٩(●˙—˙●)۶

“Good morning, Ms. Secretary,” he greeted jovially. Valko leaned one large hand on the polished wood of your desk, his tailored suit shifting with the movement. He looked every bit the impressive wolf hybrid who ran an entire tech company. When you finally looked up, he locked eyes with you. A wicked smirk pulled at his lips, his heavy tail giving a slow swish behind him. 

With a slow, deliberate nudge, he pushed a stray pen off the desk’s edge. Before it could drop more than a few inches, your feline reflexes snapped. Your hand blurred through the air, catching the pen mid-fall. You halted its descent perfectly, giving your boss exactly the show he had been looking for. 

Your ears flattened sideways as your tail flicked with agitation. You fixed him with a sharp glare, but his blatant amusement was written all over his face. 

“Sir, please,” you hissed under your breath, trying not to draw the attention of your coworkers. “I’m trying to concentrate, and I know for a fact you have a meeting later today to prepare for.”

He ignored the protest entirely. Instead, he leaned down closer into your space, his ears pulled backwards, almost flat against his head, like a dog waiting to be given affection. “Excellent reflexes, kitty. Keep up the good work,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. 

He straightened up, turning on his heel to saunter back into his private office. He had clearly walked out with the sole purpose of disrupting your day, entirely for his own enjoyment. 

By mid-afternoon, your nerves were frayed from a constant awareness of the office door behind you. You needed a breather, and, more importantly, you needed fifty copies of the third-quarter financial portfolio organized and stapled.

You escaped to the copy room, a narrow, windowless shoebox of a space that perpetually smelled of ink and dust. The massive industrial printer took up most of the room, leaving only a narrow corridor between the machine and the supply shelves. 

You loaded the master files into the machine, pressed start, and let out a sigh as it began its rhythmic whirring.

The heavy door clicked open behind you. Your ears twitched backward, pinning flat to your hair as that familiar cologne filled the cramped room. You didn't even have to turn to know Valko had followed you. The already-small space suddenly seemed even smaller now that you were sharing it with his bulky figure.

“Need something, Mr. Chairman?” you asked, making it a point not to look at him as you watched the machine spit out copies.

“Just looking for some extra staples,” he answered, his voice entirely too close. Before you could offer to find it for him, he stepped directly into your space. His large hand landed on your waist as he maneuvered himself behind you, his solid chest brushing against your shoulder blades. You froze, your breath hitching in your throat. He leaned over you, reaching one long arm to blindly grope at the top shelf above the printer. The movement pinned you between the warm machine and his even warmer body. Heat radiated off of him, contrasting with the cool metal of his belt buckle pressing into your lower back.

“I can't seem to find it,” Valko murmured right against the extra-sensitive shell of your fluffy ear. His warm breath made your tail give an involuntary, hard twitch. “Are you sure we aren't all out, Ms. Secretary?”

He was completely blocking you in, using the excuse of a tight space to fully engulf you in his scent and to breathe yours in. Your claws instinctively pricked against your palms, desperately wanting to dig into his expensive suit just to ground yourself.

“It’s on the supply shelf, sir,” you choked out, your voice tighter than you intended. 

“Ah.” You felt the smirk in his voice. He twisted to look behind him, but still didn't release you, keeping you fully pinned to his broad chest. Keeping you trapped between his body and the machine, he slid his thigh deliberately between yours to keep his balance as he contorted his body to scan the shelves. “So it is,” he confirmed, reaching toward the half-empty box of staple refills. He finally left with the staples you were certain he didn't actually need, his fingers brushing against your hip as he slipped out behind you.

By 3:00 PM, the meeting room was full of executives intently listening to Valko speak about an upcoming project for the company. There was always something so captivating about watching him in his element at the head of the long mahogany table, and you found yourself paying more attention to how good he looked with his glasses and wanting to feel those sharp fangs sink into your skin than taking notes and keeping minutes.

“If you look here,” Valko directed, pulling a laser pointer from his pocket and clicking it on. A bright, ruby-red dot appeared on the screen. He continued speaking, using it to trace along line graphs and emphasize certain figures. He dropped it down when it was no longer needed, but it remained on, the red dot darting around the floor as Valko, to the humans gathered around the table, merely twiddled with it. 

Your pupils dilated, expanding until the irises of your eyes were practically swallowed by black. Your cat ears snapped forward, and your gaze locked onto the pesky pinprick of light as it zigzagged over the carpet.

Every single feline instinct screamed at you to pounce. Your right hand twitched, desperate to swat the light from existence. Your tail gave a hard, violent flick. You forced your eyes away from the hypnotic pull of the dot to look at the man having the time of his life toying with you despite being in a professional setting. Not that that little detail had ever stopped him before.

Valko was already looking at you, still explaining costs and financial logistics. With a subtle movement of his thumb, the dot darted just to the side of one of your shoes, and you couldn't stop your foot from attempting to stomp it out, only for it to reappear on your shoe.

You scowled, annoyed that you had fallen victim to your own instincts. From the head of the table, you heard Valko chuckle through his words, his golden eyes flicking over to you, making it very clear that you were the source of his laughter. With a final, mocking twirl of the pointer, he clicked it off, pocketing the device as if nothing had happened, and all you could do was sit in silent, exasperated rage.

The clock finally struck 5:00 PM, the workday coming to a close. The bullpen filled with a chorus of zippers, rustling coats, and goodnights as the employees filed towards the elevators. 

You were walking down one of the hallways, returning from the break room after taking a brief water break, when you saw that Valko had exited his office. His tie was loosened, and the top button of his shirt was undone, exposing the thick column of his neck. The suit jacket had been discarded, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His ears swiveled forward, immediately locking onto the sound of your approaching footsteps. 

When you passed each other, he didn’t stop you in your path, but he didn’t let you simply pass by him, either. With a deliberate sweep of his heavy, maroon tail, he brushed the furry appendage against your thigh. The thick fur brushed over your skirt and briefly against the fur of your own tail, sending sparks shooting up your spine. 

You gasped, your ears pinning flat against your head as you whirled around. “Valko!”

He continued to walk, barely sparing you a glance over his shoulder, but it was enough to see the wide smile on his face, his sharp fangs showing as he laughed. 

You huffed, practically stomping back to your desk. Ordinarily, you’d preen under his attention, but what didn’t he understand about “time and place?”

When Valko returned, seeing you practically pouting at your desk, he just couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to hear his kitty purr for him. 

“I need to see you in my office,” he said curtly, expending a tremendous amount of effort to keep his tail from wagging. 

You sighed, but followed him into his office. As soon as you were over the threshold and the door shut behind you, he pulled you into his chest, wrapping his solid arms around you as he buried his nose in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. 

“Why won’t you let me do this during the day?” he complained. It was his turn to pout, but it didn’t stop the excited wagging of his tail at having you pressed against him without putting on the charade of a respectful employer-employee relationship. 

You rolled your eyes, but melted into his warmth anyway, wrapping your arms snugly around his waist. You didn’t struggle keeping your hands to yourself as much as he did during the workday, but he made his struggle yours with all his teasing. You nuzzled your nose into his chest, and he did the same against the top of your head.

The pair of you stayed that way for a long while, savoring the proximity of the other, tails winding together. 

It was sweet, until it wasn’t enough for the canine hybrid. His hands began to wander, groping everywhere he could reach, paying special attention to where your tail was attached to your body. It was highly sensitive, and he knew that, using it to his advantage. 

You gripped onto his shirt, claws catching at the material. He tugged at your silk blouse. “Take it off?” he whispered, his voice raspy with want. 

— — —

“Valko!” you yowled, the ridges of his cock hitting every crevice inside you. Bent over his desk like this, there was nothing you could do but take every powerful thrust, your claws leaving shallow grooves in the wood of his desk as you scrambled for purchase. 

“My pretty kitty,” he babbled. “Won’t let me show everyone you’re mine. Are you embarrassed of me?”

“No- ah!- ‘m not embarrassed,” you denied. 

“Prove it, then. I gave you that mark so- hng!- everyone would know you’ve already been claimed. Use it like intended. Don’t- so tight- don't hide it tomorrow.”

You nodded mindlessly. You’d have agreed to anything if it meant he kept fucking into you like he had a score to settle. 

Valko let out a low, triumphant chuckle. A fierce warmth spread through him, utterly thrilled that everyone would soon know you were his and he was yours. 

He continued pounding into your weeping pussy, his thick tip prodding at your cervix and grunts and whines spilling from his lips. You were a pliant puddle beneath him, unable to focus on anything except his hips rutting into you with a predatory precision. 

His hands were on your hips, pulling you back into him as he pummeled your insides. Your tail was curled around his thigh, and he relished the way your body subconsciously sought him out, even when he was already buried hilt deep inside of your pretty pussy. “Doin’ so good. Mmm, squeezing down so hard.” His voice is jagged, nearly a growl.

“S-so deep! Oh!” you cried out. The drag of his thick cock against your sensitive walls, coupled with the sinful sounds of your lover and the wet squelching between your bodies, had you right on the edge, and he could feel it. 

You could feel the swelling bulge at the base of him, knocking into the tight resistance of your already stretched-out hole. Your breathing was coming in shallow pants, and Valko wasn’t much better, his deep grunts morphing into whimpers with every clench of your cunt around his length. 

“Gonna take my knot, baby? Gonna let me fill you up?” he rasped, his head swimming just thinking about plugging his seed deep inside you.

You nodded feverishly, a weak “uh-huh” the most you could enunciate through the mind-numbing pleasure. 

He thrusted into you deeply, pressing his hips flush against your ass, and his knot popped inside of you with a strangled gasp. The new stretch sent you reeling, every muscle tightening as your poor abused hole clamped around him, shockwaves of ecstasy coursing through your body. 

His heavy cock twitched inside you, spilling ropes of hot cum inside of you. He moaned freely, his golden eyes transfixed at the point where your spasming cunt swallowed him to the base, his knot keeping you connected. Valko didn't stop rutting into you, pushing his cum deep inside of you, willing it to take. 

Only when he couldn’t take the overstimulation did he collapse on top of your panting figure, careful to brace himself not to hurt you. He peppered the side of your face, your neck, everywhere he could reach with sweet kisses, praising you all the while, telling you how perfect you were for him. 

He gathered you in his arms as best he could, pulling you with him to sit on his lap in his desk chair. He smoothed your hair down, paying special attention to where your fuzzy ears attached to your head. You purred in his hold, content to have your mate dote on you while he was still buried deep inside of you.

Valko, never one to be able to resist you, nuzzled his nose into your hair. “Did you mean it? When you said you’d stop covering the mark?”

You pulled back just enough to look into his earnest eyes, wide with anticipation of your answer, a spark of fear in them that you would take it back. You flushed, but nodded shyly.

He laughed loudly and unabashedly, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug. The sound of his glee was infectious, your own giggles joining the merriment. He pressed a kiss to your lips, overjoyed. “Can I scent you before work, too?”

You rolled your eyes in mock exasperation, but your smile gave Valko all the permission he needed. “On one condition,” you said. 

Valko’s eyebrows raised, curious as to what condition you could have.

“You have to promise me the same,” you smirked, leaning in close until your nose brushed his. Your fingers traced the line of his collarbones to the junction of his neck, where a matching bite mark was scarred into his skin. “Maybe then that annoying pomeranian in accounting will get the hint that you're taken.”

Valko’s eyes widened in surprise before a slow, deep chuckle rumbled in his chest. His tail began to thump wildly against the leather of the desk chair. “Are you jealous, sweetheart?"

“I don’t like the way she looks at you and stands too close,” you sniffed, tilting your head up in a way that reminded Valko you were no exception to feline haughtiness. 

He laughed again, the sound full of utter adoration, and squeezed your waist. “There’s no reason to be jealous. I’m yours, from the tips of my ears to the soles of my feet. I’ll let you scent me as much as you want. I’ll even make sure she smells you on me if it makes you happy.”

The ocean in mid-July was your favorite scent. The air hung warm and salty, thick enough to cling to your skin and sink into your clothes. The moment you stepped out of your car, it wrapped around you, washing you in its familiar comfort. For a moment, the years seemed to fold in on themselves—you were a child again, climbing out of your grandmother’s old car into a summer that felt endless, the sea waiting just beyond the cliff edge and tall grass.

Then the moment passed, and you were left standing in the same salt-washed air, your chest tight with the bittersweet weight of how much had changed.

Grandma was gone now. And after her passing, you hadn’t been able to make yourself return. You pulled your suitcase from the back of the car, swallowing against the ache crawling up your throat. You willed your feet to move up the old, familiar cobbled driveway.

The cottage was exactly the same as it had been then. The same furniture rested in the same places, and the windows still welcomed in that warm, honeyed afternoon light. It even smelled the same…

Everything was as it had always been, and yet it felt different now—like a lovely shell left behind, still full of beauty, but emptied of the soul that had once made it feel alive.

Old wooden floors creaked beneath your feet with warm familiarity as you made your way up to your childhood bedroom. Nothing was different here either. Your bed was still made with the quilt your grandmother had sewn for you when you were only a little girl. The window overlooking the ocean still opened with that same gentle creak, and a cool, salty breeze swept through at once, billowing the curtains around you like sails. From your window, the beach unfurled below in a long ribbon of gold, cradled by the grassy cliffs that lined the coast.

The shore called to you with an aching sweetness, luring you with memories of sun-warmed sand, cool waves, and the fine mist of sea spray against your skin.

But it would have to wait…

The old house exhaled around you, seemingly happy to have some company. For now you unpacked your things with a listless sigh, working slowly. You stood after tucking the last of your folded clothes into your old dresser and decided to walk around, trailing your fingers along the faded blue wallpaper as you went.

The swelling ache of your memories filled the empty spaces as you wandered, slowly passing by the old, familiar rooms…

Her sewing room passed on your left. Where you laid at her feet for hours as she made clothes for your dolls and endless quilts. Next was her bedroom. Beaded curtains made of glittering sea glass still hung, still cast rainbow fractals along the walls and floors… for a split second you saw yourself as a child, dancing in the colorful shadows as they swayed with the breeze.

You choked on a little sob, suddenly fleeing downstairs to escape the heaviness.

A quick trip to town seemed to be in order. You needed fresh air—and some essentials from the little mart anyways. Without giving it a second thought, you snatched your keys off the hangar by the door and dashed to your car. The stiff ocean breeze caught in your hair and pulled it loose from its clip before you could shut the door…

Far down the coastline, something else from your past was stirring, drawn from the dark depths. For six long years, he had kept the cottage at the farthest edge of his vision, watching and waiting for even the faintest sign. Then, at last, it came—the sudden, unmistakable glimmer of light from your window when you opened it to the sea, flickering like a beacon across the water.

It set his cold heart racing.

At once, he surged toward the shoreline, swift and silent through the dark depths, slowing only when he reached the turbulent surf. He lifted himself carefully from the water and blinked into the light, clearing his vision as he searched for the slightest movement.

Was it really you, after all this time?

Evening crept up on you fast after you returned from town. Even with how quickly you unpacked and put everything away, night had already settled deep by the time you stepped onto the back porch. You leaned back against the door frame and looked down the winding path to the shore, your thoughts lingering on the risk of it.

Grandma had always warned you about going to the beach after dark—about the strange, things that drifted in from the water, the stories of disappearing wanderers drawn in by the moon. It was the kind of story told to wayward children, meant to keep them safe in their beds once night had fallen. You caught your bottom lip between your teeth, unable to resist the soft, aching pull of the shore despite her gentle warnings playing in your mind.

Slowly, you padded barefoot across the wooden patio, its white paint worn thin beneath your feet—descended the narrow path down the cliff, moving carefully, savoring the familiar hum of anticipation that rose with every step. The trail glowed beneath the pale wash of the full moon, silvering the grass. The entire outside world was swallowed up by the deafening roar of the surf as you neared the shoreline.

Every now and then, the wind shifted, carrying the faintest trace of your scent over the water, and each breath of it left him reeling. Sweet enough to stir something old and hungry inside him—something that had slept uneasily for far too long. You were here. Truly here. After all these years, you had really come back to him.

He had waited for so long…

The longing that seized him was nearly unbearable. He needed to see you. To hear your voice spill out over the waves again. To know the shape of your face had not changed so much that he would not know it. His song hummed restlessly in his throat, aching to rise.

There was only one way to bring you closer. One way he knew would reach into you, curl through you, and draw you helplessly toward the sea.

The rising tide had swallowed the shoreline completely, waves gnawing at the worn, rocky path until the beach was lost beneath dark, restless water. You sighed softly, disappointed that you would have to wait until morning. But this was lovely too. After the punishing July heat, the cold air and salt spray felt luxurious against your skin.

You lingered there for a moment, bathed in silver moonlight, while the ocean tossed and spat below, churning only a few feet from where you stood. It stretched toward you again and again, reaching up the rocks. But no matter how it swelled and pulled it couldn’t touch you.

Then, just as you were about to head back, you caught a faint glimmer beyond the surf. You went still, narrowing your eyes against the dark, trying to make out the shape. There—another brief flash of movement on the rocks.

Your breath caught in your throat. In an instant, the soft moonlit trance of the shore was broken by the sudden, prickling certainty that something out there was looking back at you. You retreated slowly from the water’s edge, one careful step at a time, slowly—so as not to draw its attention fully on you.

It’s nothing, you tried to reason with yourself. Probably just a bird perched on the rocks… during high tide… at night…

You turned and hurried back up the trail once you were a safe distance from the shore, that strange, prickling sensation following close at your heels all the way to the cottage. Only after you slipped inside and latched the door behind you did you breathe out a small, shaky sigh of relief.

He watched your bedroom light spill out across the dark from his place on the rocks. It was you.

Your face had changed, though not by much. Time had touched you gently. You were taller now, older, your features no longer those of the girl he remembered, and yet still so unmistakably you. And your scent—your sweet, familiar scent—was unchanged, still carrying that maddening warmth that made his cold, slippery body clench.

He could lure you back to the shore. He could sing, and you would come to him. He could pull you into his arms at last and feel your body where he had imagined it for years. The thought woke his ancient hunger with a flare. How sweet would you taste, how warm would your soul be as it slipped down his throat? He winced, straining against the instinct even as it coiled tighter through him.

With a sudden dive, he disappeared beneath the dark, swirling water, as if the cold depths might break the spell you had cast over him. The sea rushed around him, hissing against his skin, but it did nothing to quiet the hunger…

It was already warm when your feet touched the floor, the breeze drifting through the open windows doing little to ease the heat from your skin. Grandma had never bothered with air conditioning, and truthfully, it was only ever unbearable for a month or two each summer. With a quiet sigh, you carried your iced coffee out to the deck and watched the sunrise bleed slowly over the water.

The only real relief this time of year was down by the shore, tucked into the cool shade where the cliffs broke open into the sea. A couple miles down the beach, reachable only at low tide, a cave waited along the coastline. You had spent whole summers there as a girl, wandering through tide pools, filling your pockets with shells, and whatever else the ocean was willing to give up.

Smiling faintly, you reached beneath your shirt and drew your necklace into the light, turning it between your fingers.

A large pearl rested in its gold setting, glowing and luminous in the early morning sun.

There had been other things before it.

Small, strange treasures that always seemed to appear as though the ocean had set them out for you—an ancient compass, ruined by seawater and time, a large conch shell placed carefully in plain sight. You had never thought to question it back then. The pearl had been the last gift, found the summer you were nineteen.

After that, life had pulled you sharply away from this place. Grandma was suddenly gone, and whatever magic had once lingered here seemed to draw inward, going dormant and unanswered.

For a moment, you cradled the pearl in your palm and looked out at the glittering line of the sea, feeling that old, nameless curiosity wake softly inside you.

The wind came hard against the cliffside, lifting your dress and teasing your hair into tangles. You laughed under your breath and caught your hat before it could slip away while your old straw bag swung empty at your side, ready for whatever the shore might offer. That old, familiar excitement quickened your steps until the cave appeared at last.

It felt smaller when you stepped inside. As a child, this place had seemed vast as a castle, alive with hidden corners and secrets waiting just for you. Now it was only a cave again—still beautiful, but achingly ordinary beneath the weight of memory.

You trailed your fingers along the slick stone at the entrance and glanced up at the holes in the high ceiling, where pale sunlight streamed through and poured itself over the sand and scattered tide pools.

The ocean’s waves echoed through the cave, washing over you in soft, living sound as you slipped off your shoes and dipped your toes into a shallow pool, green-slick with algae.

You remembered singing to the tiny sea creatures trapped there, offering them what comfort you could until the tide came back for them. Nothing ever remained in this place for long. By the next day, it would all be swept clean, the old lives carried off and new little souls left behind in their place.

You leaned closer to the shallow pool where a single starfish clung stubbornly to the stone and, almost without thinking, let a tune drift from your lips—a wandering little melody, soft and sweet and half-remembered, the kind of thing you might have sung as a child.

The cave carried it strangely.

Your voice brushed along the walls and came back to you transformed, warbling with the breathing pull of the sea.

You laughed under your breath at yourself and rose, moving farther in.

The deeper parts of the cave had always felt different. Far from sunlight, some passages short and narrow. The air cooled the farther you went, and the pools grew darker, deeper, their surfaces black in places where the narrow beams of sunlight couldn’t reach. The tide hissed somewhere beyond the bend ahead, water slipping through some narrow channel in the rock.

Your fingers trailed along the cave wall, singing softly as you went, following the smooth curves cut there by years and years of saltwater. There were still little pockets in the stone where you used to tuck away treasures—shells with perfect pink mouths, bits of blue glass, smooth stones you had believed were lucky.

A faint splash sounded ahead.

You stopped mid-note.

For a moment, the cave went very still around you. Only the soft drip of water and the hushing sea and the quickened sound of your own breathing.

“Hello?” you called softly, straightening.

No answer came.

You told yourself it was probably nothing. Water shifting. A gull that had somehow found its way in. A seal, maybe. Though the thought of a seal this deep inside the cave made a strange little shiver travel across your skin.

You stepped carefully around the bend anyway.

The pool there was larger than the others, a basin carved into the stone, wide and deep enough that the dark water within it looked almost ink-black. Sunlight from a crack high above spilled weakly across the surface.

At first, you thought the shape half-submerged against the far wall was just another rock.

Then it moved.

You gasped and stumbled back a step so quickly your heel skidded on the wet stone.

A man—or something shaped like one—was hunched over the edge of the basin.

One arm braced against the rocky lip, he kept his head bowed as though catching his breath. Wet hair, darkened by seawater, clung to his skin in dripping strands. The rest of him disappeared into the dark water, his shape broken apart by ripples and shifting light.

Your heart kicked hard against your ribs.

For one wild, dizzy second, you thought he must be hurt. Shipwrecked somehow. Dragged in by the tide and stranded when the water fell away.

“Oh my God—”

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

His head snapped up, and your breath left you all at once.

He was unnervingly beautiful, in a way that reminded you of the deep sea—strange, and made for the dark. His face was too still, his gaze too bright as it fixed on you with a quiet, terrible certainty. Your heart pounded against your ribs, every instinct warning you to turn away. But you couldn’t. His eyes held yours, glowing faintly in the dimness, and some soft, perilous pull within them coaxed you one step closer.

When he finally spoke, his voice reached you strangely—warbled by the water and the cave, smoothed into something unearthly as it echoed off the stone.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard your voice.” He sighed contentedly, basking in the sound of you so close to him.

You halted, your breath snagging in your throat.

“M-my voice?” you stammered.

He only hummed, folding his arms atop the rocky edge of the basin and resting his chin on them as though he had all the patience in the world. His eyes gleamed. A small, almost affectionate smile curved his mouth.

“I’ve missed your songs.”

Cold swept through you so suddenly it left you motionless, your body locked around it, too frozen even to blink.

He knew you?

The realization felt like a plunge into icy water. How long? How long had he known you—watched you? Horror rose sharp and dizzying in your chest, braided helplessly with disbelief. Had he seen you here when you were a girl?

“This is my home, you know?”

His eyes gleamed as they traced every flicker of feeling across your face—your shock, your fear, your terrible awe.

“You used to decorate the walls so prettily,” he said, almost to himself, the words touched with fondness. A quiet sigh left him after, weighted by the old memory.

The silence stretched between you, and he let it, patient as the tide.

“Come closer,” he murmured. “Let me see your pretty face.”

His fingers reached toward you across the distance—long and elegant, the delicate webbing between them catching the light as he beckoned. You stared despite yourself, transfixed by his inhuman grace.

“I—”

The word broke apart on your breath. Your thoughts would not hold still long enough to shape into anything useful. Somewhere inside you, instinct screamed to stop, to run, to turn back now—but your feet betrayed you, carrying you one step closer all the same.

He hummed, low and pleased, as you approached. His voice drifted over you like mist rolling in from the sea, softening every sharp edge of thought, leaving your mind hazy and your body pliant.

Above, pale shafts of sunlight spilled over you, turning you almost luminous where you knelt before him. Your scent engulfed him, suffocating his senses until he felt half-drunk on it. His cold heart swelled as your breath touched his skin, warming him like sunlight.

“I’ve missed you terribly, beloved.” His voice trembled with reverence.

Another little gasp tore from your throat.

“B-beloved?” You tried to recoil, but your body would not obey. Your spine refused to stiffen, your limbs stayed soft and heavy as his finger rose to trace the curve of your cheek just beneath your eye. The path of his touch fluttered and pulsed, as though the echo of his heartbeat had been traced beneath your skin.

“Who are you?” you whispered through trembling lips.

He did not answer at once. Instead, he lingered there, watching you as if he meant to commit every detail of this moment to memory. Then, slowly, he sank back into the water. The inky dark curled around him until he vanished from sight, only to rise again a few seconds later.

Carefully, almost reverently, he laid a handful of little treasures along the lip of the pool before you.

You knew them at once.

The perfect shells you used to decorate your castle with. Smooth pebbles, pale and familiar. A few glittering pieces of sea glass.

“I am your chosen,” he said at last, after giving you a long moment to stare at the offerings in stunned silence.

His bright gaze lifted to yours.

“And you,” he murmured softly, “are mine.”

He smiled again and lifted a hand to the pearl at your throat, cradling it with a touch so cool and careful it made you shiver. He turned it lightly between his fingers, watching the pale surface catch the light.

“You accepted my offering. You wear it warm against your skin,” he said, in the patient tone of someone explaining something simple to a child. “And I keep your gifts in my chambers, close to me. I do not even let the ocean touch them. We are promised to one another.”

“What?” you breathed, your gaze dropping helplessly to the pearl in his hand.

He did not answer at once. Instead, he seemed to drift somewhere inward, his attention caught on the shimmer of the pearl as though it held years of memory inside it.

“I thought to kill you at first, you know.”

He let the pearl slip gently from his grasp, then folded his arms again and settled there with lazy ease, as though he had not just sent your heart plummeting into your stomach.

“But then you sang to the little creatures caught here. You were gentle with them.” His voice softened, his gaze drifting with memory. “You decorated my home so beautifully.”

He sounded almost wistful.

“Surely you meant no harm,” he said, looking back at you with that terrible calm. “Why, then, should I have killed you?”

All you could do was stare, helpless and breathless, as his glowing blue eyes dipped to the frantic beat of your pulse at your throat.

“I don’t understand…” you managed at last, your voice thin and unsteady. “What are you?”

Something mischievous flickered in his expression.

“You are a silly human,” he murmured, almost to himself, a soft, amused chuckle escaped him. Then his bright gaze lifted fully to yours. “Most people along this coast know better.”

His eyes held yours, shimmering like sea-glass in sunlight.

“You call us sirens.”

Your heart lurched so violently it nearly choked you, and in an instant the haze he’d woven around your thoughts snapped clean through. He lifted his tail from the dark water.

It gleamed like the pearl he had given you—large and writhing, a soft milky sheen that shifted with every movement. The fins were almost translucent, delicate as veils until the light struck them and turned them opalescent. He grinned when you stumbled back, sharp teeth catching the light. Your fear spilled into the space between you, cold and unmistakable as it bled through your scent.

His hand lashed out and caught your ankle, cold fingers locking around it with crushing strength. He dragged you back with a sudden, terrifying force, until your feet slid into the freezing water. But he did not pull you under. He stopped there instead, shuddering with effort as he grazed his teeth along the slope of your leg.

“Please,” you choked out, struggling against his grip. “You have to let me go. Here—”

Your hands shook so badly you nearly fumbled the chain as you tore it from your neck and thrust it toward him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, breathless with fear. “I didn’t know this was your home. I didn’t know this belonged to you. Please… take it back.”

The plea quivered apart on your lips.

He stared at the necklace trembling in your hand, clearly heartbroken by the sight. His brows drew together, casting a shadow over his glowering eyes. He took a moment to collect himself, to find the words that would make you stay.

“This cannot be undone,” he murmured at last.

His free hand folded gently over yours, cold enough to chill your skin, and guided the pearl back against your chest with quiet insistence, as though it belonged there more surely than it had ever belonged anywhere else.

“I have waited six long years.” His voice wavered then, agony spilling softly through his words. “I searched these shores for miles and miles. I never left. I have stayed. Waiting for you to come back to me.”

While he spoke, his mouth hovered over your trapped leg, his breath cool against your skin. Then, with a tenderness that only unsettled you more, he nuzzled the warmth of your flesh and pressed his lips to your knee.

“You could not cast me away so easily, could you?”

