You wait until you hear Zayne's bedroom door close.

Ten PM. He's always in bed by ten when he has early rounds the next morning. Creature of habit, your Zayne—not that he's yours…

That's the problem, isn't it?

You give it another fifteen minutes to be safe, scrolling mindlessly on your phone, before you finally move. You've already changed into a simple black dress that Tara helped you pick out, one that’s just short enough to make you feel dangerous. You spent a little extra time on your hair and makeup, hiding away in the bathroom with the door closed so Zayne wouldn’t catch on.

Your heels are in your hand as you tiptoe down the hallway. The apartment is quiet except for the ambient noise of the city outside. You're almost to the front door when—

“Going somewhere?”

You freeze.

Zayne is leaning against the wall near the kitchen, still in his work clothes, arms crossed. His hazel-green eyes are unreadable behind his glasses.

You clutch your heels behind your back like a child caught with candy. “I…thought you went to bed.”

“I did. Then I heard you moving around.” He tilts his head, eyes tracing every detail—your carefully done hair, the dress that clings to curves your oversized sweaters usually hide, the shoes hidden behind your back—before settling on your face. “Want to try that again? Where are you going?”

You could lie. You've always been good at lying. But something about the way he's looking at you makes the truth spill out instead: “Out.”

“Out where?”

You crouch to put your shoes on, hoping the movement hides your face. “Just…out. With Tara.”

“Out where,” he repeats once more, slower this time, like a challenge. And you have no doubt he’ll wait all night for your answer.

You don’t have all night, though. Tara is waiting for you outside in the rideshare, and you can hear your phone buzzing relentlessly with her messages from inside your purse.

So you look up at him defiantly, one heel half-fastened. “Obsidian.”

Something flashes in his eyes, gone before you can register the emotion. “No.”

“I'm not asking permission.”

“And I'm not giving it.” He pushes off the wall, and suddenly he's towering right above you. “You’re not going there.”

You rise to your feet, pulling yourself to your full height—even if it barely reaches his collarbone in these heels. “I’m an adult, Zayne. I can make my own decisions.”

“Then make better ones.” There’s no anger in his tone, just that infuriating calm that makes you want to scream. “Before I make one for you.”

You look away, frustration simmering behind your ribs. “It’s just dancing with friends! You can’t just keep me locked up here like some—”

“Like someone under my care? Someone whose safety is my responsibility?” His voice is cold and clinical, the same one he uses when he’s trying to distance himself from his emotions. “How unreasonable of me.”

Responsibility. That’s all you’ll ever be to him, right? 

You've been telling yourself for months that it means nothing—his constant checking in, the way he's always somewhere nearby, the concern that floods his features when you do something risky. Convincing yourself he’s just a kind man, a good doctor, because believing he felt even a fraction of what you felt for him would mean hoping for something you’re not allowed to have.

Tonight is supposed to be the night you finally move on. A night where you’ll drink and dance and flirt with men who can flirt back without complications. One where Zayne wasn’t in the room, or in your head, or in your way. Tara was going to make sure of that. 

But his voice slices right through the fantasy.

“Do you understand what Obsidian is?” he asks pointedly. “Do you know owns it?”

You don't. That's the thing. Tara had explained it to you in passing—an invitation-only club, accessible only if you know the right people. She'd smiled mysteriously and said she knew a guy that knew a guy that could get you two in. It sounded thrilling. Dangerous. Like exactly the kind of thing you're not supposed to do.

Which is exactly what makes it irresistible.

“It's just a club,” you say, but you're not entirely sure you believe that, either. The way Zayne's saying it—the way his hands curl into fists at his sides—suggests otherwise.

“It's not just anything.” He steps back abruptly, running a hand through his hair. When he looks at you again, there's something raw in his expression, something he usually keeps locked away. “There are people there who—” He stops himself, then starts again. “You're not going.”

“You can’t stop me,” you say, and you hate how young you sound. How small. “I'm going out with Tara. We're going to a club. People do that, Zayne. Normal people do that all the time.”

“You're not normal people.” 

He catches the sting of his own words and closes his eyes briefly, shaking his head in a flood of instant regret. “That's not what I meant.”

But you know exactly what he meant. That you’re fragile. Broken. Something to be managed, not trusted. Watched, not let go. His duty, not his choice.

Tara's still waiting. Your phone buzzes again with her seventh text in five minutes: We're going to be late!!!

With shaking hands, you text her that you’re on your way, grab your purse, and head for the door. Just before you reach it, Zayne speaks.

“If you walk out that door—”

You pause, hand on the doorknob, and look back. “What? You'll what, Zayne?”

He looks at you like he wants to say a thousand things. Instead, he says: “Just...be careful."

The concern in his voice makes your chest ache. But you're committed now. Committed and enraged and maybe a little bit spiteful.

“Always am.”

You slip out before he can say anything else, before you lose your nerve.

You don't see him standing at the window twenty minutes later, watching the street, his phone in his hand with Obsidian’s location pulled up. Don’t see the way he stares at the dot on the map like he could will it back. Like if he thinks hard enough, you’ll turn around.

Don't see him text his assistant to clear his morning schedule, just in case you need him.

Don’t see him sit in the dark with the lights off, tracing every worst-case scenario and still choosing not to intervene.

Don’t see the way he clenches his jaw, breathes slow, and reminds himself over and over: She’s not yours.

Because convincing himself you’re safer out there than in his arms is the only way he’ll sleep tonight.

—

The line outside Obsidian stretches down the block, but Tara bypasses it entirely, dragging you toward a side entrance where a woman with red hair and calculating eyes guards the door.

“Names,” she says dully.

“Tara, plus one.” Tara's practically vibrating with excitement. “We're on the list.”

The woman consults a tablet, then nods in confirmation. She produces two small vials filled with iridescent liquid that seems to shift colors in the light.

“House rules,” the bouncer says, her tone bored from repetition. She leads you down a dark, narrow hallway lit with strips of red light. “Everyone drinks. No exceptions. Effects last approximately two hours. You'll find yourself compelled toward honesty. Don't bother trying to fight it—it only makes the headache worse.”

Your stomach drops. “Wait, what—”

“It's completely safe,” she continues without breaking stride. “Approved by the Health Department, minimal side effects. Think of it as...social lubrication.”

“This is insane,” you hiss at Tara.

But she’s already uncorked her vial, throwing it back like a shot. She grins at you, eyes already turning glassy. “Come on! It's part of the experience! Everyone's on the same playing field—no games, no lies, just pure honesty.”

“Tara—”

The bouncer leads you to the club’s threshold—it’s exactly what you expect and somehow more, all red velvet and dark wood and crystal chandeliers. Prismatic light flashes across bodies moving to a heavy bass that you feel in your bones. Private booths line the upper level, their occupants hidden in alluring shadow.

“Don't be boring.” Tara leans in, flaunting her now-empty test tube like a trophy. “Besides, maybe you'll finally admit some things you've been avoiding.”

You look at the vial in your hand. At Tara's expectant face. At the bouncer’s impassive stare.

Then you bring the vial to your lips, tilt your head back—and let the liquid sit against your closed throat. You fake a swallow, suppress a gag at the chemical taste on your tongue, and quickly wipe your mouth. The moment the bouncer looks away, you duck your head and discreetly spit it into a napkin you grab from a nearby table.

Her eyes narrow slightly, but she steps aside. “Enjoy your evening, ladies.”

All around you, people are talking. Laughing. Confessing. The truth serum creates an atmosphere of reckless intimacy, where beautiful strangers share secrets like trading cards.

“This is AMAZING,” Tara shouts over the music. Her pupils are fully dilated now, and there's a wild edge to her smile. “I feel so—so free! Like I could say anything! Everything!”

“Maybe don't say everything,” you caution. Her enthusiasm makes you feel painfully sober.

“Why not? Everyone else is!” She grabs your arm, pulling the two of you deeper into the space. “Oh my god, I have to tell you—I bought those shoes you complimented last week at full price but told you they were on sale because I didn't want you to think I was fiscally irresponsible!” She's on a roll now, the words tumbling out. “And I've been secretly watching Lust Island without you, even though we promised we'd watch it together!”

“You monster.”

“I KNOW!” She looks genuinely distressed for a moment, then distracted by something across the room. “Ooh, there's a photo booth! I'm going to go take pictures and tell the camera all my feelings about my mother's dating choices!”

Before you can stop her, she's disappeared into the crowd. Leaving you very, very alone.

You edge toward the bar, trying to look purposeful. The bartender—a bald man with elaborate neck tattoos and a row of thin, gold earrings—slides a drink toward you without asking.

“Vodka, triple sec, lemon, sugar.” As if sensing your hesitation, he supplies the ingredients before you even ask. “And no truth serum, if that’s what you’re worried about. That would be redundant.”

You give the bartender an appreciative nod before taking a tentative sip. It's good. Dangerously good.

“You're handling it better than most.”

The voice at your back is deep and smooth, with an edge of amusement that sends a shiver down your spine.

You turn, and the world narrows.

The man leaning against the bar is devastating in a way that feels almost unfair. Silver hair, red eyes—actually red, not brown or hazel in the right light, but red like rubies, like warning signs, like danger. He's dressed in all black, expensive and perfectly tailored, carrying himself with the kind of ease that comes from owning everything around you—like nothing could surprise him anymore.

Except, maybe, you.

“I'm sorry?” you manage.

“The serum.” His eyes track your face with unnerving intensity. “In my club, most first-timers are spilling their deepest secrets within five minutes. You've been here twenty, and I haven't heard a single confession.”

Your gaze is unflinching, but your pulse betrays you. “Maybe I don't have any secrets.”

“Everyone has secrets.” He gestures to the bartender, who immediately produces another drink. “The question is why you're not sharing yours.”

You watch his fingers trail lazy patterns through the condensation on the glass. Something about it feels intimate in a way that makes you suddenly very aware of how close he's standing. 

You quickly force your eyes away. “I'm just...private.”

“Private.” He tastes the word like wine. “In a club specifically designed to eliminate privacy. Interesting choice.”

You take a longer sip of your drink, using it as a shield. “I'm here with my friend—”

“Who has conveniently disappeared.” He tilts his head, studying you closely. “Leaving you alone with a stranger. Either she's a terrible friend, or an excellent wingwoman.”

Before you can respond, there's a commotion behind you. You turn to find Tara stumbling over, her hair slightly mussed, makeup smudged, with the biggest smile you've ever seen.

“THERE YOU ARE!” She crashes into you, then notices the silver-haired man. Her eyes go comically wide. “Oh. Oh wow. You’re the hot club owner! You're really hot. Like, objectively. I'm not even into men usually, but you're making me reconsider some things.”

“Tara,” you say through gritted teeth.

“What? It's TRUE. I literally can't lie right now, and he's—” She gestures vaguely at all of him. “You know. Him.”

The man's smile widens, genuinely amused now. “I appreciate the honesty.”

“Tara, maybe we should—”

“Oh my GOD. Did she tell you?” Tara's eyes light up with revelation. She turns to the man, swaying slightly on her heels. “She has this situation. A whole mess of a situation with her doctor. Well, doctor-slash-guardian. It's very tragic and romantic and she won't do anything about it.”

You want to die. Actually cease existing. “Tara, I will literally pay you to stop talking—”

“You can't pay me, I'm on truth serum! I have to tell the truth!” She grabs the man's arm conspiratorially. “Okay, so there's this doctor, right? Super hot, super smart, super emotionally unavailable. And she's been in love with him for like, three years—she lives with him, for God’s sake. But he's all 'professional boundaries' and 'tragic backstory' and won't make a move even though they have this insane chemistry—”

“TARA.”

“—and she just lets it happen! Just pines and pines and does nothing!” Tara throws her hands up. “It's exhausting to watch, really. I keep telling her to just tell Daddy Doctor how she feels but she's all 'it's complicated' and 'I’m his patient' and—”

“Okay!” You physically turn Tara toward the dance floor. “You need to go dance. Right now. Go find someone to dance with.”

“But I haven’t even told him about the—”

“Yes, you are. Go. Dance. Now.”

Tara pouts, but allows herself to be redirected toward the mass of bodies. You watch until she's safely absorbed into the crowd, then slowly turn back to face the silver-haired stranger, who is looking at you with such focused interest that you feel pinned in place.

“You sound like trouble,” he says, and his smile is wicked. “Daddy Doctor, was it? And three years of pent-up fantasy? Tell me more.”

“My friend is high on your drugs—”

“Willingly. Consensually. With full disclosure.” He doesn’t blink. “I'm very particular about consent.”

There's something in the way he says it that makes heat curl in your stomach. You force your eyes away.

“—and she doesn't know when to stop talking.” You down the rest of your drink in one go. “So can we please pretend the last five minutes didn't happen?”

“Where's the fun in that?” He leans closer, and you catch his scent—something expensive with an edge of smoke that makes your head swim. After finishing his own drink, he sets the empty glass beside yours. “You know, you're far more interesting than I expected.”

You tilt your chin up defiantly. The height difference is obscene, and your brain’s doing filthy things with it. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“It's an observation.” He leans an elbow on the bar, close enough that his sleeve brushes your wrist. “You come to a club devoted to honesty, fake taking the truth serum, and apparently have a forbidden crush situation at home. You're a walking contradiction.”

You narrow your eyes. “And you're making a lot of assumptions for someone who just met me.”

“Am I?” He gestures to the bartender for another round. “So you did take the serum?”

Damn him. “I didn't say that.”

“You didn't have to. The fake swallow was decent—most people wouldn't think of it. But you spit it into a napkin three seconds later.” He clicks his tongue in mock disappointment. “Sloppy, really.”

You shrug. “Maybe I'm just boring.”

“Not a chance, sweetie.” He laughs once, soft and skeptical. "But we're past pretending now, aren't we? You came here to avoid being honest. To maintain control while everyone else loses theirs. I can respect that.”

He nudges your drink toward you with a single finger, not breaking eye contact.

“The question is, what are you hiding from?”

You deflect. “You didn't take it, either.”

He pauses, just for a moment. Then his smile widens, and he raises his glass like you’ve just passed some unspoken test. “Touché.” 

“So what are you hiding from?”

“Who says I'm hiding from anything?” His voice is light, almost teasing, and you know he’s deflecting, too. “Maybe I just don't like being forced to tell the truth.”

“That's convenient.”

He sips his drink unhurriedly. The way he watches you over the rim makes your heart race. “It's practical.” 

You study him with narrow eyes. “Then why should I trust you?”

“You shouldn't.” He says it simply, no hesitation. “I’m a stranger who runs a club that drugs people for entertainment. Trusting me would be careless.”

“Then what are we doing here?”

“Talking. Dancing, if you say yes. Neither of which requires trust. Just interest.” He leans back slightly, swirling the drink in his glass without taking his eyes off you. “And I, for one, am very interested.”

The honesty of it catches you off guard.

“Dance with me,” he says. He extends a hand. An offer.

You just stare at it.

You should say no. You should say no. But the excitement flares anyway, irrational and instant and thrilling. 

“That's direct.”

“I don't see the point in being anything else.” His eyes hold a challenge, daring you to look away. His hand hasn’t moved.

“I don’t even know your name.” It’s a last-ditch excuse, barely hanging on to the edge of your resolve.

“Sylus.” He smiles like he’s been waiting for you to ask. “Owner of this establishment. Purveyor of honesty. And, apparently, collector of interesting problems.”

You look at his hand. At the rings glinting on his fingers. At the way he's looking at you like you're the most fascinating thing he's encountered in a very long time.

You should run away. You should grab Tara and get out of this place with its truth serums and annoyingly beautiful and discerning strangers. Should go home and forget this entire evening ever happened.

Instead, you slide your hand into his.

He looks down at your joined hands, then at you. He doesn’t smile, not exactly. But something shifts in his expression, like satisfaction settling into his bones.

When you don’t give him your name in return, he raises a brow. “And you are…?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

His gaze darkens with something unmistakably entertained.

“Mmm. Trouble.” He's already moving you toward the floor, glancing back with something pleased in his expression. “I think you and I are going to get along very well.”

Once you’ve found a spot on the dance floor, his hands find your waist immediately, pulling you into the rhythm. The music is pulsing, bodies pressed together everywhere, but he moves with absolute confidence.

“So,” he says, voice low enough that only you can hear over the music. “Tell me about this doctor of yours.”

“Why would I do that?” you ask, guarded. But you don’t pull away.

“Because I'm intrigued.” His thumb traces a small circle on your hip. “Three years is a long time to wait for someone to make a move.”

You came here to avoid every thought of Zayne.

But Sylus looks at you like he already knows, and worse—like he cares. Like he might even understand.

Which is exactly why you shove the thoughts down deeper.

“Maybe I'm not waiting. Maybe I'm just living my life.”

“In his apartment. Under his roof. Following his rules.” He doesn’t take the bait. “Very independent of you.”

You glare up at him, but it only seems to amuse him further. 

“You think you have me all figured out.”

“Not yet. But I plan to.” The certainty in his voice makes your pulse stutter. “I think you came here to be seen. To be wanted. And I think your doctor's an idiot for making you come somewhere else to find it.”

It’s accurate. So accurate it puts you on the defensive. You snap too quickly, too sharply. “He’s not an idiot.”

“No?” He leans down. His voice is too close, too calm. “Then what would you call a man who keeps something like you on a leash for three goddamn years and never dares to pull it?”

You open your mouth, but he doesn’t stop.

“Someone who has your loyalty, your attention, your want—and pretends not to notice? Who lets you walk out the door dressed like this”—his gaze drags down your body, slow and appreciative—“and doesn't come after you?”

The truth of it hits somewhere low and aching. You think of Zayne standing in the kitchen—how he reached for you, how he tried to keep you from leaving. The way his voice went stern, how he said your name like it meant something. He didn’t let you go easily. But still, he let you go.

And maybe that’s what cuts the deepest.

Because some part of you, buried and stubborn, wanted him to fight harder. To stop you. To make it impossible to leave.

But he didn’t. 

And now here you are, in someone else's arms, being seen like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Sylus looks at you like it’s obvious, like wanting you was never any question. Like desire isn’t something that has to be earned.

You clear your throat, willing your voice to stay neutral. “He has his reasons.”

“I’m sure he does. Very good, very professional reasons.” His mouth is close to your ear now, so close you can feel the heat of his breath. “But you didn't get dressed like this for him. You came here hoping someone else would want you instead.”

“Maybe,” you half-admit, the word unsteady. “I don't know what I'm doing.”

“Yes, you do.” His hand slips lower, pulling you in closer until there's no space left between your hips. “You're testing something. Seeing if you can get a reaction out of him. Or maybe just seeing if anyone else will look at you the way you want him to.”

“Tell me,” his voice drops impossibly lower, “how’s that working out for you, sweetie?”

You should be offended. You should pull away.

“You're kind of an asshole,” you find yourself saying instead.

“Careful.” His laugh is genuine, vibrating where his chest presses against yours. “You’re starting to like it.”

The song shifts to something slower, more sensual. Your arms slide up around his neck without thinking, and his hands settle lower on your waist in response.

“But you came to my club to escape that situation.” His hand slides up your spine slowly. “Not pick it apart with a stranger.”

You don’t mean to lean into his touch, don’t mean to close your eyes. But your body moves like muscle memory you didn’t know you had. “Then what should we talk about?”

“Nothing.” He turns you suddenly, your back to his chest, one hand spanning your waist while the other guides your hip to move with his. “Just dance with me.”

You let yourself sink into it—the heat of him against your back, the way he moves you with confidence. It’s easy. Uncomplicated. Everything your situation with Zayne isn’t. 

When his hand drifts up your side slowly, your head falls back against his shoulder without meaning to.

“That's it,” he says against your ear, and you feel the words more than hear them. “Stop thinking. Just feel.”

His fingers trace from your hip up to your ribs, back down. Testing. Learning what makes your breath catch. 

When you shiver, he notices immediately.

“Cold?” His breath is warm on your neck.

“No.”

“Good.” He turns you back around to face him, pulling you close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. “Responsive, then.”

Your hands clutch at his shoulders like instinct. You've been so hungry for this, for someone to touch you like they actually want to, like you're not something fragile. Three empty years—and now, you’re grinding against him like you’re starving. You should be ashamed of yourself. But Sylus is right there with you, eating up every motion you give him like he’s just as famished.

“You’re putting on quite the show, kitten,” he murmurs, like it’s a compliment, not a concern. He doesn’t so much as glance at the people around you. His focus is entirely on you.

The nickname sends heat straight between your thighs. “So?”

“So nothing. Just making sure you know.” One hand slides higher on your back, the other keeps you pressed low against his hips. “But something tells me you like being watched, don’t you?”

He rolls his hips and you gasp—a small, involuntary sound that makes his eyes darken. 

“Maybe I’m tired of being good,” you breathe. You hardly recognize your own voice. 

“Are you?” The way he says it isn’t a question. He grips your hip, holding you against him as he rolls his hips once more, harder this time. The friction makes you whimper, and his smile is absolutely lethal. “Mmm, I suppose you are.”

“How many women have you done this with?” You’re deflecting, trying to regain some ground. “How many girls come to your club and get this whole routine?”

He looks surprised, maybe even offended. “Routine?”

"This.” Your gaze flicks to his hands on you. The way he moves, how easily he commands attention—it’s hard not to assume he’s done this before. “All of this. I'm sure it works well for you.”

“You think I do this often.”

“Don't you? You own a club. I'm sure there's no shortage of—”

He cuts you off before you can finish.

“I don't touch guests.” He says it flatly. Seriously. Like you’ve struck something close to a line. “Ever. I watch from upstairs. I manage the business. I don't get involved.”

“Then why—”

He presses his forehead to yours, and, for a moment, you think he might close the distance entirely. 

“Because you fascinate me. You walked in here and caught my attention and now—now I need to know everything. What you’re running from. What you’re hiding behind those walls. What other pretty sounds you make when I touch you here—” 

His fingers find the bare skin between the dip of your dress and the top of your thigh. He drags his knuckles just under the hem, the touch maddeningly light. You bite your lip hard to keep from gasping again.

“—Or here.” 

His hand trails up your side, teasing the edge of your breast before settling at the base of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. The music pulses around you but all you can focus on is him—the heat of his body, the way he's looking at you like you're something he wants to consume. You can't think straight, can't form words beyond—

“Sylus—”

“I know.” His hand tightens in your hair, tilting your head back gently. His mouth is so close to yours you can feel his breath, the tension suffocating. “I want to learn all of it. Every reaction. Every secret. I want to know every piece of you.”

His hand at your lower back presses your bodies impossibly closer, until you're not sure where you end and he begins.

“Tell me I’m not alone in this.” The sincerity in his words threatens to break you open. “Tell me this isn’t just tonight.”

Your lips part. The answer is there, but—

“Boss.”

The interruption hits like a splash of cold water.

A woman appears beside you—the same one from the door. Her expression is carefully neutral, but there's urgency underneath. “We have a situation. VIP section.”

Sylus doesn't move for a long moment, his eyes still locked on yours. 

“Handle it,” he says without looking at her.

“You need to handle it.” Her tone makes it clear this isn't optional.

His jaw flexes once, hard. He drags his gaze down your face like he’s memorizing the exact way your lips part when you're breathless, the flush that follows everywhere his hands have been. It's disarming, how easily he sees you. How badly you want to be seen.

When he finally lets you go, it’s slow. His hand slides from your hair, trails down your jaw, lingers a second too long at your waist. “Don't go anywhere.”

“That sounds like an order.” You fight a grin, but it still slips through.

“It’s a suggestion. A strong one.” He steps back, and you immediately feel the loss of his warmth. “I’ll be back. Soon.”

“And if I leave?”

His smile is promising. “Then I'll find you anyway.”

He turns and disappears into the crowd, the woman following close behind.

You stand there for a moment, trying to remember how to breathe. Your heart is racing. Your skin feels too hot. You're acutely aware of where his hands were, where his breath touched your neck, your ear, your mouth.

You should stay. He told you to stay. And God help you, you want to.

But that's exactly why you need to leave. 

You don't do this. You don't let men you just met put their hands on you like that. You're the girl who waits three years for someone who won't make a move. Careful. Cautious.

Not—whatever that was.

You need Tara. Need to get out of here and figure out what the hell you're doing.

You search the crowd frantically and find her sprawled in a booth, coming down from the truth serum high.

“Did I embarrass you?” she asks, words slightly slurred.

“Catastrophically.”

“Good.” Tara sits up, eyes sparkling despite her obvious exhaustion. “I leave you alone for ten minutes and you seduce the hottest man in the building—God, I trained you well.”

You scoff. “I didn’t seduce him.”

“Oh, sure,” she says as she fans herself, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Just a totally friendly dry-humping session in the middle of a crowded club. Happens to me all the time.”

“You saw nothing!” You hit her arm playfully. “You were high on truth serum—”

“Which means I'm telling the truth!” She flops back against the velvet. “This is AMAZING. You've got a sexy doctor yearning for you at home and a sexy criminal—he's definitely a criminal, right?—who is trying to get in your pants here. You're living a romance novel.”

“He's not a criminal—”

“Babe. He runs a club where people take drugs for fun. That’s gotta be, at the very least, criminal-adjacent.” She waves a hand. “But like, hot criminal. Morally grey. The kind with a traumatic past that makes you want to fix him.”

You rub a hand down your face and sigh, gesturing to the exit. “French fries,” you say, like it’s a sacred promise. “I’ll buy you a large. Extra crispy.”

That gets her attention. 

She perks up immediately. “And ketchup?”

You shoot her a dry look over your shoulder. “Do I look like a psychopath?”

“Sold.” She scrambles to grab her purse. “But you still owe me the dirty details when I’m sober.”

—

The rideshare home is quiet. Tara falls asleep against the window within minutes, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the passing city lights.

You can still feel him. The ghost of his hands on your waist, in your hair. The heat of his body pressed against yours. The way he looked at you like you were something rare, something he needed to understand.

Tell me this isn't just tonight.

You never answered him. The words were right there—yes, God, yes—but you didn't get the chance. Or maybe you did, and you were too scared to take it.

Tell me I'm not alone in this.

He'd asked like he genuinely didn't know. Like he was uncertain for the first time all night. And you'd just stood there, lips parted, unable to form the words.

But you know the answer now, sitting in the dark of this car.

No. He wasn't alone in it.

You really, really don’t want to be here right now.

The twinkling fairy lights are lovely, looping in extravagant curves across the ceiling, spilling down the walls covered in pine wreaths and garlands, filling the luxurious bar with a pine scent that is incongruent to such an upscale, urban setting, here in a rooftop bar of a five star hotel in the heart of the city. In the corner opposite the band stands a huge Christmas tree, crystal ornaments twinkling in the fairy lights.

Glasses clink, a live jazz band, dressed in red and green velvet and wearing jaunty Santa hats, is playing tasteful classic holiday songs on a dais in the corner of the room. Over the music the crowd murmurs, sophisticated men and women engaged in boisterous conversation, toasting to the closing of a lucrative business year, successful client networking, the landing of the biggest cases from the most outrageous scandals of the year.

They’re friendly enough, if you consider snakes wearing bowties and dripping in haute couture friendly. The mask of civility is firmly in place, as polite laughter and faux congratulations are exchanged between colleagues whom you know would slit each other’s throats to make partner first, between partners who funnel profits from the law firm to supporting political campaigns that keep the regulations loose for the white collar criminals who make up the bread and butter of the client register, while tightening the noose around the necks of the blue collar criminals the firm represents on a pro bono basis for the sake of good public relations.

You really, really don’t want to be here right now.

You sip on your champagne. You can taste that it’s expensive, sharp on your tongue—like everyone in the room, but it does nothing for you. You’d rather be at home, in your pajamas, playing a video game on the couch or watching your latest detective series hyperfixation.

Everything is very nice, very fine, if you close your eyes and ignore everyone else in the room. If you ignore the fact that your boyfriend has once again asked you to come to one of his work functions as social currency, a pretty bauble to stand quietly, smiling pleasantly, as these birds of prey discreetly gloat about the carcasses they pick over on a daily basis to pad their bank accounts and their investment portfolios.

“Have you heard? McFayden just bagged the Benzos pharmaceutical case.”

There’s a low chuckle. “So the opposing counsel couldn’t convince the jury with the sob story of the adverse side effects on the poor children with cancer?”

“You’re terrible,” another voice purrs, not sounding upset at all—some spouse of one of the people making jokes about the failure of a class action lawsuit to secure justice for the parents of hundreds of kids who died as a result of the Benzos company intentional tampering with the results of clinical studies.

You wish you didn’t know these things. You wish you could stand here, soaking in the luxury of this beautiful, exclusive bar at the city’s pinnacle, blissfully ignorant of the absolutely gleeful depravity of the lawyers and their biggest clients swirling around you. But you’re not ignorant, or naive. Your boyfriend brings home stories of his colleagues, of the arguments he makes in briefs and before judges every day, as he fights tooth and claw to achieve partner status, along with the rest of the associates in the firm. You know all of these things, so you can’t even bring yourself to grab any of the delicious looking hors d’oeuvre from a passing waiter, holding more champagne flutes and small plates aloft. You have no appetite, in this hungry, churning crowd.

It didn’t used to be like this. When you first met him, your boyfriend was a sweet, starry eyed young idealist, going to law school to change the world. You were a young hunter, fresh out of the Academy, equally full of hope and plans to save the world. You fell in love with his mirrored values, his easy affection for you despite the pressure of both of your schedules. You overlooked the fact that when you would tell him about your job, his eyes would glaze over and he rarely asked follow-up questions. So what, if he was never interested in your hobbies, the things you  liked to do in your precious free time? He was so tired, from school, and then from studying for the bar, and then being ground down at various non-profit organizations, fighting the overwhelming tide of corruption and injustice. He was sweet to you. He would tell you how beautiful you are, he’d make polite, efficient love to you on the days he had the energy for it. You could tuck your own problems, your own wounds and interests into your pocket, carry them with you quietly until one day he’d have the energy and interest to ask you what you’re up to, what you’re reading, how your workday was, and actually listen to the answer. There are so many worse men out there than him, after all. You had dated a lot of them before you met him—cheaters. Toxic, jealous men who you were afraid to make angry, even if you knew you could probably put them down before they actually hit you. Your current boyfriend is kind, at least. For the most part. He only occasionally says small things that chip away at your self worth. About what you’re wearing, or your weight, how much, or how little you eat. Who are you to sometimes wish that someone would look at you and really want to know your thoughts, who would look at you and not just see a beautiful face, but a skilled, competent person? A funny, clever person. Your boyfriend never seems to get your jokes, but he does make an effort to chuckle sensibly when you tell them.

It didn’t used to be this way—you, standing abandoned in this crowd of piranhas. But somewhere along the way, your boyfriend changed. He became jaded, burnt out from his constant struggle against the unfairness of a system stacked against the vulnerable, and went to work for one of the most prestigious law firms in the country, defending insurance companies and insider trading finance moguls, pharmaceutical companies and pop stars who murdered their spouses. No longer is he too tired because he was fighting the good fight. Now he comes home, exhausted from trying to undercut his colleagues in the rat race to secure his future as a permanent partner in the firm with the nice shareholder bonuses. He says it’s for you too. That his future is your future, and that once he’s established at the firm, he’ll devote half of his time to pro bono cases. That he can have his cake and eat it too. That you just need to be patient with him, let him compromise your own values by staying by his side. He has always been (mostly) sweet to you. You feel bad every time you look at him and want more from him. He’s so busy. He says he’s doing this for you, even if you don’t want it.

You wonder when you became so passive in your private life, when you’re so assertive in your professional life. You don’t need anyone at all, after all. You aren’t actually limited to only choosing between your current boyfriend or any of the other dirtbags you’ve been with in your life. You could be alone. You are wondering more and more if maybe you wouldn’t just be happier being alone. But then your boyfriend will manage to remember your favorite drink from the cafe near your place, after forgetting it the last few times he brought something for you too (hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?), and you’d be touched and you’d feel bad for thinking that you’d rather not have anyone at all than him at your side.

Not that he’s at your side right now. He’s across the room, in an intense discussion about the latest client’s case he’s just taken on. Something big, complex. He’ll likely have to make multiple business trips for the discovery process alone. He doesn’t bother to try to help you engage in discussion with his colleagues, or to involve you in his own conversations. He just asks you to hold on a minute, he’ll be right back.

You shake your head at these thoughts, the empty feeling in your chest. You’re used to this. He promised to take you to your favorite bookstore after this function, like you used to do together before he got so busy working overtime that you rarely see him outside of bed these days. It’s unfair of you to feel treated like arm candy, a warm sex doll, a body to warm the ultramodern, stark apartment the two of you now share when he does come home before eleven at night.

You take a big gulp of the champagne, smile at the awful jokes being shared in the little group you’re standing with, and then excuse yourself to get another glass. Maybe if you get drunk, this horrible feeling in your chest will go away.

You glance around discreetly, locate one of the floating waiters, are about to ask for another flute, when you suddenly feel a warm presence behind you. The hair along your bare arms stands on end, static electricity washing over your skin. You turn and find a man standing closer to you than is polite. You take in his wide chest, because it’s at eye level, he’s so tall. Defined pectorals, even under a black dress shirt and vest that look impossibly soft, slick, expensive. Under the strong scent of pine in the room, you smell something delicious. Dark, clean musk. Your mouth starts to water. You lift your eyes, savoring the pale skin exposed under the casually unbuttoned shirt, so incongruent with the clear quality and sophistication of his clothing, as if he has studied how to appear artfully dishevelled. You admire the dip of his clavicle, the strength clearly visible in his broad shoulders, his neck, until you have to hold in a gasp when you reach the beauty of his face.

Sharp jaw, wide, generous mouth. His nose. You want to die, his nose. Long, nostrils flaring as if he too can smell whatever is making your saliva glands flood your mouth, a noticeable bump along the bridge of it. He has the nose of a Roman emperor, a god carved in stone. You have a fleeting impression of soft, silver hair, premature graying in contrast to his youthful face, but when you meet his eyes, everything else fades away.

