angel

the dirt road to your grandmother’s cottage at the forest’s edge had vanished. thunder shattered the air.  you spun, disoriented, unable to remember the path you had taken.

darkness thickened and rain lashed harder. each breath came ragged as you stumbled through the woods, running for what felt like hours, terror and exhaustion gnawing at your resolve.

at last, desperate for shelter, you slumped beneath a tree, lungs burning. but as thunder flared, it illuminated a distant silhouette.

you squinted through the rain.

the storm worsened, cold sinking through your clothes, urging you onward. if you didn’t find cover soon, hypothermia would claim you.

so, you ran. branches whipping at your face, until the trees parted and a manor rose before you. ancient, proud, battered but unbroken. it looked every bit a hundred years old, ready to survive a hundred more.

you sprinted through rusted gates, across a wild, overgrown courtyard once beautiful.

the wind howled, pushing you onward, until you threw yourself against the entrance doors. they groaned and gave way, and in—you tumbled, landing hard on a dusty floor.

for a moment, you lay gasping, surrounded by grandeur and decay. furniture draped in cobwebs and carpets dulled by time.

you felt out of place in a place so grand. mud and rainwater marked every step you took across the old rug.

“hello?” you called, turning slow circles, eyes wide as you took in every detail. “is anyone home?”

your voice echoed through empty halls. the only light came from lightning, painting the space in ghostly flashes.

outside, the storm raged. but within, nothing.

no creak, no drip, only the silence that comes before something happens.

then, a sound. faint, almost imagined.

“hello?” you tried again, shivering. “i—i’m sorry for barging in.”

a deeper creak echoed from the direction of the grand hall, followed by a voice, low and velvet-smooth. “you’re not allowed in here.”

you turned. the voice came from the stairwell, where a figure stood, framed by thunder-lit windows.

“i—i’m sorry,” you stammered, walking closer to hear and see him better. “the storm… i got lost. i just needed shelter.”

he descended a few steps, each movement measured and soundless. “these grounds aren’t open to the public.”

“it wasn’t safe out there,” you insisted, voice trembling, hands waving desperately as you pointed toward the storm outside, trying to make him understand what you were running from. “trees were falling, and the lightning—”

the words caught in your throat. the thunder rolled again, swallowing the rest of your sentence.

he tilted his head slightly, eyes catching the flicker of light from the window, reflecting the storm like glass.

when he finally spoke, his voice was calm. too calm. “and what makes you think you’re safer here than outside?”

you shivered, not just from the cold, but from the iciness that threaded his words.

thunder rumbled, and the only other sound was the rain drumming on the windowpanes as he descended, each step silent, shrouded in the stillness of the storm, as if time itself paused to watch him descend.

he paused on the landing, shadows clinging to his face. “i fear you don’t know what you’ve walked into.”

reality crashed in. exhaustion faded. replaced by a sharper fear. that you had invaded a stranger’s home. in the middle of nowhere.

“out there, you’re at nature’s mercy.” he paused at the bottom of the stairs, hand resting on the rail, face still cloaked in shadow. “in here…”

you edged backward, never breaking eye contact with his silhouette. the shadows clung to him, refusing to let go, stretching with him as he moved. the air hummed. alive, wrong.“i should go.”

he nodded, almost amused. “you can try.” his hands clasped behind his back, his smile a challenge. “but i don’t think you’ll be able to.”

he stepped from shadow to light. his skin was so pale it seemed to repel color, gleaming like porcelain in the storm’s glare, no pores, no warmth.

he didn’t blink, not even when you gasped. his eyes appeared black at first, but lightning revealed flashes of crimson, as if a wound ran deep behind them. 

you stumbled back, your heel catching on the frayed edge of an old rug, the musty smell of dust and decay rising around you. he didn’t move, but the air pressed heavier on your lungs, as if the walls themselves were squeezing the breath from your chest, until panic finally broke through your restraint.

you spun and ran, legs burning, your footsteps echoing down endless marble corridors lined with portraits whose painted eyes seemed to follow your every move.

“help!” your voice cracked, raw with desperation. “help me!” the cry was swallowed by the vastness, bouncing from gilded mirrors to vaulted ceilings, lost in the labyrinth of the manor.

the halls twisted endlessly, each turn revealing more locked doors and dust-choked passageways. the cold brass handles rattled beneath your trembling hands, refusing to yield. windows lined the walls, their panes fractured with age, but through them you saw only the storm: trees thrashing, lightning clawing at the darkness, rain blurring everything beyond the glass.

your knees buckled, heart thundering in your ears. the roar of the storm outside grew monstrous, less like thunder and more like the fists of ancient spirits pounding at the walls. trapped, just as you were, desperate to escape.

you spun around. a long, empty hall stretched before you, lined with looming grandfather clocks and cracked portraits faded by time. lightning flashed, illuminating the ornate moldings and the glint of shattered chandelier crystals across the floor.

he was closer now and you hadn’t heard a single footstep.

you lurched back, colliding with a candelabra perched atop a side table. it toppled over, candles scattering across the polished marble, one flame sputtering desperately before going out—

darkness rushed in, thick and absolute, swallowing everything in its wake.

“please,” you whispered, chest burning.

please, please, please.

his reply was gentle, almost mournful. “you shouldn’t have found this place.”

thunder rattled the windowpanes. you pressed into the wall, every door refusing to open, as if the house itself had sealed your fate.

his voice slid through the dark, low and commanding, as if the storm outside bent to his will. “stop running.”

you turned. he was there, unnervingly close. lightning sculpted knives of shadow across his face. “please,” you begged. “let me go.”

he watched you, fascinated, pained. “if it were up to me, i would.”

his words hung heavy. for the first time, you felt the house itself breathing, the floorboards pulsing faintly, the air alive with thunder.

“but the house…” he murmured, gaze lifting to the trembling chandelier above. its crystal pendants swayed with the thunder, scattering broken light across the floor. “it knows.”

you blinked, unsure if you heard him right. “know what?” you asked, voice barely steady.

he tilted his head, and for a moment, the shadows shifted, as though the walls were listening. “that i’m starving.”

the words fell like stones, heavy, final.

you stared at him, every breath burning your throat. “you’re…”

he turned his face slightly, and in that brief flicker of light, the truth revealed itself. his pupils dilated into red, veins blooming faintly beneath his skin like ink drawn too deep.

“i’m trying not to be.” his eyes flared in the stormlight, veins etched blue under skin stretched too tight. he looked both fragile and terrifyingly alive. “the doors aren’t locked by mercy, but by hunger.”

the house groaned in answer, old wood straining. you swallowed, dread creeping up your spine. “what do you want from me?”

“nothing,” he said. his features softened. “if you wait. if you stay still… you can leave when the sun rises. the house will let you go.”

“and if i don’t?”

a sorrowful smile. “then it will feed me.”

the storm’s roar faded beneath a deeper sound: the house’s sigh, a chilling agreement.

you curled in the corner, knees drawn to your chest. the doors loomed just feet away, but you already knew. they wouldn’t open. you had tried, again and again and again, until your hands bled. now the house was silent, listening. he remained nearby, half-shadow, eyes glowing faint red.

“why aren’t you… doing it?” you whispered, not sure if you wanted an answer. the question lingered in the charged air between you, trembling with desperation and dread.

his head tilted, puzzled, as if the meaning behind your words took a moment to reach him. “killing you?”

you pressed yourself against the wall, nails digging into the plaster until they split. your whole body shook. from the cold, from exhaustion, from the realization that the only reason you were still alive was because he chose it.

thunder cracked. for a long time, he said nothing, face etched with a weariness older than the house itself. finally, he spoke. “you think that’s what i want?”

you couldn’t answer.

“the house wants you,” he said under his breath. “not me.”

you swallowed.

“it knows i’m hungry. i’ve been starving for a very long time.” his tone carried only sorrow. “it won’t let me die. it feeds me when i’m too weak to fight. sometimes it brings people who wander too close.” he looked at the doors. “but i won’t harm you.”

you hugged your knees tighter. “why?”

his gaze caught yours, red bleeding into candlelight’s gold. “because i don’t want to be a killer anymore.”

a shiver prickled your skin. but you saw then, his hands shaking, not with hunger, but restraint. dark veins laced his wrists.

“you asked why i’m not killing you,” he murmured, looking away. “because i’m tired of being a monster. of being nothing more than a vampire who kills to exist.”

the words hovered between you.

outside, the rain calmed to a steady patter, and you thought you heard the house sigh, a deep, contented breath. he leaned back against the wall, eyes closed. “just wait until morning. when the sun rises, it’ll let you go.”

you didn’t move. you didn’t even dare to.

the fire flickered once, a weak pulse of light in the suffocating dark. and in that fleeting moment, you saw him. really saw him.

it hollowed the air from your lungs. centuries of hunger were carved into his face, every line and shadow a story of how long he’d gone without warmth, without blood, without sleep.

the light vanished, and what remained was silence, thick, waiting. somewhere behind the walls, the house breathed again. it was gradual and heavy, like it was drawing air through rotting lungs.

you hugged your knees to your chest, listening. your own heartbeat felt too loud, reckless. you were afraid even that sound might wake something else.

the night stretched endlessly. time broke apart and the storm outside dulled to a steady rhythm, but the quiet inside only sharpened it, every drop of rain against the glass felt like a whisper at your ear.

you tried to stay awake. god, you tried. but exhaustion pulled at your bones, subtle and cruel. your head began to dip, your eyelids heavy—

until you heard the doors groan open, hinges protesting as if the house itself struggled to let you go. pale morning crept through the cracks.

you didn’t trust it was real. only when the doors stood wide, mist curling outside, did you force yourself up, every limb trembling. you glanced back, empty halls, spent candles, dust reclaiming its kingdom. no sign of him remained, only the metallic tang of iron lingering in the air.

you paused at the threshold. the morning felt strange, gossamer, watchful.

then, a voice drifted from within the manor, low as a sigh, “go.”

you froze. “what about you?”

he smiled faintly, but it wasn’t kindness, it was the kind of smile carved from grief. “it doesn’t open for me.”

the way he said it, flat, resigned, made something inside you ache.

“why?”

his gaze drifted upward, following the line of a cracked marble column to the unreachable ceiling above, where sunlight tried and failed to spill through. dust floated in its path like pale ghosts.

“because i’m the reason it was built.”

you frowned, confusion knotting with dread. “what do you mean?”

he began to approach unhurriedly as if every step were an echo of a memory he didn’t want to relive. his feet made no sound against the cold marble, but the house shifted around him. the curtains stirred, the chandeliers trembled, as though the structure itself recognized his movement.

when he stopped a few feet away, the air grew heavier. the light dimmed.

“this place was never cursed,” he said, voice quiet but edged with centuries of exhaustion. “i was.”

he looked around the hall, at the cracked portraits, the rotting velvet, the chandeliers hanging like ribs from the ceiling, and a bitter laugh escaped him, so soft and so broken.

he approached so carefully, like a predator sizing up its prey. measured. “the house came after.” the light caught his face. marble-smooth, cracked with invisible age. “centuries ago, i killed enough to make the world remember. villages, families, and whole towns were lost. when i was human, i believed hunger made me powerful. but eternity is no gift. it’s a sentence.”

he surveyed the dawn-lit hall, walls seeming to breathe. “so the house came. it took my name, my reflection, my heartbeat. it gave me walls instead of a grave.” you stepped back as the air chilled around him. “it keeps me alive, not out of mercy, but spite. each year, it forces me to remember the faces i took, the lives i ended. it keeps me fed just enough to survive the regret.”

he met your gaze, and you saw not a monster, but something far worse: sorrow.

“you asked why i didn’t kill you. because i don’t deserve to take another life. i’ve done it enough to fill centuries.”

behind you, the doors opened wider, dawn spilling across the floor. he stepped back, stopping where sunlight hissed against his sleeve.

“go,” he whispered, almost begging. “before it closes again.”

you lingered, the sound of his voice threading through the cold air, quiet, but heavy enough to make you hesitate.

the doors gaped open behind you, the pale light of dawn spilling across the threshold, gold bleeding into the gray mist outside. the air smelled different beyond it, alive, new, but your body refused to move.

“what will you do?” you asked.

his eyes flickered toward the light that dared to reach him. it stopped just short of his feet, as if even the sun was afraid to touch him.

“what i always do,” he murmured. “wait… and remember.”

the words cracked somewhere deep in him, breaking the quiet composure that had wrapped him all night. for the first time, his face looked unnervingly human, universally lonely, lonely, lonely. the faintest smile trembled on his lips, and when he breathed, his teeth caught the light, sharp, glinting like glass. a reminder of what he is.

“that’s what eternity’s for, isn’t it?” he whispered, voice trembling with something between grief and irony. “remembering what you can’t undo.”

a shiver ran down your spine. the wind slipped through the open doors again, curling around you both, carrying the scent of rain and soil, the sound of a world still living.

you looked at him one last time, at the way the shadows clung to him like a second skin, unwilling to let him go.

the cold bit your cheeks, the morning alive and watchful. for a moment, you thought you heard the house sigh.

and when you glanced back, the manor had vanished. only the mist remained, drifting through the trees like a ghost awaiting dawn.

weeks slipped by, each one blurring into the next. but the forgetting part was difficult. was impossible. the memory of that night clung to you, as persistent as the chill in your bones.

still, the nightmares found you. crimson eyes flashed in the darkness, fangs gleamed like shards of moonlit glass, every motion sharp and predatory.

nothing like a human, everything like a beast built for the hunt.

you woke gasping, heart pounding, always convinced his gaze lingered on your throat. you muttered reassurances into the empty room. it was only fear. just a memory, you survived. and you would never see him again.

until tonight.

you blinked, the wind biting at your cheeks, your breath swirling in ghostly ribbons. the chill was too keen, too sharp to be part of a dream.

shadowed trees pressed in with familiar menace, the air vibrating with that old, dreadful hum you had sworn never to feel again. you glanced down at your bare feet on cold earth, thin pajamas plastered to your skin. your heart gave a sick lurch.

you pinched yourself. nothing changed.

the iron gates groaned open before your fingertips could brush the cold metal. the sound was heavy, aged and knowing. almost as if the manor itself was welcoming you home.

“no,” you whispered, backing a step. “no, not again.”

but rationality dissolved with every gust of wind. whether this was a dream or sleepwalking or something else entirely, you couldn’t tell anymore.

you stepped through. the courtyard grass swayed in the breeze, alive despite the rot clinging to the stones. when you looked up, you saw him — a shadow framed by a high window, tall and still, watching.

the manor doors swung wide on their own, spilling a thin wash of candlelight across marble floors dulled by dust. you stood rooted, every instinct screaming at you to flee, yet unable to move.

then he appeared.

he stood at the threshold, careful not to cross it.

as though there was an invisible line he couldn’t bring himself to break.

“i told you not to come back,” he breathed.

you swallowed, throat tight as if unseen fingers were closing around it. “i didn’t mean to. i think i… sleepwalked.”

his brow furrowed. “sleepwalked?”

you nodded once, shivering.

he studied you for a long moment, eyes easing in reluctant amusement. “do you have a death wish?”

you tried to laugh, but it came out thin and unsteady. “to die and become your blood bag? sure.”

he tilted his head, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting his lips. “scared?”

“i am,” you admitted. “but i don’t know what terrifies me more. you or this place.”

he exhaled slowly, pacing just inside the doorframe. “as long as you don’t step in, you’re safe. don’t come too close.”

instead, you lowered yourself onto the cold stone steps, wrapping your arms around your knees. “is it hard?”

he stilled. “what is?”

“starving.”

he hesitated, then lowered himself to the ground across from you, knees drawn to his chest, though he kept a careful distance between you. “not as much as being alone.”

something in your chest ached at the quiet way he said it.

you didn’t move. you didn’t run. you just listened.

he spoke of what came before. a life he could barely remember, family faces turned to fog, centuries spent watching cities rise and rot, music mutate, languages go silent in the dark.

the world, he said, forgot him faster than he could ever forget it. the house was it his prison, built to protect the world from him, or his punishment for what he has become.

when the first light of dawn began to creep through the trees, you found yourself studying him in silence. the gentle curve of his mouth almost looked human, but his skin caught no warmth from the sun. his beauty wasn’t mortal. it was still, ageless, the kind that belonged to things that outlived time.

but the sadness. the sadness never left.

he stood unhurriedly, stepping back into the darkness as the morning light brushed the threshold. “you should go,” he murmured. “for good this time.”

you rose, hesitating. “i never got your name.”

his eyes caught yours, the red cooling to a weary gold in the uncertain light. “monsters like me,” he murmured, “don’t deserve names.”

the words were a confession, and his smile was a knife edge. sinful, sorrowful, and final.

you could only nod.

he lingered there, half hidden in the dark. “don’t come back, y/n.”

you turned to leave, and though the house creaked behind you, restless and breathing, you thought you heard something else beneath it.

regret.

“there must be something seriously wrong with you.”

that’s what you told yourself as well, a mantra repeated so often it nearly sounded like truth.

because here you were. again.

your nth night of sleepwalking, the world between dreams and waking blurring at the edges. somehow, your bare feet had carried you through the thick, dew-soaked grass, past the empty fields and silent woods, back to him.

back to the manor that shouldn’t exist, whose silhouette haunted your memory even in daylight.

the iron gates loomed open, yawning wide like the jaws of some ancient beast, as if waiting just for you.

beyond them, the gravel path shone wet and silver under a bruised sky. the wind carried the scent of rain and old stone, sharp and cold, mingling with the sweet decay of autumn leaves. in the distance, the manor’s windows burned faint gold, little squares of fire against the night.

an invitation or a warning, you couldn’t decide.

“are you coming back on purpose to see me, darling?”

his voice drifted through the mist, velvet and teasing, curling around you like a silk ribbon. it seemed to rise from the shadows themselves, both nowhere and everywhere at once.

he stood at the threshold, half-shadowed beneath the archway, the faint light from the hallway catching the sharp line of his jaw.

his eyes glinted. a predator’s glimmer, or maybe something softer. like an invitation wrapped in danger. every inch of him seemed carved for the night, out of elegance and secrets.

heat rushed to your cheeks, embarrassment prickling your skin. “don’t you think i’d have dressed better than duck pajamas if i did?” you managed, folding your arms across your chest in a flimsy shield.

he looked you up and down, eyes tracing the outline of your ridiculous pajamas with a measured pace that made you squirm.

then that smirk. the one that always made you forget how to breathe. curved his lips, cruelly handsome, far too aware of what effect he had on you.

“absolutely adorable,” he decided.

your neck heated, a flush creeping down your throat. you looked away, pretending a sudden fascination with the shadows at your feet, crossing your arms to hide the way your body betrayed you. but you could still feel his gaze. steady, lingering where your pulse beat just beneath your skin, as if he could sense every flicker of your heart.

“i would’ve worn shoes too,” you muttered, glancing down at your battered feet.

the blisters were angry and raw, splitting your skin in painful little crescents. a physical reminder of your nights lost to this place, to him, the evidence of your body’s betrayal written in every step.

caution lights flickered in your mind: monster, monster, monster.

he hummed, the sound vibrating low in his throat, then nodded toward the open doors. “come on. let’s get you cleaned up.” his words were gentle, but there was an undercurrent of command. a familiarity with being obeyed.

you froze at the threshold, toes curling against the cold marble.

you hadn’t stepped inside since that night. your first night.

since the truth had clawed its way out of the dark and shown you exactly what he was. the memory flickered. blood. moonlight. the impossible gleam of his eyes. your heart stuttered, torn between fear and the reckless ache that always brought you back.

“i won’t hurt you,” he said quietly. “i promise.” he offered his hand, palm up and impossibly still, as if he had been carved from marble. “you’ll be out by morning.”

his voice was solemn, almost pleading.

a promise, or maybe a prayer.

you should’ve run. every instinct screamed at you to turn away, to flee into the night.

instead, as if pulled by invisible threads, you reached out and took his hand.

his hand was freezing , elegant and bone-pale, skin stretched over the delicate architecture of bone. yet when his fingers closed gently around yours, the chill barely registered.

it was the gentleness that undid you.

his impossible red eyes flicked down to where your hands met, his thumb tracing the seam of warmth between you, as if he were trying to memorize the sensation. for a moment, you wondered if he was afraid you would disappear.

