Burbank said, if you need anything, don't be afraid to ask. Honestly, the system is the same as the Linkon branch, so you shouldn't have any trouble.”

Your eyes widened slightly in shock. “How do you know I’m from Linkon?”

“Oh, since you're working next to me, Burbank let me know we were getting a transfer from the sister office,” she answered flawlessly without a hint of hesitation. You accepted her answer, not having any reason to doubt it.

As she said, and as you expected earlier, you had no trouble taking up the work. The time flew, and before you knew it, Evelyn was tapping you on the shoulder to get your attention.

“Since you're new in town, how about getting lunch with me and Pen? You met her at the front desk, right?”

You glanced at the clock, seeing that it was indeed already time to eat. You happily accepted the offer, grabbing your bag from where it was stored under your desk and following Evelyn out to the lobby. “Ready to go, Pen?” Evelyn asked.

“Yeah, just give me a sec,” she answered, her attention wholly on the computer in front of her as she typed something feverishly. The second she finished, she spun in her chair to face the pair of you waiting. “Oh!” she exclaimed, seeing you. “Are you coming, too?”

“If it’s no trouble—” you started, suddenly concerned that you were intruding despite having been invited by one of the parties.

“No, of course not! The more the merrier!” Penny was quick to reassure you. 

“So!” Evelyn cut in, clapping her hands. “What about that bistro a few blocks from here? The one with that BLT I really like?” She turned to you. “They have a great lunch menu. You’ll love it, I promise.”

With everyone in agreement, off you went. It was nice to have met such nice women on your first day. The bistro was close enough to walk, and they chatted with you the entire way there, ensuring you were never left out, going so far as to catch you up on the latest office drama.

The bistro was packed with the midday rush, filled with the comforting aroma of garlic, melting cheese, and the chatter of patrons. Luckily, the wait was shorter than you had anticipated, and the three of you were seated in record time.

After giving your drink order to the waiter, Pen leaned towards you, propping her arms on the table. “So, tell us about you. What brought you to Skyhaven?”

Evelyn mirrored Penny’s posture, eagerly wanting to listen to learn more, too.

You looked away sheepishly, heat rushing to your cheeks. “I moved in with my boyfriend. We’ve been dating for two years now, and it just felt like the right time. His job is here, and way more important than mine, so it only made sense for me to move in with him instead of vice versa.”

The girls squealed at your answer.

“That’s so sweet,” Evelyn gushed. “What’s he like? He must be something special to relocate your whole life.”

“Yeah, tell us about him.”

Their excitement was infectious, and you couldn't help but indulge their fun. “His name is Caleb, and yeah, he’s amazing,” you said, your cheeks warming when you recalled him holding you in the kitchen that morning. “He’s incredibly attentive. He takes care of everything before I even think of it.”

“And what does he do for a living? You said his job was way more important, but I don't know. I personally take great pride in what we do,” Evelyn probed.

“He’s a colonel for the fleet,” you answered proudly.

“Oooh, impressive, and it sounds like he really adores you.”

“He does,” you agreed, feeling an intense wave of gratitude wash over you.

Before they could ask any more questions, the waiter returned with your drinks, pulling out a notepad to take the rest of your orders. Once he was gone, you turned the questions around.

“What about you two? Anyone special in your lives?”

Penny shook her head, and Evelyn groaned. “Nothing more than a string of bad first dates. I mean, is it really so hard to find a decent guy, or do I just have bad taste?”

Penny rubbed her back soothingly, but the comfort didn't last. “Maybe a bit of both?” she suggested, grinning wryly.

Evelyn’s jaw dropped as she scoffed. “And what about you, huh? Didn't the last guy you go out with turn out to already have a girlfriend?”

“You promised not to talk about that!”

The duration of lunch was spent in that fashion: discussing each other’s love lives, even if you were the only one with a significant one, hobbies, interests, etc. They were great, truly, and you felt so fortunate that you were able to seamlessly slide into the easy chemistry that the two already had. While waiting for the checks, you pulled your phone out both to check the time and the message thread with your friend from back ho— Linkon, you corrected yourself. Skyhaven was home now.

You sighed, frowning slightly, drawing the attention of the table.

“Something wrong?” Penny asked. Her voice was light, but her posture was remarkably still as she watched you tap frustratedly at the screen.

“Yeah, just…trying to text a friend back in Linkon, but it won’t go through.”

“Oh, don't sweat it,” she said easily, waving a dismissive hand. “Skyhaven tends to eat external signals. Happens to all of us eventually. It’ll clear up!”

“As high-tech as this place is, you'd think the service would be more reliable,” you remarked.

She shrugged. “A little bad service is worth the trade-off, don't you think? Everything you need is right here. Once you're a resident, there's not really a need to look elsewhere. Plus, you've got a handsome colonel waiting for you at home.”

You tilted your head towards her, confused. You hadn't said anything about Caleb’s looks. Maybe she just naturally assumed that since you were his girlfriend, you’d find him attractive. Objectively speaking, he was, but she didn't know that. Her words before that also threw you, sounding like a rehearsed line, like someone trying to talk you into buying something. You almost expected her to pull out a pamphlet of Skyhaven’s highlights. But her bubbly way of speaking made it easy to ignore. You were new to living there full-time, so it could also be that she was just trying to ease any homesickness you may be feeling.