The warm glow of lava over the rim of an active volcano. Tempting, beautiful, but you know if you try to touch it, you’ll lose yourself, melt—it will be over for you before you even know it. The red of banked, burning coals. They’re familiar to you, in the way that your own reflection in the mirror is familiar on your best days. When you look in the mirror and love yourself, which is often the only time these days that you feel loved at all, despite having a boyfriend.

At the thought of your boyfriend, you sever the connection, looking away from the beautiful stranger who has simply stood there and let you look your fill without saying a word, as if you didn’t just devour him with your hungry gaze, having to swallow the extra saliva the sight of him sent flowing through your mouth.

Your boyfriend isn’t jealous like other men you’ve been with. He never acts possessive in public, doesn’t worry if other men and women look at you, admire you. But he is always worried that if he’s not there, someone will try to poach what’s his. That they’ll hit on you, and you’ll fall under their spell and cheat on him. You sometimes wonder why he would even care, considering how little he touches you these days, but out of respect for him you never act in a way that could cause him to feel insecure, whether he’s around or not. And even if you didn’t respect him, there’s no way you would throw away the peaceful, if unfulfilling stability you have with him right now, not for a man like the one in front of you, who is dripping in sex appeal, who is gorgeous and knows it, who could snap his fingers and have most of the people in this room on their knees for him. Why would he ever look at you? A pretty bauble, yes, but someone who would rather be at home, replaying Stardew Valley for the 47th time. Not someone exciting, exotic. Just a person who doesn’t dress quite right, with humble hobbies and a hard job to do, trying not to be an asshole.

You look away and try to take a step to the side, to allow this man to pass by you. You’ll remember his eyes until the day you die, you think, and he’ll never even know you existed.

But as you take a step, so does he. You find yourself still eyes-to-chest with him.

“Oh, sorry,” you murmur, and try to step to the other side. Sometimes when you’re trying to scurry out of someone’s way, you just make yourself more of a nuisance.

But as you take the step to the side, so does he. You two could almost be dancing, with how close you are, with how in sync he’s matching your movements.

You laugh, a little breathlessly, embarrassed that you’re fucking this up so badly. You’re trying to let him pass, and you keep getting in his way.

“Don’t apologize to me,” he says, and his voice sinks into your chest, filling the void that you realize you’ve been carrying for months now. Maybe even years. You feel it keenly now, as if in the filling, the emptiness is exaggerated. Like after being ill, when the fever and the vomiting have passed, you suddenly realize how healthy you feel, how grateful you are to be feeling well again. With his voice filling the hole inside you, you’re so grateful to remember what it is like to feel whole again.

Impossible, crazy thoughts.

You look up again, get caught in the vice of his gaze again. His uncanny red eyes are soft as they look down into yours. He has a frown line between his dark silver eyebrows, as if he spends a lot of time thinking deeply. He’s not smiling at you, but you get the delusional feeling that he’s happy to be looking at you. But his face is blank, an impassive mask, quietly observing you. Why on earth would he be happy to see you?

“Oh, sorry,” you say again, apologizing for apologizing, unintentionally defying his command.

He snorts softly through his big, beautiful nose. “Not very obedient, are we, kitten?” he asks.

You scowl at him. Okay, so he’s beautiful, but as you suspected, he’s beautiful and he knows it, and he thinks he can get away with speaking to you so disrespectfully without even having properly met, simply because he’s the most attractive man in the room no matter where he goes.

“Not for douchebags, no,” you say smoothly. But you’re actually polite, so you tack on, “Excuse me. If you stay put, I’ll step to the left, and you can continue to where you want to go.” You wait for him to acknowledge your suggestion, to avoid another accidental dance with him.

“No need to lie, sweetheart.” He flicks his gaze across the room, and you have the strange, impossible feeling that he’s looking at your boyfriend. “And I’m probably the least douchey person in this room, besides you.”

You take in his expensive clothes, the soft sweep of his beautiful hair. He’s wearing a tight black vest over his black silk shirt, perfectly tailored to reveal his huge chest, his narrow waist, the proportions of a cartoon superhero, not a real man. His long, thick legs, wrapped in tight black trousers. Monk strap shoes, their attractiveness ruined by stupid fucking chains around the heels. He looks like the wealthy, spoiled adult son of a mob boss. You wonder if he is one of the law firm’s soulless clients.

“Doubtful,” you clip out, because you learned long ago that the more you engage with egotistical pricks, the more likely you’ll end up in trouble with your boyfriend for embarrassing him. That is why you just stand around at events like this, smiling vacantly, trying to get through the evening without causing a scene and either punching someone or drenching their expensive clothing in wine.

“Oh, I like a challenge.” His eyes, already bright, sharp, light up. “Allow me the opportunity to disprove your doubt.” He ignores your clear dismissal, your request for him to pass you by. Your breath catches again. How can one man be so magnetic? Why are you so attracted to such terrible men? You think of your boyfriend, how sweet he used to be capable of being.

“I think you’ll be just fine if one person doesn’t fall for your charms,” you say, suddenly exhausted. You really, really, don’t want to be here. You turn your head, look for your boyfriend. He’s still in deep, serious conversation with colleagues. You wonder why he wanted you to come at all, when he never had any intention of spending any part of this evening with you.

“And what if I don’t care if the entire world falls for my charms, but I won’t survive the one person who resists?” he asks, drawing your attention back to him.

“Typical rich bastard problems,” you snort. “Wanting only what you can’t have.”

“There's nothing typical about me.” He laughs softly, and even his laugh is dripping with money. “And there's nothing I can't have, because I don’t give up when going after what I want. It’s not a matter of if, but when.”

You give in to the urge to roll your eyes so hard you probably look like you’re having a seizure. “I’m not even sorry for being the one who shatters your delusion. Thank you for your interest, if that’s what you’re implying, but the feeling is not mutual.” Maybe you were tempted, or impressed, before he opened his mouth, but with every word since he opened it, he reveals himself to be exactly the same as all the other assholes in this bar.

“Who says I’m implying anything?” he asks, his strange wine-bright eyes shimmering with amusement at your blunt rejection. “I prefer a straightforward approach. I’m interested. Tell me how to make it mutual.”

You can’t help but admire the audacity of this guy—he seems completely unfazed by your clear disgust. You wish you could have half his entitlement on a daily basis.

You fix him with an unimpressed look. “I doubt there’s anything you could do to make it mutual.”

“Again, with your doubt,” he tsks. “How are you so sure that you could never return my interest? You stand there, judging me without even knowing me, just as guilty of dismissing people based on their appearance as all of the shallow, hypocritical animals in this bar.”

You laugh in his face. “Oh yes, I’m just as terrible as these lying, defrauding, malicious fucks. You got me.” You turn to walk away.

“If you recognize these parasites for what they are, then why are you here?” he taunts.

His bait is successful—you turn your head and look at him again, once again struck by his beauty, the intelligence in his eyes, the soft fall of his light hair.

“The main reason you don’t have a chance tonight. I’m here with my boyfriend.”

He steps closer to you, and you have to tilt your head back to look into his entrancing eyes. “If you’re willing to settle for one of these cretins, and you think I’m of the same ilk, then why am I the exception in not being able to catch your interest? I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.”

You stare at him, suddenly struck by the absurdity of this conversation. With just a few words, he has held up a mirror, forcing you to look at what your life has become.  Cold, empty, and hollowly attached to a man who is everything you just accused this man of being. Why are you here? Why do you continue to look the other way as your boyfriend sinks ever more deeply into his new identity of a lying, defrauding, malicious fuck?

And yet part of you can’t help but defend him, despite what he has become. Despite the fact that even from the beginning, he was (mostly) sweet but uninterested in who you really are.

“He used to be sweet,” you say, at a loss as to why you’re telling this stranger this, revealing so much to him in those few words.

“I can be sweet,” he says, lifting his hand, taking a lock of your hair between his long fingers, fiddling with it in a surprisingly endearing way. “For you.”

“I can’t imagine a man like you and ‘sweet’ in the same breath,” you smile, despite yourself.

“Your imagination is terribly limited, then. We’ll work on expanding it,” he says, as if the matter is settled. “What else does he offer you?”

You hesitate. Maybe it’s the champagne. Maybe it’s the gloating, disgusting conversations you have had to endure tonight, again, and you’re just finally reaching the end of your rope. Or maybe it’s this man, teasing, baiting the truth out of you with his intense focus, an incubus tempting you not with his sexuality, although he is carnally appealing to you, but with his apparently sincere interest in your answers. You don’t think your boyfriend has ever looked at, listened to you with such intense focus before. Maybe it’s the fact that this man is someone you’ll never see again. You find yourself answering. “Despite all his flaws, he never cheated—that I know of. He didn’t ever want to hit me.” Your voice trails off, as you draw a blank as what your boyfriend still has to offer you.

His dark silver brows draw together as you go quiet, as he realizes that you have nothing else to say. “That’s all? It’s not even a challenge.” He sounds disgusted.

You look away, suddenly feeling pathetic, as if his disgust is aimed at you. And in a way, it is. What does it say about you, that these meager offerings from your boyfriend have been enough to keep you by his side for so long?

“Look at me,” the stranger says, in his low, deep voice. It’s a command, but soft, like a crowbar wrapped in the velvet that the jazz musicians are wearing.

You obey him this time, your resistance pried open.

You look into his beautiful eyes again. He’s closer now, like he took another step forward while you weren’t looking. You can feel the warmth of his body. If he leaned down, he could kiss you with his soft looking lips without having to step closer.

“Why?” you ask, but you don’t even know what you’re asking. Why does he want to disprove your doubt about him? Why is he asking you questions that tear off the blinders you’ve been intentionally wearing for so long, in an effort to maintain, what? An easy, but unsatisfactory status quo? Why does he want you to look at him? Why is he still talking to you at all, when he’s so terribly handsome, so unreachable for someone like you, who can’t even get your boyfriend to stand this close to you these days, after compromising so much of yourself to keep him happy, to keep from rocking the boat, from hurting his feelings, when he has given so little in return?

“Indulge me. What man wouldn’t want a beautiful, clever, sharp-tongued woman to look at him, and only him?”

You smile, a little helplessly. For some reason, you want to cry, hearing these affirming words from a total stranger. Even though you know they're probably just a line he says to everyone who catches his briefly attention.

Still fingering the lock of your hair, he gently strokes your cheek with the back of his hand, and then lets it drop again before anyone else would notice. “Your smile is so sad,” he breathes, almost to himself. “I don’t like it.”

“What do you want from me?” you ask, a little desperate, resisting everything in you that suddenly, painfully, despite your earlier disgust with him, is whispering for you to lean forward, to chase his hand, to put it back on your face, to rub against him like a cat, to beg for more of his kind words and touch. It’s as if his touch on your cheek unlocked something in you that you didn’t even know was there. Have you been so hungry for affection, that even these sparse crumbs are enough to have you salivating for a man who is likely much worse than your current boyfriend?

He hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of his trousers, bends down so that he’s speaking into your ear, softly, but still over the holiday music, the susurration of the crowd. His breath is warm over your skin. “I want to see a genuine smile from you.” He turns his head, runs his nose down your temple, along your cheek, and breathes deeply. “I want you to look at me, and only me.” He lifts a hand and trails the backs of his fingers along your bare arm. “I want you to come with me, instead of staying here, drinking champagne you don’t like, surrounded by people you despise.” 

You shiver. You suddenly want that too. You want to go with him so badly, despite the fact that you have already decided that if he’s here, he’s probably one of the people you despise. Despite the fact that if he’s here, he probably sprays this abhorrently expensive champagne all over fawning sycophants every weekend at the same clubs your boyfriend now has “meetings with clients” at on a regular basis, not coming home until four in the morning, stinking of alcohol and cigarettes, rubbing his nose strangely, almost compulsively before passing out. Despite the fact that you know the moment you give in, and give him what he wants—whatever it may be—is the beginning of the end of his interest in you.

“Who are you?” you ask, resisting the wild, reckless urge rising in you to simply listen to him, to follow where he leads. You lean back, give yourself space to breathe, to regain your composure.

He lifts one corner of his mouth, a sketch of a smile, and it feels like dark petals whispering along your skin. “Tell me what you would do, if you could do anything at all right now, and I’ll tell you who I am.”

You consider him, trying to figure out what his angle is. Wondering how honest you should be. Wondering how he’ll exploit your honesty if you tell him the truth. Perhaps it’s the champagne on an empty stomach. Perhaps it’s the way the gaping hole in your heart feels filled every time this stranger opens his mouth. You tell him the truth.

“I want to go somewhere warm and quiet, curl up, and watch something silly on television.” 

He takes one of your hands in both of his, cradling it as he looks down at your palm thoughtfully.  “That’s all? You could be a little greedier. Why not go on a midnight cruise on a luxury yacht?” He strokes his thumbs along your palm, so softly. “Why not try to earn your fortune at the casino downstairs, or party in the VIP booth of an exclusive nightclub?” His eyes flick back to yours, as if gauging your reaction, as if to see if anything he’s saying triggers desire in you. “Or we could go shopping with my black card, and you can buy anything you want.”

You sigh. You were right. You’re too boring for this bright, pretty man. You gave him your truth, and he asks why you don’t want all the things you hate, that your boyfriend is clawing his way to achieve over the burnt-out careers of his colleagues, over the broken lives of the victims he ensures continue to suffer with each lawsuit dropped, each client walking free.

You try to take a step back, but he’s still holding your hand like it’s something precious, and he follows you again. You’re suddenly so tired, you don’t even have the energy to lie to him. “Because those things sound terrible to me. I don’t want your black card, when I’d rather just know who you are. I don’t want a super yacht with an exhausted crew, when I’d rather just sit with you in a canoe. I hate casinos—people feverishly wasting money—it feels like a slap in the face to people who are working their asses off just to survive." You shake your head. "I’m tired, and I want to take these stupid fucking shoes off.” There. Maybe with that little tirade, he’ll give up on tormenting you with his mysterious, intense focus and leave you alone. Alone to sort out how to fix your life. Alone to finally gather the energy, the backbone, to leave your shitty boyfriend. To stop drifting from one unworthy man to another. To stop compromising yourself, your self worth, and your values, for companionship, cold comfort, crumbs. You don’t know if you’re ready yet. But looking into the mirror this man has held up is a start.

Instead of dropping your hand, carrying on with whatever business he was on his way to do before you created an obstacle in his path, he squeezes it gently in his, and his thumbs begin to massage the meat of your palm. “Allow me to give you what you want, then.”

You laugh, disbelieving. What is his game? “I answered your question. Now it’s your turn to tell me who you are.”

He keeps rubbing your hand, and for some reason you keep letting him. It feels so good. There’s no one else in the world, now. Just him, your hand in his, that unidentifiable delicious scent in the air, mixed with pine.

“My name is Sylus,” he says, simply.

You stare at his face, but he’s still looking down at your palm. 

“It’s a beautiful name,” you say, honestly. You’ve never thought about the name Sylus. It was just a name before, like so many others. But bizarrely, because it’s his, you suddenly think it matches him. It’s beautiful, just like the rest of him. “But that doesn’t answer my question. It doesn’t tell me who you are.”

“It tells you everything. It was a gift, given by someone precious to me.” He draws you closer, pulling you nearer to the garland-filled wall, turning so his big body is blocking the rest of the room. “I can tell you that I own this hotel. I can tell you that I’m an entrepreneur, and make my living buying and selling all sorts of things.” He lowers his voice even further, meeting your eyes again. “I can tell you that I’m very good at it, and it has made me very rich.” He slowly, gently, backs you up into the pine scented wall, until you have nowhere else to go. “And I can tell you that I despise everyone in this room, because they represent the worst of humanity—for all the reasons you hate them too.” He lets go of your hands, but then runs his own up your bare arms, trailing his fingertips along the sensitive skin of your inner forearms, elbows. “But those things are only parts of me, just like your clever mind, your sad, lovely eyes, your sharp tongue calling me a douchebag, are only parts of you. They’re not the heart of you.” He pauses, ember-glow eyes drifting from your eyes to your mouth, back to your eyes again. “I’m Sylus, and I’d like to give you what you want tonight. Say yes.”

You feel like you’re in a dream. The thoughtfulness of his answer, all of the surprising things he just revealed about himself—hotel owner, very rich man, pale in comparison to the shared feeling of hating everyone in this room. Of his having looked at you for less than ten minutes and being able to tell more about you than you think your boyfriend could tell after years of being together. Your sadness, your biting sense of humor, your intelligence.

You wonder if one night with him is worth immediately trading years of the relationship you share with your boyfriend.

You remember just minutes ago thinking that you’d remember this man’s eyes for the rest of your life, even as he passed you by without even noting your existence.

You force yourself to look away from him. You let your head tilt, so that you can see past his big bicep to look over the crowd. The flashing white veneers of so many mouths talking, drinking, smiling, all belonging to people who don’t deserve the nourishing food in the canapés they’re biting into with their vicious teeth, the quality of the alcohol now sloshing in their stomachs. Your eyes find your boyfriend, and for the first time tonight he’s not trading strategy with his colleagues, oblivious to your existence. He’s staring at you, your body mostly hidden now by Sylus, from across the room with a funny look on his face. 

You feel one of Sylus’s hands slip from your elbow, drifting down. He palms your waist, sliding around your back, low, pinky and ring finger brushing your ass, before coming to rest on your other hip. He draws you gently into him, hips flush with your stomach, his arm an anchor behind your back, his hand an anchor at your hip. You feel small, protected, warm. You stare past Sylus’s arm at your boyfriend, who is now gaping at you.

You straighten again, look back up into Sylus’s lovely face. He’s smiling now, with such warmth. You allow yourself to be honest with yourself—you want him to kiss you. You think that a night with this man will be worth the trade of all the years with your boyfriend, who you suspect is now starting to try to shoulder his way to you, with a look on his face that telegraphs that he has something to say and you’re going to fucking listen, dammit, how dare you embarrass him like this in front of all of his colleagues, the firm’s partners, cucking him like he always knew you eventually would, even though you’ve only ever been faithful to him, respectful of his insecurity, loving in the face of his benevolent neglect of you and all of your needs.

Sylus must see your yearning written all over your face. Your silent acquiescence to his request to give you what you want, just for tonight. He leans down, pauses, his warm breath the only thing separating his lips from yours. He looks into your eyes, a warm glow under his long, sweeping lashes. You nod, just a little, to his unvoiced question. Yes, please kiss me. Yes, you have my permission. Yes, please give me what I want tonight. It will be worth all the cold tomorrows. The silent treatment from your boyfriend as you pack up your things in a few boxes, because you’ve never been one to carry too much baggage—you’ve never really had a home, not really. Your blank memories, then your Gran’s house, not yours. Then student housing, then small, temporary places as you moved around for your job, as you roomed with various colleagues before moving in with your boyfriend. You let him choose the decor of the apartment, because he was so vocal about being forced to accept your own unique taste that wasn't to his. Easier to just give him what he wants. You didn’t mind, since the overpriced apartment, filled with cold furniture and his absence, never felt like home anyway, after he got the job at this awful firm and wanted to upgrade from your cozy, cramped little apartment above your favorite bakery that always smelled like fresh bread.

Sylus searches your face for a moment longer before leaning down the rest of the way. He presses his soft, full lips to yours.

Kissing Sylus feels like coming home. Like how his voice feels in your ears—the constant, aching emptiness in your chest, filled. You don’t know how this stranger can already feel so familiar. You don’t know how just the chaste press of his soft lips to yours is making your body light up like the Christmas tree in this fancy bar, in this fancy hotel, like the fairy lights draped above and around you. You feel desire rise in you, a slow, steady wave of anticipation, the wanting a pleasure in itself, even unmet and unsatisfied. He pulls you closer, his arm an inexorable force at your back, gentle yet firm. He flicks his tongue out, sweeps it across your lower lip, then little licks, asking a question, a big jungle cat lapping at the pool of your mouth, and you open for him. He sinks his tongue in. He’s making soft little noises of pleasure, a low vibration in his chest.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Your boyfriend has reached you, has the audacity to stand just off to Sylus’s side, confront you with such a stupid, obvious question that you want to laugh. You feel the tethers of the years between you snapping, and you feel wild, reckless, a little mean. Because fuck him, and his cheerful neglect of you. Fuck yourself, for having accepted it. Sylus may want to give you what you want for tonight only, but just kissing him, being seen by him, makes you want to give yourself what you should have been giving yourself all along. Freedom, self respect, acceptance that the love you feel when you look at yourself in the mirror is worth more than the crumbs you receive from a boyfriend who you let treat you like a pretty, ultimately worthless trinket. Sylus may only be offering you a dream for tonight, but the feeling that filled you just from his kind, validating words to you is not a dream. You want to give that feeling to yourself, from now on. And dumping your hypocritical, morally bankrupt, shallow boyfriend is how you’re going to start the process.

Sylus slowly pulls away, not taking his eyes off you. He licks you a few more times, presses a few more quick kisses to your lips, like he can’t help himself, just a little sustenance before having to deprive himself for a moment.

“What does it look like?” you ask, turning your head, still pressed against the wall by Sylus’s big body. He’s so warm. His pecs are so pillowy. You want to knead them like the kitten he called you earlier.

Your boyfriend grimaces at you. “Who the fuck is this guy? I knew you were fucking cheating on me,” he bites out, voice rising.

Before you can answer, Sylus rests his cheek on top of your head. “I’m the largest shareholder of your law firm. And your replacement. Your services, such as they are, are no longer required in the boyfriend department.”

There’s a moment where your boyfriend just stares at Sylus blankly, as if his brain is having difficulty processing everything that he just said. And then he gasps. “Sylus Qin?” His eyes go wide.

“Yes. If you want to keep your current professional position, walk away now and forget everything you know about your ex instead of causing a scene.”

Your boyfriend’s jaw is a little slack as his eyes ping pong between your face and Sylus’s. For a split second, he looks like he wants to say something to you, a calculating, mean look in his eyes, that you’ve only ever seen directed at other people before. But then he startles, eyes jerking back to Sylus, and he suddenly looks terrified.

And then he simply turns and walks away, slipping back between the high top tables surrounded by human-shaped sharks, effectively showing you that it was never you, but his job, the wealth and power that he’s chasing, that has always been the main focus of his heart and mind. And that’s fine. You already knew that. It’s just that now, if you had any doubt about your sudden, insane decision to accept Sylus’s insistent request to give you what you want, it is now gone. You’re not willing to remain in a relationship like that, anymore. You’d rather be alone. You turn your attention back to the man currently cocooning you with his big body. He hasn’t moved, as if he’s waiting patiently for you to make the next move.

You ease back as much as you can into the wall, and he lifts his head, looks down into your face.

“Boyfriend replacement, huh?” you ask drily.

He shrugs his big shoulders. “If I’m lucky, with immediate effect. If I’m unlucky, eventually, but inevitably.” One sharp canine, peeking from between his soft lips, gleams under the fairy lights.

You want to laugh. What is even happening? Why go to such lengths to pretend like he’s somehow committed to you, to this insane demand to give you what you want? You just watched your boyfriend walk away without giving you a second glance. You feel entitled to a big, sexy rebound as a treat. You don’t even care what tricks this man is trying to pull to get you into the sack. You’re already convinced. But you are bothered by one thing.

“You’re the largest shareholder in this law firm?”

“Does it bother you?” he answers with a non-answer.

You take in his pretty mouth, his intense eyes. The humor glinting in the curve of his lips.

“I hate what they do. I hate what they stand for. I think I’ve been wanting to leave my boyfriend for a long time, after he started working for your firm. I want to see them go under.” You answer him with a non-answer of your own. Why should he care if it bothers you that he basically owns the firm? He offered to give you what you want for tonight, and then you’ll never see him again. You think that just for one night, it’s your turn to be a little cutthroat, a little malicious, to take what you can get from a shitty world. Maybe that makes you a hypocrite, the same type of person your now ex-boyfriend is. But for tonight, you’re willing to give yourself over to this terrible man. You will wake up tomorrow and self-flagellate to make up for it. You’ll then carry on, trying to do good in the world.

He tilts his head. “If you destroy them, people like them will just fill the crater left behind, if you don’t dismantle the system that allows them to flourish.”

You’re in such danger. With everything this gorgeous, rich man says, he reveals himself to be thoughtful, clever. You don’t want him to be thoughtful and clever. It would be enough if he were simply kind to get what he wants, as he was when describing you, and pretty, so that it feels good to kiss him. You don’t need him to have depth for tonight.

“Why wait to destroy them until the system comes crashing down? Why not actively want the destruction of both?” you ask, only half-joking. You don’t want to talk about this with him. You want him to do as he promised and take you somewhere quiet, warm. But you don’t want to watch television anymore. You want to kiss him instead.

“Then you shall have both,” he says, strangely, before squeezing the hand still holding yours and leading you from the bar. 

You follow, focusing on his broad back narrowing to his strong waist, his incredibly thick ass underneath his fancy trousers. Your mouth is watering again. You want to unbuckle the clasp at the back of his vest. You want to slip your fingers under the waistband of his pants and squeeze.

It should be illegal for one man to be rich, powerful, smart, thoughtful, and drop-dead gorgeous. 

Your hand is warm in his, as he leads you past the bank of elevators that you stepped out of on your way to the bar, instead going down a short hallway that ends in a discrete black door. He leans forward, lets the retina scanner do its thing, and the door clicks open. You find yourself in what looks like a service passage. Bare, dark walls, the same quiet carpet as the rest of the hotel’s hallways. He leads you further in, until you’re at another door, another retina scan. This door opens into the kitchen of what can only be the hotel’s penthouse. Soaring windows offer a view of the city’s nocturnal skyline below. You have an impression of dark, heavy furniture, sophisticated ultramodern technology and design mixed with more baroque, vintage accents. Potted plants offer a little verdant pop of green in the very rich, urban atmosphere of the space. A big, open floor plan with a full kitchen, a sunken den area with a huge screen over a glassed-in fireplace, pretty stained glass chandeliers and lamps. Hallways leading from the den further into the penthouse must go to the bedroom, the bathroom.

“No wonder you were so willing to fulfill my desire. A short trip down the hall, and here we are,” you laugh a little, half teasing, half serious, after Sylus patiently waits for you to finish gawking at the spacious, expensive room.

He gives you that mysterious little half smile. “I told you that you could be greedy.” He leads you to the large marble-topped kitchen island, slides his hands around your waist and lifts. He sets you on the counter and nudges your legs open with a big hand, fits himself between them. He takes your hands in his and just holds them, thumbs stroking over your skin. “If you had asked to go to a three-star Michelin restaurant, I would have cleared the place and taken you.” He leans forward, kisses you lightly on the lips, pulls back. “If you had asked to go deep sea fishing on one of my yachts, I would have asked what type of fish you were interested in catching.” His eyes flick to yours, then back to your mouth. “If you had wanted to go shopping, I would have—”

You lift your hands and his, pressing them to his lips. “Okay, okay. I get the idea, Sylus. Thank you. Although I don’t understand why you’re doing anything for me at all.”

He turns your joined hands and rubs his cheek against the back of one of yours. “Is it really so incomprehensible that a man would see someone stunning across the room and want to get to know her better?”

“You offering me your black card and to close out a Michelin star restaurant seems a little extreme for just wanting to get to know me better,” you retort, not even touching the fact that he just called you stunning. There were plenty of beautiful people in that room. “Is that really all there is? If you thought I was pretty, you could have just offered to buy me a drink like a normal person.”

“I didn’t think you were pretty,” he says, and your heart sinks a little. He just called you stunning, but maybe he was just…going through the script. The script he doesn’t even need with you, since you’re here, in his nice hotel room, with him between your legs already. But he continues. “I thought you were magnificent. And why would I offer to buy you a drink like we’re two normal people, when we're kindred spirits, and you deserve so much more?”

Okay, so that’s intense. Maybe he’s a little psycho—one of those yandere guys that sees a person and decides, based on an accidental look, that she is their ideal, their possession, their obsession. Guys who place a random person on a pedestal before locking them in their basement. You tilt your head. “How would you even know?” you ask. You don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth. You’re thankful for his strange kindness tonight, the feeling of being the sole focus of his attention, the reminder that you deserve better out of a partner than what you’ve settled for, for years. But you can’t understand why he would have chosen you, out of everyone there tonight, out of what is surely a multitude of options for him. Now you’re worried, possibly a little too late, that he’s a little nuts.

He sets your joined hands back in your lap and gently withdraws his. “How much champagne have you had?” he asks as he turns to the refrigerator and pulls out two glass bottles of fancy looking water.

He twists the cap off of one and holds it to your lips. “Drink.”

You obey him without thought, watching him watch your drink, his eyes drifting from your eyes to your mouth, to your throat swallowing the chilled, refreshing water.

You lean back when you’ve had your fill. “I only managed one glass of champagne,” you say. “And you?”

“I haven’t had anything to drink at all,” he answers, lifting the half-empty bottle to his own lips and taking a few long pulls, never taking his eyes off of you. You return his gaze, enjoying the strong line of his throat, the bob of his Adam's apple.

After he empties the bottle, he sets it on the counter next to your thigh. “Are you hungry?”

You know that he hasn’t answered your question yet. That he may never answer. Despite all of the possible red flags he’s throwing up, you can’t seem to find it in yourself to care. Perhaps you’re just repeating old patterns, allowing a handsome man to lull you into settling into another toxic relationship. But as of tonight, you’re done with all that. After tonight, you’ll never see this man again, whether he turns out to be a good man or not. “I don’t know.”

And you really don’t know. You think you’re in shock. You just broke up with your boyfriend in public after kissing a man you just met, a man you’re now alone with in the penthouse of the hotel he owns. Are you hungry? What the hell are you going to do after tonight? Who can you stay with? How are you going to arrange to get your things from your now ex boyfriend, your now former apartment?

Sylus, inexplicably—considering your boyfriend never managed this feat after years of being together—must see your anxiety spiral, because he lifts you again, sets you on your feet. He leads you past the den, down one of the hallways, until he opens a door into a bedroom. Again, you just have impressions because you are so focused on the man leading you by the hand. Gigantic bed, dark, cloud-soft puffy blankets and pillows, a little sitting area, the city’s skyline glittering below the wall of windows. A door to the right leads to an ensuite bathroom—marble floors and counters, huge tub, walk-in shower.

Sylus leads you to the bed, urges you to sit on it. You sink into the covers, legs dangling off the end. He kneels before you without a word and begins to remove your uncomfortable, modest, discreetly formal shoes that you wore for this occasion, and only wear when you’re forced to attend your boyfriend’s—your ex-boyfriend work functions like the one tonight. Nothing like what you’d wear for yourself, if you were to go out on the town, nor what you wear when you simply want to be comfortable.

You just stare at the top of Sylus’s head, shoving thoughts of your ex out of your mind. His hair is so fluffy, you can’t resist reaching forward and gently running your fingers through its silver strands.

He neatly sets your shoes aside and then grows still, remaining on his knees at your feet. He leans forward and rests his head in your lap, cheek against your thigh. He encourages you to keep petting him by lifting his hand and nudging yours to keep moving.

You stroke his hair quietly for a while, chalking up your inability to question anything, to think too hard about how you found yourself here, the enjoyment you feel running your hands through his soft hair, to the shock of tonight’s unexpected turn of events, the recklessness and despair that led you to being alone in this stranger’s penthouse bedroom. 

However, after a while, you force yourself to speak. “What are we doing, Sylus?

He lifts his head and meets your gaze, the electric zing of his otherworldly eyes coursing through you. He places one big palm on each of your thighs.

“You said you wanted to go somewhere quiet, and warm, to watch something silly on television. The remote is in one of the nightstands. The screen can be lowered from the ceiling with the remote. I’ll make you something to eat while you find something you want to watch. Deal?”

“You can cook?” you ask, because it strikes you as odd that a man with everything at his fingertips would spend any amount of time in the kitchen.

“I can watch online tutorials,” he says, shrugging. “It’s not hard to follow directions.”

“What if I don’t want you to go?” you ask. You should be afraid of how reluctant you already are to be separated from him, all while not knowing if he’s a little unhinged, all while knowing this is temporary.

His eyes widen a little, as if surprised at your question that reveals how much you don’t want him to leave. “I can order something from the hotel kitchen. Would you prefer that?” He sounds pleased.

You nod, not trusting your voice. You’ve only just met him, and yet his presence is so comforting, despite the strange intensity of his answers to your questions, of his eyes following your every move.

He removes his own shoes, lines them up next to yours.

“Come,” he says, nudging you to climb further up on the bed, to lean against and rest your head on the soft padded headboard. He opens one of the nightstands, hands you the remote control to the television, and then calls the kitchen on his mobile phone, ordering what sounds like an entire banquet’s worth of food in a low voice. 

When he’s done, he joins you in leaning against the headboard. You haven’t turned on the television yet.

“Do you think you ordered enough food?” you ask.

His eyes soften in a not-quite smile as he turns his head and meets your teasing gaze. “Do you think I ordered enough food?” he counters.

“If I were an army, you still would have ordered too much,” you say, smiling now.

He reaches over, runs his fingers up your arm, slides his arm over your shoulders and pulls you close to his side. “With the way you’ve already conquered me, an army isn’t such a far-fetched comparison for you.”

You groan. “Who knew such a good-looking guy would resort to such cheesy lines?”

He laughs softly. “You think I’m good looking?”

You look up at him from your cozy position of being cocooned in him again, your face so close to his that you can see the dark striations in his ruby irises. “You know you’re good looking,” you whisper.

He lifts his other hand to poke you gently in the forehead. “I don’t care if I’m good looking to anyone else. But I like knowing I’m good looking to you.”

You have no idea why he’s trying so hard to make you sound special to him. You’re already here. You already dumped your boyfriend as a result of less than ten minutes of talking to him.