“come on,” he murmured, and with the barest pressure, pulled you inside, past the line where the night ended and the manor’s secrets began.

the manor seemed endless now.

each hallway unfurling in directions you didn’t remember, the air thick with dust and memory. the wallpaper peeled in curling ribbons, portraits watched from gilded frames, and the floor creaked beneath your steps as if the house itself breathed.

it felt alive, shifting as you walked, watching with a hunger as old as stone.

he stopped before a small study. a room that might once have been grand, but now sat in disrepair. bare shelves lined the walls, broken furniture slumped in the corners, and the scent of cedar lingered, faded but persistent.

he moved through the room with quiet precision, searching through drawers and cabinets until he found what he needed. scissors. gauze. a tin box with a faded red cross. a long-forgotten first aid kit.

“sit,” he said, nodding to the couch in the center of the room. the cushions protested under your weight, dust motes swirling in the lamplight.

you obeyed, folding your legs awkwardly beneath you, trying not to think about how vulnerable you must look.

he knelt in front of you, drawing your leg carefully over his knee. his fingers brushed your ankle, ghost-light and barely there, steadying you as he examined your feet. he studied the scars and the dirt between your toes, the thin lines of blood beading from fresh cuts, and the old wounds that had not yet faded.

his gaze was clinical but gentle, a contradiction you couldn’t untangle.

he cracked his neck, as if bracing himself for something painful. then, with care, he began to clean your wounds. each touch was careful. respectful, almost. his cold fingers trembled when the gauze brushed your blood, and you saw the effort it took not to linger, not to give in to older, darker habits.

“you’re shaking,” you whispered, voice barely louder than the wind rattling the windows.

he didn’t look up. “instincts,” he murmured, words heavy with the weight of centuries. “i’m trying to remember how not to be hungry.”

you hesitated, searching his face for something you couldn’t name. “how do you stop yourself from giving in?”

that earned you a faint, almost fragile smile. “i remind myself i like having you around,” he said, with a vulnerability that made your heart ache.

silence settled over the room, warm and dangerous, like the moment before a storm breaks.

then, under his breath, “it wants something from you.” his gaze flicked upward, wary, as if the house itself might be listening.

your heart skipped. “what does?”

“the house,” he continued, glancing at the ceiling as though it could hear him, as though the timbers themselves might whisper secrets. “it keeps bringing you back to me.”

“i know,” you whispered. “to feed.”

he shook his head. “no. if it wanted that, it would’ve sent someone else.”

he laid your foot down gently, fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary, then lifted his gaze to meet yours. too beautiful. too inhuman. as if he were carved from moonlight and sorrow. “it wants something else.”

you swallowed. “what could it possibly want?”

“i don’t know yet.” his voice was quiet, almost lost in the silence of the manor, but there was a resolve in it that anchored you.

he stood, moving with that impossible grace, and gently pulled you up with him. his hand lingered in yours, fingers cool and strong, as if reluctant to let go. as if by holding on, he could shield you from whatever darkness the house might conjure. “but i won’t let it hurt you.”

the promise glimmered between you, fragile and fierce. it felt like a vow spoken not just to you, but to the walls and shadows, to the centuries of secrets lingering in the manor’s bones.

for a fleeting second, the world shrank to that one, trembling pledge.

when he smiled. small and fleeting, a crack in the mask he wore for the world. you forgot, just for a moment, that he was a monster.

in the lamplight, his features relented, the sharpness of his eyes dulling, revealing a trace of someone who might have once known hope. the lines of suffering etched into his face faded, and all that remained was a man reaching for something like forgiveness.

“i won’t hurt you either,” he murmured, his voice so gentle it barely seemed to belong in this place of echoes and old regrets. it was an oath and a confession, whispered to the hush between you.

“i don’t doubt that,” you said quietly, your words trembling with a truth you couldn’t quite understand. you searched his face, trying to read all the things he’d never said. the centuries of loneliness, the ache of wanting to be believed.

“yeah?” he stepped closer, the air tightening around you. “you trust me that much?”

his gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering there. hungry, wistful. there was an unspoken question in the space between you, a yearning that vibrated in the very air.

“i know i shouldn’t,” you answered, your voice barely more than a breath. the admission hung between you, heavy and bright, as dangerous as it was honest.

he took a breath that wasn’t really a breath, chest rising and falling in a mimicry of life. “yes,” he whispered, almost to himself. “you shouldn’t.”

the words trembled in the half-light, sounding more like a warning than a reproach.

then his head snapped up. sharp, sudden, as if he’d caught the scent of something on the wind. for a moment, he was all tension and instinct, every line of his body drawn tight as a bowstring.

like a predator catching the pulse of prey, every sense sharpened to a single, electric moment. the room seemed to shrink, shadows crowding closer, as if even the manor itself was holding its breath.

he rose to his full height, closing the space between you in a single, fluid motion before stopping just short. his presence seemed to fill the room, every inch of him focused on you. his eyes flicked to your chest, and you realized he could see, could hear, the frantic rhythm of your heart beneath your ribs, pounding an upbeat song meant only for him.

when he spoke, his voice was low, trembling with something darker, something ancient and hungry that curled at the edges of his words. it was both a caress and a threat, velvet and steel all at once.

“your heart,” he said softly, almost reverently, as if it were a secret only he could hear. “it’s loud.”

the words sent a chill across your skin. in that moment, you felt as if you belonged entirely to him.

body, breath, heartbeat.

you couldn’t move, rooted to the spot by the gravity of his attention, by the impossible pull between fear and longing. the world narrowed to the space between your bodies, to the air charged with things that could never be spoken aloud.

he lifted his hand, hovering just above your chest, fingers spread as if to catch the echo of your heartbeat. he didn’t touch you, but you could feel the air chill between you, the fine hairs on your arms rising in anticipation. the moment stretched, fragile as spun glass.

his voice broke the hush. “is that for me?” the question lingered, entangled with the frantic rhythm of your heart.

you swallowed hard, the sound too loud in the silence. your throat working convulsively as you tried to steady yourself. you could feel your pulse everywhere. in your ears, your wrists, your chest. thumping out your secret.

caution lights dimmed in your mind, the word ‘monster’ losing its edges.

in your silence, he found his answer.

“it’s beating for me,” he said finally. not a question, but a claim, a statement that trembled with longing and ownership.

his eyes met yours, burning with a hunger that was more than blood. it was the hunger to be remembered, to be loved, to matter.

he smiled faintly, lips barely curving, the expression caught somewhere between affection and hunger. for a moment, you wondered if the difference mattered. perhaps, for him, the two had always been intertwined.

“good,” he murmured, the words sent shivers down your spine. “all mine.”

it was a dangerous thing to want to belong to a monster, and yet you did.

then he pulled back. quickly. like he had burned himself on your touch, or perhaps on his own desire. something flickered across his face. fear, regret, longing, longing, lon—gone as fast as it appeared.

you let out a shaky breath, pretending to study the books scattered across the shelves while he busied himself putting away the gauze.

the absurdity of it struck you. a vampire with a med kit, tending wounds instead of causing them. the thought almost made you laugh. almost.

instead, you clung to the small, trembling hope that you might yet save each other from yourselves.

one book caught your eye, its pages brittle with age and lined with a script you didn't recognize at first. when you picked it up, papers fluttered to the floor like wounded birds, scattering across the faded rug. you bent to gather them and froze. your hand hovering over a scrap of yellowed paper.

a portrait slipped free, the ink ghostly, the image blurred by time and touch. you reached for it with trembling fingers, heart hammering, a strange sense of trespass prickling at your skin.

the ink was fading, the edges frayed, but the face was unmistakable. his face was calmer, younger, but undeniably him. a shock of dark hair, the same haunted eyes, a mouth caught between laughter and sorrow. you traced the lines of his jaw with your gaze, as if memorizing him for the first time.

in the corner, written in old cursive, was a name. beautiful, looping letters that seemed to belong to another world.

𝓁𝑒𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝑒𝓈𝑒𝓊𝓃𝑔.

you whispered it in your mind, tasting the syllables, feeling the weight of history press against your tongue.

you turned it over in your hands, memorizing the shape of each letter before slipping it back between the pages. it felt like a secret. something precious and dangerous, meant to be kept close to your heart.

“do you ever wear anything other than suits?” you asked, forcing casualness into your voice, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tremble beneath it. you needed to anchor yourself in the ordinary, even as the world tilted around you.

he was buttoning his jacket, the fabric catching the light, adjusting his cuffs with the kind of practiced elegance that only centuries could teach. “i’m making sure i’m dressed for my final funeral,” he said, tone light and dressed in humor, but it edged with something darker. “if it ever comes.”

his hands stilled for a moment, and you wondered if he was thinking of all the funerals he’d already attended. his own, perhaps, most of all.

you looked away, not wanting him to see the questions in your eyes. “what were you like before?” the words slipped out, faint and hesitant, as if you were afraid of breaking the fragile peace between you.

he only smiled.

a small, sad smile that said more than words ever could, before taking your hand again. his fingers twined with yours, cold but steady, offering comfort and challenge at the same time. “come.”

he led you through another corridor, shadows stretching long and patient along the walls. the hush of your footsteps was swallowed by the thick, velvet dark. when the hallway opened, you saw it. a grand piano in the center of a forgotten hall, its surface dust-laden and its shape noble even in neglect.

he brushed the dust from the keys, a strange reverence in his movements, as though he was greeting an old friend. “i haven’t touched this in years. it’s out of tune.” his fingers hovered over the ivory, remembering melodies long since faded from memory.

you smiled faintly, the corners of your mouth lifting despite everything. “then we’ll play out of tune.” you settled on the bench beside him, the piano’s presence grounding you, reminding you of the world outside the manor’s spell.

his laugh was quiet, startled. the sound of something that hadn’t existed for centuries, brittle and beautiful.

he played, soft and halting, fingers coaxing uncertain music from the keys. the melody shivered through the air, fragile and lingering, weaving memories into the dust.

when you missed a note, laughter slipped from you. unguarded, bright, ringing in the stillness. it filled the hall through cracks in old stone, warming the gloom, daring joy to return to this forgotten place.

he froze, staring as if the sound itself hurt, his fingers suspended above the keys. for a moment, he looked so young, so lost, that you ached to reach for him.

“every century,” he whispered, voice barely more than a sigh, “i’ve waited for death to sound like mercy.” his eyes warmed, the red fading. “but when you laugh…” he exhaled, trembling, as if the sound itself could save him. “i forget i’m being punished.”

you looked at him, and for the first time, he didn’t look like a monster. he looked like a man remembering how to be alive, how to hope, how to be seen by someone who might want him to stay.

the last note faded into silence, and your voice broke it—gentle but steady, trembling with all the things you wanted to ask and couldn’t.

“why won’t you tell me your name?” you asked again, your heart pounding.

he turned toward you, expression unreadable, shadows deepening in his eyes. “names are for people who still exist.” his words settled between you like dust, heavy and final.

“you exist,” you said in a whisper. “i’m looking right at you.” the truth of it vibrated in the silence, reckless and bright.

a faint smile curved his lips. “you’re looking at what’s left of me.” his voice was mellow, edged with a loneliness that seemed to echo through the years.

his fingers trembled against the keys, an ache in every line of his body. you wanted to reach for him, to offer warmth and forgiveness, but your hand hovered in the space between, unsure.

“do you miss it?” you asked, voice small in the vastness of the hall, barely daring to disturb the fragile peace.

“what?” he asked, looking at you as if from a great distance, as if he already knew the question but had never dared answer it.

“your name. hearing it,” you clarified, letting the question hang between you, shimmering and dangerous.

a shadow crossed his face, eyes shuttering. “it used to mean something,” he said, each word heavy. “back when i thought i deserved to be remembered.” his voice trembled, carrying the weight of all the years he had spent trying to forget.

you frowned. “everyone deserves that,” you insisted, reaching for him in words if not in touch.

he shook his head, a sound between a sigh and a laugh, ancient sorrow in every line. “you say that because you haven’t seen what i’ve done.” his eyes flickered away, haunted by memories you couldn’t name.

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. the words caught in your throat, heavy with all that you knew and all that you chose to forgive.

because you already knew. it was there, in the secret corners of the manor and in the ache that lived behind his eyes.

you had found it. his name.

hidden in a forgotten journal, written in elegant, steady ink, the letters curling like ivy across the page. the discovery had felt illicit, as if you’d uncovered a secret meant only for ghosts.

heeseung. the name echoed in your chest, a promise and a prayer, something you were almost afraid to touch.

it felt wrong to speak it aloud, as if naming him would shatter the spell or call down an old curse. some things belonged to silence, to memory, to the hush between heartbeats.

wrong to bring him back into a world that had already buried him. a world that had chosen to forget, even as you tried to remember.

so you kept it secret. his name. tucked it deep inside yourself, somewhere safe, somewhere sacred.

tucked between your heartbeat and your breath, where even the house couldn’t steal it from you.

the warning still pulsed somewhere deep. softer now. almost forgotten:m. monster... maybe not.

“you brought me a flower?”

his voice, low and wavering, rippled through the emptiness. it was the kind of sound that lingered in the air long after it faded, echoing off stone and memory alike.

you froze in the doorway, the bloom trembling in your grasp.

the petals, fragile and impossibly white, looked almost luminous against your skin. he didn’t move, didn’t even blink. centuries of waiting had taught him the art of stillness. the kind born not from patience, but from resignation.

your fingers tightened around the stem. “your gardens are dead,” you said, barely above a whisper. “i thought… maybe they needed something that wasn’t.”

he turned at last, slowly. even the air seemed to shift with him, as if the room itself drew breath. his gaze flicked between you and the flower, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. which of you, he seemed to wonder, was more out of place in these haunted halls?

“my gardens stopped growing long before you were born,” he murmured, stepping forward. “nothing lives here for long.” a shadow crossed his face. first disbelief, then something sadder, more profound. “you shouldn’t have done that.”

“why not?” your voice felt small, a fragile thing in the vastness of the house. “it’s just a flower.”

heeseung stopped mere feet away. hesitantly, his hand reached out, trembling as he accepted the stem. his cold fingers brushed yours, sending a chill through your bones. he studied the bloom as if afraid it might crumble at his touch.

“it’s not just a flower,” he whispered. “it’s a reminder.”

“of what?”

he looked up, and centuries weighed down his gaze. “that things can’t live here,” he said, voice breaking. “that i can’t.”

you longed to protest, to tell him he was wrong—

that perhaps he could—

but the words tangled in your throat and fell away.

he exhaled, the sound ragged. “you bring me things that don’t belong here. warmth, laughter, the sound of a heartbeat. every time, i forget what i am.”

he set the flower gently on a dust-shrouded table. the moonlight caressed its petals, making it glow.

soft, stubborn, alive. against the decay, it was defiance incarnate.

“i spent a hundred years trying not to want anything,” he admitted, eyes never leaving the bloom. “and now you’ve ruined that.”

“maybe that’s not a bad thing,” you offered, voice trembling.

a cruel, hollow laugh escaped him. “it is. because now i want something i can never have.”

his gaze found yours, tired and unbearably sad. the silence that followed was delicate, stretched so thin it threatened to snap.

“that’s when i knew,” he said, almost to himself.

you frowned. “knew what?”

“whatever brought you here didn’t mean to save me,” he whispered. “it meant to finish me.”

your heart lurched. “hee—” you stopped, his name burning on your tongue, a secret you weren’t meant to hold.

but he didn’t notice. his eyes remained on the flower, and his voice eased to reverence. “and the worst part? i think i’d let you.”

you didn’t dare breathe.

he watched the bloom, silent for so long you wondered if he would speak again. when he finally did, his tone was eerily calm. “do you know what the cruelest thing about this house is?”

you didn’t answer, afraid any sound might shatter him.

“it doesn’t let anyone in unless it wants to,” he said. “for centuries, people have passed through these woods. travelers, thieves, wanderers. but the doors never opened. not for them.” he met your gaze. “until you.”

you tried to force a smile. “i told you, i got lost.”

“yes,” he replied gently. “the first time.” his lips curled in the faintest of smiles. “but it keeps bringing you back.”

a chill crawled up your spine. “then why me?”

he didn’t hesitate. “because the house wants me dead.”

you stared. “that’s—”

“it’s poetic, isn’t it?” bitterness twisted his laugh. “it starves me, traps me, keeps me alive when i’ve begged it not to. and now it sends you. someone kind. someone living. someone i could never hurt.”

your pulse hammered. “that’s not why i’m here.”

he studied you, searching your face for any sign of deceit. “you think i don’t recognize mercy?” his voice broke. gentle. pleading. “you were meant to be my deliverance. the one thing it would allow to end me.”

you shook your head. “you’re wrong.”

“am i?” he murmured. “every door opened for you. every storm led you here. the house brought you back, even when you tried to stay away.” his gaze darkened. “it wants me gone. it’s tired of feeding me.”

you, you, you—foolish heart. you just wanted to be his.

but he looks at you now, and says fate disagrees.

you wanted to deny it, but memories surfaced unbidden: doors sealing shut, whispers in the walls, the house breathing around you.

he stepped closer, shadows deepening in his eyes. “don’t you see? it let me touch you. it let me want you. it never would have allowed that unless it meant for me to destroy myself in the end.”

the words struck something deep within you. “that’s not what this is.”

“then tell me what it is.”

“i—” your throat constricted. “i don’t know.”

he studied you, truly seeing you, before turning back to the table. already, the flower seemed to wilt beneath the weight of the house.

“that’s why you keep coming back,” he whispered. “not to save me. to finish me.”

you stepped forward, voice hoarse. “if that were true, you would already be dead.”

“maybe this is what the house wanted,” he said. “to make me love you, then let you destroy me. to give me the mercy of choosing when.”

then he smiled like a dying god.

the silence stretched thin as glass. even the house seemed to hold its breath.

a strained hush grew thick between you, broken only by the wind rattling the loose windowpanes. a sound like far-off weeping. finally, unable to bear the tension, he spoke, voice rough with something ancient and raw. “promise me something.”

your breath fogged in the cold, trembling from both fear and anticipation. “what?” you managed, your voice barely more than a shiver.

he took another step closer, the floor groaning under his weight. “when it becomes too much,” he said, his tone splintering, the first crack in his composure you had ever seen—“when i decide i can’t fight anymore… promise me you’ll do it. that you’ll end it. end me.”

you recoiled as if struck, tears springing unbidden, blurring the candlelit gloom. “no,” you gasped, the word almost wrenched from you. your hands balled into fists, nails pressing crescents into your palms.

he reached out, fingers icy and desperate, closing around your wrist. his grip was gentle but unyielding. “please,” he whispered, and the word was a lifeline, a plea that trembled between you and the abyss.

you met his gaze. his eyes were fathomless, voids that had seen every kind of ending. “why would you want that?” you choked, your voice cracking.

he drew in a shuddering breath, as if the answer cost him more than he had left to give. “because i want to choose it. for once. to die on my own terms. not as punishment, not as a curse. just… as myself. just once, i want the end to be mine.”

your mouth opened, but no words emerged. grief strangled your voice. your whole body shook.

his thumb, cold as moonlight, brushed a tear from your cheek. “you can. when it’s time,” he murmured, and for a moment, the sorrow in his face was so deep it threatened to swallow you both.

you stared at him. this beautiful, ruined thing barely holding himself together, and nodded through your tears, your agreement as much a surrender as a promise.

the rain started falling as your story unfolded. a tragedy, woven from threads of maybe, perhaps, and almost. every word, every silence between you, carried the ache of things left unsaid, the weight of dreams that never quite came true.