———

“Go on, get out of here,” Evelyn laughed, shooing you away from your desk as the clock finally ticked to five. “Your colonel is probably already waiting.”

You rolled your eyes, but acquiesced, shutting everything off for the day after double-checking that all the files were saved. “Less waiting, and more cooking. He’s making his signature braised chicken to celebrate,” you admitted, mouth already watering as you thought about it. 

“You definitely won the lottery,” she said, giving you a playful wink. “Have a good night, I’ll see you tomorrow. Don't wait up on me, I’ve gotta run this-” she held up a stack of papers “-to Burbank.”

The commute back felt entirely different than the one there. This time, instead of being filled with a frantic nervousness for your first day, you were happy and content, excited to tell Caleb all about the two women you had already befriended. And, unlike most of the train rides you had boarded in Skyhaven, this time you weren't a visitor. You were a resident going home. It made your heart flutter in your chest to think about it. 

When you walked in, you were immediately enveloped by the savory scent of Caleb’s cooking wafting from the kitchen. The moment the door clicked shut, Caleb was calling out for you. “Pips? You home?”

Before you had even taken your shoes off, he appeared in the doorway. He’d already discarded his uniform, opting instead to don his more comfortable lounge clothes, an apron covering them. 

“Hey,” you greeted, dropping your bag onto the entryway table.

Caleb crossed the room in two large strides, catching you by the waist and pulling you flush against his chest. He held you tightly, one of his hands sliding up your back to cup the back of your head. He held you in place like he never wanted to let go. You laughed, wrapping your arms around his trim waist and melting into his familiar warmth. 

“How was your day? Did they treat you well?” he asked without breaking the hug.

You pulled back slightly to see his face. “It was great! I met these two really nice ladies named Penny and Evelyn. They even invited me out to lunch with them!”

Caleb smiled tenderly at you, kissing your forehead. “Good. That’s exactly what you deserve. Only the best.”

Dinner was filled with idle chatter about your days, and Caleb’s attention never wavered from you, not even for a moment. When your plates were empty and your stomachs full, you practically had to force Caleb out of the kitchen and into the living room.

“But, Pips, I really don't mind cleaning up. In fact, it should be me,” he protested.

“Nope,” you replied. “You cooked, so I’ll take care of the cleanup.”

“That’s hardly fair. It’s more like I made the mess, and you’re the one cleaning it.”

You only shook your head at him, continuing to usher him out. He eventually relented, but you could see him pouting on the couch where he was waiting. As soon as the last of the kitchen was tidied, you made your way over to Caleb, who pulled you onto his lap before you were able to take the seat next to him. “You're finally here,” he whispered, his lips brushing your jawline as he drifted down to your collarbone, leaving a trail of burning, lingering kisses. “My beautiful girl. No more different cities. No more goodbye trains.”

“No more goodbyes,” you agreed softly, tilting your head back to give him better access, your fingers tangling in his dark hair.

He groaned, a low vibration against your skin, and adjusted his hands to grip your hips, rolling your hips against his. His eyes were dark with an overwhelming, desperate adoration that made you feel like the center of his whole world. When his lips met yours, it was slow, possessive, and all-consuming— a silent vow of complete and utter devotion. Your body was pliant against his as he rose from the couch, your legs wrapping securely around his waist as he carried you to your shared bedroom, all of your worries and anxieties melting away in the security of his strong hold.

Two months dissolved into a golden haze of domestic bliss. Skyhaven had long since stopped feeling like a new city and actually felt like home. Life with Caleb settled into a rhythm that felt almost impossibly perfect. Given the nature of his job, his days were spent dealing with high-stress tasks, yet he was always sure to leave work at work, never taking his issues home where his pretty girl was waiting for him. No matter what his job put him through, he was still your Caleb; still the same man who insisted on you not lifting a finger; still the same man whose only concern was ensuring that you were as cared for as you could be.

He was fiercely, unapologetically attentive, whether it was a coffee thermos waiting for you on the counter on the days he had to leave earlier or rubbing your shoulders when you complained about stiffness after sitting at a desk all day. Contrariwise, you did whatever you could for him. Making sure the formal coat he discarded over the arm of the couch was properly hung up so it wouldn't get wrinkled, offering reassurances whenever he doubted making the wrong decision at work, anything he needed, you were there, as he was for you.

At the office, the initial corporate stiffness evaporated, and Penny and Evelyn became permanent fixtures in your life. Friday nights at a local bar became a ritual. They knew your favorite drinks, celebrated your small successes at work, and constantly reminded you how lucky you were. “Honestly,” Evelyn had mused one night. “A man who looks like that, who holds a rank like that, who treats you like that? You're living a fairy tale most of us can only dream of.”

You believed her. You really did.

The first time the illusion rippled was a Tuesday morning in mid-October. Mr. Burbank had bounded into the room, practically vibrating with his usual high energy, pushing a rolling cart loaded with coffee carafes and several boxes from a nearby bakery.

“Good morning, everyone! Brilliant numbers last week, truly brilliant!” he beamed, clapping his hands together and gesturing towards the spread. “Please, help yourselves. A reward for all your hard work! Keep it up!”

You stood up with Evelyn, moving towards the table to fix a coffee. You were scanning the assortment of pastries when Mr. Burbank stepped up beside you, immediately reaching into one of the boxes with a pair of tongs. He pulled out a muffin with an impeccable streusel topping, placing it onto a paper plate before handing it to you. “There you go! Raspberry-white chocolate!” he said with a jovial nod. “Your favorite, right?”