“Then yes, I think you’re good looking.” You stare into his eyes, bathe in his warmth. The scent you were salivating over in the bar is simply Sylus’s scent. Not cologne, or laundry detergent. Just his skin. Something clean and primal. You want to lick him.

He returns your stare. “Why haven’t you turned on the television?”

You swallow, increasingly aware of being in his arms, on this big bed, alone with him, in a warm, quiet place. His scent, the beauty of his face. The way he touches you so gently. The way he knelt at your feet, like a large, powerful beast quietly asking for the affection of your hands in his fur.

“What if I changed my mind?” you ask him, biting your lip.

He lifts his hand, pulls your lip from your teeth with his thumb. Presses against your lip, gently, with its calloused pad.

“You can always change your mind, kitten,” he murmurs. “But what do you want to do instead of watching television?”

“I think you know,” you say, letting your tongue brush against his thumb. 

“Do I? Why don’t you tell me?” He’s teasing you. Daring you to say what you want out loud.

“I want you to kiss me again,” you admit. He looks pleased with your honesty.

“And if I want to do more than kiss you?” he asks, sliding his thumb into your mouth. You suck on it, tasting the salt of his skin.

“Please,” you say. What else is there to say?

“Tell me what you like,” he says, pressing his thumb deeper into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, before withdrawing it so that you can answer him. Your mouth feels empty without him in it.

“What I like?” you ask, buying time. What do you like? Feeling loved. Being praised. Reassurance that you’re fine, just the way you are. But you know that’s not what he’s asking. What you like in bed will likely sound very boring to someone like him, with the world at his feet, money to buy all the pleasures he could dream of.

“Don’t overthink it,” he says. “If you could have me do anything for you right now, without restrictions, what would you want?”

It’s like the question he posed in the bar. If you could be anywhere else, doing anything else, what would you choose?

What does it matter if he knows that you’re boring? If you want someone to say something kind to you. That you want to be touched in a way that your boyfriend hasn’t touched you in a long time, if ever.

You take his big hand, place his palm on your cheek, nuzzle it. “I want you to say nice things to me, but only if they’re true. I want you to take the lead and make me feel good, and I want you to feel good too. I don’t want you to hurt me.” You tell him your most basic desires, as boring as they may be. If he laughs at you, if he pities you for your unsophisticated wants, then you can always get up and walk away. You walked away once tonight. You can do it again, and again. If nothing else, meeting Sylus has given you back the freedom that somewhere along the way you forgot you even had.

He leans toward you, running his nose alongside yours, breathing deeply. He kisses your cheek that isn’t covered by his palm, a soft brush of his lips. He kisses the side of your mouth, right at the corner. He turns your face towards his own, and he kisses you softly on the lips again. Leisurely, again and again. He smells so good. “I knew we were kindred spirits, because I watched you in the bar, listening to those assholes, and you were terrible at hiding your feelings. Your disgust, frustration, boredom. Clear, for anyone who cared to look. The same feelings I was experiencing in that room full of unrepentant, self-righteous bastards,” he says softly against your lips. “When you called me a douchebag, and tried to dismiss me with such arrogant disdain.” He kisses you again, hard, as if excited by the thought. “It was like looking at the truest version of you—principled, an empress dismissing a worm. I could tell that you were wasted on that cretin you dumped tonight. You’ve been wasted on everyone in your life who has failed to recognize your value. I was willing to offer you so much instead of just a simple drink, because I’ve been looking for an empress for my empire and not just another beautiful face.”

You can’t help it. You laugh. “I’m nobody’s empress.” You shake your head a little, bathing in his pretty words. You realize that he’s doing what you asked—saying nice things to you. In this moment, it doesn’t even matter if they’re true or not. The fact that he listened to what you wanted and is trying to give it to you, is enough. Tonight, you can pretend, for a little while, that his nice words are true. “I’m off-putting, too blunt. People don’t know what to do with me. I’d never be able to manage the diplomacy required for running an empire, especially one based on snake-charming like yours.”

“I don’t want you to run my empire. Leave the work and the worry to me. I just want your unvarnished company.” He kisses you again, slides his palm from your cheek to your hair, takes a fistfull of it, gently tugs your head back so your throat is exposed to him. “Be your off-putting, terribly honest self with me, and you will have given me everything I could want.”

You can’t help the little noise that comes out of your throat. He kisses your lips again, licking into your mouth. With your hair firmly in his grip, he tilts your head as he wishes, his tongue big, pressing deeper, slick against your own. He kisses you like this for what could be hours. Your body reacts, you can feel your heartbeat between your legs, the wetness pooling in your underwear.

He does what you asked of him. He takes the lead, slowly undressing you, still kissing you, his long, clever fingers working your top off your shoulders, freeing your breasts from your bra. He tosses them over the edge of the bed. You grow impatient, begin unbuttoning his vest, slide it off his shoulders. Repeat with his dress shirt. Once you are both bare from the waist up, he presses his chest against yours, rolling you underneath him, sinking into the covers on top of you. He palms the back of your neck, and you arch your back, pressing your breasts harder against his chest. The soft silver hair on his chest feels so good against your sensitive nipples.

He grunts, licking out of your mouth, kissing your cheek, your chin. You turn your head, sliding your hands into his hair, dragging your fingertips across his scalp. He shivers. You lick the shell of his ear and he grunts softly again. You drag your teeth along his earlobe, bite down gently on the soft flesh. He whimpers a little. You continue lapping at his ear for a few minutes, until the demands of your body let you know that this is no longer enough. You want more of him. You turn your head again, look back into his now flushed face, watch as he pants through his slightly open mouth.

“And you looked offended when I called you kitten the first time.” His smug smirk is undermined by his obvious excitement. “But here you are, lapping at my ear with your tongue.”

“And yet you’re the one mewling like a kitten as I lap your ear with my tongue,” you counter, reaching up and gently pinching his earlobe, still wet with your saliva.

His smirk takes on a feral edge. “Touché. But now it’s my turn to make you mewl. May I continue?”

You nod, and he wastes no more time, dragging open-mouthed kisses down your neck, between your breasts. He licks, nips, little bright flares of pain, sharp and quick, that you hope will leave marks for you to carry into the next few weeks. He drags the rest of your clothing off, your underwear, with his long, thick fingers, throws them over his shoulder. He hovers on all fours over you, trousers still on, his large dick clearly visible underneath.

“What would you like now? Do you want me to eat your pussy?” he asks, pearl-sheened hair falling over his forehead, messy from your hands in it.

You tense up a little. Your boyfriend hasn’t given you oral since the early days of your relationship. It always felt obligatory, perfunctory foreplay to ensure that you were wet enough for what he was really interested in. The idea of Sylus between your legs like that, his face so far away, not being able to tell if he’s actually enjoying it or just following a script, fills you with anxiety.

You shake your head no.

“No, you don’t want it, or no, you don’t think I want it?” he asks, reaching for the waistband of his trousers, unzipping his fly, all while not taking his eyes off of yours.

“Both,” you say, honestly. “I don’t want you so far away.”

He hums thoughtfully as he efficiently removes his pants, his black boxer briefs, and tosses them aside. He grunts softly as his dick, his heavy balls are freed from his clothing. They’re big, pretty, just like the rest of him. “Okay. We do what you want, sweetheart. If you change your mind, tell me.” He lifts his index and middle finger to his mouth, sucks on them slowly, working them in and out of his mouth while letting his gaze drift from your face, down to your breasts, lower, and then up again. When he removes them from his mouth, they’re soaked with his saliva. “I would love to lick you until you come on my face, but I can be patient till you're ready.” The image of you riding his face at his request sends another jolt of desire through you, layers into the want you already feel for him, throbbing between your legs. But before you can respond, he lowers himself on one elbow, settling a little bit on his side, and lets the wet fingers of his other hand dip between your legs. He slips them easily inside you. He watches your face as he leisurely pumps in and out of you, as his thumb presses down on your clit, as you start to move your body restlessly, because you want more than his fingers. There are only the sounds of your breaths mingled with his, the wet slide of his fingers inside you. You watch, mesmerized by the long, pale line of his strong forearm flexing in the light from the city spilling through the windows, his big hand twisting, thrusting, as he ensures that you’re wet enough, soft enough to take more of him.

“May I continue?” he asks, leaning down, kissing your lips, again just soft presses of his mouth against yours, little flicks of his tongue in between.

“Yes,” you breathe. He lifts his hand from between your legs and then palms his cock with it, slicking it with the combination of your own wetness and his saliva. He leans over you, nudges you between your knees with his wet hand, and you widen them for him. He kneels between your now open legs and lowers his hips until he’s nudging you, pressing in, the slide slick, slow. He watches your face for any signs of discomfort, but even though he’s big, you just feel full. Full in the way his voice fills your chest. Full in the way his sweet nothings fill your heart, despite knowing that they’re just empty, pretty words. He bottoms out, his hips flush against yours, and leans down. He kisses you again, this time opening his mouth wide, fucking into yours with his tongue in the same way that he begins to fuck into your body with his cock. Slow, deep, firm strokes. There is only the sound of his body moving in yours, his panting breath, the soft noises in your throat that you can’t stop with each of his thrusts. The only scents—clean sheets, clean sweat, the musk of his precum and your slick combined.

He feels so good. He watches your face, and when you do truly start to whimper as he promised, he adjusts the angle of his hips, the angle of his dick inside you, and you begin to openly moan, the pleasure filling you. You lift your arms, run your hands down his broad back, his muscles undulating under your fingers, palms, as he rocks both of your bodies.

“I love your hands on me,” he says, not stopping the sinuous roll of his hips. “One of the first things I noticed about you was your beautiful hands, holding the champagne flute.”

“They’re rough from lifting weights. I use them too much when I’m telling a story.”

Sylus leans down, kisses you hard, just shy of punishing.“I don’t want to hear your ex’s bullshit from your mouth while I’m inside you,” he commands. “You deserve more than what you’ve been allowing yourself.” 

You’re shocked at the sincerity, the earnestness in his eyes. His defense of you against the voice in your head, your boyfriend’s occasionally demeaning voice, makes you want to cry.

“Allow me to give you what you deserve,” he orders, but it sounds like a plea in his strained murmur.

You know that he’s only doing as you asked. That he’s saying nice things to you, because you said that’s what you wanted of him tonight. Even though you asked for him to mean them, it’s okay that he doesn’t. You’re just so grateful for the way he’s asking you at every step what you want, asking if he can continue, telling you what you think you’ve needed to hear for a long, long time now—so grateful that you can’t help but play along, to indulge in the fantasy that this powerful, gorgeous man really does think you’re beautiful and deserving of a feast when you’ve been living a life of famine for so long. 

“Okay, Sylus,” you say, and when you say his name, you feel him jerk inside you, and he begins to pump harder, faster. His body pressed against yours, the angle of his hips hitting you just right—you begin to feel close to coming. He seals your fate when he leans down and bites your shoulder, hard, a low pitched whine coming from his throat as he comes, as his hips stutter, as you come yourself, so turned on by the peak of his pleasure derived from your body that his pleasure cascades into and amplifies your own.

Slowly, the movement of his big hips slows and he melts into you, pressing you into the mattress, licking where he bit you. He makes no move to pull out of you—he simply continues to gently roll his hips, the wet sound loud in your ears, the warmth of his cum squelching between your bodies, pooling in the sheets underneath you.

He lifts his head, smiles at you. Nudges his nose against yours. “Was that okay?”

You sigh, body pleasantly heavy yet weightless. He feels so good blanketing you, still filling you. “It was passable,” you tease, smiling at him lazily.

He laughs low, smug, clearly not believing your obvious lie. “Room for improvement? Challenge accepted,” he murmurs, kissing you again, and you can feel his smile against your mouth.

He thrusts into you again, once, hard. You gasp. “Already ready to go again?” you ask in wonder.

“I should be thanking your ex for the low bar, but I’m pissed that you sound so surprised. What kind of absolute wretch wouldn’t want to worship you over and over again, all night, every night?” he demands.

You laugh. “No need to exaggerate.” You wrap your arms around his neck, run your hands up into his hair. “You’ve already done more than enough to make me feel good for a long time after tonight.”

“Oh, I’m not even close to being done,” he says, pumping into you again. “The question is, do you want me to fuck you like this again, or do you want to ride me?” he looks thoughtful for a moment, and then asks eagerly, “Are you ready to sit on my face yet?”

You stare at him, wide-eyed. “You’d let me sit on your face while I’m still dripping with your cum?” You think of your own boyfriend, how he always seemed slightly disgusted by the wetness from your body on his face anytime he did bother to give you oral.

“Stop thinking about him,” he orders. “Think about me. Unlike weaker men, I don't have a problem with eating you out when you’re filled with the combination of me and you. What could be more delicious?”

You find your body rousing again at the obvious sincerity of his words, his irritation that this is even a question. 

“I’ll lick you clean till you’re screaming, and then make a mess in you again,” he promises, rolling both of your bodies so that he’s on his back, pulling out of you, already lifting you by the hips, encouraging you to drip your way up his chest, settle over his mouth. He looks up at you, a smile crinkling the corners of his gorgeous, bright eyes.

You learn that night that if nothing else, Sylus Qin is a man of his word. He worships you, over and over again. While you're regaining your breath after one round, he brings food from the banquet he ordered and feeds you with his hands. He then fucks you again, and again, until you’re both too tired to move. After, he gently wipes the combination of you and him from your body, he brings a bottle of water to your lips and tells you to drink, he buries his head in your neck and you fall asleep, held tightly in his arms.

In the morning, you wake slowly, feeling pleasantly exhausted, your muscles tired and aching from last night’s efforts. Where Sylus bit you and sucked bruises into your skin, pain throbs dully, but you enjoy the reminder that you’ll have something of his on you for the next few days, maybe weeks. You turn your head, take in his lovely face, relaxed in sleep, the dark sweep of his eyelashes across his pale cheeks. He looks younger while asleep, without the frown line revealing his maturity as it does while he’s awake.

He made you feel so loved last night. He reminded you of the possibility of what love can be. That you don’t have to settle for anything less than how he treated you for one special moment in time. You’d rather be alone, than be with someone who doesn’t make you feel how Sylus Qin made you feel for one night. You’re so grateful to this beautiful man for reminding you that you don’t have to settle. For being the impetus in making the decision to never settle again.

You lean down and press a kiss, soft as a feather, to his temple. He doesn’t stir.

You don’t want to be here when he wakes up. You don’t want to watch as the illusion fades, now that he’s conquered the challenge your initial resistance to his charms presented. You don’t want the polite distance, the subtle urging to get you out of his bed and out of his life again. You’d rather carry his strange, unexpected kindness with you as an unspoiled memory, a ruler with which to measure all future potential lovers.

You quietly slip out of bed, collect your clothing and shoes from last night. You dress in the hallway, slip into your shoes. You walk to the private elevator that opens directly into a little foyer off the kitchen that you hadn’t noticed last night. You feel at peace on the long ride down to the ground floor, as you step into the cold, white winter morning.

You are certain now. You’ll never forget Sylus’s eyes, until the day you die.

Sylus wakes up all at once, jerked awake by a feeling of wrongness. He pats the bed next to him, finds only cold sheets, where he should be feeling your warm, soft skin. He cracks an eye open and scowls when he confirms what his hands have already informed him.

You’re gone. You didn’t believe him, when he said he wanted to give you everything, not just last night, but for all the rest of your nights. He huffs a little. Of course you didn’t. The finest things in life are never easy to obtain, let alone keep. Your fuck-up of an ex didn’t understand that until it was too late.

Sylus would rather have woken up to your warm body, to have pressed himself back into your wet, soft spaces, made love to you over and over again until you passed out again.

But this is okay too. He has finally found you. In one night, he got rid of your poor excuse for a boyfriend, tasted the pleasure of your mind and your body, and placed a tracking app in your phone. 

You may think that last night was all there is. You couldn’t be more mistaken. Sylus always did enjoy a good hunt.

Over the weeks that follow, you hear news that your ex-boyfriend’s law firm has come under intense fire for financial mismanagement of client funds. That some of the partners will be going to trial for tax fraud and other white collar crimes. Some have been disbarred and forbidden from practicing law for the foreseeable future. In the end, the firm can’t survive the reputational and financial blows, and it goes under.

You don’t even have to go to your ex’s place to pick up your belongings. Before you muster the energy to call him, to arrange for a time for you to come get them, they are inexplicably delivered to your temporary place by two intensely handsome delivery men, obviously twins, although one has an intensely scarred face. They wear matching crow tattoos that peek out from under their tight black t-shirts, winding around their big biceps and the back of their necks. When you ask if it was your ex who hired them, they laugh, make cryptic comments about your ex not having the financial resources to do much at all these days, and then leave, their chatter regarding a bet about how long it will take their boss to confess to his crush echoing down the hallway of your friend’s apartment building.

More weeks pass and you hear rumors of a new resistance movement called Onychinus by its proponents and critics alike. They sabotage banking networks, hack credit card companies, expose predatory insurance practices. They publish the banking information of prominent politicians, following the money to highlight the corruption from lobbying efforts by the worst industries in the country, in the world. 

Onychinus’s disruption of the system intensifies, until one day, the first insurance CEO is shot in broad daylight. And then it’s like the killer, or killers, go down the list, and executives of all sorts of multinational companies are ending up dead.

All the while, despite your firm belief that you’d never see him again, you start bumping into Sylus Qin at the strangest, most random places. The grocery store. Going for a jog in the park. Out at the club, dancing with friends. It’s almost as if he knows where you’ll be, and then arranges to bump into you.

The world is changing around you. A quiet revolution occurs, where ordinary people demand better of their leaders, of the businesses they support. You think about what you asked him the night you met him, Why wait to destroy them until the system comes crashing down? —and his strange response: Then you shall have both.

The next time you ‘happen’ to run into him, you’re alone, going for a night walk along the bank of the river winding through your city. The city lights glitter in the water, thousands of stars blinking in the velvet dark.

He’s wearing a thick winter coat, but his neck is bare. You want to thread your own scarf around his throat, protect him against the biting, late winter wind.

“Funny seeing you here,” you say, smiling up at him.

“Very funny,” he agrees serenely. “Have you figured it out yet?” he asks, wine-dark eyes fixed on your face.

You furrow your brow, pretend to think. “You weren’t lucky, were you?” you ask.

He smiles. “No. My kitten wasn’t there when I woke up. I knew then that it would take more than just my words to convince her that I fully intended to replace her boyfriend after she finally had the good sense to dump him.”

You still don’t understand why this man first approached you. Why he treated you with such sincere, loving passion during the only night you spent with him. But you remember your words to him, and his answer implying that he would give you what you wanted. You’ve watched the world change faster than you could have imagined on the night you found yourself abandoned, once again, in the shark tank of your ex’s colleagues and employers.

“It’s you,” you say, stepping forward, taking the lapels of his coat in your hands.

“What’s me, kitten?” he asks, sly, unbuttoning his coat, opening it for you.

“The demise of my ex’s law firm. Onychinus. The new legislation, the quiet revolution.” You accept his invitation, let him pull you into his chest, let him wrap his coat around you.

“No, beloved, it’s you,” he says on a contented sigh. “I told you, I don’t need you to help run my empire. You are simply the reason for its existence.”

“Why?” you ask, resting your head against his chest, listening to his strong heartbeat.

“Would you believe me if I said that I met you in another life, and you gave me my name, taught me how to love, and how to be loved in return?”

You shake your head. “Of course not. This is the real world. This life is the only one we’ve got. That’s why it’s so important that we do it right, and don’t be assholes, and try not to leave the world worse than we found it.”

“An idealist,” he says in mock disgust. “I guess you’ll want to teach me about how to be a better person,” he says glumly. “But I’m not selling my yachts. I’ll buy you as many canoes as you want, though.”

You snort, remembering the night you met him, his offers to take you on a midnight yacht cruise, the use of his black card.

“What’s the real reason, Sylus?” you ask, hugging him tightly, savoring the warmth of his big body against the cold breeze off the water.

He rests his cheek on the top of your head. “Kitten wants a bedtime story?”

“If that’s what you want to call it,” you whisper.

“It’ll cost you. Sure you want to hear it?”

You nod, and Sylus begins to speak.

“It all began the night I was checking in with the hotel’s security team, and saw the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in an elevator on one of the security feeds. She was telling a story, gesturing with her hands, her face so lively, eyes so bright. I had to listen in. I had to hear what she was saying. She was funny, sharp-tongued. Her voice was beautiful. Compelling. She was clearly intelligent, and deeply angry at the world.” As Sylus speaks, snow begins to fall, big fat flakes swirling in the night. “I knew, immediately, that we were kindred spirits.” His arms tighten around you, almost taking your breath away. “And then I heard the tepid response of her date. His subtly demeaning remarks. As if he needed to put her down to make himself feel better, and to keep her from realizing how much better she could do than him.” He shrugs. “I knew that he didn’t deserve her, and that I had to have her. That I needed to pull out all the stops in order to make her mine. But just my luck, she didn’t believe me when I told her that.”  

You turn your head, rest your chin on his chest as you look up into his red, red eyes. “So quick? Just that, and it was enough for you to decide you wanted to keep me?” It’s so hard to believe. How could he tell so much about you, from just a short, accidental encounter?

“I have an appraiser’s eye, darling. I can recognize the priceless, the one-of-a-kind, when I see it.” His self-satisfaction is palpable. Who are you to argue with him? If he thinks you’re worth it, then you will choose to believe him. He reminded you that you deserve it, the night you met, after all. 

“Do you still want the job? Boyfriend replacement?”

“No,” he says, but before your heart can sink, he continues. “The cost of this bedtime story is high, I’m afraid. I’m too greedy to settle for boyfriend. I like the sound of husband. Soulmate.”

He leans down, stops a breath away from your lips. Relief floods through you. You smile at him, echo his words. “Then you shall have both.” 

Then you kiss him. 

You kiss him, and you spend the rest of your life kissing him. You never do forget his eyes, through all the long years, as the world continues to change around you, as Sylus spends every day trying to give you what he insists that you deserve, and you try to do the same for him, until the day you die.

"Sorry," is the first word from your mouth, setting down the folded paper in your hands.

Xavier stares at the pale blue paper, and the lavender colored paper ring it goes with, both sitting innocently in front of you.

There's a distant, hazy memory of folding them. A late afternoon, school uniforms, a wooden sword. A sweet smile that had always been for you, then and now. Butterflies in your stomach, heart racing in your chest. Promises in paper of never being apart.

Something that felt like yours, but not. A dream, or a vision. A promise of something that was supposed to come, or already had. The strangest rush of déjà vu you'd ever experienced.

Xavier's eyes glaze over, far away from here, and you rush out, "I just—I was looking for that photo album, and I didn't—I was curious, and I didn't think you'd mind. I'm so—"

"It's okay."

His voice eases you in an instant, and he carefully steps around each preserved physical memory until he's sinking down next to you. He lifts a folded note, handing it to you, and your heart skips a beat when you open it.

Words are scrawled back and forth along every inch of the lined page, along with doodles of shooting stars and flowers. You brush your thumb over the familiar scrawl of his letters, asking to meet up after class again, and then look towards the even more familiar handwriting.

"Was this…" You swallow, brows furrowed, still struggling with the surge of countless memories that swam through your mind now. "…me?"

"Yeah." His voice is soft, pensive, as he rests his chin on your shoulder. Reading over the innocent conversation passed between friends in the back of a classroom. "I kept stuff from the first time I met you. And the second. And now, too."

"I can tell," you murmur, glancing over the movie tickets from one of your first dates. Used hotpot coupons, pressed flowers, bookmarks he'd borrowed from you, leftover photobooth pictures.

"I'm sorry," he's the one to mumble it this time, and you try to look at him, but his face is buried against your neck, refusing to let you see. "I need you to know that I don't expect you to be anybody other than who you are now. I just…"

"I know, love," you whisper, carding your fingers through his hair.

For as long as he lived, and long it was, he never wanted to forget.

He never wanted to forget you.

You let him hide his expression against you until he's ready to show it, and you smile down at him when he lets you see his honesty, and his anxiety. Face flushed, eyes wide and uncertain, then fluttering closed when you press a kiss to his frown, easing all that tension away.

"Tell me about it?" you ask, any possible trepidation erased by hope, nostalgia you wanted to make your own as much as his. "About…me?"

You gravitate towards the faded charms that are tied together, two stars linked. His lashes flutter when you lift it, tears clinging to the ends when you smile at the plush fabric.

Turning back to him, your smile widens, thumb wiping away the tear that stubbornly escapes his eyes.

"About us?"

He blinks a few times, wiping his other eye, and reaches for the paper rings.

"The first time I met you, you were sweet, and shy, and saw me when nobody else did." He runs his thumb along the purple paper, tracing each crease in the folds. "I liked you so much, but we ran out of time."

He takes your hand in his.

"The second time, you were fierce, a force to be reckoned with, and fought me on everything." He smiles, a chuckle caught in his throat, as his fingers gently caress your ring finger. "I knew I was in love with you then. I knew I always had been. But I let you down. I'm sorry I let you down."

"And now?" you breathe out, meeting the question in his gaze with a nod.

"Now," he whispers, sliding the paper ring up onto your finger until it's nestled where it was always meant to be, "you're kind, and you're relentless, and I love you. You're the strongest person I know, and you feel like home, and the rest of my life. You're everything to me."

Xavier's forehead rests against yours, his nose nuzzling against yours. Then along your cheek, until his lips are pressed to your ear, so you don't miss a single word.

"I want our life in pictures that I can look at with you. I want our books sharing the same shelves. I want to grow a garden together. I want to go to sleep with you, to dream of you, and wake up to you."

He's holding you tighter and tighter, and you're giggling, burying your face against his neck when he keeps rambling.

"I want you to tell me my cooking is bad, and that I drive too fast, and that I snore a little sometimes. I want you to get mad at me and I want to make it better. I want to be a better person for you."

"Xavier—"

"I want to get a little jealous sometimes—"

"A little?"

"And I want to keep you in our bed for days until you can't walk—"

"Xavier!"

You're laughing, and he's laughing, and you pull back to cup his face in your hands. You see him now with no more masks, no cards kept against his chest. Just him, and you, and what sounds like…

"Xavier," you say again, slowly, watching his eyes widen when you ask, "are you proposing right now?"

The prettiest pink blooms across his cheeks, and his eyes dart away, then back again when you gently shake his face for his attention.

"I'll do it again. I'll do it better," he promises, and you laugh, a choked but happy sound. He looks back down at the paper ring on your hand, his blush spreading to his ears. "I'll get you a better one."

"I like this one," you stubbornly insist, and now he laughs, his body beginning to emit a golden glow that only grows brighter.

To make your point, you take his hand in yours, sliding the blue paper ring onto his finger until it fits just as snugly as the one on yours.

"I want all that too," you whisper, gazing up at him, and you hear his breath catch in his throat. "I want you when you laugh, and when you're pouty, and all jealous too. I want to kick you out of the kitchen when you make the smoke alarm go off again. I want to go grocery shopping with you, and hold hands on the subway after work, and do taxes together."

His nose wrinkles. "I hate taxes."

With a playful roll of your eyes, you kiss the pout right off his face again. He leans in for another when you pull back, and you melt into him, wrapped around each other for kiss after kiss.

"But I'll do them with you." Xavier rests his face against your neck again, your fingers running through his hair. "I'll do everything with you, my starlight. Always."

You smile, looking at the paper ring on your hand. Grateful for every version of you that you'd been, for every you that he's loved. That you found each other again, and get to be in love now.

"Always," you murmur, and hold him close.

~❊~

Hours passed in a blur of Wanderers, screaming civilians, and phone cameras pointed in your direction. Eventually, when morning had become late afternoon, the chaos melted into something more manageable: sirens, the lights of emergency vehicles, the questions of EMTs who had come to help the injured.

"Are you alright?" your soft-spoken doctor asked, giving you that stern Zayne look you had learned meant he was worried, not ticked off—even if it looked like he was.

You sat on a park bench, watching the cleanup begin. You looked up at Zayne, who had a kit in his hands and was already eyeing your visible scrapes.

"I'm fine," you promised. He raised a brow. "It's nothing serious, Zayne, I promise."

"I'll be the judge of that," he insisted. You sighed, but nodded, and Zayne began his examination.

After a while, as he wrapped your wrist—bloody and scraped, possibly sprained, you heard him muttering under his breath—you patted your pocket. You felt a brief spike of panic when you realized your phone wasn't there before you remembered you'd left it on your desk in your hurry to get to Bloomshore.

Rafayel!

Shit, he'd had something he wanted to show you, hadn't he? You hadn't even had the time to tell him you were getting sent on a mission across Linkon. You glanced around at the camera crews and emergency vehicles; surely, he'd see the news and understand you'd been sent to help with a Wanderer attack?

But if he was in his studio all day... You could just picture it, your baby sitting on his easel, anxiously glancing at his phone while he waited for you, unable to concentrate on his work...

"You look guilty." Zayne's voice snapped you out of your thoughts. You realized you were worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. "And worried."

"Sorry—I just realized I haven't texted Rafayel since this morning," you said. "He's probably freaking out."

A smile twitched at Zayne's lips. He'd met your artist a handful of times, and on one memorable occasion, Rafayel had thrown himself into your hospital bed and hissed at anyone who came too close.

"He worries about you, but he's quite capable. I'm sure he's fine," Zayne assured you.

A few more minutes, a few more bandages, and you were on your way back to the Hunter's Association. You gave your verbal report to Jenna as quickly as possible, promised to have it all typed up tomorrow, and bolted back to your desk.

You picked up your phone and found, to your horror, more than fifty text notifications—all from Rafayel. Your stomach sank as you saw your earlier text still waiting to be sent. You deleted it, scrolled back through the messages, and began to read.

9:07am fishie: you've been typing for a while, cutie 9:10am fishie: cutieee?? you there? 9:15am fishie: guess not :( fishie: its okay i can show you later fishie: you're still coming over for dinner, right? fishie: i have the ingredients for your favorite fishie: we can cook it together if you want fishie: or i can cook for you, i dun mind 9:30am fishie: your location says you're at work... guess you got busy? fishie: did you get attacked by a wanderer or something fishie: you didn't have a mission today that i forgot about, right? 10:00am fishie: cuuuuuutie fishie: cutie fishie: did i forget an important date 11:03am fishie: i checked every calendar, i didn't forget anything 11:17am fishie: you didnt fall asleep at work, did you? fishie: i know you were having trouble falling asleep fishie: you couldve called me last night if it was bad yknow fishie: ill even sing you to sleep la la la 11:23am fishie: that's when you say "really rafa?!" fishie: and i say "of course cutie, that's what im here for" fishie: "can't have you falling asleep on me" fishie: "ill get lonely" 11:28am fishie: ...im lonely, cutie 12:12pm fishie: where are you :( fishie: youre never this busy at work fishie: did something happen 12:46pm fishie: i finished a painting fishie: small one, not the one thomas wants done fishie: but its something, right? fishie: im looking on the bright side like you tell me fishie: but im covered in paint now fishie: and its hotttttttttttttt fishie: so im gonna go take a bath fishie: if you werent so busy you could join me ;) 1:59pm fishie: no lunch break, huh 2:02pm fishie: you're gonna be hungry later, then fishie: i'll make you dinner so you have food when you get here fishie: itll only be warm if you tell me when youre coming home 2:53pm fishie: did i do something? forget something? fishie: im sorry cutie 3:01pm fishie: if i snapped at you recently, its just because of this painting and these deadlines, its not at you fishie: and its been a bad few days. not an excuse though fishie: and im sorry i didnt notice it earlier fishie: and if im just being too clingy im sorry for that too fishie: i just miss you fishie: and now im worried 3:33pm fishie: are you mad at me fishie: ill make it up to you fishie: whatever it is fishie: i love you fishie: just please answer me beloved, please 3:53pm fishie: you havent read my messages, not any of them fishie: am i on do not disturb fishie: i thought you said i could disturb you anytime 4:46pm fishie: beloved fishie: beloved please fishie: have i done something wrong fishie: are you ignoring me fishie: are you tired of me? fishie: ...please dont leave me

Still staring at your phone screen, momentarily too stunned and upset with yourself to say anything, you fumbled around for your bags and your keys. The last message, from ten minutes ago, had shattered your heart and left it on the floor of the Association. You weren't even out the door yet when you swore to yourself to never, ever let your work come between you and Rafayel again.

To the parking garage, to your level, to your bike. You sat on it, had the keys in the ignition before you remembered to pause. You typed faster than you ever had before.

5:03pm me: rafa, im coming to you, be home soon love

~❊~

Having broken about a hundred traffic laws, you parked your bike outside of Rafayel's studio and ran inside, for once relieved about his terrible habit of leaving the front door unlocked.

Heavenly aromas—belonging to your favorite dish—wafted from the kitchen. You hurried toward it.

With his back to you, standing at the stove, was your lovely, distressed boyfriend. His hair looked a mess, like it always did when he'd decided to take a nap and rolled out of bed last minute.

You must have made some sound as you made your way across the kitchen, because he turned before you even reached him. He smiled, relief crashing over his features before he could hide it. But you still saw his red, red eyes and knew it had been a very hard day indeed.

"Hey, cutie!" he said, clearing his throat, his voice a little thick. "Long time no see— Oomph!"

Your hug knocked the wind—and the spoon he was holding—right out of him. You buried your face in his chest as the spoon clattered to the floor, the only sound in the whole house.

Rafayel was frozen as you clung to him, his arms hovering above you. You squeezed him tighter.

"I love you, Rafa," you said. "I'm so sorry, love, I didn't mean not to respond all day. There was an emergency in Bloomshore, they sent me and a whole squad to take care of it. We were there all day, bubba, and I forgot my phone at the Association." You pulled back enough to see his face, reaching up to cup his cheek. You felt like you might cry at the look in his eyes. "I wasn't ignoring you, love. I didn't know you needed me so much today."