“i promise,” you breathed, the words binding you both in the silence.

a faint smile crossed his lips as he let go of your hand. “good.”

the house seemed to exhale at last. a deep, satisfied groan in its aged bones. as if, finally… it had heard what it needed.

you didn’t return after those first few days. the memory of the manor lingered at the edge of your thoughts, but you kept your distance.

you couldn’t make yourself go back. not even when curiosity gnawed at the silence between your heartbeat and the wind outside your window.

it wasn’t exactly fear of him that kept you away.

it was the fear of what he might ask of you next. the unknown demands, the haunting possibilities.

you tried to convince yourself that staying away was an act of mercy. if you stopped wandering into his world, perhaps he would quietly fade back into his own. a ghost finally allowed to rest, undisturbed by the living.

but the nights stretched out, hollow and endless in his absence. the silence pressed in, thick and suffocating.

sleep abandoned you. you lay awake, watching as dawn pressed pale fingers against your curtains, refusing to close your eyes before morning for fear the house would find you again.

that you would wake to its gates open and waiting.

and sometimes, in those thin, trembling hours between exhaustion and sunrise, you heard it: the faint echo of a piano. a song with no beginning, no end, drifting through your dreams like a memory that never belonged to you.

you whispered to yourself that it was nothing. just the wind, just the house settling, just your mind’s way of filling the silence.

just the mind’s way of filling silence.

but you always knew better.

it was him. it was always him.

heeseung.

days bled into weeks, weeks into months, as time became a delicate, relentless tide.

the forest stayed still. the path remained just a path.

no matter how many hours you stood at the edge of the woods at daylight, the manor never appeared. as if it had slipped out of the world entirely, leaving you behind.

you began to wonder if the house had finally grown tired of you. if it had let him fade away, starved and forgotten, within its rotting walls.

if it no longer needed you.

if it no longer wanted you.

you told yourself that was mercy too.

so you tried to live again.

you forced yourself to sleep under the safety of daylight, to breathe without waiting for thunder. 

you even tried to forget the sound of his voice when he said your name. a prayer uttered by someone who had long since lost faith.

but every night, your body still braced for the pull that never came, each hour stretching taut with longing.

and every morning, you found yourself glancing toward the woods, waiting for something that refused to call you back, the ache of hope never quite fading.

you didn’t know if the house had finally released you, or if it was simply waiting.

you didn’t know which terrified you more.

so you stayed away.

until you couldn’t anymore.

the days blurred at the edges. the nights folded into each other until your thoughts moved gradually, suspended somewhere between grief and surrender, as if time itself had lost its meaning.

and when your head finally sank against the pillow, when sleep finally reached for you like a tide, there was only one thing left in your mind: one name, breathed like a confession.

heeseung.

then you were too tired.

then your eyes closed…

lightning split the sky, a blue-white flash that yanked you from dreams into the cold, living midnight. rain lashed the world outside, but it was the thunder, so close it rattled your bones.

that truly woke you. you bolted upright, lungs seizing, heart stumbling along with the storm’s wild rhythm. you were awake. very much awake, and utterly alone.

the air itself buzzed with electricity, thick enough to taste, as if the night had a pulse of its own. outside the window, trees writhed under the violence of the wind. branches clawing, trunks bending, the whole forest straining as if it feared for you.

rain battered your skin, each drop a tiny blade, chilling you to the bone and soaking through your clothes until you felt more elemental than human.

and when your eyes lifted—

and then, there it was.

the manor.

rising from the darkness, stone and shadow, ancient and waiting. it sat heavy on the earth, defiant against the storm, windows aglow with a sickly gold light that dared you to come closer.

it loomed, silent and expectant. every detail, gnarled iron gates, jagged eaves, the cracked marble steps, was exactly as you remembered, as though the years had merely been a pause in its watchful patience.

you didn’t know whether it was symbolism or cruelty.

maybe both.

your chest tightened, breath catching as cold realization carved through the fog of fear and memory.

“no,” you whispered, shaking your head. “no, no, no—”

a scream tore itself from your throat. raw, desperate, only to be shattered and swallowed by the wind. you fell to your knees, fingers clawing mud slick and cold, your sobs dissolving into the endless howl of the storm.

and then—

the manor’s doors swung open with a groan that cut through the storm. a summons, or maybe a warning.

he stood there.

heeseung stood framed in the doorway, rain glistening on his hair, pale and inscrutable in the flickering light. he looked almost untouched by the storm, but shadows clung to him like a second skin.

for a heartbeat, you forgot how to breathe.

time had not truly changed him. at least not on the surface. but sorrow had whittled him down, hollowing his cheeks and dimming his eyes even more. he looked almost human that way. almost.

you shook your head, tears blurring your vision. “i can’t,” you gasped. “i can’t do it, heeseung. please—”

at the sound of his name, something flickered behind his eyes. fragile, flickering like a candle struggling to stay lit. he stepped toward you, and for a moment, even the storm seemed to hesitate.

“hey,” he murmured, his voice barely carrying over the rain. “look at me. it’s alright.”

you stumbled forward before you could stop yourself, colliding into his chest. your fists clutched his shirt as though it could tether you to something solid. “you said i’d have to do it. you said i—”

“not tonight,” he whispered, pulling you close. his arms were cold, but the way he held you felt impossibly warm. “not tonight, darling.”

it's so wrong how he felt so right aroun d you.

as if he couldn't make it any harder, “it tormented me not being able to see you.”

you choked back a sob. “you don’t meant that—”

“i mean it,” he said, breath brushing your temple. “every night without you was worse than hunger.”

the words unmade you.

he pulled back enough to see your face, thumb catching a tear before it fell. you hated the way your pulse stuttered when he smiled, the way his beauty felt like a promise you weren’t supposed to want. “you have no idea how much i’ve missed you.”

“you can’t just say that,” you whispered. “you’re not supposed to—”

“i don’t care what i’m supposed to be,” he said, and for the first time, his voice cracked. “you’re the only thing that’s made me forget what dying feels like.”

behind him, the house groaned, wood shifting, walls sighing, but neither of you moved.

“please don’t make me do it,” you cried, trembling.

he didn’t answer. instead, he rested his forehead against yours, his voice barely a breath.

“not tonight,” he promised. “you don’t have to end me tonight.”

you nodded weakly, your tears lost to the rain. the thunder dulled, the storm calmed around you like even the world didn’t want to interrupt.

“just stay with me,” he whispered, his thumb brushing your lower lip. a ghost of a smile crossed his face. “haven’t seen this beautiful face in months.”

“you can’t just act like this,” you said, voice hoarse. “like we’re not standing on the edge of something terrible.”

he leaned in, close enough for his breath. cold, sweet, metallic, to mix with yours. lightning flashed, red glinting faintly in his eyes.

“but we missed so much time,” he murmured.

“you talk like we ever had any.”

that drew a sad, fragile smile. “didn’t we?”

you swallowed, but he kept closing the distance, his hand sliding to the back of your neck. his voice was quiet. desperate.

“i keep thinking maybe you were sent here so i could remember what being alive felt like… one last time.”

“stop saying that.”

he laughed bitterly. “can’t help it. you make me forget that dying’s the only thing left for me.”

the house seemed to listen. the air thickened, the storm pressing closer, as if the walls themselves were waiting. but for a pause the world forgot to fill, it was just you and him, and everything unspoken between lightning.

you whispered, “heeseung…”

he went still. the faint smile vanished. his eyes widened, stunned.

“…you know my name.” his voice cracked, a note of quiet awe threaded with something rawer. fear, hope, longing. “say it again.”

you hesitated, pulse thundering in your ears. the storm pressed closer, as if holding its breath. even the house seemed to wait. you did. “heeseung.”

he closed his eyes, exhaling shakily, as if the sound itself had torn through him. a shiver ran through him as he pressed his lips together.

“god,” he whispered, a word that left his mouth not as a prayer, but as a curse, heavy with frustration and something unspoken lingering in the air. “i almost forgot how it sounds when someone says my name like that.”

your chest ached. “like what?”

“like it means something.” his voice trembled, equal parts hunger and heartbreak. “it sounds so good coming from you.”

the air thickened again. the candlelight flickered as though the house was listening.

he didn’t look away. his hand found yours, careful, reverent. “it’s cruel,” he murmured. “you saying it like that. like i’m still worth remembering.”

“maybe you are.”

the house groaned, louder now, a warning.

he looked over his shoulder, tension rippling through him. “it’s getting angry.”

“because of me?”

his eyes returned to you, full of sorrow. “because of us.” then he forced a small smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “stay until morning... please.”

and though every part of you screamed to run, you nodded.

you followed him inside. water dripped from your clothes, each step echoing through the marble hall. the air felt heavier now . charged. alive. every flicker of candlelight leaning toward you, like the house itself recognized your return.

heeseung followed behind, quiet as a shadow.

“you’re keeping your distance,” you said, turning halfway toward him.

“for your sake,” he replied, voice tight.

“you weren’t so careful before.”

“that was before i realized what i wanted to do.”

the space between you vibrated with a charged, electric tension. he took a step forward, the movement sharp and hungry, but halted abruptly. like he was fighting something inside himself, knuckles white at his sides.

“if i stay close,” he said, “i’ll forget every reason i shouldn’t touch you.”

you breathed out, “and if i don’t care?”

his eyes flashed crimson, wild and desperate. “then i’ll have no reason left to be careful.” for a pulse of silence, it felt like the room itself held its breath, waiting to see what he would do next.

you stepped closer.

he retreated. again and again.

until his back met the wall.

“heeseung,” you whispered. “i’m not afraid.”

“you should be,” he murmured. “because i want to kiss you more than i want to breathe.”

“then why don’t you?”

“because i still remember what i am.” his voice dropped to a whisper. “because i refuse to hurt you.”

you shook your head, closing the last of the distance. “you won’t.”

he inhaled sharply. “i won’t lose control, y/n.”

you smiled faintly. “good thing i will.”

and then you kissed him.

the world seemed to narrow, the storm outside vanishing beneath the deafening rush of your own heartbeat. you could taste the electricity in the air, your nerves strung tight as wire, every sense screaming that this was a line you could never uncross.

he went rigid for a split second. frozen. breathless. before shattering—

his hand found your jaw, trembling and sure, gripping just a little too hard, desperate. he pulled you closer, as if anchoring himself to the last thing that could save him. the kiss was slow, aching. less surrender, and more collision.

a battle between longing and the fear of what he might become. bitterness and salt, rainwater and sorrow. a thousand years of loneliness collapsing into a single touch.

when you finally broke apart, you were both shaking. he leaned his forehead against yours, his voice breaking, barely more than a rasp. “hell, you have no idea what you’ve done to me.”

then—a shift. the mood in the room turned sharply, as if something ancient and hungry had been roused. the air chilled. candlelight flickered, shadows reaching hungrily along the walls.

a sound left him, low and rough—a warning more than a plea. it sent a shiver down your spine. the hairs on your arms rose. the house itself seemed to hold its breath.

“heeseung?”

he didn’t answer. his hand was still on your neck, gentle but now iron-strong, keeping you close even as his body trembled with the effort of restraint.

you felt it. a sharp inhale, the tension thrumming through him, the sense of something powerful teetering on the edge of control.

his lips brushed your throat. your pulse leapt wildly beneath his mouth.

a ghost of a touch. his breath lingered against your skin, a tremor of warmth, followed by the unmistakable, chilling scrape of fangs. pressure. not pain. yet.

the moment stretched, taut and terrible, as you realized how close you were to losing him. or yourself.

you gasped, fear and desire twisting together. “heeseung—”

he jerked back as if burned, horror and hunger warring in his eyes. his lips were parted, fangs fully drawn, glinting cruel and perfect in the dim light. he looked monstrous and heartbreakingly human.

“fuck—” he breathed. “i didn’t mean to—”

you touched your neck. a single drop of blood welled up, hot and bright, trembling on your skin.

he stared, wide-eyed, shaking. centuries of hunger flared to life behind his gaze, and in that instant, you weren’t sure if he would run or lunge for you.

“don’t look at me,” he rasped, backing away so fast he nearly vanished into shadow. his voice was ruined, ragged. “don’t.”

“heeseung—”

“don’t.” this time a command, desperate. “i told you not to come close. this is why.”

you stepped toward him anyway. every instinct screamed danger, but you ignored it. “you didn’t hurt me.”

“i could have.” his laugh was broken, bitter, on the verge of something darker. “do you understand what that means? one second longer and—”

“you stopped.”

“not because i wanted to.”

“then what stopped you?”

he lifted his eyes, wet, red, trembling. “you said my name.”

the words hit like lightning, splitting the space between you.

he dropped to his knees, one hand clamped over his mouth, as if he could contain the monster still roaring beneath his skin. his voice came out a ragged, desperate whisper, barely human.

“don’t say it again,” he pleaded. “if you do… i won’t survive it.”

it was everyone’s favorite tale. the house that had stood for a century among the hills, and what might still wander its lonely corridors.

if only they knew the monster was still there, waiting for the world to forget him.

they told stories of monsters. how they hunted, haunted, killed.

but no one ever warned you that a monster could break your heart like this.

that morning dawned with a hush. the kind of quiet that lingers before the end. the storm had passed, rinsing the world until it gleamed pale and new. through the thinning mist, sunlight spilled in golden ribbons, touching the manor’s windows for the first time in years. the air itself felt cold, heavy with finality.

heeseung stood by the grand piano, dressed as he always was, in a black suit pressed and perfect, as though he hadbeen preparing for this moment all along. it could have been a funeral: yours, his, or the house’s. at that point, it didn’t seem to matter.

when you entered, he turned to face you.

for once, there was peace in his expression. not joy, not sorrow, just quiet acceptance. you froze, because something inside you already knew what that look meant.

your voice trembled, barely more than a breath. “it’s time, isn’t it?” every word scraped your throat raw, the taste of goodbye already bitter on your tongue.

he nodded once. “the house is waking up. i can feel it.” his voice was steady, almost gentle. “it’s growing restless. i haven’t fed in months. if i don’t stop it, it will bring others.”

he reached into his jacket and pulled something wrapped in linen. a stake, polished smooth, simple and deliberate. when he handed it to you, your breath caught.

“i can’t,” you said, shaking your head, but your voice was thin and brittle, ready to snap. a sob tried to claw its way out, and you bit it back, tasting blood and regret. 

“yes, you can,” he urged softly, but there was a tremor beneath his steadiness. “you promised me, remember?” his words were a knife, twisting not in anger, but in the ache of old vows and impossible mercy.

you wanted to argue, to scream until your throat tore, to hurl the stake across the room and shatter every window, every memory. but your hands shook so violently you almost dropped it, the wood biting into your palms. 

he smiled then, a fragile thing that trembled at the edges. “it’s poetic, isn’t it? the one thing i feared most in the hands of the one person i would die for.” his eyes glistened, and for a moment you saw the man he once was, not the monster time had made him.

“don’t say that,” you whispered, but your words collapsed in on themselves, hollow and helpless.

“why not?” his voice cracked, the sound raw and painfully human. “it’s the truth. i was never afraid of dying. only of being forgotten by you.”

that’s when you saw it. the flower.

pressed neatly into the breast pocket of his suit, dried but still whole. the one you had brought him from your world, a scrap of spring in a wasteland, still bright against the black fabric. 

your throat tightened until you could barely breathe. “you kept it.”

“of course i did,” he murmured, and his voice almost broke. “nothing grows here. but you did.” he looked at you as if you were the only thing alive in a land of ghosts.

then, with a carefulness that bordered on reverence, he cupped your face in his hands. his thumb traced tender, aching circles on your cheek, as if he could memorize the heat of your skin with a single touch. outside, the universe spun on, indifferent and cruel.

he reached for your hand, guiding it gently to his chest—right where his heart should have pulsed beneath the surface. the silence between you was thick, broken only by his unsteady breath.

“this heart is as dead as it can be,” heeseung whispered, voice trembling. “yet i longed for you as if it still beat, as if it could ever feel alive again.”

then he reached out again, taking your hand. the one that held the stake and guided it until the point rested gently over his chest.

his heart, silent beneath your trembling fingers, waiting for you to set him free.

“just do it, darling,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “please.”

you shook your head, tears falling faster than you could wipe them away. “don’t make me.”

his hand covered yours, firm and cold. “i’ve lived too long in the dark,” he said. “you made me remember what light felt like. now let me rest.”

your voice shattered, hallow and pleading, the words tasting like ash. you could barely force them out. “you’re asking me to kill you.”

he met your gaze, and for a moment, you saw centuries of sorrow and longing flicker in his eyes. “i’m asking you to free me,” he whispered, his voice barely holding together. “to save me from myself, from this hunger, from being a ghost in my own skin.”

the air between you felt unbearably heavy, thick with everything said and unsaid. he leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours. his breath was gradual, steady. “y/n,” he whispered. “don’t save me.”

when you hesitated, he pressed the stake harder into your hands, desperation flickering across his face. whatever curse bound him would not let him die by his own hand. “please,” he begged. “put me out of my misery.”

you were trembling so hard the stake nearly slipped. the room blurred through your tears. heeseung stood before you, impossibly calm, his eyes tender but unflinching.

“do it,” he pleaded.

you shook your head. “no, i can’t—”

“darling,” he murmured, his voice breaking, “please.” he reached for your hands, curling his cold fingers around yours, guiding the point toward his chest. “it’s alright.”

your grip faltered. “heeseung—”

“it’s alright,” he murmured. “i’ve been dead a long time. i just want to rest.”

you took a shaking breath and pushed—

and the stake vanished.

it didn’t break. didn’t pierce. didn’t splinter.

it simply dissolved, scattering into golden light that drifted through the air and disappeared like dust.

neither of you moved.

then his hands flew to his chest. there was no wound, no puncture. only faint and pulsing beneath his skin, like the echo of a heartbeat that had waited centuries to fade.

the manor groaned. the sound tore through the marble floor and into your bones. a deep, thunderous cry. dust rained from the ceiling as chandeliers shattered. the walls split, light pouring through their cracks like veins of gold.

“heeseung!” you shouted, grabbing his arm as the floor trembled.

his eyes went wide. “it’s breaking,” he breathed. “the curse—”

the house screamed again, the sound lifelike. you stumbled forward, clutching his sleeve, and he steadied you, his grip firm, desperate.

“we have to go,” you said.

he hesitated only a moment before nodding. “this way.”

you ran through the collapsing halls together. through rooms that once felt endless, now crumbling into ruin.

the storm outside had gone silent. only light remained, flooding through shattered windows and open doors. portraits burned. shadows melted. the air was thick with dust and something like freedom.

by the time you reached the grand entrance, the entire manor was falling behind you. heeseung pushed the heavy doors open, and sunlight poured in, blinding and holy.

you stumbled into the courtyard. the garden, once gray and lifeless, now pulsed faintly with green beneath the ruin’s ash. you turned, gasping for breath. “we have to—”

but he had stopped.

heeseung stood just a few steps away, frozen at the edge of the courtyard. beyond him were the iron gates. tall, rusted, unmoving for centuries. the same gates that had once kept you prisoner inside.

he stared at them, then stepped forward reluctantly. the air shimmered around him, the weight of a thousand years pressing invisible against his chest. he reached out, hesitated, then pushed.

the gate creaked, creeping and painful… but it moved.

heeseung froze, disbelief washing over his face. “no,” he whispered, voice trembling. “no, it can’t—”

you stepped beside him, your hand finding his sleeve. “heeseung,” you whispered, “it’s open. you’re free.”

he turned to you, eyes wide, shoulders rigid, his entire body taut with disbelief and dread, as if a single word might shatter everything. “the house never let me leave,” he said quietly, his voice barely more than a tremor. “no matter how many times i tried. it always pulled me back.”

you saw it then. the haunted ache in his expression. the memories of every fruitless attempt, every century spent clawing at locked doors, a thousand hopes dashed against the same cold stone.

you swallowed, heart pounding, your own fear mirroring his. “please step through,” you pleaded. “try again.”

he stood at the threshold, his hand hovering in the sunlit air, trembling. for a long, breathless moment, he didn’t move, locked in a battle between longing and terror. then, slowly, painfully, he forced himself forward. one step, then another, as if wading through invisible chains.

he hesitated for a single breath, then crossed the line where shadow met sunlight.

nothing happened. the air was still. the sun was gentle. but the silence rang with the weight of a miracle.

he looked down at his hands, at the faint shimmer of light across his skin. still pale. still cold. still him. but alive. unbound.

he turned back toward the gates, the ruins behind him. “i’m outside,” he breathed in disbelief. his voice cracked halfway through. “y/n… i’m outside.”

you smiled through your tears. “you are.”

he laughed then. a sound that carried both wonder and grief. his hand went to his jacket, to the pocket where the dried flower you had once given him still rested. the petals were brittle but whole. he touched them carefully, reverently. “i kept it,” he murmured. “i didn’t know why.”

the wind picked up, carrying the scent of earth and rain, as if the world itself was breathing again.

you turned, watching the manor crumble, stone by stone, the walls collapsing inward. windows shattered, sending glimmers of glass into the air like falling stars.

you remembered laughter echoing down those halls, the hush of midnight, the chill of secrets and the warmth of stolen moments. for a moment, you swore you could hear voices. the ghosts of everyone who had ever died within those walls, finally released.

heeseung turned to you, the sunlight brushing the edges of his face, catching in the midnight sheen of his hair.

his eyes gleamed with tears he refused to shed, his breath trembling as if he too might dissolve with the manor. ash and dust tangled in the air between you, blending with the scent of wet grass and old memories.