You froze, the weight of the muffin in your hand taking on a weight it didn't previously have. You stared down at it. It was your favorite, but you hadn't mentioned that to a single soul here. “Oh,” you said, forcing your voice to remain light as you looked up at him. “Yeah, it is. But how did you know that, sir? I don't think I've ever mentioned it.”

He faltered, all gusto melting from his face, a blank expression replacing it. He glanced sharply over your shoulder toward Evelyn, who had stopped pouring her coffee. Then, like flipping a switch, his bright smile returned stronger than before, but was a little tighter around the edges. “I’m certain I’ve heard it somewhere. Maybe it was in your information during onboarding. We’ve always been a very thorough company, you know.” He walked away hurriedly after his rushed explanation, not giving you the chance to question it. Surely no company was that thorough, right?

You were still puzzling over it when Evelyn nudged you with her elbow. “C’mon, get some coffee before it goes if you want some,” she said, pulling your thoughts away from Burbank’s strange behavior.

The unease only deepened that Friday, tucked away in a corner booth with Penny and Evelyn. Your phone sat on the table next to your glass. The screen lit up briefly with a notification: Message to “Jane” failed to send.

You sighed, propping your head up and rubbing one of your temples. “Hey, are you guys still having trouble with external signals? I still haven't been able to get a single call or text to Linkon since moving.”

Penny paused, her cocktail glass just an inch from her lips. Beside you, Evelyn tensed. The easy, girlish chatter vanished, replaced by a thick, suffocating silence.

“Oh, the defense grid has been super high-intensity lately,” Penny said, her bubbly voice sounding forced. “The fleet’s been doing a lot of training exercises.”

“It’s getting really frustrating,” you admitted, swirling the straw in your drink. “I miss my friends and family. I’m thinking of taking a long weekend next month to visit. Just booking a train ticket and staying in Linkon for a few days. It’s been too long since I've seen everyone.”

Penny’s glass hit the table with an abrupt clink.

“Why would you want to go back there?” Evelyn asked. Her tone wasn't that of a friend asking a casual question. It was sharp. Defensive. Accusatory.

You blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in tone. “I just told you. I miss my family and friends. Linkon was my home for my entire life until a few months ago.” You didn't understand why this seemed to be such an issue to them.

“Skyhaven is your home now,” Penny rebutted smoothly, though her eyes were darting rapidly between you and Evelyn. She reached across the table, covering your hand with hers. “And you have us now! Besides, Linkon is way more dangerous. Wouldn't it be better to stay safe up here? Caleb would worry himself sick over you.”

You frowned. “It’s not like I’d be traipsing through the N109. Again, I grew up there. I can navigate the city just fine. Why are you pushing this so hard?”

“It’s just not a good idea,” Evelyn said, her voice dropping into a stern, unyielding tone, like a parent chastising a child. “You're safer here. There's no reason to go back.” They both stared at you, their expressions of manufactured friendliness not quite reaching their eyes. You pulled your hand back from Penny’s, dropping the subject in conversation, but not forgetting it altogether. For the rest of the night, something in you remained unsettled. 

“I think I’m going to head home. It’s been a hectic week,” you informed them, checking the time on your phone. “It’s getting late, too.”

“Do you want us to walk you to the station?” Penny asked, already rising from her seat.

“No, no, please. You two stay and enjoy yourselves. Caleb already offered to pick me up whenever I’m ready.”

They nodded understandingly, watching as you pulled up your chat with Caleb, the only one that never seemed to experience a single second of network delay. Ready to head home, you typed, your thumbs flying across the screen. Can you come get me?

He answered immediately. On my way, Pips.

It had barely been five minutes when he texted you again to tell you that he was waiting outside. That’s curious, you thought. It should have taken him at least twenty minutes from home. Nevertheless, you bid the girls goodbye, hurrying out to see Caleb’s sleek, dark car pulled up at the curb. You slid into the passenger seat, placing your bag on the floorboard as you settled in,  the scent of Caleb’s cologne enveloping you and offering a familiar comfort you only associated with him.

“Have fun?” he asked as he pulled away, glancing at your outfit from the corner of his eye. God, the things you do to him.

“Yeah, I guess so. You got here really fast. Were you already near?”

Caleb nodded, taking one hand off the wheel to point to the backseat with his thumb, where you saw an assortment of plastic bags. “Yeah, just picking up a few things. Found this soup recipe that I think you’ll love. Saw your text right as I was leaving.”

You hummed, and he continued, stretching his hand across the console to rest a hand against your thigh. “Anyways, you said you guess you had fun? Did something happen? Are you okay?” he inquired worriedly.

You smiled gently at his concern. “I’m fine, Caleb. The girls were just a little strange. I brought up wanting to visit home since I still can't contact anyone. You'd think I'd suggested walking into a warzone.”

Caleb’s thumb, which had been rubbing circles on your skin, stilled. “Oh, yeah? What did they say?”

You let out a long breath, relaying everything that had been said, how intensely opposed they had been. “Am I reading too far into it? It’s like they were trying to prevent me from leaving.”

