ripples of past reverie

He had to learn everything at square one. He had to learn that not everyone praising him, and obeying his orders are to be trusted and on his side.

He learned that one time when one of his trusted servants attempted to poison him. Note: trusted servant.

The servant who took care of him ever since he was a newborn baby. The servant who first witnessed his first walk and heard his first words. The servant who he treated as a father figure. The servant who became both his guardian and teacher after the Queen’s passing.

He was so hurt and betrayed when that happened to the point that he closed his heart and stopped giving his trust.

You felt that deeply. Not the betrayed part, no. The story is so good you had to close the book and stare at the wall for ten minutes because heck, that's some tragic backstory.

But wait, there's more. More tragic? Yes.

Scaramouche, the lonely prince, is going to die. Not where he will grow old, or because of illness.

You thought that the poisoning was the last assassination attempt, but it turns out that there would be more than that.

Ugh… just thinking about them is making you feel nauseous!

Despite the tragic story, you keep reading it— hoping to see the part where Scaramouche will finally get his happy ending. But sadly, that part isn’t, and will never come.

See, this is the kind of book that deserves to be in the spotlight. Not the ones where the protagonist always needs saving and help like they cannot walk on their own two feet and do anything by themselves. No shade, by the way.

Anyway, back to the boring party…

Seeing that everyone’s done greeting you and that your parents are now busy entertaining the visitors, you took that chance to slip away and return to your room. After closing the door and locking it, you didn’t waste any time as you removed your heels and flopped down on your bed.

Yes, this kind of peace is just what I wanted.

You sit up and start removing the jewelry you’re wearing. You're never comfortable wearing them, along with the heels.

You were just about to put them back on the drawer, but you stopped when you noticed something on the top.

You blink once. Twice.

Oh my god.

Screaming, you grab the book and throw yourself back on the bed. There was a small note at the bottom:

Happy Birthday.

That’s it. No sender, no name— not even yours. Just those two words. It's like the heavens had heard your wishes and decided to give you the thing that you wanted the most on your birthday.

You hold up the novel and examine the cover. Just like the other volumes, the cover featured Scaramouche, sitting on his throne that's covered in thorns. That looks awfully painful. The only thing that's different from the first two was that his crown is now covered in blood and is dripping down his face.

The poor prince…

Changing to your pajamas, you flop back down on the bed and hug the novel as if comforting the protagonist that everything will be okay. You read the back cover again— but it was blank.

“Why is it blank?” you whisper to yourself and examine the book. The back cover is a total blank, without any designs, words, not even the bar code and ISBN.

Weird..

Yawning, you felt the exhaustion coming back to your body as you hugged the book to your chest and closed your eyes.

The book started glowing, but it was ignored as you started drifting to the dreamland.

—

Feeling the shivering cold in your body, you slowly open your eyes. The first thing that you noticed was the golden chandelier hanging in the ceiling. The second thing was the smell of a candle and incense wafting to your nose. And the third thing is a voice, a sharp and cold one that could rival the temperature of the floor you’re currently lying in.

“I’m giving you three seconds to tell me who you are and how you end up in my room.”

You sat up so fast you felt your vision blurring. You blinked through it and found the owner of the voice standing on your left, arms folded and looking down at you with a deadly glare.

But wait— he looks awfully familiar.

Dark indigo hair with a weird haircut, sharp eyes, and that red eyeliner…

You know that face.

You stared at the cover and even searched him up on the internet because holy— man got good-damn looks.

"Scaramouche!?" you said out loud before you could stop yourself.

His eyes narrowed. "Two seconds.”

He didn't even ask you how you know his name. He's just standing there, almost towering over you as he counts down and waits for your answer.

You slowly sit up and look around. “...How… where am I? I was just in my room right now.”

Funny you have the same questions as him running in your mind now.

Why are you here? With Scaramouche standing two feet away from you, you’re sure now that you're in his room. So now the real question is—

How did you end up inside the novel?!

“One—”

“I promise I'm not gonna hurt you!” you suddenly blurts out as you scramble to your feet in panic. Silence followed and you bit your lip in embarrassment.

Way to go, y/n.

“Hurt me?” his gaze turns sharper and he slowly walks towards you. You took a step back, but every time you do, the man in front of you keeps stepping closer.

Your back met the cold wall and you were looking everywhere but him. If looks could kill, you’d be lying dead by now.

“U-um…”

His aura is intimidating you so much you want to dig the ground and bury yourself six feet under.

You can feel his gaze lingering on you and you bite your lip to ease your nervousness. You can literally hear your own heartbeat.

Remind me why is he my favorite character again?

“Turn around.”

“Huh?”

Finally, you got the courage to look at him. WHAT'S HE GONNA DO?!

“I said turn around.”

“Uh… w–why?”

“I have to make sure you’re not hiding something inside that…” he eyes you up and down. “..sleepwear of yours.”

Your gaze immediately went down to your clothes. You're still wearing your pajamas, what's wrong with it?

“Um… what's wrong with my clothes?”

“Turn around.”

“I’m not hiding anythi—”

“Don't make me repeat myself, woman.”

Woma—?!

Feeling like crashing out, you took a deep breath to calm yourself.

Think carefully, y/n. This guy had every right to be cautious because he's surrounded by people wanting to take his life and throne. Calm down. Understand him. Be considerate. Take a deep breath. Inhale…… exhale.

“Look, Sir—” you stopped. Wait, what should I call him..? “Do I look like someone who’d take your life, Your Highness?”

You pointed to your pajamas. “Do assassins wear pajamas when trying to assassinate someone?”

You point at your face. “Do assassins not bother covering their faces when trying to assassinate someone?”

“No,” he narrowed his eyes once again. “But you might be the first so I’m telling you for the last time, turn around. That's an order.”

Those last three words made it clear that you’re not winning this. So with a resigned sigh, you reluctantly turn around to face the wall.

You wait for him to do something, but minutes have passed, Scaramouche hasn't moved to do a body check on you.

So taking this as a chance to prove your innocence, you start talking again in a low and soft voice.

"I'm not here to hurt you," you said. "I don't even know how I got here. All I remember was, I was asleep in my room, hugging my favorite book. Now I woke up on your floor without any clue how it happened.”

Please believe me. Please believe me. Please believe me. Please believe me.

Suddenly, you remembered some scenes from the book. The crown prince was famous for throwing "suspicious people" into the dungeons for trial— and execution.

And you? Who had just appeared in his private room out of thin air wearing pajamas?

Yup, you’re definitely doomed.

“Who sent you?” he asked.

“I... I don't know.”

“How did you get here?”

“I don’t know.”

“What is your name?”

“I don't know—huh?”

You turned around to face him. He was still staring, arms crossed, waiting for an answer. His deep purple eyes seemed to glow, and you nervously bit your lip.

“I didn't give you permission to look at me.”

Your patience is running thin. Between the stress and the exhaustion of standing all day at your birthday party, you were done. You closed your eyes, took a long breath, and gave him a tired look.

“Please pardon my behavior, Sir. But I promise I'm not a threat. Like I've said, I have no idea how I ended up here. I was sleeping in my own bed because I was exhausted— it was my birthday yesterday, you know.”

You weren't sure why you added that last part, but at this point, you’d say anything to make him believe you. The Crown Prince didn’t respond, he just kept watching you, waiting for you to keep talking.

And because you're desperate to prove your innocence, you continue.

“You can... I don't know, tie me up in the corner over there, if you want? If I don't do anything all night and you wake up safe tomorrow, that proves I'm not an enemy.”

Silence. Then—

“You speak as if you know me and my situation quite well, woman.”

Oh, Your Highness, guess what?

You nervously scratched the back of your head and looked away.

“Actually...” you hesitated. Was it even safe to tell him you weren't from this world? “It's a long story. But I can assure you, all your secrets are safe with me!”

“My secrets?”

“Ah—”

You could only offer a weak smile and a peace sign. For some reason, the tension in your body started to fade. The room didn’t feel as cold, and Scaramouche didn't seem quite as scary anymore. Were you really getting used to this place already?

“Ajax,” the prince called out.

The door swung open and a knight stepped inside. The moment you saw his ginger hair and the mask resting on his head, your hand flew to your mouth. You actually gasped out loud.

Oh my god!

“Childe!?”

The words were out before you could stop them. You immediately regretted it as two pairs of eyes locked onto you.

Holy shit.

—

“Um… I know I said that you can tie me up, but that was just me trying to lighten up the mood! Come on, is this really necessary? I'm not an enemy! I can't even kill a mosquito!” you wriggle on the chair and look at the person behind you. “Mr. Childe, Sir, I don't mean to say your name out loud– ouch, don't make it too tight!— but please believe me, it was only a slip of tongue.”

“‘Slip of tongue’, so you really do know his name?” Scaramouche asked, his arms crossed while he stared at you down.

“Don't you think we should hear her out first? I don't really mind her calling and knowing my name, you know. Plus, she's pretty.” Childe, who just finished tying you up on a chair, said. He stands up and gives you a pitiful smile.

You feel your face flushing at the sudden compliment, but you have bigger problems right now so you look back at Scaramouche and nod your head aggressively as if agreeing to his knight’s suggestion of hearing you out first.

But sadly, this prince is also stubborn as hell. Sometimes, once he's made up his mind, everything else is just nothing to him.

“You should never let down your guard around her, Ajax. You know damn well that the people wanting to take my life are getting creative. Look at her hideous clothes.”