“it’s over,” you whispered, unable to keep the break from your voice. the words hurt more than you expected. a farewell not just to a place, but to a piece of yourself.

he nodded slowly. “it is.” his voice was quiet, as fragile as the hope trembling between you.

your hand reached for his, and for the first time, he didn’t pull away. his fingers were cold, but he squeezed your hand with a steadiness that belied the storm inside him.

you felt the shudder in his grip, a century of loneliness and longing, of hunger and regret, all trembling beneath his skin.

he looked beyond the forest, beyond the gates that had been his cage. the sunlight caught in the crimson flecks of his eyes, and for a beat, he looked unbearably young. his lips parted, his voice barely more than a memory.

“i think,” he began, eyes shimmering with something fragile and entirely new, “you were never meant to kill me.”

you looked up, breath snagging in your chest, the ache of relief and sorrow swirling inside you. “then what was i meant to do?”

he smiled. a small, broken thing, but real, the same smile that had haunted your dreams since the night you met.

“i think you were meant to save me.” his voice trembled, hope and disbelief warring in each syllable.

the wind moved through the ruins one last time, carrying away the dust and the memories, a sigh through what was once the manor’s heart.

and then, silence. the world waited, breathless, as you stood beside him in the sunlight, free at last.

heeseung stood in the light. still pale, still a vampire, but no longer chained to the shadows. you reached for him, and he took your hand. together, you stepped past the gates.

you were way smaller than him.

once, he had pulled you into a hug, only for you to collide with his chest so abruptly it made you gasp. afterward, he had sworn never to risk hurting you like that again. now, he waited patiently for you to close the distance, to initiate each tender moment.

his touch was a promise: gentle, restrained, always mindful of the strength caged within his hands.

so when it came to intimacy, simon made love. never fucked.

never rough, never careless. he worshipped you with his body, never simply taking, always giving.

he made certain never to manhandle you, never to let his weight pin you down. in every moment, he was the perfect gentleman.

but now, his hands encircled your throat, not tightly, but with the softest pressure. just enough to feel the flutter of your pulse beneath his thumbs. his grip was light, never enough to bruise, only to remind you of the power he held and so carefully restrained.

a primal urge surged through him.

he wanted to take you, to claim you with every deep, desperate thrust, to lose himself in the raw need that burned between you. the fantasy of pressing you into the bed, of filling you so completely that your body remembered him for days, haunted him in that moment.

but when your hips began to move against his, frantic and needy, everything changed. the control he clung to so tightly began to unravel, thread by trembling thread.

a low, guttural sound rumbled from deep within him, his body responding to yours with instinct that bordered on animalistic.

without meaning to, his hands tightened, gripping your neck for leverage as you moved against him. he froze for a second, startled by his own strength. but then—

it happened.

you clenched tighter around him, your head falling back as a broken moan escaped your lips. you were crying out, completely undone, lost in the moment. your hands wrapped his, making him grip tighter. your hips bucked harder, desperate for more, and it hit him like a bolt of lightning:

you liked it rough.

you, his innocent, angelic girl — the one with soft smiles and bright eyes, the one who blushed at the smallest touch — had been hiding it all along.

he stared at you, stunned, as you begged with your body, your innocent exterior cracking to reveal the wicked, burning desire beneath. his angel wasn't just soft and sweet. he watched as a smile spread across your face as he gripped tighter, loving the way you were choked.

— you were freaky.

“shit,” he muttered. a low growl rumbled in his chest as he leaned in, the ghost of a grin tugging at his lips. “you've been holding out on me, haven't you, lovie?” he murmured, his voice dark with amusement and something far more dangerous.

then you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him to lie his weight against you, chest against yours, almost crushingly.

“yes,” you moaned. “crush me.”

and then there you were, below him, completely and utterly trapped beneath him, which was exactly where he liked you to be. caged in by his body, imprisoned by his massive size and strength, cornered by this vicious predator.

he was massive around you. even more massive inside you.

your head lolled back against the pillow, screaming as he started thrusting hard and fast.

simon leaned back again, wanting to see you. watching you watch in fascination. it was the moving bulge you could see in your abdomen. from the inside, his cock was nudging your flesh forward, and you knew exactly where the head was as it slid back and forth, as well as a few inches down his girth. you were watching him move past your navel while at the same time feeling him bumping there.

you were so small compared to him, and you fucking loved that.

he supported your head when he realised he was fucking you up. he started to pound harder, faster, his hand gripping your thighs, leaving marks there, moving you up and down along with his thrusts. he wasn’t gentle anymore. no.

sweet angel. simon thinks the heavens cried when he slapped your pussy and you grinned. you wanted to be taken, to be used and abused until you could no longer walk, until your legs ached from being spread all night, until your cunt was dripping and overflooded. until you were a complete and utter mess of a woman.

“break me,” you begged. “ruin me. please, don’t stop.”

he thinks he just fell in love all over again. he squeezed, rending a choke. “oh, the things i’m going to do to you, sweetheart.”

he pulls out to the tip, and then he slams his entire length inside of you, so deep, you swear you feel him coming up your throat.

“goddamn, i can barely fucking fit.” must be why it feels like he’s tearing you in half. he starts out slow and forceful. harsh thrusts. you cry out, whining at the stretch.

“make me stop. i dare you,” he said, making you whimper. “you won’t, will you? my eager little slut. you want this. you need this. you need me to fuck you.”

that night left he left you marked.

your skin flushed and bruised where his hands had claimed you, the imprint of his strength lingering around your throat and along your thighs. your body ached, guts rearranged, and you wondered with a shiver if you’d be able to walk at all in the days to come.

you approached, nerves thrumming.

jay refused to meet your eye, his jaw clenched so tightly you wondered if he’d crack a tooth. his chest rose and fell in harsh bursts. sweat carved lines down his temple, and even at this distance you could see the rigid, unnatural way he cradled his right arm, as if it was something foreign, something broken he didn’t want to claim.

he looked utterly exhausted and frustrated, a shadow of the athlete whose charming smile always made headlines and lit up social media after a win. here, stripped of the crowd and the cameras, there was nothing left of that easy confidence. only fatigue and anger and sadness.

no proof that he used to be golden. gold that people desperately seek, gold that the world took, gold that they steal.

“mr. park,” you called, forcing steadiness into your voice as you crouched to retrieve his mallet. “i’m here for an initial inspection. just to see how your arm’s holding up.”

nothing. his eyes flicked past you, toward the empty stands.

“can you lift it for me? just to shoulder height.”

he exhaled through clenched teeth, the sound harsh and brittle. after a pause that stretched uncomfortably, he jerked his arm upward, stopping halfway with a wince that twisted his face, rage and pain flickering in his eyes.

“where’s the pain? elbow? shoulder?”

no answer. just a glare at the horizon.

“fine,” you murmured, stepping into his space, feeling the heat radiate off him. “let me check. squeeze my hand as hard as you can.”

his grip nearly bruised your fingers, raw strength but wild and uneven. you wrote it down, lips pressed into a thin line, trying not to show how much it hurt.

“do you feel numbness? tingling?”

silence.

the golden boy didn’t even react, and perhaps that was the worst part.

“any sharp pain when you swing?”

another pause. “obviously,” he bit out, low.

you pretended not to notice the hostility, scribbling notes. “how bad is it, mr. park? one to ten?”

silence. no reply. just the reins creaking in his hands as the horse tossed its head.

“play nice,” coach told him, then stepped away but stayed close enough to watch.

jay occupied the far end of a battered bench by the stables, his injured arm cradled protectively against his thigh. he avoided your gaze, staring somewhere beyond the paddock. every muscle in his body was strung taut with defiance, a living barricade daring you to cross.

you set your bag at your feet and crouched, bringing yourself eye-level with him. “alright,” you began, voice gentle but firm. “today’s just about beginnings. simple movements, stretching out the tension, coaxing your muscles to remember trust.”

silence. no acknowledgment.

with care, you reached for his arm, your fingertips light against his sleeve. “i’m going to lift now,” you murmured, watching for the telltale flicker of pain. “tell me if it gets worse.”

he gave a curt nod, jaw set like stone.

you eased his arm upward, feeling the resistance in every trembling muscle. his shoulder fought the motion, a silent battle beneath your hands. “you’re gripping too hard,” you whispered. “let the tension go. this isn’t a contest.”

he let out a muted scoff, but you saw the subtle shift. his breath left him in a slow, controlled stream, surrendering bit by bit.

you kept your tone light, as if you weren’t both fighting gravity and memory. “distraction helps,” you said, conversational, “so, have you always been a morning trainer, or is this something new?”

“i’m not here to make friends,” he snapped, eyes finally locking with yours, sharp as flint.

the coach shifted behind you. “jay,” he warned, voice edged.

you lifted a hand in silent reassurance, not bothering to glance at the coach. “it’s alright,” you said. “i’m not after friendship. i want to help you move through the pain. distraction keeps your body from seizing up. trust me.”

he looked away again, lips pressed thin.

you allowed the silence to linger for a heartbeat before breaking it with your own calm, methodical voice. as you rotated his shoulder, you narrated the movement, “see how that tugs? that’s your muscle searching for old patterns. soreness is good. a dull ache means you’re healing. sharp pain is a warning. dull means progress.”

silence. silence. silence. still nothing.

“now, squeeze my hand,” you instructed, placing your palm against his. you watched the struggle ripple across his face, his grip erratic: first a burst of strength, then a sudden weakness, as if the memory of power fought with reality.

“that’s better,” you observed, offering a small, encouraging nod. “feel any pain?”

a long pause, then, “no.”

you jotted the answer in your notes, careful not to show your relief at his response. “good,” you said quietly. “that means your nerves are clear. we’ll keep building from here.”

he fell silent, but allowed you to continue, his breath rasping through each new stretch. you filled the space with your voice, refusing to let quiet become a wall. “this is just a gentle flexion. hold it for ten. don’t focus on the strain. think about the letting go. your body is relearning safety.”

when at last you lowered his arm and checked the clock, you were surprised. barely twenty minutes had trickled away.

“that’s it for today,” you announced, tucking your notes away with practiced efficiency.

jay’s head whipped around. “that’s it?” disbelief colored every syllable.

“that’s right.” you rose to your full height, not flinching from his glare. “we go slow. rush a ligament, and you’ll tear it again, maybe worse. we’ll add weight and resistance once your arm remembers how to move.”

he barked a bitter laugh, surging to his feet. “you’re wasting my time. i don’t need someone coddling me with baby exercises. i need to get back, fast.”

you held his gaze, steady and unyielding. “if you think i’m not enough, find someone else. but this is the program that will save your arm, and maybe your career.”

his jaw clenched, eyes bright with something that almost hurt to witness. “you don’t know what it’s like to lose everything in one stupid fall. i can’t.” he broke off, shaking his head, voice rough. “i don’t have time to crawl back. i need to be ready.”

you softened, but only a fraction. “let me help you do this right. i’m not fighting you, mr. park. if you push too fast, you’ll land right back at zero, or worse.”

the coach finally stepped in, his voice a hard edge. “jay, giver her a chance. you won’t get anywhere if you keep fighting the people trying to get you back on that field.”

there’s a crack in his surface, electric midnight eyes. his gaze flickered between you and the coach, frustration rolling off him in visible waves. at last, he exhaled sharply, muttered something you couldn’t catch, and spun away. his boots scraped the earth as he stalked toward the stables, leaving only silence in his wake.

you arrived ahead of time, boots crunching quietly across the grass. the coach was nowhere to be seen. but jay was there, a solitary figure outlined against the fence. his silhouette tense, his good hand white-knuckled around the reins of a restless horse.

you hesitated a moment before calling out, “you're early. did you not sleep last night, or were you just eager to get this over with?” your attempt at lightness hung awkwardly in the air.

silence, silence, silence. he released the reins, shoulders stiff, and turned toward the battered bench where you always worked together.

you set your bag down, scanning the empty field. "where's coach?" you asked, voice low.

"not here." jay dropped onto the bench with a heavy thud, stretching his legs out in front of him. "it’s just you and me today."

there was a weight to his words. a warning, not an invitation. still, you crouched beside him, sliding the strap of your bag off with practiced ease. "alright. we’ll start the same as always. basic stretches. keep building tolerance."

he said nothing, just sat hunched, brows drawn together, jaw clenched as if holding back a storm.

"lift your arm for me," you instructed, voice gentle but firm. "slow. just to shoulder height."

he obeyed, his face unmoving beneath that permanent scowl. carefully, you guided his arm, rotating it at the shoulder. his muscles resisted, tense and unyielding beneath your hands.

"you're still holding tight," you murmured, barely above a whisper. "try to let the shoulder go."

he exhaled sharply through his nose, still silent, his gaze fixed somewhere far away.

you filled the silence with words meant to comfort. "this injury won’t end your career, jay. you know that, right?"

his head snapped toward you, eyes fierce and wounded. the look in his eyes are terrible. terrifying. "don't."

"don't what?" you asked, keeping your tone even.

"don’t talk to me like you know what this is. just do your job." his voice cut through the air, sharp and brittle and harsh. "you’ll never understand what it feels like. to lose everything in one fall." he stopped, jaw trembling, eyes darting away as if the words themselves might hurt him.

you wonder if he had anymore gold to give.

you let his words hang in the air, heavy as the silence. quietly, you said, "i know one thing, though. if you want to recover, you have to believe it's possible. i can show you the program, the stretches, the exercises. but if you’ve already decided you’re broken, your body will listen."

his gaze bore into you. as if he was trying to sink your image fully. all the contours on your face, depths, highlights, sinking in, popping out, slopes, textures, tones.

his glare faltered. the fight in his eyes faded, replaced by a shadow of something you couldn’t quite name.

he didn’t answer. just turned away, lips pressed together.

you continued to move his arm, narrating each motion. "this one rebuilds your range of motion. a dull ache means you’re making progress. we'll add resistance soon, but for now, this is how your body relearns trust."

still, he said nothing, nothing, nothing. but he didn’t pull away.

when you finished, easing his arm back into his lap, the silence stretched between you like a drawn bow. for once, he didn’t snap. he only sat, eyes fixed on the ground, unusually still.

you packed up your things slowly, glancing over at him. "same time tomorrow?" you asked, voice tentative.

he doesn't answer. for a long moment, only the sound of the restless horse and the distant wind fill the space between you. you watch him for a sign. a nod. a word. anything. but he just stares at the ground, jaw set.

you shoulder your bag. "i'll be here," you say quietly. the words hang in the air, softer than a promise, as you step away.

he offered no answer. just the faintest twitch along his jaw.

but he didn’t leave. not yet.

weeks slipped by, and the rhythm of recovery changed in quiet increments. each morning, jay rolled his shoulder and flexed his fingers, the ache in his arm easing, though the silence around him lingered like a second shadow.

you guided him, gently and persistently, through stretches, resistance bands biting against muscle. then, at last, the coach relented: jay could return to the field.

from the sidelines, you watched with the coach as jay swung into the saddle, reins drawn taut between knuckles gone white. sunlight poured over the field, heavy and golden, while cicadas droned somewhere unseen.

“he’s improved,” you murmured, eyes following the way jay coaxed the horse into a careful trot. there was tension still in every line of him, but now it was harnessed. controlled, not forced.

the coach folded his arms, eyes never leaving jay’s silhouette, studying the boy that used mirror the sun. “you know… no one’s managed to get him this far before.”

you blinked, surprised, glancing over. “what do you mean?”

“he’s burned through so many therapists,” the coach said, voice low, shaking his head. “some walked away, some he drove off. jay wasn’t always this angry. he’s furious with himself, mostly. for that one moment of carelessness. for letting the fall happen. it cost him more than just his arm.” the coach’s gaze drifted to the far fence, voice thinning to a whisper. “he lost the horse he raised. when jay’s arm gave out, he couldn’t hold the reins. the horse went down, too.”

your gaze found him again. he was guiding the horse into a slow run, posture rigid, every movement precise. but you saw it; the flicker in his eyes, the pinch at his brow, the heaviness that clung to his hands whenever he closed them around the lead.

golden. but he’s sad now.

he’s quiet, sunken, and shaded.

“he blames himself,” the coach murmured, almost to himself.

there was nothing you could say to that.

then, in a blink, your heart lurched. jay’s horse faltered, a hoof skidding in the dirt. he pitched forward, nearly unseated, panic flashing across his face.

“jay—” the coach called, but jay was already reacting.

he steadied himself in an instant, one hand stroking the horse’s neck as he leaned close, words slipping out in a hoarse whisper. his face was drawn, panic flickering behind his eyes, but his voice, when it broke through, was raw and trembling “easy, easy. i’ve got you. i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m so sorry.”

you stood frozen watching him stroke the horse’s mane, apologies tumbling from his lips again and again. quiet, desperate, meant for ears that could never truly answer.

beside you, the coach’s expression shifted, grief and understanding flickering across his features.

in that moment, you understood. it wasn’t just he injury that had broken jay, it was the guilt. the weight of loss he kept tucked out of sight, where no one else could reach it.

crownless prince, he saw the universe for a moment and the next, it’s gone.

later on, night draped itself around the medical facility, muffling every sound but the distant thump of bass that vibrated across the field. a reminder that life carried on elsewhere.

you slipped inside, careful not to let the door creak, footsteps soft against the floor. the lights overhead hummed as you made your way to your station, heart pounding with quiet urgency.only when your hand closed around the tool you’d left behind did you finally exhale, relief shivering through you like a gust of cold air.

“we’re not supposed to have a session right now, are we?”

you froze, breath catching as you turned.

jay stood in the doorway, a silhouette etched in the spill of light from outside. gone was the familiar training gear, but in its place, a suit clung to his lean frame, jacket undone, tie askew. his hair was carefully styled, then ruined by restless hands. the air around him shimmered faintly with whiskey and something heavier. regret, maybe, or damned at the birs of exhaustion.

you lifted the tool slightly, sheepish. “no. just forgot something.”

his gaze drifted past you, settling on the glass building that glittered cross the field. windows pulsed with light, silhouettes swirling behind them. a ballroom in motion, alive with laughter and the clink of crystal.

the sponsor gala was a world apart: investors, family friends, socialites swirling in designer gowns. servers moved like shadows between them, trays of champagne balanced high, while camera flashes burst like distant stars.

“are you staying for the party?” he asked.

you glanced down at yourself, plain t-shirt, jeans, trench coat, and let out a dry laugh. “do i look like i belong in there?”

his eyes lingered on you, unwavering, and for a moment, you felt transparent beneath his gaze.

jay, beautiful, quiet, sunken, and shaded.

somewhere in there, he’s still golden.

when he finally spoke, his voice was stripped, almost tender. “doesn’t matter what you’re wearing. you’d outshine them all.” the words landed heavier than you expected.

you blinked, unsure how to respond.

jay blinked too, dragging a hand over his face. “sorry. too much to drink.”

you cleared your throat. “i should go.”

but instead of stepping aside, he moved into the room, crossing the distance with slow, heavy steps. he sank onto the bench, elbows on his knees, head bowed. for the first time since you had known him, his anger had burned away, leaving only a raw, bone-deep weariness.

“you good?” you asked carefully.

“yeah,” he muttered. “just… tired.”

you lingered, watching him. “what’s wrong?”

he gave you a faint, defeated smile. “pretty sure listening to me complain isn’t part of your job description.”

you crossed your arms. “neither was putting up with you snapping at me all the time, and i’m still doing it.”

that pulled a soft chuckle from him, though it didn’t last long. you found yourself appreciating it so much. to hear him laugh.

silence stretched before he spoke again, voice low. “do you ever wonder what would happen if you just… stopped following the rules? if you stopped doing what was expected of you?”

you tilted your head. “are you planning to become a criminal now?”

he shook his head. “no. i mean… what if i stopped being who everyone thinks i am? the interviews, the sponsors, the family obligations. it’s all been picked for me. sometimes i wonder what would happen if i just said no.”

your voice softened, careful. “i thought you loved polo.”

“i do. i love the game.” his gaze found yours, stripped bare of pretense. “but everything behind it, the pressure, the spotlight. it’s like i’m wearing a costume i can’t take off. sometimes i wonder if any of it is really mine.”

you shifted, clutching your coat tighter. “that doesn’t mean you stop being you.”

jay met your torn stare as you observed him, trying to detect what it is currently going through your brain. then he exhaled and leaned back, scrubbing a hand over his face. “forget it. i’ve had too much to drink.”

you didn’t push further. adjusting your bag, you nodded once. “get some rest, mr. park.”

“it’s jay.” he corrected.

you shook your head. “jay, then.”

“y/n.”

you paused at the doorway.

his face was masked in shadow, but his words cut through the hush. “one day, i’ll step out of the part they wrote for me.” his eyes locked with yours, fierce and vulnerable all at once.