Caleb kept his dark eyes on the road, jaw clenching. You should never have been made to feel uncomfortable. “They were probably just worried about you, that’s all. It’s not unusual for friends to be concerned.”

You weren't convinced, but said nothing. He continued. “If you really want to go so badly, though, just let me know when so I can make some arrangements. We’ll go together. It’s been too long since I’ve had your mother’s cooking.”

You blinked at him, stunned, warmth blooming in your chest. “You’d really take time off for that? I’m just looking to visit for a few days, and they need you here.”

“If it’s just a few days, then they can survive without me, don't you think? The fleet isn't so fragile as to fall apart over me missing for a few days,” he laughed, enjoying how cute your concern was. “You are my number one priority. Always.”

Your reservations melted away, replaced by the absolute security that Caleb provided. You set your hand on top of his, where it still rested on your thigh, content to let the conversation fall into silence and admire the lights of the passing buildings through the window. 

Your side profile was illuminated beautifully, but he could hardly relish the sight as he normally would have, not when you had thrown his thoughts into such disarray. You wanted to leave? Why couldn't you just forget about your old friends? Weren’t the new ones enough? He had finally made his home yours. He loved you. He would do anything for you. Anything except let you go.

The comfort lasted for exactly three days.

On Monday, you found you didn't have much of an appetite and opted to visit a small, local cafe for a small pick-me-up. It was a quaint and homey place, in a quieter section of the city. Caleb had recommended it to you on the very first weekend in Skyhaven, raving about the ham and cheese croissant. You had been there with him several times since, now heavily associating the place with his warm laughter.

Today, you were alone, not wanting to deprive Pen or Evelyn of a decent meal just because you weren't in the mood. The regular barista you usually saw wasn't there, though you guessed that made sense since you were here at an entirely different time of day than usual. Instead, it was a young man with short-cropped hair, looking decidedly bored with everything around him.

“Welcome in,” he greeted. “What can I get for you?”

“A small vanilla latte and an almond croissant, please,” you answered, digging through your purse for your wallet.

“You got it,” he said, already getting to work on the coffee. You waited patiently off to the side, not really paying attention to much around you until your name was called to get your order. You didn't think much of it at first, but then his words hit you like a bucket of ice water. You never gave your name.

You collected your items, but called out to stop him from walking away. “How did you know my name?” you asked, heart racing in your chest. He looked like a deer in the headlights, his bored expression now one of someone who had made a grave mistake. He didn't answer, only apologized that he was busy and didn't have time for idle chatter.

You hurried back to the office, unsure how to tell Caleb you would likely never return to the cafe that had become a favorite casual date spot. You decided to find answers yourself before telling him. The next morning, you left extra early to have time to drop by. The bell above the door chimed as you walked in, and the barista you usually saw was back behind the counter. She glanced over at the door after hearing the bell, her posture going ramrod straight, almost seeming to recognize you.

You approached the counter apprehensively. She flashed you a blinding smile and welcomed you in, her customer service dial turned as far as it could go with her artificially cheery tone. “Hey, I’m looking for the barista who was here yesterday. Short, dark hair? Was on the clock around noon?”

She looked at you, puzzled. “We don't have anyone here that looks like that, I’m sorry. But if you're ready to order, I can certainly help with that!”

“No, he was here yesterday,” you said, bile rising in your throat. Something was so terribly wrong, even if you couldn't quite pinpoint just what it was yet. “He made my drink.”

“I’m sorry, ma'am, but you must be mistaken.” Her smile hadn't wavered once, only changed from the megawatt one that it had been when you first walked in to an apologetic one. “Can I get anything started for you?” She tried again.

You shook your head, leaving without another word. You couldn't shake the distinct feeling that something was off.

The rest of the week passed by quietly, with nothing else out of the ordinary. You went to work, kissed Caleb goodbye, talked to Evelyn and Pen over lunch, went home, and spent your evenings curled up with your boyfriend. By Saturday morning, you had nearly settled back into the mundane comfort of everyday life.

Caleb had been called in for a briefing, and you found yourself needing to work off the restless energy. You figured you might as well be productive and grabbed a broom, determined to have the house spotless by the time Caleb returned. You were sweeping the hallway when you noticed his office door — which was always closed and locked — was cracked open, an unheard of occurrence from the man who had never once forgotten to secure it, the files and paperwork within far too important.

You knew you shouldn't, but you couldn't help yourself. You propped the broom against the wall and pushed the door open, walking in slowly. It was meticulously organized, not so much as a single pen out of place. You stepped closer, reaching out for a manila folder with the fleet’s insignia on it. The first thing that greeted you when you opened it was your own face. You were so startled you nearly dropped the folder altogether.

You scanned the page, finding all the information about you that anyone could ever want to know. All the basic personal details, such as your name and birthday, but beyond that, it also included your blood type, medical history, daily routines, and even a brief list of your favorite things as well as dislikes. Your entire life was printed in front of you in black and white. 

Your heart was beating against your ribcage so hard it felt like it was trying to escape. Swallowing thickly, you continued flipping through the document, feeling more and more sick with each one you saw. Though they were far less detailed than yours, there was a file for Evelyn, Penelope, Burbank, and even the mystery barista. All low-ranking members of the fleet. All assigned to you with specific instructions about how to behave around you.