Back to my pajamas again?

“They're not hideous! They're cozy—”

“The patterns are adorable.” Childe deadpan.

“See, he gets me!” you're screaming now because you never thought that Scaramouche would actually take your words seriously!

“This or dungeon. Choose.”

That shuts you up instantly.

Taking a deep breath, you lower your gaze and bite your lower lip. So much for getting my favorite novel on my birthday…

When silence erupted in the cold room, your eyes started to feel heavy. All that exhaustion from standing all day is coming back to you again. It looks like the Crown Prince isn't going to give you a chance to speak, but at least he’s keeping you alive.

But this is still too much!

Think, y/n! Say something to get out of these ropes!

You look up at them again. “I have something very important to tell you, Your Highness.”

“Keep an eye on her, Ajax. Make sure she doesn't do anything.” the crown prince ignored you. He turns on his heel and heads to his desk. His aura literally said that he’s not in the mood to talk to you.

You're running out of options to prove your innocence, so you muster all your courage and sit up properly, looking at him.

“Someone is attempting to poison you tomorrow,” you said. “If I'm wrong, you can throw me into the dungeon and do whatever you want. But if I'm right—”

"Poison?" he stops in his tracks, cutting you off. “Sorry to disappoint you but that kind of information is nothing new to me.”

Well, that's... sad?

“But I'm telling the truth! Your maid, the new one with a mole under her left eye? That’s her. She’s actually a spy sent by Duke Pantalone.”

“Oh, you even know about Duke Pantalone?” Childe raised his eyebrow.

“I actually know everyone here…”

Scaramouche slowly turns back around, his eyes narrowing. The room feels ten degrees colder.

"You know everyone?" he repeats, his voice low and dangerous. “The more you talk, the more you earn yourself a ticket to the dungeon.”

Childe leans against the wall, looking genuinely impressed. “Just curious, where are you from, princess?”

“It’s y/n.”

He blinks. “Never heard of it.”

“No, I mean, my name. It’s y/n. As for where I’m from…” you purse your lips. “It's actually far from here. But I still don't know how I ended up in Your Highness’ room.”

“Why are you telling us this?”

“Telling you what?”

“About this certain maid attempting to kill me.”

“Anything to get me out of these ropes and make you trust me, I guess…?” you sighed. “I'm just a commoner. I'm not a threat. I'm not an enemy.”

It feels like you’ve been telling him this for the nth time now. They're so tough to crack, is this what interrogation in a police station is like?

“She looks sincere to me.” YES, CHILDE, TELL HIM!! “And… tired.”

“Take her to the room on the west wing, then.”

Your ears perked. “I’m free?”

Scaramouche didn't give you an answer. Childe removed the ropes around you and you left the prince’s room to take you to your ‘new room’. That's what you want right now, to be honest.

To have a good sleep and rest. Your mind is too tired to think about what's happened, happening, and will happen. Thankfully, Childe didn't ask you anything as he led you to your room. He only bid you goodnight and closed the door, leaving you alone.

You didn't bother looking around as you dive right into the fluffy queen-sized bed and close your eyes.

I hope I'll wake up in my room tomorrow…

—

Two weeks after you transmigrated in your favorite novel, you realized that keeping the Crown Prince’s safety is not an easy task because keeping him away from his enemies means exposing yourself in danger, too.

You already give up hoping to wake up back in your room in the real world after a week. You did try finding clues on how you’ll do it, but you were left blank. So instead of moping, you decided to focus on surviving and save the crown prince from losing his head and his throne.

You already prevented three. The first one is the poisoning that you mentioned on your first day, the second one is an ambush attempt on his way from a grand ball, and the last one is another ambush attempt by an unknown baron that apparently hates the Crown Prince.

You almost wonder what kind of life Scaramouche had in his past life to have people going after his head in this life. Was he a famous mercenary? A tyrant king? A very notorious bandit?

“So this is why the hallways are quiet.” you jump when you hear Scaramouche’s voice behind you.

Speak of the devil.

You're currently in the garden, admiring the flowers and… thinking about your situation and the events that will unfold in the next few days— plans, or whatever to keep Scaramouche from death. You could say that this is one of your peaceful and free time because you’ve been working nonstop monitoring this stubborn prince.

You grinned at him and gave him a curtsy. “Good morning, Your Highness.”

“What were you thinking?”

Getting straight to the point, are we?

“Uh… the flowers?” Okay, that was a dumb answer. But how are you going to answer a question as straight as that?

“I’m thinking about the upcoming chapters where more nobles will attempt to kill you, sir.”

Yeah, right y/n. You are not going to tell him that.

Scaramouche already thinks you're some kind of "foreseer" because you know way too much. You tried telling him the truth once— that you aren't from this world and that his entire life is just a story to you— but he just looked at you like you’d completely lost your mind.

“Are you… okay?” he asked.

You ignored him for two days after that.

“What's going to happen next?” he sits on the bench beside you.

He's asking about the next unfortunate event that will happen to him.

He’s long given up asking where you came from, and why you have the “ability to predict the future”. Instead, he told you to tell him everything that you know.

His enemies, spies, traitors, and anyone who’s after his life and their ways of ending it.

And because you don't want anything to happen to your beloved favorite character, you told him you’d protect him— not by jumping in front of a bullet (let's be real), but by staying one step ahead of the plot. You're the only one who truly gets him and the only one who can keep him away from those greedy councils and backstabbing servants.

You cannot tell him everything that you know, but with this, at least he’ll be safe.

“I believe I asked you a question,” you snap back to reality when you hear his voice.

“Sorry, what was that again?”

“Duke Pantalone,” his voice is low and quiet, but enough for you to hear. “Is he really after the throne?”

You purse your lips and slowly nod your head.

“He's going to send you an invitation. It's best if you just ignore it.”

“Why?” you can feel his gaze on you but you remain staring at your feet. “If I accept it, what is going to happen?”

You remember the scene where the Duke invited the crown prince for a dinner in his mansion. It was supposed to be a normal dinner given that the Duke was a close friend of the late Queen Ei— Scaramouche’s mother.

But…

“Ugh…” just thinking about it is making you feel sick. That damn duke and his stupid schemes!

“It's not going to end well.” he said, almost whispering.

It’s not a question. But the way he said it, it sounds like he's really used to this.

“Don't worry, as long as I'm here, none of those rascals will lay their dirty hands on you!” you tried to give him your bestest and cheerful smile as you looked at him.

“With that small and fragile body of yours?” he snickered.

“Mind you, this small and fragile body of mine has already saved your life thrice, Your Highness.”

“Hmph.” Scaramouche stands up. “I'm going to accept the invitation.”

Hah?

“Um.. did you miss the part where I said just ignore it?” Seriously, what is he thinking?!

“What, you’re going to be there with me anyway.”

He didn't wait for you to say anything. You can only watch his back until he disappears in the shadows.

You close your eyes and take a deep, deep breath to calm yourself.

I want to go home.

—

Meeting the final villain is not, and will never be, on your to-do list while you're on vacation inside your favorite novel.

Well, the Crown Prince Scaramouche and Duke Pantalone are bound to meet someday because the latter used to be the former’s mother’s close friend, but this? Knowing that what's happening right now is a trap? What in the world is the Crown Prince thinking?!

“It's been three days since I sent the invitation, I thought I would never receive a response, Your Highness." the man in front of you said with a smile.

Duke Pantalone. One of Her Majesty the Queen’s trusted friends. But unfortunately, Scaramouche is not his mother, so that one doesn't count.

You can't even look at him straight because his face is pissing you off. Especially that smile— that smile that looks gentle but it’s actually full of malice when you look at it carefully.

“I was too busy so I don't have time to write you back,” Scaramouche’s hand made its way to your waist and he pulled you closer to him.

You were surprised at the sudden gesture, but you quickly composed yourself and gave the Duke your fakest smile. He briefly glanced at Scaramouche's hand on your waist before looking at you.

“Pardon me for asking, but who might this beautiful woman be?”

You tried your best to prevent yourself from rolling your eyes in disgust.

Just bear with it for an hour or two, y/n….

You moved away from Scaramouche and gave the Duke a curtsy. “Good evening, Your Grace The Dude—”

Dude?

DUDE?

You wanted to laugh at the mispronunciation but you forgot that you’re in front of a high ranking noble so you composed yourself. Imagine calling a Duke, “dude” like you’ve been friends since you were three? Oh boy you wanted to roll on the ground and laugh your ass off.

But since that’s impossible, you maintain your poker face because you might get punished or killed for the disrespect you just did. But who cares? You hate this man anyway.

You cleared your throat and gave him a bow. “...Your Grace The Duke.”

After a few greetings and embarrassment, you made your way to the dining hall. You sat beside Scaramouche while the Duke is on the farthest left of the long table.

The dinner is going well— smooth, even, because servants keep coming and putting whatever dishes the Duke had told them to serve. Mind you, there were only three of you and yet the big and long table is already full of plates.

You actually know what all of these are, and thankfully, they're not poisoned.

So the only thing that you need to watch out for the most is…..

“You. Bring the wine.” Duke Pantalone ordered the maid in-waiting. She immediately bowed her head and left in a hurry.

There it is. The famous wine.

“I didn't know you're such a drinker, Duke Pantalone.” Scaramouche said.