His eyes had gone pale and glassy, blurred with something that looked horribly like grief. Tears slipped over his lashes and fell from his chin in silvery streams, each droplet hardening into a tiny pearl before hitting the stone with a delicate little ‘tink’ sound.

For one fragile second, guilt pierced you, but fear broke through it just as quickly.

You jerked against his hold again, trying to wrench yourself free, but his grip never loosened. He only drew you closer.

“If I could only make you understand…” he lamented, undeterred by your struggling.

He hummed again, low and soothing, he knew no other way to calm you. The sound slipped into your mind like warm water, melting down the sharp edges of your fear. Your breath caught as it settled over you, quieting the frantic hammer of your heart and turning your limbs heavy in his grasp.

“Are you going to kill me?” you whispered at last, going still as the question left your lips, as though some part of you had already surrendered itself to whatever answer he chose to give.

Slowly, he withdrew his face from your leg.

He tipped his head back to look at you through the sweep of his lashes. His glowing purple eyes were soft with adoration, so open and earnest it made your breath catch.

“I could never harm you, beloved,” he whispered. “How could you even say such a thing?”

The words should have comforted you. Instead, they only deepened the chill already wrapped around your spine.

“I could have killed you easily back then,” he murmured, the pain of betrayal shining clearly in his gaze. “I could have let you drown when the waves caught you off guard all those years ago.”

You gasped.

The memory rose all at once—the summer you were seventeen, the way a sudden wave had crashed over you before you could brace for it, how the water had seized you and dragged you helplessly out to sea. You remembered the blind panic, the violent, endless tumble, the terrifying certainty that you were going to die.

But you hadn’t.

You had woken on the beach instead, coughing seawater into the sand, dazed and shaking, never understanding how you had escaped the sea.

Now he looked at you as though the answer had always been obvious.

“You are everything precious to me,” he said softly. “Everything beautiful. And I wont lose you again.”

A shuddering sigh left him as his mouth grazed the tender flesh of your thigh. He seemed half-drunk on the warmth rising from your skin. Slowly, he drew his lips back, exposing the sharp rows of his teeth, and pulled your scent through them as though savoring something sweet, letting it rest on his tongue and curl along his palate.

You could only watch as his eyes rolled back for a moment, a soft hum of pleasure vibrating out of him before his gaze found yours again, blurred now by a searing hunger. Then, with a terrible gentleness, he reached up and cupped your jaw in his frigid hand, guiding your face slowly toward him.

And still, you did not move away.

You could only stare as it happened, held fast in his gaze like something already caught in a trap. His breath brushed across your face like a cool ocean breeze, fresh and salty, his lips hovering just above yours, drawing you in with the steady pull of a current.

Your eyes widened as his mouth opened. His jaw unhinged, baring rows of those sharp, gleaming teeth. Something deep and instinctive inside you answered. Your own lips parted, your delicate pink tongue slipping out as though to taste the charged air between you. You felt it gathering there at once—a pressure without shape, something vast and formless filling your mouth as he offered it to you.

His cold, rushing heartbeat. The glowing warmth of his affection. The terrible ache of loss. His fear. His loneliness and longing.

You swallowed it all without understanding how, taking in the full, aching force of what he pressed into you. His devotion slipped through your body like lava slipping slowly into the ocean, seeping into your core—searing you, heating your skin like a fever.

Your eyes snapped open as he let out a broken moan, his head bowing beneath his restraint. Hot tears spilled over your lashes as his love poured through you. It filled your chest, your throat, sunk deep into your bones, tangling together until you couldn’t tell what was his and what was yours.

You reached for him helplessly, fingers slipping into his hair, soft and wet beneath your touch. For a moment, the ocean seemed to hold its breath with you.

Then you drew his mouth up to yours.

You gasped against him as bright, searing currents of his want rushed through you, white-hot and pulsing until your whole body trembled with it.

You felt him rise from the water like some great sea-creature from an old story, guiding you back in the cradle of his powerful arms. He lowered you gently onto the rocky floor, and though the stone should have felt cold beneath you, you could barely register it through the feverish heat burning under your skin.

You blinked up into the light spilling through the cracks in the ceiling, pale shafts of noon sun pouring down in molten gold. For a moment, the whole cave seemed to sway around you—salt air, rushing water, the distant cry of gulls beyond the cliffs. Then his mouth found you again, soft and reverent, trailing slow kisses along your skin as if he meant to worship every inch of you he had been denied for all those years.

A wanton moan flitted from your lips as his pleasure crashed against yours. His frigid mouth kissed lower and lower, pulled by the intoxicating aroma of your arousal and the intense heat thrumming between your legs. You felt the hard tug of your dress being yanked, the fabric shredding apart in his grasp.

A cold, slimy muscle pressed wetly against your clothed sex, followed by a rumbling groan. His tongue, you realized. It wriggled in a frenzy against the dripping entrance of your lips, straining against the drenched barrier of your panties, desperate to breach the heat behind them.

You reached down to help, showing him that they could come off. He seemed awed by this, hypnotized as you sat up to pull them off your legs. You then scooted forward, perching yourself on the lip of the basin, dipping your legs into the chilly water on either side of his face.

The sight laid before him was delicious—warm and glistening like a jewel. His eyes met yours for a moment, afraid that this might be another dream, that you might still crumble into glittering gold and fade off into the breeze.

You pressed your hand to his face and he turned into it, nuzzling further into your warmth. His eyes met yours again, then slowly trailed down, marveling at the way your naked body glowed in the warm beam of sunlight overhead. He felt your sudden, burning need for him to touch you, felt your pulse thrumming just above his lips.

He obliged.

Your mouth fell open as his tongue split into you, a little surprised by its strength, its size. It completely filled your walls, chilling you to bone with each punching thrust. His eyes rolled back at the taste, the direct heat drenching his tongue, the sensation of your pleasure building with his. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling tight as you gasped for air, already cresting over the edge.

He sank his tongue to the hilt, squirming wildly inside your heat as you clamped down around him—singing your ecstasy in long, stretching moans that bounced off the cold walls of the cave.

He drank you down, dutifully cleaning every last drop. And once there was nothing left to clean off, he would enter you again, his throat vibrating pitifully as he whimpered. By now he was painfully erect, thrusting desperately into nothing. But he couldn’t make himself stop, drowning himself in in the heat of your sex with an unmatched hunger. You could feel his euphoria, absolutely drunk on your shimmering essence. The weight of your scent suffocated him as he forced his tongue deeper, wishing you could swallow him whole.

You lost count of your orgasms, lost count of time as you fell into the trance of your mixed pleasure. It could have been minutes or hours…

The afternoon sun had eventually faded towards evening and he finally released you. His tongue slid out of you with a wet squelch. His chest was heaving, his skin heated beneath your hands,

“I can’t wait any longer, beloved.” He gasped, “Please, let me take you as mine. Let me have you for all this life and the next.” He drew you down from the stone’s edge and into his arms. Cold water rose up around your neck. You gasped at the shock of it, at the feel of his erect length pressing up against your thigh, cold and slimy and soft as he squeezed you to him.

Every line of his body was tight with need, trembling with restraint, but beneath the carnal frenzy, you felt the aching sincerity of him. The fierce devotion swelling in his chest. The terrible, tender certainty with which he held you—something lost to him once and never meant to be lost again.

You kissed him once, then again, pouring all your strange, tangled certainty into him. The fading light floated down and around you as he turned with you slowly in the water—guiding you through soft, endless circles. The sea rocked around you just outside the cave as the last of the golden sunlight slipped across the cracks in the ceiling and faded away.

A misty darkness settled around you.

He was suddenly everywhere, winding around you—his tail wrapping tight around your legs as he turned you gently toward the stone wall, steadying you against its slick edge. His arms bracketed you on either side, sealing your hips to the wall.

He wasted no time, rutting his length into the backs of your thighs, desperately punching a path, throbbing with need as it searched for your tight pulsing heat.

You whined, shoving your hips back in an attempt to help him. Something large, much larger than you were expecting, with a bulbous head squeezed through your lips, gently prodding your tight entrance gently—over and over—until finally your warm heat parted enough to suck him in. He yelped, bucking forward wildly before stilling, catching his breath with you for a second. He was huge and slick and nearly bulging through your stomach, the painfully thick head of him stretching you deeply, squelching up into your cervix. He hissed through his teeth, pulling back.

“I’m sorry my love, I don’t wish to hurt you.” You were lost to him already, head lolling back as you drowned in his pleasure mixed with your pain.

“Don’t stop.” You hummed, rocking back against him, chasing that searing, white hot pressure in your belly, flooding and engorging you. You felt close to bursting, the pressure rising, building like a glowing flame, a burning star rising up through your chest. Your limbs seemed to float away, the light building behind your eyes as you tipped over the edge.

Your head tipped back, mouth thrown open in a silent gasp, only it wasn’t air that filled your mouth.

It was cold salt water that gathered you in, pressing gently against your chest as the fever of the moment softened into something stranger, something vast and inevitable. You drifted upward through the dark, rippling water, rising slowly toward the pale moonlight filtering through the cracks above.

Somewhere below, his voice reached for you through the trembling hush of the sea.

“Don’t be afraid, my love. We’ll be together soon.”

The words came to you blurred by water, the grief in his voice lost under the tide.

Below the surface, the ocean began to claim you with a terrible gentleness. Your skin loosened into foam beneath its touch, dissolving as softly as sea mist beneath the morning sun. The bond between you was complete.

And when the next full moon rose over the tide pools, the sea would return you to him here, remade in the moonlight, birthed into devotion. He would wait for you, patient as the tide, until you rose once more into his arms.

And after that, there would be no more parting—only the sea, and him, and forever.

My pretty-gorgeous list: @onlyafterrain @jo260401 @typicalme23

Still, his eyes were beautiful. Your hope flickered like a small stubborn flame in your chest that you wanted to guard against the blizzard. The marriage was simple. You showed up to the courthouse in a knee-length white dress, constantly adjusting at the pearls around your neck anxiously while he signed the papers. Once he was done, he’d simply slid it over to you, evidently avoiding your eyes. 

“Are you sure?” you’d asked meekly, as if speaking any louder than a whisper would shatter your heart. You weren’t sure if you were asking him or yourself. Not that it mattered, much.

He spared you a soft smile. Pity, maybe, with how his eyes remained empty, but you took it anyway. 

A starved man does not beg for more. The flame remained.

The only reason he married you was because MC had gotten married to another childhood friend of theirs. When he mentioned it, you thought nothing of it at first. But when the only photo he’d put up throughout your entire house was one of him and her as children, while your awkwardly situated courthouse picture sat beside it, you knew. He didn’t stop to stare at your photo, ever. Not any of the photos. Only hers.

The final blow to the puny flame remaining in your heart was when you’d finally initiated physical contact. To perform the marital duty, he’d hovered above you in just his pants while you stared up at him in your thin pajamas that did little to hide what was beneath it. There was no setting the mood. The air was cold, the room dull because only your half had any semblance of effort that had gone into decorating it. When he kissed you, it felt more like his lips were simply touching yours gently. Almost tapping it. 

It felt like nothing.

This was not romantic at all.

“Are you okay? Is this okay?” he asked, pulling back with a furrow in his brows—probably because you were lying lifelessly while holding your breath. You wondered how he could ask something so softly when his eyes remained so muted. Maybe not softly. Maybe just quiet.

“It’s okay.” You wanted to curl up and go to sleep, but he was the only semblance of warmth in the freezing room.

But when his hand slid up your shirt, resting atop of your stomach, you stopped breathing again. He stopped as well. Your gazes met silently, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. A dull, slow stop. And then suddenly, he was off you, clambering to pull his shirt back on as you sat up in confusion, eyes wide.

“I can’t,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”

The flame went out.

Were you really so distasteful? So disgusting that he didn’t want to lay his hands on his own wife? Or was it that you were just too different from her? Should you be offended? Are you even offended? Relieved? Hurt? 

Does it even matter?

Once you were sure he’s gone, you cried yourself to sleep.

The next few years are a blur that you wish had somehow gone even faster. The days are a bore. He’s away for weeks—maybe even months—at a time. In those periods of time, the house feels like a maze not meant for only one person. At the same time, maybe it’s better he’s away.

Caleb Xia is not a mean person. On paper, he’s a decent husband. He cleans, cooks, and never complains if you ask him to do something. He smiles, nods, and goes on his way. Yet, it feels more like a vaguely close roommate than a husband. The two of you eat in silence, watch TV in silence, and even go to bed in different rooms. You suppose you can’t complain—it’s not like you put in much effort to get to know him well anyway.

The only thing he does that even comes close to romance is bringing you flowers. You’d told him once that you wished the house had space for a garden to plant them, and he’d brought you a bouquet later that week. Since then, he brings them every few weeks routinely. They appear in the vase beside the couch as if they’ve just magically appeared. 

They’re pretty, you think.

Resentment builds, slowly but surely, probably on both ends as in most marriages. This kind of life is killing you inside. This lonely, aimless life in a house that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, in a bed that feels too large. 

“I want to work,” you say one day, picking at your food blankly. “I have an interview tomorrow, so I won’t be here for most of the day from now on if I get it.”

A fork clatters from across the table. “What? Why?”

You don’t necessarily have to work given Caleb’s plentiful paycheck, but you want to anyway because you can’t stand being in that gigantic house all by yourself. But of course, how could you tell this to the man in front of you? The man you don’t even know the favorite color of?

“It’s a regular office job.”

“I didn’t ask what it was,” he blurts, eyes narrowing in concern. “I’m asking why? Do I not give you enough money? You know you have access to everything on the card, right?”

You shrug. “It’s not about the money…I just think I need something to do throughout the day.”

“What about picking up another hobby?”

“I’ve exhausted most of them.”

“Then traveling?”

“By myself?” you frown. “It’s not like you’re ever here.”

You’re not sure why the words slip through your teeth, but they do, and the disdain is apparent. He seems surprised at first, blinking, before his shoulder slump again and the corners of his lips twitch downward. For some reason, it makes you feel—good? Alive, more so. So you keep talking. “You’re always working. You even missed my friend’s wedding after I told her we’d be there.”

He shoots back immediately, brows tight. “That was a special case—it was an emergency.”

“That’s fine,” you chew slowly on your food. “But I don’t want to wait around all day for you to get back.”

“You shouldn’t work if you don’t have to. I make more than enough.”

“Again, not the point.”

His lips tighten, pursing. “What will your family think if they hear that I’m making you work after I told them that I’d take care of you?”

You snort. “Is this what you call ‘taking care of’?”

Immediately, you can tell that you’ve struck a nerve. And for some reason, it feels good again. Like you’re alive, again. Maybe you just like pissing him off. His expression shifts momentarily to something you can’t recognize before it settles disapprovingly and silence befalls the both of you. You like when he doesn’t have that stupid smile he always has. The fake, lifeless smile he’d given you when you first met. You’d rather he just be upset, just like this. He looks like he wants to say something, but then shuts his mouth, swallowing the lump in his throat. 

His phone rings, slicing the tension in the air like a knife. Caleb glances at the caller ID for a split second before he’s already on his feet, pacing to the sink to put his plates away in a hurry. “I’m sorry, I need to take this. Let me know how the interview goes..”

You stare at your plate, listening to his feet pad around in a hurry. “Is it MC?”

He whips his head around. “What?”

You stand from your seat to dump your food into the sink, ignoring the slight clench in your chest. He’s always been this way. Jumping at any opportunity to be useful to her, while he leaves everyone else in the dust. “Nevermind. Go.”

Once you hear the front door shut, you slump into the couch face first, hoping it swallows you whole before he comes back. This has to be some sort of humiliation ritual. Perhaps you committed a grave sin in your past life, because you’re not sure what you could’ve possibly done to warrant such a feeling. The sunset seeps through the window planes and hits half of your face, bathing you in a warmth that had been missing from the rest of the house. The heat makes you sleepy, and you soon find your eyelids drooping shut, gazing lazily at a photo of the two of you on the coffee table. You don’t remember when it was taken, but in it, you genuinely look like you’re almost enjoying yourself. You can’t tell with him, though. You can never really tell.

“Stupid Xia,” you mutter as you fall deep into slumber.

When you awake again, the sun has fully set. There’s a blanket draped over you and when you blink away the blots in your vision, you’re met face to face with a fresh vase of flowers on the coffee table. They smell nice.

Damn it. 

Sometimes, you wish he was just an asshole.

You learn about him through the photo albums he has stashed away in the attic. It’s not like you were looking for them. You’d only been cleaning when they managed to topple right into your hands, and since he always says whatever’s his is yours, you figure you might as well satisfy your curiosity. There’s less than you expected, unfortunately. Most photos are taken by him, but there’s a few in between where he’s the subject. Him at his birthday party, his graduation ceremony, him packing for college, and the day he left for the DAA. 

It’s odd. You forget he was a normal teenager at one point, and not a high ranking colonel.

The pictures are through his eyes. Before you can stop, you find yourself becoming engrossed in lacing the photos together into some semblance of a story in your head. You see his childhood home and the model planes he enjoys building. His outings with MC and his grandmother. His last minute halloween costumes. Him and his friends carrying out a prank on someone. His studies. His likes. His dislikes. 

Caleb Xia is a charming person. If you hadn’t met the way you did, you think you might’ve liked him a little more.

When you ask him a question regarding one of the photos at dinner, he nearly chokes on his food. You quirk a brow in response. “Was I not supposed to see them?”

“No, it’s fine if you look…” he mumbles, taking a sip of water to gather himself. You squint—are his ears pink? You didn’t know he was capable of doing something kinda adorable. “It’s just a little embarrassing.”

“Like the picture of your airplane swim trunks from when you were a kid–”

He coughs again, and you snicker.

You think he’s tolerable—just a bit.

Weeks pass. Life gets a little easier with your job and more to do—it might even be a bit fun. With your new friends at your workplace and a new sense of accomplishment, the less you stress about your loveless marriage and the more you appreciate what you have. Your interactions with Caleb become less forced. Not because you’ve somehow managed to miraculously understand how his brain functions, but because you put less weight on what you say. It’s hard to see someone as intimidating when you’ve seen a photo of them in a stupid halloween costume. He seems to notice the change too. 

[Caleb Xia]: I got us fried chicken for dinner. Don’t be too late so it doesn’t get cold :)

Your mouth waters. It’s nice, almost. Emphasis on the almost.

Outside, the evening chill hits your cheeks, sharp enough to wake you up and wrap your jacket tighter around yourself. The street is busy but not crowded, as the sun has just set. A couple laughs too loudly across the road. Somewhere, a bus exhales.

You start down your usual route.

At first, it’s nothing. Just footsteps. Not out of place. People exist. People walk. People go home.

But something’s off. Your gut insists on it, and it’s hard to ignore.

You slow slightly, just enough to be subtle. The footsteps slow too.

Your fingers tighten around your bag.

Coincidence, surely.

You don’t turn around, yet. Turning means you have to see something and acknowledge that it’s real. Instead, you adjust your pace again. Faster this time.

The footsteps quicken, dropping your heart to your stomach. 

Your eyes dart around you anxiously. It’s dark. Streetlamps are guiding your path home, and though the neighborhood is nice, it’s empty. Well, except for you and the footsteps that seemingly sound like they’re getting ever so closer every few seconds. You throat feels dry. 

Phone. You need to tell someone. Even if you’re wrong—even if it’s just a hunch.

[You]: Still there?

[Caleb Xia]: Yea. why?

[You]: I think there’s someone following me

Your message sends, and for a moment air doesn’t enter your lungs.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

[Caleb Xia]: I’m coming.

You don’t know how he’s going to find you, but you don’t bother questioning it at the moment. You swallow, and your throat is dry enough that it hurts. The streetlamps cast long shadows across the pavement, and it’s hard to discern whether something is just a shadow or something else in the dark.

You don’t turn around.

Your legs carry you as fast as you can go without breaking into a sprint, and your grip tightens around your phone until your fingers ache. Hurry, you think. Hurry up, Caleb.

A car passes.

He’s closer now, whoever it is.

Your breath catches. Your shoulders tense, every instinct screaming at you to run, but your legs feel like they’ve forgotten how.

Suddenly, a car turns the corner too fast, tires kissing the curb before readjusting and you nearly jump out of your own skin. The tint on the car makes it too difficult to see inside, not that you’d be able to see much regardless due to the dark. It slows to a stop as it sees you, and you think if this isn’t who you’re expecting, it might actually be the end for you. 

The passenger door swings open.

“Get in.”

Relief floods your body when you hear his voice and you stumble to clamber in.

Relief?

This is Caleb Xia you’re talking about. Now that you think about it, you’re unsure why he was the first you contacted instead of the police. Your fingers had tapped on his profile faster than you could think. Was it just because he was at the top of your contacts? Was it because he was near? It must be, right? It had been instinctual. Your body had reacted—and it had somehow worked out. 

Regardless, you can’t possibly deny how relieved you feel right now.

You wonder if this is how MC always feels. It must be nice to know that someone so reliable is always at her beck and call, right? To come running at just a few words—maybe she wouldn’t have had to walk home in the first place. Maybe he would’ve driven her. You feel sick. This isn’t what you should be thinking about right now. Right now, you need to report it to the police and take a much needed nap. 

A part of you is envious of her.

“You should’ve called me earlier.”

The chicken doesn’t look as appetizing anymore even despite it sitting before you in all its crispy fried glory. The growling in your stomach from earlier is replaced by a slight pain, and it’s difficult to tell if you’ve only lost your appetite or if it’s a different kind of anxiousness. He watches you from across the table with a perplexed frown while you pick at the chicken aimlessly, nodding blankly.

“I’ll report it first thing in the morning,” Caleb sighs. “I should pick you up from work from now own. Or I’ll call you a taxi if I can’t.”

You nod again.

“Are you okay?”

Ah, he’s asking that again. You hate when he does.

You tilt your head. “I’m just sort of in shock, I think.”

“I know, but you should eat at least a bit. Here.” He holds a piece of chicken on a fork to your face and you scrunch your nose. He smirks. “Here comes the airplane?”

“I might vomit all over you.” A half lie.

He replies instantly. “Then I’ll clean it. Eat.”

For a reason that you just attribute to exhaustion, you don’t bother arguing. Instead, you pop it into your mouth, cheeks dusting pink at the intimacy of the act. He hums in approval and you try your best not to choke. Why was he feeding you—a grown woman? And why were you letting him? 

How bizarre. This whole day is bizarre.

At least you’re home—thanks to him.

“Thank you,” you mumble softly. “For getting there so fast.”

He looks almost offended, shaking his head. “Don’t thank me, it was a given. I’m just happy you thought to call me. I was worried you wouldn’t.”

Why did you call him? Well, you suppose he is your husband at the end of the day. One who has eyes for another, but your husband nonetheless. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He stops for a moment, as if in thought, and then smiles sheepishly. Not the annoying fake smile he puts on for show, but one that’s riddled with guilt. Shame. You want to know why. “Just assumed you wouldn’t.”

Strangely, the words make your chest tight.

Your eyes meet his usual striking violets, shoulders slumping as you look away once the eye contact feels too intense. “I’m glad I did.”

You barely catch the tips of his ears turning pink.

Caleb keeps his word for the months following the event. You never have reason to pass by that street again on foot, and although you continue to insist it’s not necessary, having him as your private driver of sorts does feel kind of nice. You think eventually, you’ve come to call him more than a stranger. He’s easier to talk to. Funnier than you thought, actually, when he’s not being annoying to tease you.

You’d never tell him that though, of course.

You blink warily, rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand when a ray of sunlight escapes through the shades of your bedroom and hit your face. However, it’s not what awakes you. Rather, it’s the insistent buzzing of your phone on your bedside table, which you barely manage to snatch without falling off the edge of the bed. 

[Caleb (husband)]: morning sleepinghead, you awake?

[Caleb (husband)]: Come eat breakfast :> made apple juice too

[Caleb (husband)]: I better hear you shuffling around in your room in the next few minutes or i’ll have to come drag you out.. :)

Caleb Xia, you find, nags a lot.

“Sleep well?” he chuckles when you finally emerge, still half-awake despite being fully dressed. You scratch the back of your neck, yawning as you perch yourself on one of the chairs at the counter where he’s standing with an apron tied neatly behind him. If you were just a tad bit more awake, you’d have a field day making a snide comment about it.

“Mm.”

He laughs again, gently. Did he always sound so soft?

“You can always quit your job, y’know,” he shrugs, placing a plate of breakfast foods in front of you. It smells immaculate, as usual. “Offer’s always on the table.”

You shove a forkful of eggs into your mouth, squinting at him. “Why do you wanth me shoo be unemployed sho bad? My parentsh don’t care.”

“It’s not about your family…It just doesn’t seem necessary.”

“I like working. Just not waking up so early.”

“I only want you to avoid overextending yourself if you don’t have to,” he pops a tomato into his own mouth. “I make enough for you to get whatever you want, don’t I?”

“But I want my own money, too.”

“My money is your money. This is the least I can do.”

“Careful,” you snort. “You sound dangerously close to being romantic.”

He tilts his head. “Why wouldn’t I be romantic? I’m your husband.”

This time, you really choke on your food, coughing as he quickly hands you the apple juice. He’s been doing that lately—dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they’re nothing. Somehow always when you’re least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he’s either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he’s doing.

You’re willing to bet on the latter.

Caleb Xia, as you figure out in the time you spend with him in his car on the way to work, has terrible taste in films.

“That movie is awful. There’s no way that’s your favorite.”

He gasps dramatically and you don’t bother suppressing the urge to roll your eyes. “Hey, don’t judge before you try it.”

“I’d like it if I never had to try it, actually.”

The smile adorning your lips falls in an instant the car slows to a stop. You find yourself growing disappointed when you arrive at your workplace, because it means you’ll have to leave him. You want to scold yourself for thinking such preposterous thoughts. What are you? A teenager who’s hanging out with a boy for the first time?

You’re married, for god’s sake.

Then again, so what if his company isn’t so bad? What if you think he’s a bit more to you than tolerable? Isn’t that allowed? He’s your husband, after all. If it doesn’t feel so bad, maybe you could let yourself reprise and enjoy it while it lasts.

“Ah, right, I should tell you—I’ll be leaving this weekend for work.”

Ah, nevermind. Reality has a way of slapping you across the face when you least expect it.

“How long?”

“A few weeks at best,” he pauses, voice quieter. “Months, if I’m unlucky.”

You really despise the subtle aching in your chest.

You hate how easily it slips in. How, for a second, it makes the flame that’s gone out years ago flicker, as if these moments could mean more than they do. They don’t. You know they don’t. They aren’t yours to keep. None of it is.

The warmth, the ease, the way he looks at you like this—like you’re something he actually cares about—it’s all fake. Stolen. You’re just standing in the space where someone else is supposed to be.

You press your lips together, forcing the feeling down before it can spread any further. Get a grip.

His palm pats the top of your head, making your cheeks heat against your will. With a grin, he nods. But it’s stiff. The slight crinkle between his brows. Upset. Upset? “I’ll see you tonight.”

It’s like he knows what you’re thinking before you know yourself.

“Who said I want to?”

“You wound me.”

As soon as you enter the building, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket.

[Caleb (husband)]: I know you’re at work, but…

[Caleb (husband)]: Movie night tn ?? i can make us popcorn :D

[Caleb (husband)]: And yes we’re watching my fav so you can stop calling it bad :>

[Caleb (husband)]: Last hurrah before i leave

This is dangerous, you think. Really, really dangerous. 

You seriously hope you don’t fall for him, if it isn’t too late already.

A few hours later, the living room is dimly lit with soft lights, the low hum of something playing in the background as Caleb sets everything up. The bowl of popcorn ends up a little too full, a few pieces spilling onto the counter as he carries it over, muttering something under his breath as he munches on the ones that are about to spill over. You sink into the couch, watching him move around the room—adjusting the volume and flipping through options he’s already decided on. 

It’s strange, how easy it feels. How normal.

You don’t realize you’re staring until he glances over.

So you look away quickly, fixing your gaze on the screen. But a few seconds pass, and you can feel his attention still lingering.

You pretend not to notice.

What are you doing? What are either of you doing?

You don’t say anything, swallowing the question down into the pit in your stomach.

The movie stars a side character with a passionate devotion to his family, who reminds you of Caleb. Oddly enough, the resemblance is almost uncanny. You kind of want to root for him but also want him to lose terribly. You huff quietly. “He’s so intense.”

Caleb glances over, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “What? You wouldn’t want someone like that?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I mean… he’s a bit much.”

A pause.

“…but it comes from a good place. I like him.”

He stills.

You pick at a piece of popcorn, rolling it between your fingers. “He reminds me of you a little.”

“Yeah?”

You shrug, still not quite looking at him. “Yeah.” A small breath escapes you before you can stop it. “MC is really lucky to have you.”

He goes quiet. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you.

“…Lucky,” he repeats, almost to himself.

You hesitate, then ruin it by saying more. "I mean, you're always there for her, you know? If she calls, you come running. Everyone wants someone like that."

It was supposed to come off lightheartedly, but it only digs the hole deeper.

Something in his expression shifts. His smile fades, his face losing its usual ease as it drops to something you’ve never seen on him before. It contorts in phases. Surprise, and then confusion, and finally into one you prefer the least.

Panic. Something is wrong.

You wish you’d just shut up. The long pause makes you wish you were just a fly on the wall right now.