Numb with shock, your eyes drifted to the computer that had been left on, the screen idling. You shook the mouse, and a digital map of Skyhaven was pulled up. At the very center was a pulsating crimson dot hovering over the house. Without confirmation, you already knew exactly who that dot was tracking.

Not knowing what else to do, you put everything back exactly as it was. You backed out of the room, clicking it shut this time. For the next forty-eight hours, you gave the performance of your life. When Caleb came home, you kissed him as usual. You cooked dinner. You talked about each other’s days. You curled into his side and let him stroke your hair when it was time to sleep. You just had to make it to Monday, when you both returned to work. Then, you would have your window to run.

When Monday came, you slid from your desk, not bothering to answer Evelyn’s questioning look. You ignored Penny’s calls to you as well; your mind made up that you had to get to the train station as soon as possible. You’d barely made it to the end of the block when you rounded a corner and ran directly into what felt like a wall. Before you’d even looked up, you knew you’d have to lie through your teeth. You recognized that uniform.

Glancing up, you were met with Caleb's purple eyes staring down at you, his brows furrowed. “Where are you going in such a rush?” he asked, concern dripping from his words. “Do you feel sick? Need to go home? You seem a little flushed.” He raised his free hand to your forehead, checking your temperature.

“What are you doing here? I thought you were on duty today,” you asked, wondering just how he had gotten there so fast.

He held up one of his hands, drawing your attention to a take-out bag from one of your go-to spots. “I thought we could have lunch together,” he said sheepishly. “But if you’re not well, you’re probably not very hungry either.”

You nodded, once again resigned to pretending everything was normal.

“Let’s go home,” he said softly, taking your hand in his and leading the way. The workday wasn't even over, and you obviously weren't able to leave quite yet, but you couldn't bring yourself to care about any repercussions. Given that your boss was stationed by the fleet, there likely wouldn't be any repercussions at all.

Caleb didn't act any differently than normal, fussing over your well-being and insisting you get some rest as soon as you were back home. He was no fool. He knew you’d finally realized, yet he clung to the illusion that he had so carefully curated. He desperately didn't want you to be afraid of him.

He stayed by your side until you fell asleep, and he was gone when you woke. You wasted no time throwing a duffel bag together, your hands shaking as they violently zipped the bag shut. It was harder to walk out the door than you thought it was. Your heart was bleeding for what could have been, for what should have been. You stood in the kitchen, looking around the space, memories coming to you unbidden. Caleb at the stove, an apron the only thing covering his chest; the first morning after moving in, when he hugged you from behind; the living room that had hosted countless movie nights. Was all of that fake, too?

Your vision was becoming blurry with tears that you wiped as soon as they fell. The hardest part of it all was that a part of you still wanted to stay. To pretend your relationship was as perfect as you always thought. You still loved him. Loved the man who prepped your coffee in the morning, the man who rubbed the tension from your shoulders after a long day, the man you thought you’d marry someday.

You steeled your heart to the best of your ability, pushing down both memories and your heartbreak. Making sure to leave your phone on the counter so that the incriminating red dot would remain in the house, you walked out the door.

———

The train station was winding down for the night with just a few stragglers left. You approached the ticket window, pushing your civilian ID through the slot. “One way to Linkon, please. The next available train.”

The ticket seller, an older man with tired eyes, slid your card through the electronic reader. For a second, the system chimed normally. Then, a sharp ring cut through the glass. The screen in front of the man flashed bright red. You watched the color drain from his face, his posture going rigid as he stared at the alert on his monitor. He looked at you, his eyes wide. “I’m…I’m sorry, ma'am, but the lower tracks are under maintenance. There won't be any more trains for the night.”

“What?” your voice pitched higher, a cold panic exploding in your chest. “What about tomorrow?”

The man shrugged helplessly. “The system is locked. I can't help you, I'm sorry. If it’s urgent, you can come by first thing in the morning to check.”

You backed away from the window, your mind racing. What now?

You couldn't call anyone from home, you couldn't call your “friends” here, and you couldn't leave the island. Surely local law enforcement still had some integrity. That singular thought is what kept your legs moving all the way to a local station, pushing open the heavy doors. The lobby was sterile, smelling of industrial cleaner. 

Behind the security desk sat a low-ranking Fleet officer. His posture was relaxed until he looked up and caught sight of you, breathless and trembling.

“Miss, are you alright?” He stood up immediately, concerned.

“The trains are down,” you choked out. “And my phone stopped working. Please, I need to get to Linkon. Is there any other way?”

The officer blinked, taking in your frantic state. A flash of genuine pity crossed his features. “Calm down, miss. The Coelum Express is experiencing a temporary failure. I’m sure it’ll be back up in no time. But if it’s imperative that you get there, I’ll see what can be done.” He gestured to the empty lobby. “Why don't you take a seat?”

You nodded slowly, gratefully sinking into the hard plastic chair, your knee bouncing up and down with nervous energy. Through the glass partition, you watched him sit back down, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

You let out a breath you felt like you had been holding for hours. Someone was really helping you. 

At the desk, the officer pulled up a transportation request form. “Miss?” he called out across the quiet lobby, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. “I need your full name to complete the request.” You gave it, your voice much softer now that your heart rate was finally returning to baseline. “Thank you. Just one moment, please,” he replied warmly, typing in the letters and hitting enter.

You didn't see what happened next. You were looking down at your hands, completely unaware of how the color drained from the officer’s face as he read the warning that flashed across the screen.