Slowly, Rafayel began to relax. His arms wrapped around you and he pulled you back to his chest. "It's fine," he said, forcing his voice back into an airy octave. "I just missed you is all."

...please don't leave me, he'd said. And the way his eyes were shining, the way he couldn't look at you for too long, like he was afraid he'd cry if he did... There was nothing "just" about the way he'd been feeling all day.

But you sensed that if you pushed him, he'd shut down. He'd been vulnerable all day, and he was not in the mood to continue to be so now. So you let it go.

"I missed you, too," you murmured, pulling him into a kiss. He hummed, lingering against your mouth.

He pulled you flush against his body, taking another, deeper kiss. In moments, he had you cradled in his arms—reminding you that you'd never felt safer anywhere else.

Rafayel let out a long breath, which was shaky instead of steady. You chose to not mention it, or the fact that he squeezed you tightly and a moment later his body was trembling. Still, you let him decide when the hug was over, even as food bubbled on the stove behind you and the air in your lungs thinned and the grip he had on you nearly cracked your ribs.

When he did let go, you smiled at him. You kissed his cheek, then nuzzled into him with your nose. He gave you a slight giggle. "Thank you, Rafa," you murmured. "Needed that after today."

"Mmm, me too," he whispered. He cleared his throat again and stepped back. He picked up the spoon, tossed it into the sink, and checked the food with a new one. "How was the mission? Are you sore?"

"Very," you admitted. "I don't think I've ever been this busy at work before. I feel like I could sleep for a week."

"I would've helped, you know," he said, trying to tease, but there was an edge to his voice, the one that he got every so often at seemingly random moments. "You only needed to call me."

You wrapped your arms around his waist, burying your face in his back. "I would've, if I'd remembered to grab my phone before Jenna rushed the whole team to Bloomshore."

He only hummed softly in response and you felt a knife twist in your gut. You hated seeing your fishie like this—inanimate, distant, upset but unwilling to talk.

You kissed his shoulder once, twice. "I'm gonna go change into something more comfortable before dinner, m'kay? I'll be right back." You got on your tiptoes, kissed the nape of his neck, and slipped away from his side.

On your way to the bedroom, you glanced into Rafayel's studio. It was messier than it was when you'd left, pages of sketches thrown about, a bucket of brushes that had been sitting on the floor kicked over. Globs of mostly dried paint covered the table and the floor. Remnants of his burst of inspiration earlier or his worried pacing, you couldn't tell.

Once you reached the bedroom, you went straight to Rafayel's clothes instead of your section in his closet, grabbing his warm brown sweatshirt that was way too large for you but comforted you all the same. You toed off your boots, pulled on your comfiest pair of pants, and slipped off your shirt and bra, pulling his sweatshirt over your head.

You went to the edge of the bed, shoving your feet into your slippers. An object beneath your foot as you stepped made you yelp. You paused, kicked off the slipper, and held it upside down.

A pearl fell out and rolled on the floor.

You picked it up. It was small and perfectly round, pale lavender in color, shining in the late evening sun streaming in through the window.

Lavender. Your heart sunk.

In the time you'd known Rafayel, you'd seen him cry pearls only a handful of times. More often than not, you saw the aftermath of the little pearls scattered throughout his house. You had come to understand that each emotion colored his tears differently.

The first time you'd kissed him, he'd let a few tears slip, and they'd turned into champagne colored pearls, soft gold in the light. "Tears of joy," he'd assured you, head resting on your shoulder, voice a little shaky from crying.

Black pearls, you knew, came from frustration. His studio saw most of those, shed when he couldn't find the right color or a painting wasn't working out the way he wanted it to or he was completely out of inspiration.

And on more than one occasion, the bed had been covered in his pearls. When he woke up from the nightmares that plagued him more often than he cared to admit, he'd cried until the sheets were covered in pure white pearls of grief and shock—the kind of tears only haunting memories pulled from him.

The bed—and your shoulder—were also the recipients of pearls with a blue sheen, when Rafayel would bury his head in your neck and cry with relief as he orgasmed. Cheeky thing that he was, he'd saved most of these and given you a few in the form of earrings and a necklace.

But lavender... These were often mixed in with the white pearls he cried after a nightmare. They were what spilled from his eyes when he hugged you tight and begged "Beloved, don't leave me" in a voice so small that it brought tears to your own eyes.

You mussed the sheets of the bed and more lavender pearls dropped to the floor and rolled. Your heart squeezed at the quantity of pearls in amongst the sheets. These were tears of heartbreak. Loss. Despair. Love lost and love unrequited. He hadn't told you himself; you'd had to ask Talia, concerned when he wouldn't explain what had him crying so much in the early months of your relationship.

You saw and heard nothing, but you knew the moment Rafayel was in the doorway, perhaps summoned by your yelp—or the realization of what you'd stumbled upon. You turned, the lavender pearl still in your palm.

One hand on the doorframe, he hesitated where he stood, defeat on his face. His eyes were shining again, more tears building on his waterline. His lower lip trembled and he was trying to avoid your gaze, his head cast downward.

"Rafa," you murmured. His shoulders slumped forward. "Come here."

He trudged toward you and let you coax him into sitting on the bed. You pulled him into your arms, setting down the pearl. You threaded your fingers through his hair and kissed the crown of his head, trying to think of what to say—to apologize, to comfort him. All these tears, all those messages...

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

You frowned. "What are you sorry for, bubba? You didn't do anything wrong." You rubbed his arm soothingly. "I'm the one who should be sorry. And I am, Rafa. I'm so, so sorry that I didn't text you back. I'm so sorry that I hurt you. I never meant to."

Rafayel sniffled and finally met your gaze. "I...I thought you were ignoring me. Thought maybe I was too much and you'd had enough and..." He squeezed his eyes shut. A tear fell and became a pearl the instant it no longer clung to his skin. You caught it in your hand; it was pale pink, one you'd never seen before. "And that you were gonna leave me."

"Oh, Rafa," you breathed. Before you could reassure him, he was talking over you again, his head planted firmly against your shoulder.

"I got worried. That I was being too much, texting you too much. So I tried to leave you alone, tried to be less. But that made the feeling worse, so I just kept digging that hole," he whispered.

"Bubba," you said, slipping a finger under his chin to lift his head. "You weren't digging a hole. I love getting your messages, seeing how you're doing throughout the day. If I had seen them, I would have responded to each and every one." You kissed his forehead. "But the mission—"

His lower lip was trembling again. "Why didn't you tell me about it?" he whispered.

"It was an emergency," you said. "I tried to text you before I left, to tell you I was at work, but then Jenna called me over and I didn't grab my phone so I didn't see that the text didn't send."

His mouth formed a small O. "That's why you were typing and then you disappeared."

You nodded. "I love you, Rafayel. I love you so, so much. You are never too much for me. I promise you, I'm not going to leave you." You cupped his cheek, rubbing your thumb over his cheekbone gently. You offered him a small smile. "I'm sorry, love. I'm sorry you felt alone and ignored all day. I'm sorry that I didn't—couldn't—reassure you and that I have done anything, anything at all, to make you feel like I'm going to leave you. I'm not. Ever. You're stuck with me, Rafa."

Rafayel stared at you for a long moment, then nuzzled into your hand. The action was familiar reconciliation, easing the worry in your heart that maybe he wouldn't forgive you for hurting him so deeply.

"I love you, too," he whispered. He adjusted his head, claiming your lips with the fervor of a man who'd needed it all day. He swallowed your sound of surprise.

Just when you thought he was going to take it further, he pulled away, his breaths uneven. He slumped against you.

"I have a headache," he mumbled.

You hummed, scratching his scalp to soothe him. "I'm not surprised. How long did you cry for?"

He shrugged. "Dunno. An hour? Two?"

"Aw, Rafa," I cooed, squeezing him tight. I coaxed him into laying down and pulled him into my chest. "Rest a minute, okay? I'm not going anywhere, love, and I will do whatever it takes to make sure you know that."

He nestled into you, brow pinched in thought. He closed his eyes. "Will you take the day off tomorrow? And stay with me?"

You kissed the top of his head. "I'll text Jenna as soon as we go back to the kitchen."

"And you'll stay the night?"

You smiled against his hair. "Of course."

"And take a bath with me later?"

"Uh huh. I'll wash your hair for you, too."

He nestled into you. "Thank you."

You rubbed his back. "I'll talk to Jenna about syncing my Hunter's Watch to my phone," you murmured. "See if I can get all my messages to come through, not just work related ones, so I can at least tell you when I'm on a mission."

Rafayel hummed contentedly; you felt it in your ribcage with the way his head rested above your heart. "I'd like that." He flicked his eyes up to you. "Thank you, beloved."

You kissed him softly, in that way that made his eyelashes flutter prettily. You smiled, brushing his hair out of his eyes to see him better.

You held up the pink pearl that you'd wiped away from his face earlier. "I've never seen this color before," you said. "What is it?"

He shrugged. "It's...harder to explain than the others," he said. "It's like...guilt. Shame. But not really." Sensing your question, he added, "I guess this time I felt...guilty about not telling you when you got home that I was still upset."

"It's okay, Rafa, you just needed time," you murmured. You kissed his temple. "I will give you all the time you need, now and always."

Rafayel snuggled into you. "I have one more request," he said, hiding his face. But you could see his ears burning red. "Ebb Day is coming up. Can...can you stay with me through it? I know last time I said I didn't want you to be there so I wouldn't do anything we'd regret, but... I want you there this time. It was too painful by myself."

"Of course I'll stay," you said. "And maybe I'll get you to cry more of those pretty blue tears you like to see me wear so much."

He grinned, finally peeking up at you. "I'll make you an anklet this time, so I can see it when I put your legs over my shoulders."

"Rafayel!"

The two of you giggled, cuddling close in bed, until Rafayel's stomach let out a rather loud growl. Both of you paused and you raised an eyebrow at him.

"Come on, let's go eat that dinner you prepared for us," you said, sitting up and pulling him to his feet, "and I'll text Jenna about tomorrow."

You made your way to the kitchen. Rafayel plated while you typed, and you showed him the sent text as you sat down to eat. A few moments later, your phone dinged.

7:09pm captain j: Take all the time you need. You deserve a break after today's work anyway. We'll see you next week.

"Next week?" Rafayel murmured.

Your watch vibrated as your schedule updated: the rest of your week completely cleared of missions and office work.

You grinned at him. "Well, looks like you don't just have me to yourself tomorrow, but the rest of the week."

His face brightened immediately. "And you'll stay? Here, with me? The whole time?"

You kissed his cheek. "The whole time. I'll have to go home to pack a bag of the essentials for the rest of the week, but—"

"I'll go with you!"

You giggled and nuzzled into him, sliding your chair even closer to his. "I'm all yours, Rafayel. For as long as you'll have me."

"Always," he said without hesitation. "Always and forever."

☞ ❊ ☜

[Image Caption: I do not give permission to repost, translate, or publish my work on any other site or app by anyone except myself. I do not give permission for my work to be fed into AI (for audio, art, or writing).]

⋆˙⟡tags: 18+, mdni!!! NOT a love triangle!! mc is treated as a caleb’s sis in this one, the reader and mc and caleb are friends!! best of friends!! unrequited love!! but not really, angst, angst with happy ending, misunderstandings, or more like lies, love confessions obsessed caleb, kinda pathetic caleb, insecure caleb, he cries, we cry, everyone literally cries, first times, but the scene is quite short, they love each other so much, my babies, please read it.

⋆˙⟡writer’s note: my first ever commission for my wonderful stella 🥺 i hope you like it baby and i hope all of u will like it too, despite the length. i wanted to stretch it in time so that the reconciliation at the end wouldn’t be forced. i hope you’ll read it and like it, i loved writing for caleb 🤍

!!likes, reblogs and comments, pls comment, would be appreciated ♡ let me know what u think!

* 20+ unread messages from [ my miss hunter!<3 ]*

✉︎ baby what happened, where are you?

✉︎ you don’t pick up and even read my messages, i don’t know what’s happening, are you okay?

✉︎ caleb’s going totally ap(pl)eshit pun intended god i hope if you’re reading this you laughed at least. PLEASE write back or i’ll join him.

✉︎ he’s actually going insane, does he know something? he refuses to tell me anything, what happened between you guys? i was absent for literally one meeting, did you throw hands or something? he seems really unstable, like, much more than usual and he already had issues before, that’s for SURE.

✉︎ i’m so sorry for joking. i’m just really worried. it’s been a week. please respond to me, i don’t know what to do. i need to know you’re safe.

✉︎ what did he do? now i know that he’s at fault here, he’s acting insane.

✉︎ he’s not sleeping. i don’t think he’s eating either? he looks like a walking corpse and he’s still looking for you everywhere. i’m not sure who’s managing the fleet now but for sure not him.

✉︎ he’s not saying a single word. i know now that he must’ve done something, he’s not just worried, he’s fucking terrified and to be honest i am too. it’s been almost two weeks now, please answer me.

✉︎ i swear i won’t tell him anything. just please respond.

It was supposed to be a day like any other.

You, her, him—sitting together, eating your favorite food, maybe watching one of the movies MC somehow always managed to convince you to watch. Such nights always ended in the same way: with you sleeping next to her, right on Caleb’s bed. The gruesome scenes replayed behind your closed eyelids, your body nearly sprawled on top of your friend, your hand gripping hers—too tightly to just be affectionate. Caleb’s laugh echoed through his apartment, jokes and jabs aimed right at you, spoken in soft tones from his usual spot on the couch, where he always slept during your sleepovers.

And while you were pouting and trying to defend yourself from his absolutely false accusations of being a scaredy-cat, it was always his little sister who defended you like a lioness. Her clever comebacks always softened his teasing nature towards you. But it was all just a silly little game—the truth was you didn’t mind being teased, you knew Caleb long enough to realize that it was just the way in which he showed affection. It just so happened that MC showed hers by protecting you and attacking Caleb right back, every time his teasing seemed to be endless.

“Easy, pip, I’m just tryin’ to get her mind off of that spoooky imitation of a movie.” He answered between quiet laughs, and a quiet scoff left your mouth, quickly followed by a small smile. “Besides, if she really was scared, she would sleep here with me. She would be much, much safer, right?” His question followed by your name, and you immediately sprung upwards to sit on your legs.

“As if! You would probably maul me in your sleep before any monster would even get a chance to reach me.” You answered quickly, your body turning toward the salon where he slept, your eyes meeting MC’s, shining with mirth in the darkness. You heard an exaggerated gasp from him, and you imagined how he probably looked right now: gripping his shirt right on top of his chest in a gesture feigning hurt.

“You wound me. I would protect you with all I have, my Evol, my Fleet, my annoying little sister—”

“Jerk!”

“—From any harm the flying sharks would want to cause you.” You laughed quietly, and you felt the tension in your shoulders slowly dissolving. MC’s faux-offended expression, along with his soft voice were doing a great job at melting the irrational fear you felt in your chest after the movie.

A second passed; then two, maybe three, while your eyes were looking through the huge glass walls, following the clouds that were drifting languidly outside. A sigh left your lips, and your hand squeezed that of MC, who was laying beside your sitting body, her eyes already closed. And when their laughs died down entirely, their breaths slowly evening out, preparing for a good night’s sleep, that’s when you decided to add one more thing.

“Laugh at me all you want, but it’s your fault for living so high up in the clouds, where all the flying sharks in the world have us literally handed to them on a silver platter. But fine, I don’t care anymore, eat up you little motherfu—”

“Oh my god—”

His bubbly laugh echoed loudly, bouncing off of the walls, filling the rooms, breaking the tranquil atmosphere that had fallen not so long ago. His sister’s body shook with laughter right next to yours, wide smile now present on your lips. Your silly joke landed exactly how you wanted it to land—concealing the fear still nestled inside you, simmering delicately just beneath the surface of your smile. Which was, despite their assumptions, not only caused by the abominations presented in the movie.

The enormous clouds, surrounding you from everywhere—that was what truly bothered you. The vastness and uncertainty of the sky which stretched out before you, visible through the glass walls, its eerie silence making the little hairs on your nape stand straight.

Sleepovers at Caleb’s place, which had happened occasionally ever since he moved to Skyhaven to study—and continued even after he became a Farspace Colonel—were something you had already got used to and looked forward to. But the location of his apartment, the surroundings and their quietness, the strangely uneasy privacy and stillness, especially at night—that was what made you so scared every time you were here.

You never told them about your little fear; you didn’t want to cause problems, especially when they were both so happy whenever the three of you found enough time for a sleepover, and Caleb’s place was perfect for accommodating all of you. Besides, you had your best friend, a literal Hunter, close to you, and Caleb’s presence right behind you, just a wall away. Your mind knew that you were safe, it was just your body that was having second thoughts in a form of occasional shivers and quickened heartbeat.

That’s why it always striked you whenever he seemed to notice your concealed discomfort, which this time happened an hour after you said your good night’s. Mc’s breath was already calm and steady, yours far from it, unwanted thoughts and the feeling of uncertainty making you lose your precious hours of sleep.

You heard him first: his calm steps, quiet breath. You saw him second: his head peeking through the door frame, eyes wide open, not clouded with sleep, landing straight on yours. His body approached the bed frame, and he crouched slowly by your side, a small smile adorning his lips. And you felt him at last: his huge, warm hand searched for yours under the covers, and proceeded to hold it gently, his thumb caressing the back of your knuckles in a comforting gesture. You were familiar with such touches, both him and his sister were touchy-feely ever since you remember. So you reciprocated his smile, tiredness clutching to your lashes, yet mind still refusing to rest.

“Are you okay? I heard you tossin’ and turnin’.” He whispered, whether to avoid waking his sister up or to not disturb your precious moment, you weren’t sure. You met his beautiful, sparkling eyes, which always made your stomach twist with longing, and you already started to feel better. His gaze was so gentle, so earnest that your heart decided to switch the reason of its rapid beating from fear to a complete adoration.

You were laying on your side, a pillow warm underneath your cheek, and your hand squeezed his in an answer to his worry. You noticed that his hands were dry and rugged, but so pleasantly warm. And so were your cheeks, their color fortunately hidden from his watchful eyes behind the curtain of the darkness.

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’m just a little uneasy, that’s all.” Which wasn’t exactly a lie, but his eyes were giving you skeptical signals as if he knew exactly what you were hiding.

The truth that the sky and space scared you, when he was the one who was constantly covered by the clouds, was always embarrassing to admit out loud. And thankfully, he never pressed you to do it.

Instead, he hummed, his chin resting on the edge of the bed, his eyes landing on your clasped hands, thumb sliding through your fingers back and forth. You knew he had no idea, but that slight touch was enough to make you shiver, your heart filled with unspoken, overwhelming emotions towards the one who was supposed to just be your best friend.

“But you know you can always come to me, right? The couch is really cozy and maybe you would feel safer there, somehow. Aaand, I’m much bigger than her. More comfortable too, I’m sure.” Your lips turned up in a smile, and your eyes closed for a second, trying to focus on calming your heart down. When you finally opened them, he was looking right at you with an unreadable expression. His face seemed to get closer to yours too, most likely unknowingly.

From such proximity you could see the freckles that covered his face like small specks of cosmic dust, that you have always longed to trace with your fingers. His eyes were also a sight to behold, even in the darkness they shined so brightly, violet mixed with a hint of a sunset, always so full of wonder and awe, looking right back at you. He was so handsome, even covered only by the moonlight, when you always thought that a warm sunlight suit him best.

“We’re not kids anymore, Caleb. Sleeping in the same bed would be a little bit weird, don’t you think?” He scoffed under his breath, and you bit your lip, not wanting your true emotions to appear on your face. Desperate to not let him know how much you’d like to join him, to fall asleep resting in his embrace.

“I don’t.” His reply instant, a sure whisper, accompanied by a slight shift of his head. His hair looked so soft, the strands falling into his eyes, making you want to reach out and fix them. His faint freckles seemed to flicker, once again catching your attention, teasing you to give each one of them a small kiss. But you knew that you didn’t have the right to. “Besides, we’re friends. You know I would never touch you or anything. You’re safe with me.”

These exact words echoed through your mind months later, a memory fresh and vivid, the only one you could think of when your heart wanted to beat straight out of your chest.

I would never touch you.

You remembered him saying, on that day that was supposed to be like any other, yet MC cancelled on you at the last moment. You were already drinking boba next to the relaxed Caleb, leaving you two alone for the first time in what felt like forever. An emergency mission, was her excuse, and although you were upset that she couldn’t make it, the happiness of finally being able to spend some time with Caleb, whom you missed just as much, was enough to raise your mood back up.

I would never touch you.

That sentence swirled inside your head, hours after you both went out for a hotpot, sharing a meal filled with laughter, catching up on nothing and everything all at once. You always had fun together, the years of friendship formed thanks to MC made you comfortable with one another, the banter teasing but affectionate, the atmosphere warm and familiar. Later you went for a walk in the park, searching for squirrels, and sending MC pictures of every single one you managed to spot with a short caption ‘You’. After that, you also stopped at the arcade to play with claw machines for some time: you managed to win a small cat plushie for MC, while Caleb gave you a similar one he got for you when you weren’t looking. And then, after the sun had long since set, you went back to his place—in the same way you always did when meeting up in Skyhaven. But this time, you two were completely alone.

I would never touch you.

And yet, by heavens, you thought that after that night there wasn’t any place on your body he left untouched. Not when he was paying such a close attention to you, his hands wandering absolutely everywhere, accompanied by his shaken breaths and whispers full of worship and wonder.

You weren’t sure who kissed whom first, your mouths connecting unexpectedly, meeting right in the middle, the movie you put on a while ago still playing in the background. The flakes of popcorn scattered everywhere around you; the bowl had fallen from your hands, so desperate was he to pull you to himself the moment he dared to push his tongue past your lips—uncertainly at first—only to feel how quickly you accepted him.

You were almost dizzy with happiness of finally having him this close, touching at his hair, neck, shoulders, waist. He was holding you in his arms tightly, squeezing your waist, while you sat comfortably on his crossed legs, lips sealed to his. But suddenly, your head became heavy the moment the gravity of the situation pulled you down. You pushed him away, pressing your hands to his broad shoulders.

You parted with a gasp, your breath uneven, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

He didn’t look any better, if his equally red cheeks and tousled hair were any indicator. His slightly chapped lips chased after yours, eyes lidded and brows furrowed when he felt the loss of your warmth.

“C—Caleb, wait, stop, what on earth are we doing—” You tried to reason, your legs struggling to stand, your heart uncertain what it truly meant to him. A panic overtook you, your true feelings suddenly out in the open, composure lost in a moment of weakness. You remember meeting his eyes in the room lit only by his TV, his head already turned your way, closer than it ever was before. That’s all it took; the sudden closeness, his intense, lingering gaze and hand reaching your way, for you to start making rush decisions.

He didn’t let you escape. In one quick motion you were grabbed by your arms and pushed back into his chest. His hands softly squeezed the flesh, his head fell onto your shoulder listlessly. Dark hair brushed at your neck when you heard his shaky breaths, his body trembling under the touch of your fingers, which now rested on his torso. They were the only barrier keeping you from melting entirely into his embrace.

“No, please—please. Don’t go.” He choked out, his voice pained, his forehead nuzzling up to the juncture between your shoulder and neck. His lips touched your neck, and you gasped. “Don’t go. Don’t run away from me. Please.” A quiet plea, which made you close your eyes in an attempt to finally think; think of the reason it happened, think of the ways in which it would affect your friendship, think of what it truly meant for him.

Afraid that the answer would hurt you.

Your head suddenly felt too heavy for your body, mind spiraling with possible answers, when you heard his voice once again, loud and certain against your heated skin.

“I dreamed of this—Of you—” He nuzzled at your neck, sending a shiver throughout your whole body, your chest squeezing, the implication slowly uncovering into something crystal clear. “Of holding you. Touching you, like this—” His fingers started a gentle trial up your spine and you pressed your body closer to his on impulse. His left hand buried in your hair, softly touching your scalp, and he finally lifted his head to meet your gaze. He looked ruined; eyes glossy and eyebrows scrunched in an image resembling an anguish. His eyes were shifting between yours and your lips, which you were biting in uncertainty. “For so, so long, you have no idea how I—”

“Caleb—”

“Let me. Let me kiss you one more time, just once.” The last word a desperate whisper, his eyes stuck on your lips, his head getting closer and closer with every second, as though he psychically couldn’t help himself. He cupped your cheek and placed his thumb on your bottom lip, pulling it from the confines of your teeth, his touch feather-light. A quiet grunt left him and he met your eyes again, your hands going to grab him by the shoulders to gain more balance. You were getting dizzy, his proximity maddening, his touches and honeyed words overwhelming. “I was always scared to be alone with you like this, and this is the reason. I knew that the moment you let me, I will continue to take, take, take…” He closed his eyes, his forehead falling onto yours, your heavy breaths already mingling. The hand on your cheek started shaking, but a calloused thumb never stopped caressing your skin. “You can say ‘no’ to me. You can say ‘no’ alright? Just—please. Please say somethin’. Anything. You’re so quiet and it’s killin’ me here—”

“I—I want the same thing. Caleb, I—” You finally breathed out, your eyes half opened, lowered to look at his chest, where laid a necklace you and MC gave him quite a while ago, before his first trip to Skyhaven. That memory appeared behind your lashes, along with MC’s face, the image making you halt momentarily. “Oh God, but what about MC? Wouldn’t she be weirded out when we suddenly—” You flinched again, and this time he caught you instantly, his big hands reaching for yours, pressing them into his forehead like a prayer, then huffing out a low laugh.

“She knows. She figured me out ages ago.” You didn’t hide your surprise, your heart beating so quickly you thought it will beat straight out of your chest. “You don’t have to worry about anythin’, alright? If only you feel—You fell the way I do, then I—”

“Ages…?” The word stuck inside your head, the implications making your eyes sparkle. He lowered your hands to rest flat on his chest, and you felt it—the thump of his heart matching yours, a rapid, uneven beat that could only mean one thing.

“Ages.” He answered surely, his violet eyes glued entirely to yours, his hand covering your palms. And when he nudged your nose with his, silently asking for permission, you found that you didn’t have any reason to refuse him anymore.

Not when you wanted him just as passionately.

Your lips met his again in a kiss so intense it was nearly bruising, your hands going over his neck, your mouth swallowing down his sigh of contentment. His hands quickly found their way under your t-shirt; grabbing and holding, caressing and squeezing everywhere he could touch.

I would never touch you.

And yet he did. He did and continued throughout the whole night, his hands never leaving your body, his lips almost permanently sealed to your soft skin, the quiet laughs and whispers of reassurance filling the entire room, your body almost floating even without his Evol, lifted by the feelings of finally being accepted. Of loving and being loved in return.

“You’re perfect. Perfect for me. I have seen countless sunsets above the clouds, and you are far more beautiful than any of them. Absolutely—” He choked out, his slow thrusts making you see stars, his sculpted body covering yours completely, mindful not to crush you in the process. His movements slightly awkward at times, totally inexperienced but you didn’t mind—it was your first time too, after all.

You had boyfriends before, but the relationships never lasted long. He was the first one you managed to open up to. The first one you were able to trust fully, the only man you ever loved. So how could you ever think of doing it with someone else?

“—magnificent. I can’t believe I get to have you like this… I—Ah—I still think that I must be dreamin’, what if I wake up and you’ll disappear? That’s how it always was. A lucid dream, a cry for even a scrap of—of your attention, and now you’re—” Your hands were gripping his biceps, leaving half moons in the glistening skin. Soft sighs were escaping your lips, along with the tears streaming down your cheeks, whether from the intensity of your feelings or the tight way he fit inside you, you weren’t sure. You closed your eyes and let him press more kisses along your shoulder and neck, cheek and lips, the very same ones to which he continued to speak his praises. “And now you are beneath me, f-fuck—Utterly beautiful. The best thing that ever happen’ to me, I knew that I was doomed ever since I met you—” You moaned his name and he smiled, his lips landing on your wet eyelashes, kissing the tears that had yet to come out. His lips were softer now, entirely covered in your chapstick, tasting of sweet apples and something that you already recognized as undeniably him. There was a hand placed under your back, bringing you even closer to his body, his hips moving more steadily, mouth attacking your breasts, making you shiver in pleasure. His hands were going up and down the sides of your body, a gentle touch, meant to bring comfort.

“Caleb—please. Faster, I can’t, I need—” Your hands went to grab his hair, pulling at the strands, making him moan, his body shaking. He looked at you as with so much adoration you thought you were dreaming.

“Okay, okay—Mmm—I got you. I—I got you, darlin’, I always got you. But if it was up to me I would have you like this the whole night long.” He lifted you up in a way that you were now straddling his thighs and sat down, not stopping his thrusts, his hands resting on your waist. Every single indication of inexperience he made up in passion, desperation and enthusiasm, always putting your pleasure above everything else. You opened your mouth in another gasp, his hips rutting into you without stopping, his arms circled around your body, refusing to let you get away even for a second. Not that you ever wanted to leave the safety of his hold. “I got you, my sweet girl. And will never let you go, never. You’re so adorable, so clever, so so kind and precious, you are—”

“—Annoying and too clingy to be honest. When you get to know her better, that is. Sooo, going after her would be a total waste of time, then.”

A quiet gasp, torn out of you suddenly, violently.

Unexpectedly.

You froze, your heart stopping, along with your hand which was already raised to push open the door to Caleb’s room. His voice, even though muffled by the door, was still perfectly distinguishable to you, having heard it even in your dreams by now.

You only came back for your makeup bag, which you had hastily left at his place this morning, the night after your moment of closeness, having overslept for work. You only managed to kiss his adorable sleeping head goodbye, wear the clothes from the day before and run through his door, smile not coming off of your face the whole day long, despite the slight soreness in your limbs.

It was reminiscent of your night together; that’s why it didn’t bother you. The night that was supposed to change everything for the better, the night that your feelings turned out to be reciprocated.

Or so you thought.

You knew that he was having a boys’ night—he told you during your hangout the day before, how excited he was to finally reunite with some of his college friends, after Gideon managed to get a hold of everyone. But you still hoped to quickly collect your things, maybe steal a small kiss or two.

You just hoped to see him again, even for a moment.

A second, nothing more.

You only wanted to—

“And she’s kinda afraid of flying, sooo not exactly a good girlfriend material for a pilot, guys.” His laugh, although a little nervous, made the crack in your heart spread further. “If she weren’t my lil sister’s friend, I wouldn’t wanna pay her any mind—”

Crash.

Loud and echoing, pierced through the living room where you were standing, your hands shaking. One hand went straight to cover your mouth, which opened in utter disbelief.

At first you thought it was the sound of your heart breaking; exploding into millions and millions of pieces, from the way it squeezed painfully in your chest upon hearing the words undoubtedly coming out of his mouth. You nearly screamed in anguish, the scenes from the night before appearing in your mind, the wonderful things he said to you reverberating inside your ears, the ghost of his touch still lingering on your skin—his rugged hands so soft, so gentle, the touch loving, worshipping so why—

“Who’s there?” His uncharacteristically harsh voice reached your ears but you had no idea what was happening. You felt as if you were underwater, all sounds quieted down, your body moving in slow motion.

You looked at your feet and saw your makeup scattered before you, the actual source of the crashing sound, coming from the small bottles hitting his apartment floor. Your hands apparently too shaky, too numb to hold the makeup bag after hearing his words. A dagger to your heart would hurt less, you thought, your vision getting blurry, your legs taking a few steps backwards, the movement awkward, your body suddenly too heavy for you to move.

Why did you come back? Why were you here? Why did you need to hear such things coming from the same mouth that had whispered sweet nothings to your ear for hours on end, not even a day before?

You raised your head abruptly, tears staining your cheeks now, when you heard rapid footsteps coming from the other side of the door. The ones you would recognize absolutely everywhere.

You choked down a sob and bolted straight for the door, your shaky hands fumbling with the lock for a second—enough to give him time to process the situation at hand, to connect every single dot, to notice your makeup sprawled on the floor and maybe your pathetic little teardrops lying among it.

That’s what you were. That’s who you made yourself to be. A pathetic little fool, for kissing him, opening up to him, giving so much to him in such a short amount of time when in reality all he thought of you was—

“No. No. Oh, no, no, no, no, fuck, fuck, please, wait, no!” You heard him shouting your name the moment you opened the door and bolted for the elevator. You did not bother closing the door, he already knew that you were there just a second before. He already realized what you heard, even though the true meaning of his words still felt like a fever dream, a nightmare that was unfolding right before you, painful and so, so, unbearably cruel you feared you will pass out the moment your eyes met his face.

You needed to get out of there. You needed to go outside, to breathe, to find the air he stolen from you so suddenly.

Fortunately, the elevator was waiting for you, a spec of light in the darkness of the situation, and you jumped right in, your hand frantically pressing the close button over and over again, even faster now that you heard him running down the hallway to reach you.

Ironically, this time, the luck was on your side.

His shadow was the only thing you could see before the door closed, cutting him off completely. The echoing thump of his fists hitting the surface of it made you flinch.

“No! Fuck! No, no, please!”

Your name reached your ears, desperate, panicked.

But you were already on your way down, tears falling freely, your hands squeezing at your collar, at the material covering your chest, at anything you could reach just to lessen the pain of your heart breaking. Your knees shaky, threatened to give out but you were holding onto the knowledge that he was still following you, and you absolutely couldn’t let him catch you. That’s why, you refused to let yourself break before you were sure that you were somewhere safe.

And it paid off. You miraculously managed to ascape from him, that day.

And many, many days after that.

* 50+ messages from [ ur caleb!<3 ] *

✉︎ please, let me explain myself. I can only imagine what youve heard and I need you to listen to me, please.

✉︎ what I said wasn’t true. everything youve heard was a big fucking lie and I need to tell that to your face, you have to believe me.

✉︎ please don’t do this to me, I know that I deserve it but you have to hear me out, please.

✉︎ answer me.

