lucidity is overrated

It had gotten to the point where, man or woman, you weren’t going to bother with romance at all. You didn’t stand out, you see. You weren’t pretty like Libby from public relations, you weren’t sociable like Rick from customer service, and you weren’t brilliant like Katherine from accounting. You were just…there, running around after everyone like you were still an intern, and the prospect of a promotion to where you actually had autonomy in that tedious job had long fizzled out of existence.

At least you could feel a little appreciated when you opened the app and that theme song started playing again. It was then that you realised you were grasping at straws, quite literally. Becoming reliant on some pixels and coding stuck in a screen, fictitious? Where the character you play as is pretty, is sociable, and is brilliant? Truly laughable.

So, what the hell is this?

About three minutes ago, you’re pretty sure, you opened your eyes. Your sheets are soft-blue and flannel, because it’s winter. These sheets are wine-red and silken, perfect for the summer, or late-spring. The duvet isn’t too thick, either, and it distinctly smells of sandalwood and expensive cologne, utterly unfamiliar, masculine. Your arm’s up over it, chilled in the early-morning air, and bare. Your pajama top is long-sleeved because, as aforementioned, it’s supposed to be winter. You don’t really wear spaghetti straps unless it’s summer, and in the short one-hundred-and-eighty-and-counting seconds since your eyes sprang open, you’ve long realised you’re not wearing a top at all.

It all slowly comes to you in quick successions of realisation. One, you’re in someone else’s bed. This one’s a superking, you’re pretty sure, considering the good distance from you to the edge of it. Your bed is a king-single, barely. Your dingy apartment can only fit so much. Two, you haven’t got any clothes on. Your legs are sticking uncomfortably to each other, which is why, whether summer or winter, you usually wear long pajama pants, and dislike being in the nude anyway. And three, someone has their arms wrapped around you, and their chest is pressed to your back.

They are asleep; warm, soft breaths puffing into your ear and neck, crotch slotted snugly to your behind, and hair tickling your cheek. You’ve tried moving, tentatively, and found their grip around you to be quite solid. You are caged in this man’s arms. Your heart is beating out of your chest at this point, like a trapped bird, breathing growing laboured.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh. God. What did I do? What have I done? Why am I here? Who even is this? I’m not hungover, and I did not go out drinking last night—I think I went to bed after my shower at the usual time… Your mind is racing a million miles a second. Trying to piece this all together, trying to work it out, trying to recall the very big blunder you must’ve made and the sticky situation you’ve gotten yourself into here—it’s all getting quite overwhelming very quickly. What did I do?

There is some kind of gap in your memory, there has to be, because you distinctly remember exhaustedly crawling into bed just last night, alone, barely even possessing the energy to complete your dailies on Love & Deepspace, or any other games you played. Somehow, you managed, but you went out like a light shortly after that. You remember feeling very happy at the knowledge that tomorrow—today?—would be Sunday, your day off, and you could finally sleep in for the first time in a good millennia.

Carefully, as slowly and as gently as you can, you slip your uncovered arm under the blanket, both hands now moving to pry the man’s from around your waist, eyes darting around your limited vision to try and spot any kind of clothing you could cover yourself with once free. You need to get out of here. You don’t dare look over your shoulder at whoever it is that’s holding you. You just need to leave.

You listen closely to his breathing patterns—they’re soft, rhythmic, deep, a sure sign of complete slumber. It’s painstakingly slow, the way you move then pause then move then pause, but, bit by bit, you ease his hold off you, and you carefully shift to separate yourself from him.

Whoever this man is, you know you don’t know him, and you know that you have no business being here. Never in your life would you have ever dreamed of having a one-night stand—well, maybe when you were younger and more starry-eyed and naïve and excited for the future, but now, you are utterly indifferent. You don’t think you’re the sort of woman men look twice at, anyway, even when piss-drunk.

It would be for the best if you were to take your leave before things get severely awkward. Just by casting one glance around the place is more than telling enough about this individual’s financial status. If you had less dignity and more ulterior motives, you’d stick around, but all your dignity is already long gone now anyway, and you want to salvage the last few remnants left by high-tailing it out of here.

You softly exhale in relief when you successfully get his hands off you, stopping to listen to his breathing again. Still asleep. A bit more encouraged now, you slowly sit up, holding the blankets close over your chest, and look around a bit more closely. 