“Is this why?” he blinks, and his eyes glisten with something you haven’t seen from him. Void of the usual emptiness but replaced with something fuller. Heavier. “Is this why you hate me so much? Because of MC?”

Huh?

“Fuck,” one hand pulls at the roots of his hair, his top teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he attempts to hide his face from you. “I’m a moron. I should’ve known.”

What? Despite your hands growing clammy, you feel cold. Like the blood is draining from your face.

“You must hate me so much.”

When did you ever hate him? You’ve loathed him, certainly, when he’d disappear for weeks on end leaving you all alone in this cold, lifeless house. You’ve wanted to punch your balled up fists into his chest, knowing that it wouldn’t phase him in the slightest simply to alleviate some of your own anger. You’ve wanted to run away a multitude of times. But hate? Have you ever hated Caleb? Can you hate Caleb?

“Caleb.”

“This is my fault. I should’ve been more aware. It’s so obvious now, I feel like an idiot.”

“Caleb.”

“I thought you just hated me because this isn’t a marriage you wanted,” his voice cracks, and he’s burying his face into his palms. “I thought staying away from you was what you wanted. Shit, I’m so stupid.”

“Caleb,” you say, more firmly this time, and he finally looks at you. There’s a watery film over his usually lifeless eyes, glistening against the light of the TV screen, and it makes the pit in your stomach grow deeper. You don’t like seeing him like this. You thought you would, but you don’t.

His voice is a mere whisper now. He looks like he wants to vomit out a million words at once, but there’s three specific ones that linger on his tongue. Is this what they call a woman's intuition? You’re not sure how, but in the moment, it feels like you’re in his head. For the first time in the 4 years you’ve been wed to Caleb Xia, you feel like you can understand him. 

A victory that doesn’t feel like one at all.

“Listen to me,” he grabs your hands in his, holding them in front of his chest. “I don’t love her—not as a woman. I haven’t in a long time. She and Zayne are like my family, and I’d be a terrible person not to be happy for them. I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear to you. I’m so sorry.”

Your heart doesn’t seem to be beating anymore.

The air is too thick. Like liquid entering your lungs.

Caleb opens his mouth and then shuts it again, his words stuck in the back of his throat. You’re not sure if you want to hear what he wants to say. The words hold too much value, too many years of hurt, and you don’t know how you’ll react. You don’t want to acknowledge any of this as real, because if it is, what was all of this for? What were the years you spent holed up in your room meant to achieve? Were you just being a fool? And in that case, would you even want to know?

No. You don’t.

So instead, you kiss him.

A wordless, messy kiss. Though he’s taken aback at first, he’s quick to slot his mouth against yours eagerly, hands flying to your waist to pull you closer as if a man starved. It’s desperate. Different from the kiss you shared with him at the courthouse, or for transactional purposes. His mouth feels hot against yours, and when his tongue swipes against your lip, you let him in. 

You climb onto his lap, straddling him as he presses you flush against him. The movie is long forgotten. His hair weeds through the crevices between your fingers and he deepens the kiss as if he’s trying to physically become one with you. His heart hammers against your own like a timer, warning you of what this could mean, but you don’t care.

“Put your arms around my neck,” he mumbles against you, and then you’re suddenly being lifted up to your room with his hands supporting your thighs around his waist. But even those few seconds aren’t worth staying apart for, because he’s kissing your neck, mouthing at spots that have you pursing your lips to avoid making any embarrassing sounds. He lets you down gently onto the middle of your bed and follows suit, pushing you onto your back.

You’re here again.

He’s looming over you, face flushed in a deep red this time. He’ll ask if you’re okay. If this is okay. And then he’ll take off his shirt and his hand will slide up yours. It’ll be better this time, because it’s not out of some twisted sense of duty. Desire pulses at your core, but you can’t help but shake off this curdling feeling in your chest, as if you want to hurl. You wait for what you expect, eyes never leaving his.

Instead, he breathes sharply. “I love you.”

The world stops. 

“You don’t have to say anything back that I don’t deserve. I just want you to know,” he whispers.

Can anyone love someone like you—much less, your husband? You start breathing again because you have to, staring up at him as if he’s gone insane. In fact, you think you’ve gone insane. Kissing him, lying beneath him, enjoying his presence, looking forward to his breakfasts, letting him drop you off at work, feeling disappointed that he’s leaving—you’ve most definitely died and come back as another person, because this is not you.

This is Caleb Xia. He is an unloving person. He cannot love. But what happens if he does? With tears stinging at his eyes, watching you with a mix of pure adoration and sorrow, he’s telling you he loves you. Love is a strong word, isn’t it? But he means it. He loves you. Caleb loves you. You want to call him a liar, but he’s not.

You want to cry into his chest and run away at the same time.

The flame flickers, and you panic. Not because you despise him, or because his confession is one you don’t want to accept, but because this flame is not one you welcome with open arms anymore. It’s too easy to hurt. Too easy to shrink, yet somehow impossible to destroy.

“I can’t,” you croak. “Not right now.”

Even Caleb can’t mask the hurt that deepens his frown, as if you’ve torn his heart straight from his chest. For a man with so much power, he’s never looked more powerless than he does now.

It feels too vulnerable. Open. As if you’re naked and he’s fully clothed, when it’s infact the exact opposite. You don’t want to open up to him again. You don’t want him to snuff out that small flame you have that never seems to go out no matter how much you douse it in water. Or maybe you do?

He forces a crooked smile, strained against his very will and nods before leaving the room. As the door slips shut, he doesn’t turn to look at you. “Sleep tight.”

You don’t get much sleep that night at all.

Morning comes anyway.

And then another.

And another.

His absence returns, but this time because you’re the one avoiding him. You leave earlier than usual, linger longer at work, find excuses in the smallest things—emails, errands, anything that keeps you just a little out of sync with him. When you do cross paths, it’s brief. Polite. A short good morning or a quick goodnight. It’s easier that way.

You tell yourself this is what you wanted—to put distance back where it belongs. Whatever that night was, whatever flame flickered between you, it will fade. It must fade.

He isn’t yours. Even if he says he is, there’s too much pain--too many years of resentment built up that you don’t know what to do with.

You catch yourself thinking about it at mundane times—standing in line, walking home, staring at your coworkers chatting amongst themselves. The apartment feels different already, like it’s preparing to be emptier. As cold as it was a few months ago, when he was still Caleb Xia, and not just Caleb.

You take the time away from him to reset. To think, but not too much. You find yourself flipping through his photo albums again, smiling when you flip to a particularly embarrassing one. You hear him shuffling outside your room, probably packing for his business trip. You’re aware of what he risks everytime he disappears for weeks at a time—not only his life, but the lives of his men—and you don’t know how he bears to leave home everytime he does. 

But he always comes back. He has to. 

You suppose it’s for the best for now. And when he returns, things will return to normal. The house won’t be as awkward as it is. The two of you will slip into your usual routine of a loveless marriage, and you’ll find other avenues in life to derive joy from. So will he.

The front door shuts faster than you anticipated. 

He’s gone.

This is fine.

This is what you wanted.

The house is empty again. You pace to the living room, and surprisingly, a fresh bouquet of flowers is propped inside their usual vase. You lift the vase into your hands, letting the scent of the flowers waft into your nose. They smell good. New. Sort of like the detergent he uses when doing the laundry.

You set the vase back down, nails pressing faint crescents into your skin.

His face when you last saw him keeps flickering in your mind. So much hurt. Raw with fear.

“I love you.”

You want to tell him he doesn’t. You want to remind yourself that this is your husband. Your heartless, cunning husband who kills people for a living—who doesn’t care about anyone but his family. 

But you’re his family, aren’t you?

You can still smell his cologne in the air.

You must’ve missed it from the glint of the sunlight in the glass coffee table—there’s a small shimmer of something sitting beside the vase. With a quirked brow, you pick it up. He usually never leaves trash lying around.

You nearly drop it.

His wedding band.

Your breath stutters, sharp and uneven, like your lungs have forgotten how to work. Your heart pounds as you realize that you're shaking, eyes wide as saucers as you stare at the object in your hands.

No.

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t just leave it.

The ring sits in your palm like a brick that weighs your entire body down. This isn’t something you can pretend will reset when he comes back.

This means no more quiet dinners. No more stupid arguments over movies he insists are good. No more messages waiting for you when you’re at work. No more him, standing at the counter every morning with a pan in his hand. No more him.

And worst of all, no more chance to fix it. To tell him your side of the story.

Your body moves before your mind catches up.

You wrench the front door open, not bothering to lock it behind you as your feet hit the pavement with just your socks. The air burns your throat as you run, lungs screaming, heart still pounding like it’s trying to break through your ribcage.

He can’t leave.

The stinging beneath your feet go unregistered as you clutch the ring so tightly that it feels like it might dig into your flesh. 

Just forward, you hiss to yourself. Faster. You turn corner after corner, your body begging you to stop overexerting yourself, but you can’t bother to care. You don’t even register where you’re going, but you need to go somewhere. It feels like ages and seconds at the same time, as you beg nobody in particular for one more chance.

A chance for what, you're not sure.

Reconciliation? Love? Understanding?

Is any of that possible? And if not, why are you running like your very life depends on it?

The ring digs further into your skin, and you realize it doesn't matter as long as you find who it belongs to. Him. Caleb. The reason and bane of your existence, and apparently what has you running across the entire town in hopes of bringing him back.

Finally, you slam into something solid.

The impact knocks the breath out of you, your grip loosening as the ring nearly slips from your fingers. A hand catches your arms before you can stumble back too far, steadying you with a familiar scent that somehow lets you breathe again.

“Hey—watch it—oh.”

You freeze in place, breath hitching as you look up. Standing right in front of you, he appears slightly disheveled, one hand still gripping your arm while the other awkwardly balances a paper bag of groceries. Caleb blinks, his eyes immediately scanning over your frame before landing on your feet. “Why are you here? Are you okay? And where are your shoes, it’s dangerou—”

“Don’t go, Caleb,” you sniffle, tears already stinging at your eyes as your body finally has a chance to rest, though it doesn’t feel much better. “Please don’t go.”

He stares at you as if you've grown a third eye, nearly dropping his bag of groceries at your pleas. Even the tips of his ears turn red, flustered. "What are you--"

“Why did you leave the ring? Did you lie?” About loving me?

His expression falls, attention honing in on the ring gripped in your fist. Something seems to click in his head, and immediately, he shakes his head. “No, of course not, I was going to leave a note. I just went out to get groceries before I left—”

“So you were going to leave the ring?”

“Well, yes, but can we–”

“Do you not like me anymore?” you blurt, finger bunching at the fabric of his sleeve. “Is it because I ignored you for a week?”

He almost looks offended. “Of course I still like you.”

“Then why?”

His voice softens, as if speaking too loud will scare you away. Hesitantly, he sheepishly releases your arms. Instead, he slowly takes your hand in his, lips pursing as he sighs. His palm feels rough with calluses from the work he does, but light as feathers against your skin. His touch is gentle, as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. “I figured there was no reason for me to tie you to me anymore. I won’t force you to be with someone you can’t even stand to be around. Someone you hate. It’d be selfish.”

Your words tumble out before you can process them. “I don’t hate you.”

Finally, with your hand in his, the world feels okay again. This feeling tells you you’re screwed, but you don’t care.

“I’ve been mad at you, and I don’t know what to do with your feelings because they make no sense, but I don’t hate you,” you mutter. “You’re just too confusing.”

“...Confusing?”

“I just—I don’t know what to do, Caleb,” you wipe vigorously at your eyes with your free hand, head falling to avoid looking him at him. “I don’t know what to think about you. How to feel about you.”

His eyes ease, and you feel him squeeze your fingers. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.”

“Do you love me?”

“I don’t know.”

Caleb has always been better at reading you than yourself. A flash of hurt ripples across his face, but his eyes maintain its soft glimmer—because he knows. Even if you say you don’t know, he knows. He also knows that you’re afraid of those words, and he doesn’t blame you for it.

So instead, he asks something else. “What am I to you?”

You want to call him a million things. The man who left you by yourself, the man who refused to touch you for so many years, the man who’d chosen to sleep in the guest bedroom just to avoid taking up space in yours. He’s felt awful, inconsiderate, and cold. But he’s also the man who’s gotten you flowers, the man who’d break four speeding laws to make you feel safe, the man who makes sure you’re never hungry, the man who folds your laundry neatly and organizes it color-coded in your closet. The man who you wish you could slap across the face and hold close to you at the same time. The man who’s made you feel alone yet so cared for all at once.

You like him, you think. In some strange way that’s never been covered in the romantic films you used to clutch onto like a life line, you like him. The ‘L’ word teeters on the tip of your tongue like a marble rolling around to decide what these emotions settling in your heart really are, but it doesn’t really matter. All you know is that you need him. You want him. You want him to hold your face and kiss you tenderly, like he did that night. You want him to do it again and again until you can’t breathe, and all you can feel is him. You want to eat dinner with him every night and wake up in the morning to his stupid apron. You want to go grocery shopping with him. You want to fall asleep watching a movie in his arms.

“What am I to you?”

Tears fall down your cheeks in fat globs and you try your hardest not to let your voice crack. “My husband.”

His eyes widen for a moment, and then his lips split into a wide grin that resembles the lovesick expression of a teenage boy who’s holding hands for the first time. Caleb drops his grocery bag to his feet and reaches either hands to the sides of your face, cradling you gingerly as he guides you closer. Before you’re even registering it, he brushes a strand of hair out of your forehead and presses a soft but firm kiss to your temple, where you can feel him smile against your skin.

“Who am I to say no my wife?”

Your marriage is a messy, complicated jumble of emotions. The confusion. The fear. The warmth. It’s not perfect. It never will be. And despite it all, you don’t want it any other way, because Caleb Xia is a loving person.

He leans back, closing his eyes for a second, and there it is. That scent. Her perfume. It’s a goddamn olfactory ghost, haunting every inch of his home. It’s on his couch, it’s in his bedsheets, practically etched into the walls. A little flag planted in his territory, announcing her presence.

She’s good, he’ll give her that. A master of the artful lie, a silver tongued little thing who can spin a web of deception with a smile so bright it could practically blind you. She thinks she's so clever, hiding the truth behind those pretty, innocent expressions. But he’s known her since they were children, since the days of thunderstorms and shared secrets. He’s watched her evolve, watched her sharpen her wits and harden her heart, and he sees right through the facade.

But that’s okay. He likes it. He likes the game, the way she dances around the truth, weaving a web of half lies and omissions. It’s a mirror of his own mind, a reflection of the masks he wears every single day.

They’re two halves of a single, fractured soul, spinning in a haze where love and obsession become indistinguishable from one another. Caleb finds himself wondering, with a dark sort of amusement, who’s actually going to catch who in the end.

But for now, he's going to give her exactly what she’s looking for.

As the sun finally drags itself below the horizon, Caleb slips beneath the sheets of his bed and strips naked.

He knows she’s watching. He knows her eyes are fixed on him.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he pushes the silk aside. He lets the cool air hit his skin, exposing himself to the lens. He angles his hips just so, a lewd, shameless display of his fat cock, making sure the camera catches every single inch of him. His breathing shifts, getting heavy, ragged, catching in his throat as he strokes himself imagining is her hand around him. He lets out a guttural moan that he knows will vibrate through the speakers in whatever room she's hiding in.

And then, he whispers her name.

“...”

He wants her to feel the weight of it. He wants her to realize that even in his most private, vulnerable moments, she is the only thing that exists. He lets her watch as he strokes himself towards a messy release, painting his expenaive sheets with thick spurts of cum.

But a tease is never enough for a man like Caleb.

He rises from the bed, his bare feet making almost no sound on the hardwood as he strides out of his bedroom. He doesn't head for the kitchen or the balcony. Instead, he moves toward the living room, toward the wall that looks perfectly ordinary to anyone else. But with a practiced touch, a hidden mechanism clicks, and a secret door swings open, revealing his true sanctum.

He sits heavily in the chair before the glow of the computer monitors. With a few keystrokes, the screens bloom to life, and the room is flooded with a digital kaleidoscope of her.

There she is. Everywhere. Photos from the street, grainy surveillance footage, shots of her sleeping, laughing, even crying. His obsession. His entire universe, distilled into pixels and light.

He turns his head slightly, looking toward the direction of the hidden camera in her room, and he sees her. She isn't disgusted. She’s mesmerized. She’s a mirror of his own unquenchable thirst.

She might be smart, she might be a damn good Hunter, but she’s playing against a man who has turned his entire existence into a singular, sharpened point of focus. He is always, always one step ahead.

As he watches her on the screen, a satisfied rush of adrenaline surges through him. He wonders what she’ll do next. What new lies will she tell? What new traps will she set? He’ll just keep enjoying the thrill of the chase, the exquisite tension of knowing that she’s watching him, wanting him, needing him... just as desperately as he needs her.

One thing is certain, as certain as the gravity he commands, he will have her. Come hell, come high water, come the end of the world itself. She is his destiny, his beautiful, chaotic fate.

And he is never, ever letting her go.

The game isn't over. It's just getting interesting.

YOUR POV

The image of him is burned into the back of your eyelids. Every time you blink, you see it again. His face contorted in pleasure. The way he moaned your name had you trembling where you sat. You can't unsee the way his knuckles went white, the way his body shuddered, or the shameless desperation in the way he found release.

A traitorous part of you, the part that's a little too obsessed with the thrill of the hunt wishes you’d been braver. Dammit, why didn't I put a third one in the bathroom? Or the hallway?

You really want to catch every single, private second of him.

But then reality hits, cold and sharp. You shake the thought off, Caleb isn't an idiot, he's a Colonel. The risk is massive. The terrifying thought that he might actually know creeps into your mind like a shadow.

No, you tell yourself a little too quickly. It’s hidden. Undetectable. He’ll never know.

Yet, even as you try to settle, that bitter, hot knot of jealousy starts to twist in your gut again. Your mind drifts back to that photo Gideon had uploaded. The girl. Her smile had been too bright and her hand had been positioned a fraction of an inch too close to his. It’s a memory that sits in your mind like a splinter, irritating and impossible to ignore.

Is he truly yours? You don't know and the uncertainty stings.

But then you remember the way he cried out your name. It wasn't just lust, it sounded pained. Maybe it isn't the pure, uncomplicated love you’ve always dreamed of. Maybe it’s something much darker, something more complicated and far more dangerous.

You really, truly wanted to see him today. There was this hollow ache in your chest, a craving for the warmth of his smile and the way those eyes always seemed to pull you in like a gravitational tide. But it's the last Saturday of the month, which means he’s locked into that rigid, military schedule of his, keeping him far away from you.

So you sink onto the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping under your weight, and pull your phone from your pocket. Your fingers are a little unsteady as you tap through the layers of encryption to reach the hidden apps. These aren't the apps a normal person uses, these are your windows into the man behind the Colonel.

Your pulse hammers against your throat when you log into his accounts, holding your breath as you scan for anything new. A message? A notification? A slip up?

Nothing.

It’s the same stale routine. A few banal exchanges with Gideon, a dry work email from the Fleet, and a social media feed that looks as frozen in time as a museum exhibit. No new photos. No new posts. You let out a long, shaky sigh of relief, your shoulders finally dropping an inch. There’s no sign of that girl from the photo. No evidence that anyone else has managed to pierce his orbit lately.

You’ve been doing this for years. It’s a ritual now, a habit so deeply ingrained in your bones that you don't even realize you're doing it until you're already deep in his digital life. You've had these same tracking apps installed on your phone since high school. Back then, it was different, you’d watch the flood of thirsty messages and scandalous nudes from girls all over the school hitting his inbox, watching them wait for a reply that never came. Caleb never played the game. He was always too disciplined, too untouchable. He never gave them the time of day.

And that? That was the drug that hooked you. Knowing that even when the world was throwing itself at him, he remained unyielding. He could be yours, and yours alone.

You know it's messed up. You know that a "sane" person wouldn't spend their Saturday nights dissecting a man's private digital footprint like a forensic scientist. It’s an invasion, a total lack of boundaries.

But you can't just stop. You can't resist the gnawing need to know every detail, to inhabit the spaces of his life even when he isn't looking. If you have to bury this obsession deeper just to keep it alive, then so be it.

You'll keep digging. You'll keep watching. Because the only thing scarier than knowing too much is knowing nothing at all.

---------------------------

Hours later you're standing in the fruit aisle of the supermarket, staring at the produce as if there's an answer to your life written in the skins of the fruit. But just when your fingers graze a perfect, gleaming apple, they brush against something else. Warm skin.

You jump, nearly dropping the fruit, and an apology slips out of your mouth before you can even think.

"Sorry..."

"Y/N?"

The voice hits you like a sudden gust of wind. You lift your head, and your breath hitches. Eyes you haven't seen in years. "Ian?" you ask, a genuine, startled smile breaking across your face. "Oh my god, is it really you? It’s been... what, years? How have you been?"

Back in school he was one of those small, sweet crushes, the kind you remember fondly but don't lose sleep over.

Ian grins, but there’s a different energy to him now. As he speaks, you catch his eyes roaming over you, a slow sweep that feels a little more intentional than a casual glance. "I'm good," he says, his gaze lingering on the curve of your hips just a beat too long. "And you look..." He lets the word hang there for a second "...incredible."

A faint blush creeps up your neck at the compliment, but the moment is interrupted by a flicker of something else. You notice Ian’s eyes darting around the aisle, shifting restlessly as if he’s scanning the crowd for a specific face.

Confused, you follow his line of sight, expecting to see someone familiar, but there’s nothing. Just the usual grocery store chaos, people debating over cereal brands and teenagers laughing near the frozen goods. The aisles are empty of anyone who looks like they belong with him.

"Are you here by yourself?" he asks. He’s still scanning the perimeter, his brow furrowed in a way that feels almost anxious.

"Yeah..." you reply, your voice trailing off as a small knot of confusion forms in your chest. "Is everything okay?"

Ian snaps out of whatever trance he was in, shaking his head and forcing a laugh that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Oh, no, it’s nothing. Really," he says, though he doesn't sound convinced. "It’s just... well, back in high school, you and Caleb were practically joined at the hip. I just kind of assumed he’d be trailing behind you like a shadow." He gives a little apologetic shrug, trying to play it off as a casual observation.

You feel a tiny prickle of annoyance at the mention of his name. "We weren't always together," you say, brow furrowing.

He chuckles, but the sound is a little dry. "You were! Trust me, everyone was way too intimidated to even get within five feet of you because of him. Especially us guys."

You tilt your head, genuinely baffled. "Why on earth would anyone be afraid of him?"

Ian laughs again, but this time there’s a distinct edge of discomfort in it, a sort of nervous energy that makes you uneasy. "Come on, don't play coy. We were all terrified to get too close to you. Nobody wanted to be the one to accidentally piss Caleb off."

You let out a light, airy laugh, but the sound dies in your throat when you see the way his jaw sets grim, hard. He’s glancing around the produce section again, his eyes scanning the shoppers as if he’s worried someone might be eavesdropping on this specific conversation.

"No way," you say, trying to sound breezy, but your voice feels thin, lacking any real conviction. "You're kidding, right?"

"He almost beat the absolute crap out of me," Ian confesses. He leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that feels far too heavy for a grocery store. "He told me straight up that you weren't allowed to date anyone. And it wasn't just me, either. Half the guys at school..." He trails off, a visible shudder running through his shoulders as if the memory still stings.

Suddenly, your mind starts racing, flipping through years of memories like a deck of cards being shuffled at high speed. You think about all those missed connections. All those guys who had been so eager to take you out, only to vanish at the last second, or suddenly lose interest after just one date. It wasn't just a high school thing, either, the pattern had followed you like a ghost through college. A long, frustrating trail of aborted romances and broken promises that you just chalked up to bad luck.

Could it really be true?

Had Caleb really been the invisible hand, pulling the strings of your entire romantic life for years? Had he been quietly pruning away every potential boyfriend before they even had a chance to reach you?

You search Ian's face, desperate to find a flicker of a joke, a glint of anything to suggest he’s lying. But there’s nothing. Just the truth etched into the lines around his eyes and a lingering shadow of old fear.

A wild impulse flares up in your chest. It’s reckless, maybe even a little bit stupid, but before your brain can talk you out of it, the words are already tumbling out.

"Well... he's not around right now," you say, your voice a little higher than usual. "How about we head back to my place? We could grab some coffee and actually catch up properly."

You wince internally the second the invitation leaves your lips. God, that sounded so needy, you think, but beneath the embarrassment, there’s a bubbling urge to prove something.

Ian glances around the aisle one last time, his eyes darting nervously as if he expects Caleb to materialize from behind a stack of oranges. He looks hesitant, a shadow of doubt crossing his face, but then he offers a small, tentative nod. "Alright," he says softly. "Let’s go."

The walk back to your apartment is a blur. Ian shares mundane snippets about his job and stories about visiting family over the summer. But to you, it all sounds like static. Like white noise. Your entire world has narrowed down to the thudding rhythm of your own heart and the terrifying thrill of what you’re about to do.

Finally, you’re standing in the hallway, the cool air of the apartment complex settling around you. You fumble with your keys, your movements clumsy and uncoordinated, when your phone suddenly buzzes in your pocket.

The vibration feels like a lightning strike.

You pull it out with trembling fingers and swipe the screen awake. And there it is, staring back at you is a message from Caleb.

"Hey Pips, I'm free tomorrow. Wanna come over?"

The simplicity of it, the casual warmth of that nickname makes your head spin. You don't even try to reply. You don't think about how it might look or how long you're leaving him on read. You just toss the phone onto the small entryway table with a dull clack, the screen still glowing.

There is no doubt, there is a camera on the hallway. Are there any inside?

Taking a long, shaky breath to steady your nerves you turn back to Ian and reach out, your fingers curling around his hand to pull him inside.

Let him come looking, a spark of defiance lights up in your chest. Let him see.

The second the door clicks shut, you shove Ian back against the wood and crash your lips onto his. It’s clumsy. An awkward clatter of teeth and uncoordinated scramble of tongues.

The silence of the apartment is shatters.

Your phone begins to wail from the entryway table. The sharp ringtone cuts through the air like a blade, and you know, you just know it’s him. Caleb’s name flashes on the screen, a digital ghost looming over the room, watching you from the dark.

Gotcha.

This was the answer you’d been hunting for. Caleb wasn't just a part of your life, he was a spectator. He was watching right now. How many of them were there? Hidden in the smoke detectors? Tucked into the corners of the ceiling?

Is he seeing the way your chest heaves right now?

You don't let the fear paralyze you. Instead, you use it. You grab Ian’s hand and lead him toward the bedroom, he looks a little dazed by the sudden shift but he isn't exactly complaining. As you move, the phone on the table goes absolutely haywire, bombarded by a rapid fire succession of messages. He’s practically vibrating with the need to reach you.

He wanted to watch? You’ll give him the best performance.

Once you reach the bed, you push Ian back onto the mattress and straddle him. You dive back into his mouth, hands roaming over his chest, fingers bunching and gripping the fabric of his shirt as you lose yourself in the rush of the moment.

His hands find their way to your thighs, sliding under your skirt to cup your ass. You let out a broken gasp into the kiss when he finally hooks his fingers under the edge of your panties, sliding them aside.

A small, rational part of your brain is screaming this is insane, you barely even know this guy anymore! but that voice is drowned out by your own heartbeat. Logic is a luxury you can't afford right now. All that matters is the risk, and the invisible eyes you know are staring at you from the shadows.

Breathless, you break the kiss, your eyes darting around the room in search. And then, you see it. Tucked away in the shadowed corner of your closet, a tiny, unblinking red dot glints.

The moment you realize he’s actually watching you a rush of heat floods your entire body. The phone on the table outside starts to ring again.

"Aren't you going to answer that?" Ian asks breathless "it could be impo..."

You don't let him finish. You silence him, crashing your lips back onto his to stifle the question, determined to keep this investigation going. You squeeze your eyes shut, and suddenly, the illusion becomes almost too real. As Ian's fingers slide deep, pushing two fingers inside you, your mind betrays you. You aren't feeling Ian. You're picturing Caleb. You're imagining those strong hands, those calloused fingers, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress.

When Ian’s thumb finally finds your clit, grazing the sensitive nub, the world simply... shatters.

Your head lolls back and as your pleasure peaks Caleb is the only name on the tip of your tongue.

The echoes of your climax are still rippling through your nerves when the reality of what you’ve just done slams into your consciousness like a bucket of ice water. The high vanishes, replaced by sickening clarity.

Ian is staring up at you, his hand is still between your thighs "Hey... is everything okay?" he asks softly, his voice sounding far too loud in the sudden silence. "You were... really into it a second ago..."

You bolt upright, nearly tripping over the duvet in your rush to get to your phone.

Your fingers are shaking so badly you can barely grip the device as you snatch it from the entryway table. You swipe the screen open, and your heart drops into your stomach. The notification bar is a graveyard of missed connections.

Thirteen missed calls. Over thirty unread messages. And every single one of them, every single text is punctuated by a single, chilling period.

A shiver runs down your spine as you stare at those glaring notifications. You can almost feel the weight of Caleb's quiet fury pressing in on you, heavy and suffocating. You know him well enough to know that a single, lonely period is far more dangerous than a shouting match. It’s the silence before the storm, the kind of rage that doesn't need to make noise to be absolutely terrifying.

You grip the phone so hard the cold metal bites into your palm.