✉︎ I beg you, give me anything. I need to know youre safe. I can’t locate your phone is it turned off? I don’t know if youre safe. please.

✉︎ its torture. its my fault I need to see you and tell you everything just let me see you. let me find you.

✉︎ I need to find you.

✉︎ I miss you.

✉︎ I need you, don’t leave me in this loneliness any longer, I will do anything. anything to earn your forgiveness, even if i have to work my whole life for it I will, even if you say that you don’t ever want to see me anymore I will stay out of your sight, I just need to tell you the truth, I need to see you and tell you what I really feel, not that awful lie youve heard me saying I wish I could turn back time and scrape these disgusting words out of my mouth.

✉︎ I will do anything for you. I will do anything for only a second of seeing you, I will fulfill your every wish, every desire and unspoken craving just for a second of your time, for a chance to say that I’m sorry.

✉︎ It ruins me, the thought that you may still think that what you heard me saying was true, you are not reading my messages and you probably still think that I meant it. I’m going insane, I’m losing my mind, I need you. I need to see you.

✉︎ I searched for you everywhere and I still haven’t found you, but I won’t stop, I will never stop searching for you even if it kills me, even if you will be the last thing I see, I will find you.

✉︎ baby, please. sweetheart. my treasure. please let me explain myself. where are you? where haven’t I searched yet? how did you manage to escape me?

✉︎ you know me too well, that’s how. you knew where I will be looking for you and you took advantage of that, my smart girl.

✉︎ but this one time, I wish you made a mistake. even a small one, a millisecond long. because I’m waiting and I’m ready to find you. and I will find you. you know me and how stubborn I am. I will never stop looking, you have to come back at some point. and i will get to you before that. I promise. wait for me.

Three weeks have passed since you last saw Caleb—the memory of his betrayal still fresh, and the wounds he inflicted on your heart with his cruel words still open and bleeding.

But the tears were no longer staining your cheeks, and a mere thought of him didn’t make you panic anymore. At least, not when you knew that he wouldn’t be able to find you here.

After you left his apartment that day, you knew that he would search for you, taking into account his desperation to catch you when you were running away. Yet you couldn’t bear to look him in the face, not after what happened between you, and how humiliated he made you feel.

You thought that he felt the same, that maybe he loved you, but it seemed that he was just playing with your feelings. That you must’ve been an easy target. And you just couldn’t believe it, no matter how frequently you repeated the things he said in your mind, both to you during the night and the to his friends during the day. You knew him ever since you were children, his presence constant in your life, even if you were not seeing each other that often after he relocated to Skyhaven. He was always there for you, and for MC, no matter what happened, his care and friendship something you got used to long time ago.

If she weren’t my lil sister’s friend, I wouldn’t wanna pay her any mind.

Was your friendship always only a huge lie? Were you unknowingly only a burden, a nuisance that he had to put up with, because of your friendship with his sister?

And that night, when he was holding you so gently, treating you with such kindness and devotion, whispering the things you dreamed about hearing from him for so long, was it also something he did just because you were easy to manipulate? The easiest choice, a familiar body to satisfy his needs with?

And God, did he know about your true feelings before all of it went down?

You shook your head, trying to stop another train of thoughts, fighting with yourself not to break down in tears again. You came here not only to temporarily run away from him, you also wanted to take your time and relax, to calm the storm brewing inside your head, to survive that heartbreak and breakdown on your own terms, without anyone’s nagging or judgmental stares. Without others telling you what you were supposed to feel.

You fixed your sunhat, the slight wind making your hair gently caress your face, and you went down from the ladder, a basket full of fresh cherries hanging from your arm. You sighed, the fresh air and the smell of fruit filling your nose trills, reminding you that you were far, far away from Skyhaven and Linkon, the places that held too many painful memories.

Here, you were safe, because no one knew about your little, peaceful gateway, which was long ago introduced to you by one of your distant cousins. It was a peaceful little plot of land, belonging to one of your family members, a place they visited occasionally, usually in the summertime. And now, that small house in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by the trees of fruit, fields of flowers and tranquil atmosphere were exactly what you needed to get back on your feet.

You took a sick leave from work for a whole month, and you were planning to use that time to soften your dark thoughts and harden your skin before the gravity of the situation and its consequences met you upon your return to Linkon. Before you would have to inevitably face Caleb—the one you were trying to avoid at all costs.

“Here you are, auntie.” You approached her crouched figure, her hands paused in their strawberry picking, and she looked up at you with gratitude in her eyes.

“Thank you sweetie, you helped me so much.” She answered and stood up, taking off her gloves and stuffing them into the pocket of her baggy jeans, covered in strawberry juice and grass. A huge smile lit up her face, and you couldn’t help but return one just as bright, shaking your head.

“Oh, please, that’s the least I can do. I should be the one thanking you for letting me stay here.” You fixed your hat once again and went up to a bucket filled with rainwater, so that you could wash the cherries from your skin. “I haven’t known such peace in a long time, really. The air is so refreshing, the scenery so beautiful, and I’m visiting the orchard everyday. I probably ate half of your crops by now, like some kind of a pest.”

“Oh, stop it!” She playfully swatted your butt with a rug, and you giggled, snatching it from her to use it to dry your hands. “You’re always welcome here, you know that. Besides, you are a huge help with harvesting fruit each week. I always bring my boy with me, but as you can see, he’s nowhere in sight.” You laughed and picked up the basket with cherries again, as well as the one she was holding before. You peaked inside it and noticed that it was filled with strawberries and raspberries, a perfect amount for a snack. You opened your mouth and let her place one small strawberry inside it, the sweet juice filling your mouth, making you momentarily forget about your worries.

Everything here was just so peaceful and easy.

“It’s that age. He’s more interested in exploring than in sitting around and picking fruit. I was a chaotic kid, too.” You answered and she sighed, your walk to her truck much shorter than you wanted it to be. You placed the baskets inside the vehicle and saw the boy’s hair from where he sat in the passenger seat. You ruffled his hair, and he appeared startled, his hand immediately reaching up to fix it, a blush spreading to the tips of his ears.

“Chaotic and addicted to gaming, that’s what he really is.” She answered as you stepped back from the truck to hug her goodbye. She offered you a ride back to the house but you decided to stay in the orchard. The sun was still far from setting, and you wanted to read under the tress and snack on the fruits for a while longer.

You also remembered to thank her for delivering your letter to MC last week, in which you told her that you were safe, and apologized for not reaching out to her sooner, explaining that you will be back after some time alone. You decided to restrain from mentioning that you had to turn off your phone the moment you escaped from Caleb’s apartment, knowing damn well that if you didn’t, he would be able to track your location without any issue. You knew him and his little tricks like the back of your hand, or at least, that’s what you thought before everything that happened recently.

You were already waving goodbye to them, when it happened.

The boy opened the car door and handed you something, his small hands quick and secretive. Your eyes opened wide, and your smile faltered instantly, recognizing the weight.

“Sorry for taking it, mom never lets me take mine and I get so bored here… But I charged it for you!” He said your name and looked at you apologetically, his round eyes shining excitedly. You gulped, your mouth opening slightly, struggling to find your voice. “You can delete the game now. Oh, and you got a loooot of messages, are you, like, famous?” He asked in a hushed tone, then flinched when the aunt called out to him. He hugged your waist tightly, clearly thankful for your unintentional lending of possession, and went back to the truck, his small hand waving at you through the window until they disappeared from sight, turning onto the main road.

Leaving you by yourself, speechless, your hands full of something you avoided like fire throughout your stay here. The only thing that could betray your location.

A phone.

The one you intentionally turned off and left on the bedside cabinet inside the house.

Your phone.

A device that was Caleb’s only way of tracking you, now lit up after weeks of lying unused, for the purpose of your escape.

“No way, no, no, no, no.” You mumbled, your shaking hands going straight to turn it off, the device turning black again, your panicked gaze staring back at you from its small screen. You closed your eyes and hugged the phone to your chest, praying that it hadn’t been turned long enough for him to track you. For him to notice. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Not now, please. Not yet.”

You weren’t ready to face him yet. You didn’t know if you ever would, but you definitely weren’t ready right this instant, your heartbreak still fresh, your heart too weak to feel this much again.

You looked around slowly, taking in the the sight of the orchard and the endless expanse of the field, calm, steady and sunny, just the way it was during the weeks you’d been here. A gentle wind carried the strands of your hair behind you, the sunhat protecting your head from the light of day. You put the phone slowly inside the pocket of your shorts and began the long path back to the house, your plans of a leisure reading session long forgotten.

It was completely quiet, almost too quiet, but there was no one in sight. You had no idea if he had managed to track your location, or if he was even still looking for you. Maybe he decided to let go, you comforted yourself, even if you knew him well enough to realize how stubborn he could be. You just hoped that maybe if he truly didn’t care for you, he would leave you alone.

The wind intensified, and so did your steps. The house still not yet visible, the long way back made you anxious. You wanted to be inside already, lock yourself up, just in case he really waited for your slip up.

You huffed a small, nervous laugh under your breath the moment you felt the wind biting into the exposed skin of your arms, the temperature dropping, making goosebumps appear on your skin. You bit into your bottom lip and quickened your pace, your heartbeat already pulsing inside your ears, your mind trying to convince you that it was just a coincidence.

But when the wind blew away your hat, you didn’t turn back to fetch it.

Instead, your stride broke into a full-blown run, your legs moving in a panicked frenzy, your hair flying behind you freely. Your lungs and eyes already burned the moment the aircraft appeared in your peripheral vision, its shape and size so unmistakably matching those from the Farspace Fleet that you wanted to laugh at your brain for still hoping is wasn’t.

You heard it now—the deafening roar of it descending onto the field not far from you—and you cursed under your already ragged breath, knowing he must’ve already seen you. There was no one else in sight, after all.

You hadn’t stopped running. The house was twenty minutes away on foot, and if you were fast enough, you could make it before he caught up with you. The plane had already landed, and you didn’t have the courage to look back to see if—

“Hey! Wait!” The shout of your name pierced the wind in your ears, and a weak groan escaped you. He was close, too close if you were able to hear him, his voice bringing back all the memories from that day. Of comforting closeness, then cruel confession said so surely behind your back.

Every single muscle ached, but you didn’t stop running, you couldn’t stop running. The house was already there, peeking from behind the trees, and if only you could reach it in time, you would just lock the doors and regain your false sense of freedom for a while longer.

“Stop runnin’ away from me! Please!”

“Stop—Stop chasing me!” You screamed, the emotions built up inside of you finally having their outlet. “Leave me alone, I don’t—I don’t want to see you, I—I don’t—”

“Just talk to me! Let me explain—” He was getting closer, and your body was growing weaker, your legs moving seemingly only by the sheer force of your will.

“I don’t want to talk to you!” A sob almost escaped your lips, the knowledge and fear that he was this close to you again making panic squeeze at your chest. You were not ready to see him yet, not ready to look at that irritatingly handsome face of his, and hear him lying without batting an eye.

“Baby, please—” Closer. He was so close, just a couple of steps and he wouldn’t have to shout through the wind anymore, but you didn’t stop, couldn’t stop.

“Oh, fuck you!” You shouted right back, tears already forming in your eyes, your legs burning with extortion. How dare he call you this way, as if there was something between you, as if he cared about what happened, about the kiss, your first night, you. “Don’t call me that, don’t chase me like some kind of an animal—Ah!”

Your run stopped abruptly, your chest heaving as you desperately tried to catch your breath. Sweat stuck to your forehead and neck, your limbs tensed, grasping for something, anything, to keep your body from floating up in the air.

Naturally, you failed. His Evol too powerful, holding you gently up in the air, your body too weak to fight back against the invisible force, so you did the only thing you could do at that moment.

You took off your shoe and threw it at him, groaning pathetically when you heard it landing in the grass.

“Let—me—go!” You shouted, your breath heavy after the run, body refusing to calm down. You kept your head turned away from him, unable to look even at his shadow. The knowledge he was this close to you was enough to fill your eyes with tears.

You heard his footsteps close now, his breath heavy. You closed your eyes, tears instead of falling down your cheeks, drifted away from you, the temporary lack of gravity around you taking them away.

First your heart, then your sorrow—what else could he steal away?

You didn’t see how he stood below you, only few steps away, still wearing his Fleet uniform, looking up at your struggling frame with awe and relief. His hand reached out to catch your teardrop with his hand, the sign of your pain staining his fingers now. He brought it to his lips slowly, itching for any part of you, his brows furrowing with anguish.

“I can’t. I let you escape from me once and I won’t make the same mistake again.” His breath was already calming down as he crouched to pick up your shoe, not expecting the other one flying his way, catching it with his Evol right before it hit his head. He scoffed, his laugh sad and full of disbelief, as he let it fall right in front of his face.

“You coming here was a mistake.” He grit his teeth as he heard your poisonous words, spoken in a teary tone. He looked up at you again and his breath hitched. Your drifting body was surrounded by your teardrops, swirling around you and reminding him just how much pain he caused you by his own selfishness. “Me believing in your sugary words was a mistake. Me kissing you was a mistake, God, our whole night together was a—”

“Don’t.” His harsh voice cut through the air, silencing you at once. “Finish that sentence. I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Why? You said you wanted to talk so let’s talk.” With your back still turned to him, your hands swatting at your flying teardrops, his audacity to use his Evol on you making you see red. “Let’s talk about how you tricked me. How you made me believe that we were friends, that I could count on you—”

“Please—”

“That I maybe, maybe meant something more to you. Because it turned out that you were feeding me lies for years—”

“That’s not…”

“You—You made me believe you liked me, and then you… You took advantage of—”

“Quiet!” He nearly growled, his harsh voice echoing in your ears, the tone unfamiliar, instantly making you flinch. The Evol with which he held you up faltered, shaking your body, making a quiet squeal come out of your mouth. For a second there, you thought that he will let you fall right into the ground, but the impact never came.

You finally looked at him, scared and stunned by his outburst. He stood there, eyes clouded and distant, arms hanging loosely at his sides— one hand gripping his hat—both of them shaking equally.

And just when you thought you had imagined his expression darkening, you noticed the clouds shifting faster, the sky growing darker.

A thunder stroke in the distance, forcing the hair on your nape stand straight.

“T-That’s how you think you’ll solve this? By force? By scaring me?” Your voice wavered, your fear slipping right through your confident facade. “I—I don’t take orders from you, Colonel. You will not intimidate me into anything. I don’t—I don’t—” More tears floated around you, your vision blurred, fear mixing with the feeling of helplessness.

He whipped his head, finally grasping the reality upon hearing how you addressed him. And when your eyes finally met, both equally red-rimmed, tired and pleading, he felt as if something in him broke.

Because while he was pleading for a chance to be redeemed, you, on the other hand, for him to stay out of your sight.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice. Please, don’t be scared, I’m—” Another plea, another apology, another way for him to mess with your mind, you thought. And you were scared, tired and hurt, lacking the energy for that conversation. Not knowing how to go about this, not being sure if there was anything that he could say that would fix this.

You were too shaken to listen—let alone react logically. Too unprepared to see his familiar face again so soon, to hear the voice that once offered you refuge for years, but now hurt you more deeply than you ever thought it could. Even the touch of his Evol—once used to help you, to ease your burdens, to cheer you up with his silly little teasing—was now a weapon. A way to trap you. To make you feel small. Helpless beneath the weight of his power.

It was not going well at all, both of you clearly too emotional, incapable of having a normal conversation. You weren’t prepared, but you noticed that he wasn’t either, his mental state unsteady, mind locked on one thing and one thing only—to catch you and never let you out of his sight again.

It was no way of resolving anything. And you really didn’t want to get hurt even more—not by his words, nor by the things you wanted to scream at him, rage tangled with fear, creating a poisonous mix that placed the most hurtful of things at the tip of your tongue.

You didn’t want to use them. Saying them out loud to him would break your heart in the process too.

“Let me go. Please. I’m not ready yet, I—” You closed your eyes, and the first drops of rain fell onto your warm skin. “I don’t want to talk. I can’t talk. Just—let me be. We will have to have this conversation at some point. And I know that. B—But for now just. Please, Caleb.” Your eyes full of tears met his, and he opened his mouth just to close it again, the sight of them rendering him speechless. The pleading, hurt look in them seemed to get him out of the trace. “Let me go.”

His breath hitched when you didn’t break eye contact. There was pain in your eyes, but also unwavering resolve. You kept looking at him with those radiant, exquisite eyes of yours, and that’s when he knew: he had lost this battle.

He slowly lowered you down, holding back tears when you refused to accept his hand to steady yourself. Then he bit his lip, his hands shaking, clenching into fists while he was forced to watch you run from him again, battling his desire to chase after you.

You said that you will have to talk at some point, and he believed you. He took your words and cling to them like a lifeline, a reason for him not to lose his hope. He would be patient, he could be patient, he had already waited for you for so long, he didn’t mind waiting some more. At least now he knew you were safe. Now he could protect you.

And he knew that the war to win you back had only just begun.

The heavy rain spattered against the windows, its sound echoing through the house, easing your shaken nerves and slowly lulling you to sleep.

A lightning struck in the distance, brightening the whole room. You rose quietly, waiting for the sound of thunder. Eyes closed, breathing evened out after what felt like eternity.

More raindrops hit your window, pushed violently by the wind as you stood, wrapping yourself in your huge, knitted cardigan, sinking your cold, shaking fingers into the thick, soft material.

He came here, for you.

A fact that you couldn’t shake for hours now, the weather outside an embodiment of what was happening inside your head. He came for you, the moment he managed to get your location, desperate, oh so desperate to talk, to explain, to repent, and you were left absolutely torn.

Because in your mind, you had already started seeing him as the bad guy, that thought a constant companion through these long weeks, your main coping mechanism. And now? He came here, looking anguished and miserable, his face thin and eyes red—a picture of a man in despair—and he was ready to drop everything just for a second of your time.

Which you didn’t give him. And that’s what kept you awake.

Your hand reached for the light switch but in vain. The storm that had lasted for hours must’ve cut the power some time ago, and you accepted it quickly. Your eyes had long since adjusted to the darkness, and you didn’t want to give any sign that you were awake either. You didn’t want to give Caleb false hope, knowing his aircraft still stood on the empty field, exactly where he had landed it hours ago.

You knew he wasn’t asleep either, not if he was as apologetic as he seemed to be. You should’ve listened to him, maybe. And if he hadn’t scared you so much, if he hadn’t used his Evol or raised his voice, maybe you wouldn’t have been so afraid, so defensive. Despite everything he said that fateful night, a large part of you was still curious about what he wanted to say and how he intended to explain himself.

Your deep infatuation with him, your huge soft spot for his expressive puppy eyes, his gentle, playful voice and soft dark hair, were his real weapon. You saw him, looking so devastated and your first thought was to comfort him, despite everything he had done. And you hated yourself for it, hated how much power he held over you unknowingly.

Because was there anything to explain, really? The things he said sounded pretty self-explanatory, and even the simple recollection of them made your heart squeeze painfully.

You knew you’d have to have this conversation sooner or later. He was your best friend’s brother, he used to be your best friend and you had to return to Linkon soon. He would find you then, and the conversation would have to happen either way. So wouldn’t it be easier to just get it over with now and try, slowly, to move on? If moving on from that kind of heartbreak was something you were even capable of.

That was what scared you most about all of this. Caleb had been your friend—the man you loved more fiercely than life itself—and it had taken everything in you just to get out of bed after what you heard from him that day. And now? He had shattered your precious, tranquil solitude so suddenly, and even though you knew that you were supposed to hate him—you should hate him, because that was the easiest way, the only way to survive the heartbreak and reclaim the part of your soul he’d so cruelly taken when he betrayed your trust—You also knew, the moment you saw him running after you like his life depended on it, that what you felt deep inside wasn’t even close to hate.

It was relief.

That he searched for you, after all. A longing, for him to somehow fix this, to tell you that it wasn’t him who said these things despite the fact that it was indisputable, because you would recognize his voice everywhere, even from thousands of miles away you once thought, because of how his timbre made you feel inside. When you saw him, dressed in that stupid, stupid Colonel uniform you felt nothing but love. Love, excruciating love for someone who did not deserve it.

You were stupid, so stupid for being like this, so stupid for still thinking so fondly over the man who lied to you for years, who created a false safe space for you to drown in, who slept with you, even though he thought you were not enough for a wonderful pilot like him.

A sudden crash came from the window downstairs, making you jump in place.

You quickly ran down the stairs, your fingers brushing the wooden railing, your footsteps blending with the sound of falling rain. A cold breeze seeped through the widow, now flung wide open. The wind must have been strong enough to burst it open, and as you rushed to close it, something outside flashed in the corner of your eye.

And your heart almost stopped at the sight.

Your head turned, leaning from the window, the cool droplets hitting your skin harshly, reminding you that you were still awake, and that your eyes didn’t deceive you.

Caleb was sitting right there, on the porch, leaning against the wooden beams, his head hung low, arms crossed on his chest.

And he was soaked to the bone.

Rain dripped from his hat onto his crossed arms, his posture nearly curled in on itself. His body trembled every few seconds from the cold, and the moment you realized he must’ve been standing there ever since you left him—hours ago, just before the storm rolled in—you felt the blood rush into your head.

You left him, but he stayed right there, sitting, waiting patiently for you to come out, not knowing when it will happen. He let you go, but he never left.

“Caleb!” A sudden shout tore from your throat, laced with dread and disbelief, your hands instead of closing the window, reached for one of the blankets lying nearby. “God, Caleb, you—” The front door bursted open and you reached him in no time, falling onto your knees before him, taking off his hat and throwing it to the side in an attempt to wake him.

He wasn’t asleep. Startled, his head shot up the moment he saw you, alarmed by your sudden appearance. His eyes immediately fell to your bare legs, your sleeping shorts far too thin and short to stand against such weather, and he reached for you in a rush of panic.

“What are you—go back inside, you’re goin’ to be sick!” He said alarmed and you scoffed in answer, taking notice of his wet uniform, clinging uncomfortably to his glistening skin. His hair was completely soaked too, streams of rain tracing paths down his temples and nose, the sight making you furious.

“You—absolute—hypocrite!” You barked back, your hands tugging at his wet arms in an attempt to make him stand. You threw the blanket over his head first, his hand grabbing at the material, and then you began pushing him into the house. “I had no idea you—Why did you—?!” He raised quickly, letting you push him past the doorway, and you already felt the cold biting at your skin, the seconds spend outside enough to make you wet.

And he was sitting there for hours.

“I—” He started, but you didn’t let him finish, his posture slightly slumped under the weight of the drenched uniform.

“You—you have a literal plane nearby, why didn’t you hide in there? It’s been raining for hours.” Words escaped you faster than you were able to form them in your head, your hands already working to remove his soaked clothes hastily. He fell completely silent, letting you ease your frustration, his eyes glued to your face. “I thought you were safe in there, I thought you already left, I—I thought—” The heavy material hit the floor with a loud thud, your shaking hands trying to take off the shirt he had underneath, horrified by how cold his skin was underneath your palms.

You bit your lip and sniffed, tears already streaming down your face, whether from the cold piercing at your skin, the thought of him sitting for so long, freezing outside, or from his closeness, which you were deprived of for these weeks, you weren’t able to tell.

You grunted quietly, your fingers slipping from one of the buttons of his shirt, shaking too violently to take it all off. Suddenly, through your blurred vision, you saw his hands reaching for you. You felt their warmth the moment he covered yours, pressing them against his chest. His heart pounded so violently you could feel its rhythm through the wet fabric, sending a shiver down your spine.

A broken sob escaped you, the weight of reality pressing you down hard. His hands stroked your trembling arms, trying to soothe you; but it wasn’t working. The stings or remorse cut through you one by one, haunted by the image of him sitting there, drenched, and cold, and shaking—

“I didn’t want you to—to—I had no idea you were there this whole time, I thought you left t—to sit in your—” Another sob came out stifled, because he brought you in for a hug; his hard, wet chest strangely warm and comforting. You didn’t return the embrace, but stayed there, sobbing quietly, letting him drape the blanket over you both, the material somehow still dry enough to bring comfort.

“Shh… Easy. Don’t cry, okay? It was my decision to stay there.” His soft voice reached you, and another sob came out, this time right into the shirt still clinging to his chest. “I had to stay there. I couldn’t leave you again. I didn’t want to leave you. I’m sorry.” He leaned down and rested his chin hesitantly on top of your head, bringing you even closer to himself. He released a long, heavy sigh, followed by a whisper of your name and another apology.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered right next to your ear, and you trembled in his strong arms.

“I’m sorry.” His hold tightening, and you hated how good it felt to have him this close again.

“I’m sorry.” His words no longer held just one meaning, and you shook your head as best you could, restrained by his tight embrace. Yet you stayed, your eyes closing, heart heavy with the knowledge that you were too weak to run away from him anymore.

The sound of the rain intensified, a thunderstorm still raging outside, and you both stayed close, Caleb cradling you to his chest, swaying gently side to side, almost lulling you to sleep. You took a deep breath, the scent of rain and him washing over you, and realized that you were ready to at least hear him out.

After you both calmed down your breaths and beating hearts, and after your bodies started warming up again, that is.

Because how can someone so warm have bad intentions? The feelings inside you were messing with your head again, and you let them, hoping you won’t regret making that decision.

Wishing, that this love won’t bring you to ruin.

The kettle began to whistle the exact moment he stepped out of the bathroom, candlelight casting his shadow across the room. Every movement danced on the walls, creating the illusion of him surrounding you from all sides. Ironic, because that’s exactly how you felt ever since you let him back in. Your body cautious not to relax in his presence, caged by the unfamiliar weight of broken trust.

You bit your lip and began pouring hot water over the tea, waiting for the pleasant scent to reach you, hoping that it will calm your racing heart—if only for a second. Its rapid beating didn’t slow down since you brought him in here willingly—the very man you’d successfully avoided for a whole month, dreading your next encounter, having no idea how you should act upon seeing him again.

And now there he was—standing behind you nervously, thinking so loudly you were almost able to hear it. Yet you stayed silent, believing that you had every right to. The awkwardness in the air wasn’t your fault, after all.

Letting him inside, not being able to stand the thought of him sitting out there in the storm—that was your doing. And you hated yourself for how easily you let your guard down, and for failing to hide the pathetic trace of love you still carried for him, even after he hurt you so deeply.

Your first encounter several hours ago didn’t exactly end in the way you wanted it to: him using his Evol on you and you breaking down in tears could hardly be considered a peaceful reunion. You were both not ready to talk yet, too shaken by being in each other’s presence after all this time. You, stubborn in your hatred. He, desperate and unraveling at the thought of loosing you again. An explosive combination, a disaster waiting to happen.

So you ran, as fast as you could from him.

And now, because you couldn’t stay indifferent to his discomfort, you had nowhere to hide.

“The clothes fit. They’re even a bit loose.” Caleb’s light tone finally broke the silence, though the slight tremble in his voice betrayed his stress. He was as nervous as you were. “Phew, I’m lucky your uncle isn’t here today, he would totally take me in a fight. To him I would probably look like… a walkin’… A walking stick.” Voice grew quieter with every word he spoke, and once he noticed he was rambling, he clamped his mouth shut, cussing internally.

He had always made a fool of himself when you were near, ever since the day he met you, all those years ago. Even just the sight of your turned back, the knowledge you were listening, made his head heavy with the need to impress you, and now, to make things right. He was terrified that at any moment you might lock yourself away in one of the rooms, somewhere he couldn’t reach you again—and he had no idea how he’d handle it if that happened.

Suddenly, you turned to him, your eyes glued to the mugs of tea you were holding. You placed them carefully on the table in front of you—the only piece of furniture that provided a bit of a distance you so desperately craved to have. From the corner of your eye you noticed he wasn’t exaggerating—the black sweatpants and a white shirt seemed to be a bit loose, and you realized that his homely appearance actually made you feel a bit more at ease. Now, without his Colonel uniform to hide behind, he seemed more approachable, if not more lost.

The air of authority vanished the moment his wet suit hit the floor, leaving only an uncertain man in its wake, one who knew he’d been walking on thin ice the moment you let him into your space again.

And you just couldn’t bring yourself to make him feel more welcome—the words he said still ringing in your ears, despite the time you spend to forget about them entirely.

“Thanks for letting me stay here. And for the clothes.” He was still standing in the same spot and you still refused to meet his eyes. Your hands grabbed one of the mugs and you started blowing air to cool your tea down, thankful for that little distraction, for something warm to hold when your heart was freezing cold. “And I wasn’t sitting there to make you pity me. If you were wondering. I wasn’t tryin’ to manipulate you into anything, I just—”

“I know.” Your voice rusty from the uncontrollable sobbing from before, hands gripping the mug harder. The light from the candles was too low for you to see your reflection on the surface of the drink. Maybe it was for the best, you must’ve looked like a trembling mess, eyes puffy and lips bitten red, still shaken by the storm of emotions that had torn through you during the day. “That, I know.”

You slowly sat on the nearest stool while he processed the meaning behind your words, still standing motionless few steps before you. You took a sip—and the warmth of the drink did nothing to soothe your nerves.

So, you waited. For something. Anything. Feeling his intense gaze on your frame, almost drilling a hole in your head, a silent prayer for you to look back at him.

You couldn’t, and that broke him all over again.

“You run away from me.” His voice trembled and your hands grabbed the mug tighter, the rain outside intensifying—or maybe you just became aware of its sound again. “I’ve searched for you everywhere. Every day. And I was loosing my mind every minute I couldn’t see you.”

“Did you?” You couldn’t help the venom spilling out of you, the tone mocking if it wasn’t so weak. “Why? Because of guilt? Pity? Out of obligation for—”

“Guilt? Pity? Is that what you think?” He took a step forward, and you didn’t move, head held high, still not meeting his eyes. “Everything I did for you, everything I ever said to you was out of—Shit—” His hands ruffled his hair, tugging at the strands. A pause, heavy, followed by a thunder, and then—“Out of love!” The last word nearly a growl, ripped out of him suddenly, as if holding it inside brought him pain.

You froze.

A thunder roared in the distance.

And the tears filled your vision once more.

You stood abruptly, putting down the cup on the table with a loud thud, its contents spilling out, nearly burning your head. His voice calm and sure now, so sure it almost made you choke.

“Out of overwhelming love, that I have felt for you for as long as I can remember—”

“Stop.” You choked out, your head dizzy, hands shaking in fury. What was he saying? What was he even—

“—Out of desperation to make things right, because I couldn’t bear the thought of you sitting somewhere alone, and hurting because of me, the things I said, the things I fuckin’ despise myself for—” He heard you, so he spoke much quicker, words spilling one after the other, hurting you more than you could imagine. He was getting closer to you, and you flinched, one leg already taking a step back.

He wasn’t serious, he couldn’t be. If he were, he wouldn’t have said those things, especially not after he got to have you. It wasn’t what you were prepared to hear, he was surely just messing with—

“Caleb, please.” Not more than a whisper, a calm before the storm, your head shaking, legs feeling weak.

“I lied. I lied that day and you need to believe me. I lied because I was a coward, and I didn’t know what to do, I panicked and I lied, because I love you, and they—”

“No, please, stop, I—I can’t listen to this, it was a bad idea, I—” With tears in your eyes you turned away and passed Caleb quickly, wanting to go back upstairs and hide: hide from his lies, from the hurt of his sudden confession, and from the way his voice sounded, so anguished and outright mad.

He didn’t love you, he couldn’t love you, because if he did he would’ve told you that night, when he held you so close and whispered broken praises into your ear. He would’ve said it then, not now, when you’d already made up your mind to cut him off, to forget the warmth of his body and the cold sting of the words you overheard.

You expected an apology, not a confession, which made and your whole facade crumble with his every word.

“No! Please—” He grabbed your hand, his touch frantic and secure, the contact and the memories it reignited made you gasp. And before you could realize what was happening, he fell down on his knees in front of you, his hands grabbing your arms, the hold strong but gentle, meant to slow you down, rather than cage.

You looked at the bare skin of his back, sticking out of the shirt, speckled with faint freckles, and noticed he looked thinner than you last saw him. Then your eyes landed on his dark hair, falling into his face freely, strands damp after the shower, but still looking so unbelievably soft.

“Please, I’m not lying, I’m—You have to believe me. You have to—Fuck—”

You eyes met and the time seemed to slow down.

Because you saw his beautiful, violet orbs, that always made you feel as if you were looking at the eight wonder of the world, flooded with tears for the very first time in your life.

His lips were trembling and you noticed how chapped they were, his teeth biting into them to stop himself from sobbing. You could hear the humming of your heart in your ears, your whole body shocked to stillness.

He looked absolutely torn.

And you couldn’t look away; your eyes traced the path of the first tear that slipped out of his eye, down to his chin, landing in front of your bare feet.

Like an offering. A statement. The last prayer of a man who lost hope.

“I’m not—I’m not lying to you. You have to believe me, please, please.” Tears. One after the other, tracing paths on his flushed cheeks, eyes burning with sincerity, lashes wet and shiny.

You nodded slowly, a lump forming in your throat, eyes filling with tears upon the sight, but you were trying so hard to keep them at bay.

And after a sniffle, he continued, warm hands stroking your shaking arms, eyes glued to yours like a lifeline.

“I lied that day. Everything I said was a fucking lie, okay? A big, pathetic lie to save my skin, to buy me more time. I said the first things that came into my mind—”

“But I heard you, Caleb.” You cut him off, your brows furrowing, unable to contain your confusion. “I heard you. If you really didn’t mean it how could you sound so sure? You said these things without even a single thought, and you expect me to—”

“I didn’t have to think! I just twisted—I think I just twisted the truth—”

“Wow. T—That’s low Caleb. That’s really, really low—” And when you started to back out from his hold he grabbed you harder, his arms going to circle around your waist, his face pushing into your stomach. You gasped and before you managed to push him away, his next words made you stop.