WARNING: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. ASSET UNDER CUSTODIAL JURISDICTION OF COLONEL XIA.

The officer’s fingers froze over the keys, reading the warning over and over, specifically the name that had ice flowing through his veins. The officer couldn't bring himself to look at you, so much more than the stranded civilian he had believed you to be. He pitied you. He really did. But it was out of his hands, now.

Forcing his voice to remain flat and neutral, he kept his eyes focused solely on the screen. “Alright, miss, I just need a supervisor’s approval, and then you’ll be all set.”

“Thank you,” you murmured gratefully, offering a small, fragile smile of relief. You watched him disappear into the back offices, entirely oblivious that the officers were already phoning the colonel.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. You were starting to worry that something was wrong when you heard the door to the station open again. You glanced over, expecting to see another citizen or perhaps another officer of the station. Instead, what greeted you was the intimidating figure of the very man you had worked so hard to get away from.

He was still in full uniform, cap and all, looking every bit the colonel everyone else saw, and for once, you did too, rather than your boyfriend. It lasted only a moment, his eyes softening with such profound relief when he saw you, and he was back to looking like your Caleb.

He walked towards you, offering a hand for you to take. You felt something break inside you, looking over to the desk to see the officer had returned, his head tilted down in a display of shame. There was nowhere for you to go. There was nothing you could do. With no other options, you slid your hand into his. You stood, and he cupped your face, directing you to look up at him. “I was so worried about you, Pips,” he whispered, leaning forward to kiss your forehead. You didn't reply, trying to reconcile that you’d never go back to the way things were before. “Let’s go home, yeah?” he said softly, looking at you like a pet that had wandered a little too far from home.

Before leaving, Caleb turned to the officer. “Thank you for your vigilance, Adjutant.”

He didn't speak on the ride home, and neither did you. In fact, you didn't even move, like prey hoping to avoid a predator’s notice. Not that it mattered when you were already in the passenger seat of his car.

It wasn't until the front door shut behind the pair of you and the lock clicked into place that he finally spoke, placing his cap on the entryway table.

“Why did you leave, Pips? Don't I make you happy?” he asked, his voice cracking with agonizing sorrow. You remained silent, choking back sobs. You tried to walk around him, keeping your head down, but he caught your arm. “No. Don't do that. You can't just walk away from me,” he pleaded. “I’ve done everything to make you happy. To keep you safe. I thought we were happy.”

“Why?” was the only thing you could muster, tears welling up in your eyes and strangling your voice.

Caleb seemed caught off guard, but didn't hesitate to answer as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Because I love you.”

 “This isn't love, Caleb, this is a lie,” you sobbed, grabbing onto his wrists. “I don't understand. How did you even—” you couldn't finish, your legs giving way under you. Caleb went down with you, pulling you into his chest as you cried, stroking your hair the way he always did.

“Having you here is what keeps me here, and the Fleet wouldn’t replace me easily. But they didn't understand that you are my priority.” He pulled back just enough to look at your tear-stained face, his eyes dark with all-consuming devotion. “I was worried about you moving here. What if you didn't adjust well? What if you got homesick? It was distracting. In a world where you were protected and happy, I wouldn't have to worry so much. It was all for you.”

You buried your face back into his chest, your body wracked with sobs. The crushing weight of his confession paralyzed you. And the absolute sickening tragedy of it all was that you still loved him. You didn't want to leave him, to give up the happiness you had with him. You were entirely horrified by the lengths he had gone to and the scale of his deception, but more than his lies, you were trapped by the depth of your own feelings for him. You couldn't stop loving him, even if it meant choosing your own captivity.

Sensing your compliance, Caleb let out a sigh of relief. He scooped you into his arms and carried you to the bedroom, laying you gently on the mattress and crawling in beside you, his arm over your waist, holding you tightly against him.

“Everything will be okay. I promise,” he whispered into the quiet of the room. “You just have to stay with me.” He paused, pressing a kiss into your hairline. “I love you. So much.”

New York City does not care about your feelings.

This is something you’ve made your peace with over the years — the way it moves around you without slowing down, all noise and glass and cold wind off the Hudson in the early mornings when you’re walking the four blocks from the subway to Linkon Tower, coffee cup in hand, trying to remember if you forwarded that document last night or only dreamed that you did. The city asks nothing of you emotionally. It simply expects you to keep moving.

You are, in this way, well-suited to New York.

What you are less well-suited to — what you have been quietly, privately, catastrophically less well-suited to for approximately three years now — is being in love with your boss.

The elevator opens on the fifty-third floor.

You are fine.

“Good morning.”

His voice reaches you before you’ve fully stepped through the glass doors of the executive suite — low and unhurried, carrying the particular warmth he reserves for very few people, and you are, for reasons that keep you awake sometimes, one of them. Sylus is already at his desk, as he always is, as he has always been every single morning in the three years you’ve worked for him, because the man apparently does not sleep like a normal person. The Manhattan skyline stretches silver and pale behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the early light, he looks almost painterly — silver hair, dark suit, those red eyes lifting from the document in his hand to find you the moment you walk in, the way they always do, like he has a sense for you specifically.

Like he was waiting.

“Good morning,” you say, and you are very proud of how normal your voice sounds.