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. so you left.

the tool in your bag was feather-light, but his words settled over your shoulders. an invisible weight you’d carry long after you stepped back into the night.

the stables exhaled as you slipped in after work, the lingering scent of hay and leather rising to greet you. darkness stretched long between the stalls, but you moved through them like a familiar ghost, your pockets heavy with sugar cubes.

one by one, you offered each horse a small sweet, your voice soft as you murmured to them, their velvet muzzles pressing into your palm, ears flickering in silent conversation.

when you reached jay’s horse, you lingered, letting your hand rest on the mare’s neck.

“you did a good job today,” you whispered, your breath stirring the short hairs by her ear. the horse’s eyes fluttered closed as you stroked her head, slipping her an extra treat. she pressed her weight into your palm, a deep trust in the way she leaned, and a soft smile tugged at your lips.

“do you always stop by the stables after work?”

you turned, heart quickening.

jay stood at the entrance, framed by the last golden shaft of evening sun making him look like he had a halo, a coil of hose slung over one shoulder and a battered bucket of brushes and bottles in the other. damp hair clung to his forehead, and his shirt, darkened by sweat, hugged the lean lines of his body. for once, he looked calmer, as if the day’s rough edges had been smoothed.

the horse shoved its head harder into your hand, answering for you.

his lips twitched before nodding. “guess you two are already well-acquainted.”

you let out a small laugh. “certainly know more about her than i do about you.”

his head shook, almost amused. without replying, he set the supplies down and started brushing the horse’s mane, movements methodical. his eyes never left the strands.

“i’ve been an ass,” he said suddenly, low. you could see the tired lines across his face. “most of the time.”

you tilted your head, brushing it off with a soft tone. “you’ve been angry. frustrated. you’re struggling with the outside and with yourself. that’s a lot for anyone to carry.”

he stilled.

“but,” you added softly, “you have to remember… choosing anger as a response is still a choice.”

for a moment, he just stared at the brush in his hand, as if your words weighed more than the bristles.

then he nodded, a slow, reluctant acceptance. "aside from being a sports therapist, are you also an actual therapist?" the faintest glimmer of humor flickered in his eyes, like sunlight on water now. "you always know what to say."

you shook your head, smiling faintly. “no. i’ve just been there before.”

he glanced sideways at you, brows furrowing. “what happened?”

you shrugged, picking up another brush from the bucket. “i was an equestrian. but that dream had already ended. back injury.”

this time, he looked at you, really looked, as if seeing past the person you presented to the ache beneath. the sharpness in his gaze softened, his features shifting into something close to understanding. "i'm sorry," he said, and the words sounded like they cost him something.

i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry.

you chuckled, brushing the horse’s coat. “why are you sorry? it’s not your fault.”

“i just am,” he said simply, and there was no fight in his voice this time.

you nodded quietly, accepting it. after a moment, you asked, “so, why are you cleaning her yourself when there are caretakers?”

jay’s hand slowed through the horse’s mane. “because i like doing it. makes a relationship with her that isn’t just about riding. it’s like… making a friend at work. work and outside fun are different. there are boundaries.”

“boundaries,” you repeated, amused. “so brushing is like… after-work drinks?”

that got him to huff a quiet laugh. “something like that.”

he crouched, pulling the hose closer, and motioned for you to take the small stool. you sat down, brushing dust off your pants. then suddenly, his hands closed around the edges of the stool.

you startled slightly as he dragged it back, dragging you with it, the legs scraping against the ground. he leaned close, his arm brushing your knee as he shifted the stool a safe distance away.

your breath caught. his head dipped just enough that the scent of horse and fresh sweat, earthy and clean, rose from his shirt, vivid and real. for a heartbeat, the world shrank to the small space between you, filled with unspoken questions.

“you’re in the splash zone,” he murmured, voice low but edged with amusement. his eyes flicked to yours. soft, roaring thunder. holding for just a second too long before he pulled away.

and then, just as the words left him, the horse shook herself violently, spraying water in every direction. jay twisted instinctively, shielding you with his body, leaving his back drenched instead.

you burst out laughing, clutching the stool. “i think she likes you better soaked.”

he turned, water streaming from his hair, droplets sparkling in the stable’s muted light. but there it was, a grin, wide and boyish, stripping years from his face and leaving him momentarily unguarded. "she did that on purpose," he protested, but laughter trembled in his voice.

“she’s smarter than you give her credit for,” you teased.

he shook his head, still grinning. “you’re enjoying this way too much.”

“of course,” you shot back. “i stayed dry.”

the laughter lingered, floating between you like dust motes in the sun, before fading into the silence. jay leaned against the stall, his smile softer now, shadowed by something uncertain. "are you coming next week?"

you blinked. “you don’t have an appointment next week.”

“i know.” his eyes held yours, steady and searching. “but… what if something happens to me?”

you tilted your head, trying to keep your tone teasing despite the weight in his voice. “what, like another horse decides to soak you?”

he didn’t laugh. he just kept looking at you, gaze steady and unreadable. the air in the stable shifted, no longer playful but dense, charged with anticipation and something unnamed.

“yeah,” he said finally, voice low. “something like that.”

the arena thrummed with anticipation the moment you arrived, the crowd’s chatter and the relentless flicker of camera shutters weaving a restless tapestry overhead. coach strode at your side, his gaze sharp as a hawk’s, scanning the expanse of emerald grass and freshly painted lines.

“he’s right there,” coach muttered, his voice gravelly, nodding toward a tight knot of reporters whose microphones glinted in the late sun.

jay stood at their center, immaculate in his polo whites, his smile as polished as the silver cups displayed in the clubhouse. he shone under the sunlight, glimming like a universal dream.

the journalists circled him, a swirling mass of questions ricocheting off one another, hungry for soundbites about the prince of polo’s fabled comeback. their voices merged into a single, insistent roar.

“vultures,” coach grumbled under his breath. “every last one.”

but then, amid the chaos, jay’s gaze broke free and found yours. his smile changed. less practiced, unexpectedly warm. he lifted his hand in greeting, momentarily oblivious to the reporter repeating his question, intent only on you.

your heart ached, a sharp burn spreading like a wild flame.

later on the whistle blew. the game began in a blur of pounding hooves and sunlit dust.

jay rode with the elegance of someone born to the saddle. every swing clean, every turn precise, as if the months away had only honed his hunger. yet, as the minutes wore on, you saw the strain in his jaw, the white-knuckled grip on his mallet, the subtle hitch in his right arm.

coach cursed softly, his words nearly lost in the din. “he’s pushing too hard.”

and sure enough, jay was sidelined, frustration etched deep in his features as he cantered off toward the stables, head bowed.

“you should check on him,” coach said, his tone gentler now.

you nodded, slipping away from the noise and the crowd, your footsteps echoing in the quieter corridors behind the stables. you found jay with his back to you, hands moving in slow, gentle circles over his horse’s withers, as if searching for solace in the animal’s steady breath.

“you did well,” you offered quietly.

he turned, the tension in his shoulders slackening just a fraction. beautiful, sunken, and shaded. “you think so?”

“i know it,” you replied, reaching to test the motion of his arm. “see? no overexertion. that’s real progress. any pain?”

jay shook his head, his eyes searching yours as if for reassurance he dared not voice. “i’m glad you’re here,” he said at last.

you tried to make light of it. “who else would put up with you when you need patching up?”

he shook his head, more earnest now. “no, really. i mean it. i’m just… glad to see you.”

your heart was about to detonate.

the words lingered in the quiet, thickening the air. you took a step back, needing space, but he caught you with his voice.

“wanna go for a ride?”

you hesitated. “but your game—”

he shrugged, resigned. “we both know i’m done for today. besides, she’s got energy to burn.”

you protested half-heartedly, but jay’s grin was infectious, and soon you relented. he swung up onto his horse, then reached down, hand outstretched.

you took it, letting him pull you up behind him, your hands finding purchase at his waist.

“ready?” he asked, looking back at you.

“yes,” you began, gripping the saddle. but his hand covered yours, moving it over his waist.

“it’s safer here,” he said softly, almost teasing. “you know that.”

the two of you crossed the fields, the steady rhythm of the horse’s gait soothing the ache of disappointment. the world felt smaller out here, bordered by the scent of rain and the whisper of grass.

“do you miss it?” jay asked quietly. “competing?”

“sometimes,” you admitted. “but i try not to dwell. life doesn’t stop just because one dream fades.”

he was silent for a long time. “that’s your superpower,” he said finally.

you frowned, brow furrowing. “what is?”

“making hardships feel… smaller. like they’re just passing weather. you always know how to quiet the noise in my head.”

“soon enough, you won’t need me for that.”

he made a low sound of protest. “you really believe that?”

“yeah. you’ll recover.”

“no,” he said, voice rough. “that i won’t need you.”

before you could answer, thunder cracked, slicing through the moment.

“we should head back,” you said, nerves prickling.

rain broke, sudden and cold, chasing you to the stables. by the time you arrived, both of you were drenched, laughing breathlessly as jay lifted you down, his hands steady at your waist. the horse shook herself, spraying you both, and you laughed harder, warmth blooming in your chest.

“she’s a jokester, your horse,” you said, pushing wet hair from your eyes.

“she knows exactly what she’s doing,” jay replied, grinning through the rain.

the laughter faded, replaced by a different tension. jay’s hands lingered, his face so close you could feel his breath. he reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. your hearted beated, out if control, out of control, out of control.

“i need to tell you something—”

“jay?” a new voice, crisp and clear, cut through the hush.

you turned. a woman stood beneath the stable’s eaves, dry in a perfect coat, her umbrella a shield against the weather.

she crossed to jay, kissed his cheek, and wiped away the trace of lipstick she left behind.

“you’re soaked, honey. where did you go?” her voice was smooth, practiced.

jay didn’t answer. his eyes stayed on you.

she followed his gaze, her smile polite but razor-edged. “you must be the therapist. i’m f/n, jay’s fiancée.” she slipped an arm around his waist, heedless of his sodden clothes. “i see you’re working overtime to fix him.”

it feels there’s a hole ripped in your chest.

you forced a smile, masking the sting. “we were just talking. about how he won’t need me much longer.”

“y/n—” jay’s voice broke, desperate.

but you were already walking away, heart pounding, not trusting yourself to look back. “until next time, mr. park.”

that night, you scrubbed your skin until it was raw and red.

you worked his arm through the last series of stretches. jay sat on the bench, expression unreadable, gaze somewhere over your shoulder.

“here,” you instructed, adjusting the angle of his elbow. “this is where you should feel it tense. hold for five… four…”

he obeyed silently. for once, he didn’t argue. but the silence wasn’t peaceful. it was something taut, strung between you.

the coach hovered nearby, scrolling through his phone, then suddenly glanced up. “i’ll just take this call. keep up the good work!” he walked a few paces off, phone pressed to his ear.

the moment his back was turned, jay leaned forward, his breath brushing against your temple. “are you really not going to talk to me?”

you didn’t flinch, didn’t look at him. “i am talking to you. one more set.” your voice was calm, clinical.

but when the coach’s voice drifted farther away, jay suddenly stood, looming over you. his shadow fell across your face, the rich scent of his cologne wrapping around you until you had nowhere to look but up.

the room shifts and strains with tension, so close to breaking. always close to something.

“it’s not what it looks like,” he said, low, urgent.

you arched a brow, feigning confusion. “and what exactly is it?”

“we’re engaged, yes. but i’m not in love with her.”

your laugh was short, bitter. “that’s the kind of thing men always say when they’re caught in someone else’s arms.” his brows pulled together, but before he could speak, you clipped, “you’re finished. that was your last session.”

you turned on your heel, striding toward the field.

for a moment, he was frozen, baffled. then—“what do you mean, last session?” his footsteps pounded behind you.

“you’ve completed the program, mr. park,” you reminded him briskly. “your arm’s healed. good as new.”

“you’re leaving me.” his voice wasn’t angry this time. it was raw.

“you mean i’ve done my job.”

“we’re not done, y/n.”

“there’s no we here.”

he caught your arm, gently but firmly, halting you. carefully drew you back to him, hands aching in want. what do you want? what do you want? what do you want? his body towered over yours, eyes burning down into yours. “there is. and you know it.”

you stared at him, pulse quick. “if you don’t feel ready, then hire a new therapist.”

“i don’t want a new therapist. i want you.”

“i’m booked,” you snapped, yanking your arm back.

he exhaled, frustrated. “i don’t mean it like that and you know it.”

you froze, eyes meeting his. his voice was softer now, a desperate tone.

“you’re engaged,” you whispered, pressing a hand against his chest, shoving lightly to create space before walking again.

“she was chosen for me,” he said suddenly, voice breaking through the air between you. “our families arranged it. it’s business, it benefits both sides.”

you stopped dead. “…what?”

“i don’t love her,” jay admitted, each word heavier than the last. his tone wasn’t defensive, it was pleading.

your throat tightened. “why should i believe that?”

“because it’s the truth. ask around. ask coach. please—” he caught up to you, reaching for your hand this time, not by accident, not disguised as anything else. friends. his fingers laced with yours deliberately. “please, believe me.”

you stared at him, heat rushing to your cheeks, but forced your voice steady. “even if it is true, what difference does that make? i don’t like you.”

his eyes darkened, lips twitching into the faintest, pained smile. “i don’t believe you.” he stepped closer, erasing the space between you.

“i’ve never even thought of you in that way,” you said firmly, but your voice wavered.

“liar,” he whispered, his lips so close you could feel the ghost of his breath.

“jay… this is unprofessional,” you murmured, barely audible.

his mouth curved against the edge of yours. “good thing you’re not my therapist anymore.”

and before you could move, his lips pressed to yours. hot, urgent, breaking every line you swore you wouldn’t cross.

time seemed to splinter as his lips claimed yours desperate.

the world dissolved into sensation: his breath, jagged and ragged, mingled with yours, the heat of his body pressed so close you could feel the wild thrum of his heart against your chest. out of control, out of control, out of control.

for a heartbeat, you were marble, stunned by the audacity and the heat of him, your fingers curled helplessly in the fabric of his shirt, clutching at him like a lifeline.

then sensation flooded in: the rough silk of his mouth, the electric jolt as your body moved of its own volition, betraying every denial you had rehearsed. the taste of rain and adrenaline clung to him, grounding you in the impossible moment.

his hand found your jaw, gentle and commanding, thumb tracing the line of your cheek as if memorizing it, tilting your face so the kiss deepened. so you could lose yourself, just for a breath, in the ache you swore you would never admit.

your chest tightened, a storm gathering under your skin. his hand splayed at your waist, fingers trembling almost imperceptibly, as if he was just as close to unraveling as you.

god, it was far too easy to collapse into him, to surrender to the gravity between you, as if you’d been falling for years and only just realized the ground was gone. every muscle in your body seemed crave the shape of his arms around you, the safety and the danger intertwined in his hold.

but reality crashed in. merciless and cold.

somewhere, a door slammed, a distant voice called, and the spell shattered.

with a gasp, you shoved against his chest, tearing yourself away, the force of it leaving your palms tingling. his cologne, his warmth, the echo of his lips. all of it clung to your skin, dizzying and inescapable. your breath came in shallow, ragged bursts, and for a moment all you could do was stare, stunned by what you had let happen.

“jay,” you hissed, taking a step back. “that was—no. we can’t.”

he stood there, lips parted, breathing hard, eyes searching yours. “you kissed me back.”

your cheeks burned, your hands curling into fists. “i stopped it.”

“you didn’t want to.” his voice was steady, quiet. but his gaze was fire, pinning you in place.

“don’t twist this,” you snapped. “this—whatever this is—can’t happen. you’re engaged.”

his jaw flexed. “i told you, it’s not real. it’s politics, family, business. everything but love. you’re the only one i—”

“stop.” you cut him off before he could finish, shaking your head. “you can’t just throw that at me because you’re unhappy in an arrangement.”

he took a step closer, towering again, but softer this time, as if afraid you’d run. “y/n… i meant what i said. i need you.”

you exhaled, forcing yourself to stand firm. “you need a therapist. not me. not like this.”

“you think i can’t tell the difference?” his voice cracked with frustration. “you think i would risk everything just to play games with you?”

your chest ached, but you forced the words out. “risking everything isn’t the same as loving someone, jay.”

for the first time, his confidence faltered. he looked at you like the ground beneath him had shifted, like your words had stolen his balance.

and before either of you could speak again, coach’s voice called distantly from across the field. “y/n! jay! you two done?”

you quickly bent, stuffing your things into your bag, heart pounding. “yes, coach.” your voice was steady, but your hands shook.

jay’s eyes stayed locked on you, unreadable.

as you slung the bag over your shoulder, you met his gaze. “this won’t ever happen again.”

“y/n.”

you stopped, spine stiff, before turning. jay stood there, polo uniform replaced by a crisp shirt and slacks. he looked less like an athlete and more like the heir everyone said he was. more and more out of reach.

but his eyes. they weren’t composed. they were stormy, restless, raging in sadness.

“i told you,” you said flatly. “this can’t happen again.”

“i’m not going to apologize for the kiss.” his tone was sharp, cutting through the night air. “i don’t regret it.”

you exhaled, shaking your head. “then you should be talking to your fiancée, not me.”

“i told you, she isn’t—”

“jay,” you cut him off, voice rising. “you can’t drag me into your mess because you’re unhappy with your life. i won’t be your excuse for why you can’t go through with it.”

his jaw tightened, but then he stepped closer, voice lower, rawer. “you think that’s what this is? you think i want you because i’m cornered? no. i want you because—” his throat worked, the words sticking before finally breaking free. “because when you look at me, you don’t see the title. or the money. or the mistakes. you just… see me. and no one else ever has.”

your chest clenched, but you forced yourself to look away. “that doesn’t change anything.”

“it changes everything,” he countered quickly, desperate. “it means this isn’t one-sided. you feel it too. you can’t deny it.”

you tried to keep your tone steady, professional. “what i feel doesn’t matter. what matters is that you’re engaged, and i won’t be the other woman in your story.”

jay ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “you’re not the other woman. you’re the only woman. the only one i—” he stopped, cutting himself off before the words spilled too far.

silence fell, heavy between you.

finally, you whispered, “you’re asking me to destroy myself for you.” this time your voice broke with the very last word.

“i’m asking you to believe me,” he said quietly, almost begging. “to believe that i’ll find a way out. that i’ll choose you, if you will let me.”

jay was on his knees now, unraveling that much morec and you felt that too, felt the relief and the terror and the exhaustion in that, felt the helplessness in how he clung to you.

you swallowed hard, heart thundering. for the first time, jay didn’t look like the arrogant prince or the angry athlete. he just looked… human. vulnerable.

and that terrified you more than anything.

the storm had never stopped.

rain raged outside, wind howling through the cracks in the ancient barn, each gust making the weathered wood groan and shudder as if it might splinter apart at any moment. water hammered the tin roof in relentless sheets, drowning out all but the frantic heartbeat in your chest.

you ran your hand slowly down the side of your horse’s neck, feeling the quiver of her muscles beneath your palm. her breath hot and panicked as she tossed her head, eyes rolling at each crack of thunder. you whispered meaningless reassurances, words lost to the storm, but your touch was steady, grounding both of you as lightning painted the world outside in stark, blinding white.

your phone was abandoned in your jacket pocket, the screen still buzzing with notifications. the headlines had been everywhere all day:

“prince of polo returns, better than ever.” “park heir calls off engagement in shocking move.” “families in turmoil as jay park chooses career, not tradition.”

you hadn’t dared read past the titles.

you knew you had to forget it. the love and the hate. the pain and the anger and the lust. all of it. it rests heavy on your shoulders, insistent and pounding, demanding to be thought about.

you have to bury it all. beat it down to a secret.

“did you see?”

the voice cut through the thunder, and your stomach dropped.

you spun so fast your vision blurred, heart leaping into your throat as you gripped the edge of the stall for support. framed in the barn doorway stood jay, his silhouette carved sharply against the storm.

droplets ran off him in streams, his shirt plastered to his skin and clinging to every line of muscle and exhaustion. his hair was soaked, black strands dripping into his eyes, and those eyes. wild, desperate, searching the gloom until they found you. they seemed to blaze with a thousand unspoken words.

for a moment, neither of you moved, the world narrowing to the space between his trembling form and your frozen one.

“jay,” you breathed.

he stepped into the barn, mud sucking at his boots, each stride heavy with the weight of sleepless nights and impossible choices. he looked older than you remembered, the sharp cut of his jaw tense, shoulders hunched as if he bore the storm itself on his back.

“did you see the headlines?” the words tumbled out, his voice raw and uneven. not with the anger he wore, not laced with pride, but trembling at the edges with something that sounded dangerously close to fear.

you swallowed, words sticking in your throat.