“It's like a routine every time I eat, Your Highness.” he answered with a laugh. The maid arrived with a bottle of wine and three wine glasses. She puts each in front of you and opens the bottle before pouring them. “Actually, this is why I invited you here. I wanted you to try this new wine I got from Fontaine. I heard this is limited so I didn't waste any chance to grab and try one myself.”

Liar. That wine is actually harvested from a poisonous fruit.

You stole a glance at the person sitting comfortably beside you. He's just watching the red liquid from the glass with an unreadable expression on his face.

You can feel Duke Pantalone's eyes watching him through the wineglass on his mouth, waiting for Scaramouche to drink it.

He’s so obvious it's so funny. Surely, the Crown Prince knew what he was planning, right??

“It doesn't look like it was made from grapes,” he said, earning a smile from you. “What's in it?”

Yes, keep asking him! And don't even try touching that glass and drink it!

However, the Duke wasn't even fazed at the sudden question.

“Oh, the usual, Your Highness,” Duke Pantalone said. “Fermented berries.”

Berries? Is that even possible?

“I see…” Scaramouche raised his hand to grab the wineglass and your mind started panicking.

No, no, no, don't just say, “I see” and take the glass! Put that down, sir! I said, put the glass down!!!

Not knowing what to do next, you quickly grab the glass from his hand and drink the wine in one go.

The two men inside the hall just watched you, both eyes wide open. Duke Pantalone was looking at you like you’d lost your mind, while Scaramouche… Well, he looks… upset.

You’ll ponder about that one later. For now, your priority is to keep Scaramouche safe and stop the evil Duke from his evil plans.

Ugh… Gross… Berries, my ass. It tastes like rotten mango!

You slammed the glass back at the table. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and give them a small smile. “That was… uh… a good wine.. Very flavorful..."

And then it hits you.

You put your hand on your chest and start gasping for air. It feels like your lungs are being squeezed and you closed your eyes, grabbing Scaramouche’s arm.

“You idiot, what the fuck were you doing?!” he grabs your arm and pulls you to him. His other hand made its way to your cheek and started checking you. “Don't you even dare close your eyes, y/n.”

You tried speaking but you can't even move your mouth. Your body’s starting to get numb too, but despite all of this, you still tried to speak and give him a smile.

“You’re… safe…”

And then you passed out.

—

When your eyes fluttered open, the first thing you noticed wasn't the ceiling of your old bedroom, nor the ceiling of your bedroom in the palace. The second thing is the familiar chandelier hanging, and lastly, the sweet and overwhelming scent of glaze lilies and incense filling the dark room.

You're in Scaramouche's room.

What happened…?

“Finally awake?”

You heard a sharp voice coming from beside you, so you weakly turned your head to find Scaramouche standing near the edge of the bed. He looked like an absolute wreck. His royal coat was tossed carelessly over a chair, his collar was unbuttoned, and his dark indigo hair was messy— as if he’d spent the last several hours violently running his fingers through it.

“Your Highness…?” you coughed at the dryness of your throat. “What happened? Did we… Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” he repeated with a scoff. “You were the one barely hanging between life and death and you're really asking me if I'm okay?”

You pulled the blanket up to your nose to shield yourself from his glare. Geez… this is kind of weird but it felt nice seeing his usual grumpy side…

“What about you? Are you okay? Why the hell did you drink that goddamn wine knowing that it was poisoned?” he asked, voice still cold. You couldn't bring yourself to say something because it looks like you're in for a grand scolding so you continue looking at him, blanket still covering half of your face. “I knew exactly what was in that glass, you know? I just had to make sure that's why I confirmed what was in it. I was going to fake a seizure, draw out his hidden guards, and execute him for high treason on the spot.”

Oh.

“And what did you do? You stole the glass and drank the wine so now you were unconscious for almost a week because of your stupidity. You completely ruined my plan.” He took a deep breath to calm himself.

“...You should've at least told me about that plan…” you mumbled. I was actually losing my mind there, you know?! I thought you were really about to drink it!

“You said something?”

You shake your head. “So… uh.. I messed up the— your plan?”

“Miserably.”

“Well.. I’m sor—”

Scaramouche slammed his hand onto the mattress next to your head, making you flinch.

He leaned in, close enough you can feel his breath.

"What were you doing? What do you gain from throwing your life away for me? Is this some elaborate play to make me indebted to you? To make me trust you?” he asked.

You blinked when you heard his voice shaking, so you slowly looked down at his hand. He's gripping the sheets so tight his knuckles are turning white. Despite the harsh words and questions he’s throwing at you, you could see that his hands were also trembling.

Is he… scared?

You let out a sigh before looking up at him.

“I told you before, right? As long as I'm here, none of those rascals will lay their dirty hands on you.” You gave him a tired smile and lowered the blanket. “I don't know if I already told you this, but I made it my mission to keep you from whatever danger that's lurking around you. I wanted to keep you safe, but I guess I failed at doing it quietly.”

He scoffed, shifting his position so he’s now sitting beside you. “Yeah right you did. Idiot.”

You rolled your eyes, but you’re still smiling. You put your hand on your chest. “Anything for you, Your Highness.”

He stared at you. “But seriously, how are you feeling?”

“Weak…?” you tried raising your arms but you failed. “Limp like a vegetable, as you can see. What happened, by the way?”

“The wine was infused with wolfsbane, that's why you immediately passed out after drinking it.” he said. “It's a deadly poison, and with the amount you ingested, it's a miracle you're still alive.”

Scaramouche reaches out and removes the strands of hair from your cheek. His hand is cold, but his touch is gentle.

“From now on, you are not allowed to leave my sight. If you plan to be this stupid again, make sure it’s where I can see you so I can keep an eye on you. I can't have you jumping into death again before I could even stop you. No more protecting me, I can handle myself. Am I understood?”

“Loud and clear…” you reluctantly answered.

He smiled. This might be the first time that you've seen him smile genuinely. It looks.. nice. “Good.”

He retracted his hand and stood up.

“Wait, are you perhaps worried about me?” you grinned at him, wiggling your eyebrows.

Scaramouche drops his smile at your stupid question.

“The Duke is currently rotting in the deepest cell of the dungeons, if you're wondering.” he dodged your question that earned a chuckle from you. He grabs his coat and looks down at you again. “Don't do stupid things again, do you hear me?”

“So you're worried!”

He ignores you again. “All you have to do is focus on recovering. You're not allowed to leave this room until you're fully-recovered, and until I tell you so. Just call a maid, or Ajax if you need anything."

“But I can't—”

“That's an order.”

Just like before, he didn't give you a chance to speak and left the room. You continue staring at the huge door before grinning like a kid. You turn your gaze at the dark ceiling and start gathering your thoughts.

The assassination attempts failed. The villain is in the dungeon and currently facing trials before his execution. You almost died but at least you managed to keep the Crown Prince safe until the end.

Scaramouche wasn't poisoned. His body wasn't burned.

Yes, that was the tragic fate that awaits him. The Duke plans to poison him first to make him lose consciousness, and after that, he plans to burn his body to leave no traces of evidence, and to erase the Crown Prince’s existence entirely. That's how cruel he is— the Smiling Villain who’s been eyeing the throne ever since Her Majesty The Queen is still alive.

But now… everything has changed. His plan is ruined. And he’s now facing charges for attempting to overthrow the monarchy to ascend the throne.

The plot of the novel was officially broken. You changed the ending.

No more protecting the Crown Prince. No more saving your favorite character. Although he hinted that it's his turn to protect you from now on…

You forced yourself to sit up and look at the huge window. When a ray of sunlight hits your face, you smile.

Oh well. All is well.

Mission failed successfully... I guess?

You’ve heard great things about the place, and not just the usual noise from clickbait-y blogs desperate for engagement, but from people who actually know what they’re talking about. The hipster types—the new-age purist fucks who claim they can taste the "notes of apricot and the warmth of an abuela’s love" in a single origin Santuário Sul pour-over, brewed with beans ethically scoured from the mystical depths of Carmo de Minas or whatever.

You think they’re full of shit. But for all their unbearable pretentiousness, they’ve never steered you wrong. So.

It still feels… unreal sometimes. Sylus, here, beside you. Present, in a way he never could have been before. In a way you two could only think of as a passing pipedream, not so long ago.

He’s here. Solid, tangible. And so, so warm. 

His thumb traces soft circles against your knuckles, an absentminded caress that sends a shiver up your spine. He does that a lot—little touches here and there, like he’s committing the texture of your skin to memory. Like there’s still a part of him that can’t quite believe that you two exist in the same space now. In the same plane of existence. 

And maybe you’re just as bad; sneaking glances at him whenever you could, half-expecting him to flicker out like a glitch in the system. Like some cruel error will right itself and erase him from this reality at any given moment, when you least expect it.

He never does. 

He’s still with you. Always with you. 

And day by day, the knot in your chest loosens; not all at once, but in slow, steady increments. Like frost clinging to the soles of your boots, melting under the first touch of spring. Day by day, the small voice in your head—the one that whispers warnings of borrowed time, of happiness slipping through your fingers—slows to a mum. 

Not gone, not yet, but it's quieter. Fainter now. Sounding more and more like the lingering echoes of a bad dream.

(You hope that one day, when you look into Sylus’ fathomless grey eyes, the reflection staring back at you will be filled with certainty. Of this. Of him. Of what you have. Nothing else.)