Much to your chagrin, there is no item of clothing suitable enough within reach to grab and shuck on—you lean to the side, if a bit strained, to peer over the edge of the rather magnificent bed, where you lay eyes on the carpeted floor. Heat flares up your neck immediately.

Shirts and bottoms and a jacket and a coat and a bra, your size, along with a few other…bits of clothing, lie strewn across the ground, tossed haphazardly, evidence of impassioned rush and obvious…enthusiasm. You blink. You gulp. Oh, I’m in the shit now, aren’t I?

The nearest thing to you is a belt. A man’s belt. It looks expensive, too. You pointedly look away from it. The room is dim, with a high, beamed ceiling, a cold fireplace, a sofa, a massive TV, two armchairs, a large dresser, vanity, and an ajar door to, presumably, the closet. The other, average door, is shut closed, its knob gold, and there is a sliver of sunlight splayed across the floor, working its way along the room, stopping somewhere halfway up the wall to your right. The wallpaper also looks expensive. Everything looks expensive. Not anywhere the likes of you have any business being around.

Now it’s time to brave it all and look over your shoulder at your companion. You’d really rather just get out of here, but fearful curiosity has you rooted to the spot, duvet clutched to your front, bare back rippling with goosebumps from the chill. It would be the polite thing to do to wake him up and let him know of your departure, but you have this terrible feeling that getting any more embroiled in this mess you literally just opened your eyes to, not ten minutes ago, would be a very bad idea.

Slowly, you look to your left and set eyes on the drawn curtains, towering high over the room, where a narrow gap lets in the early-morning sunlight. In your periphery, you see a shoulder, a bicep, and a jawline. You suck it up and look at him fully. And then you almost scream.

Silver hair, mussed and dropped low over a brow. Broad shoulders. His arms lay limp where you just were, empty of you, toned and bulky and very familiar. And then there is his face.

Unfortunately, considering the circumstances, you’d know those lips and that nose anywhere. There is also the issue of his criminal jawline. It’s getting harder not to shriek in horror.

With a barely-concealed gasp, you whip back around and stare wide-eyed at the wall in front of you. There is no way. There is just no way. I’m dreaming. I’m still asleep and dreaming, aren’t I? Wouldn’t this kind of thing be a nice dream, though, and not one that feels like a nightmare? What the hell is going on?! Why am I so scared?!

Probably because the man you just woke up next to is a) a fictional character, b) far too familiar for this to bode anything well and c) kind of a villain. As in, he’s the head of a fictional crime syndicate in a fictional universe that is not real. No one is that good-looking and perfect in real life. This is truly it. I’ve really lost my marbles now, haven’t I?

Perhaps you were driven to the brink of insanity because of that horrid nine-to-five (well, nine-to-eight, really—yay for overtime!) you finally got a break from, even if for only a very short while, and the mistreatment of your coworkers. 

Suddenly, you have the urge to laugh. Gosh, this is just so ridiculous. Me, waking up in bed with some Love & Deepspace character? Please! That’s when you grin a little, pinch yourself, hard, and expect to awaken in the real world, in your bed, in your apartment, not here.

But you don’t. It leaves nothing more than a mark on your skin from your nails. All over again, panic washes through you. You physically feel yourself blanching. God, no. Please, no, it can’t be.

Deciding against wasting any more time, you quietly and carefully, and with great self-consciousness, peel off the covers, and swing your legs over the side of the bed, dearly wishing his back was to you. But he’s asleep, so it’s not like he’ll see anything, anyway. You just need to leave.

You’re almost standing when an arm winds itself around your waist.

With a yelp, you’re tugged back into the sheets, back pressed up against a wide, muscled chest, clutched to him tightly in a firm, but tender, embrace, quite inescapable. There’s a chuckle—and, by god, in any other situation, you would’ve loved to have heard that laugh spill right into your ear—and then he’s sleepily nuzzling his face into your neck. “That eager to leave, are you, my dear?”

You have no idea what the hell to say, or do. Completely frozen, you’re too stunned to do anything else other than just let him press kisses to your jaw and squeeze you close. He’s…very affectionate? You’d revel in it, too, if it was meant for you, that is.

“Um…” you croak out, grimacing at the crack of your voice. What the hell do I say to get him off me? “I just…needed to go to the bathroom.”

He’s now nibbling on your ear, and you try not to cringe away. “Ah. Considering how all sneaky you were being, I was starting to fear you were trying to run off.”