“i broke it off with her,” he confessed, his voice barely carrying over the sound of rain. he took another step closer, leaving a trail of water and mud behind him, the storm raging at his back like a living thing desperate to reclaim him. “the arrangement. the families. all of it. i ended it. i threw it away.” his words were almost frantic, as if saying them aloud made the consequences all the more inescapable.

you shook your head, barely finding your voice. “do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

“yes.” his eyes burned into yours, unflinching. “i’ve done the only thing that felt right. for once.”

the horses shifted behind you, but you couldn’t move, pinned by his gaze.

“y/n…” your name left his lips like a prayer, a plea, soft enough to be lost in the thunder. “i don’t care if i win, if i lose, if they strip everything from me. let them take the trophies, the horses, the name— none of it matters anymore. i can rebuild all of it.” he paused, his breath catching in his throat, voice splintering with the force of everything he’d never let himself admit. “but i can’t—” he choked, shaking his head as if the words themselves hurt. “i can’t rebuild if i lose you.”

the confession hung between you, heavy and trembling with hope and fear.

your chest tightened, his words cutting straight through the walls you hadd built.

“you can say no. you can tell me i’m insane, reckless, selfish. you would be right,” he went on, stepping closer, closing the distance. “but don’t say i didn’t mean it. don’t say you don’t feel it too.”

silence hung thick, the storm thrashing against the barn walls, his shoulders dripping rain onto the dirt floor.

finally, you whispered, “jay… what happens if i let you in?”

his hand reached for yours, fingers trembling. not with weakness, but with the impossible weight of the choice he had made.

rain dripped from his hair, tracing the lines of his cheeks as he looked at you, his eyes shining with the last, fragile hope he dared to hold. you ached to wipe the darkness under his eyes. “then it means everything i gave up… was worth it. every sacrifice, every headline, every sleepless night.”

you stared at him, at the soaked hair clinging to his forehead, at the rawness in his face. beautiful, sunken: and shades. slowly, against every instinct that told you to run, your fingers slipped into his.

and for the first time, jay didn’t look like the untouchable prince of polo, the heir with the world at his feet.

he just looked like a man. witnessing your heartbreaker break into a thousand of pieces.

soaked and shivering, stripped of every armor. who had chosen you above everything he’d ever known. in the silence that followed, the storm became simply a distant drum, and you realized you were no longer afraid.

the sun dipped low, gilding the field in syrupy gold as you lingered at the edge, clipboard in hand, heart ticking with every beat of hooves. jay rode differently today; his swings were cleaner, his focus unbreakable. yet you noticed the tightness in his shoulder, the shadow of old pain. you opened your mouth, ready to call it, when his horse’s hoof struck a hidden divot. in a blur, beast and rider faltered, and the world seemed to tilt.

jay was airborne, a flash of motion, a gasp ripped from your lungs, as he crashed into the dirt, the thud echoing in your bones. his mallet spun uselessly into the grass, a stray relic of the fall.

“jay!” your clipboard hit the earth with a hollow clatter, forgotten as you dashed to his side and knelt in the churned dirt. panic surged through you, sharp and electric. “are you okay?”

for a heartbeat, pain carved deep lines across his face. then, with a ragged breath, he managed a crooked, familiar grin. “worried about me?”

relief crashed through you, sharp and overwhelming, leaving your throat tight. you scowled at him, brushing grit from his sleeve as your fingers checked for injury. “it’s my job, idiot.”

he tried to chuckle, though it twisted into a wince. “unprofessional… calling your client an idiot.”

“unprofessional,” you shot back, gently rotating his shoulder, “is making me think i’d have to call an ambulance because you forgot how to sit a horse.”

he winced, but managed to lift his arm a few inches. “see? still works.”

“barely,” you muttered, but the knot in your chest began to unravel.

his gaze caught yours, softer now, all the bravado stripped away. “you really were worried about me.”

you swallowed hard, rising to offer your hand. “don’t make me regret it.”

he clasped your hand, his grip warm and rough. as you hauled him up, he didn’t let go, just tugged you that much closer, close enough that you could breathe in earth, leather, and the unmistakable scent of him.

“jay,” you warned, but your voice was softer than you intended, trembling on the edge of something new.

his grin spread, slow, a little reckless, but his eyes held only honesty. “what? you’re off the clock now.”

before you could think, his mouth met yours, tentative at first, tasting the promise there. your hand fisted in his shirt, holding tight. the kiss deepened, weeks of tension unraveling in a single, breathless moment. when you finally parted, the world spun, remade.

“still unprofessional,” you murmured, lips quirking despite yourself.

“good thing you’re not just my therapist anymore,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to yours.

when you were kids, he was the one pulling you out of trouble before you even knew you were in it. the one who stood in front of you, not beside you. the one who made sure fear was never something you had to carry alone.

he used to shake his head and say, ‘if i ever take my eyes off you, you'll probably walk straight into the lion’s den, grinning.’

so he never did.

when a kid shoved you on the schoolyard, caleb shoved back harder, fists curled so tight his knuckles turned white. when you scraped your knees, he carried you home without a word, his grip solid, unyielding, while he muttered under his breath about how you ‘collect bruises like they're going out of style.’

and when you cried, he wiped your tears with the sleeve of his shirt, pressing a crumpled paper flower into your hands, like that alone could stop the world from hurting you.

but things changed when you got older.

you stopped letting him fight your battles. you found your own footing, learned how to stand on your own. you learned how to throw a punch, how to set your own broken bones, how to keep moving even when it hurt.

caleb never stopped watching, though.

even when you didn’t notice.

even when you pretended you didn’t need him to.

the day you told him you wanted to be a deepspace hunter, he didn't just freeze.

he shattered.

his breath left him in a sharp exhale, like you had just knocked the air from his lungs. his fingers twitched at his sides, hands balling into fists before dragging down his face, like he was trying to physically push the thought away.

‘please tell me you're joking.’

you laughed, expecting him to roll his eyes, maybe tease you, maybe remind you that you always said you hated deep space, that you got restless when the sky felt too big.

but he didn't.

instead, he looked at you like you had just told him you were already dead.

his hands found your shoulders, too tight, too desperate.

‘do you even know what that job does to people?’ his voice was raw, strained, barely holding itself together. ‘it’s not like the stories. it’s not some grand adventure. it’s danger, it’s war, it’s dying alone in a place where no one can reach you.’

his fingers trembled as they brushed over your jaw.

‘and i can't stop it.’

his amethyst eyes burned into yours, but there was no anger there, no lecture, just something hollow and breaking, something that terrified you more than anything else.

because caleb never looked afraid.

and now he did.

he let out a shaky breath, his thumb ghosting over your lips, hesitant, reverent, like he was trying to memorize you, like he was already losing you. he looks broken. it terrified you. you didn’t recognise this boy.

‘you can’t go first.’

his voice cracked, and you felt it in your chest. your heart constricted.

‘i won't be able to handle it.’

for the first time in your life, you saw it.

the unbearable thought of your absence unraveling inside him, twisting, tearing him apart from the inside out.

he had always been bigger, faster, stronger.

but he wouldn’t be if you left first.

but now—

here you are.

standing at his funeral.

keeping his promise.

your hands are shaking, fingers curled so tightly into your palms that your nails leave crescent-shaped welts in your skin. you press harder, chasing the pain, grounding yourself in it. if you let go, you might fall. you don’t trust yourself to stay standing otherwise.

the air is thick, too still, too heavy. it presses down on you like a weight you were never meant to carry. every breath feels sharp, like broken glass slicing down your throat.

the radio crackles. the sound cuts through the silence, sharp and intrusive, like it has no place in a moment like this.

'this is skyhaven to maverick. maverick, do you copy?'

you don’t breathe. you don’t move. the question hangs in the air, unanswered.

out of all the promises caleb made, you had always hoped he would break this one. he had made it sound so simple back then. like it was a certainty. like it wasn’t something he would ever have to prove.

but he didn’t break it.

he kept it.

and now, he’s gone.

the radio crackles again, and the voice that follows is calm, detached, unshaken.

'maverick, this is skyhaven making a final call.'

your throat tightens. the words hit like a fist to the ribs, knocking something loose inside you. tears burn your eyes, spill hot and unrelenting down your face, but you don’t make a sound. you won’t let yourself.

you can’t even see him. there is no casket, no body to bury, no grave to kneel beside. just a flag-draped podium where his presence should have been.

you got the stories in bits and pieces, filtering through the layers of horror and disbelief and the curl of your own desperate fingers around your ears.

his body was lost in the fire. swallowed whole by the explosion. burned to dust.

gone before he ever had a chance to be saved.

the aftermath was more crucial than the explosion. your own heartbreak was the most painful — gone with caleb, empty vesseled and unbeating heart.

you were a hunter. a fighter. trained to survive. conditioned to protect. you have spent your whole life knowing how to fight for the people who matter.

and yet, here you are.

standing here, fists clenched at your sides, shoulders trembling, stomach twisting.

unable to save the one person who mattered most.

the radio hums again, static stretching out into silence.

'maverick has gone west.'

the words land like a killing blow.

you’ve heard them before. over the radio. in passing. whispered in mourning. spoken in honor of pilots who never made it home.

but it shouldn't be him.

never for caleb.

your breath shudders, ragged and uneven. your stomach twists violently, nausea curling at the edges of your grief. you try to steady yourself, but your legs feel weak, the ground beneath you unstable.

'he has flown his final mission. he is now cleared for one last flight.'

your fingers curl into fists, arms shaking. you don’t want to hear this. you don’t want to accept it. you don’t want this to be real.

the radio crackles one last time. then silence.

and it is unbearable.

his uniform was neatly pressed, his gloves tucked into his belt, his dog tags resting cool against his chest. every detail was in place, crisp and methodical, like he had all the time in the world. like this was just another mission, just another day.

you stood by the doorway, arms crossed, watching him pack the last of his things. you had seen this routine before—him neatly folding his spare shirts, tucking an extra pair of gloves into his bag, double-checking that he had everything. it was muscle memory by now. for him. for you.

'take care, alright?'

you tried to sound casual, but it didn’t quite land the way you wanted it to.

he smirked, stuffing the last shirt into his bag before glancing at you.

'you know i always do.' his voice was light, easy, like this was nothing. but his eyes told a different story. they lingered too long, steady and searching, taking you in like he was trying to memorize every detail.

he stepped closer, his fingers brushing over your wrist before reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. his touch didn’t leave. his fingers lingered at the back of your neck, his thumb tracing lightly over your skin.

'i always make sure to come home to you.'

the words settled between you, heavy, unshakable.

you swallowed against the tightness in your throat. 'yeah, well, maybe try staying out of trouble for once. that’d make things easier.'

he let out a breath, half a laugh, half something else. 'as if your job is any safer.'

your brows pulled together, but before you could argue, he shook his head.

'no, really. my job is dangerous, sure. but yours?' his voice dipped lower, more serious now. 'your job will always be more dangerous.'

you blinked. 'that’s not true.'

'it is,' he said simply. 'when i'm flying, at least i have a destination. a mission. a way back. you? you're always out there, always on the ground, always in the middle of it. you don’t get an eject button. you don’t get altitude. you don’t get a second chance if something goes wrong.'

he paused, searching your face.

'when i’m up there, you’re the way home.'

your throat tightened.

'caleb—'

'no, just—' his fingers pressed in gently against your skin, like he needed you to hear him. 'i know what i signed up for. i know what it means to fly. but you? you scare me more than anything else.'

you let out a shaky breath. 'i know what i’m doing.'

'so do i,' he murmured. 'doesn’t mean i worry any less.'

he exhaled softly, lowering his forehead to rest against yours for a second. just a second. just long enough for you to feel the weight of it all. then, without a word, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, slow and lingering, before settling his hands on your waist.

he didn’t pull away.

his arms wrapped around you, holding you there, pulling you into his chest, tighter than usual. it was different this time. the hug lasted too long, like he wasn’t ready to let go, like he was memorizing the way you felt against him.

you listed to his uneven inhale, exhale, his chest warm against your cheek, the spot where his heart thuds steadily. you felt his breath against your hair, warm and steady, but when he spoke again, it was quieter than before.

'i love you, you know that right?'

your chest ached at the softness of it.

'of course i do.'

he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands moving up to cradle your face. his thumbs brushed over your cheekbones, slow and careful, like he was trying to map out the details of you in his head. all the contours on you face, depths, highlights, sinking in, popping out, slopes, textures, tones.

'no.' his brows furrowed slightly, his expression heavier now, something unreadable in his purple eyes. 'i don’t think you know by how much.'

you opened your mouth, but no words came.

then, after a moment, he let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening slightly against your skin.

'will you miss me?'

will you miss me?

will you miss me?

will you miss me?

the question felt heavier than it should have.

this question holds a vice-grip onyour heart. he always told the truth. always, always the first one to admit what he felt.

you had missed him before he even left. you had missed him in the way he stood there, uniform neat, bag packed, already halfway gone. you missed him in the way his presence had always filled the room, grounding you without even trying.

you missed him in the spaces he would leave behind—the empty chair at the table, the sound of his voice teasing you over the comms, the warmth of his hand at the small of your back, guiding you without thinking.

and you missed him now, standing right in front of you.

you forced a shaky smile, trying to push past the lump in your throat. 'you’re not even gone yet.'

'that doesn’t answer my question.'

his voice was soft, but pointed. he already knew the answer. he just wanted to hear you say it.

you exhaled, your fingers curling into the fabric of his uniform, holding onto him just a little longer.

'you know i will.'

you wished you had said it more. wished you had said it like it was pulling you apart. wished you had said it the way he needed to hear it, the way he meant it.

but you didn’t.

and you didn’t know it was going to be your last conversation.

the final words come through the radio.

'rest easy, maverick. we have the watch from here.'

your knees nearly buckle.

the roar of aircrafts cuts through the silence, engines rumbling like distant thunder. the sound reverberates in your chest, too loud, too final, shaking the air around you.

you tilt your head upward, watching as they carve through the sky in perfect formation, wings slicing clean through the clouds.

you don’t blink. you don’t breathe.

your nails dig into your palms, grounding yourself in the sting, in the pressure, in anything that might keep you from collapsing.

and then, just as you knew it would, the lead plane slowly pulls away.

the movement is precise, calculated. one aircraft breaking from the group, separating from the others.

gone.

the missing man disappearing into the sky.

your heart clenches so tight it feels like something is tearing inside you.

'may you have fair winds, clear skies, and a smooth landing in the heavens.'

your breath shudders.

your hands are shaking.

you wanted to hate him.

hate him for keeping his promise when you begged the universe for him to break it.

hate him for leaving you behind.

because he had promised to protect you first.

but how could he protect your heart if he wasn’t here anymore?

you close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. the grief doesn’t settle. it presses against your ribs, tight and suffocating, demanding to be felt.

tears slip down your cheeks, silent and unstoppable. a prayer forms on your lips, but it never makes it past your throat.

because he was supposed to come home.

he always came home.

but not this time.

this time, he kept his promise.

and you were the one who had to live with it.

the rain stings against your skin, sharp and cold, soaking through your uniform, pressing into your bones. the storm rages above you, the sky alive with violent winds and rolling thunder, shaking the ground beneath your feet.

your mission had already gone to hell. comms were down. extraction was uncertain. the others were missing.

you were alone. or at least, you thought you were.

then—

a crack of wood.

your body reacts before your mind catches up. you spin on instinct, pistol raised, finger hovering over the trigger, breath caught in your throat.

the storm howls, wind cutting through the trees, shifting the shadows. you scan the darkness, your pulse hammering against your ribs.

then—

a figure.

standing just beyond the reach of your flashlight, barely visible through the mist and rain. unmoving. watching.

your stomach knots.

this site is restricted. no one should be here.

you tighten your grip on the gun, keeping it steady, keeping yourself steady.

'don’t move, or i’ll shoot.' your voice cuts through the wind, sharp, commanding, unwavering.

but the figure takes a step forward. no hesitation. no fear. lightning splits the sky for just a second, you try to determine what kind of wanderer it is—

but you see him.

broad shoulders. familiar stance. the presence that should not be here.

your stomach lurches, your world tilts. it’s not possible.

'stop.' your voice wavers now, your hands trembling. 'i said don’t move.'

but he doesn’t listen.

then, his voice.

'pipsqueak.'

your breath catches. your hands shake. and in pure instinct. you load your gun. because this isn’t real. this must be a trick. must be his evol.

his power, his ghost, his memory. something playing with your head.

it can’t be him. it can’t.

then—

you see it.

the pendant hanging from his neck. the apple. the one you gave him.

your mind stutters, your body locks up, unable to process what you’re seeing.

that was his.

he promised he’d never take it off.

you shouldn’t let him come closer. but you do. and he steps forward, slow, and careful, like he knows you need time to believe it. like he doesn’t want to scare you away.

and you're not. because it’s him.

caleb.

his hair is longer, messier. his jaw is sharper, his shoulders broader, his body somehow more muscled, like he has been built for something heavier, something harsher.

he looks stronger. and yet, he looks tired. he's pale and tired, not the same caleb that you used to know and has always loved. he was nothing but an empty vessel of what he used to be. there’s sadness in the slope of his shoulders, how he meets your eyes and just stares. you ached to wipe away the darkness underneath them.

then, you see it. his arm.

metal.

not the sleek kind, not the kind that blends seamlessly, but raw, exposed, incomplete. bolted together like a machine that wasn’t supposed to exist. wires spill from the joints, sparking faintly in the rain.

then, electricity crackles through it.

and suddenly, he jerks.

his body tenses as a shock ripples through him, his breath hitching in pain.

your heart stops.

he takes another step, another jolt.

his face contorts, teeth grinding, a hiss of pain slipping from his lips. like something is stopping him. like a dog collar designed to keep him from getting too close.

your stomach drops.

someone did this to him. someone made him like this. darkness is far too prominent, like suffocation trying to scourge some relief, he's breaking his own body. but he doesn’t stop moving. he keeps pushing forward, his entire body fighting whatever is trying to hold him back.

lightning flashes again—

and you see it all.

the scars. the bruises. the exhaustion deep in his face, carved into his features like he’s been living through hell.

then his eyes meet yours.

and they are still his. still amethyst. still full of something deep, something heavy, something so desperate it makes your throat close.

his breath is uneven, his voice wrecked, hoarse, raw. 'it’s me, baby.'

your chest caves in. you can’t move.

you convince yourself to run, and then you felt the magnetic draw of caleb, caleb, caleb, the faithfulness you never asked for, but the feeling that clung to your skin and eats away your insides.

your gun is still raised, hands still shaking, mind still screaming at you that this isn’t possible.

you buried him. you mourned him. you listened to his final call.

but here he is. standing in front of you.

alive, alive, alive.

there’s no hiding the hysteria in your voice. your knuckles turning white where you gripped the pistol, and there’s angry marks in your skin where you’re trying not to cry. your body trembles, every part of you screaming, aching, breaking under the weight of it all.

soft, roaring thunder, and deep glacial blue. your heart doesn’t know what to do, and falters. caleb is alive. but not the same.

‘i’m sorry it took me so long to come home.’

he stops mid-step, turning to face you. ‘rotation?’

you hold his gaze. ‘you know what i mean.’

his jaw tenses. ‘you knew what this was,’ he says, voice low, careful.

‘i did,’ you agree. ‘and now i know i don’t want it.’

he drags a hand down his face, shaking his head. ‘i thought everything was fine.’

‘it was,’ you admit. ‘but i’m a ‘girlfriend’ kind of girl, rafe. i have boyfriends, not fuck buddies.’

rafe lets out a dry laugh, almost disbelieving. he starts pacing again, steps restless, like he needs to move or he’ll explode.

then, from outside, a familiar voice cuts through the tension.

‘rafe! come on, man, we’re waiting!’ topper, followed by laughter and girls’ voices, high and sweet.

your stomach turns, but you don’t react. instead, you nod toward the door.

‘you should go,’ you say softly.

a pause, a sharp inhale. his jaw clenches. ‘we’re not done.’

‘i said what i needed to say.’ you swallow the lump in your throat. ‘you have girls waiting for you.’

he stops pacing. his expression hardens. ‘you think that’s what this is about?’

‘i think it doesn’t matter,’ you answer. ‘because you’re not my boyfriend, and you don’t owe me anything.’

his hands curl into fists at his sides. ‘you’re doing that thing again.’

‘what thing?’