“No! Wait, shit, that’s not what I meant. Don’t go.” A sob escaped his lips and you took a deep breath, your hand almost reaching to caress his head. You’ve never seen him so broken and the need to comfort him was overwhelming. The sight of his tears excruciating. “I said you were clingy and you are—” Another sharp tug, but he refused to let you go. “You are. You are clingy and that’s okay, that perfectly fine, that’s perfect. And I love that about you. Every time you were holding my sister’s hand, I wished, God—How I wished you would hold mine instead. I wished, I prayed you would cling to me instead. Just as much as I wanted to cling to you.” He raised his head and you saw that he was telling the truth in the way his eyes gleamed, and his cheeks burned red, body trembling against yours.

And you felt your legs nearly bucking under your weight, his words making your head spin, not knowing whether you should stay offended or let him take your breath away once more.

“But—but what about me being annoying? You said—”

“You loved to push my buttons ever since we were kids, you are trying to annoy me all the time, just how I try to annoy you back. But for me, every jab, every joke, it was always to catch your attention. A pitiful attempt for you to just look at me, even for a fleeting second. And it worked—MC always called us annoying because of it, remember? That’s why it came to me so quickly. That’s the only reason I said it so surely.”

He was talking so fast he nearly lost his breath, his chest heaving against you, arms still holding you close to his chest. You took a deep breath and wanted to think, to have a second to process it, the burn in your cheeks intensifying, his words actually starting to make sense, because of your usual dynamic.

But it wasn’t all. It wasn’t what hurt you the most.

“You told them about my fear.” Caleb’s huge, red-rimmed eyes never left yours, and you fought with yourself not to fix the strands of hair that were slightly blocking his vision. His lips formed a straight line and turned slightly downwards, making him look like a kicked puppy. And you felt your anger slowly slipping, hope filling the hole in your heart. “And you listed it as my fault. You took my biggest fear and embarrassed me for it, made me feel like I wasn’t enough. I didn’t even—I didn’t even know you noticed how scared I was when—”

“I did. I notice everything about you. Of course I noticed.” His strong hands hugged you tighter, and a single tear slipped out of your eye. He was still kneeling before you, showing no signs of raising. “Just how I noticed that it didn’t keep you from visiting me at my place, even though the stillness of the clouds terrified you to the point of loosing sleep. But it’s okay. It doesn’t change a single thing for me. I only dreamed of showin’ you the view from the clouds, I hoped that I would take you up there with me one day, to show you that it doesn’t have to be scary. That it’s actually beautiful, and freeing, and calm up there. Cause I would protect you, always. And if you didn’t change your mind it would be fine—It would always be fine. I would just share with you the stories ‘bout the things I saw. And I would be the happiest to do it.” His shaking hands reached to touch your face and wiped the tears from your cheeks, ones that you had no idea you even shed. “I never thought about it as your flaw. Never. For me, you are nothing but a wonder.”

His touch was feather-light and comforting, his hands warm and so painstakingly familiar, bringing you back to the night that changed everything. How he held you back then, as if you were something fragile, something precious.

A wonder.

A sob tore through your body and he shook his head, hushing you quietly, his hands taking a hold of yours, bringing them to his lips, pressing a kiss to every single one of your knuckles.

“Then, why? Why did you list it as one? I just—I just don’t understand why, Caleb.” You cried out, one of your hands leaving his to cover your face from him. The past month of running away flashed before your eyes, making you even more tired. And although you wanted nothing more than to believe him and let yourself be held, he still didn’t give you the reason for saying such things. “Why did you even say that? If you lied, why did you do that? Why, Caleb, why did I have to hear—?”

You were crying again, and Caleb looked at you from his knees in panic, his hands caressing your arms, spine straightening so that his head could rest against your chest. The way he hugged you so tenderly made you want to hug him back, your head fighting with your heart. Yet he still didn’t give you all the answers, no matter how better the situation seemed now. You still had doubts about believing him at all.

There was a beat, or two, and he let out a deep sigh, hands gripping you tighter.

You sniffled, the word around going completely quiet, just to be disturbed by his quiet groan.

“I’m even—I’m even embarrassed to say.” He stood up slowly, and you gulped, his size all-consuming, making him be the only thing you could see. You took a careful step back, and he took one of your hands in his hesitantly. From this position he was too stressed to hug you, opting for less intense contact, especially when your hand was still limp in his, not reciprocating the hold. He scratched at his neck, his eyes meeting yours, an anticipation visible on your features. “And I know that won’t make the situation better.”

“Caleb—”

“Yes. Yes, I know—They—” A squeeze of your hand, the orange spark in his eyes shining beautifully, making your breath hitch. His hand went up to gently touch your face, fingers tracing patterns along your cheek. “They started talkin’ bout girls that day. The boys, my friends from college.” His brows furrowed, eyes looking at your face as if searching for something there. You listened patiently, his earlier words still ringing inside your head, the gravity of them almost crushing you. “Asked me if I knew someone they could go out with. I said ‘no’. They didn’t believe me, though.” His eyes narrowed, chin went down slightly in annoyance while recollecting the conversation. “They started teasing me about MC first. Asking if I would like to have a brother, too. But then one of them mentioned you.” His eyes darkened, the hand on your cheek stopped its caress. “Said he liked you. And that he already had your number. He was pretty confident, said something ‘bout you two having a connection. He said he talked with you that one time you and MC were visitin’ me in my dorm, and I—I started sweating right then and there.”

Your frown deepened but you already knew where this was going. You closed your eyes and swore under your breath, one hand covered your mouth in shock. You couldn’t even remember the guy.

“And—And we just slept together that night, and I finally got to hold you, caress you, kiss you—I was on cloud nine. Wasn’t thinking clearly. And I wanted to tell him about us, that you were mine, but I realized that we haven’t talked about it. And you weren’t there when I woke up—”

“Caleb, I overslept for work, I had to leave quickly—”

“I’m so, so sorry, but I wasn’t sure. I haven’t confessed to you either, I was just too—too overwhelmed, I felt too much, I thought too much and I realized that I couldn’t tell them you’re mine because you weren’t. Not yet.” You bit your lip and looked at him in disbelief, his face getting closer. He put a strand of your hair behind your ear, and his jaw tightened. “And when he asked me what I thought ’bout you I couldn’t tell him the truth. If he knew what I felt he wouldn’t let you go. They wouldn’t let you go, it would only make them want you more.”

You felt your hands shaking, your mouth opening and closing, not knowing what to say. His hands were still holding yours, feeling the tremble, caressing them with his thumbs in an attempt to bring you comfort.

“But you knew that what happened between us wasn’t a one time thing. You knew how I felt about you, and if you felt the same why didn’t you just—”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d pick me, if you had a different choice. And at that moment, I wanted to make sure you would. That they wouldn’t take you away from me. And that they would never want to again.” His hands cupped your cheeks, and you felt how rough and warm they were, your hands immediately going to hold at his wrists. He closed his eyes for a moment and you couldn’t believe what he was saying.

It was all a misunderstanding. And all of this happened because he was jealous? He hurt you so much just because he didn’t want others to reach out to you?

“So you had to say all these things about me? And that was supposed to be a better alternative than lying about us being together? Caleb, it really doesn’t sound—” You pushed his arms away, legs taking you further away from him, craving some space to think things through, but he followed suit, hands already reaching for you again.

“I panicked. I’m so, so, so sorry, I didn’t know what to do, I didn’t know where we stood, and I had no idea if that would make a difference for them. I had to say something to discourage them. So I did.” His hands went to tug at his hair and now he was the one who took a step back, breathing louder, obviously distressed. “And I hated myself for it. It felt so wrong the moment it came out of my mouth and I wasn’t even sure if they even believed me. And then I heard you. Fuck, when I heard you—”

A loud crash, making every single doubtful look from the boys leave Caleb’s face. Grateful for a distraction, his head heavy, heart burning with the weight of his lies. But when he opened the door and noticed your makeup scattered across the floor, his heart sank to his stomach. A wave of terror froze his body for a short while, until he heard you fumbling with the front door.

He didn’t even think about using his Evol, your beautiful frame running away from him enough to make him panic, the things he said hanging above his head, the knowledge that you had heard them becoming his worst nightmare.

And later, when he returned to his empty apartment after hours spend searching for you, calling you in hope you’d pick up, even by accident—he finally broke down. He screamed, throwing his phone against the wall, making it shatter. His Evol spiraled out of control, shifting the furniture, crashing the plates, the entire place left looking as if it had been broken into.

He lost you on the day he finally got to have you. And ever since that day, he hadn’t known peace, until your phone lit up again, a single red dot glowing on his device, revealing your location.

He left the Fleet right then and there in the middle of the meeting, everything else forgotten. Every duty postponed, every shout of his name ignored.

There wasn’t anything more important than you.

And now you were standing before him, as beautiful as the day he lost you, with tears in your eyes and your heart no longer open for him to take solace in. The eyes which used to look at him with mirth and affection—now uncertain, scared of him hurting you again.

And he felt that he was at his limit—one more second away from you and he thought he’ll burst into flames, the intensity of his feelings will turn him to ashes.

So, he begged.

“I’m so sorry. Please. Believe me. Take me back. Give me one more chance. I’m so sorry I hurt you. I swear I will never to it again, as long as I live.” You flinched when he fell onto his knees again, your arms trying to catch him before his knees hit the floor, but it was useless, his body too heavy for you to hold.

“Caleb! Caleb, stop doing that—” You grabbed his arm in an attempt to pick him up, but he was too strong, his bicep not even tightening. Goosebumps appeared on his skin under your palms and his head fell onto your arm pathetically.

And you just couldn’t look at him when he acted this way, your anger dissipating, the situation although still not ideal—him lying, then saying such things behind your back, whether he meant them or not, wasn’t something you could forgive him after one conversation.

Yet you couldn’t bear to look at him like that—on his knees, begging for forgiveness, crying and shaking, words slipping uncontrollably from his lips. In all the years you’d known him, this was the most vulnerable you had ever seen him—and the sight made your eyes sting. The image of the man you loved—once an unshakable, controlled pillar of strength—reduced to a broken mess before you.

You now knew why he did it. And that he didn’t mean it, not in the way you thought he did.

And you understood the jealousy, the anger, and the selfishness, because you had times you felt such way about him too. The image of him with another making you nauseous, the possibility of him loving someone else like a dagger cutting through your chest.

You took a deep breath, and glanced at him again. His shaking back, hands clinging to your body in an attempt to keep you close.

And you had made your decision.

“Oh, Caleb…”

To believe him.

“Caleb, please stand up!”

To build your relationship back up again, no matter how long i’ll take. And you just hoped you were making the right one.

“N—No, you have to understand. Please. I love you. I’m sorry. And I’ll do anything to earn your forgiveness, no matter how long it takes.” He breathed into your arm, his face snuggling into it, his head slowly rising, eyes meeting yours.

And you gasped at the anguish displayed all over his pretty eyes, two eternal sunsets clouded with misery.

“I love you. So much. I am in love with you, and I’ll do anything to prove it, I’ll spend my whole life trying to make it up to you. You want me to give you more space? I’ll do that. I will try to do that. You want me to leave the Fleet? Just say a word. I will. I will follow you to the end of space and time. You like it here? I can build you the exact same house with my own hands, brick after brick, and it would be the most beautiful, peaceful of places, you own private sanctuary. I will—”

Your knees hit the floor, joining him and you grabbed his wet cheeks in your hands, yanking his head down to meet your lips, effectively shutting him up.

And he melted.

Putty in your hands, leaning into your touch instantly, his chapped lips warm against yours, his soft sigh vibrating between your mouths. And when you broke the kiss and met his sparkling eyes, round with surprise and hope, you send him a small smile, holding back the tears that threatened to fall.

You wouldn’t let them. Not anymore. Not when for the first time in weeks you finally believed that you will be okay.

It was all a huge misunderstanding. A big mistake, fueled by insecurities, secrets kept for far too long, his desperation to keep you near, no matter the means. When he spoke so rapidly, afraid you’ll leave him again, you realized that wanting to keep you to himself might have been one of the few times in his life he had ever done something purely for himself—even if his methods were far from right.

You could see now, that behind his thick skin, and the air of countless of responsibilities, he was still just a boy that had to grow up too quickly. For MC. For you. For all of you to live as comfortably as you could, the burden of all your issues and failures always spoken to him, knowing that he will be able to help and find a solution for all of them.

And yet, he never confessed when something bothered him, his feelings and desires always bottled up inside, kept hidden and threatened to spill when it got too much for him to handle.

And that one time, when faced with the threat of someone taking you away from him, the threat of loosing you, the one he loved, he acted on instinct. He chose the option that wasn’t fair, and certainly wasn’t healthy, but he truly believed it could work to keep you beside him for a while longer.

He wasn’t used to being selfish, so he had no idea how to start, and how to do it right.

He looked down at you through half-closed eyes, taking you in and memorizing your small smile—one he felt he hadn’t seen in ages. Then he dove in for another kiss, his arms wrapping around your frame, pulling you tightly to his chest. He couldn’t believe that you kissed him, his brows furrowing, wanting to make this moment last forever.

And you reciprocated every single one of his hasty kisses, your head finally freed from the questions that dragged you down.

You will work this out. You will fix this, together. And you will make sure he’ll know how you feel, so that he could finally realize that he doesn’t have to fight dirty battles just to keep you close. Because you would never want anyone else who wasn’t him.

“Caleb-mmmh. Caleb, oh God, wait.” He reluctantly let your lips go, your lungs filling with a deep breath, and you hugged him around his waist, feeling the fast beating of his heart under your ear. He placed his shaking hand on your head, stroking your hair, placing a chaste kiss on the crown of your head.

“Sorry, can’t stop. Come back here, you kissed me first.” And he took your cheeks in his palms and dived in, wanting to capture your lips in his again, but you blocked his mouth with your hand, making him frown.

You giggled softly, eyes still teary, making his eyes sparkle—mesmerized by the happiness finally breaking through the walls you’d build around yourself over the past month. He kissed your fingers once, twice, his arms resting at your waist as he lost himself in the warmth of your body, and the pleasant fragrance of your skin.

He felt as though he had returned to where he truly belonged. He had finally come home.

You opened your mouth, your cheeks flushed and eyes sincere, and nothing could prepare him for what you said next, your tone soft, slightly unsure, a melody only for him to hear.

“I believe you, Caleb. But you hurt me that day so badly, I thought I would never get over that heartbreak. I thought I lost you, my best friend, the only boy I ever cared so deeply for. I thought you really hated me all this time. And I couldn’t face it, couldn’t even think about it, that’s why I fled.” He nodded quickly, eyes holding so much hurt and regret. You slid one of your hands into his hair, stroking the soft strands gently. And thats when you both sat down on the warm floor, bodies relaxing, hearts slowing down. “But it’s okay. I understand you now. And I’m sorry too, for not letting you explain yourself sooner. I was just so focused on trying to hate you to somehow cope with what I’ve heard—”

“Stop, it’s my fault, don’t—”

“I shouldn’t have run away. I should’ve faced you, even if I was scared of what I’ll learn. But it will take some time for me to forget about it, okay? It really—It really messed me up. The thought you put up with me only because it was convenient.” You bit your lip and he groaned softly, his head lowering, a symphony of apologies falling from his lips once again. You hushed him gently, taking his cheeks in your hands and wiping away the wet trails of his tears. He sniffed quietly, making your heart squeeze. “But it will be okay. Because I believe you. So you don’t have to be scared anymore, I won’t run away again.” His body shook as he kept nodding, biting at his lips, trying so hard not to interrupt you. You leaned over him again, the movement slow, and you looked deep into his eyes, silently asking for permission. Once his eyelashes fluttered, eyes looking at your lips expectantly, you placed a soft kiss on his swollen ones, red from his constant biting, still salty from the tears he shed. “And you have to promise to be honest with me. No more tricks. No more lies.”

“I promise.” Your name escaped his lips like a prayer. “I promise. I will never hurt you again, I swear. I promise. I love you more than you could ever realize.”

He groaned into another kiss, a quiet “mmm” followed by the touch of his hands on your cheeks. He brought you to himself closer, one kiss turning into three, four, five and still counting, yet all of them gentle and reassuring, meant to anchor, not escalate. One of his hands landed on your hip and tugged, touch meaningful—he wanted for you to sit in his lap, and although you were still shaken, you craved the closeness as much as he did.

You climbed onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips as he deepened the kiss, his tongue teasing at your lower lip.

You let him in, slowly, unhurriedly, your ears catching the sound of the falling rain, the storm coming back with the same intensity as before—but this time, it didn’t feel like a bad omen anymore.

You parted with a quiet pop, Caleb’s head instinctively following yours, unwilling to let the distance linger. His large hands caressed your arms and thighs, his expression love-drunk, looking as if he couldn’t believe you were really here with him again.

His eyes met with yours and you swiped the pads of your fingers below his under eyes, tracing the faint freckles.

A whistle of the wind, a spatter of rain against the window, the sound of your beating hearts, and then—

“I love you too, Caleb.” His breath hitched, hands clenching on the material on your shirt, eyes big and shining with disbelief. “I love you. So much. You’re the only boy I’ve ever loved.” His eyes closed and he rested his forehead against yours, the tips of your noses touching in a gesture so gentle your eyes stung.

“Again. Repeat that for me.” He whispered in awe, and you obeyed, another confession spoken into the night. One of the candles burned out, marking the end of a chapter, and, hopefully, the end of your separation. “Hmm, again.” He probed and you did, watching as a soft smile spread on his lips, his thumbs swiping circles into the exposed skin of your thighs. “Wanna hear it again.” Caleb’s voice unbearably soft, his touches even more so, and you put your hands on both sides of his neck, putting more distance between you. “And again. And again. I never want you to stop saying it.”

He opened his eyes and studied your face, eyes closing when you pressed a lingering kiss on one of his eyelids, his breath shaky, hands warm against your skin.

“I love you. Have been for so long I lost count ages ago.” His lips formed a line, happiness squeezing at his chest, and he nodded once, eyes opening slowly to bore into yours and don’t stray.

“Ages?” He repeated, partly mimicking your words from weeks ago, but still visibly shaken, chest filling with the warm ache of being accepted. Of loving, and being loved in return.

He cursed himself internally, eyes nearly filling with tears, dread rising in his chest at the thought that he had almost lost you, because of his selfishness and insecurities.

You kissed his lips again and he almost sobbed right into yours, his head falling onto your shoulder, kissing the soft skin, feeling the way in which it warmed up under the contact. He hugged you to his chest, kissing your neck, wanting to be even closer, to get under your skin, to merge with you for evermore and never let go.

“Ages.” Your answer sure and final, your arms returning his embrace, hands tracing patterns into the skin of his strong back. His necklace rested right next to your heart, where it should always be.

You began to hum a lullaby,letting your soft voice replace the harsh sounds of the rain and thunder. The melody drifted through the house, seeping into the walls, and into Caleb’s memory.

And when he whispered more confessions, his lips marking your skin with them, you exhaled a long, steady sigh, marking the end of this cruel storm.

And later, as you fell asleep in a tight embrace, listening to each other’s heartbeats and imagining the life ahead of you, neither of you noticed the objects gently floating around the room—silent signs of Caleb’s excitement. The heavy stone of guilt had finally lifted from his chest. He had won you back, and he wasn’t going to let you get hurt again—not by him, not by anyone else. He swore to protect you, and he would keep that promise for as long as he lived.

And if the sound of plant pots shattering, books tumbling, and your things scattering around woke you up from your slumber hours later, his puppy eyes, a kiss to your cheek and a promise of a breakfast in bed was enough to make you melt. You could always clean it up later.

This time, together.

*bonus!*

3 years later

* 15+ unread messages from [ my miss hunter!<3 ]*

✉︎ hii babey, why is caleb being so weird today??? he literally called me earlier, asked me to freaking pray for him and hung up on me that menace.

✉︎ did u like fight or smth? u never fight what did he do this time

✉︎ the last time he acted so weird was when he ate his bday cake day early cause he didn’t realize what it was for, remember that? what do u see in him i cant quite understand we’re like, losers trapped in hot bodies istg

✉︎ wait he just send me a pic

✉︎ OH MY GODDDSSG???? BABY CONGRATULATIONS!!!!! THIS SECRETIVE LITTLE SHInzsn

✉︎ you look so happy in that picture!! im literally bawling, the ring’s so pretty and you both look gorgeous. im so so so happy for you (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ)♡ ♡ ♡ i love you guys sm please INVITE ME TO THE WEDDING IN CASE CALEB FORGETS TO TELL HIS SIS SOMETHING THIS IMPORTANT AGAIN

✉︎ im so happy for you, can’t stop looking at ur lil happy faces. U both deserve the world. NEXT UP!! picking a wedding dress!!!!! Im already on it, you’ll look like a PRINCESS!!! ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ gorgeous little b caleb’s a lucky maaaaan

✉︎ call me when you’re done with kissing!! or u know, other stuff. u guys can be pretty gross.

✉︎ i love you. both. can’t wait for the wedding!!!!!! AHH!!!

thank u for reading!! 🤍 if u managed to that one’s LONG. I hope it was worth ur time 🥺

if u want to support me, u can do it here!!: https://ko-fi.com/kitimeq

Caleb is all devotion and diligence.

He's built a life around it, a body. Every atom of his makeup identified, organized, and understood by him. Every move he makes through the world is intentional, specific. Careful cuts into lean meats, over perfectly portioned meals. Quietly counted repetitions at the racks, and evenly paced laps around the track. Caleb has been militant, in his self maintenance, since long before there was academic or professional cause for it. Meticulous, in the curation of his endlessly evolving skill set; in his cautious, calculated control of his emotions. Driven, in all aspects, to mastery, by one sole motivator.

Caleb, the unspoken, unwavering, means to your ends.

Perfect Caleb, the endlessness of sky. Your Caleb, the atmosphere that binds that sky to the earth. Mind, body, and soul; all in your service, all to your benefit.

Your reliable pillar of strength, a title aimed for-since his inception, he'd say if you asked-and earned-and earned, and earned-every day since the one you first took his hand. A promise of protection he has stated to you, explicitly, more times than you can count.

Now, expressed to you more explicitly than you'd ever dared to dream of.

You jolt, back arching harshly off of the bed, fingers flexing and clenching into fists where Caleb holds them securely to your chest. One hand for your two, what the fuck.

He's so big.

The information isn't news to you, but the thought has your pupils dilating regardless.

It always happens like this, something about that weight that's always been for you being used against you... You couldn't get him off of you if you tried. Being so caught, your breath catches. It never fails to make your core stir.

Though, you're far beyond stirring at present. You feel dizzy, overwhelmed, even as you reason with yourself that all you're doing is laying there taking it.

His tongue pushes into you for just a moment. A brief stop as he takes a long, slow lick up from your entrance to your clit. Where he returns to a long, repeating rhythm you've taken notice of, but are too far gone to give any meaningful thought to.

long press, short press, long press, short press.

All you can do is shake. Lower half jerking with every hit to your throbbing clit.

You have no choice but to lay there, useless and taking it. Pressed down hard into the middle of your mattress. Wrists pinned to your chest, legs thrown over his shoulders and locking down on him, clinging to him. Desperate for any point of grounding at all, anything to define the boneless, heavy mess he's made of you. The hand not occupied with keeping yours up and away busies itself with the equally punishing task of pushing your wild hips back down, down. Moving, at his whims, to take his tongue's place at your clit whenever he decides he needs to lap at your center like a dog. Licking you out like he hopes to drain you.

All of it is done with an ease and relaxation that really isn't fair at all. Like the passing hours-known to you only by the changing colors of the world outside-can't even touch him when he's taking you apart, molecule by molecule.

You scoff, annoyed, even in your state of total undone-ness, at his being unaffected. Your eyes cut down to where he rests between your legs.

And you're wrong.

The tips of his ears are apple red, and every other part of him that you can see is nearing similar states of flush. His hair is disheveled and sticking up at odd angles, his cheeks and jaw are wet and sticky where they are all but glued to your thigh. Thin trails of you keeping your flesh connected when he pulls away from your core for air, an action he cannot seem to do without his brow drawing down. Like it offends him to detach from you, like he takes issue with his body's need for breathing. His breaths come out quick and shallow, before he's right back to mouthing at you.

He's anything but unaffected. He looks wrecked.

You haven't even touched him.

His eyes dart up to meet yours, nose nudging your clit as he moves to get his tongue on it, again. And the fucking look on his face-

short press, long press.

You clench around nothing, head thrown back with a gasp. Your stomach going taut and tense, legs spasming as your nth orgasm washes over you. You've made no effort to count. Had learned, after that first night, that it was useless to try.

He'd touched you like it would be the only time, like the last. The way he'd laved lips and tongue and teeth over every part of you, had covered you in him, you'd thought you finally understood what it meant to be swallowed by a black hole. That you were the only one to know it and live.

Meticulous, relentless, merciless Caleb, and dawn breaking over all of the you he'd swallowed, all of him over you.

All he'd torn apart and put back together.

short press, long press, short press, short press.

You gasp at the overstimulation, fighting with everything in you-which, right now, is next to nothing-to get away from him. Ears ringing so loudly you can't tell if your pleas of "no more no more no more" are muttered brokenly aloud or trapped, like the rest of you, in the discordant mess of your head.

An audible smack, as he releases you. A blessed minute allowed for you to descend the high enough to finally look down to where his eyes are glued to you, all shaky breaths and hooded gaze. A perfect mirror, you're sure, to your own expression. The trails of your release binding him like web thread to you. There's something in that, about traps and those who lay them. Their victims and the feast that is made of them. But you're much too exhausted for metaphor. Breathing alone hardly feels worth the labor.

You jerk when the hand on your stomach starts to rub tender torturous circles into the flesh just above your mound. You know he sees the pleading in your eyes.

With no thoughts left of your own, you can only hope he will figure out what it means for you.

He hums, like he would choosing between produce at the grocery store, and then he's lowering himself back over you. Your heart hammers. There's no way, there's just no way. One slow lick in the space where your lower lips meet your thigh, and you shudder. Open-mouthed kisses trailing up to your knee, a whimper falls from your mouth. Another long lick back down, down, down.

You keen.

You get a second, just one, and then he's back on you.

Fucking. Hell.

You're entire abdomen tenses. You aren't going to make it.

short press.

You should've seen it coming when he messaged you.

need you. soon as I get home, ok?

Needy didn't even begin to cover what he was when he got to you. The door only just opened before he was on his knees, pushing your body up against the wall as he nudged it back closed with his foot.

You don't know how he'd managed to get his shoes off and put away while he was between your legs-yourself distracted by your own eyes rolling into the back of your head as you ground down on him-but you know he was without them as he'd carried you to the bedroom. You'd seen them up on the rack in the brief moment he'd paused in stealing your breath with deep, self-soaked kisses to let you catch your breath. You, blissed out already, from the first.

The first that had been hours ago.

long press, short press, short press, short press.

You groan, head dropping to the side in defeat. Ragged breaths continually punched out of you with every pleasure-pain press of his tongue.

It's a lot. To say the absolute least.

Squirming beneath him, a miserable whimper escapes you unbidden.

Caleb notices, because of course he does, and sucks hard on your clit before pulsing his tongue over it. Like some sort of fucked up heartbeat. It shoots like lightning through you, a sudden surge of adrenaline giving you strength to react.

You yank one of your legs off of his shoulders, wriggle it in between your bodies, use all the force you can muster as it shakes and shakes to shove at his chest, try and force him off.He pushes down against you.

"Cay-Caleb fuck, enough! I'm gonna die."

"You know your word." It's not a question. He just likes to remind you, all smug and satisfied as his head lolls back onto your thigh. Looking up at you all starry eyed like you've touched him at all. Stopping and waiting, for you to say...

You heave, deep, intentional breaths going shallow, as tears well in your eyes.

"Caleeeb." Your head rolls, tears fall, and all he does is smile.

Because that's not your word. Because you've talked about this.

Because when you're like this, 'Caleb' means 'keep. going.'

You damn yourself, happily. You couldn't dream of doing anything else.

Anything else, except maybe...

You wriggle your loosed leg down between your bodies, settle it straight between his thighs. Vying, even in your state of total collapse, for any sort of control. He groans, hips rolling when you notch yourself against him, give him something to rut into.

It's the best you can do, the most active role you can hope to play under his ministrations. His self-control test, and yours too. You sigh, shakily settling with the rhythm of his body moving over you, his mouth moving against you. The desperate thundering of your pulse, the animal part of you that tells you it's 'too much, too much!', all drowned out by every sound from him. Every groan and moan and cry that you're 'so warm' and 'so pretty' and 'so good so fucking good'.

Every desperate, ragged reminder that "I'm yours, pip. All yours."

How could you argue anything different? After all the worship he's offered you over the years, over these last few weeks?

Caleb, who works you until you're wrung out and clawing at him.

...or his endless obligations call him away.

-

"I'm borrowing these." Caleb is gathering up his things to go. Some fleet operation he can't or won't tell you anything about. You're trying not to be annoyed by it. And succeeding, if only because he spent the better half of all night fucking any fight out of you. Which is of course, irritating in and of itself, especially when you are beginning to think that was exactly his intention.

Getting you off over and over and over and only then announcing 'Hey, I've got a mission starting next week. A long one. It's classified, but I wanted you to know I might be difficult to reach.' with you all exhausted and curled up against him just how he likes. Whatever. There's hardly anything either of you can do about work besides take each other's schedule in stride and tamp down the little voice in your heads that chants 'don't die don't die don't die' like a some kind of siren. You are too familiar with your own fragility, the knowledge of exactly what it feels like to lose. You both are.

Whatever. Caleb said something to you, and you'll take anything to distract from your rising anxiety and overwhelming exhaustion. You use the little strength you have left to peel your eyes open, see what he has.

You don't know why you even bothered to look.

"No, you absolutely are not. You've taken like half of my comfy pairs and I'm over it." You grumble.

That had been a fun conversation.

In the aftermath of his birthday and the events of the night of, you'd decided to finally talk about... everything you probably should've talked about before you, you know, fucked absolutely nasty until the sun rose.

C'est la vie, neither of you have ever been particularly conventional.

Amongst the other confessions and reminiscences and explanations of the day came the truth about your frequently disappearing panties. The admission that it was in fact, not laundry gnomes taking dues from the wash-which you hadn't believed for awhile, by the way-and was actually, shocker, Caleb the whole time.

You'd made him show you his stash, the pile of your dirty underwear tucked into the back of his pajama drawer. Which was a frankly, startling amount for him to have gathered in the time since you'd reunited, and equally as startling a thing for you to ask to see and proceed to not really do anything about. You had a distinct awareness, even at the time, that neither of you were embarrassed or ashamed enough about the whole thing. A hallmark trait of your entire relationship, truly. Maybe even the entire basis of.

Point being, you made an agreement. Any further acquisitions must be asked for and approved of by you. Hence-

"But I need it." He's pouting, like a child, over your cum soaked underwear.

"I need it. To wear." You gape at him, absolutely dumbfounded by the audacity.

He sighs like this is a real, actual problem and pulls a wadded up bit of fabric out from his bag to toss your way.

"Wear those. They're clean." He replies, visibly, audibly frustrated. A compromise made out of necessity, not willingness.

You unfurl the material, noting almost immediately that this is a pair you did not give him permission to take. Your hands smack down into your lap. "Dude!" His back being turned to you does nothing to hide the fact that he is genuinely and actually giggling. Your eyes roll. Stupid Caleb. Always has to feel like he's getting away with something.

...Just like he's getting away with leaving for this stupid mission.

"You are such a pervert." You groan with exaggerated annoyance, an effort to mask the way you are beginning to mope, and roll over in bed, away from him.

All the secrets he keeps so easily from you and to this day all you can do to stop him from seeing right through you is keep him from seeing you at all. Hide and hope you can buy yourself enough time to sort out your emotions before he starts sorting them for you.

And right now, there's plenty to be sifted through. The cocktail of irritation and worry and desperation keeping you from any coherent thought. That and-

Somehow, despite the attack it has already suffered, your core throbs.

You thought you knew all the ways you could miss him, after the explosion.

Not even close.

You got good at missing his laugh, the sound of him moving through the house, his shadow and the way it fell over you. You've had time to learn how to sit with his absence in a room, the stillness of undisturbed air, the unfilled silences between your heartbeats.

You've missed his hand holding yours, sure, but the way it fits between your legs? His breath, breaking in gasps in your ear? His body molded over you, closer than ever? Trying with everything in him to get closer still?

...You don't know how to miss that yet. Only a few weeks since your relationship evolved beyond what either of you had ever thought was possible and still it feels like you can hardly remember a time where he wasn't on you, or in you. Your thighs clench and the soreness of the muscles there reminds you that you are an animal, and you need to calm down.

Ugh. You are dangerously close to having to admit that you're just as bad as he is.

"Hey." He says as you hear his bag zipping shut. He's leaving, and soon. Your heart sinks. The fire that was starting to rise inside you fizzling out.

"Mm." You know what you look like right now-somewhere between needy and crushed, and either way desperate-and so refuse to face him.

You feel the bed shift with his weight, as he crawls up to and over you. He shifts you from your side onto your back and he's already smiling, all soft and sorry, as your face finally turns to his. His eyes flicker across your expression, then up and down the entirety of you. Either searching for something or trying to store away this most recent image of you. Another snapshot for the wall to wall depictions of you in his memory. You almost ask, but then his head tilts, and lowers.

He nuzzles you, cheek to cheek, breath hot against your ear.

"...Don't miss me too much." Which you know means 'please miss me way too much' and could be innocent, if not for the look on his face suggesting that you've been all the way found out. Every messy emotion in you, right down to the fresh lit kindling of your earlier fire.

He confirms your assumption by licking along the shell of your ear.

Unbelievable.

You shove at him, gaining no more than a hairs width of distance for the effort, and shoot a hand up to cover your ear. The heat rising back to a simmer inside you makes its way to your face.