And whenever reality hits you – and what a novel thing it is, that this is what you now consider reality – it steals the very breath from your lungs. 

It’s an exhilarating kind of happiness; the way it makes you feel as if your heart's too big for your ribs, too much for your mortal body to contain. It spills over, bright and absurd—almost to a ludicrous degree, honestly. 

You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it. The utter magnitude of your bliss. 

And he’s just as lost in this as you are—though you suspect he’s just a tad better at making it less obvious.

He never strays too far away from you. He stays close to your orbit, always within arm’s reach; his fingers brushing against yours when they can, as if he doesn’t quite trust himself to let go. Your personal shadow.

It’s more than just physical proximity. There’s a gravity to him now, almost on a molecular level, like he’s in the very air you breathe. Inescapable, even if you tried.

(Not that you’d ever want to.)

Sometimes you think you’re not even consciously doing it, but when he moves, you move with him. You lean into him as if by instinct, finding the curve of his body and the spaces in between as though it was made just for you. It’s a rhythm that feels both thrilling and comforting, the kind of closeness that makes your heart thump a little faster; your cheeks a little redder. 

“Sweetie.”

Sylus’ voice breaks through your thoughts. It settles over the buzzing noise in your mind, soothing as ever. As it always has.

Has it really been four months?

You still find yourself mesmerised by the way he’s easily integrated himself into your world. His world now, too. All six-foot-five (!) of him; impossibly tall, broad-shouldered, and so naturally magnetic. 

It’s in the way he carries himself—not unlike the way he’s always done, back when he was no more but your impossible, sentient character. That presence is still there, the one you always thought was larger than life. But it's slightly more subdued now, toned down into something less intimidating. Something less… exorbitant. 

Something just for you.

And then there’s also the fact that he’s stupidly, ridiculously handsome.

It’s unfair, really. As if it weren’t already enough of a miracle that he’s here, real, flesh and blood, he had to step into this world looking just as breathtaking as his video game counterpart. And hey, maybe you’re a little biased, but you think the changes that came with his mortality only made him all the more perfect in your eyes.

Sure, you miss the silver hair from time to time. And occasionally, your brain still expects the sharp contrast of crimson when his gaze cuts to yours—only to be met with a monochromatic grey, deep and electrifying as a thundercloud in mid-July.

But then there’s everything else. The way his chest rises and falls under your palm, the steady heartbeat that lulls you to sleep at night. The way his hair sticks up in all the wrong places in the mornings, no physics engine rendering it down to a smooth perfection. The scratch of stubble when he steals kisses from you throughout the day, because body hair is a thing now (thank god). 

The off-key singing when he’s taking a shower—

Oh. Nevermind. 

The little imperfections that weren’t designed to be attractive but somehow make him even more so.

He isn’t all clean-cut lines anymore, no longer a carefully-crafted fantasy meant to appeal to an audience. There’s a rawness to him now, something that’s inexplicably human. He’s just some… guy. 

Granted, an extremely hot guy, but still. 

Just himself. Just Sylus.

And maybe… maybe, that’s what makes this version of him the most beautiful of all.

Because he’s yours. Completely and wholly yours.

“Sweetheart, we’re here.”

There’s laughter in his voice. You blink up at him, only to find that look in his eyes—amused and endearingly fond. You realize, a beat too late, that you’ve been spacing out for the last couple of minutes. 

Sylus tips his chin toward the double doors a few metres away, and he feels the way you startle slightly. 

You give him a sheepish smile. He merely chuckles, squeezing your hand in response. 

He’s used to this, revels in this. The way your mind drifts so freely when your hand is in his. It’s not unlike the way you used to depend on him, back when his existence was confined to a screen. 

But now, in this corporeal form, he can be more than a voice in your ear—do more than just watch from the sidelines. 

He can pull you back when you get too close to the curb, for one. Tuck you into his side when the cold bites too sharply at your skin. He can prevent you from walking straight into oncoming traffic whenever you get too lost in your own head… because of course you would. Carefree thing that you are.

He likes seeing you at ease; so completely trusting of the man who, in the grand scheme of things, has only truly been here for a fraction of a year.

As if he’s always belonged by your side.

Oh, how he adores you.

He’d take care of you forever, if you let him. His little dove.

You two enter the café, and immediately, your eyes are drawn to the eclectic décor of the place. It’s almost like you’ve entered a fever dream—or what you can only describe as a frankensteined aquarium. 

Circular faux windows line the stone-clad walls, imitating a sort of subterranean oceanic sanctum, drowning the space with an atmospheric blue. There are hanging lamps reminiscent of jellyfish floating at sea, casting vivid hues of bioluminescent purples and pinks across the room; the mix of colours gives off the illusion of something sunken, almost psychedelic. An abundance of plants of varying sizes can also be seen at every corner, from the creeping ivies to the potted lilies, as if they’ve simply sprouted into existence.  

The main kicker, though, is that – aside from the predominantly nautical motif – the owner seems to have a strange fondness for… the cabaret? 

Framed photographs of harlequin girls wink from gilded edges, and there’s a signage in cabochon lettering that looks like it belongs outside a burlesque theater rather than in here. It spells out a cryptic phrase in a swirling font, in a language you don’t recognize.

You’re still trying to process the visuals of it all when you register the familiar notes of Paradise Circus filtering in through the speakers.

…They’re committed, you’ll give them that. 

"Woah," you can’t help but say, momentarily disoriented by the overwhelming interior of the unassuming—or at least, from the outside—café. "This is… definitely something."

Sylus glances around, his lips curling into a wry smile. "Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting a full immersion," he remarks dryly. "I was wondering what all the fuss was about. Glad to see they didn’t oversell it."

You snort. “I hope good coffee is part of the experience.”

You both amble toward the counter, third in line behind a girl with a bob cut who’s swaying to the music in a pair of silver bell-bottoms, and a shorter fellow wearing a flatcap and trench coat like he’s on the damned set of Peaky Blinders.

Clearing your throat, you quickly glance up at Sylus—just to see him watching you with a knowing look, an eyebrow arched.

You roll your eyes, pressing your lips to suppress a smile. Judgemental little shit. 

"It’s possible we missed a dress code somewhere," he says drolly. 

“Shh,” you hiss at him, trying to keep your voice low—or as low as you can manage—trying your hardest not to laugh. “You’re wearing leather pants. You don’t exactly have the fashion high ground here.” 

Sylus pinches your side in retaliation, and you swat his hand away. 

Tommy Shelb—rather, the cap wearing twenty-year-old-something dude—gives the two of you the stink eye, clearly unimpressed by your not-so-quiet banter. You can’t help but think that maybe he’s the type to take himself a little too seriously.

After a few minutes, you two are next in line.

You’re looking up at the hanging menu: an aged wooden board with elegant yet slightly smudged calligraphy, suspended by fibre twine that gives it a rustic feel without making it look too tacky. Your eyes skim past the more familiar offerings before landing on something called The Drowned Saint. 

It’s intriguing. You’re intrigued. 

Why not?

“Ready to order?” an easygoing voice asks, prompting you to tear your gaze away from the menu.

The barista in front of you is tall, with large, square glasses that sit slightly crooked on his nose, like they’ve been knocked askew one too many times. It gives him a friendly, bookish vibe, the kind of charm that might fool you into a sense of security… if not for the sly look in his eyes. 

Something that spells mischief. 

“Oh, hi—yeah, can I get The Drowned Saint? Just, uh, a regular.” You say, glancing down at the silver name tag pinned to his shirt.

… Red. Does everybody in this establishment need to have a certain degree of quirky to them...?

“–-and a strawberry muffin, too.” 

“And for you?” The dark-haired man seems to size Sylus up, his gaze sharpening with something you can’t put a name to. “Sir?”

There’s a pause. It makes you peek up at Sylus, and you’re surprised to see the same look of quiet consideration on his face.

You shift your weight awkwardly, glancing between the two men. Um.

Finally, Sylus lists his order in a measured tone. Red hums noncommittally, grabbing a paperboard cup from the stack behind the counter.

"Alrighty, and can I get a name for that?”

“... Silas.”

A snort; followed by a barely-restrained cough. 

Your brows lift. Okay. What’s this guy’s damage?

“Riiight, so do you spell that with an ‘I’?” There’s a deliberate smirk playing on Red’s lips. “Or maybe a ‘Y’? Sorry, still getting the hang of–” he makes a vague gesture with his fingers, “all this.” 

You squint, getting a little annoyed by the whole ‘cool guy’ act. Fucking hipsters, man. “Look, it’s not that complicated. It’s S-I-L–”

You feel the light press of Sylus’ palm at the small of your back—a silent reassurance while he cuts in, unperturbed. “It’s alright, sweetie,” he murmurs by your ear. 

Then, without looking away from the irritating barista, he languidly pulls out his wallet. There’s something almost amused in the way his brow lifts, the barest flicker of challenge. “Write it however you want.”

Red, looking unruffled for the most part, is already jotting something down on the cup. There’s no visible reaction; just that same ever-present ghost of a smile, which you’re starting to find… kind of weird, to be honest.   

After paying, both of you move to the side, settling into the wait. You narrow your eyes at the flamboyant man who's busy humming something upbeat under his breath as he moves effortlessly behind the counter. Steam rises in the air while he works the espresso machine like he’s done it a thousand times before. 

You wouldn’t be surprised if he started twirling a milk frothing pitcher mid-pour, like a performer in some kind of latte circus act. He seems like the type.