‘acting like you don’t care.’

you inhale sharply. ‘i do care, rafe. that’s the problem.’

something flickers in his expression. for the first time, he looks uncertain. like this wasn’t supposed to happen. like he never considered the possibility of you walking away.

he starts pacing again, steps quicker now, frustration rolling off him in waves. ‘so what? you’re just done?’

you nod. ‘yeah.’

he stops. looks at you. then, after a beat, he says, ‘fine.’

you hesitate. ‘fine, what?’

‘i’ll be your boyfriend.’

you blink, caught off guard. ‘what?’

‘you want a relationship?’ he shrugs, like it’s the easiest fix in the world. ‘done.’

‘that’s not how this works.’

‘why not?’ his voice is sharper now, defensive. ‘you said you don’t want to be just another girl— fine. be my girlfriend.’

you shake your head, a humorless laugh escaping. ‘jesus, rafe.’

‘what?’

‘you don’t even want to be my boyfriend. you just don’t want to see me with someone else.’

his jaw tightens, and for the first time, he stops pacing. stands still.

‘you can’t just decide to be in a relationship because you don’t like the idea of losing me,’ you say, voice softer now. ‘that’s not love, rafe. that’s possession.’

his lips part slightly, but no words come out.

‘you don’t know how to do this,’ you continue gently. ‘how to be with someone in a way that isn’t just about control.’

he exhales, slow and deep, fingers rubbing at his jaw as he looks away for a moment. when he meets your gaze again, there’s something different there. hesitation, sure. but also something you weren’t expecting.

fear.

‘i don’t want to lose you,’ he admits, voice quiet now.

your breath catches. ‘then be better.’

rafe swallows. ‘tell me how.’

‘you already know how,’ you whisper. ‘you just have to choose it.’

the silence stretches between you again, but this time, it’s different.

it’s not heavy. it’s hopeful.

then, from outside, topper calls out again. ‘rafe! you coming or what?’

rafe doesn’t even look toward the door.

‘nah,’ he calls back, eyes still locked on yours. ‘i’m good.’

your heart was about to try to break out from behind your ribs.

his gaze softens. ‘stay?’

you hesitate. ‘rafe—’

he shakes his head, stepping closer. ‘if i say i can do this, then i can do this.’

you search his face for the lie, the excuse, the escape route he’s bound to take. but there isn’t one.

he raised your hands to his mouth and kissed the tip of each of your fingers in turn. your thumb, your index finger, your middle finger, your ring finger, finally your pinky, and then, your gaze caught the black cross that rested on the centre of his chest.

you wonder if his heart beats steadily.

his lips twitch, just slightly, into the kind of smirk that used to make you roll your eyes. ‘i’ll be the last boyfriend you’ll have,’ he murmurs. ‘you’ll see.’

your chest tightens, but this time, it’s not with dread.

‘okay,’ you whisper.

he grins, triumphant. ‘yeah?’

you exhale, a small smile creeping onto your lips despite yourself.

‘yeah.’

your love for caleb hasn’t changed, but it’s grown into something you didn’t understand. can’t understand. not yet.

but caleb has grown. taller, sharper, still careless with his hair, but just as hopeless at tying his tie in the morning. there’s a natural ease to him now, a quiet confidence that draws people in without effort. he doesn’t just enter a room, he shifts the atmosphere, commanding attention without needing to say a word.

you hear the way the girls in the hallways whisper about him, their voices hushed but excited, their eyes lighting up when he so much as glances in their direction. he’s the kind of person people gravitate toward, like planets drawn to the pull of the sun.

kind. athletic. smart. golden.

the one who remembers names, who helps the new kid find their classes, who scores the winning shot and shrugs like it was never in question.

when caleb talks to people, he makes them feel important, like they’re the only one in the room, like whatever they’re saying is the most interesting thing he’s ever heard. he finds beauty in everything, in everyone, and in return, people can’t help but see the same in him. they admire him, look up to him, want to be close to him.

but they also fear him.

they don’t realize it at first. not until they get too close to you.

at first, you didn’t think much of it.

the way conversations with guys ended abruptly, how some hesitated before sitting next to you, or how your lab partner, who had been openly flirting with you just the day before, suddenly kept his distance. his easy confidence had dulled overnight, his laughter forced, his eyes avoiding yours.

maybe it was just a coincidence, a strange pattern you convinced yourself wasn’t worth questioning. but then it started happening more often. the brief glances, the quiet goodbyes, the way some of caleb’s teammates barely acknowledged you despite knowing that you were close.

still, you never questioned it. because, in the end, it never really bothered you.

caleb had always been like that.

like how he insisted you wear his jersey at his games. the first time, he tossed it at you casually, like it was an afterthought. ‘now they’ll all know exactly who you’re watching.’

you rolled your eyes but pulled it on anyway, ignoring how it smelled faintly of his cologne and sweat. after that, it became a habit. if you ever showed up without it, he’d pull it from his bag and toss it over. no words, no discussion.

or how he always left his jacket with you when you were cold. it didn’t matter if you insisted you were fine. if he caught you rubbing your arms or tucking your hands into your sleeves, his jacket would be around your shoulders before you could protest. warm, a little too big, and never once did he ask for it back.

if you returned it to his room later, he’d only shrug like he hadn’t expected it back in the first place.

and then there were the small things. how he always found a way to sit next to you, even when his friends were at another table. how he would drop by your class between periods, casually placing a snack on your desk before walking off without a word. he never explained why, and you never asked.

maybe you should have questioned it more.

but the thing that stood out the most was that caleb never introduced you as his sister.

it would’ve been the easiest thing to say. it would have explained the connection, the way you were always around each other, how naturally you fit into his life. but he never said it. not once.

until people noticed.

one day, after a game, one of his teammates finally asked.

‘so, she’s your sister, huh?’ the guy grinned, nudging caleb in the ribs.

caleb didn’t respond immediately, just looked at him, unreadable.

the guy smirked, pushing further. ‘should i start calling you brother-in-law, then?’

you expected caleb to laugh it off, maybe roll his eyes or shove the guy off like he usually would. but he didn’t. his response was smooth, controlled, and too even.

‘she’s off-limits.’

there was no room for argument.

his teammate hesitated, raising his hands in mock surrender before forcing out a laugh. ‘damn, man. didn’t know it was like that.’

you didn’t think much of it.

not until a few days later, when that same teammate got injured at practice.

a bad fall, they said.

a collision that left him with a bruised eye and a limp that lasted over a week.

accidents happen all the time in sports. it was easy to write it off as bad luck.

but when you glanced at caleb, standing on the sidelines, unbothered, indifferent with bruises along his knuckles, you felt something shift in your stomach.

maybe you should have been mad. maybe you should have confronted him, called him out, demanded an explanation.

not because it was unfair.

not because it was wrong.

but because you liked it too much.

you liked the way caleb made it impossible for anyone else to get too close. the way his hand lingered at the small of your back when he guided you through a crowded hallway. the way he always waited for you after school, even when you had nothing planned.

the way he looked at you sometimes. like there was something simmering beneath the surface, something unspoken and dangerous and impossible.

and that was the problem.

because he wasn’t yours.

because he was supposed to be your best friend.your family. the one person you shouldn’t want.

you understood now. the love you had for him has grown to fill the spaces you didn’t have when you were a child. it’s grown into longing and desire and jealousy, something so fucking powerful and essential that there isn’t a piece of you that doesn’t love him.

so you did the only thing you could think of.

you avoided him.

at first, caleb let it slide, pretending not to notice the way you pulled away. he let you ignore him in the hallways, let you skip out on lunches, let you slip past him at home without so much as a glance. maybe he thought you just needed space, that whatever was wrong would work itself out on its own.

but after a few weeks, the cracks started to show. he stopped lingering after class, stopped waiting for you outside your door, stopped trying to pull you back into his orbit. the easy confidence he carried dulled, his smirks a little less sharp, his presence not as loud. he wasn’t himself, and he knew it.

then, one day, he cornered you after the last period.

the hallway had mostly emptied, students filtering out in groups, their voices fading into the distance. but caleb wasn’t moving. he stood in front of you, arms crossed, blocking your path, his amethyst eyes sharp and unwavering.

‘you’re avoiding me.’

it wasn’t a question.

your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. ‘i’m not.’

his jaw clenched, his expression unreadable. ‘bullshit.’

you exhaled slowly, willing your voice to stay steady. ‘i’ve just been busy.’

he scoffed, shaking his head. ‘right. too busy to come out of your room? too busy to even lok at me? we live in the same house, y/n. you don’t just disappear on me.’

you swallowed, opening your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. caleb ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply, frustration radiating off of him.

‘so you win. whatever it is i did, i’m sorry. now will you please fucking forgive me and put us both out of our misery?’

the words hit harder than you expected. he thought this was about him. he thought he had done something wrong. and worst of all, he looked miserable. bruises under his eyes, the tell–tale signs of too little sleep. heartbreak seeping through the sunshine boy's skin and weaving its way through his veins and making rivers.

the weight of it crashed into you all at once, the lump in your throat impossible to swallow. before you could stop it, your vision blurred.

caleb’s face shifted the moment he saw the tears, his frustration dissolving into something softer.

his shoulders relaxed, his hands twitching at his sides before he finally reached for you, pulling you in without hesitation. his warmth wrapped around you, solid and steady, his breath slow against your hair. his fingers found their way to your hip, his lips pressing lightly against your forehead, his presence sinking into you in a way that felt painfully familiar.

and you didn’t resist.

because despite everything, despite the space you had tried to put between you, despite how complicated things had become, caleb still felt safe.

so you pressed into his touch, letting yourself breathe him in, letting yourself forget, just for a moment, that you had ever tried to let him go.

friends, friends, friends.

he held you close, his voice rough with emotion. ‘i’m sorry, pipsqueak,’ he muttered against your hair. ‘whatever i did or said, i’m sorry, okay?’

you didn’t answer.

you couldn’t.

because the truth was—

you were the one who needed to apologize.

because this was never about him.

it was about you.

and the fact that no matter how hard you tried, you could never, ever stop wanting him.

too much, too much. you wanted caleb too much, want too much always, but you are not together and you had to accept that.

caleb’s pinky locked into yours. you weren’t sure if it’s another apology or a source of comfort you need in your state, or just plain habit, but he’s touching you (friends, friends, friends) and that’s all you really need to know.

because despite everything, caleb still felt like home.

but home didn’t last.

caleb starts staying out late.

at first, it’s nothing. just a few nights out, a way to kill time.

you hear about it through his teammates, offhand mentions from gran when she asks if he’s home yet. It doesn’t bother you.

caleb has always been social, always had people orbiting around him, always found ways to fill the spaces in his life.

but then it becomes a habit. the late nights turn into early mornings, his weekends disappear into parties, and soon enough, it feels like he’s never home. he moves through the house like a ghost, slipping in while everyone else is asleep and leaving before anyone notices.

and you notice.

you notice the way he comes back smelling like perfume that isn’t his, how his lips are redder than before, how his amethyst eyes seem heavier, dimmer, weighed down by something you don’t recognize. you see the kiss stains on his neck, the scratches down his back.

you wish they hurt. you wish you left them there.

you don’t avoid him, not entirely, but you don’t talk to him the same way. your words are clipped, your tone indifferent. you stop waiting for him after school, stop lingering in doorways to say goodnight, stop reaching for him first.

when he nudges your shoulder, slings an arm around you, tugs on your sleeve like he always does, you pull away before he can get too close.

and caleb notices.

at first, he brushes it off, shrugs like it doesn’t matter. he teases you the way he always does, pokes and prods, waiting for you to roll your eyes and shove him back. but the space between you keeps growing, stretching into something neither of you know how to name.

he stays out later. comes home smelling stronger, marked up worse, his voice hoarse in the mornings like he’s been screaming into the night. he looks at you, waiting for a reaction.

but you don’t give him one.

and for the first time in your life, caleb stops trying.

the sky was falling weeks later when the door of your own room opens. blinking sleepily, you leaned over and flicked on the bedside lamp. he swayed against the wall, there is purple and green pressed all over his skin.

it’s caleb, whose lips are swollen again.

it’s late. too late.

the smell of beer clings to him, mixed with something sweeter. something that isn’t his.

his hoodie is loose, his hair messy, his steps uneven as he leans against your doorframe, eyes heavy-lidded but sharp as they land on you.

‘you mad at me, pipsqueak?’ his voice is lower than usual, playful, teasing, but there’s something behind it. something that isn’t entirely a joke.

your lamp lit up the dark bruise on his neck in a ghastly light. you could still see the fingertips, could feel the ghost of them pressing into his skin. friends.

your hand goes white–knuckled, gripping into the sheets. ‘go to bed, caleb.’

‘i’ll sleep in your bed,’ he mutters, like it’s obvious. like it’s true. like you’ll agree without doubt.

you exhale, shaking your head. ‘you’re drunk.’

‘and?’ he counters, stepping into your space, his smirk faltering just slightly. ‘you say that like it changes anything.’

you don’t answer.

because maybe it doesn’t.

he peeled off his hoodie without a word. there are red fingernail marks on the ridge of his spine and bruises on his hips, signs from the girl with perfume you smelled on him last night, the girl who gets to touch caleb in the places you can’t.

he watches you for a long moment, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to figure something out. and then, finally—

‘i don’t get it.’ his voice is quieter now, more serious. ‘what did i do?’

you settled back against the bed. ‘nothing.’

‘bullshit.’ he laughs, but there’s no humor in it. ‘you’ve barely looked at me in weeks, y/n. you don’t wait for me anymore. you barely talk to me. and every time i try to touch you, you act like it makes you sick.’ his jaw clenches. ‘so tell me. what the hell did i do?’

you should lie. you should push him away. you should say something sharp, something final, something that makes him leave.

but you don’t.

and caleb, drunk and tired and hurting, sees right through you.

when he reached your fingers, he thread them between your own, collecting all the pieces of your conscience and disappearing without a trace, all remnants of your soul in hand.

his expression shifts, something softer flickering across his face. and then—

his fingers graze your cheek, barely there, like he’s testing the distance between you. the touch is slow, hesitant, deliberate. like he knows he shouldn’t, but he’s never been the type to stop himself when it comes to you.

his hand moves to your hair, tucking it behind your ear with practiced ease, like it’s something second nature, like he’s done it so many times before that he doesn’t even have to think about it.

his thumb lingers, brushing over your cheek, tracing the frustration etched into your skin. it’s warm, careful, almost apologetic. like he’s trying to smooth out the anger, the hurt, the weight of everything unspoken between you.

then, softer than you’ve ever heard him, he murmurs, ‘how can i sleep if my favorite girl is mad at me?’

and when you look at him, really look at him, your breath stumbles in your chest. he knew how to do it. how to make you feel like the sun rises in his veins only for you.

because caleb doesn’t just sound tired. he looks it.

the dim light casts hollows into his features, emphasizing the exhaustion settling deep in his bones. his eyes, usually sharp and full of mischief, are duller now, heavier, shadowed by something that feels dangerously close to regret. there’s no cocky grin, no teasing glint.

just quiet, aching exhaustion.

for the first time, caleb looks small. like the saddest man on earth, like he’s holding onto something he doesn’t know how to fix.

you couldn't help but think of the amount of stars that had fallen with every step he took with a frown.

and it wrecks you.

you wanted to hold him, but you knew you’ll be left with burned fingertips and calloused heart.

because he smells like beer and someone else’s perfume. because there are scratches on his back that weren’t made by your hands. because he has no right to touch you this softly after spending his nights with people who don’t know him the way you do.

because no matter how much you wish you didn’t care. you do.

and so, despite everything, despite the weight pressing against your ribs, despite knowing you shouldn’t. out control, out of control, out of—

you kiss him.

for a tense, breathless second, he didn’t move.

his body stiff, frozen, caught somewhere between hesitation and something else entirely.

and then, you felt it.

his hands sliding up, fingers threading into your hair, gripping tight.

and then for a second. just a second. he kisses you back.

it’s desperate, reckless, a collision of everything you’ve been holding back. his lips taste like beer, and you don’t care. your fingers grip his hair, pulling him closer.

his lips crashed against yours, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a hunger that left you breathless.

a quiet moan escaped you, swallowed by the heat of him, by the way his hands moved down, gripping, pulling, like he couldn’t bear the space between you.

then, he tore himself away from you. friends.

tepping back so fast it felt like the air had been knocked out of your lungs. the warmth of his mouth, his hands, his presence, gone in an instant, leaving behind nothing but the sharp contrast of cold in his absence.

your eyes snapped open, breath uneven, pulse hammering as you stared at him, trying to make sense of what had just happened. caleb stood right in front of you, his chest rising and falling too quickly, his disheveled hair messier than before, his lips still swollen from the kiss. his amethyst eyes were dark, unreadable, but something about them made your stomach twist.

because he knew.

he knew what this kiss meant. he knew what you felt, what you had been too afraid to say. he knew you had shattered whatever fragile barrier had been keeping this moment at bay. he knew.

and yet, he smiled.

not the kind that comforted, not the kind that softened his sharp edges. this one was different. it was hollow, something cold curling at the edges, something sharp enough to cut through you with ease.

‘had enough practice?’

his voice was light, almost amused, as if the kiss had been nothing at all, as if it hadn’t just unraveled you completely. you could only stare, frozen in place, his words slicing through you before you even had the chance to process them.

and you took it for what it was, a dagger to the heart.

then, with careful, deliberate movements, he stepped back, putting more space between you, widening a distance that already felt impossible to cross. his hand raked through his hair, a humorless chuckle escaping his lips, but there was no real amusement in it.

‘if you just wanted to get your first kiss over with, you could’ve told me.’ the words were effortless, thrown out like they meant nothing, but there was something in the way his voice faltered at the end that made your stomach drop. his gaze flickered over you for a second, lips curling into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, wasn’t quite anything at all. ‘guess now you’re ready for the real thing with whoever you actually want.’

your mouth opened, but no words came out.

it didn’t matter. caleb didn’t wait for a response. he exhaled sharply, his eyes lingering for a beat too long before he turned away. there was no hesitation in his steps, no second glance, nothing to suggest that this moment had shaken him the way it had shaken you.

and then, just like that, he was gone.

he doesn't think, doesn't wait, doesn't want.

he just leaves.

disappearing into the dark, leaving you standing there, cold, alone, and regretting everything.

and maybe that was the moment you lost him.

y/n and caleb, and it's hard to tell where one end and the other begins. there probably isn't a difference, and trying to draw the line would doom the both of you.

this time, caleb starts avoiding you.

and this time, you know exactly why.

it’s different now. worse. because he doesn’t just disappear at school. he disappears at home, too.

you hear him tell gran he has practice when you know he doesn’t. you catch glimpses of him slipping out late at night, hood up, car keys dangling from his fingers. when he comes back, it’s always late, long after the house has gone quiet.

you pretend not to hear the front door creak open, the careful shuffle of his footsteps down the hall, the way he pauses outside your door for just a second before moving on.

he doesn’t look at you.

not in the morning when you pass each other in the kitchen, not when you sit at opposite ends of the dinner table, not when gran asks him a question and he answers without ever acknowledging the weight of your silence. the air between you is thick, heavy with everything unspoken, but neither of you say a word.

at school, it’s even worse.

you used to know exactly where to find him: leaning against his locker, sprawled across the lunch table, laughing too loudly, always moving, always there. but now, he’s everywhere except near you.

and when you do see him, it’s only for a second. a glance across the hallway before he looks away. a flicker of amethyst eyes lost in a crowd. an almost-moment before he disappears again, slipping into someone else’s world, somewhere you don’t belong.

you should’ve expected this. you should’ve known that kiss, your first kiss, would wreck everything.

but somehow, it still hurts.

and what’s worse, what makes your stomach twist, what makes your skin feel too tight and your throat close up, is that you hate yourself for it.

you hate yourself for wanting it.

for wanting him.

you feel disgusted when you think about it, about how easily you caved, about how much you liked it, about the way his hands felt on your skin, his lips against yours. you hate that even now, when you close your eyes, you can still feel it, still want it, still crave the weight of him against you like a sickness you don’t know how to cure.

so you do what you can. you push forward. you stop waiting.

and that was when you met him.

it started with a name, called out in class like it meant nothing.

‘zayne and y/n.’

your biology teacher paired you together for a semester-long project, and you hadn’t expected anything from it. zayne wasn’t someone you had paid much attention to before, and when he pulled out the chair beside you, there was no hesitation, no awkwardness, just quiet acceptance.

‘looks like we’re partners.’ his tone was even, uninterested, like he was already calculating how much effort this would require.