The sound of water running from the kitchen sink cuts through the heavy silence. You turn to see Ian coming out of the kitchen, wiping his wet hands on his clothes, looking confused and increasingly uneasy.

Before he can even open his mouth to ask what's wrong, the lie just spills out of you, born of pure desperation. "Caleb is on his way," you blurt out, "He... he should be here in a few minutes."

Ian’s eyes go wide. He doesn't ask why he's coming over. He doesn't even say goodbye. He just bolts. He practically scrambles for the door, like a man fleeing a crime scene. The door slams shut with a resounding bang, leaving you standing there in the oppressive stillness. You are alone. And there, in the quiet, your phone screen continues to glow, its light glaring at you like an accusation.

-------------------------

Caleb’s silence expands until it fills every corner of your life, suffocating you. It’s a cold silence that makes you feel like you’re walking on a frozen lake, waiting for the ice to give way.

All day Sunday, you go through the motions, nod when people talk to you, eat your meals, smile when expected. But underneath, there’s a jagged pulse of panic. You know he knows. You can feel his gaze on you, even when he's miles away.

By Monday morning, you’re done. You can't breathe, you can't think, and you certainly can't stand the silence.

You catch the Coelum Express up to Skyhaven, your heart hammering against your ribs when you unlock Caleb’s home with your spare key. The apartment is unnervingly quiet. It’s so still that the sound of your own breath feels too loud. As you wander through the living room, you stumble across a broken vase. Shards of ceramic lay scattered across the floor like a starburst of jagged teeth. Did he do this?

You don't have time to wonder. You’re on a mission.

You start tearing through his things like someone looking for a lost part of their soul. You open drawers, rummage through closets and cabinets, finding nothing. It’s all so normal. It’s infuriating

You’re moving from room to room, looking for the eyes. You’re looking for the way he sees you when you think you're alone.

Finally, you find yourself in the bathroom, staring at your own reflection in the mirror. You look exhausted. Your eyes are dark, underlined by the shadows of two sleepless nights.

You tilt your head, squinting at the ceiling. There, tucked away in a corner where the light barely reaches, is a small, slightly crooked square. It's so subtle, so almost invisible, that if you hadn't been looking with the eyes of a person hunting for a secret, you would have missed it entirely.

Using the small stool beside the tub, you manage to hoist yourself up, your fingertips press against the drywall until click. A box tumbles into your hands, you catch it just before it hits the floor. Your hands are shaking so badly you can barely work the latch.

When the lid finally gives, the air leaves your lungs in a sharp gasp.

There are photos everywhere. Not the kind you take together in the sun, but shots captured from the shadows, you laughing in high school, you studying in college, even recent ones of you just living your life. All of them taken from a distance.

And then, the things that make your blood run cold. Ribbons you were certain you’d lost years ago, their once vibrant colors now faded and dusty, tangled like dead vines. Nestled in the middle of the mementos are two pairs of your panties. One went missing during a trip to your grandmother's back in college, the other? That one vanished just last month.

He hasn't just been watching you, he's been collecting you.

You’re still processing the depth of his obsession when a voice slices through the air.

"Happy now?"

You nearly leap out of your skin. The box slips from your numb fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud, sending the photos and the stolen fabric scattering across the cold tiles like debris from a wreck.

Caleb is standing just a few feet away. He isn't shouting, he isn't even angry in the way you expected. He's just there. Leaning casually against the doorframe, eyes fixed on you.

"What... what is all this?" you manage to stammer, though your voice is so thin it’s barely a whisper.

A low chuckle vibrates in his chest, a sound that has no business being as smooth as it is. "Are we really going to play the offended victim now?" he asks, his tone dripping with a cruel sort of mockery. He takes a step toward you, his eyes never once wavering from yours. "Or do I need to remind you about that little cameras you tucked away so... cleverly... in MY room?"

You try to act like a clueless victim, grasping at the most transparent lie in the book. "What?" the word feels pathetic the second it leaves your lips, weak, flimsy, and a little embarrassing.

He doesn't buy it for a second. He closes the distance between you, stepping into your personal space until the cramped bathroom feels like it’s shrinking, the air turning thick and stifling. Without a word, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and holds it up like a weapon.

"Or we could just check your phone. See if there are any new notifications waiting for you. I bet a smart cookie like you has everything all figured out, don't you, Pipsqueak?"

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stand your ground, trying desperately to flip the script before he crushes you completely.

"How many cameras do you have in my apartment?" you demand. Your voice is a little shaky, sure, but you lace it with as much accusation as you can muster.

"Enough."

The single word is final.

"How long..." you start, the question catching in your throat, but he cuts you off before you can even finish.

"Since the day you moved in"

You feel the heat rushing to your cheeks, a burning blush you can't suppress. Your heart is drumming a frantic rhythm against your ribs as you struggle to find the courage to ask the one question that's been clawing at your mind.

"Did you..." you begin, your voice dropping to a humiliated whisper, "Did you watch... when I touched myself?"

He doesn't blink. He doesn't even offer the mercy of a pause. He answers instantly.

"Yes."

The word hits you with more impact than a shout ever could. You want to fight back and scream, to tell him he’s insane but the words die in your throat when you realize you are not much different.

"Just like you watched me on Friday," he adds, proving your point.

You try to move back, looking for an escape route, but the movement is futile. You’re already backed up against the hard, cold edge of the bathroom counter. "I... Caleb, I..."

"I watched every single time your hips rubbed against the mattress, searching for friction..." he pauses "...or maybe you were searching for me."

He’s so close now. You can feel the warmth radiating off him as he leans in, his hands coming to rest on the counter on either side of you. His fingers splay out, wide and firm, effectively pinning you in place.

"Except Saturday..."

"How long?" The question bursts out of you "How long did you watch us?"

His hands tighten on the marble, knuckles turning white. He leans in even further, his lips hovering just a hair's breadth from your ear.

"Long enough to know that I could have done it so much better," he whispers, and the sheer arrogance of it makes your knees weak. "I could have made you scream my name. I could have had you begging for more."

"Caleb..." your voice is a soft plea for mercy or perhaps something more.

His hands hook under your thighs and he hoists you up with a single, effortless motion. Before you can even gasp, you're perched on the cold edge of the bathroom counter, legs dangling, your face brought level with his.

"I would have licked my fingers instead of washing them like he did, I would have tasted every fucking drop of you."

The mental image of his tongue makes you ache with a sudden emptiness. A broken whimper escapes your lips, a sound of surrender you didn't even know you were making.

"Did you like it?" He digs his fingers into your hips, pulling you forward until there isn't a single inch of air left between your bodies. "Did he give you what you truly wanted?"

You stare back at him, a spark of something new igniting in your chest. If he thinks he’s the only one in this room with leverage, he’s dead wrong.

Your lips are hovering just a fraction of an inch from his when you reach down.

Your hand glides with deliberate intent, your fingertips finding the front of his pants. Under the fabric, you feel the hard, unmistakable length of him, heavy and pressing against your palm.

Caleb freezes. For a second his mask slips and you see a flicker of genuine surprise, the raw shock of a man who didn't expect his prey to bite back.

A small, triumphant smile tugs at your lips. He’s just as wrecked by this as you are, and the knowledge is intoxicating.

Before he can reclaim the control he’s so desperate to hold, you press your lips to the corner of his mouth, just barely grazing the skin, and exhale the truth like a secret.

"I was thinking about you the whole time," you murmur, the words a soft vibration against his lips. "Every touch, every moan... every single second. It’s always been you, Caleb. Always."

For a heartbeat the world stops and then he breaks.

His lips crash into yours, rough, hungry, and almost violent, demanding everything you have to give.

Your fingers weave themselves into the dark silk of his hair, pulling him closer, needing to erase the last of the distance. Your bodies are fused together, your curves molding perfectly into the hard lines of his chest. His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers tangling deep in your hair to anchor you, to hold you steady while he ravages your mouth.

But the heat is too much to contain. You can't wait.

Driven by need, your hands drop from his hair to his waist. You go straight for his belt. The leather groans as you work it, and the metallic clink of the buckle hitting the marble countertop echoes sharply through the bathroom. You don't break the kiss for a second, tongues dancing a messy rhythm, driving him toward the edge of madness.

Caleb’s hands aren't idle, either. They’re everywhere at once. His palms catch the hem of your skirt, his fingers bunching the fabric, shoving it up, up, up until the cool air of the bathroom hits your thighs. He doesn't stop until the skirt is around your waist, leaving nothing but the thin barrier of your panties between his hands and your skin.

You hear the sound of his zipper as you pull his pants down, mixing with the quick, shaky breaths you both take. His boxers come off right after, and then his cock springs free, slapping against his stomach, thick and already leaking with need.

Your small hand wraps around him, but you can barely get your fingers to meet on the other side. The moment you touch him his hips jerk, cock throbbing against your palm. A broken groan tears from his throat, forcing him to break the kiss and rest his forehead against yours, breath coming in harsh stabs of air.

But you aren't going to let him catch his breath just yet.

You gather a mouthful of saliva, and then, opening your mouth wide, you let the spit fall from your lips, the wet, warm drool dripping down the length of his cock.

Caleb’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open in a stunned gasp. "Fuck, Pips..." he nearly whimpers, voice cracking, "Where the hell did you learn to do that?"

You don't answer with words. Instead, your fingers begin to glide. You tease the sensitive underside, building tension, swirling the moisture around the tip of his cock until his head falls back.

The expression on his face is the kind of delicious agony that comes right before a breaking point. "Fuck," he groans, his eyes fluttering shut. "You have to... stop... because if you don't... I'm gonna..." He loses the thread, his coherent thoughts dissolving into a haze of pleasure.

He shifts his weight, his hips working of their own to guide your hand, adjusting the angle so your grip hits exactly where he needs it most. His cock is pulsing in your hand, a fast heartbeat. "Dont stop," he begs, his voice is now stripped of all his usual colonel like discipline. "Please, baby... don't stop... you're gonna...make me fucking... Unghh... cuuuuum..."

With one last stroke, Caleb cums in your hand, splattering your fingers and your covered cunt with warm streams of his release. He continues to push forward, his hips moving fast as he rides through the waves of his climax, smearing the proof of his lack of control on your hand and the fabric of your panties.

He slumps forward, resting his forehead against yours again, his chest heaving with uneven breaths. When your lips brush against his a breathless giggle escapes you.

"Is that how you do it?" Caleb asks, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear. With an impatient jerk, he yanks them down your thighs and off your legs. The scrap of lace catches on the toe of your shoe for a split second before he tosses it aside.

You cock your head to the side, one eyebrow arching in genuine confusion. "How do I do what?"

Caleb doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he sinks to his knees on the cold bathroom floor, his eyes locked on yours.

"Bring a man to his fucking knees"

His hands grip your thighs to pull you to the very edge of the counter, and then his mouth is there, lips latching onto your bare cunt.

He nestles his nose into your soft pubic hair, the warmth of his breath making you gasp, before his tongue pushes forward. He runs the flat of it in a long, slow stroke along your slit, the slick, warm muscle parting your lips before he begins to swirl around your puffy clit in a devastating circle.

Your thighs tremble uncontrollably and your toes curl inside your shoes when you fight the urge to just grind against his face.

There is a strange, invisible weight pressing against your thighs. It's a force that keeps your legs spread wide, pinning you open even as your muscles instinctively try to squeeze shut to hide from the sensation. Caleb is using his Evol.

Looking down, you meet his eyes as his tongue flicks out to lick a slow stripe up your slit, all the way from your entrance to the very tip of your clit, making the sensitive bud bounce against the tip of his tongue.

You tear your gaze away, staring at the ceiling, terrified that if you keep looking at him, you’ll shatter before you're ready.

"Look at me"

"I... I can't," you stammer, your cheeks burning with a hot blush that spreads all the way down to your chest.

Caleb lets out a sinful chuckle, a vibration that you feel much more in your pussy than in your ears. "Why not, princess?" he teases, his breath ghosting over your drenched cunt.

"Because I'll cum," you admit, utterly defeated. "Like... really, really fast."

"Eyes on me" there is no teasing in his voice now "Look at me, or I'll stop."

Your eyes fly to his, wide and vulnerable.

"There you go" his tongue picks up the pace, flicking and swirling around your clit "You taste so good, I could eat your pretty pussy for hours."

He proves it by thrusting his tongue deep into your entrance before dragging it back up with a heavy, wet friction, finally sucking your clit into the heat of his mouth.

"You like having your fingers inside this needy little cunt, don't you?" The words are vulgar, unashamed, falling from his lips like honey. "I've seen you, countless times... fucking yourself stupid, wishing it was my cock splitting you open instead."

As he speaks, his fingers begin to dance along your inner thighs, teasing the sensitive skin just enough to keep you on the precipice.

Then, he focuses entirely on your clit again. He puckers his lips around the sensitive bundle of nerves, creating a vacuum of heat. Everything in the bathroom, the gravity, the world itself simply falls apart.

When the wave of pleasure finally hits it takes over your entire consciousness. Caleb doesn't let you go, though. He works you through it, his tongue wringing out every single last drop of pleasure until you feel completely hollowed out. Only then does he finally release you, a final, parting suck sending one last, full body shudder through your limbs, leaving you clinging to the edge of the counter just to stay upright.

The hard, insistent weight of his cock pressing against your inner thigh should have been a warning sign of just how insatiable he is. The way he’d practically shredded the rest of your clothes, baring you to the air and leaving himself just as exposed made it pretty obvious, he wasn't even close to being done.

He settles himself between your splayed thighs, the fat head of his cock teasing the very edge of your soaked entrance. A part of you knows he’s going to hurt you. You know the stretch, the burn of being split open by him, is going to be more intense than anything you've ever felt. But nothing could have actually prepared you for the visceral reality of it.

The second the crown of his cock pushes past your entrance, your body goes into a panic. Your walls clench down with a futile strength, trying to fight him off, trying to keep him out. The burn is immediate. It’s a stretching ache that makes your eyes water and steals the breath from your lungs. As he continues to press forward, you feel yourself being pulled wider than you ever thought physically possible, your cunt trying to accommodate his girth as he sinks deeper and deeper.

"You're squeezing me so hard, pretty girl," he grunts "Breathe for me, baby. Just... nice and slow."

He can see the distress in your eyes, the way your face is pinched in pleasure and pain. He pauses his forward momentum, leaving half of his cock nestled inside, and ducks his head down, catching one of your nipples between his teeth.

He drags his teeth slowly over the sensitive peak, applying just the slightest, most agonizingly delicious pressure. In response, your walls clench around him even harder, the muscles fluttering as a bolt of liquid heat races through your core.

"Fuuuuck, y/n!" he has to grit his teeth, knuckles turning white as he digs his fingers into the soft flesh of your hips, physically anchoring himself to keep from snapping his hips forward and burying himself balls deep in one thrust.

He knew he had to distract you. If he didn't help you relax and adjust to his size, he was going to lose what little self control he had left. So, he diverted his focus, lavishing all his attention on your breasts. He began circling your nipples with the tip of his tongue, tracing the delicate, sensitive edges of your areola before flicking the peaks back and forth, back and forth, driving you crazy. All the while, his hand was busy, kneading the soft weight of your other breast, rolling and plucking at the neglected nipple until it puckered into a stiff peak, mirroring the one currently in his mouth.

Under his palm, your heart beats like a trapped bird. He can hear the uneven hitch in your breath as you struggle. He knows its a lot, he knows it hurts, but he also knows that your body can take it. That with just a little more time, a little more patience, you will mold yourself around him until it feels like you were made for this.

"Shhhh, baby, that's it, just breathe through it. Feel how deep I am inside your sweet little cunt. You're doing so well. Taking me so well. Such a good girl."

His words, filthy and dripping with praise, wash over you like a balm. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you feel the tension begin to bleed out of you. Your body starting to yield to the inevitable. Your walls soften around his cock, still tight, but the sharp, stinging ache turns into something more manageable. Your breathing, too, eases into something that resembles a normal rhythm.

He didn't stop, though. He kept licking and nipping at your nipples until they were flushed a deep red and glistening, until your back was arching and your fingers were tangled deep in his hair, pulling him closer.

Instead of thrusting, he begins to roll his hips in slow circles. He wants you to feel everything, every ridge, every pulsing vein.

"Caleb..." you gasp in a broken plea. "... please"

He knows exactly what you are begging for. He feels it in the way your hips instinctively arch up to meet his rhythm, but he wants your verbal surrender.

"What? Tell me. I want to hear you say it."

His hand slides down the curve of your belly, fingers diving between your legs to find your clit. He begins to circle the swollen nub, his touch so feather light it feels like torture.

"Caleb... I need..." You choke on the words "I need you to fuck me. Deeper... please!"

With a hard thrust of his hips he buries himself to the hilt, his heavy balls slapping against your ass.

"You feel... god, you feel incredible. So fucking hot... you're perfect."

Your body has stopped fighting and started surrendering. Every time he drives into you, he strikes a spot deep inside that sends bolts of electric bliss straight to your brain. Your walls, once stubborn and resistant, are now molding to him, eagerly stretching.

He leans down, trailing open mouthed kisses along the column of your throat. His day old stubble rasps against your skin, a friction that makes you squirm. When he reaches your collarbone, he pauses, his teeth grazing the bone before his lips close over it. He sucks hard, a bruising pull that you know will leave a dark mark for days.

"Please... Ca... Caleb," you manage to swallow, your voice breaking. "Fuck me faster. I want to cum, please!"

"My princess gets whatever she wants."

He begins to hammer into you, you can swear you feel the head of his cock kissing the entrance of your womb with every thrust, the rhythmic slapping of his skin against yours echoing in the room.

"I'm gonna cum! Just like that... please!" you keen, fingers scrabbling at his sweat slicked back, your nails digging into his skin hard enough to leave angry, red crescent marks. "I'm gonna cum, Caleb! I'm gonna... !"

"Let go, pretty girl, give it all to me."

Your body obeys. You tighten around him like a soft, pulsing vice, your entire being narrowing down to the feeling of him inside you as your orgasm crashes over you in a beautiful wave.

"Yes! Fuck! Just like that!"

With two final thrusts, he buries himself to your deepest reaches. Just when you think he is going to stay inside, he wrenches himself out at the last possible second.

Thick ropes of his release paint your clit and spill down onto your entrance in a messy end to the madness. He hovers over you, his eyes dark and obsessive, as he whispers a single, repeated vow against your skin.

"Mine, mine... MINE!"

wait. sae itoshi?

the prodigy? the boy genius? japan's greatest treasure? the man who looked at the media like they were dirt under his cleats? and right now, his face was nestled in the curve of your neck, his warm breaths fanning across your skin?

that sae itoshi?

oh, God.

oh, no.

no, no, no.

the flashes came back brutally: the vip lounge where you'd shared a drink, the surprisingly deep conversation that had made you forget he was supposed to be unapproachable, the way he'd looked at you. the back of his car. the way his hands had felt on your waist when you'd reached his penthouse ...

"sae," you whispered, your voice trembling. you didn't want to wake him up, but you desperately needed to not be here when he fully woke up.

no response. for someone who was so sharp and alert on the pitch, he was an infuriatingly deep sleeper.

you tried to gently lift his arm, moving as slowly as humanly possible to avoid a scene. but as soon as you created an inch of space, his grip tightened, pulling you back against his chest until there wasn't a single millimeter of air between you. he let out a low hum against your shoulder, his nose brushing against your ear.

"stop moving," he muttered, his voice a deep vibration that sent a shiver straight down your spine.

"sae," you tried again, your voice cracking with a mix of desperation and mortification. "sae, please... did we... why am i here? did you kidnap me?"

you tried to peel his fingers back, but it was like trying to move iron. instead of letting go, he let out a sharp, exhaled breath against your neck. a sound of pure annoyance at being disturbed. slowly, his eyes flickered open.

up close, those teal irises were lethal. there was no morning fog in his gaze. within seconds, they sharpened so fast, it made you want to pull the duvet over your head and never come out.

he didn't move his arm. if anything, he shifted his weight, pinning you more securely to the mattress as he watched you more nervous within seconds.

"you're here because you were too tired to give the driver your address, he said, his voice low. "and you're in this bed because you didn't seem interested in the guest room last night."

your jaw dropped, your mind racing. "i- i don't- sae, did we... did something happen?"

a slow smirk began to pull at the corner of his mouth. he leaned in just a bit, his nose brushing against yours. "your memory is surprisingly fragile for someone who was soo vocal a few hours ago."

"vocal?" you asked, your hands coming up to press weakly against his shoulders. "i wasn't- i'm sure i was just... being polite?"

sae let out a short laugh, the vibration of it traveling directly into your palms. he didn't pull back. if anything, he tilted his head, his gaze dropping to your lips for a second before meeting your eyes again.

"polite isn't the word i'd use for someone who spent twenty minutes arguing that my technical precision was overrated," he murmured. "right before you decided to test it for yourself."

you squeezed your eyes shut, a memory of you grabbing his tie in the elevator hitting you like a physical blow. you had definitely challenged him.

"oh no," whispered into the space between you, your forehead thumping weakly against his shoulder. "i actually said that? to you?"

"repeatedly," sae countered, his smirk widening as he felt you go limp with shame. his arm, still locked around your waist, tightened just enough to remind you that you weren't going anywhere.

"you were very specific about the lack of heart in my playstyle," he added, his breath warm against your temple. "you said i was like a machine, so i felt obligated to prove that i had human components."

"sae i'm so sorry," you groaned, your face hidden against his skin. "i'm not- i don't usually do this. i've never done this before and i didn't mean to actually- i think i just got caught up in the moment and i wanted to prove a point, but i didn't mean to be so ..much."

"wait."

sae pulled back just enough to force you to look at him. his teal eyes were no longer lazy but scanning your face so intensely that it made your heart do a nervous flip.

"you've never done this?" he asked, his voice dropping. "as in... i was the first?"

you tried to look away, but he caught your chin with his free hand, forcing your gaze back to his.

"i've been busy! my career, the traveling, i just hadn't found anyone i actually wanted to.. you know.. until last night. please don't make it weird, i'm already dying of embarrassment."

sae stared at you for a long moment, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

"so, the model of the century gave her debut performance to a, what did you call me again, boring footballer?" he murmured, the smugness returning ten-fold. "that's nice."

"don't let it go to your head!" you huffed, trying to push him away again, though you were trapped by his legs.

"too late," he murmured, his grip on your waist tightening as he pulled you flush against him again. "it's already there. along with the fact for someone who claims to be so busy, you were incredibly focused on me at three in the morning.

"hey! i was... i was overstimulated! the lights, the music, your face, your outfit, it was a lot."

sae let out a laugh again, his hands moving from your jaw to thread through your hair, tugging gently until you were forced to look at him again.

"if it makes you feel any better, superstar, i don't bring anyone to my penthouse. especially not girls who spend the whole night trying to act like they aren't looking at me."

you blinked. "you were watching me?"

"i've been watching you for months," he admitted. "every billboard, every campaign. you're the only one in the industry who looks like she actually has a thought behind her eyes. i've been waiting for this moment."

a small, surprised laugh escaped your lips. "oh! so sae itoshi had a crush on me?"

"don't use such word," he said, though the faint tint of color on his own cheekbones betrayed him. "let's just say i'm a fan of real talent, and since you decided to give me your debut, i feel a certain responsibility to make sure you don't regret it."

"i don't regret it," you whispered, the embarrassment finally turning into something genuine. "i just, i just don't remember everything.."

"you don't? then my job isn't finished. i can't have you walking around with a blurred memory of the most important night of your life. it's bad for my reputation."

"since when do you care about your reputation?" you peeked one eye open, wary of the smug look on his face.

"since now. care for round two?"

your breath hitched as his hand began a slow wander down your spine. "sae, wait- i have a fitting in two hours-"

"the only thing you're fitting into right now is this bed," he rasped, his lips ghosting over yours. "cancel it."

"you're so arrogant," you whispered, though your fingers were already tangling in his messy hair, pulling him closer.

"and you're still here," he murmured against your mouth before pulling the duvet over both of your heads, cutting off the morning light.

"try to keep up this time."

a/n: why is this so freaked out ...

studying in the library should have been safe.

nobara grew restless first, snapping her book shut with a dramatic sigh and announcing she needed “actual air.” yuji followed almost immediately, claiming his brain had reached maximum capacity for the day, while megumi lingered only long enough to finish a page before sliding his bookmark into place.

“don't stay too late,” he told you quietly, adjusting the strap of his bag.

you waved them off, already sinking deeper into your notes. “I won't.”

their footsteps faded, their voices dissolving into the general hush of the library, and for a brief, blissful stretch of time, you were alone in your usual corner; the one tucked behind a tall bookshelf near the back, half-shadowed and blissfully ignored by everyone else. it was hidden without being suspicious, secluded enough that no one ever bothered to pass through unless they were deliberately looking for something.

or someone.

you were midway through annotating a paragraph when a chair scraped softly against the floor across from you.

slowly, you looked up.

sukuna was setting his bag down on the table like he'd always intended to sit there, long fingers sliding his books out one by one and arranging them with unhurried precision. he didn't ask if the seat was taken. he simply claimed the space.

your eyebrows drew together. “how did you even find this spot?”

he didn't look up immediately, flipping open a notebook as though your question required no urgency. “you always head towards the least crowded area.”

“there are a lot of least crowded areas,” you pressed.

now he glanced at you, one brow lifting faintly. “and yet, here i am.”

you stared at him, irritation and something far more dangerous coiling in your chest.he leaned back slightly in his chair, stretching his legs out beneath the table, his knee almost brushing yours again - almost.

“relax,” he murmured, lowering his voice instinctively in respect of the library's quiet. “I'm studying.”

you looked down at your notes again, determined to reclaim at least a fraction of your concentration, but the silence had shifted in a way that made it impossible to ignore. it wasn't the peaceful kind anymore; it felt charged, like the air carried an undercurrent you couldn't quite name. every time you adjusted in your seat or tapped your pen against the margin, you felt it — that subtle flick of his gaze lifting from his page to you before dropping back down, quick enough that anyone else would miss it.

you furrowed your brows when you were thinking too hard, the crease between them deepening the more confused you became.

“you're doing it again,” sukuna muttered quietly.

you didn't look up. “doing what?”

“that.” there was the faint scrape of his chair shifting closer. “you look like you're personally offended by the textbook.”

“i am,” you muttered, squinting harder at the page as if to prove your point.

the crease between your brows deepened. before you could register what was happening, a warm hand reached across the table. two fingers pressed gently between your brows.

you froze.

sukuna's thumb moved slowly, smoothing over the wrinkle there with deliberate care, like he was erasing a mistake written in pencil. “you're going to give yourself permanent lines,” he said softly, voice lower now, stripped of its usual bite.

you swatted weakly at his hand, though there was no real force behind it. “i'm studying.”

“you're scowling,” he corrected. “aggressively.”

“It's called focusing.”

“It's called looking cute when you're mad at paper.”

for a moment, you just stared at him, like your brain had short-circuited and was currently attempting to reboot. sukuna, on the other hand, looked entirely unbothered by the damage he'd just done. he withdrew his hand slowly, but not before his thumb brushed over your skin once more.

that was your breaking point.

you cleared your throat abruptly and began shoving your papers together with far more urgency than necessary, the sharp shuffle of pages far louder than the situation called for.

“i just remembered,” you muttered, not meeting his eyes, “i have... something.”

“something,” he repeated mildly.

“yes.”

“fascinating. very specific.”

you ignored him, aggressively capping your pen and nearly missing your pencil case entirely before managing to stuff it inside your bag.

sukuna propped his elbow on the table and rested his head against his hand, watching you with open, shameless interest. there was no tempting grin this time, no sharp edge to his expression. just quiet awe, like he'd stumbled onto something unexpectedly precious.

you could feel it — his gaze following the way your fingers fumbled with the zipper, the way you refused to look up, the faint heat climbing up your ears.

“your notebook is upside down.” he observed lazily.

with a mortified huff, you flipped it over and shoved it in properly before swinging your bag over your shoulder in one swift motion. “I'm leaving.”

“clearly.” behind you, sukuna remained exactly where he was, chin resting in his palm, watching you disappear past the shelves with an expression far too soft for someone like him.

the crease between your brows might have been gone; but the way you'd practically fled from a compliment?

that was even cuter.

Lunchtime proved no better.

you were halfway through a passionate, borderline ridiculous argument with nobara about pineapple on pizza - a debate that had somehow escalated into moral philosophy - when a voice from across the cafeteria cut clean through the noise.

"sukuna! over here!" he stopped, glanced toward the table calling him, and then, with infuriating calm, chose a different direction.

toward you.

a chorus of dramatic groans followed.

“wow.”

“betrayal.”

“we see how it is!”

“you'll survive,” he replied evenly, not sparing them more than a flick of his eyes as he reached your table and slid into the empty seat beside you as though it had been waiting for him all along.

his knee brushed yours under the table. you kept your gaze fixed ahead, pulse climbing despite your best efforts to steady it.

“don't let me interrupt,” he murmured, smooth as ever, already reaching across the table to steal one of yuji's fries without permission.

yuji gasped like he'd just witnessed a crime. “that was mine!”

“it was communal,” sukuna corrected, unfazed.

“It was absolutely not.”

nobara went quietly beside you, which was never a good sign. her eyes moved between the two of you with sharpening interest, like she'd just found something much more entertaining than pizza discourse.

you focused very hard on your tray. it was difficult when sukuna sat close enough that warmth radiated from his side into yours, close enough that the faint scent of his cologne lingered in your space and refused to be ignored.