You rest one of your hands over his, its wide expanse splayed over your hip, shrewdly trying to slip it off you. “Uh—haha, now, why would I do that?”

“You tell me,” he breathes, turning you over so he’s hovering before you, gazing down, and you’re well and truly trapped. That face you’d only ever admired from in front of a phone screen, so flawless and roguishly handsome and smug, looms above you; a pair of eyes, almandine in this lighting, are staring with an intensity you find too hard to hold. The man tilts his head playfully, full lips curling up at the corners—not into a smirk, but into a soft smile replete with devotion. The sight shocks you. “It was this time yesterday evening when you were insisting that I was strictly off-limits for you, apparently.”

As subtly as you can, you tug the sheets up and over your chest, forcing a smile and averting your gaze. Yeah, what the hell is he talking about? “Oh, well…that was…yesterday.”

“Oh? You’re saying that you’ve had a change of heart now?”

Your eyes snap back to him at his words, stunned—and you’re only further astounded by his expression. Something you can only describe as hope lightens the shadows of his face, and then he dips back down to push his face into your collar and the crook of your neck, practically purring. “That almost hurts me, beloved. It’s like you only care now that you’ve gotten a taste.”

“I…” You really, really want to go home now. You want to get away from this guy, get away from whatever this whole mess is, and return to your usual mundane routine that does not involve waking up next to a man that only exists in an idiotic dating sim.

“No matter. We’ve got this whole place to ourselves, remember? I think I’ve got plenty of time to convince you to stay.”

“Er…” If you’re acting out-of-character, he doesn’t seem to notice; he’s currently too busy snuggling up to you like some overly-smoochy housecat that’s starved for affection, and it only serves to further solidify the fact that you’re definitely in the wrong place, with the wrong person, and probably in the wrong body.

The very thought makes your stomach drop and swoop in dread. Knowing this man, what will he do if he finds out? Sooner or later, he and his annoying astuteness will figure out that you’re missing a lot of your memories—in fact, you don’t have any at all—and that you are currently very uncomfortable with having some guy invade your space so closely, apparently unable to keep his mouth off the skin of your throat for more than thirty seconds.

But the thing is—he isn’t just some guy. This is Sylus, one of the six love interests of Love & Deepspace, and you are not supposed to be in bed with him right now.

It’s starting to dawn on you now. There is no way. It’s supposed to be fiction!

“Are you sore?” he suddenly asks, finally emerging from your nape, silver fringe falling low over his carnelian eyes. They’re a deeper red, and far more striking, than depicted through 3D graphics and semi-realism. You were expecting him to move to continue the obvious…deeds of the previous evening you don’t have any recollection of, but then you remember what kind of man he is. That relaxes you a little.

“Uh, not too much,” you lie, because you’re suddenly conscious of your lower region. Your face flares with heat. What a joke. I apparently spend the night with a man any woman would kill to fall into the arms of, and I can’t even remember it? Again, it only serves to reaffirm the point of how you’re not supposed to be here.

“I’ll clean you up,” Sylus says, shifting to rise—but you’re instantly flinching upright, covers held firm to your front, shaking your head vehemently. “No! No, that’s alright. I’ll have a shower and worry about myself. You—uh, don’t have to be concerned. I, um, need to go to the bathroom, anyway.”

Sylus is staring at you with lifted brows, probably a bit surprised over your small outburst, his eyes wandering over your face. It’s then that you realise he’s risen up to knees, leaning back against his heels, looming over you in all his glory. All his glory. You don’t even give yourself time to steal an admiring glance before you snap your eyes away, entire frame now burning white-hot with embarrassment. 

“Hm,” is all the man lets out, voice rumbling low. He remains there, as if considering you, before he fully moves off the bed to stand—and promptly leans over you to hike you up into his arms. “If I knew you’d be so shy, I would’ve gone easier.”

“What the—!” With a yelp, you flail a bit and lose your balance, leaving you no other option apart from tightly grasping his neck, as Sylus wastes no time in making his way for the ensuite, presumably. “I—I don’t think this is necessary! It’s not like I can’t walk!” “And how do you know that?” he quips. “Want me to put you down and let you have a try?” “Yes!” So I can get my clothes on and bolt, thank you very much! “Just—let me shower and brush my teeth and make myself presentable, so I can leave.”