“How was the commute?” He asks it with genuine interest, setting his document down, which is one of the things that got you in trouble in the first place. The way he actually listens. The way Sylus, who runs a multi-billion dollar enterprise from this office and commands rooms full of people who are intimidated just by his posture, always has time to ask how your commute was.

“Cold,” you say, unwinding your scarf. “The L train decided this morning was a good time to have an existential crisis.”

“The L train always does that.” He tilts his head slightly. “You should have taken the car.”

“I’m not taking your car to work, Sylus.”

“You could.”

“I know I could. I’m choosing not to.” You drop your bag at your desk and pull out your tablet, already scrolling to his schedule. “It makes me feel like a kept woman.”

The silence that follows is approximately one beat too long.

You look up. Sylus is watching you with an expression you can’t fully decode — something that passed through his eyes too quickly, smoothed back over by the composed, unreadable surface he wears most of the time. The corner of his mouth curves.

“Heaven forbid,” he says mildly, and goes back to his document.

You turn back to your tablet and breathe.

Three years, you remind yourself. You have survived three years of this. You will survive today.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

Here is what three years has taught you about Sylus:

He takes his coffee black, no sugar, too hot for comfort, and he drinks it while standing at the window with Manhattan spread out below him like something he’s quietly fond of. He is pathologically early to everything and has zero patience for people who aren’t, with the single exception of you — for you, he simply comes to find you, appearing at your workspace door with that unhurried patience, as though waiting for you specifically is a different category than waiting in general.

He reads physical documents even though everything could be digital because he thinks better with paper in his hands. He keeps the office two degrees warmer than the building standard because he noticed, in your first winter working for him, that you were always cold. He has never once mentioned this to you directly. You figured it out yourself, six months in, when you checked the building’s climate control records out of sheer curiosity, and you had to sit with that knowledge quietly for a long time afterward.

He is privately, genuinely funny — not the performative wit he turns on in meetings, but something dryer and warmer that surfaces only in the quiet moments, usually aimed at you. He reads in at least four languages. He grew up far from here, far from any of this, and there are moments when something in his expression goes distant and careful and you sense the geography of everything he’s built between himself and whatever came before.

He has never raised his voice at you. Not once. In three years of high-pressure deadlines and impossible situations and the particular chaos that seems to follow a man of his ambition, he has never directed anything at you that wasn’t measured, and considered, and — underneath its careful composure — surprisingly kind.

He is also tall — unreasonably, almost absurdly tall, the kind of tall that means the rest of the world simply exists lower than him — broad-shouldered, white-haired, and red-eyed, and standing next to him, which requires you to tilt your head back at an angle you’ve gotten quietly used to, makes you feel both very small and, inexplicably, very safe.

This is the problem.

This is the entire problem.

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

“You have the Meridian Capital call at nine,” you say, following him into his office with your tablet. This is another part of the choreography — the morning briefing, where you trail after him and he listens without looking at you directly, which you have learned means he’s paying the most attention. “Board review at eleven. You have a lunch block—”

“Clear it.”

You glance up. “You specifically asked for that block last week.”

“I know what I asked for last week.” He settles into his chair, leaning back in that easy way of his, long legs stretched under the desk. Even seated, the man is an unfair amount of presence. “Book somewhere for lunch instead. Somewhere quiet — not the Meridian district, I’ll have been on a call with those people for an hour and I’ll want a change of air.” His eyes come to you, and they’re soft in the way they sometimes are when it’s just the two of you and the morning is still early. “Somewhere you’d like. You choose.”

You pause. “You want me to choose.”

“Is that not what I said?”

“You’re very particular about restaurants, Sylus.”

“I’m particular in general,” he concedes. “But I trust your taste.” A brief pause. The softness in his expression doesn’t waver. “Lunch for two, somewhere you’d like. That’s all.”

You look at him for a moment too long — which you do sometimes, which you’ve been doing for three years, and he always holds the look, always lets you, like he has nothing to hide and all the time in the world, which is terrifying because it makes you feel seen — and then you nod and look back at your tablet.

“I’ll find somewhere,” you say.

“I know you will.” He picks up his pen. “You always do.”

｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡

The Meridian call runs long, as you predicted, and you have reorganized two schedules and soothed one very anxious junior analyst by the time it wraps. Sylus emerges from his office at eleven-oh-three, jacket on, expression still and composed from the professional armor he wears in those spaces, and crosses directly to your desk.

He sets a cup of tea down at your elbow.

Your tea — your specific order, the one you’d mentioned offhandedly to him eight months ago and apparently never needed to mention again — brewed at the temperature you like, with the little paper sleeve because the cup gets hot.

“Your eleven o’clock moved to eleven-fifteen,” you tell him, not trusting yourself to acknowledge the tea directly, “which means you have twelve minutes, and also I found a restaurant — it’s on the Upper West Side, French-American, supposed to be very quiet on weekdays—”

“Perfect.” He’s reading something on his phone, already walking, and he pauses at the edge of your workspace and glances back.

“You barely ate this morning.”

You blink. “I ate some cereal. How could you possibly—”

“You have the look,” he says, simply, like this is a perfectly reasonable thing to say. “The one that means you ate something that technically qualified as food and decided it counted.” The faintest curve of his mouth. “It doesn’t count.”

“It absolutely—”

“Book a table for twelve-thirty.” He’s already moving again, unhurried, like the conversation is entirely settled. “I’m not signing a single thing until I know you’ve had a real meal.”