“what were we debating?” he asked lightly, nudging your knee once more.

“something important,” you replied, far too quickly.

“It was pineapple,” nobara supplied helpfully. “he's anti.”

“of course he is,” you muttered.

sukuna turned his head slightly towards you. “It's an unnecessary addition.”

“It's balanced,” you discuss, finally meeting his gaze. “Sweet and savory.”

“It's confused.”

“It's cultured.”

“It's a cry for help.”

you inhaled to argue further, but the words stalled somewhere between your lungs and your pride. because over his shoulde, just barely in your periphery, you caught movement from the table sukuna was supposed to be sitting at.

one of them was already looking. another leaned in, whispering something that made the corner of his mouth tilt upward. when they noticed you glancing their way, they didn't look embarrassed. they didn't look away, they looked entertained.

the cafeteria noise continued, loud and ordinary and oblivious, but it began to feel distant, like you were hearing it from underwater. nobara said something about fruit being elite, yuji chimed in dramatically, but their words blurred together.

It wasn't that you hated him.

that would have been easier.

it was that you didn't know where you stood, and worse — you were starting to care. and caring about someone who was, by all visible statistics, 99.01% likely to be toying with you for his own amusement was not something you were eager to experience publicly.

you'd seen it before. the glances in the hallway when he wasn't around. the snickering that followed a beat too long after you passed. the quiet comments traded between them that you could never quite hear but always felt land anyway.

maybe this was just another extension of that.

maybe you were the bit.

your gaze drifted again without meaning to, catching another exchange at their table. your chest tightened.

suddenly the argument about pineapple felt trivial, stupid. you became acutely aware of how close he was sitting, how deliberate that choice had been. how obvious it must look from the outside.

how obvious you must look.

you hadn't realized you'd gone quiet until the silence stretched.

“hey.” the nudge to your arm was light but grounding.

you blinked, turning to find megumi studying you with mild concern. “are you okay?”

“hm?” you forced your focus back into place. “yeah. I just... spaced out for a second.”

nobara's eyes narrowed slightly. “are you sure?”

“i'm fine,” you said quickly, offering a small nod to seal it.

you felt it before you saw it - the subtle shift in sukuna's posture, the way his attention sharpened. when you finally looked at him, his brows were faintly furrowed, gaze steady on your face like he was trying to piece something together.

and without breaking eye contact, he reached for a fry from his tray and flicked it across the table with effortless precision.

it hit megumi on the forehead. (my poor bby)

it was raining in that steady, unrelenting way that turned the world gray and glossy, the steps outside your building slick with water as droplets shattered against the concrete in a rhythm that almost lulled you into stillness. you stood beneath the overhang at the entrance of your major’s building, arms loosely folded, watching the rain collect in shallow rivers that streamed down the stairs.

an hour ago, itadori had taken your umbrella with a sheepish grin and a promise that his errand would be “fast. like, blink-and-i’m-back fast.” you had handed it over without thinking.

he had not blinked back.

you exhaled through your nose, jaw tightening. “my dumbass,” you muttered to yourself, eyes tracing the way a drop clung stubbornly to the edge of a stair before falling.

a shadow slipped over you.

you turned.

there he was - your personal plague.

hood pulled up over his head, soft strands peeking out at the front, a bag slung lazily over one shoulder. he held the umbrella with one hand, tilted just enough to shield you fully. there was something faintly amused about his expression, like he’d walked into a scene he’d expected to find.

“don’t have an umbrella?” he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

“itadori took it,” you replied, eyes dropping back to the rain-slick steps. “said he had to run an errand between lectures. apparently my critical thinking skills clock out when he smiles at me.”

a quiet chuckle left him, low and knowing. “that’s mistake number one.”

you shot him a look. “oh, enlighten me.”

“never lend your only shield to someone who calls errands ‘adventures.’” his mouth curved slightly. “but don’t sweat it. i’ll walk you home.”

he stepped closer as he said it, closing the small space between you so that the umbrella covered you both — technically. realistically? it was a size too small for shared pride, and you could already see the edge of his hoodie darkening where the rain kissed it.

you hesitated, knowing this was a bad idea.

and yet.

you nodded.

he adjusted his grip on the umbrella and began walking. you fell into step beside him, close enough that your arms occasionally brushed. the umbrella forced proximity, your shoulders nearly touching, his warmth noticeable even through layers.

the rain drummed steadily overhead, loud enough to blur the edges of the world. cars sped past on the street, tires slicing through puddles, engines hissing against wet asphalt. the noise created a cocoon of sorts, an excuse not to speak.

you were grateful for it.

until he broke it.

“you’ve been avoiding me.”

his voice wasn’t raised, yet somehow it cut cleanly through the rain and traffic, landing square in your chest.

you kept your eyes forward. “no, i’m not.”

“really?” there was a hint of dry amusement there. “then why do you go pale as a ghost every time you see me?”

you refused to look at him, already aware of the weight of his gaze. “i don’t. i’m just busy. we have different schedules. and there’s no real reason for me to—” your thoughts tangled, words tripping over each other. “—to talk to you.”

the rain seemed louder suddenly.

“no reason,” he repeated, slow.

“yeah.”

“interesting.”

you clenched your jaw. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“means you’re a terrible liar.”

heat crept up your neck. “i’m not lying.”

“you stop making eye contact. you change direction in hallways. you suddenly find something fascinating on your phone whenever i’m within five meters.” he tilted the umbrella slightly to compensate for a gust of wind, shoulder taking more rain without complaint. “that’s avoidance.”

his gaze didn’t waver. “and i want to turn that around.”

“what?” you stopped walking abruptly, shoes skidding slightly against wet pavement. sukuna halted with you, turning fully so his back faced the road. the umbrella tilted with the movement, and that was when you noticed just how soaked his shoulder had become — the fabric of his hoodie dark and clinging where it hadn’t been covered properly.

“i want to get to know you,” he said evenly. you blinked. “so i can properly ask you out.”

what?

for a split second, the world stilled. rain drummed against the umbrella, cars hissed past on slick asphalt, but everything felt distant, muffled by the weight of what he’d just said.

this was, objectively, every campus girl’s dream handed to you on a silver platter. getting asked out by the sukuna ryomen? girls would kill to stand where you were standing — under his umbrella, rain blurring the edges of the world, his attention fixed solely on them.

and yet.

“is this some fucking joke?” you scoffed, brows furrowing instinctively.

he actually looked taken aback. his eyes widened a fraction, blinking as if recalibrating to the sudden shift in your tone. “what?”

“tell me,” you pressed, folding your arms tighter around yourself. “how much is on the line?”

“how much is— what?”

“don’t act like i haven’t noticed,” you cut in, voice sharp now. “the whispers. the chuckles. your friends looking at me like they’re waiting for something. what kind of bet did you all make that involved me?”

“a bet?” his brows pulled together, confusion replacing the earlier certainty. “what are you talking about? there’s no bet.”

the crease between his brows deepened, and for a fleeting, traitorous second, you had the urge to reach up and smooth it away like he had in the library.

you clenched your jaw instead.

“i know how your friends behave,” you said. “and i know your reputation. hopping from one girl to another. making bets about who you can snog next.”

“now,” he exhaled through his nose, “that’s more of a gojo, geto, toji situation. not me and choso kind of situation, though i mean choso's been pulling lately-"

“sukuna,” you huffed, rain misting at the edges of your face as the wind shifted again. “you expect me to believe you’re not in someone’s bed every other night? have you seen how girls look at you?”

“not since i saw you around,” he said bluntly.

the words landed heavy. you hated that your heart stuttered.

hated that, against your better judgment, part of you believed him.

silence stretched between you, thick and uncertain. your eyes darted away first, tracking the rain sliding down the umbrella’s edge before you forced yourself to meet his crimson gaze again.

“why me?” you asked quietly.

if he had a rehearsed answer, he didn’t use it.

“if i started listing reasons,” he said, voice steady, “we’d be standing here until morning.”

“but you don’t even know me,” you scoffed, though the edge had dulled, replaced by a flicker of disbelief. “we barely talk.”

“but i notice you.” his voice was calm, almost quiet, the rain soaked his back and hoodie, plastering it to his form. “i know when you’re in the house without even leaving my room because you have a specific rhythm when you walk."

“you don’t like cactus because you’re allergic to pollen. i know that because when itadori gave you and nobara flowers on women’s day, you sneezed for hours. but you still took them and probably dried them in a book. you hate trying new flavors of coffee and always order the same thing, even though you’ll linger on the side debating a new flavor before defaulting. you like the smell of old books; i saw you bringing one to your nose multiple times because it calms you. you like collecting rocks — weird ones, jagged or colorful — and i know that because yuji thought it’d be funny to copy you. you hate sugary perfumes; i saw you scrunch up your nose when talking to shoko once in the hallway. and i gotta admit that phase of sugary perfumes she wore was shit as fuck. you like colorful clothing but settle for neutral in public because you think people will judge you. and when you yawn,” — his lips curved, teasing — “there’s this frog sound you make that’s… fucking adorable. and—”

before he could finish, your lips pressed against his.

he froze for a fraction of a second, spine rigid, breath hitching, before melting into the kiss. "mmhm..." the umbrella, forgotten, slipped from his hands and clattered to the wet pavement.

his hand found your cheek, warm and steady, tracing softly as the rain soaked both of you, hair sticking in strands to your foreheads. when you finally parted, you whispered between ragged breaths, “go on a date with me.”

the pink flush on your cheeks made him pause. he wanted to pinch it.

he blinked.

“yes.” then a breathless, fervent, “fuck, yes. i’ll go on a date with you.”

he smiles - all teeth and in that moment you see the resemblance between him and yuji.

𝖻𝗈𝗇𝗎𝗌:

yuji’s screams pierced your ears, making you jerk your phone away just enough to keep from going deaf.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU GOT A COLD?! DID THAT BASTARD—”

“i, uh—” you stammered, words tripping over each other, but before you could finish, sukuna snatched the phone gently from your hands.

“yeah, i confessed. all’s good, bro. plan worked.” he sniffled lightly, laying his head on your lap on the couch, one arm draped lazily over your thighs, the other giving a casual thumbs up (as if itadori could see it from wherever he was.)

“oh, all’s good then!” yuji’s voice came from the phone again, muffled by rustling and some papers or whatever he had in his hand. “please do find a way to tell her i—i lost her umbrella—”

“YOU WHAT?!”

𝖺/𝗇: some of this stuff was self-indulgent and i apologize if you can't find yourself in it, this was kinda loonggg, if i get an idea (or maybe you write one in the comments) ill write part 3 but if i dont yeah thats it lol, really didn't expect part 1 to blow up this much in my eyes it was really shitty and i was sleep deprived while writing it loool © 𝙛𝙧𝙚4𝙠𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙖 — do not modify, repost without crediting, feed to ai, or plagiarise my work

-

Caleb Xia learned early that wanting something wasn't enough.

As a boy, he had believed talent alone could carry him forward. That if he worked hard enough, if he proved himself clearly enough, doors would open on their own and stay open for him. But life corrected that assumption quickly. Talent opened doors, yes. It got you noticed. It made people watch. It gave you opportunities others might never receive. But it didn't keep those doors from closing again.

That part required something else entirely, discipline that didn't waver when no one was watching, endurance that stretched past exhaustion, restraint that allowed you to swallow frustration without letting it poison your focus. It required the quiet, repetitive ability to sit with discomfort and keep moving forward anyway.

He learned that lesson long before aviation academy ever tried to grind him down. But it was there that it became permanent. People liked to say he had been lucky. They said it casually, admiringly, as if his life had unfolded smoothly. Scholarship. Fast track training. Promotions that came earlier than expected. Captain's stripes before thirty.

Caleb never corrected them. Luck was easier for others to understand than the truth, that his path had been built on fear as much as ambition. Not fear of failure. Fear of becoming small. Fear of proving wrong someone who had believed in him without hesitation, without conditions, at a time when he hadn't even believed in himself.

He didn't talk about you. Not because you were a secret. Not because remembering hurt too much. But because some things changed when spoken aloud. They lost their clarity, their quiet strength, becoming something smaller than what they had once been.

After the letter came, after the recommendation was attached, after the path forward finally solidified into something real, he never asked who had written it. He didn't need to. The handwriting in the evaluation comments was unfamiliar, but the words weren't. Steady. Reliable. Composed under pressure. Someone who could be trusted with responsibility. He had stared at that page for a long time before closing the file.

And after that, he carried you with him quietly. Not as a ghost lingering in the past. Not as a regret he wished he could rewrite. More like a standard. A quiet measure he held himself against whenever he faltered.

Aviation academy stripped him down faster than he had expected. The workload was relentless simulations stacked back-to-back, technical assessments that demanded precision down to the smallest detail, instructors who didn't soften criticism simply because you were trying your best.

The pressure never eased. There were days when he failed simulation runs by margins so small they felt almost cruel. Nights when he lay awake staring at the ceiling of a cramped dorm room, calculating expenses in his head, wondering if chasing the sky was selfish when his family still depended on his stability.

More than once, he considered quitting. Not dramatically. Not impulsively. Just quietly, logically telling himself that basketball would have been simpler, safer, more predictable. Every time that thought surfaced, another memory followed. The way you had looked at him that night on the hood of his car when he called his dream silly. Not amused. Not indulgent. Certain. As if there had never been any doubt at all. So he stayed.

He studied harder, not out of pride but out of necessity. He practiced until procedures became instinct, until his hands moved through controls without hesitation. He learned to absorb criticism without letting it bruise his ego, learned that correction wasn't an attack but a tool. Over time, he understood something deeper, that leadership had nothing to do with volume or authority. It was consistency. Showing up prepared. Staying calm when others couldn't. Being the person others could rely on when things became uncertain.

He didn't graduate at the top of his class because he craved recognition. He did it because he needed to become someone who could be trusted with lives.

Commercial aviation followed sooner than he expected. Not rushed. Earned. Opportunities came because he didn't reach for them prematurely. He took every step methodically, building experience, accepting responsibility at the pace he knew he could sustain. So when the captain's stripes were finally placed in his hands, they didn't feel like victory. They didn't feel like an endpoint. They felt heavy. Like responsibility settling firmly into place. Like proof that he had become the kind of person he once promised himself he would be.

And sometimes, in quiet moments, when the cockpit lights dimmed during cruise altitude, when the sky stretched endless and calm beyond the windshield, he would think of you. Not with regret. Not with longing sharp enough to hurt. Just with a quiet certainty. That somewhere, in some part of the world below, you had also found your own direction. And that the person you had believed he could become… He had finally grown into.

-

Years later, your life had settled into something quieter. Not gentler. Just… Stable.

You woke up in a hotel bed that wasn't yours, the sheets cool against your skin, sunlight bleeding through the gap in the curtains like it didn't care what day it was. Your head throbbed slightly, not regret, just residue. Proof that last night had existed. That you had laughed, that you had stayed out longer than usual, that you had allowed yourself to be unguarded for a few hours. Vacation.

But then your phone vibrated somewhere near your pillow.  And you answered before your eyes fully opened. "Hello?" "Sorry to wake you." Your supervisor said, voice brisk but apologetic. "Are you free today?" You stared at the ceiling, letting the question land. You should’ve known. You always did. Calls like this never came without a reason, and you were always the name that surfaced when plans fell apart.

"Yeah." You said, hoarse. "Nothing planned." There was a pause, short, efficient. "One of our crew has food poisoning. Medical grounded them. We're short." Your body woke up fully at that. "I checked with HQ." She continued. "They said you're on vacation nearby. I thought I'd ask before pulling someone farther out." You sat up, rubbing your temple. "So… Could you make it?" 

You exhaled slowly. Vacation ended early. Again. But the truth was, you hadn't been resting anyway. Downtime made you restless now. Flying had rewired something in you, made movement feel like home. "Yeah." You said. "I can do it. Send me the details." Relief slipped through the line immediately. "Thank you. I owe you." The call ended.

You stayed where you were for a moment, phone loose in your hand, then set it down and crossed the room to the window. Outside, the sky was open and pale, endless in the way that always made your chest ache just a little. A plane cut through it smoothly, unbothered. You watched until it disappeared.

Then your phone buzzed again. Flight number. Route. Departure time. Crew list. You skimmed automatically. Names blurred past. You'd learned not to linger. People came and went. Rosters changed. Familiarity was a liability in this job.

Captain: C. Xia

You didn't stop. The name registered, brushed against something old, then slid past. Too common. Too impossible. The timeline didn't make sense. He would've been too young. Life didn't hand out promotions like that. Not fairly. Not quickly. You locked your phone.

You dressed with muscle memory alone. The uniform felt different than it used to, less like armor, more like skin. You knew how to wear it now. Knew what it meant when supervisors trusted you with last-minute calls, when younger crew looked to you instinctively. Almost senior. Reliable.

You caught your reflection in the mirror, older, calmer, still sharp around the edges. Less defensive. Still careful. You picked up your badge and keys and left.

The airport greeted you with its usual indifference. Announcements echoed. Wheels rolled. Conversations overlapped and dissolved before they could mean anything. In the briefing room, everything ran as it always did. Weather conditions. Safety reminders. Mild jokes exchanged without commitment. Then the captain entered. 

You didn't recognize him right away. Not because he was unrecognizable but because you hadn't allowed yourself to imagine this version of him. He stood easily, shoulders squared, movements unhurried. There was confidence there, not the loud kind, not the kind that needed to prove itself. The uniform fit him like it had been earned over time, not granted early.

"Good morning." He said. The sound of his voice settled somewhere deep in your chest. You looked up.

The realization didn't crash over you. It didn't steal your breath. It arrived quietly, the way truth often does when you've already lived through the worst of it. Caleb. Older. Broader. Grounded. Not the boy you remembered but undeniably the same person. Too young once. Not anymore.

You nodded with the rest of the crew. Professional. Neutral. Your face didn't betray you. Years of training, years of discipline, held everything exactly where it belonged. Across the room, his eyes found you. They paused. Just long enough. Something shifted in his expression, recognition, maybe. Or memory. Or the faintest shadow of something unresolved.

He didn't smile. Neither did you.

No one said anything. No one needed to. There were too many years between you now, too much life lived separately. You were different people wearing different versions of yourselves. Maybe he didn't recognize you at all. Not really. Maybe he only recognized the echo of someone he used to know. You preferred that thought.

But there was work to do. So as you moved through pre-flight checks, your hands steady, your voice calm, you were acutely aware of him, not as a presence looming over you, but as something distant and familiar, like turbulence you could feel but not see.

You wondered what he remembered. You wondered what he had forgotten. You wondered if he ever looked at the sky and thought of someone who believed in him before it made sense to.

You didn't let yourself look at him again. Missing someone didn't mean you were owed anything. It didn't mean the past deserved reopening. Some things were meant to be carried quietly. So as the plane prepared for departure, cabin lights dimming, the world narrowing into altitude and routine, you accepted the truth with a steadiness that surprised even you. You missed him. You always had. You just weren't going to say it.

-

The morning of the flight began like any other.

A hotel room washed in early light. A day that should've been quiet rerouted by logistics. One crew member sick. Dispatch adjusting. Protocols unfolding exactly as designed. Caleb accepted the change without complaint. This was the job. This was the reality of being responsible for more than yourself.

When the senior flight attendant called to confirm the crew was complete, he thanked her and ended the call without a second thought. He didn't ask who had filled the position. He trusted the system. Trusted that what was past stayed there.

He showered, dressed, adjusted his uniform with practiced ease. The mirror reflected a man he recognized, calm, grounded, unremarkable in the way competence often was. And yet, as he reached for his cap, an unease crept in. Not anticipation. Fear.

What if you wouldn't recognize him?

The thought landed heavier than it should have. Time had changed him. Not dramatically but enough. His face had hardened in places, softened in others. His posture was trained now. His voice steadier. The boy who once stood beside you in crowded hallways, laughing too easily, pretending things were simpler than they were. That boy felt impossibly far away. And still, some part of him wondered if that was the only version of himself you would ever see. But then he told himself it didn't matter.

That morning, he didn't read the crew list. Later, he would understand that choice for what it was not indifference, but self-preservation.

By the time he walked inside briefing room door. The world did something strange. It folded inward. You stood there, real, solid, not softened by memory the way he had kept you all these years. The first thing he felt wasn't recognition. It was disorientation.

Because suddenly, he wasn't a captain in a briefing room. He was seventeen again. Standing shoulder to shoulder with you in a school hallway, close enough that your sleeves brushed when you walked. Hearing you call him your boyfriend in that casual, practiced tone the two of you had agreed on. Back when it had been pretend. Back when it had still felt real in ways neither of you ever fully named.

The memory hit him with startling clarity, not sharp, not painful. Just achingly familiar. That quiet awareness of you beside him. That sense of belonging to the same space, even when the future between you had always been uncertain.

But this version of you. This version wasn't the girl he remembered. You were older, yes. But more than that, you were settled in yourself. Confidence rested on you naturally now, not like something you had to hold tightly to keep from slipping. Your posture carried authority without effort. Your presence felt calm, grounded, certain. And somehow, you were even more beautiful than the one he had spent years remembering.

Caleb hesitated. Just for a heartbeat. Long enough to wonder if his mind was playing tricks on him. Then your eyes passed over him. Paused. And moved on. The small motion tightened something quietly inside his chest. Not because you hadn’t recognized him. But because you had. And chosen distance anyway.

He greeted the room the way he always did, voice steady, professional, neutral. His gaze didn't linger. He didn't allow it to. But throughout the briefing, he couldn't stop noticing you. The way the crew instinctively deferred to you. The way you listened before speaking. The quiet authority you carried without needing to claim it. Almost senior. You had built a life. A solid one.

The realization didn't hurt the way he might have expected years ago. It settled quietly instead, firm and undeniable. You were no longer someone who needed anyone to stand beside you. You stood perfectly well on your own.

And for a fleeting moment, a thought crossed his mind that he quickly buried. Not that he had grown away from you. But that the two of you had grown parallel. Once, you had walked side by side. Now, you moved along separate lines. Close enough to see. No longer close enough to touch.

Then your gaze met his again. This time, there was no hesitation. No searching. Just recognition, not of who he used to be. But of who he was now. You didn't smile. You didn't speak. You simply acknowledged him. And somehow, that felt more honest than anything the two of you had ever pretended to be. And something inside him shifted, not relief, not regret. Something quieter. Acceptance.

The briefing ended. Everyone returned to their roles. The rhythm of the day resumed as if nothing unusual had happened at all. Inside the cockpit, Caleb moved through the checklist, grounding himself in procedure, in familiarity, in the weight of responsibility waiting beyond the cabin door.

This was where he belonged. This was the version of himself he trusted. And yet, as the aircraft climbed, cutting through layers of cloud into an open, endless sky, he felt something unexpected settle into him. Not longing. Not the restless hope of youth. Just a quiet possibility.

The kind that came not from wanting to reclaim what had been. But from knowing that once, long ago, the two of you had chosen to stand beside each other. Even if it had begun as pretend. He no longer thought about what should have happened back then. Or whether either of you could have changed the outcome.

For the first time in years, he thought only about now. About timing. About choice. About the fragile chance that something unfinished might still find a different shape. Because this much he knew with certainty. He was no longer the boy who once stood beside you, trying to pretend he didn't care how real it all felt. And if life ever allowed the two of you to stand close again. This time, There would be nothing left to pretend.

-

The flight ends clean. No delays. No complications. Just the quiet precision of a job done well. Passengers file out in a steady line, their footsteps soft against the cabin floor.

"Thank you for flying with us." You say, voice warm and practiced, shaped by years of repetition. Some smile. Some nod. Most barely register you at all. Your body moves on instinct, muscle memory guiding you through the routine while your mind stays carefully elsewhere.

In the cockpit, Caleb lingers longer than necessary after shutdown. His hands rest lightly on the controls, even after the systems go quiet. Not because anything needs checking but because letting go feels… Deliberate today. Smooth flight. Efficient crew. Everything exactly as it should be. Still, something inside him hasn't settled into the usual post-landing calm. He tells himself it's just the long day.

You don't look toward the cockpit. He doesn't look toward the cabin. But awareness hums between you anyway, steady, unmistakable, like the residual vibration of engines long after they've powered down.

At the gate, the crew loosens in small ways, ties adjusted, jackets shrugged on, phones lighting up with notifications from lives waiting elsewhere. "Finally." One of the first officers mutters. "I thought that turbulence was never going to end." "You handled it fine." Someone replies. "Cabin barely noticed."

You adjust the strap of your bag, already picturing the quiet hotel room waiting for you. The kind of quiet that no longer feels lonely, just familiar. You're halfway toward the exit when the senior flight attendant steps beside you. "We're grabbing dinner." She says lightly. You hesitate. Not because you don't want to go. Because you understand what accepting means.

"I was planning to head back." You say. "I'm still technically on leave." "I know." She says, smiling. "But you stepped in for us. Just one meal." Your gaze moves before you can stop it.

Across the room, Caleb stands with the crew, jacket over his arm, listening to someone talk. He looks relaxed now, less contained than he had been earlier, the strict edges of authority softened into something quieter. Older. Grounded. Real. You look away first.

"…Alright." You say. "Just dinner."

Dinner is easy in the way shared workdays often are. Conversation stays on safe ground, rotations, schedules, hotels, minor complaints that everyone understands. You speak when spoken to. Listen more than you used to.

Across the table, Caleb does the same. There is no tension, no heavy silence. Just an unspoken awareness that never quite leaves. When you speak, he notices how measured your voice is now. When he answers, you notice how steady his has become.

You don't talk about the past. Neither of you expects to. Some distances aren't meant to be crossed in a single evening.

Outside, the night air is warm. The crew disperses gradually, drifting toward taxis, buses, separate directions. You adjust your bag. "I'm heading out." "Goodnight." Someone calls. "Goodnight." You reply. And then you turn and nearly run into Caleb. He stops just short, giving you space. "Which hotel are you at?" He asks. You look at him for a second, then tell him. "That's on my way." He says after a brief pause.

You raise an eyebrow slightly. "Is it?" "Close enough." He replies. Then, quieter. "Mind if I walk with you?" There's no pressure in his tone. No expectation. Just a simple offer. You consider him for a moment. "…Alright." You say.

You walk side by side. Not close. Not distant. There's space between you, not uncomfortable, just real.

"So." You say eventually. "Long day." He exhales softly. "Yeah." A pause follows, not awkward, just careful. "You've done well." You add after a moment. He glances at you briefly. "So have you." It isn't flattery. It's observation. And somehow, that makes it heavier.

"You've changed." You say. He gives a small, thoughtful nod. "I hope so." "You seem… Steady now." "That took time." He admits. "And mistakes." You understand that kind of answer. Time had done the same to you. Taken sharp edges. Left something quieter behind.

Your hotel comes into view.

You slow instinctively. "Well." You say. "Thanks for the walk." "Anytime." He replies. There's a pause. Not the fragile kind from youth where silence demanded immediate resolution. This one feels different. Measured. Patient.

"I don't know where you are these days." He says finally. "Schedules change. People move." You nod. "They do." Another pause. Then, carefully, like someone testing stable ground. "If you ever have time." He continues. "Maybe we could… Catch up." Not tomorrow. Not urgently. Just sometime.

You study him quietly. He isn't asking like a boy afraid of losing something. He's asking like a man who understands that some things take time. "…I'd like that." You say. It isn't immediate. It isn't eager. It's steady. And real.

"Goodnight, Caleb." Hearing his name spoken so simply without history weighing it down settles something deep inside him. "Goodnight." He answers.

You walk into the hotel without looking back. Not because you don't care. Because for the first time in years, you don't feel the need to check whether he's still there. And outside, Caleb stands for a moment before turning away. He understands something quietly then.

The years between you were real. They changed you both. They took away what you once were. But they didn't erase what had been true. Wanting you no longer feels like regret. It doesn't feel urgent. It doesn't feel impossible. It feels like something quiete, like standing at the start of a very long runway, knowing there is still enough distance ahead to take off properly this time.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2026°

The time Caleb declared he would be stopping by your place, a wave of panic washed over you. Your eyes glanced around your overly girly decorated room.

Fairy lights hung from the ceiling, the shine they offered bouncing off the beady little eyes of the figurines you pulled from blind boxes which were now neatly lined up along your shelves. Your bunny slippers with the floppy ears that rested on your fuzzy pink carpet seemed to stare deep into your soul. Even the plushies you had lined up on your bed suddenly became too much.

Caleb’s space was far more “grown up” looking than yours and with that teasing nature of his, you wouldn’t be surprised if he made a few comments about your place.

But you should’ve known he couldn’t care less what your space looked like. Your whole sweet girl aesthetic was something that had attracted him in the first place. It gave him something to taint. To corrupt and defile.

Once he had arrived at your place, it wasn’t long before you found yourself with your face buried into your cherry print sheets and your ass leveled with Caleb’s cock.

You squirmed and whined as he slid his length between your puffy folds, refusing to touch you were you needed him most. The space between your thighs became awfully sensitive whenever he was around. It was as if he had you trained at this point. He didn’t have to do much before your slick was staining your cute panties and a need filled the pit of your belly.

Your poor twin-sized mattress creaked and squeaked not only from Caleb’s added weight, but from the force behind his hips. You had been confused at first when Caleb placed one of your bunny plushies between the headboard and wall, but looking at it now, you understood it was meant to prevent others from hearing what was going on behind your closed door.