"I can take care of myself just fine." You huff, stubborn. Already thinking through how you can get him equally hot and bothered just to kick him out. That would show him.

"And me?" He asks with the familiar boyish tilt of his big, stupid head.

"What about you?" Your brow furrows, too wrapped up in your own train of thought to get what he's after.

He laughs, peppers your face with kisses. Your answer, your replying question, apparently satisfactory enough.

"Be good pips." A kiss at the tip of your nose, another nuzzle. You grumble to yourself, feeling out of the loop and out of ways to get him to stay.

"How about you be good for once?" You wrap your legs around his waist, more symbolic than actual request. You both know that if it were up to him he wouldn't be going anywhere.

"Yeah?" His voice comes out in a shallow breath, his eyes are all wide and soft and starry.

"Yeah." Yours is stern, steady.

If he sees through your poor performance of security, he's kind enough not to mention it.

-

Of the many things that are true about Caleb, there's one that stands at the fore.

Caleb, all devotion and diligence. Who turns down treats like it's as easy as breathing, who takes on extra miles any time he does allow himself to slip. Who has spent a lifetime putting up with and predicting your moods, caring for you and cleaning up your messes without complaint. Caleb who would-and has-forfeit everything to you. Who has forged himself into a shield for you, sharpened himself into a sword. Caleb, all steel and steeled nerves. Caleb, who can withstand anything.

Caleb who, the first night you spent together, wouldn't even let you near his dick until you begged. Until he'd ravished you to the point of forgetting your own name, doted on you to the point of remembering.

Caleb who, the last time you slept together, ate you out for hours on end and then didn't have you touch him at all. Who dropped his weight on you, held you down, until you stopped trying get at him...

Caleb, at his core: all restraint.

All of the ways in which the two of you exist as mirrors, and that is one trait you do not share.

You, who has never turned down a can of soda in your life. Who could hit snooze on the alarm all the way through noon. You, all unpredictable moods and messes to be cleaned up.

You, who has taken hand or toy to yourself every night since he left.

You refuse to feel shame for it. You weren't raised for restraint. Had actually, adamantly, been encouraged to abandon the concept as a whole. To take and take freely, when it comes to you, when it comes to him.

Now all you do is cum to him. It's honestly a little ridiculous. And a miracle you turned out mostly well adjusted.

To be fair, if you can even call it that. It's not just that you've been made into a completely insatiable mess. The sharp uptick in your self-pleasuring has equally as much to do with an inability to lay alone in the quiet of your room, wondering where he is and whether or not he's ok.

At least when you're thinking about all the fun ways he can absolutely kill you you aren't thinking about all the ways he could be dead.

Its been three weeks and there's no end in sight. Worse still, it's been a week since he's called. Or messaged. Or done anything to indicate he isn't somewhere in deepspace slowly losing breath.

It's beginning to take a toll on you.

Currently, you're sat in front of the television screen in your living room, watching some reality show rerun and debating sticking your hand back down your shorts. Desperate to will the worry away and wishing it had been a busier month at work.

Of course the wanderers are also away on a mission right now too. Probably specifically to kill the love of your life.

...You're genuinely considering taking a trip up to Skyhaven to get some answers yourself.

It wouldn't be the first time he's made you come find him.

In that moment, as if by magic, your phone rings.

Of course he calls now. At this point you wouldn't be surprised to hear him say he knew exactly what you were thinking about.

"Pips? You there?" He calls out to you, when pick up and the line stays quiet.

Three more seconds of dead air, just to make him squirm, before you finally speak.

"We're sorry, the number you have dialed is not currently accepting calls from big, dumb, heartless, stupid dummies who disappear for weeks on end. At the tone, you may record your apology and nothing else." It's a shoddy impression on your part, but it's the best you've got in your heightened emotional, and completely scattered mental state.

"I miss you." He says, dreamily... and with something else there that you can't quite place, something that makes your heart stutter. Something that almost, almost, stops you in your tracks.

Almost.

"That didn't sound like a sorry. And you didn't wait for the beep." You sincerely hope he can hear the scowl in your tone. On mission with no traceable location and zero contact for seven days? Yeah. He gets to play by your rules.

"Ah, we'll try again, start your spiel over." Still there... that undercurrent of something. Even as he puts on his 'Playful Caleb' tone to appease you. Your brow furrows.

He's always been better at keeping his cards close to his chest, an even easier thing to achieve across a phone line. He didn't video call... which is weird for him. Especially after this long apart. Which gives you reason to believe...

There's something he doesn't want you to see.

You don't really feel like playing anymore.

"I can't, I don't remember what I said." You mumble out. You can continue being mad after he tells you whats going on with him.

He laughs, the sound is punched out of him, a failed attempt at suppression. More like he's physically in hiding than hiding anything from you. Not better. Given the circumstances. But at least he doesn't sound hurt.

You've gotten pretty good at identifying those tells, since he came back to you. Years of seeing him untouchable and finally, suddenly, having so much exposure to him wounded. The chip, the nightmares, his arm.

"Something about big heartless dum-" You can all but see the mask falling, even as his voice lilts.

"I miss you too." It comes out whispered, like you're hiding with him.

There's a shaky exhale on the other end of the line. You stop breathing to listen close.

Ok, yeah... he might be hurt. Your heart rate kicks up.

"Caleb. What's going on?" You try not to sound panicked, like you're not already thinking about how you're going to get to him.

His choked out laughter tells you you've failed.

"Nothing, pips. What's going on with you?"

You say nothing. Unwilling to accept his non-answer. He sighs, aware.

"'verything's fine. At a training. Snuck away cuz I needed to hear your voice. That's all. Cross my heart." You know he's miming the motion, even without you there to see it. Wherever he is.

You don't bother to ask, you know he won't tell you. Just the same as you know that you have no choice but to believe what he is telling you. That its all the answer you're going to get. Your shoulders sag.

"Any idea when they're gonna let you come home?" You slouch back into the couch, staring mindlessly at the flickering shapes and colors on the tv screen.

"Shouldn't be long now... this extra training is about to come to a close." He pauses mid-sentence, just a split second. All the years spent together... it used to be that you were always on the other side of his story crafting. Half truths told to talk you both out of trouble. You miss being the one who got to catch his sideways glances and try not to smile. On the sly with him, instead of getting slighted. Its more and more often, now, that he leaves you to pretend you don't notice it.

But you can scratch at that old wound later. You don't have it in you to be bitter about it. Not right now.

"Good." All the anxiety you've been fighting to keep down is finally catching up to you. You're exhausted and you want him home. Nothing else matters.

"Yeah, good." It sounds like he's having the same thought. Like he's tired too.

"...They've really been putting you through it, huh?" You mean for your tone to go lighter. To come off more teasing than concerned. If only to give you both an out. And him a chance to bitch about his colleagues.

"What makes you say that?" His volume shifts, like he's shuffled his phone around, readjusted himself wherever he's standing. Or sitting. Or whatever he's is doing.

You wish you could see him.

"Nothing, just-" You pause. "I thought you were alright, when I picked up the phone. Then it started to sound like you were hurting..." You're going to get something out of him before this call ends. He owes it to you.

"Oh, I'm definitely hurting pips." Caleb manages to find the lightness you were looking for earlier, that playful tone.

Now. Of all times.

"Well then what the hell? You said everything was fine!" You sit up straight on the couch, free arm shooting out in a disbelieving gesture. Sore mood shifting sour.

"It is." He lilts.

"You- but you said you're-" You splutter.

"I am." He's steady. And teasing. And almost certainly fucking with you.

"Caleb. I'm going to hurt you if you don't-" You unconsciously mime choking the air.

"I thought you'd be hurting too, pip." His voice drops low, sultry.

He's lost you.

"Ah, no. That's right. You said you could take care of yourself." That teasing tone again. But worse. That condescending one he takes when he knows something you don't.

"What are you even talking about?" You fall into your age-old pattern of getting snippy and defensive. He is just so-

"Have you?" The question comes out quick, abrupt.

"Have I? Have I what? Had a stroke? I'm certainly beginning to wonder."

"Been taking care of yourself."

Your eye twitches. Forget concern, forget wanting him to come home. Tomorrow you're going out and buying new locks for the doors.

"Come on pip-squeak, use that big beautiful brain of yours." He says, leading. As if he's given you anything to work with. As if this whole conversation hasn't been like throwing yourself repeatedly into a brick wall.

'He's built like one.' The thought hits you like a slap in the face. Mind instantly conjuring images of him over you, behind you, throwing you over his shoulder-

Your core throbs as you attempt to shake the thoughts off. 'It is so incredibly not the time!'

Though, the time is definitely playing a role in this. For the last three weeks like clockwork you'd be working yourself up right about now, if he hadn't called and done it for you.

It's another thing you refuse to be blamed for, the way Caleb messing with your head gets you riled up in more ways than one. Because you know he knows it. Does it all on purpose.

You're inclined to hang up the phone right now. Leave him to think about what he's done while you go deal with yourse-

Oh. Oh.

"...You're asking me if I've masturbated since you've been gone." It comes out completely deadpan. A sort of numb stupification washing over you from the emotional whiplash. The fluttering in your core temporarily disregarded.

"Am I?" Oh, he thinks he's so funny.

"Obviously." You say, casually, like you didn't just have to argue for 5 minutes to arrive at that conclusion.

"...Obviously." He laughs, louder than before. You can't help how you clench at the sound, heat washing over you, even as you think about strangling him. You're so glad your torment has been amusing to him. He'd better enjoy it, before he gets home and gets the silent treatment for his transgressions. "Aaand?" You can practically see his stupid little upward-tilted puppy dog face. God.

He thinks he's so fucking cute. Why isn't he in you?

"And obviously, you asshole. It's been almost a month! What, like you haven't?" You're disoriented, and so so horny. And deeply annoyed with him, which is actually really worsening the horny situation.

Yeah. You're just as bad as he is. Maybe worse.

"You told me to be good." The huskiness in his voice has your jaw falling, a shaky breath catching in your throat at the words.

You scramble to call back the memory of your last conversation before he left. You shutter when it all comes back to you, clit throbbing.

"Caleb I wasn't- I was just being a brat, cuz I didn't want you to go. I wasn't even thinking about... you seriously haven't touched yourself?" You're incredulous. The last three weeks have been torture even with you consistently taking the edge off. You can't even imagine yourself having gotten by without. How is he not dead?

"Nnnope." He drags the word out, pops the 'P'.

...This conversation over the phone just became the audio equivalent of walking in to your lover sprawled out on the bed in a new matching set.

"Like at all? Like for 3 weeks?" The pace of your words picks up, you're voice going higher with each one out of your mouth.

"Why do you sound so excited?" Laughter under each word. As if he has any room to talk, he sounds just as keyed up. He should be.

"I'm not. I'm annoyed." You say, grinning ear to ear. "If we're playing 'punish Caleb' I should at least get to know about it." You adjust your phone to rest between your ear and shoulder. Deciding you need your hands free for... reasons.

Would it be easier to just set your phone on speaker mode on the coffee table? For sure.

But you want to keep him close.

"Seriously, not even once? In three weeks?" A hand snakes its way into your sleep shorts. Light, leisurely movements.

"Since we started officially dating." He says it like he's talking about the weather. Like it's not a wild thing to admit so offhandedly.

"...What?" You shift back in surprise, free hand coming up to catch your phone as it slips from your shoulder. "Why?" The hand in your shorts stills.

"I don't remember getting permission." Again, that tone, still the weather.

Now more a gathering storm.

You... can't decide if that's hot or concerning. You remove your hand from yourself, to temporarily refocus your attention.

"Caleb. You don't need to ask for my permission... to masturbate? It's your body." You frown, expression tight as you endeavor to understand.

"But it's not." A statement of fact.

"Caleb." You say, stern.

"It's not." Said with no room for argument.

Your heart stops. The chip, the nightmares, his arm.

"Caleb if it's... nothing that's happened to you has-"

"It's yours." He cuts your reassurance off with a firm, essential clarification.

"...What?" You breathe out dumbly.

"'S yours. Always been yours." He whispers, voice all lovesick and distant. Heart in it, but head wandering.

To the same place yours was just moments ago, you hope.

God, you need to lay down. This is too much.

"You can't just say things like that..." You let yourself fall onto your side on the couch. Finally electing to put your phone on speaker and lay it just beside your head, leaving you laid out beside Caleb's contact photo. One of him sound asleep on this very couch, wearing those worn out pajamas that really shouldn't get you as hot as they do.

"Why not? It sounds like you like it." He replies, voice increasingly gravelly with each word.

"You can't say things like that... and not be here to answer for it." Your thighs clench, hand slithering towards your shorts once more.

"I'll fly straight home to you as soon as I can pip." A deep, shaky breath, on his end. "Soon as I can."

You sigh, at just the idea of relief in sight.

It's all you can ask for, really. Both of your lives-your careers-are seriously demanding. You can stand however many more days of being needy, of not seeing him. You have to.

...Is what you'd really like to say, would say, if he didn't sound so good right now.

"Not good enough." Your voice comes out flat and firm, like one calling a dog to heel.

"No?" There's a knowing in the way he asks it. A preemptive surrender.

"No." You rise up on an elbow, looking down at the peaceful, tender image of your boyfriend on your phone's dim screen.

You compare him to the Caleb on the other end of the line. Who has surely spent the weeks just as desperate as you, just as anxious, and has done nothing about it.

At your request, your command, however unintended.

Caleb, who is all restraint, and the spoiled little thing he raised.

You suppose it's time you gave him new orders.

"Caleb, I need you to take care of yourself." You demand, pretending at nothing else.

"Heh. I'm doin my best pips-" He breathes out a laugh. You roll your eyes.

'And he teased you for misunderstanding...'

"Uh uh. You're not listening. I need you... to take care of yourself." You speak slow, enunciating deliberately as you roll all the way onto your stomach, head supported on your hands.

A moment's silence. A trembling breath.

"...Yeah?" Restraint.

"Right now." A clear command.

"I'm in a training pip-squeak. Already been gone too long." His delivery is flat, serious. You disregard it entirely.

Gone too long? Oh, you're sure. Not having mentioned it until now, not making any attempt to end the conversation himself. Being the one who started all of this.

He's testing your resolve.

"Figure it out." No room for argument.

And if he isn't he can tell you so himself.

"...Hold on." More shuffling, more quiet.

The audio distorts and then cuts out entirely.

You're only made to wait for a beat.

"Still with me?" When it cuts back in, his voice comes out a little quieter, a little fuzzy.

"Sure am. What's the plan?" You kick your feet idly in the air behind you as you grow increasingly giddy.

"Moved your call to my ear piece. Gonna go get myself dismissed." You can just barely her the click of his boots on the ground

"And you think that's a good idea?" As hot and fun as all of this is. You would really prefer he not be court-martialed.

"That all depends on you, doesn't it?" You can hear the smirk in his voice.

You grin manically. Yeah, you guess it does.

Game on.

You hear as he makes his way out of whatever room he'd tucked himself into, listen to the rhythmic sound of his steps. Perfect soldier Caleb, letting you take a shot at ruining his reputation for good.

"I'm guessing you can't say a word to me until you've left the building, is that accurate?" You tilt your head curiously.

You are met with silence. You hum in delight.

Perfect.

It only takes you a moment to settle on your next course of action.

"You know, you never asked how I was doing." Eyes still locked on your phone screen, his contact photo, his pretty restful face and his big arms and bigger ass. You reach a hand over the coffee table, making contact with the object of your desire almost immediately. Your favorite vibrator, left out from your last session.

Caleb, for his part, is silent. This is, perhaps, the only context where that could be something that only serves to further excite you.

"And I don't remember confirming or denying... whether or not I've been taking care of myself..." You flop onto your back, pointedly ignoring the uncomfortable wetness in your sleep shorts. The hand holding your vibrator is raised to your phone's speaker. Your other hand rests on your tummy, finger tapping in time with his walk. Even at this distance, you seek out ways to be in step with him.

One, two, three, four, five. Quick march. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Maintaining military pace-even as you are certain he's hard in his pressed uniform pants-you want to see if you can change that.

You flick the vibrator on, let the speaker catch the sound for another 10 count before you move.

"Well, I have been." You bring your hands, vibe included, down. Raising your hips to work the sticking fabric of your shorts down your thighs. "And I am so excited to tell you aaall about it while I get off again." You kick the soiled garment to the floor.

You swear you hear his breath catch, and if the face you make at the sound is downright evil no one is ever gonna know but you.

"We've got days of material we could talk through but I really, really want to tell you about yesterday-"

"Colonel Xia-" You are cut off by a new voice, an unfamiliar voice.

You frown. A very unwelcome interruption. Caleb seems to agree.

"If it is not a matter of immediate concern, Lieutenant, take it up with your direct superior." And god that voice. All of the versions of him you've heard over the phone today alone and still it is the Colonel's first appearance.

What would you have to do to be on the receiving end of it? He lets you get away with so much. A drawn out moan escapes you at the thought. The reminder of how lucky you are, how special. You inch the vibrator down, over your underwear, let it rest on a low setting, above the hood of your clit. An intentionally slow, intentionally agonizing start. To draw more sweet sounds out. To make sure the Colonel is standing at attention.

Now's as good a time as any to test the limits of his patience. Unwitting voyeur be dam-

"Regarding the attack this morning-" The offender continues.

Your eyes, which had fallen shut to focus on the feeling, shoot open. You immediately turn your vibrator off, leaning closer to your phone as you frantically increase the volume.

"...eight individuals... three identified among the dead... have your injuries checked by medical... one of their soldiers... operating under the employ of-" Audio distortion. Silence.

Bastard. He's muted himself.

"Motherfucker." You scramble to sit up, tucking your knees underneath you. The silence lasts long enough for you to check that you haven't been hung up on. You haven't.

"I know you can hear me Caleb, give me my ears back." You repeatedly press the volume up button, as if it will miraculously override his authority. "You are so unfair are you kidding me. What injuries? I swear I can't stand you sometimes."

More silence. As the call's timer continues to increase.

Bitch.

You huff audibly. Left with no other choice but to sit there, soaked and on fire and furious, and wait.

You watch the minutes pass on the call timer, and it is minutes. Around two and a half of dead air you find you are so angry that you have to cover his contact picture with your hand. Just his head. You're sick of looking at his lying, scheming, secret-keeping, traitor face. But you are still aroused enough to want to ogle him, and you feel you've earned some light objectification.

Five minutes and fourteen seconds pass, and then the audio cuts back in.

"Fucking hell pips." He sounds out of breath, like he just stopped running. But you know his stamina is better than that. Which means it was your moaning that got him worked up. That or your, deserved, verbal abuse. Probably both. Speaking of-

"You are in so. Much. Trouble." You amplify the venom in your voice, needing the gravity of the statement to pull the weight you mean in it.

"Yeah, yeah you can yell at me about it later." He says dismissively. A complete and unrepentant brat. Which you know he knows is only going to further set you off.

"I can yell at you about it right now! What attack? What injuries?" And you are yelling, tone accusing. Fire fed by the potent mix of arousal, agitation, and apprehension.

"Tell me about yesterday." He sidesteps your questioning with a request of his own. Or, you suppose it isn't a request really, there's no question in his tone.

"You cannot be serious." You scoff, incredulous.

"Tell me about yesterday and I swear as soon as I'm back home I'll tell you anything you want to know." An exchange. Your dirty laundry traded for his.

You... cannot be seriously considering taking the offer.

"...Anything?" It's the best deal you're ever gonna get from him.

"Anything, pips, please." He whines. A noise that makes you so hot you could gush.

You nearly fold on the spot.

"Hm..." After all he's put you through, today and also forever, you really want to see him writhe.

"You wouldn't make a wounded, desperate man beg, would you?" His puppy voice. His embarrassing, played up, big, dumb wide eyes. So evocative you can all but see a tail swaying steadily behind him.

"How hurt are you?" He's not the only one that can dodge a question.

"Pip-squeak. I could be on deaths door as we speak and I would still want you to tell me about how you made yourself cum." He says it with a comical amount conviction.

Ok, drama. You roll your eyes, he's gonna be fine.

"Where are you right now?" That certainty will not, however, stop you from dragging this out further.

"Somewhere I'm not gonna be disturbed... probably." You can faintly make out the sound of him pulling down his zipper.

"Probably?"

"Yesterday, pips." Ah. He's wised up to your games.

"So demanding..." You mumble as you think over the last 48 hours, how best to tell him, how best to ruin the rest of his night with the thought of you.

"...Work has been unbearably slow since you left. Like so slow that it almost feels like I'm being fucked with. Jenna sent me home at noon yesterday-"

He cuts you off with a moan. You bark out a laugh.

"Really? Me being under-worked, that's what does it for you?" Your head tilts in mock surprise.

"Genuinely? Yes." You wish he was always this honest. A little bit because it's really fucking sexy, but mostly because you could avoid a hell of a lot of arguments.

"Getting off on just my voice and the knowledge that I'm all comfy and bored at home. Why should I make the effort to explain myself further? It sounds like you've got it." You tease.

"You can leave it at that, if you want, but you're not gonna get anything out of me if you don't tell me exactly what you've been up to since I've been gone." He teases right back. Same song and dance since forever.

Your stomach warms, you stay the course.

"I've been trying to keep myself busy, with the gym and chores and friends. But mostly it feels like I'm just waiting for you to come home." You muse idly, intentionally flippant.

"Baby, you know that's not what I meant." You think he rolls his eyes. You grin, you'd love it if he was actually starting to get a little annoyed.

It's so hard getting him a little sick of you. It's become one of your favorite games to play.

...But you've been on edge for hours now, and you are not blessed with Caleb's Herculean patience. It's time for show and tell.

"And I was thinking about... what I wanted to do when you got back. How I wanted to make it up to you for last time." You paw at the couch for your vibrator, disregarded somewhere between his colleague's appearance and Caleb leaving you to wait in silence on call.

"Pips, I told you I-"

"Is it your turn to talk?" You cut him off as you turn your vibe, finally, back on.

"...No, baby." A deep, shaky breath.

"Correct! Look at you. Smart, smart boy." You condescend, voice sickeningly sweet and bubbly.

It has the desired effect. He whimpers, the sound of fabric swaying increasing in speed and volume. His exhales all sharp 'hah... hah's.

"Anyways, I didn't tell you this, but a few weeks ago I ordered myself a fun new toy." You grin maniacally. '-Which you are going to fucking hate.' You choose not to say.

You take a minute to send him a pic of your acquisition. A ridiculously bright, massive, orange dildo.

More shuffling, as he pulls out his phone. You bite your lip in anticipation, working your vibrator under your panties and over your engorged clit.

"Did you know you can get custom sizing on these things now? It's wild."

You hear his breath catch. Ha.

"...Pip-squeak." Oooh is that the Colonel's voice? He can't be that upset about some silicone getting to be inside you, surely.

"Sure the details aren't perfect, but the dimensions are 1 to 1. Which is all I really needed for my purposes." You dismiss him entirely, continuing on as if he hadn't spoken at all. You send him another image you took, of the hulking thing laid next to your forearm. A reference to your first night together, measuring him against you, equal parts horrified and salivating.

His silence, the sound of him spitting, the squelch of his hand setting back to work, is all the indication you need to know he's made tentative peace with his stand in.

"I've been meaning to practice. And yesterday just seemed to be the perfect time for it." You increase the pressure on your clit as his breathing picks up.

"...To finally work out how to get all of you down my throat."

You swear to god you feel a change in gravity. The entire planet shifting on its axis.

"Fuuck me pips..." He sounds like he's collapsing in on himself.

"Ha. I'm doin my best, Cay." You play with the pressure of on your core, increasing and lessening it rhythmically, that marching time Caleb was stepping in earlier.

One, two, three, four, five.

"Need you so bad pip. Want you here. Want to touch you. Want to have you on me, around me. I wanna come home to you." You almost can't make it out with the way he's whining, the way he stumbles over the words.

You could explode just listening to him, all desperate and aching and pleading for it. But you won't, not right now.

First you have to get him there.

You stop your ministrations. Lift the vibrator to buzz against nothing in your hand. You do nothing to keep the broken moan brought on by the cessation down. You were telling a story. You should finish it.

Your eyes squeeze shut, as you catch your breath before continuing on.

"It felt good, being so full. Even when I choked around it. When I'd push in a little too far, too fast, just wrong, and gag a little. But it made me so sad, being reminded how I'm not as good at being gentle with me as you are..." It was the new, recurring, worst thing about masturbating now. Any and everything you did, you did thinking about how he could do it better.

"I wanted to feel close to you, so I took your pillow from the top of the bed, got it between my legs, and worked myself over it..." You choose now to put the vibe back on you, lower your free hand to your entrance. "...until the friction and the breathlessness sent me over the edge." Two fingers plunged inside yourself. Good, but not long enough, not big enough.

Not Caleb. Not Caleb's hand.

Just his voice chanting 'pips pips pips baby' and 'love you love you love you' over the static on the line. You smile, heart warm with it.

"But you know, really..." You love him so bad, you'd do anything for him.

"...It was thinking about how good I could make you feel that finished me..." You turn your vibrator up a setting. Press down on yourself hard.

"You get that right? Yeah, you do." You say between gasps.

Caleb's gone quiet, listening after you, knowing.

"It's the same for you."

Six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

You're vision whites out. Legs shaking with the violence of the orgasm being ripped out of you. You feel your mouth moving, feel your vocal cords straining. But you have no cognizance of what you say, what you sound like, as you topple over the precipice.

When you return to life, blinking and stuttering yourself back into your ruined body, you note that the noises on his end have grown increasingly slick and sloppy. 'sound so pretty, baby.' Each jerk of his hand over his cock is wet and audible. 'you're so good for me, so good. too good. don't deserve you.' Drool pools in your mouth, despite your exhaustion, what you wouldn't give-

The bitterness that you do not currently have rears its ugly head.

Post orgasm clarity has made you suddenly much less generous.

"...Getting close?" You ask, all faux innocence.

"Y...yeah-" He interrupts himself with a jagged moan. Too caught up to catch you in the act.

"Faster."

You can hear how he immediately picks up the pace.

"Always such a good listener. Caleb's the best in the whole world." You goad him. You know exactly what to say to make him weak, to make him break for you.

His responding moan shoots right through you, down to where your achy bud.

"You gonna cum, my love?"

"Fuck, yes- pips please. Can I?" He's all breath. All panting and desperate for it.

Your face splits into a grin. You were so hoping he'd ask.

"No." You draw the word out, smirking as you say it.

An absolutely miserable choked noise from over the line. You can't help the laugh that rises up in you.

Serves him right.

For?

For not being here, right now. For the whole dead-not-dead thing. For being so fucking hot. For being the best part of your life and the one who could most easily ruin it. For everything, for all of it.

Serves him right for listening, for letting you do this to him.

Big, strong, perfect, restrained Caleb.

You hear him gasp and stutter, break out in a series of 'no no no's

"Thought you wanted to be good for me?" You frown, selling a performance he cannot see.

"I-hah do..." His voice is so broken, so tormented.

You know he's more than earned the relief. Anyone else would give it to him.

"Aaand?" You do not.

"I didn't. I didn't." He hiccups out.

"Good boy Caleb! You're so, so good. So perfect. Love you so much." You sing-song at him. A bandaid over a bullet wound.

A sniffle, on his end of the line.

"Are you cryin, baby?" You wish you felt bad, mostly you just feel yourself starting to get worked up again.

He says nothing, you give him a minute to compose himself, put his head back on straight. You close your eyes, center yourself around his deep, rough breathing. The little pained sounds that escape him.

"...wanted."

His voice startles you, in your stupor.

"Hm?" You question.

"You said 'wanted'. Past tense." His speaking voice has leveled back out incredibly fast.

Caleb, who can withstand anything.

It takes you a minute to catch up to him, replaying your conversation thus far. Oh, yeah, you forgot!

"Good catch! You're so smart." You totally forgot about your change of heart, the second phase you meant to have in your operation. Brought on by his actions in this very conversation!

"That was, obviously, before we got on the phone today and you decided it would be a good idea to lie, and keep secrets, and just generally be your annoying self." You speak jovially, like he isn't being indicted.

He stays quiet. You're not sure if it's because he's not sure where you're going with this, or that he knows anything he says can and will be used against him.

You've never once in your life had to worry over making bold moves with Caleb. The man has proven time and time again that he will take anything you throw at him.

And so you have no qualms or concerns about how he may react to what you are about to say.

"So now, actually, I think I don't really feel like choking on your dick." You state bluntly.

You hear him shuffle on his feet, movement from his clothes, as he takes himself back in hand.

Over you saying you don't want him, mind you. The absolute freak that he is.

"I think instead, what I want, is to make you lay back in bed, climb over your chest..."

He groans, slick sounds returning as he pumps himself.

"...And fuck myself on that toy, while all you can do is watch."

A sharp intake of breath. A shudder you can fucking feel through the phone.

"And when I'm done with it, I think that toy is going down your throat. Until you learn how to use your mouth correctly." Your pulse sets a rapid pace in your chest, body all hot and being totally ignored in favor of getting him over the edge.

He sounds like a mess, in every sense of the word. Voice straining and strangled. The sloppy, vulgar sounds of his every move. The desperate, pathetic, pleading. He's so perfect.

"I'm gonna- Please. Please baby I need to- I need you. Please, please let me-"

"Cum for me Caleb." The lovesickness in your voice would humiliate you, if it were for anyone else.

-

"You took the toy thing surprisingly well. I thought for sure you were gonna tell me to throw it out." You've been on the phone forever now. The sky's gone dark. You tap your phone screen to bring it back to life, check the timer.

Yeah, you haven't even made it into the top 5 'Longest Calls With Caleb' yet.

A star to aim for next time you have desperate, messy phone sex you suppose.

"Oh it's absolutely going away, and soon." He says matter-of-factly.

You snort in amusement.

"...But not yet. You have plans, don't you?" puppy Caleb asks.

Your train of thought grinds to a halt.

"You'd actually-" You'd mostly just been horny and pissed off and wanting to mess with him. You didn't think it was something he'd actually entertain, or be into.

"Anything pip. Anything. Always." He muses. In your mind, you picture his eyes glazing over. "Want you as many ways as I can get you. Every way you can think of."

You don't even know what to say to that.

"Don't wash the pillow." Thankfully, he doesn't ask you to, just keeps rolling with the next batshit insane thought that enters his sick head.

"First of all, ew. And second, I already did." Because duh. You weren't raised in a barn! You keep your gaze pointedly away from your still sticky vibrator on a coaster on the coffee table.

The sound he makes at your declaration is almost as pathetic as the one he made when you told him not to cum.

He goes quiet. Maybe he's finally taken a page out of your book, and is giving you the silent treatment for being so cruel to him.

Not over the yelling at him, not over your rapidly changing moods, not even for the sexual torture.

For washing a fucking pillow case.

"...We're at a base on an offshoot island of Skyhaven." He speaks up.

"Huh?" You reply dumbly.

"For training. Performance among new recruits has been lackluster. To the point of requiring... reeducation."

You pause to process the information.

"Did you just disclose classified information to a civilian... to bribe me into climaxing on your pillow and leaving it to stew?" You're astonished. All of your asking after him and then pleading to know he's safe and then demanding 'tell me where the fuck you are', and what finally breaks him is pussy.

"I disclosed classified information to my adjutant to bribe you into recording yourself climaxing on my pillow and leaving it to stew." Oh, well that makes it all better doesn't it. Totally above board and normal. The man could justify anything to himself.

"You're insane." You say it because he needs to know. "And you're going to have to do better than that, if you want me to meet your demands." And then you meet his madness with your own.

Who could blame you? He's never been so open to divulging. You're gonna milk him for everything he's worth.

"...Before I left. You wanted to help me finish and I wouldn't let you." He pauses, looking for the right words to explain. "It wasn't because I didn't want you to, it was that I didn't need you to."

You shrug your shoulders, the ghost of a frown making its way to your face. You really would have like to suck him off... or give him a hand at least. Especially if you'd known how long this 'long mission' was going to be.

"I know you never need me to... and yeah, I was exhausted-thanks to you-but I wanted to-"

"I came in my pants."

"I'm sorry?"

"I came in my pants. From grinding against your foot. Like a virgin." Said like someone who wasn't a virgin just over a month ago. You purse your lips around a scoff. Also that's maybe the hottest thing you've ever heard. Second only to 'I won't jack off unless I have your express permission'. Your man is completely deranged. How did you get so lucky?

"One video of me doing completely obscene shit to your pillow, got it." You nod to yourself in determination. He's so, so earned it.

"I'm so incredibly in love with you." That sickly sweet dreaminess returns to his voice.

Your heart skips a beat.

"God, It's just from one track to the next with you. Give me a minute to get my bearings, will you?" You flop onto the couch, an arm over your face as you exhale.

"And leave you with an opportunity to get bored? Not a chance." The mirth in his voice is infectious. So comforting and familiar. A sound you associate with the promise of forever.

"Yeah yeah..." You have your hand absently in the air, gaze falling to a half finished model on your dining room table. "I love you too, by the way. Desperately and eternally."

"Your curse and burden." The smirk evident in his delivery.

"At least you understand." Your own grin is bright and wide.

"I'll be home before you know it... and you can do whatever you want with me the second I'm through the door. So long as you promise that I can be face down in that pillow or suffocating in your cunt the whole time."

You choke on nothing. Shooting straight up from where you lay.

"Fucking- Caleb, holy shit-"

"Gotta go pips. Duty calls."

The line is cut, you are left mouth agape, with nothing but your hammering heart and the return of all encompassing warmth as you sit, only having just recovered from sweating through the already soaked fabric of your coach.

You're phone alerts you that you have a text.

Cay✈️🧡: 🛌🏻

Cay✈️🧡: [Sunny Apple: Happy]

You scoff aloud, so that's his game then. Work you back up so you can get right to the little mission he's assigned you.

Unbelievable.

You pluck up your phone and make your way to your bedroom.

Guess you'd better go be good for him. Fair is fair.