Finally, Red pings a tiny brass bell by the pick-up area, the tinkling chime almost mocking. “Order up,” he calls out, flashing the two of you a toothy grin. “Enjoy, lovebirds.”

Sylus scoffs, unimpressed. He doesn’t respond—just picks up the tray in one smooth motion, nudging you toward an empty table near the centre of the room, right below a floating indigo anemone. 

He pulls out a chair, and you drop into it with a huff. “The fuck was that guy’s deal?”

He takes his seat across from you, unbothered. To your surprise, instead of the ire you expected to be written on his face, he looks more fascinated than anything. 

He studies you, eyes flickering with something you can’t put your finger on. 

“Does he remind you of anyone?”

You frown. The question throws you. “Huh?” Your brows knit together, head cocking sideways in confusion. “Wait—you know him?”

He gives you an indulgent smile, but doesn’t say anything. He picks up his cup, gaze dropping briefly as he turns it in his hand.

Do you know him?

Sylus watches you, patient, the faintest curl of his mouth betraying nothing as you mull it over. It’s as if he’s waiting, trusting you’ll make the connection yourself without his help. But how would you know the owner of a newly-opened café—if he even is the owner? (He sure carries himself like he owns the place.)

You wrack your brain, trying to pin him down. Where else would you know a roughly six-foot-tall guy with dark, wavy hair and shifty-looking eyes the color of a dead aubergine? 

He’s certainly… a character. And he doesn’t pass off as local—maybe foreign, or at least mixed—so should be easily recognizable, right? 

Yet, for some damning reason, nothing’s clicking. 

It’s in the way he acts too, you think. The easy arrogance, the look of mirth lingering in his expression, as if he’s in on some inside joke you’re not privy to. It’s nagging at you, like an itch in the back of your brain. You’ve seen him before, right? 

You’re pretty sure you have… but for the life of you, you can’t figure out where.

“I mean, like, he does look kind of familia–” Wait.

Oceanic décor. Dark irises that glint into a near-violet hue under the dim, overhead lights. 

Red. 

Reddie.

The realisation hits you like a ton of bricks.

“Wha—no.” You spin your head around so fast it almost gives you whiplash. 

And as if he’s already expecting it, Rafayel meets your wide eyes. 

He gives you a wink. 

Holy fucking shit. 

“So he found a way out, as well,” Sylus muses, his large hand comically dwarfing the coffee that he’s back to examining. When he meets your stunned gaze, he casually flips the cup around, revealing the name scribbled on the sleeve.

‘Sylus’ 

And just right below: ‘still got here first lol ;)’

You let out a sharp exhale, the dots starting to connect in your head. “Did you know?” Your voice pitching higher than you intended, brows scrunched up as you look at the calm man in front of you – the nonchalance to your overreaction. “Is that why you wanted to come here?”

He picks up your strawberry muffin, tapping the excess crumbs off the edge of the plate. “I had my suspicions,” he admits, cupping a hand beneath the pastry, angling the muffin closer to your face. “Ahh, baby.” 

With no small amount of frustration, you take a bite, your eyebrows still furrowed as you chew. The flavors don’t even register on your tongue as you try to wrap your head around this… unexpected development. 

Of course, that’s putting it lightly; inside you’re freaking out. What does this mean? When did this happen? Two of them now?

Are you losing it? Again?? 

It’s too much to process in one go. You’ve just come to terms with your very own freak of nature, thank you very much. 

Sylus tuts gently, dabbing a napkin at the corner of your lips. "No need to stress over it, my love," he rubs his thumb on your lower lip to draw your focus back to him. The corners of his mouth curl into a small smirk when he sees you nibble on it absentmindedly. "Careful now."

Suddenly, your ears pick up a voice calling out, “Raf!” from behind, and you glance over your shoulder just in time to see someone step out from the small kitchenette. 

They’re wearing a navy blue apron over a glittery top, carrying a square pan of what looks to be a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls. On the taller side, standing only a couple of inches shorter than Rafayel, sporting a silver nose ring. Their hair is in a split-dye, parted down the middle, and styled into intricately braided space buns—likely a labor of love from the man himself. 

“Ah, that must be his partner,” Sylus notes idly.  

Rafayel reaches for the tray with all the confidence of someone who has absolutely no plan beyond offloading the weight from their lover’s hands. His partner, quicker and clearly wiser, snatches it away at the last second with a knowing look. "Cutie, I was about to get that," he whines in protest, lips forming a pout.

"Alas, here I am," they reply dryly, maneuvering the steaming buns out of his reach.

Undeterred, he makes another attempt; only for them to sidestep, holding the tray higher like a seasoned veteran at dealing with his antics. Rafayel huffs but refuses to back down, making for another grab. This time, faster. 

He gets his fingers around the edge of the baking tray—only to hiss in pain and immediately jerk back. "Just let me– ow, fuck, hot!" 

His partner gives him a long, unimpressed stare. "You don’t say."

"You could’ve warned me," he accuses, shaking out his hand with all the theatrics of a man in peril. 

"Apologies for your lack of common sense," they deadpan, but you detect a hint of laughter beneath the monotone.  

That earns a full-blown scowl, but it’s betrayed by the way his eyes soften, something unmistakably fond in the way he watches them, as if their amusement alone makes the now-forgotten burn worth it. You don’t miss the subtle shift in his posture; the way his shoulders loosen, the telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth like he’s biting back the urge to grin.

After a few more playful back-and-forths (one of which involves Rafayel attempting a truly ridiculous reach-around that gets his wrist lightly smacked in retaliation), they finally place the cinnamon rolls into the glass display, arranging them alongside the rest of the baked goods.

It’s the ease between them that sticks with you. The way he casually fixes the strap of their apron, how they don’t even flinch when he brushes a stray crumb from their cheek. It’s an old, familiar rhythm, one that speaks of something long-established. The kind of comfort built over time. Habitual. 

It makes you smile. 

(In your periphery, you catch Sylus smiling, too.) 

You exhale a long sigh, sinking back into your chair, only now noticing the weight you’d been carrying—the one you hadn’t even realized was there—finally lifting off your chest.

Questions swirl in your mind, most of them aimed at the busy couple manning the counter. The hows and whens. The adjustment period. The hardships. And, honestly? Just the need to have someone to freak out with and scream say, Can you actually believe this? 

… But you suppose it can wait. There will be time for questions, for stories, for untangling the mysteries of it all.

For now, you’re just going to enjoy a normal weekend afternoon with your very normal boyfriend. After all, they’re not going anywhere. Nor will the two of you.

- -

An errant thought pops into your head.

Before you can stop it, your mouth blurts out: “You think Xavier’s ever gonna come out of the game, too?”

A beat.

Sylus freezes for a split-second before his gaze locks onto you, wry and amused, like he’s debating whether he heard you right. 

You get the bad, bad feeling that you’ve made a mistake somewhere.

He lets out a throaty chuckle. “Xavier, huh?” he muses, almost patronizingly, eyes alight with an intensity that makes you squirm in your seat.

The nervous little action doesn’t escape his notice.

“Look at the time, kitten.” His voice drops an octave, deceptively calm and even, but there’s an undercurrent to it that has you squeezing your thighs together. “I think we’ve stayed here long enough. Don’t you?”

Uh-oh.

End A/N: Ok, so I’m a big, fat liar who lied about not including anything about the silly lil fishman ≽^-⩊¬^≼ I’m anal about spoilers if you haven’t noticed. 

silence.

it was supposed to be a normal afternoon. 

you’d brought your favorite lemonade, found your usual quiet spot by the lake, and pulled out your phone, ready to scroll through tiktok until your brain officially clocked out. the sun was warm, the breeze was gentle, this was nice. this was good. 

peaceful. chill.

honestly? you were thriving.

that is.. till something weird happened.

at first, it was just a strange hum. low but barely noticeable. you glanced around. Nobody seemed to notice. not that there were many people around. you were in a more secluded area of the lake.

the water in front of you rippled. your eyes snap towards the water observing it, already standing up to run.

and then- he appeared.

he just… emerged. like ariel on that rock. or whatever. oh, oh, like moto moto!

one second: empty lake. The next: a sexy man standing waist deep in the water as if reality had just uploaded him directly into lake michigan. 

you froze, blinking, your brain fully short circuiting.

the man was tall. broad. dressed in a military uniform that looked a bit too good on him, his eyes purple like amethyst.. soaked brown hair. his breathing was steady and controlled. he slowly lifted his head, scanning the area like a soldier assessing in a battlefield. and then his eyes landed on you.

you held your lemonade like it was a crucifix. the man tilted his head slightly, as if confused and curious. 

you did the only logical thing any person would do when confronted by a strange man materializing out of thin fucking air in broad daylight.

you whispered, “what the fuck?!”

(commercial break)

he took a slow step toward the shore, water streaming down the armored plates of his suit. you couldn’t move. your feet felt like they fused with the ground. 

you blink. this was not normal. this was odd and weird. you had eyeshot of the lake in front of you and you didn’t see a man walk within your peripherals in the past 15 minutes.

as you think, you fail to notice that he stood a few feet from you. his eyes scanned everything. the skyline. the parked cars. passing birds, you. his gaze was sharp and analytical, but you couldn’t help but catch the flicker of unease. 

for a moment neither of you spoke. then his voice, calm and low, “this isn’t… skyhaven..” 

you stared, “.... i don’t know what that is…” 

he inhaled a deep sigh, his jaw clenching slightly. his  eyes darted up to the sky, scanning. then around again. His hand reached up, unfastening something at his neck. he pulls off the jacket bearing unfamiliar insignia.  

he followed by tugging off his cap, running a hand through his damp hair. without the uniform he almost looked like any other ridiculously good looking chicago tourist who happened to have just crawled out of the lake in his dress blues?

 almost.

his eyes settled back on you. “you’re local,” he stated. not a question.