“Would ya look at that? Giving your toys a damn show, honey.”

Lifting your face from the mattress, you found yourself face-to-face with your favorite little orange blob with the propeller on its head and aviator goggles above its winking face.

A cry filled with horror and shame came from your swollen lips. You were quick to shove your face back into the sheets while trying to turn him away from the dirty scene, hoping to preserve its innocence.

The sick part of Caleb that needed to ruin every single aspect that was tied to you surfaced which resulted in a harsh smack landing on your ass. His hips came to a halt as well, the pleasure gone, unable to keep your mind away from the sting.

“Nuh-uh, don’t do that.” He spoke as he reached for the blob, making sure to place him on your pillows for it to recline against the headboard. “Let him watch. Want him to see what a dirty girl you are.”

“D-don’t talk like t-that.” You weakly replied. “Leave h-him alone.”

He paid your words no mind. Caleb’s hips moved once more, the nasty squelching sound suddenly louder than before as you did your best not to make a peep.

Your fingers dug into the sheets. With your face planted there, it became difficult for you to breathe, but your shame wouldn’t allow you to expose your face to the cool air. The hitch in your breathing wasn’t missed by Caleb, nor your lack of sounds.

He needed to hear your moans, whines, and cries.

Slipping a hand into your hair, he tugged, the roots burning as he made you look straight ahead.

“Pretty, sweet things like you should be seen while getting fucked, but I’m too damn selfish to let anyone see you like this, so that damn little blob of yours is gonna have to go.” Leaning over so that his mouth was directly beside your ear, he spoke once more. “And don’t you dare close your eyes. You do, and I’m gutting all your little friends till they’re nothing but a pile of stuffing.

You couldn’t do anything other than take it. The coil in your belly was tightening, disgust filling every inch of your body. Shame. You were ashamed that you were still enjoying the feel of Caleb’s dick stretching your plush walls.

He knew when to speed up and when to slow down. Every thrust reached a different part deep inside of you and he never pulled out completely, it was always just enough for the mushroom head to catch at your entrance before slamming back inside.

When he felt the familiar clench of your cunt that signaled you were about to cum, he pulled you up into your knees and curled his hand over your jaw, keeping your attention on your plush friend.

“Gonna cum now, honey? Gonna make a mess on my cock while your friend watches, yeah?”

You tried to fight him. A hand reached behind you to push at his hips, hoping to slow his gyrating hips.

“Stop…don’t wanna…don’t want him to w-watch this…”

“Watch what? Your pretty face as you fall apart? Your cute tits as the bounce? Or your cunt as you spill yourself all over me?” He nibbled on your ear, his tongue curling around the skin to soothe the bite marks.

The breathlessness as he spoke had your pussy clamping down on him. You couldn’t hold back as your eyes squeezed shut and your head fell onto Caleb’s shoulder. You didn’t want to come like this, but the brute rearranging your insides wouldn’t have that.

Without so much as a warning, his fingers slipped past your lips and forced your spit to gather along his digits. When he deemed them wet enough, he brought them down to your cunt. Parting your swollen lips, he toyed with the bundle of nerves as your spit mixed with your arousal, aiding his ministrations.

“Gotta show them what it’s like when a pretty little doll looks like when she cums.”

You couldn't hold it any longer. A trembling hand came to hold onto his forearm as you came with a cry, tears rolling down your flushed cheeks. You couldn’t stop your hips from bucking as your slick squirted out of you, dirtying your cute sheets.

While you recovered from your high, Caleb used your flaccid body as his personal fleshlight, jaw clenching as he spilled his seed inside of you. Unlike you, he paid no mind to the drops that fell onto your comforter. Once his dick had softened, he slowly pulled out causing you to let out a tired whine.

“Shh, none of that now.”

He hushed tenderly, reaching over to your desk where you had a box with pink tissues sticking out of it. Taking his time to clean you up, his free hand caressed the skin he had spanked earlier before he quickly wiped his dick and tossed the dirty tissues into the mint gingham trash bin. Turning back to where you lay, he felt a sudden warmth erupt in his chest as he found you dozing off. When he stood by your bedside, your half-lidded eyes looked up at him.

“C’mere, sweet girl.”

You didn’t put up a fight as he carried you in one arm while the other arranged your sheets and pillows. You ended up crowded against the wall as Caleb slipped in right beside you. Though you were slipping in and out of consciousness, you could feel as he looked around before reaching for whatever it was he needed.

He slipped a familiar orange blobbus under your arm, a curious finger flicking the propeller on its head. Before you fell asleep, you heard him joke.

“After what he saw, we’re gonna need to get him a girlfriend.”

It was such a stark contrast that you were left reeling. Six months into your marriage, reality bore little resemblance to the life you had once imagined.

You had once thought your home with Zayne would be warm with laughter, shared meals, and soft conversations lingering late into the night—a place that breathed with comfort simply because the two of you were in it together.

Instead, the halls of the grand mansion granted by the emperor were cold—spacious, immaculate, and lonely.

“My lady, here.”

The voice startled you out of your daydream, snapping you back to focus as your handmaiden, Yvonne, wrapped the shawl around you.

Oh, right. Today you were accompanying your lord husband for his audience with the emperor.

. . .

The journey to the palace was smooth. You sat demurely within your palanquin, lulled by the steady rhythm of the horses’ steps. Now and then, Zayne’s voice carried through the air as he issued clipped commands to his troops.

And before you knew it, your entourage had arrived at the royal palace. The palanquin doors swung open, and the first thing you saw was your husband’s stoic expression.

“My lady,” he muttered, grayish hazel eyes stern, offering his hand to you to assist you out.

Your heart pricked at the sight before you. Zayne had always been steadfast—but before all this, he was never rigidly formal with you like this.

“One day… I will become the greatest general in the land. Will you wait for me until then?”

The memory rose then: a younger Zayne, red-faced, thrusting a jasmine flower into your hands as he stumbled through his confession. It made your chest ache even more.

The things he saw in the wars turned him into this version before you, you believed. Maybe, to him now, the tenderness you once shared during your childhood no longer held any meaning at all.

You took his hand.

“Thank you, my lord,” you replied with equal stiffness, gripping his hand. You didn’t dare look at him while he led you forward.

Yet you still took comfort in one thing—his hold over your hand never wavered, not even as the two of you came to stand before the emperor himself. It was only when he had to let go of you that he did.

“What a pleasing sight it is to see you, Lord of Anlan!”

The emperor was headstrong yet a jolly individual. From his elevated dais, he greeted the two of you with open warmth. Zayne answered with a restrained bow, and you quickly followed his lead.

The emperor’s attention then shifted to you. “And I trust the Lady of Anlan has been well?”

“I am well, Your Majesty,” you replied, fixing a polite smile in place. “Thank you.”

However, you had a feeling that the emperor didn’t actually care about you at all, as the way his sharp gaze lingered on you sent an uncomfortable chill down your spine each time.

He soon turned his attention back to Zayne, and the two spoke at length about matters concerning the fief. Then—

“Is something troubling you, Your Majesty?” Zayne asked, putting on a mask of a concerned subject.

“Oh, yes—yes,” the emperor said with a faux chuckle. “There is something that has been bothering me...”

“And what might that be?”

“Well, the princess royal is still in search of a husband. It’s giving me a headache as she insists on someone just like you… It’s such a pity you turned down my proposal back then, Lord of Anlan...”

You could feel his hot stare on you, and he continued, “Had you accepted the princess’ hand, you would be part of the royal family by now.”

You clenched your fists. It was not the first time this had been mentioned, and each time it was brought up, it always left a bitter taste in your mouth. Zayne had indeed refused a royal marriage decree and chosen you instead—but did he somehow regret that choice that it left him cold and distant to you all this time?

If so… why hadn’t he broken off his betrothal with you back then?

. . .

By the emperor’s command, both you and Zayne were to remain in Yunshao for a time—residing within the imperial palace itself.

The two of you were showed to your temporary chambers, and the moment you stepped inside, you let out a sigh. Behind you, Zayne paused, noticing your weariness.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

You opened your mouth to answer, but the words halted. And in that hesitation, something in your expression must have betrayed you.

“You look unwell,” he observed, tone thoughtful. “If the travel has strained you, I will have the physician summoned.”

“That isn’t necessary,” you replied quickly. “I am fine.”

The silence stretched. He was watching you—not coldly, not warmly either, simply assessing. Then, as if deciding something, he spoke again.

“I will be entertaining the princess royal shortly,” Zayne said, his voice returning to that familiar, careful neutrality. “Her Highness has arranged for it. It would be improper to refuse.”

The princess, again. The woman who had once sought him as a husband never seemed to miss an opportunity to summon him whenever he was within palace walls. Lowering your gaze, you were silently irked.

“Do you… have to go?” You asked before you could stop yourself.

“Yes.”

A default, logical answer. You had expected this but somehow your heart still hurt regardless.

“I see,” you murmured, the words felt hollow even to your own ears.

Zayne didn't linger. As he turned and walked toward the door, his steps were quiet.

And the space between you suddenly felt wider than the vast halls outside your door.

The palace was a world of its own—lavish courtyards, lotus ponds glimmering beneath carved bridges. Servants moved like shadows, each bowing, each whispering, each watching.

Yet none of those gazes ever lingered on you for long.

You were the Lady of Anlan, yes—but not a lady of imperial blood. In a place where lineage was currency, you were a mere general’s wife. Polite smiles were given, greetings exchanged, but you passed through the palace halls like a quiet breeze.

Zayne, meanwhile, was constantly summoned—councils, briefings, private audiences. You saw him only at night, and even then not much that could be talked about.

And so, you learned to occupy yourself quietly. Reading beneath shaded pavilions. Feeding the koi in still waters. Watching the sky shift from pale gold to indigo behind tiled rooftops.

It was during one such day that the palace stirred with unusual excitement—an envoy had arrived from Zhaole.

It was Zhaole’s prince himself who had come to negotiate trade routes. You paid it little mind at first as foreign politics had nothing to do with you... until you were summoned to attend the audience.

You stood at your designated place within the grand hall, slightly behind and to the right of Zayne, when the doors opened.

“His Highness, Prince Rafayel of Zhaole, has arrived!”

Silk banners bearing unfamiliar insignias unfurled as the entourage entered. At its center walked a man whose presence seemed to bend the air around him.

Prince Rafayel was clad in white robes embroidered with cerulean and gold-threaded waves, the fabric flowing like water with every step. His long purple hair were striking. Exceptionally refined and handsome. There was something artful about him, like a masterpiece aware of its own beauty.

His eyes swept across the hall lazily at first—measuring ministers, skimming over the servants—

And then they stopped. On you.

For a fleeting second, you wondered if you were mistaken. But no—his gaze sharpened, as though he had found something unexpectedly intriguing among a sea of expected faces.

And a second later, he smiled—at you, before he resumed his walk.

The prince came to a halt before the dais and offered a bow for the emperor.

“I bring greetings from Zhaole,” he said smoothly, his voice clear as a plucked string. “I am Rafayel. I trust Yunshao’s hospitality will not disappoint.”

The emperor responded with booming warmth, welcoming him to the court. Formalities were exchanged. Polite laughter followed.

But you would never expect what would he do next.

As the formal greetings concluded, Rafayel’s gaze suddenly shifted towards where you stood beside Zayne.

“My apologies,” Rafayel said lightly, tilting his head with deliberate curiosity. “I do not believe I have been introduced to the lady standing beside the esteemed Lord of Anlan.”

The hall grew quieter. You felt Zayne’s posture stiffen imperceptibly, and you—caught beneath the weight of the prince’s attention—found yourself momentarily at a loss.

The emperor chuckled. “Ah... that is the Lady of Anlan.”

Rafayel stepped forward, not too close to breach decorum, but close enough for both your and your husband’s discomfort.

Up close, his smile softened, eyes gleaming faintly.

“Oh, Lady of Anlan...” he repeated, as though tasting the title. Then, inclining his head toward you in a gesture that was respectful, yet strangely personal, he said, “It is a pleasure, madam.”

And that was how you went from being overlooked to the subject of every whisper within the imperial palace.

“Hey… did you see what happened earlier?”

That evening, the palace held a banquet in honor of Zhaole’s prince.

The grand hall was transformed beneath the glow of lanterns. Music drifted softly through the air, accompanied by the quiet murmur of noble voices and the occasional ripple of laughter.

“The imperial prince of Zhaole— he specifically greeted the Lady of Anlan!”

And yet, Zayne wasn’t amused in the slightest.

It was one thing for his wife to become the subject of palace whispers—that alone was enough to draw attention he did not welcome. But it was another thing entirely to realize that his wife had caught the interest of a royal prince.

Zayne didn’t show it openly. His expression remained as composed as ever, but throughout the night, the faint crease between his brows lingered longer than usual, and his gaze would settle on you often.

It was most probably nothing, he told himself. A passing curiosity. A prince’s fleeting amusement in a foreign court.

Across the hall, you stood beneath the lanternlight—radiant without trying. You, his childhood sweetheart, had always been a dear to him.

You still are.

After he was done conversing with an official, he made his way towards you.

“My lady,” he greeted quietly. You jolted at the sound of his voice, turning to face him.

“My lord,” you replied.

Once, you had called his name freely, whenever you wanted. You would tug at his sleeve, demanded his attention, laughed without restraint. Zayne didn’t like this formality between you, honestly.

“Take a respite if you are tired,” he said then, mostly out of concern. “You have always disliked attending banquets.”

You let out a quiet sigh. “And you have always endured these far better than I ever could.”

When had your relationship become this strained? There had been no single argument that shattered everything. No cruel words spoken in anger that could not be taken back.

Only distance. Distance that crept in so quietly neither of you had noticed until it was already too late.

Zayne inhaled slowly. He didn’t want to say it, but he couldn’t remain silent either— and so he did:

“…Do not get too close to the Prince of Zhaole.”

You frowned faintly, seemingly not taking his words well. “What are you implying?”

“I am saying,” he began slowly, “that you should not allow his attention to draw you in.”

However, contrary to your usually docile demeanor, your expression hardened immediately.

“I’m not so naive.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

For a moment, you simply stared at him. And then, you pulled back slightly, your chin lifting. “You speak as though I’m incapable of judging character for myself.”

That was not what Zayne was getting at at all, but you were already irate. “I don’t—”

“You entertain the princess, a woman who tried to make you her husband,” you went on, eyes sharp. “So tell me, why is it acceptable for you… but not me?”

Zayne held your gaze. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The music swelled faintly around you, but the air around you felt cold.

There was a lot he wanted to say. That you were not meant for another man’s curiosity. That you are reserved for him only. That to him, you were precious more than anything.

But he knew better than to say it aloud, because you already looked at him with resentment.

“Take care of yourself.” He finally left you with those parting words.

He had never been a man of excessive affection or one to indulge in sweet words. Love, he believed, was best proven through stability, protection—through ensuring that you would never lack comfort nor security.

“Lord Zayne!”

But to give you everything, he was bound to give himself to his duties first.

Zayne held back a sigh and turned towards the voice—the princess royal, a vivacious woman trying to attract his attention, and forced a straight face.

“Your Highness,” he greeted evenly.

His fingers tightened around the stem of his cup, the cool porcelain grounding him.

. . .

While the banquet was lively, the laughter felt distant, the lanternlight a little too bright against your tired eyes. After the argument with your husband, you were honestly considering to retire for the night.

Your chest still felt tight.

It felt like an ache you could not soothe, because you honestly had enough of everything in this marriage. You wanted a husband who was present, not just dutiful— and Zayne wasn’t really fulfilling what you really desired.

You exhaled quietly, intent on leaving the grand hall behind. However—

“My lady.”

You were stopped in your tracks. The velvety voice came from your right. You turned.

Prince Rafayel stood nearby, dressed in darker robes of burgundy, the candlelight catching in the gold embroidery. Up close, his gaze was as intent as it had been earlier—unabashed in its attention.

He inclined his head politely, lips curved in a bright smile. “I trust the palace has been treating you well.”

You lowered your gaze in courtesy, once again bewildered by his presence before you. “His Majesty’s hospitality is generous. I lack for nothing.”

“Is that so?” he questioned lightly, “Is it just my imagination then... that you don’t seem particularly fond of it?”

The comment caught you off guard. You looked up at him, startled. His expression softened, as though aware he had stepped too close to something unheard of.

“Forgive me,” he said, lowering his tone. “It’s merely an observation. I suppose when one’s husband appears to be too close to a certain princess, you’re bound not to enjoy the evening.”

His gaze flickered across the hall, and you instinctively followed his line of sight only to see your husband with the no-nonsense princess, ever composed and attentive. You looked away.

“They say the Lord of Anlan is unmatched in the battlefield,” Rafayel began idly. “That he drove back the pirates without mercy and won the Emperor’s favor through sheer merit alone.”

“Yes,” you said softly. “He did.”

Rafayel glanced back at you, studying your expression.

“They also say,” he continued, “that he governs Anlan with fairness. That the people trust him. That he is a man who does not bend easily, nor does he offer himself cheaply to gain favor.”

Everything he said was true. Zayne was always steadfast. Honorable. Respectful. He had always been that way—even as a boy.

“Yes,” you admitted quietly, a smile slowly forming in your lips. “He is.”

Rafayel watched you for a moment longer, as though weighing something. Then, he reached for a nearby tray and lifted a cup of sweetened wine, offering it towards you.

“While all of them might be true, even the greatest man does not stand alone. Behind him is a woman just as remarkable. You must not diminish yourself beside him, my lady.”

Your breath stilled. An imperial prince was telling you that you were worth more than what you thought you were.

“You may not be a princess,” Rafayel continued, his voice warm but certain, “but you are in no way lesser. Everyone here knows it to be true—or at least, I do.”

Your cheeks flushed from the heat and flattery. “Your Highness... Thank you for your kind words.”

Prince Rafayel’s gaze held yours with quiet sincerity, still smiling. Your fingers closed around the cup before you could think better of it.

“And right now, you are far too lovely to spend the evening looking as though the world has wronged you.”

You let out a small breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and raised the cup to your lips.

The wine was sweet. Warmer than you expected, and the slight bitterness loosening something tight within you.

“Yes, just like that... chin up, my lady. The lanterns favor you better that way.”

You hadn’t realized how much you needed it.

Rafayel said nothing more, merely gesturing lightly when another tray passed. And when your cup emptied, another found its place in your hand.

And then another.

The warmth spread slowly through your limbs, softening the sharp edges of the evening. The distant laughter no longer felt so piercing. The ache in your chest dulled, and replaced by a fleeing sensation and your own laughter.

You drank, and drank... perhaps more than you should have.

But for the first time that night—

It became easier not to look across the hall.

At some point, Zayne realized he had not seen you in a while.

The moment he found a lull in his conversation with the princess, he excused himself at the first opportunity. His eyes swept the grand hall, but you were nowhere among them.

A faint unease settled into his chest, until he passed by his personal guard—

“My lord,” he bowed slightly.

“Did you see the lady?”

“I believe the Prince of Zhaole was seen escorting Her Ladyship out to the western terrace.”

Zayne’s eyes hardened. He immediately made his way towards the said terrace. He found you at last—

And Prince Rafayel stood beside you, too close for his liking.

“My lady, are you sure you’re fine?”

And you—

“Am fine! I’m fine!”

Your hand rested against the stone railing, posture swaying, your cheeks flushed and gaze watery. Flash of anger immediately filled Zayne’s sense at the sight.

Rafayel noticed him first and he turned to him courteously.

“Lord of Anlan,” the prince greeted smoothly, his expression calm. “I was merely keeping your lady company. It seemed the evening had become tiring for her.”

Zayne moved past the prince, taking big strides without acknowledging him.

“…My lord husband?” you murmured, voice soft when your eyes finally landed on him. Zayne immediately reached for you.

“Y/N,” he whispered in your ear, trying to ground you. But you staggered and crashed into his chest. His jaw tightened as he pulled you into his embrace.

That accursed prince had seen you like this.

“I shall take my wife back,” he said through gritted teeth.

Rafayel inclined his head with easy grace, putting on an easy smile. “Of course.”

Zayne put his arm around your shoulder, steadying you. You leaned into him instinctively as he led you through the quiet corridors, away from the prying eyes.

By the time you reached your chambers, your steps had grown even more unsteady. He guided you inside carefully, dismissing the servants with a glance before they could speak.

Your husband sat you gently on the edge of the bed, meanwhile you were still trying to get your bearings, blinking slowly.

“Are you alright? Do you feel dizzy?” Zayne asked, unable to conceal the worry in his voice. His hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing lightly against your warm skin, frowning deep. “I’ll get you some water.”

Your gaze followed his every movement as he crossed the room and poured water into a cup. He knelt before you again once he was done, holding the cup carefully toward your lips.

“Drink,” he coaxed gently.

You stared at cup of water. Then at his hand. Then at him.

Then, with clumsy defiance, you pushed the cup away. Splash!

Water sloshed over the rim, spilling onto his robe and the floor below. Zayne froze.

However, not caring about it at the slightest, you raised your hand abruptly, your finger pointing at him—

“You terrible, detestable, wicked—”

You might be slurring, but your eyes burned with clarity as you spew profanities at him:

“—husband!”

The last word left your lips and you slumped. Throughout the years you had been with him, Zayne had never seen you so openly wounded like this. He stared at you, at a loss of words.

You swayed where you sat, your arm falling limply back to your side.

“Yvonne said I’m pretty,” Your nose scrunched faintly as you sniffled. “My maids said I’m pretty too...”

Zayne tried to reach for you again, but you refuted his touch.

“And Prince Rafayel—” you continued, sounding borderline delirious, “He said I’m no less than a princess... So why—”

Your lashes were wet, tears blurring your vision, and your lips trembled as you glanced up at him:

“—am I not enough for you?”

The question pierced him cleanly. Zayne felt something twist inside his chest at the sight of you. He knew that with everything that had happened, you were bound to resent him. But he had loved you... still loved you even at right this moment.

He closed the distance between you then, gently and firmly taking your face in his hands before you could turn away again.

“Enough?” His voice dropped, dangerously close to breaking. His hazel eyes searched yours as if trying to carve the truth directly into your heart. “You are... You are more than enough.”

His thumb brushed away the tear that fell down your cheek. Something flickered across his expression— the hurt, but when his eyes shifted to your lips, it was replaced by something far more possessive.

“And you— must only look... at me.”

And then, Zayne crashed his lips into yours with fervor. One hand on your waist, he pulled you flush against him. The taste of salt lingered between you, your tears mingling with the heat of his mouth.

“Mmm...” You gasped into the kiss, fingers instinctively clutching at his robe—still damp from the water you had spilled.

He softened only slightly then, angling his head, kissing you slower but deeper. His thumb traced along your jaw, coaxing you to respond, to open for him. And when your lips parted for him, he groaned, before inserting his lips to tangle with yours.

Each kiss lingered, pressed harder—until you melted into breathless sighs against his mouth.

When Zayne finally pulled back, his grayish hazel gaze held yours with such intensity that made it impossible to look away.

“You are more than enough,” he repeated, voice hoarse. “You undo me.”

His hand slid to your cheek again, gentler now, almost reverent.

“And if I have failed to show you that, then that’s my failing.”

You were half-conscious and all thoughts emptied from your head, spellbound by the restrained desire in your husband’s look.

His thumb traced your lower lip, swollen from his kisses. “Don’t measure yourself against another man’s gaze.”

He would show you how you meant to him, he vowed.

“For mine has never left you.”

. . .

Six months into marriage, and you had learnt that your husband wasn’t as gentle as he looked in marital bed.

With practiced fingers, he worked fast on the laces of your robes as he guided you to the said bed. He kissed the path from your lips to your throat, nipping at your skin— and at the same time, he palmed your breasts, his thumb brushing over your nipples in slow, deliberate circles until it tightened beneath his touch, sending a sharp, aching warmth through you.

“Zayne...” you gasped, arching to his touch.

“Tell me what you want, wife,” he growled against your ear, flicking your nipple in the process, making you squirm. “Tell me.”

Words failed you as his kisses grazed your collarbone, leaving love bites there. He followed the path from your shoulder— and you were in for a ride when he took your erect nipple into his mouth, sucking hard.

A cry slipped from your lips, your nails digging into his hair. The sensation was overwhelming—heat pooling low in your belly, your breath coming in uneven gasps as your husband shamelessly suckling you.

“Ahh, mmrgh…”

He held you firmly, feeling every tremor running through your body. But suddenly, he lifted his head, lips glistening and eyes dark with lust, gazing straight at you. “I want to hear you first.”

“I...” your breath hitched, swallowing the shame. “I want your... mouth.”

“Beg.”

You fingers curling weakly against the sheets. “Your mouth, please—” you breathed out, heat blazing on face, “all over me.”

His lips quirked into a satisfied smile. “As you wish, my lady.”

And with that, Zayne moved to the other breast, giving it the same devoted attention, his sinful tongue swirling before he bit down gently on the flesh.

“Mmngh!” you moaned, head falling to the pillows. His mouth was relentless, and true to his word to fulfill your desire, your husband made sure you were sated with his mouth first.

He rained hot, open-mouthed kisses throughout your chest and abdomen next, and stopped just below your navel, dark eyes clouded with predatory haze.

The thought that he very much could get you swollen with his child after this night was through made himself hard. If his seed were to take hold within you tonight— even Prince Rafayel would know better.

His hand tightened at your waist, his lips pressing into the softness of your folds—and a second later, lapping at it like a man in throes of hunger. You gasped, grasping his hair, as he devoured you down there.

And in no time at all, your lord husband made you come on his tongue.

“Ah—aaah...” Your thighs trembled around him as pleasure washed through you.

He is cruel... You were hazy with drunken lust and tears, but you no longer cared enough to resist.

“Stop…” you whimpered. “Just… make love to me already…”

Your husband’s stern, hazel eyes turned to you, slightly widened at your bold plea. “Is that truly what my lady wishes?”

You glared at him. “Yes.”

And he honored your wish without hesitation. Zayne rose, shedding his garments with swift movements. His magnificent length sprang free, thick and hard, his hand closing around it as he stroked himself slowly—his eyes never leaving yours.

Your lord husband is very, very tantalizing, indeed...

He moved over you, settling his hips between your thighs. One hand wrapped around himself as he dragged his length slowly through your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal. He pressed against your entrance, the tip nudging there before he stilled, dark eyes once again confirming yours.

“Are you ready to take me, wife?”

You wrapped your legs around his torso, pulling him closer. “Please, Zayne— now.”

And with that, he pushed himself into you. You writhed, broken gasps spilling out of you—the way he stretched you was perfect, sinking into you slowly, making you feel every inch of himself.

Zayne grounded you by resting his forehead against yours, groaning into your mouth like a beast in heat. “Perfect,” he choked out.

When he began to move, you lost all your wits altogether. His thrusts were slow at first, each one reaching inside you impossibly deep— “Ah, ah...!”

But the rhythm did not stay gentle for long. It grew steadier, more insistent and faster. The lewd sound of skin slapping resounded in the room, your breathless moans mingled with his harsh grunts.

“Look at me,” Zayne commanded, voice rough. His hand came to your chin, turning your face toward him. “Look at your husband.”

You forced your eyes open, meeting his captivating gaze. In that fleeting instant, you thought you saw everything reflected there—lust, the aching need to be closer than flesh could allow, love.

He adjusted his angle, and suddenly struck that one spot that made you cry out. “T-there!”

A low growl rumbled from his chest as he aimed for that spot again, and again, relentless in his pursuit. Your vision blurred, your cries filling the room, clutching his shoulder helplessly as his unforgiving fingers found your clit—circling and rubbing it, driving you closer and closer to the brink.

And a second later, pleasure crashed through you without mercy. Your walls clenched around his girth, and the feeling of how you pulsed around him pulled a rough sound from his throat, making him lose his control at last.

He thrusted deep one last time, burying himself to the hilt as ropes of his cum filling your womb— sowing a part of himself in you.

The first thing you noticed when your eyes fluttered open was the warmth.

Soft, steady warmth wrapped around you, and golden sunlight filtered through the window, spilling across the bed in beams. For a moment, you simply lay there, suspended between sleep and waking, your body heavy.

Then you became aware of something else. An arm draped securely around your waist—

Your breath caught as the memories of the night before flickered faintly at the edges of your mind.

Last night, you and Zayne were...

You unwittingly let out a gasp, and your voice woke your husband.

Behind you, Zayne stirred. His hold tightened instinctively for a second, as though even half-asleep he refused to let you slip away. A low murmur brushed against your ear—

“…You’re awake.”

His thick voice sent a faint shiver down your spine. You slowly turned in his arms.

You were greeted with his beautiful face. The familiar line of his jaw. The faint crease between his brows as sleep gradually left him. The dark grayish hazel of his eyes as they focused fully on you.

It had been so long since he was in your bed. Long enough that waking up like this—tangled together, bare beneath the sheets, his warmth still wrapped around you—felt almost unreal.

Your lips parted, but no words came. Instead, your eyes grew glassy, emotion rising too quickly for you to contain. The sight of him made your chest ache.

“Y/N?” he asked quietly, catching your forlorn expression. A realization dawned on him—

His arm loosened at once, withdrawing from your waist as though your skin burned him. He shifted back, putting a small distance between your bodies.