Then he’s gone, moving down the hallway toward the boardroom, and you’re left staring at the empty doorway with your mouth still open and the faint, traitorous warmth of being known so precisely by someone spreading all the way up to your ears.

You close your mouth.

You book the table and then pick up your tea.

It is perfect.

You are in so much trouble.

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The restaurant he lets you choose is a small place tucked between a bookshop and a dry cleaner on West 74th — French in its bones but soft around the edges, the kind of room that smells like butter and old wood and feels completely removed from the city outside. You’re not sure how it stays so quiet in Manhattan. Maybe it exists slightly outside of time.

Sylus ducks slightly to come through the door.

He does this — accommodates the world’s architectures with a patient, practiced ease, as though he accepted a long time ago that most spaces weren’t built for him and has made his peace with it. You notice this more than you should. You notice the way he instinctively adjusts when he’s close to you too — angles himself, shortens his step, never makes you feel like the difference in your heights is anything other than simply the way things are.

The host seats you at a corner table. The light is golden and low.

“This is nice,” Sylus says, and he means it. You’ve gotten good at knowing when he means things.

“I thought you’d like it.” You unfold your menu. “It feels like somewhere you’d eat if you didn’t have to perform anything.”

He goes still for just a moment. Then, quietly: “That’s a very accurate read.”

“Three years,” you say simply.

Something in his expression moves — warm and careful at once, like he’s handling something he doesn’t want to drop. He looks at you across the small table, and in the golden light of this room outside of time he looks different than he does in the office. Younger, almost. Softer. Like the thing he usually holds back with both hands is closer to the surface.

“You’re distracted this week,” he says eventually. Not an accusation — an observation, offered gently, the way he offers you most things. “You hide it well. But I know your face.”

Your heart catches.

I know your face. Said like it’s simply a fact, something true and uncontested, filed away somewhere in him.

“I found something,” you say, because you can never not tell him things, in the end. He does something to your defenses — doesn’t dismantle them, exactly, just makes you feel like they’re not necessary with him, which might be worse. “An apartment. A loft.” You look at your water glass. “I’ve been dreaming about my own place for years. You know how New York is — I’ve been in the same sublet since I moved here, and it’s fine, it’s always been fine, but it’s not mine. Nothing in it is mine.” You smile, self-deprecating. “I walked past a listing last weekend. A loft in the West Village — high ceilings, big windows, exposed brick. There’s a little terrace that looks out over the rooftops and I just — I stood on the sidewalk and looked at it for a long time.”

Sylus is watching you with his full attention — the specific quality of stillness he gets when you’re saying something he wants to remember. His hands are folded on the table. He’s not eating. He’s just listening.

“It needs renovation,” you continue, quieter now. “A lot of it, still. Which is part of why the price is—” You exhale. “The price is a lot. More than a lot. My savings are good, I’ve been careful, but between the listing and the renovation costs it’s just—” You shake your head. “It’s not realistic right now.”

A long pause.

“Tell me about it,” Sylus says.

You blink. “I just—”

“Not the numbers.” His voice is gentle. “The place. Tell me about the loft.”

Oh.

Oh.

You look at him. He looks back, patient and entirely serious, and something in your chest aches in a way you don’t have good language for.

And so you tell him — the arched windows and the way the afternoon light would fall across the floors, the exposed brick that runs the whole length of the far wall, the little wrought-iron terrace barely big enough for two chairs and a plant but somehow perfect, the ceiling height, the bones of it. The way you’d stood on that sidewalk and seen, with a clarity that surprised you, exactly what it could become. What it could be. You tell him all of it, more than you meant to, more than is probably professional over a two-person lunch that you’re already trying not to read too much into.

Sylus listens to every word.

When you finish, he’s quiet for a moment. There’s something in his expression that’s gone a little careful.

“What’s the address?” he says.

You study him. “Why?”

“Because you’ve just described the place you want most in the world,” he says, very simply, “and I’m interested in things that matter to you.”

The ache in your chest deepens. You look at him for a long moment — this man who runs a company from the fifty-third floor of a Midtown tower, who is a decade older than you and a foot taller than you and should by any reasonable accounting be the most intimidating person in your life, and who instead feels, in moments like this, like the safest one.

You give him the address.

You don’t know what he’ll do with it.

You just know, the way you know most things about Sylus, that he’ll do something.

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The afternoon passes the way good afternoons in the office do — with a steady rhythm of tasks and small exchanges, the comfortable back-and-forth that you’ve built between you over three years like a language that only the two of you speak fluently. He stops by your desk at three to ask if you want anything from the coffee cart downstairs, which he would never do for anyone else, and brings you back a hot chocolate without commenting on it. You catch him at five-forty-five standing in the doorway of his office watching you finish up for the day with an expression you aren’t supposed to have seen — unguarded, quiet, something in it that sits low and warm in your stomach for the whole subway ride home.

It doesn’t mean what you want it to mean, you tell yourself, earbuds in, Manhattan rushing past outside the windows.

He’s just kind. He’s kind to you because you work for him and you’ve earned it and that’s all it is.

Forty-three blocks uptown, Sylus stands at his office window with your address on a notepad in his hand and thinks, for a very long time.

Then he sits down at his desk.

Opens his laptop.

And begins to type.

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read the rest on ao3 <3