“y-yeah,” you said, still clutching your drink like a nervous squirrel, “uh. chicago.”

another pause. you watched as he took a small, subtle breath, adjusting his posture, as though trying to blend in. his military ‘tude slipped into something softer, calculated, but oddly polite.

“i need to speak with you. somewhere less exposed.”

you hesitated, your brain running full speed through every true crime documentary you’d ever watched. but there was something about him that didn’t scream danger. he seemed… lost. out of place.

and possibly extremely confused.

…..BUT MAYBE THIS IS WHAT HE WOULD WANT YOU TO THINK

"...you don’t have any weapons on you, do you?"

his brow twitched slightly, almost like a tiny flash of amusement. “no. not at the moment.”

"...okay." against every ounce of common sense, you sighed. “come on. my car’s over there.” oh, what would your parents think?

he followed without hesitation, keeping pace exactly one step behind you. polite, controlled, but clearly still assessing everything like this entire planet was a potential threat.

you unlocked your car, climbed into the driver’s seat, and tried very hard not to hyperventilate as he sat himself into the passenger side, closing the door.

a beat of silence filled the cabin.

you finally turned to him and blurted out, “okay. who — or what — are you?”

the silence hung for a long, awkward beat.

you stared at him, your brain still trying to process any of this, as your fingers gripped the steering wheel so hard your knuckles went pale. he sat there like this was a perfectly normal tuesday.

finally, he spoke.

“my name is caleb xia. colonel. farspace fleet .this is not my world.”

you blinked.your mouth opened slightly, but all that came out was a soft, strangled noise. “...what.”

“i was traveling through a deep tunnel corridor,” he continued, his voice low, calm, like he was giving a report. “there was a malfunction. anomalous coordinates. i lost control of the vessel’s trajectory and…” his eyes scanned the unfamiliar cityscape out your windshield again. “i arrived here.”

you stared at him.

and then you laughed..

“i’m sorry — what?” you sputtered. “you expect me to believe you're from... space? like, intergalactic, star wars? not, like, russia or something?”

his brow twitched ever so slightly at your comparison. “star wars..? no. no.”

“oh my god, you’re serious.” you clapped a hand over your mouth. “okay. so you’re from skyhaven? which isn’t on google maps, by the way. a colonel?”

“correct.”

you gave him your absolute most deadpan, wide-eyed stare. “are you having a psychotic break?”

if caleb was offended, he didn’t show it. In fact, you thought you saw something flicker across his expression — patience. like he’d expected this. like he’d already calculated your reaction before you even had it.

without a word, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.

you immediately stiffened. “hey, whoa—”

“i’m not armed,” he assured smoothly, pulling out a small, sleek object — no bigger than a deck of cards. the surface shimmered with a faint blue light, metallic but almost liquid in how it reflected. there were no buttons. no seams. the edges curved unnaturally smooth. it definitely didn’t look like anything sold at best buy.

he tapped it once, and the surface came alive . a floating projection emerged, rotating gently in midair like a miniature hologram. complex glyphs and symbols you couldn’t even begin to read spun around a glowing image of what looked like... a planet? a star system?

“this is a navigational core module,” he said quietly. “it tracks dimensional coordinates for deep tunnel travel.” his eyes lifted to meet yours. soft but firm. “your world isn’t on any of our charts.”

your jaw dropped open.

you looked at the hologram. then at him. then back at the floating image, which was still calmly rotating in front of your very real, very human face.

your brain screamed: THAT’S NOT AN IPAD.

“holy shit,” you whispered.

you kept staring at the floating projection like your brain was buffering. if this was a prank, it was a really good one. but nothing about him screamed prank. everything screamed calm, extremely dangerous man who accidentally landed in chicago from a freaking alternate universe, and #needthat.

your voice came out small. “...is that real?”

caleb calmly deactivated the device with a brush of his fingertips — it folded back into itself like liquid metal and slipped neatly into his jacket again.

“i anticipated you’d require additional verification.”

he pulled something else out of his suit. a sleek, block. his phone.

he tapped the screen. the interface lit up in a design you couldn’t even recognize — elegant, minimalistic, even though it was a normal looking phone.

he handed it to you.

you hesitated but took it carefully, half expecting it to electrocute you. the screen pulsed slightly as if reading your touch, but otherwise, it let you scroll. there were apps you didn’t recognize.  

no google. no instagram. no facebook. no tiktok.

your eyebrows furrowed as you flicked through what appeared to be his photo library.

and that’s when you saw it.

a picture of him standing beside a girl — smiling, standing on what looked like a floating platform overlooking a glowing futuristic skyline. the city was breathtaking: glittering towers spiraled into the clouds, neon highways coiled between buildings, flying vehicles zipping silently through the air.

you blinked at the girl beside him. she was pretty, soft-featured, and looked very familiar.

“...is this your girlfriend?” you asked, feeling a weird stab in your chest for absolutely no reason.

caleb glanced at the photo. his expression softened for the first time. “its… complicated.” “oh.” you blinked again, glancing down at the skyline. “is this skyhaven?”

he nodded.  your jaw dropped as you scrolled through more photos — linkon’s towering buildings, vast technological hubs, alien landscapes, even images of creatures you didn’t recognize , all shimmering under unfamiliar constellations.

“this looks like a star wars movie,” you whispered. “only it’s… real.”

star …wars? “it is,” caleb said softly, watching you with quiet amusement as your eyes grew wide with every swipe. “everything you know here would be considered… primitive. in comparison.”

you gave him a scandalized look. “wow. thanks. way to make a girl feel special.”

for the briefest second, you thought you saw something that almost resembled a small smirk twitch at the corner of his lips.

.

you sat there for a few seconds, staring at his face — at the phone still in your hands, at his perfectly calm expression, at the absurdity of what your life had just become in the span of fifteen minutes.

“okay….” you finally breathed. “you… you’re real. you’re actually real.”

“i told you i was.” His tone was matter-of-fact.

you stared at him again. “you literally just glitched into my lake.” he blinked. “yes.”

you groaned softly, pinching the bridge of your nose. “okay. you can’t just… sit in my car forever. we can’t sit here. i guess….you can come back to my place while we figure this out.”

he didn’t even hesitate. “hmm.. acceptable.”

you started the car and pulled onto the road, mentally drafting a list of increasingly bad decisions you were making today. bringing a strange man to your apartment? who may or may not be from another dimension? yeah. real smart. 

it wasn’t until you pulled into your parking spot and glanced at him again that your brain hit another very important wall.

oh no.

you had no men's clothing.

you stared at his still-damp suit. he looked like a psyop..!! there was no way you could let him just walk around like that. it screamed cia experiment or cosplay gone way too far.

“okay so…” you said, teeth gritted. “tinyyy problem. you can’t wear that.”

caleb looked down at himself, mildly analyzing the gear. “why not?”

“you’re gonna draw attention. and by attention, i mean you’ll be trending on twitter within thirty minutes. we need to get you into something… normal.”

he nodded, calmly accepting the foreign terms. “then where do we acquire appropriate attire?”

you sighed. “ walmart.”

his brow quirked slightly. “....is that a supplier?” …..well… “sure.” you waved your hand mumbling under your breath, “let’s go with that….”

you drove in silence for a while. stealing glances at caleb sitting perfectly composed in your passenger seat. like being abducted by a complete stranger was totally normal.

meanwhile, your brain was NOT composed. ‘alternate dimension.. far…space…fleet? colonel? another universe? and i have to deal with this at a WALMART?’

“...you sure you’re okay?” you finally ask. “i’m fine.” he answers calmly, his hands resting neatly on his lap, posture completely upright as if he was on a mission. 

“functioning.. gotcha..”  you pulled into the walmart parking lot and immediately regretted every life choice you had made up to this point. it was packed. absolutely packed. cars were crammed into every possible corner. people with their carts wandering around to their cars. horns honking. yelling.

if that wasn’t the cherry on top, a man on the corner twirling his sale sign is now fighting a.. pigeon?  caleb observed it all with the same calm expression he’d worn since appearing in your life. “this is… an important area?” he asked, and you didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or annoyed at how cramped walmart always seemed to be. “apparently.” you mumbled.

the sign man swats at the pigeon, and spins a perfect 360 while the pigeon flaps at him, and you’re confused. caleb tilts his head slightly, genuinely curious, “is this like a… ritual?” you shake your head at him and for what felt like eternity, you finally spot a parking space. 

you weave the endless crowds and cars like a pro.

caleb stayed close behind you, silent and hyper-alert. his eyes constantly scanning his surroundings. you could feel stares at him as you weave through people. stares that state, “holy shit he’s tall..” and “oh i’d like to climb him like a jungle gym.” 

the automatic doors whoosh open and..

boom (no not like-)

the walmart hit him all at once.

bright fluorescent lights. loud overhead announcements. giant colorful banners screaming ‘SALE!!’ endless rows of overstocked shelves. the smell of popcorn and something you’d rather not know.

caleb subtly stiffened. his pupils contracted slightly as he looked around, processing the overwhelmingness that is walmart. “this is…” he starts in a low voice, unsure how to proceed. “welcome to america.” you whisper to him.

as you continue deeper towards the store you huff, 

“okay, let’s just get you some clothes before you accidentally get drafted into the army or something..” you said quickly, tugging him gently toward the men’s section. as you steer him through the aisle full of cargo shorts and graphic tees, caleb’s brow furrow at the embarrassing phrases on them.