“I won’t touch you again,” he said, voice steady, the spark in his eyes dimmed. “If last night was… a mistake in your eyes, then it will not happen again. I give you my word.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. After enduring days and nights of feeling unwanted, to experiencing the most exalting night in your life— only to him to spew this nonsense—

“You stupid, stupid lord!”

Before he could react, you seized the nearest bolster and smacked it against him. Zayne blinked, completely caught off guard as you struck him again.

He instinctively grabbed the sheets to cover himself, trying to shield his face from your assault. “Wife—”

“How dare you—!” you snapped, hitting him again. “You have ignored me for literal months, always busy with that damn princess, and then bedded me— only to say that?!”

Another blow landed against his shoulder.

For a man who commanded armies and terrified courtiers with a glance, Zayne looked utterly defenseless as you continued your attack, his hair disheveled, sheets barely clutched around his waist.

“You’re awful!” you continued, your voice trembling now for an entirely different reason. “I thought—”

Your arm faltered mid-swing, your grip on the bolster loosened. “I thought you didn’t want me anymore,” you choked out, the first of your tears falling.

The way you teared up made Zayne’s expression change instantly. He moved before you could turn away, his hands found your wrists, drawing you closer despite the awkward tangle of sheets between you.

“How could I not want you?” His thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching the tear there. “Marrying you… has been my goal from the very beginning.”

Your breath hitched. The memory of that spring replayed in your mind’s eye once again: “One day… I will become the greatest general in the land. Will you wait for me until then?”

Zayne’s jaw tightened in regret as he pulled you into his embrace.

“But apparently it was just the start, not the end. After our wedding, I thought that my duty next is to ensure you never have to want for anything. That if I build enough stability… enough wealth, then you would never feel lacking. And in doing so, I neglect something far more important.”

His other hand rose to cradle your cheek fully now. You found his steadfast gaze.

“You.”

Zayne leaned his forehead lightly against yours.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and this time there was no pride left in his voice. “I should have treated you better. I should have been beside you more. Not just as your husband in name—but in truth.”

“You’re so silly.” You stared at him through your tears, poking his chest. “All this time… you thought I only needed wealth? Security?” Your fingers curled slightly in the fabric of the sheets between you. “I was right here, and yet you strayed so far away.”

If being silly was what would get you with him, then so be it. Zayne’s eyes softened in a way few people would ever be allowed to see.

“The girl who chased fireflies with me in the jasmine fields…” he smiled despite himself, picturing the little you who were always full of laughter for him. “When I asked her to wait for me, I also vowed that I would never let her experience any hardships in life once she came to be with me...”

You shook your head immediately, your hand sliding higher, resting over his heart firmly.

“I wanted to marry Zayne,” you said, looking at him with a frown. “Not the Lord of Anlan.”

Something in his expression broke then—not painfully, but like frost melting beneath the first warmth of spring.

His forehead rested against yours once more, his eyes closing as though savoring the closeness he had denied himself for far too long. His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, and in that touch was his love for you.

“And you did,” he whispered. “You married a man who has loved you long before he ever became anything else.”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I can’t prolong my stay within the imperial palace any further. My wife wishes to return home, and I don’t have it in me to deny her.”

Zayne’s voice was calm and unwavering as he stood before the throne, posture straight and expression composed, facing the ruler of the land himself.

“As for the princess… I am certain a worthy match will present himself in due time. So I humbly ask that Your Majesty refrain from summoning me again for this matter.”

The emperor scoffed, seeing the two of you off with thinly veiled exasperation, but this time, Zayne didn’t bend, nor did he seem troubled by the emperor’s displeasure.

He had chosen you, and from now on, he would continue to do so.

. . .

Preparations for your departure followed swiftly. Your servants and handmaidens moved with practiced efficiency, gathering belongings and readying the palanquin. Yet their eyes lingered, subtle curiosity passing between them as they noticed the unmistakable change.

“Have you seen them?”

“His Lordship hasn’t left her side once.”

“I’ve never seen him look at her like that before…”

Their voices carried in hushed murmurs, behind sleeves and lowered gazes, and you pretended not to hear, only greeted them with the brightest of smiles.

When the time came to board the palanquin, he turned to you and offered his hand openly, a faint, reserved smile resting upon his lips—one meant only for you.

The servants fell into stunned silence as you placed your hand in his, in awe at the picturesque sight of their dashing lord and beautiful lady. It was a simple gesture, one they had witnessed countless times before.

But this time, there was clearly something different in the air.

He helped you into the palanquin carefully, his hold steady—as though you were something precious. And this time, he didn’t ride the horse, but went inside along with you.

“…I think they’ve reconciled, at last,” one handmaiden murmured softly.

“It’s about time,” the lord’s personal guard sighed.

A faint, heartfelt smile appeared on Yvonne’s face. “Ohh, I’m glad!”

And truly, they all were.

They had always admired him—their stern, unyielding lord, a man of discipline and honor.

And they cherished you—the general’s lady, whose kindness had touched every corner of Anlan.

To see the two of you now, no longer separated by silence but standing side by side as husband and wife… It felt like watching the very first blossom of spring unfurl after winter.

He didn’t snap. It’s so much worse than that. At least in the eyes of the arrogant boy who got bested by, what he assumed to be a grade two curse because of how pudgy and stupid it looked. The thing that caught him lacking looked like a fucking blob fish that struggled with crippling anxiety, how the hell was he supposed to know that it could mess with timeof all things? 

One moment he’s laughing at the way it looks, the next he’s in the complete dark. 

That was the first time he’s smiled in months, by the way. 

“Huh?” Satoru huffs out, trying to look around before eventually realizing that he has a blindfold on, and rips it off in annoyance. “Don’t tell me that thing knocked me out,” he begins to grumble to himself. It’d explain why he had a blindfold on… but then he realized he was in a completely different outfit, one that you didn’t put on someone who was currently in rest and recovery. 

He highly doubts Shoko would even change him, anyway, at least not for this. 

“Oh hey, you’re home.” 

Home? 

He looks around, and all he knows is this isn’t the dorm he’s continued to stay in after graduation, purely due to the fact that he was already out on missions for up to 18 hours each day. Not to mention that the penthouse he was currently standing in was too clean to be his. Too warm. Way too comfortable.

You already knew there was something deeply off in those first few seconds of looking into his eyes. This wasn’t your husband— this was the hot mess you met and still fell in love with all those years ago. 

You tilt your head to the side, more curious than cautious, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” he snorts, literally the worst liar ever. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know,” you hum, holding eye contact long enough to leave him feeling a bit unsettled. “You tell me.”

First of all, who the fuck do you think you are speaking to him like that?

Second, who even are you?

Something big and shiny on your finger catches his attention, then he looks at his own hand that has an equally shiny band around his ring finger. 

Fuck.

“Honey–”

Satoru physically cringes at the pet name, giving himself away once again. 

“I’m not Satoru,” he blurts out, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “I mean, I am, but I’m not— FUCK– some fuckin’ curse blasted me into the future, and I need to go back.”

Well, that was quick. He’s always quick to fold under pressure when it comes to you— it’s something he’s unaware of though, as he fights back the urge to start pacing back and forth. 

There’s a light smack from your mouth when you go to open it, only for the words to never even come, let alone die out. Nothing about this surprises you. This is not the craziest thing that’s happened since you’ve met Satoru. 

Your lips thin into a smile as you take a deep breath, knowing you had no choice but to accept your new circumstances. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He raises a brow at how you just… accepted it.

“Yeah… I believe it.” You respond flatly, then point at him, casually motioning your finger up and down. “Your attitude kinda sucked when we first met.”

He grimaces, taken aback by the statement. “No, it doesn’t–”

“You also liked to argue, too.”

“Okay— whatever,” he waves a dismissive hand, not at all interested in hearing what else you had to say. At this point, it just sounded like you wanted to shit on him, something he actually doesn’t have any fucking time for right now. “You’re a sorcerer… right?” 

“No.” 

“Christ.” Satoru sighs, turning on his heel. “You’re fuckin’ useless—“

You scoff, more humored than offended. “Where are you going?” 

“To figure this shit out!” he snaps, throwing his arms out as he turns around to face you. 

“Okay,” you shrug, still way too calm for Satoru’s liking, as it pisses him off even more. “If you don’t get it all figured out tonight, you can always come back. We have a guest room.” 

“Yeah, thanks.” He huffs out a bitter laugh, as if that was the dumbest suggestion he’s ever heard. “I appreciate the offer.” 

– 

“Yaga” Satoru storms into the principal’s office, ignoring all his cursed stuffed animals, but noticing what he’s done with his hair. “What the fuck happened to you?”

The principal's brows pinch together, wishing he had locked the door to his office. Satoru fucked with him enough today by showing up to a meeting 20 minutes late with some sugary frap in his hand, and now he’s storming into his office, insulting him out of nowhere. 

“Actually, nevemind.” Satoru waves a hand to stop him from even answering his question, reminding himself not to get sidetracked right now. “Look, I need your help. I got sent into the future by some curse, and I need to get back.”

Yaga inhales sharply. “What are you even talking about?”

“Exactly what I just said! I’m from 2009! Not whatever age I am now—”

“31.”

Satoru throws up a little in his mouth. “Send me back.” 

Yaga lets out a long, disappointed sigh. It’s always something with Satoru. Always. Having to deal with the younger version of him was a painful reminder that he’s been dealing with his bullshit for well over a decade now. Nothing surprises him anymore.  

“Let me see if some other windows would be willing to help look through the library. I’m sure you’ll be able to find information on what kind of curse you got hit with.”

“Thank you,” Satoru groans, still not very pleased by everyone’s reactions thus far, but grateful that he can at least get somewhere with Yaga… unlike a certain somebody. 

Hours later, he finds himself at the school’s dusty, unkept library. It looks worse than it originally looked before he walked in. Books sprawled everywhere. Research papers were scattered all over the tables and floor. Assistants running around in every direction, more than half of them terrified at the total 180 in Satoru’s attitude. 

“W-we can’t find anything,” Ijichi says, too old to be acting this scared in Satoru’s opinion. 

He hums, elbows still resting on his knees, not bothering to sit up. “Hey, Ijichi?”

Ijichi gulped loudly, managing to annoy the world’s strongest sorcerer even more. “...Yes?” 

“How are you even more incompetent now than you were before?”

“I tried my best! I swear!”

“Well, it’s not good enough— I’m still here!” he snaps at the nervous wreck of a man. Thank fucking god Ijichi listened to him and just became a window. He sucks at it too, but at least it’s easier for this dumbass to avoid death. “God— what the fuck am I supposed to do now?!”

“This is just one of the libraries, there’s more! And some in Kyoto too, that we’ll have the Kyoto branch check out.”

“Do whatever you need to do. I’m just letting you know right now that if I'm not back by tomorrow, you better watch the fuck out.”

The threat is followed by complete dead silence, aside from a certain someone's breath catching in horror.

“Me?!” Ijichi squeaks out.

The sorcerer doesn’t bother answering that and instead walks away, grumbling something insulting under his breath, just in complete and utter disbelief over how Ijichi truly hasn’t changed. 

—

You figured your husband would eventually come back, so you set some food aside for him, and now you’re sitting at the dinner table, trying not to laugh at the pout on his face as he picks at his dinner with the chopsticks in his hand. 

“Is the food good?”

“Sure.”

“I can warm that up for you, if you want?” you ask, barely trying to hide your amusement. 

“No thanks,” he curtly responds before shoving another piece of karaage into his mouth. He’s known to have a sweet tooth, but chicken karaage’s probably his favorite food, savory wise. You almost want to tell him that he’s allowed to enjoy food even if his day hasn’t gone the way he had planned. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped staring.” 

Your lips twitch, threatening to break out into a fit of laughter. “Right, sorry.”

“Mommy…? Is Daddy home yet?” 

Oh great. As if the day couldn’t get any worse— now there’s a child.

“Yeah,” you respond in a tentative tone, shooting Satoru a look that screams ‘behave or else’, and even though you are currently a stranger to him, it intimidates him enough to behave for the time being. 

A little girl, no older than 4 years old, walks into the kitchen and Satoru’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head upon seeing his daughter. It’s pretty obvious she’s his with her baby blue eyes and stark white hair. Her facial features are entirely yours, though. It’s strange to see.

“Hey… kiddo—” he awkwardly says, not really sure how to address the little girl. You clear your throat, mouthing ‘princess’ when he looks at you, because your daughter also happens to have her dad’s attitude. “I mean princess.”

It’s hilarious how unnatural it sounds right now when he was the one who started calling her that the moment you two took her home from the hospital. 

“You pomis to wead bedtime stowie,” she starts to pout— same exact way he does.

“Did I?” He gives the girl a sympathetic look, albeit fake. 

“Yeah,” she frowns as she walks up to you, giving him the world’s nastiest side eye. “Liar.”

Why is that the one word she’s able to enunciate correctly? She didn’t even stutter.

“Yeah— I was a little busy with work today,” he murmurs, as if she knew what that even meant. With the glare she was giving him, he doubted she’d even care if he broke down what work and the importance of it was. “Maybe mommy can read to you tonight?”

Sai wasn’t having that. 

Satoru spent the end of his night reading her favorite book to her. Multiple times. He almost asked if it was some form of punishment for not upholding a promise he didn’t technically make himself, but decided against it in fear that she’d make him read it one more time. Sai fell asleep… eventually. Despite there being no way to prove it, he knows that the little girl forced herself to stay up out of pure spite. 

But still, he finds himself smiling as he thinks about his nightmare of a future, not wiping it off quickly enough when you lightly knock on the guest bedroom door.

“Here’s some jammys for the night.” You smile back as you walk up and hand him a pair of sweats and a white t-shirt, both neatly folded up. “Figured you wouldn’t want to sleep in your work clothes.”

“Oh uh— thanks.” He clears his throat and forces out a laugh, pushing through the embarrassment of getting caught smiling to himself. 

You’re giving him that look again. The one that’s mixed with amusement and a bit of fondness, where you look like you’re about to start making fun of him, but never do. Satoru would rather die than admit it makes him nervous. 

“What?” 

There’s a small pause as your smile grows. “Do you like your kid?”

“She’s weird.”

“Yeah, no— you wouldn’t believe who she got that from.”

“Fuck off.” A laugh easily slips through his lips this time, unable to stay serious at the thought of her inheriting even just a quarter of the traits he had as a child. Then it grows quiet again as he realizes she probably has the freedom to be a kid. 

He wants to ask, but you beat him to it with a statement that answered the question he had in mind. 

“Your duties as her father don’t end just because you managed to time travel by the way,” you say playfully, though he knows you’re being dead serious. 

He can only guess what other horrors that little girl will subject him to for the rest of his time here. To put it simply, she’s not afraid of Dad. 

For once, somebody doesn’t look at him as a god to fear. 

—

It’s been over a month. 

Ijichi and the rest of the windows are just as useless as they were when they first started trying to find answers. All that’s changed is that Nanami knows, and doesn’t seem to be too thrilled about the fact that he is now involved.

But still, the search for the fix to his predicament continues, turning every library and warehouse upside down. That’s all they could really do— aside from asking the elders for assistance of some sort. 

Over his dead body. 

Knowing they’d most likely do more harm than good, everyone’s agreed to keep this all a little secret from them.

So all that’s left to do, or rather forced to do, is to be patient. It’s hard. Satoru doesn’t do patient— he’s the type to snap his fingers and have a solution magically appear right before his eyes. You can only imagine how difficult it’s been for him to accept that he can’t immediately get what he wants right now.

Not to mention the fact that he had to continue working throughout all of this, but that wasn’t very surprising. 

Now, what was surprising was learning that he has his weekends completely to himself. If anything, he assumed he’d just work more as time went on, but no. Turns out he threatened to kill the higher-ups if they didn’t let him have that when you two got married. 

Satoru looks over your body once. 

Twice. 

He totally understands his future self. 

He looks again for a third time, and you just so conveniently turn around, showing off your cute, frilly little apron covered in flour streaks. 

It’s Sunday— you’ve been baking sweet treats all morning, and he wishes he had been a little nicer to you. Especially a couple of days ago when he snapped at you. 

You had found him sitting alone on the balcony, head in his hands from yet another day of failure. 

“Hey… any good news?”

“No,” he said impatiently. “If there was, I wouldn’t fucking be here right now.” 

“Fair enough.” Your voice took a dip as you looked at the ground, allowing yourself to feel a little hurt for a moment before trying to lift the mood again. “Well… me and Sai stopped by your favorite bakery and got you the cookies you like if you wanted some—“

“No— no,” Satoru cut you off. “I don’t want your fucking cookies. I don’t want to do a family movie night where all we watch is Ms. Rachel. I don’t want to read some book about a mouse trying to become a fucking painter over and over again. I don’t want ANY of it. I want to fucking go home— what part about that do you not get?”

You tried to stand as straight as possible despite your shoulders growing heavier, pushing against the small frown threatening to carve itself across your face. You forgot how mean he used to be, at least during that first year of dating him. It only stings more because the man you married would never raise his voice like that, and you remind yourself that this isn’t him.

After a long pause, he looked up at you and immediately felt guilt wash over him.

“I didn’t mean that,” he tried to meet your eyes as he began to backtrack. “I’m sorry, I just— fuck. I didn’t mean any of that—”

“It’s fine.” You forced yourself to look at him again and smile. “I’ll uh… give you some space.”

The one thing about Satoru is that he doesn’t apologize. Like ever. So, one could only imagine how painfully awkward it was later that night when he knocked on your bedroom door to say he was sorry. It didn’t help that you were in a paper-thin silk slip, skin glistening from the lotion you rubbed all over it— he spent half his time trying not to stare at your tits. Had you been anyone else, it wouldn’t have felt as genuine. 

But thank fuck he apologized, you probably would’ve spent all day ignoring him. 

You raise a brow, and his cheeks start to pink. “What are you staring at?” 

“Nothing, you just–” he awkwardly gestures at your entire body, “there’s flour all over you.” 

It almost sounds like he’s offended by it. He kind of is. You keep your foot on his fucking neck— he doesn’t even know why he came out here. 

“Oh, right— 'cause messes have always bothered you,” you lean over the island ever so slightly. The pink on his cheeks darkens as you do, unable to control his eyes from drifting down to your cleavage. And while he’s not exactly ashamed of looking— you are his wife after all— he can’t help but be a little flustered. 

He’s always had a thing for milfs.

Especially when said milf is talking about messes— he knows a couple of places he could make a mess on right now. 

“Nah,” he rests his elbows on the marble counter as a playful grin stretches across his face. “This is nothing compared to how I like it.”  

You tilt your head, a small laugh escaping you as you rest your chin over your palm, curious to see where this conversation will get you. 

“How do you like it?” you ask, as if you didn’t already know how filthy and depraved he could get when he’s alone in a room with you. 

And you fucking miss that. 

He opens his mouth to respond. 

Then you hear your daughter whimpering about waking up alone. It’s nothing new, and you revert back to mom mode as you watch her turn the corner and waddle towards you. 

Satoru, on the other hand, is not used to this. The slightly bruised laugh he lets out just barely masks his desire to fucking scream. What a fucking cockblock— no wonder you only have one kid. 

His kid completely ignores his existence as she wraps herself around your leg, continuing to whimper despite no actual tears streaming down her cheeks. “I had a nightmawh.”

Meanwhile, there’s Satoru, who has yet to wake up from his very own nightmare. He internally sighs, then attempts to grab her attention because it doesn’t feel very good watching her give it all to you. “You wanna share a muffin with daddy?”

It’s starting to sound more natural.

“Y-yeah,” she sniffles. 

Minutes later, she’s sitting on his lap, absolutely demolishing the blueberry muffin they ended up splitting— a complete 180. He couldn’t be mad, even if he tried. 

His little girl was a dream. 

—

Month two. Ijichi is still as useless as ever. He stopped complaining to you about him, though. You noticed he doesn’t talk about going back to his original timeline all that much anymore.

It’s not like Satoru’s given up hope, he’s just more present, as if he finally realized that wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to send him back any faster. He’s unknowingly more like his future self— laid back, not a care in the world. 

He’s even sleeping in for once. It’s not that hard though when Sai’s gone for the day. She seemed to care more about getting the hell out of the house with her grandparents than greeting her father a good morning. You didn’t push her to, either— figuring Satoru needed the sleep. He always does. 

It’s too bad that his phone started blowing up at around 10:00 am. Unfortunately for you, he left his phone in the living room, leaving you to get up and grab it since the master bedroom was the closest room to it. With how thick the walls are, you doubt he’d even hear it.

With a long sigh, you rise from bed, rubbing the sleep off your eyes as you snatch the stupid phone off the coffee table. 

The snores coming from Satoru reach your ears before you even open the door. You have to hold back a laugh as you walk in and take a look at him. Face down, his long limbs sprawled over the bed, messy white hair sticking out in all directions. 

You reach out and place a gentle hand on his shoulder, surprised infinity is off. 

“Toru?” He stirs a bit, and you cautiously attempt to wake him up again. “Toru— someone’s been trying to call you for the past 10 minutes now.”

He lifts his head, eyes still sealed shut as he murmurs, “Who?” 

“Uhh,” you look at the screen, unsure of who it might be. “Your contact name for them is nerd.” 

You know it’s not Ijichi because his contact name is “courage 🐶” in his phone. Someone else must've annoyed Satoru for him to change yet another contact. 

Satoru shoves his head back into the pillow and groans before taking the phone off your hands.

It’s Nanami. He, of all people, should know now is not the time to be blowing up his phone right now because he is fucking sleeping. It’s a Saturday for fucks sake. 

Satoru sighs and accepts the call, grumbling into the phone. “What?”

Nanami cuts straight to the chase, as he would rather be doing anything else right now. 

“How long are you planning on hiding your secret from the higher-ups?” he asks in a clipped tone. 

Satoru rubs his eyes, too tired to return the same sense of urgency his friend seems to have at the moment. “Forever.”

“Don’t give me that.” A vein pops up on the side of the usually stoic man’s forehead. “They asked me about you this morning. They know something’s up. I can’t keep covering for you if it means my own safety’s on the line.”

“You really haven’t changed, have you?” It’s more of a statement than a question.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean—“

“You’ll be fine,” Satoru cuts him off. “They’re always up my ass anyway. I doubt they’re even suspicious. They just don’t know how to mind their own fuckin’ business. Seriously. You’re worrying over nothing right now.”

“I swear to god Gojo, if you—“

“Kay’ good night.” 

Click.

Nanami’s probably fuming right now, but he’ll get over it. Satoru wanted to enjoy this. Lying in a comfy bed, surrounded by nothing but peace and quiet. He closes his eyes and stretches a bit, then rests his hands behind his head. 

He would’ve forgotten that you were still sitting at the edge of the bed had you not lightly cleared your throat. One eye opens to look at you, then closes. The last thing he wants to do is share the reason why Nanami had been blowing up his phone all morning. 

“Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not here.” You cross your arms. “What was that all about?” 

“Nothin’,” he easily says. “Just Nanami being Nanami— the guy’s a fuckin’ stickler for no reason.” 

“That’s a little rude, no?” you chastise him. 

“So is waking me up.” 

“Sai wakes you up all the time, though.”

“Sai’s a ball of sunshine,” he says, quickly coming to her defense. “Not a grown man with depression— where is she by the way?” 

“She’s spending the afternoon with my parents.” 

Both eyes open this time, and stay open. “Why didn’t you go with them?”

“No way,” you wave a hand. “I need a break, too.” 

“Yeah, no— I’m sure,” he agrees, feeling flustered all the sudden. 

And Satoru being Satoru, he doesn’t do a very good job of hiding it, once again forgetting that you can read him better than anyone else can.

You smile, scooching closer, “You good there?” 

“Yeah, m’fine,” he murmurs, trying not to shift around too much.

“I can take care of that, you know.” 

“What?” 

“That.” You look down at the boner he’s been trying to hide since finding out it’s just you two here.

“That’s not—“ His brain straight up short-circuits. “You don’t think that’s weird?” 

“No.” You continue to inch forward, getting closer to him. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“No— never,” he shakes his head, answering a little too fast. “Fuck— won’t future me get mad?” 

“Not at all. The most he’d probably do is make me show him what we did.” 

“Make you show him?” he repeats after you in disbelief. 

“Is that a problem?” 

“No, that’s— that’s fuckin’ hot.” 

Minutes later, you’re leaning forward with your hand wrapped around his base, and his breath catches as you start to slowly pump his cock. 

“Feel good?” 

His lids lower as he hums, “yeah— keep going.”

You lean forward, letting a string of spit fall from your lips to the tip of his cock, letting it mix with the precum that was already beading down from it. The wet sounds of you stroking him begin to grow, making the heat in between your legs start to pool.

“Can I sit on it?” You look up at him, batting your lashes as you innocently ask. 

“Please,” he blurts out, just about ready to start begging you to.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t just as eager as him after all the weeks spent pretending like you don’t notice the way he stares at you. Lustfully. The slip you’re wearing happens to be extra short today, so you forego stripping down and practically pounce on him. Your soaked panties grazing over his rock-hard length as you straddle him, letting yourself get comfortable while Satoru grows impatient. 

His hands find themselves planted on your hips and pull you down. A low groan escapes him as he grinds you against him. “God— fuck me. Please.”

“Well, since you’re being so sweet—”

You reach down, hooking a finger into the fabric of your panties, pulling them to the side. He’s already lining himself up with your entrance, teasing your hole as he runs his tip through your folds, collecting all the slick. His lips part as he watches in awe at how damn wet you are. 

His head tips back as you lower yourself, groaning and rambling to himself as if you weren’t there to hear it all. 

"Fuck. You’re so hot.” His words come out strained as he watches you start to take him inch by inch, slowly working yourself open. “So fuckin’ tight, too.” 

“Mmm— forgot how big you are.” Your voice is all soft and breathy from the fullness, nails slowly digging into his abs as you bottom out.

It takes a minute to adjust— it has been 3 months after all. But then you finally roll your hips, and Satoru almost starts singing praises at how good you are at that—  lifting your hips all the way up and throwing them back, taking all of him. 

"Fuck yeah– just like that," he breathes, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. "Feels so fucking good."

You murmur back a measly, “kay,” already dizzy from the stretch. You’re able to keep up the pace on your own for a bit, until you feel his grip on you tighten and the sounds of skin slapping against his start to grow as he starts to help you out. 

You wouldn’t exactly call it help though, not when he ended up doing all the work— holding you steady while he practically bounces you on his cock, pulling more and more moans out of you as the head of his cock repeatedly kissed your sweet spot with almost no effort. 

"You take it so good," he groans, pupils blown wide as he starts to feel himself lose control, snapping his hips up a little harder than the last. He wants more, he always wants more— so he pulls you forward and pulls your straps down far enough for your tits to spill out. "Perfect fuckin’ tits. Been thinking about these for weeks."

You let out a surprised gasp as he pops a nipple in his mouth with no warning. You fully believe him with the way he starts sucking and swirling and flicking his tongue over your sensitive bud, all while snapping his hips up harder. 

He pulls back with a pop, looking up at you for approval. “Was that good?”

“Mhm.” There’s a fucked out expression on your face as you weakly nod. “Harder.”

“You want me to fuck you harder?”

“Yeah.” 

Something in him snaps. Eager to please you, he flips you over and folds you underneath him— grabbing the back of your knees and pinning them to your chest so he can drive his cock into you deeper. 

“Better?”

He drives his hips forward again, knocking the air out of your lungs. “God— yes.”

“I can’t— fuck— can’t believe you’re all mine, can’t believe I get to have you,” he starts to ramble as the sounds of him absolutely pounding into you fill the room. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect— all of you.” 

He crashes his lips into yours— the kiss is messy, powered by hunger. Satoru’s always been overwhelming, but it’s been years since it’s been this emotionally intense. He fucks you like he needs you, like he’s been waiting for you all his life. 

Your walls begin to squeeze and flutter around his cock, pulling another groan out of him. “You close?”

“Yeah,” you whine, feeling the pressure begin to coil. “Keep going.”

He’s close too, you can tell by how sloppy his thrusts have grown, no longer trying to control himself as he starts chasing after both of your releases. He shoves his face into the crook of your neck and fucks you faster, harder— balls slapping against your ass with each lewd wet squelch. 

Your orgasm hits you hard after one particularly rough thrust. Scratching at his back as a cry tears through you, and it only goes straight to his dick, not even realizing just how overstimulated you are from the way he drills into you. 

“Fuck.” It’s just one word that comes out of his mouth after realizing how hard he’s about to fucking cum. He bites into your shoulder as his balls start to tighten, squeezing his eyes shut as he braces himself. 

When it happens, it’s a lot. He shoves himself deep inside of you, unaware of all the weight he puts on you as hot spurts of cum begin to flood your walls. Slowly grinding against you, letting your tight pussy milk the rest of him. 

You’re wrecked by the end of it. You both are— lids tired and heavy, bodies sore and out of breath.

And in the end, you just let yourself fall asleep, unaware of the soft kiss pressed against your temple as he watched you.

—

It’s month three, and Satoru doesn’t want to go back. 

What was the point? It’s not like he had anyone or anything to go back to. Jujutsu Society never crumbled from him getting shot into the future. Would it really be that bad if he just never went back and continued on with his life from here?

He hasn’t uttered a word about it out loud, but the way he completely stopped asking Yaga and Ijichi for updates was telling of where he was at mentally.  

Acceptance. 

He likes his life here. 

You’ve come to your own conclusion after these last three months.