“Leave?” Instantly, Sylus halts in his tracks. You can feel his eyes on your face. “You…want to leave?” “Yes,” you say again, shaking your head and refusing to meet his eyes. You’re too frazzled to be polite and act as you probably should. “Look, it’s probably best if I’m blunt about this, Sylus. That was all—everything last night was—I…I don’t know. I don’t think either of us were in our right minds. This is harsh of me, I know, but—I really don’t—it’s not…”

You trail off, helpless, unable to find the right words. This is certainly one hell of a mess you’ve been dumped into. How in the world are you going to explain yourself to him? Your current behaviour is probably extremely peculiar to him—especially if, as you fear, you’re inhabiting the original MC’s body.

Somehow, you don’t think so, which is even worse. If you’ve just been shoved right between them, where the story dictates his love for her, you’re in deep shit. You’re an anomaly, and you need to leave.

“Perhaps I was…” he suddenly begins, after a good long, torturous stretch of silence, “hasty.”

“I—I think we both were.” Am I getting through to him? He’s more yielding than I thought he’d be. Good. You’re still in a panic—and when you’re in a panic, you’re far less genial. “Let me down now. I’ll clean myself up on my own.”

Sylus immediately protests, “But I want to take care of y—”

“No,” is your testy answer. Then you shut your eyes tight in regret, seeking to control yourself. So you force a smile. “…Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. Just…Just please put me down, Sylus.”

You aren’t fond of his expression. It’s a mixture of confusion, dismay, and hurt. Why? You don’t have a clue, and you’re not interested in finding out. The fact is, you know too little about your current situation to stay relaxed and rational about this, to the point where you can calmly humour this man and his (weirdly affectionate) whims, and you don’t want him figuring out what, to him, would be a very strange bout of amnesia.

With visible reluctance, Sylus finally complies and sets you down on the ground. Then you instruct him to turn around as you find something to cover yourself with.

The smirk he gives is a clear attempt at concealing how awkward he’s probably feeling inwardly. “I’ve already seen everything, sweethea—”

You grasp his shoulders to physically turn him around. “Doesn’t matter. Look away.”

You’d never possess the strength to force him away yourself, so he allows himself to be rotated with a shake of his head. You can just sense his bewilderment. You feel sorry. None of this is his fault, really. It’s whatever ended you up here, and you’re still about eighty-percent sure you’re having some absurd dream.

“I’ll shower and call a cab,” you remark, snatching up a nearby robe—his, unfortunately—and hurriedly wrap it around yourself. As expected, it’s far too big to fit on you properly, but you, too out of sorts to care, deal with it. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience. This is probably one big mess for y—”

“No cab will come out here, sweetie.” Sweetie. You jump at his use of that pet name and half-snap your neck to look up at him from over your shoulder. Sylus is facing you again, arms now crossed, not a trace of amusement on his face. A glaring contrast to the sarcastic lilt of his voice. “Too far.”

Your stomach drops, and you try to ignore the sensation. So he had to pick one of his safe houses right in the middle of nowhere for a bit of nighttime fun? Are you kidding? “W-Well, I’ll have to make do, then. Could I, uh, trouble one of your men to escort me back into town?”

He gazes at you wordlessly. It’s almost enough to make you forget he’s unashamedly, definitely-not-purposefully, directly in front of you, contentedly sporting his birthday suit right now—with the gall to even jut out a hip. Suddenly, your eyes have this uncontrollable urge to move downwards—but, out of your own, admittedly fragile, fortitude, you manage to keep them on his face, and forbid them from straying any lower. Now is not the time for sightseeing, anyway. You should probably give him his robe back. 

“What if I say no?”

And that immediately shoos those thoughts away, making you straighten, the hackles on the back of your neck standing on end. “Then I’d find a way to leave of my own accord.”

A pause. Sylus’s full lips purse. “May I…ask why you wish to leave so badly?” “Because I shouldn’t really be here,” you reply, sizing him up. No point. The bastard dwarfs you by a good mile. “Last night was—was a mistake.”

It’s not fun having to pull out the classic angsty rom-com line you’ve heard far too many times in books and movies, but you have a point to get across. You manage to refrain from physically cringing, though; he doesn’t. But his grimace is of a different kind—visible dejection. It makes your stomach drop all over again. 

“…I see.” Sylus’s Adam’s apple bobs. “Well, then.”

Your conscience screams at you, especially from the sight of that appallingly crushed expression, but you muster the courage to drive in the final nail. This is so weird. What the hell’s got him so worked up? “Yes. So, uh, may I go now?”