“is this… what you guys wear..?” he asks, eyeing the rack of t-shirts that read: “ beer bacon and FREEDOM!! ”  you exhale through your nose, “i really hope not.”

as you pull a few t-shirts off the rack, sticking to compliment him instead of making him stick out even more. as you do, you couldn’t hold your curiosity.

“okay can i ask something?”  caleb, standing behind you, turns his head slightly, “what is it?”

“your name… caleb.. that’s like… just your name?” you gestured vaguely, “you’re from like… super earth, and your name is caleb?” 

a small smile touches the corner of his lips, barely. “is there something wrong with my name?” 

you flushed at his question, “no! i just thought it’d be… i don’t know– something more futuristic…?”  as you say that you’re reminded that star wars has a protagonist named luke skywalker. things suddenly seem less befuddled. 

he watched you for a moment longer, amusement behind his eyes, “we have normal names. not everything about my world is different.” you huff, “sure.. except for the part where you’re from another dimension.”

you couldn’t help it. your brain was still whirring. hologram. his iphone 90 or something. the photos. but people did craz things with ai these days. maybe you’re getting scammed right now. or maybe.. you swallowed… he was in a cult…

your mind spiraled: oh my god what if he’s part of a cult and i’m being fucking recruited right now. hot guys from the ‘future’? i’m getting cult-fished… fuck

“okay.. okay.” you blurt before you could stop yourself, “are you in a cult?” calebs eyes shoot towards you, caught off guard, “a.. cult?” he repeats you, and you nod, “like.. weird secret group.. brain wash…you know?” 

his lips press together briefly before he shakes his head softly, “no.” his voice was steady, quiet, and firm. “i am not part of a cult. i’m a colonel of a fleet.” 

there was something in his tone that made your stomach tighten. something fiercely protective under all that calm. you stare at him, trying to poke holes, “ok but all the photos and stuff.. it could be ai..you can barely tell these days!” you half whisper half shout. caleb holds your gaze, steady and unflinching, “that’s true..” he wasn’t offended, “you have no reason to trust me..”

his honestly actually threw you off more than if he had tried to defend himself.

you pull your phone out, quickly typing his full name into google. caleb watches as you quietly scroll through pages of… nothing. no profiles. mentions. linkedin. instagram. facebooks. no news articles. 

you glanced up at him, your heartbeat picking up, “you don’t exist…” – “i do.” he replies softly, “just not here.” 

you open your mouth but no words come out. his voice drops, more gentler now, as if he could sense your overwhelm. “i know it’s impossible. i know how hard this is right now.” he murmurs, eyes locking into yours, “but i’m here. and i am real.” you stare at him, throat dry, 

“god…” you mumble.

.

thankfully after a couple minutes of scanning racks and checking random aisles out, caleb gravitated toward something that actually worked. a dark jacket, fitted white tshirt underneath, dark jeans, and sneakers. honestly? he was giving model vibes. 

you blinked, half impressed, half still spiraling, “how did.. you pick this out so fast..?” 

caleb glanced down at himself, adjusting the jacket slightly, as if evaluating the fit. “something i’d wear back home..” he glanced around briefly before looking back at you, a small grin appearing on his face, “...blending in increases safety.”

you gave him a flat look. “you just analyzed a walmart fit like a military op.”

he offered you one of those tiny composed smiles again, “i’ve got a couple years under my belt.” 

after that you take him to a couple of rows away, “we’re gonna get you pajamas.” caleb’s eyes dart at said pajamas, “i sleep shirtless.” he says calmly and you freeze. you snap out of it and sigh as you mentally prepare to be in walmart for another 30 minutes.

you made it a mission to fill the basket: grey sweatpants, PLAIN tshirts, socks, underwear (you did NOT make eye contact during that aisle) and a basic hoodie. 

‘hes gonna look so fuckin’ fine’

you’re not saying that out loud though. you have some self preservation instincts!

then it hits you.

he has no place to go. no hotel. no wallet. no earth money. hes not even in the solar system. 

you freeze with a loofah in your hand, staring at him in sudden horror, “oh. my god.” you whisper, “you have to stay with me.” why aren’t your survival skills working? 

he looks at you and nods, “yeah.” – “that wasn’t a question!” – “i assumed as much” he drops the toothbrushes into the cart, “you’re a stable option.” he informs, “oh great-” you mutter, “-i’m a stable option.” 

“would you rather i sleep outside?” caleb steps closer, “no.” you mumble, suddenly overwhelmed by the thought of him shirtless on your tiny couch, “god no.. just..” your lips twitch, “can you stop being so calm about this? you crash landed in lake michigan.” 

“- and now i’m getting socks. it’s called adapting.” you process his reply and you just roll your eyes, throwing the loofah into the cart. 

. 

the drive home is quiet. your brain is still playing catch up, trying to process the fact that there is a possibly extra dimensional man sitting in your  passenger seat, calmly holding a walmart bag filled with irish spring and old spice. 

when you pull into your garage, the overhead flickers a hum, casting a warm glow over the empty space. as you let out a sigh, you reach for the door handle,

“stop. i’ll get it.” caleb says. your eyes flicker at him and before you can argue, he’s already out, moving around the front of the car. you blink as he opens your door for you, then effortlessly grabs every single bag from the back like it’s nothing. 

“seriously-” you say, shutting your odor, “you’re gonna pull your arm out of socket! let me carry something.” caleb looks at you, unfazed, “you’ve already done enough. i can handle this.” 

that shouldn’t make you feel something.. but it does…

maybe it’s the calm confidence in his tone, or the way the bags crinkle against his hoodie as he turns to the house.. like this was a normal outing– a chore. maybe because he didn’t say it in a smug way a guy might do. 

either way, you catch yourself staring. blushing.  oh god.

you look away quickly and fish your keys out of your purse, “okay well.. thank you! come in..” you whisper in reverence.

he waits patiently behind you as you unlock the side door and lead him into the kitchen. the bags crinkle softly as he sets them on the counter. your tiny kitchen suddenly feels smaller. warmer. like his presence is filling every inch of the space. 

you clear your throat, “i uh..i’ll show you the guest room. it’s a glorified storage room right now but-” “it’s fine.” he says smoothly, eyes scanning the room like he’s still mentally mapping it for exits. “you’ve extended more hospitality than most would.” 

you swallow, “yeah well.. I’m not most..”

his gaze lands on you then, unwavering, “i know.”

you immediately look away again and give him a quiet little house tour.

the living room first. cozy, and a bit small, but its warm with soft throw blankets, fresh flowers on the table, and somewhere you’d like to be at during christmas time. caleb’s eyes linger on that a moment longer than necessary. 

then a hallway, “this is the bathroom,” you say, pointing, “and then this is the… guest room, but that’s a generous title.” 

you nudge the door open, revealing a space that looks like it belongs in a pinterest board. theres a twin bed with an oversized blanket, a small dresser, some spare boxes stacked in the corner, and your extra vacuum leaning against the wall like an elephant in the room.

“it’s tidy.” caleb says simply as he steps in. he runs his hand gently across the edge of the dresser, “you keep things clean.” your eyes flicker up to his face. he doesn’t say it in a judging way– more like appreciates it. or finds comfort in it..

“uh yeah..” you say softly, rubbing your arm, “i like it that way..i don’t do well with messes..”

“i can tell,” he chuckles dryly, “it feels safe in here.” you freeze for half a second. safe. why did that make your stomach do a full somersault?

“anyway-” you clear your throat and gently shove the walmart bag at him, “here’s your stuff. feel free to shower first. i’ll put the rest away..” he nods quietly and composed, then walks toward the bathroom like he already memorized the floor plan. 

a few minutes later, you’re folding his new hoodie and tshirt over the dresser when you hear the faint clunk of the bathroom door swinging open. you turn around instinctively– and you freeze.

he’s in a hot towel– sorry- hes in a normal towel. hes hot. right.

a singular, low slung towel wrapped around his hips, droplets of water still slinging into his collarbone, trailing down his chest. you don’t even know how someone can look that sculpted and casual at the same time. your jaw drops so fast it almost dislocates. caleb blinks, toothbrush in hand, a hand towel in the other, his hair slightly wet and pushed back, “you said to grab my clothes, didn’t you?” 

you forget how to speak. your brain just starts shouting words like shoulders, abs, did i vacuum under the bed? boom shakalaka yes godddd.

“i-uh — yeah.” you finally stammer, holding out his folded clothes like a peace offering, “yes– here– clothes. wear these.” he walks over, very calmly, unfazed, and takes the clothes from you. his fingers graze yours. your soul leaves your body. 

“thank you,” he says, low and warm, then turns to go back into the bathroom. you don’t move for a full minute and just stare at the closed door as you marinate in your thoughts. ‘hes gorgeous. but hes a stranger. hes a man…. a tall, strong, man. he hasn’t hurt you..YET..OR–OR maybe hes a good man!’ you feel delusion settling in as you anticipate your turn in the shower.