You prop the device up on the window sill, check your angles, hit record and amble over to the bed.

You'll play your part, for now.

His freshly washed pillow finds its way back between your legs.

But when he gets home?

He won't be able to get you off him if he tries.

-

...Is this far from perfect? Yes. Do I refuse to look at it any longer? Also yes.

Caleb has been nonstop in the wedding event with calling MC colonel... Let!!! that motherfucker!!! get bullied and bossed around sexual style!!! It's like enrichment for him he needs it!!!

My advice to you is never write phone sex. Trying to micromanage two people jerking it in separate locations, one of which you can only really discuss through audio cues, vibes, and the other character's intuition is exhausting. I feel like their secretary. Their sexcretary. Sexcretariat. I'm losing the plot and also my mind.

this was supposed to be a quick little 1.5k romp to measure my abilities. Instead. It's whatever the fuck this is. Whatever.

“You don’t have to be so quiet.”

The voice comes from the dark living room, and you nearly jump out of your skin. The box wobbles precariously in your hands, and you clutch it like a life raft.

“Zayne! You scared me.” You exhale sharply, stepping toward him as he emerges from the shadows. He’s wearing loose pyjama pants and a soft grey T-shirt, hair slightly mussed as though he’d been running his hands through it.

“What are you doing up?” you ask, though your voice softens without meaning to.

“You texted that you’d stop by today.” It’s all he says, but the implication is enough.

You shake your head with a smile, setting the box carefully on the counter before stepping into his space to wrap your arms around him. “You must have had a long day. You shouldn’t have stayed up just for me.” You mumble it against the soft cotton of his shirt, feeling his warmth seep into you.

His arms come around you in a slow, steady motion, holding you like he has no intention of letting go. “It’s not a bother. I wanted to see you,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

The corners of your mouth curve upward, but you reluctantly loosen your hold. “Well, then it’s a good thing you’re awake, because I have a surprise.” You flip open the bakery box with a little flourish, revealing a colorful assortment of cookies. Some are dusted with powdered sugar, others dotted with strange but enticing mix-ins. “I stopped by that place you mentioned a while ago and picked up the wacky flavours you were curious about.”

You start listing them off one by one: raspberry cheesecake, pistachio-chocolate chunk, maple bacon, enjoying the little huffs of amusement he gives. But halfway through your grand presentation, you glance up and notice something odd about his expression.

“What?” you ask, a hint of uncertainty creeping in. “Did I not get the ones you wanted? I can go back tomorrow, you know.”

He shakes his head almost instantly. “That’s not it.” His gaze drops to the cookies, then back to you, like he’s trying to put something into words. “I’m just…surprised.”

“About what?” you press gently.

“That you went through the trouble. You had a long day yourself.” There’s a shy note in his voice now, the kind that makes your chest ache a little.

You can’t help the fond smile that blooms on your face. Leaning forward, you press a quick, soft kiss to his lips, just enough to make him blink in surprise before you pull back. “You said you wanted to try them, didn’t you? So grab me a plate, and we’ll take them to bed. I’m not letting you eat these alone.”

After polishing off the last of the cookies, crumbs clinging to your fingertips and the faint taste of chocolate still on your tongue, you stretch with a sleepy sigh. “Alright, I’m getting ready for bed before I crash right here on your couch,” you announce, rising from your comfortable sprawl.

You’d rushed straight to the bakery after work, eager to get to Zayne’s place on time. Which, unfortunately, meant you didn’t have your usual evening arsenal of skincare, pajamas, and other bedtime comforts. Tonight, you’d have to make do.

Or so you thought.

The moment you step into Zayne’s bathroom, your eyes fall on the sink, and you freeze. Lined up neatly along one side is an unmistakable collection of bottles, jars, and tubes. Familiar bottles. Your bottles. Each one perfectly arranged as if someone had carefully measured the space between them.

Frowning in disbelief, you pick one up, your favourite cleanser, and give it a little shake. The seal is still intact. In fact, they all are, brand new and untouched.

Your stomach gives a strange little flip.

“Zayne?” you call, stepping out into the bedroom with the cleanser still in hand. He’s sitting against the headboard, pajama-clad and looking every bit like he’s been waiting for you to come back.

“Yes?” He tilts his head slightly, curious.

You hold up the bottle like evidence in a mystery drama. “What is this?”

His brow furrows, and for a second he genuinely looks confused. “It’s the correct one, isn’t it?”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it, and you walk closer, shaking your head. “It is. Exactly the one I use. Which brings me to my next question. Why do you have all of my skincare sitting in your bathroom?”

At that, a flicker of something, amusement or perhaps embarrassment, passes across his face. His lips twitch into the smallest, almost sheepish smile, and he gives the tiniest shrug, like it’s hardly worth mentioning. “You spend quite a few nights here. I wanted you to have everything you need.”

The words are so casual, like he’s talking about buying an extra carton of milk. But the weight of them settles warm and heavy in your chest, melting you on the spot.

“How did you even-this must have cost-ugh!” The jumble of thoughts comes out all tangled, and you give up halfway through, pressing the bottle against his chest as you lean in to kiss him instead. It’s quick but earnest, your fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt.

When you pull back, you don’t go far. Instead, you plant a trail of light kisses across his cheeks, his jaw, the tip of his nose, laughing quietly when you notice the way his ears are turning red.

“You’re the best,” you murmur against his skin, grinning so wide it almost aches.

He straightens slightly, clearing his throat like he’s trying to play it cool. “Well…thank you,” he says, though his eyes linger on you in that way that makes your heart squeeze.

You flash him one last sunny smile before practically skipping back to the bathroom, clutching the cleanser in your hand like it’s the most thoughtful gift in the world.

When you return to the bedroom, skin still faintly dewy from your skincare routine and teeth pleasantly minty, Zayne is already mostly settled in. The blankets are drawn up around his waist, one pillow tucked under his arm like a makeshift bolster. His hair is slightly mussed from running his hands through it, and the faint lamplight gives him an unintentional softness that makes your chest ache a little.

Your eyes flick over the room, landing on a familiar sight: his reading glasses, perched on the edge of the dresser. With a quiet little shake of your head, you pick them up. Zayne had an uncanny habit of leaving them in the strangest places, on the kitchen counter, inside the laundry room, once even balanced on top of the toaster. Inevitably, he’d spend twenty minutes wandering around the apartment looking for them, muttering under his breath the whole time.

Your favourite incident had been when he video-called you during his lunch break, pacing his office while complaining about “misplacing” them…only to discover they’d been sitting on top of his head the entire time. You’d laughed so hard you had to mute yourself.

As you climb into your side of the bed, tucking yourself into the cool sheets, you hear it. His signature, world-weary sigh. The one you’ve come to recognize as the “where did I put my glasses” sigh. You smirk, holding them out toward him without looking, getting distracted in smoothing the blanket at the edge of the bed.

A few seconds pass. He doesn’t take them.

You glance up, only to find him watching you with an expression that stops you for just a moment. It’s soft in a way you can’t quite place, the same look he’d worn when you’d surprised him with those cookies earlier, like he’s caught off guard by something.

“What is it?” you ask, tilting your head slightly.

“…Nothing,” he says after a pause, his voice quiet. “Thank you.” He reaches out, taking the glasses from your hand, but not before letting his fingers linger just a little longer than necessary against yours.

Despite your confusion, you can’t help smiling in return, feeling the corners of your lips curve upward without effort.

“Should I turn the light off?” he asks as he settles the glasses on his face and cracks open his book. The gold rim catches the lamplight, making the green in his eyes look just a bit warmer than usual.

You shake your head, letting your body sink into the mattress. “Don’t worry about it. I’m good like this.”

Your eyelids grow heavy as the sound of his page turns becomes the quiet backdrop to your drifting thoughts. His presence, warm beside you, steady and familiar, wraps around you just as securely as the blanket.

You fall asleep with a smile, the faint rustle of paper and the scent of him in the air anchoring you in the easiest kind of peace.

You’re totally going to be late to work.

There’s no one to blame but yourself, and you know it, though if you had to point fingers, you could make a weak case for blaming Zayne. Only, it’s a little hard to do that when he’s padding around in plaid pajama pants, hair adorably mussed from sleep, looking like he just stepped out of a lazy Sunday morning commercial.

He’s brushing his teeth when you start your frantic dash around his bedroom, grabbing at clothes and tossing them onto the bed in a whirl. Your bag is already open on the dresser, spilling out lip balm, pens, and your small emergency makeup kit. At least you’d had the foresight to keep an extra uniform here, that alone might save you.

“You should calm down,” Zayne says after rinsing his mouth, stepping out of the bathroom still trailing faint curls of steam behind him. “It’ll be alright if you’re a few minutes late.”

You whip around and give him an incredulous look. “Coming from the cardiac surgeon? Remind me not to get my next heart surgery at Akso.”

He has the nerve to smirk

You’re halfway through attempting to button your shirt when the last button refuses to cooperate. You mutter a curse under your breath, fumbling with it until he crosses the room toward you, still only half dressed. His hair is damp and pushed back messily, and the faint scent of his clean, slightly sweet body wash hits you immediately.

“Let me.”

Before you can protest, his hands are on the fabric, his fingers warm and precise as he pushes the stubborn button through with ease. He smooths down the crinkle at your shoulder, letting his palm rest there for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“There,” he says, voice softer now.

You linger, just a few seconds too long, before forcing yourself to step back and resume your whirlwind.

Somehow, against all odds, you make it to work on time, sliding into your chair without having to endure Captain Jenna’s infamous you’re lucky I like you glare. But your morning victory is short-lived. Without your usual cup of coffee from Zayne’s kitchen, by the time the clock crawls toward 1 p.m., your eyelids feel like they’ve doubled in weight.

You’re about two seconds from face-planting into your desk when the sound of a coffee cup hitting the surface jolts you upright.

“Tara, you are a saint-” you start, but stop short when you catch a whiff of a scent you could recognize in your sleep. You blink up to see Zayne standing there, his white coat slung over one arm.

“Zayne? What are you doing here?”

Seeing him sends a rush of energy through you that has nothing to do with caffeine. Still, you wrap your hands around the warm cup quickly, already taking in the scent of caramel and espresso.

“You didn’t have coffee this morning,” he says matter-of-factly. “And you only slept for six hours, so I figured you’d need a…pick-me-up.” His smile is a little lopsided, the one that always makes your chest do that annoying fluttery thing.

“You didn’t have to come all this way,” you murmur, glancing around to make sure no one’s paying attention before leaning forward to press a quick kiss to his lips. He tastes like whipped cream and caramel, with just the faintest hint of mint toothpaste lingering from earlier.

“It’s not a problem,” he says easily, his thumb brushing against the side of your hand as he squeezes it gently. “Your break’s in a few minutes, and mine doesn’t end for another thirty. How about we go for a walk?”

With you, he's patient.

Quiet, as you settle into the couch. Still, as you curl into his warmth. Gentle, as his fingers slightly graze your shoulder.

With him, you can just be.

Hear the final notes of the violin call out to the home in your heart, feel the subtle weight of fingertips rest against your shoulder. Let your hand drift to his chest and try to match the even rise and fall of his breath.

He murmurs your name, the vibration faint against your hand.

"Sylus," you offer lightly, tucking your head close to his heart — hand still flat against his chest.

"This is a surprise" he laughs low, warm as his arm wraps around you. "Miss me?" You can feel his eyes on you, the questions that linger in the space between.

"Maybe," you mumble it into his chest, a delicate truth that prods at the hollow in your heart.

His fingers flex against your waist.

"You should rest." It's spoken softly, but the meaning heavy — the plates in your heart colliding then buckling, folding in on itself to forge something firmer and resolute.

You peer up at him, a small pout pulling at the corners of your mouth. "I just got here, and…" a small yawn stifles the words.

"And?" Sylus hums, slightly smug, cradling the curve of your jaw with his other hand.

"I just want to be with you right now."

At your words, something flickers in his gaze, tender and raw as his thumb draws a slow line across your cheek. "I'm here." He shifts your weight, lifting you up carefully as you curl closer to him. "And — we can go together."

"But you're not tired," it's a soft protest, your hands already linked around his neck, head already tucked snug against his neck.

Sylus holds you close as he turns off the lights and closes the door.

He's softer in the light of the hallway, the subtle warm glow dusting his cheeks.

"I'd rather spend my time with you."

The hiss of the shower echoes off the walls of the bathroom, leaving you entranced by the rain-like pattern it taps out on the tile. Secluded in the hazy steam that swirls against your skin.

His movements are slow, fingers deliberate as he unbuttons your shirt — carefully sliding it down your shoulders. Your hands seek the hem of his shirt, skimming the bare skin peeking out and pushing it up. Each touch is measured, an intimacy that makes your heart ache as Sylus presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist and gently guides you into the shower.

The hot water envelopes you, releasing the last traces of tension that lingered. His hands follow, soothing the ache in your spine. He washes your hair, thumbs drawing small circles against your temples before carefully rinsing. Time simply melts away as you lean into him and this moment, safe.

You're reluctant to leave the heat of the shower, your body languid and loose — a warm haziness slipped over your skin. You're convinced only by the lingering touches on your arm and the promise of his favorite robe. He ties it snug across your waist, pulling you closer by the sash and sneaking a soft kiss to your forehead.

For a moment, it feels like home. The lingering scent of the mint toothpaste, the dab of moisturizer dotted on your nose by his quick hands, warm subtle touches as two people share one mirror. The normalcy of it taking root in the hollow of your heart, blooming into something gentler.

"Your hair's still damp," you muse, running your fingers through the strands. Hanging on to this sense of home, of here, of now.

"Oh?," he hums, mirth evident in the upturn of his lips. "Will you dry it for me?" He leans closer, hands drawn to your waist.

"I don't know," you pause, pretending to think for a moment. "I think you're too tall for that." You gently tap his forehead.

His laugh resounds in his chest, deep and clear, as he lifts you up to sit on the bathroom counter. His nose grazes your as he moves closer, hands flat on the counter behind you.

"Is this better?"

Your hands slide up the back of his neck, fingers grazing through the damp hair at his nape. He leans into the touch, eyes closed. Another moment to cling to, as you lightly brush your lips against his.

"Much better."

His lips meet yours again, hands cupping your jaw and closing the small space between. Quiet reminders that you're paused here, together.

Time passes differently behind closed doors, measured in soft sighs and warm touch — disrupted only by cool strands of his damp hair between your fingers. You pull away slightly, pressing one more kiss to the corner of his mouth and reaching for a towel.

There's a light smile on his face, as you lightly tousle his hair with the towel, content as he traces the length of your thigh. (Tenderness settles in your chest.)

"You remind me of home," you mumble with a smile, the vulnerable words come loose — softened by sleep, and warmth, and the slight brush of his fingers.

"Home?" he breathes it out, the word fragile on his tongue.

You nod slowly, setting the towel on the counter and wrapping your arms around his waist. "Because you're warm." You lay your head against his chest and close your eyes. "And I feel safe, and think I feel a little homesick when I'm not with you."

He holds you closer, pulling you flush against his chest. His heart beats in your ear, each steady beat an echo of home, home, home. Hovering between lucidity and dreaming, he offers a too delicate truth. Hushed words that blend with the beat of his heart and rest in the warmth in your chest.

“—why don’t we ever do these in exam rooms?” You exhale, eyes dropping to the plain paperweight at the corner of his desk. Your face is suddenly hot with the shame of your cowardice. “You know, with the bed and the jars full of cotton balls and tongue depressors and stuff.”

“Would you prefer that?” he returns smoothly before clicking his pen. 

“No, it would probably feel too clinical,” you reply honestly before trying a short laugh. 

Zayne’s attention slips to the computer at his deck. 

“But, “ you break in again, a sudden wave of persistence hitting you before you have time to fully think it through, “I was just w-wondering, because we never take my blood pressure or anything like that…”

“The nurses take your blood pressure before I see you,” he explains. “They upload it to your record before you come in here.” He glances at you, the way your hands are tightly clasped in your lap. 

“Your blood pressure looks fine,” he says, reassuringly, “as does everything else. I would only recommend that you get more—”

“Sleep?” you snort and Zayne only gives you a slight nod. “That’s been kind of hard lately, but I’ll keep it in mind.” 

“Overworking yourself is also not recommended.”

“I actually, um,” you swallow. “I wanted to ask about my blood pressure because…because I wanted to ask if you could write me a prescription for birth control?” You squeeze your eyes shut, mentally beating yourself for ending the sentence all high and squeaky because you’ve now opened yourself up to the possibility of Zayne asking you to repeat yourself. 

Fortunately, this doesn’t happen. 

Instead, there is a pause that suspiciously feels like ten minutes, but is likely only five seconds. 

“Birth control?” Zayne repeats, like it’s the first time he’s ever heard those two words put together. 

“Yeah,” you say, eyes darting up towards the upper molding of the windows in his office. “Not like the shot or an IUD or anything, I think…I think I just want to try taking the pills for now.”

Zayne takes off his glasses, not even bothering to fold them before placing them on his desk.

“You know what,” you say suddenly, the tension snapping you back into reality, “maybe I should just get it somewhere else. I didn’t mean to make it—”

“Do you know which one you want?” he interrupts, his voice tight. As terribly awkward as this is for you, you imagine it’s just as worse for Zayne. After years of never discussing anything more personal than book recommendations, this must be a sudden plunge into the deep end of your personal business. It’s not even like you wanted it to prevent pregnancy—your periods were always an overly painful ordeal and a recommendation from Tara (and hours of online research), you’d decided to at least ask about it at your next visit. It’s clear to you now that you should’ve just gone to a clinic. 

“Yeah, um…” you pull out your phone to find the drug name in your notes before handing it to him. 

“You understand that with the pill, you’ll have to take it every day at the same time, correct? And that you’ll have to throw out the pack and start a new one if you skip too many days?” 

“Yeah, I know,” you say. Part of you is annoyed at the implication behind that question, but another part of you is relieved that Zayne has somehow slipped back into his ‘nagging doctor’ persona.

“Not to mention the side effects, which can influence your mood—”

“I know,” you interject, not even bothering to hide your irritation now. You know that Zayne is just doing his job, but something about the blurred lines between your professional and personal relationships makes his nagging hit even closer to home than usual. Especially about something so personal. 

He sighs. “Can you at least be honest with me about any effects you might feel after starting the pill at our next visit? Or call me. Just…don’t keep things from me.” 

You glance up at him. Part of you wants to ask him to do the same, but you figure that the context in which he’s asking is probably quite different. After all, in the near two decades that you’ve known each other, he’s never been one to pry into your personal life, only delving into matters concerning your health and your heart. This instance may be the closest brush yet. 

“I promise,” you declare earnestly, giving him an easy smile. 

He blinks once, his shoulders slowly raising from a long, sustained breath. Even in the white artificial light of his office and even when you’re stressing him out for the nth time this month, you think he looks kind of cute like this. 

You’re not oblivious, you know that Zayne is attractive. Your friends have said it, Caleb has said it, hell, even random old ladies on the street have said it. But in this moment, when you’ve got him just slightly frazzled enough to break through his frosty demeanor, you think you finally see what everyone’s been talking about. 

“Fine,” he says, reaching for his script pad. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly, mulling over this revelation. 

Oh well, you think, as he scratches out your prescription on the paper with his usual quiet nonchalance. 

It was nice seeing this side of him while it lasted.

-

Three days later, your phone rings at 10 am on the dot.

It’s your day off, so you’re still mostly asleep when the device starts vibrating with an intensity strong enough to startle you from unconsciousness. Your hands scrabble through the sheets, groggily searching for it before it sends whoever’s calling to voicemail. Once you manage to find it and flip it over, you’re surprised to see Zayne’s contact picture staring at you with its familiar indifference. 

“Hello?” you mumble blearily after managing to hit the ‘Accept call’ button. 

“Good morning,” the surgeon’s voice sounds from the speaker of your phone. It’s slightly muffled, like he’s wearing a mask, so you figure that he’s at work. This realization confuses you, seeing as Zayne almost never calls you in the middle of his work day. You figure it must be something significant enough to warrant interrupting his ever-packed schedule of surgeries, paperwork, and hospital board meetings. You rub away the sleep in your eyes and push yourself up to a sitting position on the bed. 

“Doctor Zayne,” you say, barely stifling a yawn. “Was there something wrong with my results from last time?” 

There’s a pause on the line and the sound of some not-so-distant conversation before you hear Zayne promising to follow-up with whoever it is. 

“Sorry,” he says to you this time. “I just wanted to ask if you’d started the pill.” 

Your eyes dart to the small foil packaging of pills on your nightstand. You’d set a reminder on your phone to take the pill around an hour before your usual bedtime so there were three empty pockets in the blister pack. 

“Yeah,” you say. “So far, so good.” 

He gives a short hmm. “Did you read the package insert?” 

“Well, yes…” you recall partially getting through the bath towel-sized sheet of paper printed with lines and lines of tiny font before giving up and haphazardly stuffing it back into the box. “Kind of.” 

“So you’ve been taking it at the same everyday—”

“Yeah.”

“—and that you also need to take the placebo pills at the end of your pack—”

“Mhm.”

“—and that you shouldn’t be having unprotected sex until at least one week after consistently taking the pill.”

Your mouth pops open, surprised that Zayne had even said the word “sex”. In fact, you think it’s the first time you’ve ever heard it from him. 

“Uh,” you swallow, scratching at the collar of your pyjama top. The lack of…activity in your life wasn’t something that plagued your everyday thoughts, but it was still disheartening to receive the reminder that you hadn’t had anyone in recent memory. You wonder if Zayne was in the same boat, given his schedule. But before you can allow your mind to wander further down that path, you remember that you’ve yet to give him a substantial response.

“I don’t have—” You clear your throat. “I haven’t been having—”

“Okay,” Zayne says, much too quickly. “But you will still need to wait until a full week if…if you do—”

“I know,” you say, unusually flustered for this early in the morning. “I don’t, um, I don’t think I’m going to be doing that before the week is up.” 

“Understood.” Even when slightly muffled, Zayne’s voice sounds almost as tense as you feel. 

A few seconds pass and you’re about to suggest hanging up to let him get back to his day, but he speaks up before you can. 

“Do you have plans next week?” he asks, causing your heart to flutter in your chest. Your other hand grips at the soft cotton of your comforter as you try to contain this sudden bout of emotion. Why were you even more panicked than you were a minute ago? 

“Like, um, besides work?” 

You hear him give a short laugh before he replies. “Yes, besides work.” 

“I think so,” you reply, fiddling with a loose thread on your sheet. “I’m seeing a few high school friends for karaoke Saturday night, and then I told Tara I’d help her pick out some coats for the fall.”

“No I mean…” he sighs before you hear a slight rustling. “I wanted to ask,” he says, the sound of his voice now unobstructed by a surgical mask, “if you had a date. If you were seeing someone. Romantically.” 

You bring your hand to your cheek, pinching the soft skin there to confirm that this is real and that you’re fully awake. Once you register the slight bit of pain, your brain begins to move much too fast while also getting you nowhere. Why was Zayne asking you this? Why now? Did he like you? Did you like him? Your hummingbird heartbeat tells you that the answer to the last question is most likely yes, but it’s more than you can process on the morning of your day off when you’d been planning to roll out of bed at noon and complete all of one chore before dinner. 

“Are you asking me on a date, Doctor Zayne?” is what your brain ends up conjuring after several stilted moments of silence. 

“I—Yes,” he says, with a sense of finality that leaves you a little stunned. “I’m asking you on a date.” 

“Oh.”

He clears his throat. “Would you like to go on a date with me?” 

“Yeah,” you reply, a little dazed. “I mean, yes. Yes I want to go on a date with you.” 

Zayne exhales. “Good. Good.”

“Great,” you say, unable to fight the sudden grin that’s formed on your lips. 

“Does next Friday night work for you?” 

“Yes,” you answer immediately. Even if you aren’t actually free that night, you’re sure that you can find a way to make it so that you are. 

“I’ll send you the details later,” he says, sounding a bit more like his usual, composed self. 

“Okay,” you breathe into the mic. 

“I have to scrub in now for a pacemaker insertion procedure.”

“Oh. Oh, okay, I can hang up now,” you chirp, too giddy to even be down about his absence. 

“Have a good rest of the day,” Zayne says gently before you both say goodbye.

When the call ends, you’re left to face your own shocked expression on the dark screen of your phone. It’s suddenly much too quiet in the airy expanse of your room, much too calm for the anxiety and anticipation boiling over in your chest like two angry chemical mixtures overflowing into one another. You need an output. 

You grab the closest throw pillow and shove your face into it, screaming into the plush fabric like it’ll ease the still-growing elation in your body.

How did you get from birth control to a date? 

How did you even get a date? Much less with Zayne, who you’ve known since you were kids, who was now your primary care physician, and—oh, god—

You snatch up the throw pillow again to unleash another soul-cleansing yell. 

What the hell have you done?

-

What the hell have I done? Zayne thinks for the four hundredth time in the past ten days. 

He hadn’t meant to ask you out on a date, he doesn’t even know how the conversation had veered so far from his intended destination. He’d only meant to ascertain whether you were seeing someone and, as a result, whether you needed the birth control for the purpose he’d suspected. 

Of course it was none of his business. He tries to keep all of his patient relationships strictly professional. However, he has somehow allowed you to cross all his lines. He isn’t sure whether it’s the fact that you’ve known each other before he could even remember the characters for ‘stethoscope’, or if it's something more unprofessional than he can come to terms with. 

But with the way your phone conversation had gone on that otherwise uneventful Monday morning, he’s able to admit it’s probably the latter. Falsely confirming that he was asking you out was an uncharacteristically impulsive move. Doubling down on it and then actually asking you out was an even greater out-of-body experience. It had felt simultaneously like floating above his own physical form and being violently throttled forward like the people in those science fiction space movies when the ship makes its jump to lightspeed. 

One second he is just your physician and maybe your friend, and the next, he’s sitting in a restaurant across from you, reeling from the whiplash of how fast the past week and a half has gone by and, frankly, from how pleased you look to be here. 

Even in the insufficient lighting of the dining room, he can see the reflection of your lip gloss, shimmering as you smile at him, as you take a sip of your cocktail, your pretty mouth wrapped around the short straw. He can’t look away. He wonders if it would be sticky, if it would taste like something dessert-like—perhaps cherry, or vanilla—because he knows that these kinds of cosmetics include that for some reason. Not that he’s thinking of trying on your lip gloss, even though there would be no way to taste it otherwise. Unless…

No, Zayne doesn’t kiss on the first date, not that he’s had many of those. But the thought grabs at him and digs in with its claws as he tries to shake it off throughout a conversation about prototype wrist guards being developed for the Hunter Association. 

“And how was your day?” you ask, your head tilting slightly. Something small glints several centimeters above the corner of your jaw and he realizes that he’s never seen you wear earrings before. Probably for obvious occupation-related reasons.

“It was fine,” he says after adjusting the placement of his salad fork. “It’s rare that I don’t get a call on one of my days off, so the silence was a welcome change.” 

In truth, he’d been restless the whole day, constantly double-checking the time of his reservation, the traffic conditions, and even the weather. At one point, he’d even wished for a call to come through, just so he could potentially postpone this odd eruption of dread and anxiety.

But then you smile again, eyes crinkling at the corners, and Zayne feels something warm and fuzzy bloom inside of him, washing away the remaining dredges of uncertainty still stuck in his system. 

“That’s great,” you gush, glowing as bright as your lips and your ears. “I’m so glad you had a relaxing day off, Doctor Zayne. You really deserve it.” 

His mouth dries and his stomach does something he knows to be physiologically impossible. 

He never should’ve asked you out. 

He should’ve asked you out ages ago. 

-

These dissonant thoughts nag at him for the rest of the date—as he’s paying the bill, as he’s driving you home, as he crosses the threshold of your apartment because of course you’d invited him up, and of course he’d accepted—but now as you kick off your heels and disappear into your kitchen promising to return with two glasses of water, he really feels the devastating weight of his choices. 

You return with two mismatched mugs of water and set them down on the coffee table in front of him before sitting down on the couch. In the much improved lighting of your living room, Zayne notices the shine of your nylons as you fold your legs beneath you and the way even your whole being seems to glow from within. 

“I’m a little buzzed right now,” you admit, which solves the mystery of his last observation. He recalls you ordering at least two cocktails with dinner, and then getting mildly upset when he refused to let you put them on a separate bill for you to pay because Zayne had only had water to drink. However, he didn’t realize that you were this affected until the moment you’d said it. 

He hums, reaching for your glass of water to hand it to you. “Why’d you drink so much?”

You play with the chain around your neck and Zayne watches it glimmer between your nails. “I was nervous,” you pout, and the admission makes his grip on the cup tighten.

He never should’ve asked you out. 

“I didn’t understand—I don’t know why you would want to take me out on a date,” you say softly, eyes downcast.

He should’ve asked you out ages ago.

“What do you mean?” he says, giving up on his endeavour to get you to drink. Instead, he places his hand on yours in an attempt at comfort. 

“I mean,” you state, looking up to meet his gaze, “you’ve never really wanted to get to know me before. So I didn’t really understand why you wanted to take me out now.” 

Your eyes search for the truth within his own, but Zayne knows that his explanation of being a nosy, terrible friend, and an even nosier, more terrible physician is probably not the optimal approach. But he figure he at least owes you some parts of the truth.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles, his thumb running across the apex of your knuckle. “I guess when I was thinking about why you might need the birth control…I thought about whether you wanted it because you were seeing someone else and the thought just made me a little…”

“Jealous?” you offer, suddenly looking up at him with an abashedly pleased expression. 

“Perhaps,” he admits. 

You make a small, delighted noise and Zayne almost flinches when your other hand comes to clasp his. Thankfully, he maintains his composure. 

“Doctor Zayne, will you kiss me?” you ask, your lashes fluttering against your cheek. The combination of his title and your request causes his heart to skip a beat. You look so alluring, with your eyes and your shiny, shiny lips, and the way you’re looking at him like you’ve also wanted this all along, even if you both hadn’t come to terms with it until now. He knows that he doesn’t kiss on the first date. But he also doesn’t come up to their first apartments or have their medical appointments highlighted in his calendar or prescribe their birth control. 

Zayne doesn’t kiss on the first date. 

But in this instance, and in a hundred other ones, you’re the exception. 

So he leans down and presses his mouth against yours, soft and careful as to not scare you off. However, in the next second, he realizes that he should have known you better than that, because you immediately wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in even deeper. You hum happily against his lips and he feels himself untense, allowing you to crawl over his thighs and onto his lap as you card your hands through his hair. 

He lowers his hands to rest upon your waist, steadying you as you continue to kiss him with a languid sort of sensuality that stokes a flame within his belly that he’s not even sure his Evol can extinguish. 

You open your mouth slightly and he can taste you—finally taste you—and it’s as sweet as he could have ever imagined. His hands scrabble across the silky fabric of your dress, aching to feel the heat of your skin underneath. Your breasts press against the front of his chest and he shivers as he feels the apex of your thighs brush oh-so-lightly against the growing rise of his crotch. 

Yet again he feels overly lightheaded and like he’s moving too fast all at once. How did he get here? Where is he going? 

He pulls back, gripping your jaw with one hand to break the kiss. 

Your eyes are heavily-lidded and dark with lust and he can practically feel the heat radiating off of your cheeks as you try to press in towards him again. 

“Wait,” he croaks, doing his best to fend off the terrible want within him. It’s the closest thing to torture that he’s felt since the initial check-up appointment that kicked off this whole series of events.

“Hmm?” you pout, your lips still shiny, but now with your mingled spit. 

“You’re drunk,” he gasps, his hand lowering to rest on a decidedly more-neutral location; your knee.

“I’m not,” you insist, but the force behind your words tells him otherwise. “I’m perfectly fine to continue, Doctor Zayne,” you say, rubbing the smooth plastic of his shirt buttons in between your fingers. 

“Plus—” you blurt, before faltering slightly, your gaze dropping to his collarbone. 

“”Plus”?” he prompts, tilting your chin up. You look about as flustered as he feels. 

“It’s been over a week, right?” you ask, blinking at him with such a pretty expression that it takes him all of five seconds to understand what you mean. “So technically I’m safe.”

His chest seizes and the world nearly goes dark as he begins to visualize it—the scent of your skin, the warmth of your body, wrapped around his, and the desperate, needy gasps from your throat as he—

“No,” he says, sounding much more wrecked than he’d intended. It’s all too much and while he can’t say he’s never thought about you like this, he can say that he imagined it would be softer and sweeter, at least for the first time. And he could have never anticipated that you would imply that he could— 

No, he’s already in over his head. 

You stroke at his cheek with a finger and give him your best pout, but he’s already managed to scrape his way back from the brink of no return. 

“Not tonight,” he insists, and you press your cheek against his shoulder. The sweet scent of your shampoo is like a siren call, but he persists. 

“I don’t want our first time to be like this,” he explains, almost faltering as he mentions it out loud. Oh god, how did he get here. “I want you to be sober, and—and I want to be prepared.” 

You lick your lips. Prepared is probably an overstatement. Zayne doesn’t think he’ll ever be prepared, especially if you’ll always be so shiny and pretty and eager for him. Especially if you’re leaning close and telling him how you’re safe. 

“Okay,” you agree reluctantly, your mouth tugging down. 

“Okay,” he repeats, attempting to mentally reassure himself that he’s made the right decision. He raises your hand to his lips and presses a kiss against the curve of your thumb. 

“I promise I won’t make you wait long.” he says, because he truly doesn’t plan to. He knows he can’t hold out on you—it feels as if you’ve now primed him to respond to your touch, or even just the possibility of it. Even with all of his practiced discipline and patience, he’s sure the next time you offer, he won’t be able to resist. 

And as he watches you bound to your room, citing the need to change into something more comfortable, he settles on the conclusion that he realizes was a long time coming: 

He should’ve asked you out ages ago.