No wonder why he was so hot and cold when you were trying to get to know him. Satoru got a little taste of genuine comfort, only for it to be ripped away from him sometime before you two actually met. It explains all the times you wondered why he even tried with you, despite being too emotionally inept to even be in a relationship. He probably went through the beginning of your relationship thinking you could disappear at any second. 

With that being said, he can’t stay here. As much as you’d love to continue being the source of comfort for this version of Satoru, he needs to experience the last year he spent alone before meeting you. He needs to feel cautious around you. He needs to try and fail at opening up a handful of times before getting comfortable with the idea of truly being vulnerable with a person. Getting over that element of fear he had towards getting close to others is what made him a husband and father— he couldn’t just skip that part of his life. 

You have no idea how you’re going to tell him that, though. You’re not one to kick a sick puppy, especially one as cute as him. He’s so happy here with you and Sai that the thought of doing so makes your chest ache. 

He’s having a tea party with Sai right now, limbs way too long to sit in the little stool she pulled up for him to sit in. He drinks imaginary tea from the plastic pink cup she hands him, and your chest aches some more. You force yourself to look away before the tears start. 

You’d do the next 11 years all over again if you could.

“Hey, Honey?” Satoru calls out to you.

There’s a pause before you whip your head around— it’s been months since he’s called you that. There’s nothing but warmth and fondness in his eyes as his gaze meets yours. “Why is Nanami’s number saved under ‘nerd’ in my phone?”

He’s back.

“I don’t know,” you laugh, despite the tear falling down your cheek. “You tell me.”

—

Satoru didn’t want to believe it when everything around him went dark once again. It’s not until his feet touch the ground with a soft thud and he finds himself back in his messy, cold dorm when reality slapped him across the face.

Something between a sob and a gut-wrenching scream rips from his throat. Grabbing the round shades he had hoped he’d never have to fucking wear again, he rips them off his face and sends it crashing into the wall, breaking into a hundred little pieces. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give himself a chance to even breathe or think before raising his hand and releasing a purple orb with just a flick of his fingers. 

Impulsive. Reckless. Deadly. 

Satoru was fucking devastated. 

Nobody knew what triggered him that night. All they knew was that the east wing of the school looked like it had been hit by an asteroid by the time he calmed down. He didn’t speak to anyone for a good two weeks following the incident. Everyone wants to think he was lucky the explosion didn’t have any casualties, but then they remembered who he was: Satoru fucking Gojo. 

God’s don’t get punished, nor do natural disasters— it’s hard to tell which one he was at this point. 

One Year Later

“If it’s that small of a curse, why are you sending me there?” Satoru continues to argue with one of the new managers over the phone. 

It wasn’t that small of a curse. It was a grade one. But still, given the sorcerer’s title as a special grade, he was overqualified for the job. 

“I’m sorry, we just don’t have anyone available to take on the case at the moment.” The young woman continues to apologize over the phone. “I think we might have a grade 3 available for the job. I- I can check—”

“Save it.” Satoru cuts her off. He wasn’t that heartless to push the case off to some 15 year old. That’s exactly how Haibara died. “Send me the address.” 

The mission was nothing short of an inconvenience for him. He liked a challenge when exorcising curses, and the damn thing didn’t even put up a fucking fight. He traveled 2 hours to get here just for that? Unbelievable. 

He wasn’t ready to leave and sit on a train for another 2 hours just yet, so he decided to walk around the town for a bit. 

It was a cute place, a little quiet. Kinda boring. That’s never a bad thing, though. Lots of mom and pop shops, a few coffee shops scattered around, one of which he decided to try. A little sugar’s always good, at least to him. 

The smell of vanilla and roasted coffee beans hit him as he walked into the place. There was a decent amount of customers inside. Not too much to feel crowded, but enough to stay busy. He keeps his eyes on the menu the entire time. The line moves fast, and he figures out what he wants just in time. 

“And what can I get started for you today?”

His eyes are still on the screen, reading the item off the menu.

“Can I get a white chocolate mocha frappuccino, with an extra pump of…” his words die out, and his eyes widen as he finally looks at the girl taking his order. “Hey.”

“Hi.” You laugh at the way this stranger loses his train of thought. “Extra pump of white chocolate syrup?”

“Yeah.” He exhales, unable to rip his eye off you as you write the words down on the plastic cup with a sharpie. 

“Name for the order?”

“Go– Satoru,” he corrects himself. “It’s Satoru.”

He’s a little awkward, but you still find him quite charming and smile. “Alright, Satoru. Your order should be ready in about 10 minutes.”

“Awesome. Thanks,” he nods rather pathetically, then goes to sit in an empty corner of the shop with only one thought in mind: 

He has 10 minutes to come up with what to say to get your number. 

It's a cruel thing, seeing everyone else's destiny but being blind to your own. He doesn't even know if he has a soulmate at all. As a teen, he convinced himself it was a test—maybe he just needed to work harder to find his soulmate. He spent far too much time researching old mythology about destiny and fated lovers.

Growing into young adulthood, he spent even more time watching people, searching for someone else who might be missing their own thread. With Caleb's good looks and charming personality, he's always been spoiled for choice when it comes to a potential partner. Many people throw themselves at him, not realizing their threads tug them back toward someone else entirely.

It's not like he needs to reject his admirers. He knows he could just be another passing tangle or knot in someone's connection with a true soulmate. But that doesn't appeal to him. He wants to feel that undeniable pull, that intimate connection that comes with finding the person who was made for him. So he continues waiting—and watching for patterns he can study.

He soon learns how to guess people's whole life stories just from the way their threads are woven. It becomes second nature to figure out someone is having an affair or if they've lost a loved one or are desperately trying to escape fate altogether.

When he bumps into you at a café, he initially thinks nothing of it. He plasters on his usual suave smile while reaching down to grab your fallen bag. And when he hands it back to you, he freezes in place.

Caleb has never believed in sparks flying or love at first sight. Especially not when he's witnessed firsthand how every connection is planned by some higher power. But when he sees your face—your apologetic smile and the way you look at him with genuine kindness—he thinks fate becomes inconsequential.

His eyes land on the red thread tied around your left wrist like a shackle, and his heart drops. For a fleeting moment, he hoped you'd have no thread like him. He almost turns away, until he notices the wrongness of it.

Your thread is…ugly. A weak, dull color as it yanks at your wrist like an incessant child, trying to tug you toward something you don't seem to have any interest in.

The moment you turn your back on Caleb to resume your order, his eyes never leave you. You become an obsession—half because of that immediate flicker of something he felt when he saw you, and the other half because he has to find out why fate feels different around you.

His feet carry him mindlessly behind you when you leave the café. Careful not to arouse suspicion, he follows you all the way to your apartment. And imagine his surprise when he realizes you live right down the hall from his own apartment.

Caleb doesn't believe in coincidence. So he takes it upon himself to learn even more about you.

Clearly, the universe is sending him a sign. Maybe it messed up when writing your destiny. Maybe some cosmic being needs his help in fixing the mistake. Either way, he's the only one who can correct that dreadful thing holding you back from having a true soulmate. He's the only one who could be your soulmate.

He watches you for weeks, taking his time to collect as much information about you as he can before he makes his next move. People, normal people, are hilariously predictable. Not only are they beholden to fate, but they also desperately cling to routine. Just another pattern that Caleb picks up on with far too much ease.

It barely takes him a month to have your entire schedule mapped out and memorized. Even on the rare occasion when you do something spontaneous, he's able to intuit where you might go, who you might be with, and what time you'll decide to head back home.

He takes advantage of one of the moments you're not home, picking the lock on your front door with ease. Knowing exactly how much time he has before you return, he's planned the perfect opportunity to plant hidden cameras in each of the rooms of your apartment.

He's so well-prepared that he even has a few extra minutes afterward to go through your most precious belongings. It's hard not to steal a caress of your soft bed, rifle through the diary hidden underneath it, or gingerly smell one of your hoodies hanging on the couch.

If you were here now, you would freak out. Caleb's not insane enough not to know that. But he also believes if you gave him a chance to explain—you're meant to be with him, duh—maybe you wouldn't be too mad. That's why he does something completely unplanned and leaves with your hoodie after double-checking that all the cameras work.

Luckily, you don't notice the missing item or the added tiny red dots peeking out from strategically placed spots. One of the things Caleb loves about you is how sweet and trusting you are. It's something anyone else could easily take advantage of, though. And he doesn't like the thought of that.

Being a guardian angel isn't enough for him. Watching from afar won't mean much if someone gets too close to you when he's unprepared or turns his back for a moment. He needs to make sure no one else slides into your life. Especially if that someone could be whoever is on the other end of that counterfeit bond wrapped too tightly around your wrist.

So Caleb manufactures more accidental meetings with you. You're neighbors, after all. When you take out your trash, Caleb times his exit perfectly, turning a corner just fast enough to bump into you. His charming apology makes you a bit flustered, and he thinks you're even cuter when you're within arm's reach.

The second meeting happens at a bookstore three blocks down. The one you frequent every Saturday around lunchtime to read a new book while snacking on something salty. He’s already browsing the shelves when you walk in, glancing at you with feigned surprise when you notice your neighbor likes one of the books you read last week.

After that, it becomes easier. He embeds himself into your routine until he's impossible to ignore.

First, he's a simple stranger who you notice every once in a while. Then, an acquaintance who happens—coincidentally—to love the same cafés, the same obscure novels, the same quiet walking paths you prefer at dusk. He laughs at the right moments. Listens when you speak. Remembers little details you share that you think anyone else wouldn't bother paying attention to.

Finally, he becomes a friend. A staple in your daily routine. A shoulder you cry on when days are hard and you need someone to rely on.

In those moments, Caleb wants nothing more than to confess his feelings for you. Everything is going so well, and he can sense that you'd reciprocate his confession.

With every cozy hangout, conversation that stretches past midnight, and shared meal where your knees brush his under the table, Caleb watches the subtle shift in your body language. The way you lean closer and your voice softens. You're falling for him.

But that grotesque thing around your wrist begins to thrash in protest whenever he gets too close. His teeth grit every time he sees its blatant disapproval.

Why is the universe resisting him now? You are his other half. He's never been so sure of anything else in his life. Is this the real test he mistakenly thought he'd been put through as a child?

At night, he lies awake and dissects every possible next step. No matter the scenario, he arrives at the same conclusion. There is only ever one outcome with fate.

He's seen it before in past observations: no matter how much fate veers off course, it always finds a way to correct itself. But perhaps that's only because no one with Caleb's gift has ever tried to intervene.

People believe fate does not bend for desire, or that it doesn't reward patience and effort. They believe it simply is. But when you grow up seeing its physical manifestation and the way people fight against it, it's hard not to come to the conclusion that even something preordained can be manipulated by someone strong enough.

If Caleb's been given such a gift…then it would be a shame not to use it.

He'll make sure there is no possible way the universe could pull you into someone else's orbit. Which means he needs to find the parasite at the other end of your tether. He needs to measure their worth. Even though deep down, he already knows what answer lies at the end of his calculations.

And he's proven right when he finally does find your dead weight. Your so-called soulmate doesn't seem to treasure true love or fate at all. Even worse, the man doesn't even add up to a quarter of the exceptional person you are.

Your destined counterpart spends his days slouched at a bar that smells like stale beer and desperation. Caleb watches from across the street first. Then from inside. Then a day later, from a camera discreetly installed in the man's messy home.

He scowls as he watches your fated half drown in cheap booze and women that barely stay the night before being kicked out onto the street like trash. One could barely call this a routine when it's more like a never-ending rut for a loser who thinks he's the shit when he actually just smells like it.

This is what pulls at your wrist every night? This is what dares to fight when Caleb leans into you with a look full of yearning?

The knowledge taunts him for three days. That's all it takes before he ponders something brand new about the universe while watching a belligerent idiot snore facedown on a stained mattress.

Can fate defend itself?

Caleb makes sure what he's about to do will look like a freak accident. It's just something that happens to a drunkard who no one will miss anyway.

It turns out it's easy to sever the very thread of fate that he always admired as a kid. In fact, he's a little disappointed by the lack of ceremony. There's no bolt of lightning striking him down, no divine intervention or a voice booming from above in anger of what Caleb has taken into his own hands.

Fate is weak and pathetic as it tries to resist its new order from a power more determined than a fickle thing like the universe. It bleeds and whimpers before the last rush of air leaves its lungs.

Caleb stares down at the broken thread, now unattached from the man you were never meant to meet.

It feels like a stupid thought now, but he knows he has to attach it to himself. He doesn't believe in its power anymore, but you might. You might feel its loss if it decays, the same way he's seen remnants of other people's bonds that ended when their lovers passed away too soon. Besides, he wants there to be no question that there is an unshakeable bond between you two—even if you can't see it for yourself.

Caleb works quickly, tying a knot around his left wrist a bit too tightly, like he's scared it might come undone if he isn't meticulous enough. Some strange bit of life still left in the thread resists him at first, stubbornly recoiling from the wrongness of what just transpired. But familiarity is a powerful thing. He has already watched you, memorized you, and diligently shaped his life around the edges of yours. He makes fate recognize effort now.

It stings for a few minutes, feeling like forcing a shape into the wrong space. Fortunately, his lack of a thread becomes an advantage. There is nothing to conflict, nothing to reject the intrusion other than your own thread trying to hold onto something irrelevant.

And after a few heart-pounding moments, the knot finally holds—and your thread stills. Caleb exhales for the first time in minutes. He leaves the unmoving body on the dirty mattress, smiling when he thinks of the next time he'll see you with a strengthened bond.

Your neighbor—and new best friend—is the sweetest man you've ever had the pleasure of meeting. You never thought you'd find someone like him in this day and age. A true gentleman, he makes you feel seen in a way that feels inevitable. Like he was always waiting for you to run into him on a busy day at your favorite café.

Lately, you've been unable to stop yourself from flirting with danger. And it really is a dangerous thing to fall in love with a neighbor. If things don't work out, then you'll have to bump into an ex every day just to go in and out of your apartment.

But if the only dangerous thing about wanting a man like Caleb is the possibility of a constant heartache, then you'll take your chances. Besides, your chest already tightens painfully every time he smiles at you. Your heart really does skip a beat when he laughs at your jokes, or hugs you when you're sad, or when his hands wander just a bit while he cuddles up beside you on your couch.

Caleb is different than any men you've ever met. He's better. Maybe he's the best you might ever get. And you're not going to let someone else snatch him up.

That's precisely why you've already put so much faith in him. Someone as gentle as Caleb could never hurt a fly, so you happily gave him a key to your apartment for emergencies. You let him come over even when you're looking like a mess after tiring days at work. You even fall asleep on him sometimes, so trusting that he would always protect you even in your most vulnerable states.

His easygoing charm and innocent puppy-like eyes make your heart beat only for him. But you're also a bit annoyed; no matter how much his touch might wander at times, he always holds himself back.

You've tried baiting him with shorts that "accidentally" ride up a bit between your thighs when you bend down in front of him. You've even let your hands trail his chest and abs while watching movies beside him.

It takes all your willpower not to jump him right then and there the moment your fingertips trace the quivering lines of his lower stomach. His breathing always turns heavier with cute little gasps of air when you touch him. But still, he doesn't take things further.

It's for this reason that you decide to take a leap of faith and ask him on a date. You're not usually this bold with your crushes, but something about Caleb makes you want to be brave. When the two of you meet up at your usual café for lunch, you take advantage of a quiet moment.

"Caleb?" you say, trying to keep your voice steady as he looks up at you over the rim of his coffee mug.

He sets the cup down, giving you his full attention like he always does. You stammer for a second, and he smirks, as if he can guess what you're about to say. That cockiness is what makes you turn a nervous question into a headstrong declaration.

"I want to go out on a date with you."

Immediately, you feel a bit stupid for the phrasing and the way you looked at him like he had no say in the matter. But Caleb—always the type to play along with your every whim—smiles, his dimples making you swoon a bit. You notice a flicker of something strange in his expression, but it's too fast to put to words.

"You do?" he asks with a chuckle, far too calm when you're over here sweating buckets and waiting for a proper response. "Well, I could never say no to you."

The warmth that spreads through you is immediate and dizzying. You laugh in relief, feeling ridiculous for ever doubting yourself or his feelings for you. Caleb wipes away any residual doubt the second he gets up from his chair and presses a chaste kiss to your cheek.

He promises to plan everything for your date, even though you were the one who asked him out. The next weekend, he meets you at your apartment promptly on time, with a bouquet of your favorite flowers and a small box of treats from that dessert place you love visiting.

Everything is perfect and effortless. Even more so than how it usually feels being by his side. He picks a restaurant you mentioned wanting to try weeks ago—one you hadn't expected him to remember. He holds doors open for you, rests his hand lightly at your back while leading you to the table, and looks at you like you're the only person in the room.

As always, conversation with Caleb flows easily. Since you've known him, he's always been able to guess what's on your mind, what might be bothering you or making you nervous. It's uncanny just how much he can stay in sync with you, as easily as breathing.

But this time, there's something just a bit different about your dynamic. Something charged with a heightened tension.

When your fingers reach across the table to brush against his hand, he doesn't pull away or avoid eye contact. He looks at you like what you've just done has sealed something he's been waiting to finalize for a long time.

It should scare you, that dark look in his eyes. Because for a second, he looks a bit unrecognizable. But all you feel is a sensation like something clicking into place.

You intertwine your fingers with his and ask, "Do you believe in soulmates?"

For the first time since you've met him, Caleb looks surprised. Nothing ever catches him off guard. Yet somehow, this simple question does the trick.

Wondering if maybe your question was a bit embarrassing, you backtrack. "I know it sounds silly. But—"

"Yes," he interrupts with a whisper. "I mean…I'm not sure if I did before meetin' you." His thumb rubs your knuckles back and forth as he holds your hand just a bit tighter. "But now I know."

If it was anyone else, you might have been amused by how cheesy his words are. But when Caleb is the one saying them—so earnestly, too—all you feel is a rush of heat through your body.

The rest of the date happens in a bit of a blur. Both of you can't seem to keep your hands off each other, even opting to skip dessert if it means getting back home quicker.

You really aren't the type to invite a first date inside your home, no matter how well the night goes. This time it's different because it's Caleb, the man you've already shared so much with. He's been inside your home before. He's seen you in every way but one. And you're desperate to show him that missing piece now.

As soon as you unlock your door, you push him inside, all pretense forgotten the moment your shoes and coats come off. You crash into him, feverish kisses stealing his breath away as he chuckles between them. You don't care how eager you seem, you just want his lips on yours.

Using his tie as a leash, you tug him backwards with you, blindly stumbling to your bedroom. But even when you think you might bump into a wall, Caleb redirects you with his eyes closed, like he's memorized the route you need to take without so much as parting from your lips. If you weren't getting drunk off his kisses, maybe alarm bells would ring in your mind—you've never taken him to your bedroom before now.

Nothing matters anyway. Nothing except getting him out of these stupid clothes and showing him just how much you've wanted him all night. When Caleb gently pulls you down onto your bed, you move with more roughness, your frenzied kisses pausing so you can shove him to sit back against the headboard and straddle his lap.

His eyes sparkle with mirth, but he lets you manhandle him. The realization makes your stomach flutter. Testing the waters further, you use his shoulders as leverage before grinding down on him. Caleb's hands fly to your hips with a gasp, but he doesn't control your movements. He just lets you rock at your own pace, basking in the weight of your core rubbing against his clothed erection.

His compliance encourages you, making you needy for leaving more kisses along his Adam's apple and neck. He moans for you while his hips buck instinctively beneath yours, and it makes another flood of arousal pool between your thighs.

"Mm, is this okay?" you mumble against his skin while grinding with more pressure, desperately chasing friction.

His fingers tighten on your waist, but he still doesn't stop you. "Y-you can use me however you want, baby," he replies through another breathy moan. "I'm yours. All yours."

How did you get so lucky, you wonder before biting down on his neck. You make sure to suck a mark worthy of being on someone who gives himself to you so eagerly. It's the least you can do for how sweetly he whimpers and claws at your hips while you hump him until you're nearly coming on his lap.

In the midst of your greed, you've undone his tie and ripped a few of the buttons on his shirt, making room for more licks and bites. When you lean back to look at your handiwork, both of you are panting, not nearly satisfied yet but needing a moment to catch your breath. And your sweet friend, no, boyfriend now, looks at you like he's ready to worship you.

He slides one hand up your body, taking his time to feel every curve until his fingers gently wrap around your left wrist. He holds his breath and glances at you with hesitation, like touching your arm is a sin.

It's cute how even after your frenzied touches and kisses, he acts like he still needs permission to reciprocate them. You nod, and then he carefully lifts your hand to his trembling lips before kissing the inside of your wrist.

The gesture seems deeper than you can understand, especially with the way he keeps glancing at you as if you know its hidden meaning. But you're lost for words, only feeling that aching throb between your legs and needing him to soothe it. He notices your confused expression but presses another kiss to your hammering pulse before smiling up at you.

"Let me take care of you now," he says, tugging you by the wrist to reposition you beneath him.

It's your turn to be maneuvered, and you let him. He kisses down your body, fingers still tickling that wrist he seems fixated on before he pins it to the mattress.

The two of you pull at each other's disheveled clothes until you're both bare. Until the tip of his cock nudges against your lower belly as Caleb continues showering you in love. But before you can feel it inside you, he seems to have other plans.

His kisses travel across your chest, against stiffened nipples, along the softness of your tummy, then finally between your thighs. When he pushes your legs apart, you shudder, feeling the cool air kiss your soaked folds a second before his warm breath does. Then he drags the flat of his tongue in one long, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit.

The sound you make is obscene. Your hips jerk up before you can stop them, accidentally shoving your cunt harder against his mouth. But Caleb's only response is a needy moan, like he’s the one being pleasured, the vibration humming straight through your core.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he mumbles, lips brushing your swollen clit as he speaks. “Let me hear you, baby. You're mine now—those sounds are mine.”

You barely have time to let the certainty of his words sink into your fluttering stomach before he dives in like a man starved. No teasing anymore. Just hungry, wet, open-mouthed kisses to your pussy.

It's like he knows exactly what pace to set and how much pressure his tongue should apply to make you wail for him. Could it be possible this man was sent from Heaven to satisfy all your cravings? You swear you might become religious after this.

His tongue nudges against your clit before his lips suction around it, and your back arches off the bed while you moan for him. One hand flies to his hair while your other fists the sheets, and still he doesn’t let up. If anything, the way you yank his hair only makes him moan louder against you.

There's a faint rustle of movement, and you glance down to see Caleb gently rocking against your mattress, so lost in the taste of you that he needs to hump your bed.

"Oh my god, I think I'm gonna come," you cry, feeling overwhelmed by how quickly he's able to pull this much pleasure from you. You fuck his face with more fervor now, shamelessly bucking your hips and pulling on his hair with a tightness you'll only regret after you come down from this high. "Caleb, please…need your fingers. Wanna come around them," you whine with each buck.

You peek down at him, and he's watching you with dark eyes, a scary determination in them while his hand snakes in between your legs. His fingers slide inside you with ease, curling in a rhythm that matches how he laps up your slick.

The soft smacks of his lips against your skin and the squelch of your wet pussy fill the room, mingled with your growing screams. And then you gush around his thick digits—coating his lips, chin, and palm with your orgasm. Caleb takes it all with a look of reverence on his flushed face, licking every drop you give him and gasping for air when he finally parts from your twitching body.

When he slides up your body to look at you with a satisfied grin, your pussy clenches again at the sight of his glistening mouth and pupils blown wide. He looks dazed, proud. His cock slides against your still-twitching pussy, smearing precum against the mess you already have between your legs—but he doesn’t rush you. Instead he kisses you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“Please,” you whisper against his lips when he pulls back just enough to breathe. “More, I need more. Need you inside me.”

He exhales a shaky laugh that turns into a groan when you wrap your legs around his waist. “Yeah…yeah, baby. I’ve got you, don't worry.”

Reaching down, he nestles the head of his cock between your folds and then finally pushes in. It's slow, so fucking slow, but you revel in the jolt of pleasure that shoots down your body as he stretches you out cautiously. He's bigger than any man you've had before, but every thick inch slides inside easily, filling you all the way until his hips are flush with yours.

Caleb curses beneath his breath, head falling to rest against yours while he pants and gasps at the feeling of you wrapped so tight around him. His eyes meet yours, locked and unable to tear away when he starts to move.

You both groan from the feeling, gripping each other tighter and starting to build up a faster rhythm. It's easy to get lost in this feeling, and you lose track of what you mumble and chant while Caleb picks up the pace. But while you struggle to keep your eyes on him, he can't stop staring.

He also can't keep his hands off you while fucking you nice and deep. His fingers toy with your nipples, rolling and pinching them to get more sounds out of you. And then they caress your stomach, pushing down slightly right above your mound to elevate the feeling of how he fills you up. You stutter and shake, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him into a breathless kiss.

His lips find yours again and again between thrusts, sharing his breath with you before he whispers, "Fuck, I love you."

That sentence sends your thoughts to a screeching halt, but your pussy clenches even harder around him. You should be appalled that he's saying such a thing so soon. You should reconsider this whole relationship and how quickly you've allowed it to escalate.

You should, but you don't want to. In fact, you think you love him too.

Feeling your second orgasm barreling toward you too fast, you crash your lips against his again, nails digging into his shoulders and leaving little red crescents.

“Hm, I…love you too,” you babble, after breaking the kiss. Your brain practically short-circuits with how close you are to coming. You can't stop the words spilling out of your mouth. “Love you so much. Don’t stop, oh, don’t stop—”

The second those words leave your lips, a switch seems to flip in Caleb's brain. His whole body locks up for one heartbeat, buried deep inside you, cock throbbing hard enough that you feel it pulse against your walls. Then he exhales a ragged sound against your mouth, and the slower, careful rhythm he’d been holding onto shatters. His hips snap harder, punching the air from your lungs and making your eyes roll back.

“You can't take that back now,” he growls, his voice alarmingly different from the sweet, hesitant Caleb who kissed your wrist like it was sacred.

He’s moving faster, rougher, but still so deep it feels like he’s trying to carve himself into you permanently. Your foreheads stay pressed together, making it impossible to look away from the wild, glassy look in his eyes.

“I’m gonna marry you one day,” he groans, like it's a fact and not a hypothetical. “I'll put a ring on this finger"—he snatches the same hand he’s been obsessed with all night and brings it to his lips to kiss the bare spot where a ring would sit—“and make sure everyone knows you belong to me.”

This is so wrong, god this is so wrong. Everything is moving so fast. You shouldn't like this. You can't tell if this is just dirty talk or something more serious, but that look in Caleb's eyes is a little terrifying.

And yet? Your cunt flutters hard around him at the words, more of your arousal gushing down and soaking the sheets beneath you.

“Oh, fuuuck, that's it," he says with a manic laugh, folding your legs higher until your knees are pressed up against your sweaty chest. "I can feel how much you like this, baby. It's okay if you do," he coos. "Gonna ruin you for anyone else. No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to hear you moan like this. You’re mine—only ever gonna be mine. Say it again for me, sweetheart." His voice cracks, and it's the only thing making you refocus on his words while your ears ring from the pleasure. "Say you love me while I fill you with my cum.”

You’re beyond proper speech now, just broken whimpers and gasps, but you manage to choke out, “Love you—I love you, Caleb.”

He slams in one last time, hips grinding flush against yours, cock pulsing as he comes with a choked sob that makes your toes curl. Your pussy spasms and clamps around him, milking him dry as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.

Turns out you're just as crazy in love as he is. And you don't have it in you to be ashamed right now.

Caleb's counting his lucky stars that he spent all those nights watching you touch yourself through the flickering camera feeds he set up. It's what helped him learn all the ways you like to be caressed, the speed you prefer when you have a silicone cock deep inside you, and the fantasies you'd whisper to yourself when you imagined someone above you.

You won't need fantasy anymore, though. He knows everything about you. That's why he's able to make you cream on his cock over and over again, while his hips move at a speed even he didn't know he was capable of.

The gravity of this moment—of finally claiming the person he's going to keep for the rest of his life—is heady. It makes Caleb insatiable and greedy for more. More of your addicting sounds, more of your shaking orgasms, more of his cum spilling deep inside you.

More, more, more. Caleb can't stop chanting it each time you melt and rake your nails against his back and allow him to take everything from you.

You're so pretty, so perfect, all his. It goes straight to his head, and his cock, when you beg for all that he's giving you even when your body is so weak that it can't hold itself up.

You like being pushed to your limit, it seems. Right when you become too exhausted to keep your eyes open, you sleepily tell him he can keep going if he wants to. He can't help but come inside you again just from hearing your whispered permission to use you while you fall asleep.

The fact that you trust him so readily…god, he knew you were made for him. He doesn't keep you awake too long, even though his cock already throbs insistently for more of your warmth after he pulls out with a groan.

Caleb is no stranger to patience. He's glad he waited to find you. Because now he'll never let you go—and there will be many more days to spend reminding you of that if you ever forget.

No matter what happens now, you're bound to him forever. Fate made sure of it.

a/n: thank you all for the 2k celebration votes 💕 I hope I made good on our wish for more scaryleb teehee

and none of this would be possible without my ride or die @heartyluv, who constantly inspires me with her takes on scaryleb and toxic!caleb. everyone say a big thank you to her bc she let me yap about this fic to her and she beta read it for meeee, ilysm Jay 😘

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