The man isn’t looking at you anymore—he’s cast his stare aside, and you’re further perturbed by the evident conflict and uncharacteristic rue on his face. Seriously, what the hell? I certainly am not the main character, so why’s he making that expression over this? We shouldn’t be in this situation in the first place! Such forlorn eyes are reserved for his soulmate only. Something is definitely wrong here.

“Fine,” is his eventual answer, as he heaves a sigh of obvious defeat. “I’ll…call for a driver.”

“Wonderful.” Pushing those questions aside, you’re heartened by his acquiescence and immediately stoop to snatch up your strewn clothing. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

“You don’t want to stay for breakfast, at least?” That inflection of desperation in his voice weirds you out even more. “I’ll brew your coffee just the way you like it.”

Yes, this certainly is Sylus Qin. So gracious and attentive and loving—too bad you’re the wrong recipient of such affections. And how would he even know the way I take my coffee? “No, thank you. But I appreciate the offer. I’ve already overstayed my welcome, you know? Look at the mess I’ve made here! We really were foolish.”

He elicits something like a scoff at that. It sounds brittle. “…Ha. Suppose we were.”

All that your clothing is are your undergarments, a tossed necklace that glimmers with gems so large, you almost blow your cover and gape at them—and an evening gown. A lovely evening gown. You put a hand to an ear and find an earring, modestly pensile—not heavy enough for you to have previously noticed smacking against your cheek. It likely matches the necklace. Would it be a stretch to presume that these are…gifts from him?

Most likely. You’d never be able to afford such jewellery even if you were making over a hundred-grand a year. You should probably give them back. No strings attached. You need to draw a very clear, bold, and uncrossable line here—for your own safety.

You gingerly take up the necklace and decide to act on your hunch, praying it doesn’t backfire. “…Here, I’ll return this to you. I have no further use for it. Do you still have the box it came in? I’ll need it for these earrings, too.”

Sylus is practically glaring at you now—but those brows aren’t knotted in hate, you find. His eyes pierce with undisguised anguish. “…No.”

“No, what?” you press, wandering into dangerous territory. You’re doing your best to conceal your intimidation with this clueless act. “You won’t give me the boxes?”

“I don’t have the boxes,” he clarifies, jaw set. “They are yours.”

“For one evening,” you continue, shaking your head, struggling with this pretense on the inside. “In what world will I ever need to wear these again? Besides, if anyone found out I had such valuable jewellery in my possession, I’d be set right up to be robbed.”

Sylus doesn’t respond, merely settling to stare at you in what appears to be incredulity. His going nonverbal serves to only disconcert you further; there is far more to all of this than what’s already meeting the eye here, and you’re worried you’re being very stupid right now. Still, you must continue to push the envelope so all ties are cut once you leave. “…Same with the dress. I’ll return that to you as well. And the shoes.”

“You…” he breathes after a long pause, uncrossing his arms. They fall limp at his sides. You manage to stay in place and not take a step back at the look in his eyes. “How… Why?”

Resolve steadily beginning to crumble now, you somehow squeak out, “Wh-Why what?”

“Why would you do this to me?” Sylus approaches you, visibly agonised. “Was it something I did? Said? Tell me.”

You press the items in hand to your chest and back away. “Hey—what? I don’t understand—”

“Why are you leaving? So help me, if this is about the Hunter again—” Pausing in his tracks, he runs a hand down over his face, and then up through his hair, head tilted back, peering down at you. The sight serves to inadvertently erupt your stomach into butterflies, which has you immensely uncomfortable. Oh, lord. This is bad. This is very, very bad. He said ‘Hunter’. That cannot bode well. “Listen. I told you last night of my sentiments for her. It has complicated things immensely, yes, and that was my fault. But, please, you must give me a chance, sweetheart. Please. I promise you, there is nothing more I have to do with her—”

The words are out of your mouth before you know it. “I don’t care about that. It was a fling. Shouldn’t we part ways now?”

Yep. Precisely the wrong thing to say. Well done, you! Now, why don’t you go ahead and sign your death certificate while you still can for us? Because that look on his face right now might just mean an early grave.

Or not. He goes pale, and then he flushes red. What he doesn’t understand, can’t understand, and won’t understand is that, as much as it pains you terribly to treat and speak to him in such a way, laying cutting words on thick so he’ll fold and let you go permanently is crucial at present. You do not want anything to do with a crime lord. You do not want anything to do with any of this. In fact, you’d take your awful nine-to-five and condescending coworkers and verbally abusive clients over all of this any day.