‘looks like it.’you mirrored his indifference, expecting nothing more than a few study sessions and a forgettable final grade.

but it wasn’t just another assignment.

zayne wasn’t like caleb.

he didn’t overthink his place beside you, didn’t steal glances to gauge what others might think. he wasn’t loud, wasn’t overbearing, didn’t fill the silence with pointless conversation just to make his presence known. he was steady, self-contained, comfortable in the quiet. after weeks of feeling like you were walking on eggshells, that steadiness ws a relief.

at first, your time together was purely academic.

library meetings that were structured and efficient, an easy rhythm of work that never strayed beyond the boundaries of your project. but then, something changed. lunches became routine, neither of you discussing it but always sitting at the same table. walks to class happened naturally, steps falling in sync without effort. conversations stretched beyond assignments and deadlines, carrying into late-night messages about things that had nothing to do with school.

zayne told you about his love for the winter, and how he would sneak out during the first snow fall. you told him about the time you and caleb got caught sneaking out, how caleb had talked his way out of trouble while you stood there panicking.

unlike caleb, zayne didn’t tease, didn’t turn your stories into jokes at your expense. he just listened, nodded like he was actually picturing it.

too kind, too understanding, too much of exactly what you needed.

somewhere along the way, you became friends. and soon, you were always together.

dinners with gran started to change. it used to be the three of you. gran, caleb, and you.

but caleb started skipping them, claiming he was busy, always finding somewhere else to be, never home long enough for it to feel like anything but an excuse.

zayne, on the other hand, filled the space caleb left behind.

it started as a casual invitation.

gran insisting he stay after studying, reassuring him there was more than enough food. he had accepted without fuss, without hesitation, and from that night on, his place at the table never felt out of place. gran told stories you had heard a thousand times before, and zayne listened to every one of them, nodding along, asking questions like he hadn’t already picked up on the details from you.

he wasn’t a replacement for caleb.

but he was something constant.

then one afternoon, you and zayne crossed paths with caleb in the hallway.

there was no tension, no hesitation, no moment of discomfort where zayne second-guessed himself. he just looked at caleb, gave a simple nod in acknowledgment, and kept walking, like it was nothing.

like caleb was no one special.

like he wasn’t even worth a second thought.

caleb didn’t say anything. he just stood there, watching.

but you knew that wasn’t the end of it.

and you were right.

the moment the wrong boy fell in love with you. and you wished he could pull out your heart, and make him see that you fell in love with the wrong boy too.

that was why you were here, standing in the biting cold, surrounded by barren fields of frost, with zayne’s rare laughter curling into the air like something warm, something that was meant to feel safe. that was why you let him get close, why you let yourself believe, even for a moment, that this could be enough.

you shouldn’t have been thinking about caleb.

so you focused on the wrong boy instead.

on the way his voice carried in the quiet, on how he walked beside you without hesitation, how his presence didn’t ask for anything more than what you were willing to give. he wasn’t waiting for you to figure things out, wasn’t demanding answers you didn’t have. he was just there. steady. certain.

maybe that was what love was supposed to feel like when you didn’t want it. something easy, something quiet, something that didn’t threaten to tear you apart.

but it still didn’t fit right in your chest.

‘we’re here.’

zayne’s voice pulled you back, his excitement evident in his eyes as he gestured toward the sled he had set up.

you blinked at it, then at him. ‘are you serious?’

he grinned, brushing the snow off the seat before tossing his scarf around your shoulders, adjusting it with careful hands. the fabric was thick and slightly uneven, the pattern something you wouldn’t have picked for yourself, but it was warm, and it smelled like him.

you raised an eyebrow, eyeing the details.

‘gran taught me how to knit,’ he admitted, a flicker of amusement in his expression.

your fingers traced the edges of the scarf as you exhaled. ‘it’s nice.’

and it was.

you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry over how endearing it was, how easily he gave things to you, how much he seemed to mean it. he could have handed you anything, and you would have taken it, because this. this moment, this feeling. was already too much.

then, without a word, he just looked at you.

not a passing glance. not a fleeting moment of consideration.

zayne never did things halfway.

when he looked at you, he made sure you knew.

his hazel eyes were bright despite the winter gray, his expression unreadable but not indifferent. there was something certain about the way he watched you, something steady in the way his gaze settled, like he was memorizing the shape of you.

like he took in every detail.

the way the cold had flushed your cheeks, the way your breath curled into the air, the way the weight of the moment made your fingers tremble against the scarf.

‘is there something on my face?’ you asked, startled by the intensity in his stare.

he shook his head, his gaze flickering slightly before settling again. ‘i wish i had more time with you.’

the words were quiet, simple, but the weight of them landed hard.

you swallowed, pulse stuttering, because there was something in the way he said it that made your chest ache. he didn’t say it like a passing thought, didn’t say it like he was reaching for something just out of grasp. he said it like he knew.

like he already understood that whatever this was, whatever you were, had an expiration date.

his eyes dropped, just for a second, barely noticeable, but enough.

enough to know what he was thinking.

enough to know that if you leaned in, he wouldn’t stop you.

and for a fleeting moment, you wanted to.

not because it was right. not because it was real.

but because you needed to forget.

you needed something to press over the ache in your chest, something to drown out the weight of caleb’s absence, the sound of his voice in your head, the way he had always, always been there. until he wasn’t.

but you didn’t.

because it would have been a lie.

‘gran, we’ve talked about this—‘

caleb’s voice cut through the air, sharp with frustration, breaking the moment before it had the chance to solidify into something real.

‘no, you talked. an aviation school halfway across the country? when there are good ones right here? what’s wrong with being close to home?’

the front door creaked open, and as if time couldn’t be any crueler, gran and caleb stepped outside.

his presence was immediate, impossible to ignore.

caleb had always carried himself like he belonged in any space he occupied, but now, standing in the cold with the weight of an argument still lingering between him and gran, he felt like something distant. something storming just beneath the surface, unreadable and untouchable.

zayne sighed, shifting beside you, but you barely noticed.

because while he was looking at you, you were looking at caleb.

your stomach twisted, the weight in your chest pressing down harder, suffocating in a way you didn’t understand.

‘and i know it’s far. i know it’s hard. but it’s not about running away.’ caleb’s voice was firm, steady, like he had already made up his mind. he barely hesitated before adding, ‘this is what’s best for me. for all of us.’

and just like that, it was over.

he turned before anyone could argue, before you could even process what he had said, stepping back into the warmth of the house.

the door clicked shut behind him, and somehow, that sound felt louder than anything else.

you don't know what's love and what's hate now. if there is a difference between the two of you, y/n and caleb, here.

later that evening, you fell.

it was late, exhaustion pulling at your limbs as you trudged up the stairs, arms full of books. zayne followed a few steps behind, his pace unhurried, hands tucked into his pockets as he listened to you yap.

you were mid-sentence, distracted by the conversation, too focused on the warmth of another presence at your side to notice the uneven step beneath your feet.

your toe caught the edge, and before you could react, your balance shifted forward. books tilted dangerously in your grasp before slipping from your fingers as gravity pulled you down. your stomach lurched, breath catching in your throat—

but you never hit the ground.

zayne’s hand wrapped firmly around your wrist, his other pressing against your waist with steady ease. his grip was strong, grounding, keeping you upright before you even had the chance to panic. your breathing was uneven, heart hammering from the sudden shock, your body tensed from the lingering adrenaline.

for a moment, neither of you moved.

his fingers still pressed against your skin, his touch neither hurried or hesitant. . he had caught you, steadied you, and yet he didn’t let go.

you became painfully aware of the way his chest hovered just inches from yours, the warmth of his palm burning through your shirt.

when you looked up at him, his expression was unreadable. calm, composed, but something else lingered beneath the surface. he wasn’t just looking at you. he was waiting.

waiting for you to move. waiting for you to step back. waiting for your permission.

and that was what made your pulse stutter.

it’s too much and it’s never enough.

you should have pulled away. should have created space. should have let the moment pass as nothing more than a near fall. but you didn’t.

because then, his gaze flickered. just slightly, just for a second. before his eyes dropped to your lips.

your breath hitched, and before you could process what was happening, a voice shattered the moment.

‘y/n? zayne?’

gran’s voice, light, amused, pulling you back to reality.

and then—

‘what the fuck?’

caleb.

your entire body locked up, tension snapping through your muscles as your head turned toward the sound.

he stood at the end of the hall, unmoving, his eyes dark, expression unreadable. his jaw clenched, the muscle ticking, his hands curled into tight fists at his sides.

he wasn’t just watching. he was seeing something he wasn’t supposed to.

zayne, still close, exhaled a quiet chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck, as if this was nothing, as if caleb wasn’t standing there barely a few feet away. gran smirked, clearly entertained by whatever she thought was happening.

caleb did not.

he didn’t speak, didn’t demand an explanation, didn’t so much as glance in your direction. he just turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing down the hall without another word.

and somehow, that was worse.

dinner was slow, thick with something unspoken, the weight of the evening settling over the table like a fog.

gran, as oblivious as ever, carried the conversation, her voice the only thing filling the silence. ‘he’s going to be a doctor, y/n,’ she said, beaming like it was something worth celebrating.

zayne gave a polite shake of his head, still eating, still composed, his presence unwavering despite the obvious tension in the room. ‘still got a long way to go.’

but the real shift came when caleb sat down.

for the first time in weeks, he joined dinner.

he didn’t make an excuse, didn’t disappear before the plates hit the table, didn’t claim to have somewhere else to be.

he was here. silent, stiff, but here.

his fork scraped against his plate, but he barely ate. his shoulders were tense, his fingers gripping the edge of the table just a little too tightly. he answered when spoken to, voice clipped, his eyes fixed on his food, refusing to meet yours.

zayne, on the other hand, didn’t react. he carried himself with the same quiet steadiness as always, like nothing had changed, like caleb’s presence, or his anger, meant nothing to him. he didn’t fidget, didn’t acknowledge the storm brewing across the table, didn’t shift under the weight of caleb’s unspoken frustration.

and that made it worse.

but you noticed.

caleb was stiff, his usual relaxed posture replaced with something rigid, something tense. his grip on his fork was just a little too tight, his knuckles flexing under the strain. he barely touched his food, answering gran’s questions with clipped responses, his voice measured, controlled.

through it all, he never once looked at you.

your stomach twisted, the weight of his silence pressing down on you more than any harsh words ever could. it wasn’t like caleb to hold back, it wasn't like him to sit in the same room as you and act as if you didn’t exist. but tonight, he was locked in his own storm, letting it brew under the surface, making sure you felt it, even if he refused to acknowledge you.

then, after zayne left, gran turned to caleb, her gaze slow and assessing, studying him the way only she could. she took a sip of her tea, setting the cup down with a quiet clink before speaking, her tone light but deliberate.

‘zayne is a good boy, but whether he’s good enough for you...’ she let the words linger just long enough to make them feel heavier before tilting her head toward caleb, watching for a reaction. ‘what do you think, caleb?’

the shift in him was subtle.

a slight tightening of his jaw, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression, the barely-there twitch of his fingers against the table. you barely had time to process it before he moved, smooth and purposefully, his arm slipping around your shoulders like it belonged there.

his grip was warm, steady, and possessive.

‘i think,’ he said, his voice softer than usual, the perfect balance of ease and sincerity, ‘as long as pipsqueak’s happy, then i’m happy too.’

the words were convincing.

to anyone else, they would have sounded effortless, genuine even. but you knew him. you knew the calm in his voice when he was anything but. you knew the way he smiled when he wanted to bite back something sharper. you knew the restraint in his touch, the tension running just beneath the surface.

and right now, caleb wasn’t just mad.

he was furious.

furious that you had kept something from him. furious that you had let someone else too close. furious that, for the first time, there wasn’t a single thing he could do about it.

later that night, when you knock on his door, he opens it immediately, like he had been waiting.

the hallway is dim, the only light spilling from his room, casting sharp shadows across his face. the space between you feels suffocating, thick with something unspoken, something heavy you aren’t ready to name.

his expression is unreadable, his face carefully blank, but you see it anyway.

the tension in his shoulders, the way his grip tightens around the doorknob, the barely restrained control in the way he stands, like he’s holding himself back.

your pulse thrums in your throat as you force the words out. ‘did you mean it?’

caleb doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, his silence stretching unbearably between you.

you swallow hard, pushing forward even as your stomach twists. ‘as long as i’m happy?’

a second passes, then another. his jaw tightens, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he finally answers.

‘no.’

the word lands between you like a blow. it should make things clearer, should make it easier to understand, but instead, it only makes everything worse.

you shift on your feet, your heartbeat hammering against your ribs, but caleb just watches you, his amethyst eyes locked onto yours in a way that makes it impossible to breathe.

‘then why are you acting like this?’

there's a crack in his surface, his electric electric eyes gleaming in undetectable, hidden message. his expression was a clear indication to what he felt.he wasn't ready to hear that.

his exhale is slow, controlled, measured, but there’s something beneath it, somehing restrained. and then, just as carefully, he says it.

‘get rid of him.’

the command slices through the air, sharp and undeniable, like a final puzzle piece snapping into place. your stomach drops at the certainty in his voice, at the quiet weight behind his words.

‘i-i can’t.’ the response comes out weak, barely more than a whisper, but it’s the only thing you can give him.

something in caleb shifts instantly. his body tenses, his expression sharpening as his focus narrows completely onto you. his movements are deliberate, controlled, like he’s making a conscious effort not to move too fast, not to let whatever he’s feeling slip past the careful edges of his restraint.

‘what do you mean you can’t?’ his voice is low, steady, but there’s an edge to it, a dangerous thread of something unraveling just beneath the surface.

you look away, knowing that whatever comes next will change everything. ‘i don’t want to hurt him.’

the silence that follows is heavier than anything he could have said.

his lips press into a thin line, his shoulders squaring as the warmth in his eyes fades into something colder, something unreadable. his posture doesn’t change, but the shift in the air between you is unmistakable.

‘so you’d rather hurt me?’

the words hit you harder than they should. you weren’t prepared for them, weren’t expecting the weight they carried, the way they landed with a finality that made your chest ache.

your throat tightens, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say, don’t know how to fix whatever just cracked open between you. but caleb doesn’t look away, doesn’t take it back, doesn’t even flinch as the meaning behind his own words settles over him.

his gaze flickers, the muscle in his jaw tightening before he exhales sharply, like he’s regretting letting you see this part of him.

‘are you saying… you’re jealous?’ the words feel too fragile, too uncertain, but they leave your lips before you can stop them.

for a moment, he doesn’t move.

doesn’t breathe.

you expect him to deny it, to roll his eyes, to throw some dismissive remark at you like he always does. you expect him to do what he’s best at, pretend it doesn’t matter.

but he doesn’t.

he just watches you, his silence heavier than any answer he could have given. and then—slowly, carefully—he smirks.

‘if you want me to say i’m jealous, i will.’

his voice is smooth, effortless, light in a way that only makes your stomach twist. it should be reassuring, should make this moment feel less like a breaking point, but it doesn’t.

because it’s too easy. too casual.

like he’s still pretending.

like he’s still keeping you at a distance.

your fingers curl into fists at your sides as the frustration rises, your voice barely more than a murmur. ‘you could have just lied.’

caleb exhales sharply, tilting his head slightly, and then he moves.

too close. you're too close together for just friends.

your back presses against the wall before you even realize you’ve stepped back. his presence is everywhere, surrounding you, his warmth pulling you in even when you know you should push him away.

and then his hands are on your face, fingers cupping your jaw, steady and warm, grounding in a way that makes it impossible to think.

your pulse jumps, a sharp inhale catching in your throat as his amethyst eyes lock onto yours, the distance between you disappearing entirely. there’s no teasing in his gaze this time, no smirk, no sarcasm.

just heat.

just certainty.

his thumb brushes against your cheek, slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing the feel of you, like he needs to. and then, his voice drops lower, softer, barely above a whisper.

‘i am jealous, baby.’

a pause.

a beat of silence so heavy you can feel it in your ribs.

his fingers tighten just slightly, his grip firm but careful, like he’s making sure you don’t move, like he doesn’t want you to look away.

you're trying to not cry now but you missed everything you never had.

and then—

when you stepped into the room, it was as if the entire world faded away. time slowed, the noise dimmed, and the lights seemed to soften, catching on the edges of your features. you looked beautiful, achingly so. heartbreakingly out of reach. you weren’t supposed to be here, not after the fight, not after the cruel words you’d both thrown at each other before he left.

you moved toward him with purpose, cutting through the room like you were meant to be there all along.

caleb couldn’t breathe. he couldn’t think.

his hands trembled at his sides as he watched you close the distance between you. he could act all stoic, but his heart didn’t feel stoic enough to make him calm.

when you stopped in front of him, there were tears already brimming in your eyes. his carefully constructed control, unshakable during training, steadfast through every grueling challenge, began to crumble.

caleb had faced impossible physical challenges, the grueling expectations of training, and the endless psychological evaluations that pushed him to the edge. but none of those had broken him nearly like you did. you, standing here, looking at him like that.

you were his undoing.

you should be his first sign. the first sign that there was something wrong with him. because you were his obsession. the one he was slowly losing control over.

caleb was not allowed to fall in love with you.

he trembled as your fingers brushed against his, tapping him out of his frozen misery. the soft touch was meant to symbolize recognition, acknowledgment. but to caleb, it was so much more.

you were here. you were real.

there was no second-guessing, no hesitation. before he could stop himself, his arms were around you, pulling you into him with a force that left him breathless. a strangled sigh escaped his lips and found its home in the crook of your neck, right where your heart beats: friends, friends, friends.

he held you like a man drowning, and you were the only thing keeping him afloat. he felt the soft shake of your shoulders, the warmth of your tears against his neck, and he couldn’t hold back any longer.

‘i didn’t think you’d come,’ he whispered, his voice low and raw, breaking under the weight of his emotions. you pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. there was something in his gaze, but before you could respond, he spoke again, quieter this time, like a vow. ‘i’ll never let you go.’

the words made you shiver. they were so soft you almost didn’t catch them.

‘you can try,’ you joked, your voice trembling slightly as you tried to lighten the mood. a nervous laugh escaped as you gently pushed against his chest, pretending to escape his embrace. ‘you love me, i get it.’

but caleb didn’t loosen his hold. instead, he pulled you closer, his lips brushing against your temple. there was a quiet laugh, quiet and unsteady, before he murmured, ‘you have no idea, pipsqueak.’

his voice was filled with something raw, something deeper than you could fully understand. it wasn’t just love. it was obsession, devotion, a yearning that had no end.

you smelled like honey. like the same thing you’d been smelling your entire life that made you feel like home in a way that hotels and dorm beds could never manage.

he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, shining pin they’d given him for finishing aerospace academy. it gleamed in the light, a symbol of everything he’d fought to achieve. without a word, he placed it carefully in your palm.

your fingers brushed his as you took it, and the touch sent sparks up his arm. with careful, deliberate precision, you pinned it to his chest. caleb didn’t move, his gaze fixed on you, watching every motion, every soft touch of your fingers against his uniform.

‘they should give you a medal instead for doing so well,’ you teased softly, smiling up at him.

once the pin was secure, you smoothed down his uniform, your fingers lingering against the fabric. it was such a small gesture, but it felt so intimate that caleb’s breath hitched.

he tried his best not to be frantic, but it was almost impossible when he was overloaded with want, want, want, and with the feeling that this might not happen again, with the fear that if caleb thought about it too hard, he’d stop himself before he did too much.

he couldn’t stop himself any longer. leaning down, he kissed your cheek, his lips lingering on your skin. he didn’t move away immediately, letting the moment stretch as he closed his eyes, savoring the warmth of you.

he felt like a criminal on the run, but it was too good to withdraw from. so, he overdosed on unrequited love.

when he finally pulled back, there was a soft, almost shy smile on his lips. his voice was low, but full of meaning. ‘i already have my reward.’

you looked up at him, your cheeks warm, his cap still sitting crooked on your head. for a moment, neither of you spoke, and the weight of everything unsaid lingered between you.

and caleb, looking at you, standing there with your fingers still on his uniform, knew it was the absolute truth. you didn’t realize it, but you were the center of his universe. his greatest test, his deepest weakness, and the one thing he could never, ever let go of.

i’m a fool, he decided. damned in the bits of exhaustion at pulling and pushing at whatever’s left of trying.

the noise of the crowd finally broke through the haze, the sound of laughter and celebration pulling you both back to the present. caleb stepped back slightly, watching as you adjusted his cap, your smile soft but hesitant.

you didn’t have to know the struggle he’d endured to get here, the battles he’d fought within himself.