.

you shoulder after him, shutting the door a little too quickly behind you, still mentally reeling from the towel moment. no thoughts, just abs and a freshly shaven happy trail. you try to focus. your favorite shampoo. face wash. don’t slip and die in the tub because an interdimensional colonel made eye contact with your entire nervous system now.

when you emerge, fresh faced and dressed in your coziest FLATTERING pajama set, the scene of clean cotton and a little anxiety clinging to you, you find caleb already sitting at the tiny kitchen table. He’s wearing the black hoodie you got him, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, and he’s quietly examining a salt shaker like some artifact. you’re a little breathless from how normal he makes it look. 

“dinner is gonna be easy today..” you say, moving past him and into the kitchen, “pasta and garlic bread with um…brownies for dessert.”  he tilts his head, “brownies? what kind?” your eyes slightly light up, “hm.. just normal ones.. any requests?” you say, kinda but not really surprised that he knew about brownies. 

you make quick work of the food. boiling, cooking the protein, heating the sauce, and trying not to burn the garlic bread. caleb watches, like it’s a science experiment. you offer him the job of grating the cheese to distract him, and he takes it seriously. 

dinner is eaten quietly, but not uncomfortably so. you’re sipping water when you finally muster the courage to say, “i was gonna watch something after to wind down. you can join if you want.” 

“i’d like to.” he says, wiping his hands neatly.

you both end up in the couch— him sitting at the very end, and you curl up at the other corner. you pick something light. funny. Something you’ve been half watching in the background lately. “it’s called never have i ever.” you mumble, “teen drama. really girl/woman centered.” caleb gives you a nod, “okay.”

the first five minutes are unbearable. you’re overthinking everything. is caleb bored? is he judging the terrible voiceover by john mcenroe? greatest tennis player ever? oh god, theres a make out scene, already? 

but then he chuckles. very faintly, and you blink at him, “did you just …laugh?” caleb shrugs casually, “i like devi. she’s intense.” you stare at him for a minute before you start to laugh as well, “alright- that’s fair.”

by episode two, the space between you two has closed slightly. you aren’t too sure when it happened. maybe when you passed him a brownie. maybe when you both made the same noise at the love triangle. 

.

it’s nearing midnight when you finally glance at the clock and groan. you stretch where you sat and mumble, rubbing your eyes, “i have to sleep.. I have to check in at the boutique tomorrow..” a part of you feels disappointed, but the other half feels giddy.

caleb nods from the other end, then his eyes make their way towards you, “alright.” you stand and start collecting dishes and brownie crumbs, trying not to think too hard about how normal this feels. like his presence didn’t turn your life inside out in the last ten hours. “I’ll be gone for maybe a couple hours..” you say, stacking plates in the sink. “you could…um.. reorient yourself? chill. stay inside. maybe … don’t get arrested?”

he raises a brow, “why would i get arrested?” 

you gesture vaguely, “i.. don’t know..” which earns you the tiniest smirk from him, “i’ll.. keep a low profile.” you nod, mostly to yourself, as you back down the hallway toward your bedroom. 

you pause at your door, hand on the knob, very suddenly aware that this is your last line of defense between you and the very calm, very lethal, possibly single man in your living room. you squint at him suspiciously, “i swear if you kill me in my sleep..” 

his eyes meet yours without hesitation.

“make it quick..” you finish, deadpan, “i’ve seen too many true crime stories..” 

caleb blinks slowly, amused, “i’ll keep that in mind..”  

you couldn’t help but smile a little

“goodnight space colonel.” 

“goodnight.” he mumbles your name softly. 

                                                                         next chapter

whether it'd be the welcoming arms of the crux or the stability that comes with narukami island. and in a nomadic life such as his, he refused to be chained to the past and by extension—to the present. letting go was meant to be his norm.

but somewhere along those many travels came you. ever so persistent as you can be, you insisted on going even if it was for the meantime—which in time, never came nor crossed his mind once. 

and as persistent as you can be, you can act quite rash to say the least.

"kazuha!" you laughed with much abandon, earning a few glances from outsiders—but your eyes only remained on him. 

he has always adored how his name rolled off your tongue. and amongst all his sugary words reserved for poetry, he loved yours even more. 

the gravel crunched along with the slight skip to your steps, occasionally humming a little tune to yourself every time it went silent.

as repetitive as these days could get, he would never trade it for the world. no matter how many long mornings he has to groggily wake up to, it would always end up with a sunset with you.

and when he begins to slow down in his tracks again, you turn back with a smile that would put the sun to shame, the wind blowing against your back. and he understands better what all poets struggled to describe the most.

perhaps home doesn't have to be a place after all.

˖᯽ alhaitham

attending a prestigious institution such as the akademiya is no easy feat, and all the sleepless nights would eventually catch up to people—which includes you.

as what all students talked about in hushed whispers, it was the dreaded finals week. more and more of them gathered in the house of daena than they ever had before, and alhaitham could not be more bothered by it. the peace typically maintained in its walls was squashed by all the overlapping chatter between peers and prayers to the lesser lord about the exams looming over their heads.

amidst the chatter, his eyes trailed over at your sleeping figure. a tiny bit of your face peeked through your crossed arms and his earphones on you lightly buzzed a tune he didn't know.

this became a routine tracing way before exams. and no matter how resistant he was at first, alhaitham couldn't help but to always save a seat for you—earning strange looks for every rejection he gave out to take it.

your hair was a mess, multiple loose strands sticking out in places; while wearing a hoodie that was definitely not stolen from his stash from your many night outs (not that he minded nor bothered to remind you). as slow as he could, he brushed that lock of hair off with much tenderness.

and normally, the blatant disregard of appearances would annoy alhaitham. but you finding comfort in showing an unkempt version of you that he could only hope would always be reserved for his eyes only.

because beneath those lines of shared all-nighters and stolen glances, might be a need to have something more with you.

perhaps, he has long known what this feeling entails.

alhaitham could only bury his face in his hands as you gradually woke up—still in a daze—while he scrambles to find the words to admit that his flushed appearance had nothing to do with his work, and everything to do with you.

｡𖦹°‧ wanderer

being under the lesser lord's care meant unwarranted change would inevitably take place, and that would be you.

it takes a lot to convince a man with this much resolve to move, much more if it was the infamous hat guy. but somehow, you manage to drag him along everything—albeit with much grumbling.

"couldn't we just ask nahida for a ride?"

commuting all the way to the akademiya was your idea and yours alone, which meant he had to accompany you.

you hummed dismissively, diverting your attention to the blur that is sumeru city.

he scoffed. he could not find any appeal in willingly inconveniencing yourself with this amount of people. you were both lucky enough to snag a seat amidst the crowd.

his fingers twitched a little. he remembered the firm grip he had on your wrist to lead you to a vacant spot he saw from the corner of his eye. if only he found the courage to lower it a bit more before you decided to take out your phone.

and all his senses further malfunctioned once the dull ride led to your head on his shoulder. the whirls of the train tracks may have lulled you to rest, but it did nothing to subdue the irregular beat of his chest.

he could feel every little shift in movement you made, and the red tinge on the tip of his ears paired with the blaring sound of his heartbeat prevented him from focusing on anything, much less the contents of your screen.

for all his life, emotions are all but a hassle. his relationships have always been filled with strains he could not be bothered to mend anymore, and it is a miracle there are still people in his life who are willing to put up with him.

but still, it is second nature to him. it is the one thing that led to his current predicament, and eventually—to you.

the buzz from your voice lightly tickled his neck, something about a new cafe you just saw from an ad—he could not tell. his mouth felt too dry to say anything back and even if he tried, it would all be incoherent.

this longing sitting in the pit of his stomach will only grow, and he very well knows that.

for now, he will indulge himself with your touch while the hustle and bustle drowns out the words he achingly needs to say.

°˖➴ lohen

angel's share has always been welcome for broken hearts and lost souls to drink away their sorrows. today had one of its few exceptions.

in a secluded corner, far from all the ruckus, contained the fifth company's infamous vice captain. despite it being his most frequented location, he was not much of a drinker—rather, an observer.

and between the drunken howls and loud clinks of glass—he found you.

you were surrounded by your own comrades—some made in the heat of the moment and others that had always stuck around. being his partner-in-arms and a fellow vice-captain, there were no hurdles that could possibly push away a chance of encounter. and on any other night, he would have sat right next to you.

his grip tightened around the glass.

for all those years in the battle field together and even back in your rookie days,

you always struck with the fervour of a true paladin—never of a crazed, starved man.

but beneath his itch to fight lies the angst only you have seen so far. there was no valor in his fights, only lust for spilled blood that only you managed to see it as care.

like he could in a desperate, human way he has never known about.

sighing, he ran a hand through his hair before immediately darting his focus back to where you sat, where he was met with crinkled eyes.

even with such a wide of an abyss between you two, you raise your glass towards him. he mirrored your actions with a curt nod of his own, his lips twitching to curve.

you shook your head, vibrating with joy that he refused to believe to be the cause of it.

as deranged as he could be, he would not flatter himself with the hopes of reciprocation. but with a look that lingers a little longer than it should have, today could be the exception.

˖·˳₊ do not feed my writing to ai nor repost it to other platforms without permissions.