“Is that…truly…?” The poor man can’t even seem to find the words. What have you done? Have you just succeeded in knocking the prideful head of Onychinus down a peg or two? Well, if that’s how it’s going to have to be. Perhaps it’ll do him some good to be humbled—but you don’t want to break his heart.

If it can be broken by you. You almost laugh out loud at the notion. Me? Right, and pigs can fly! “Look, Sylus—I don’t want to, uh, hurt you here, but I really don’t think any of this is very sensible. I, uh, am…aware of your sentiments for the Hunter, and that—”

“I told you, I feel nothing for her.” Now Sylus grasps your upper arms, and you immediately flinch at the unexpected physical contact. Upon seeing you jolt in his hold, though, Sylus’s expression twists and he lets you go, turning away. He runs a hand down his face. “I just—have I not proven myself to you countless times? Why must you—why must you continue to toy with me so?”

You blink in shock. “T-Toy with you?”

“Yes, toy with me.” Never would you have thought you’d see such a wretched expression on this man’s face. And it appears Sylus can barely even look at you, too. Oh, god, I am missing so much context here. “You—You know of my feelings. Was last night not a statement enough? Was baring myself to you completely and taking you to my bed not enough of a physical demonstration of my affections?”

Speechless, you can only gawk at him and try to collect your thoughts—try and make heads or tails of all this. You can hardly even remember to blink. Is he…well, is he confessing his love right now?

For, from the little you can tell, what seems to be the nth time?

Just what kind of person am I in the shoes of now? What in the world has been going on here? Why is the original storyline not being followed?

“I…I once said that I wouldn’t care if you never reciprocated my feelings,” Sylus continues, heaving a sigh. “But now…now I am unsure if I can stand this any more. Especially not when you turn around and do—this. To me.”

“…Okay, now, look,” you try, forcing yourself to relax where you stand and take a tentative step forward. How do I ask him to explain all this to me without looking like some blockhead who’s mysteriously lost her memories? “The thing is, Sylus, is that…well…let’s say I’ve had some, you know, second thoughts? You get me? You see, I’m not sure if—”

“And yet you humour me anyway.” The man turns and faces you again, eyes flaring. “You let me take you out for dinner and wear all the dresses I pick out for you and attend the various events I ask you to be my plus-one for. Can’t you see? Don’t you understand? You’re…You are being so cruel.”

“…Cruel?” you echo, voice small and pathetically puzzled.

But he doesn’t seem to notice. “Yes, cruel. You are leading me on, despite knowing of my desire to enter into a relationship with you. And last night—when you kissed me back, and—”

Sylus cuts himself off and turns away again, back fully to you now, both hands rising to his face. Those wide shoulders lift and sag with a heavy exhale, and then, after a moment of onerous silence, he shakes his head. “…I couldn’t care less if you’re just using me for my money, but now…now, I’ve begun to dislike being taken advantage of—even by you.”

The diamond necklace and dress in your hold right now suddenly feel terribly burdensome; you’re left at a complete loss because you have no idea what to do or say to rectify this. To rectify this mess you’ve somehow gotten yourself into that, frankly, has absolutely nothing to do with you.

The woman he seems to love is not me, you think, squeezing your eyes shut. And it doesn’t appear to be the MC either. Seriously, what kind of freak show is this? What am I going to do?

“…Do you truly feel nothing?” You start at the sound of his low voice, as Sylus half-turns to peer at you side-long, from over a shoulder. His expression spears you through. “Will you not even give me a chance? Even after—after everything?”

What do I say? How do you reply? This abrupt, unforeseen situation has not gone the way you expected it to at all. First, it began with sheer panic on your end and warm affection on his, and then the first obstacle of just wanting to get away—and then this, some bizarre escalation into a love confession, of all things.

What is this, seriously? Pride & Prejudice? Only, Elizabeth Bennet had her memories—you do not, and you haven’t been given even five minutes to think about all this and figure it out and ascertain a way to go home. That’s part of the reason why you wanted to use the bathroom—so you could sit on the toilet seat and have your panic attack in there, in peace.

So how are you supposed to reply to this? How, other than disappointing him again—at least, what appears to be ‘again’? Perhaps it would all work out for the better, though. It really looks like that…with whatever’s been going on here, he might need closure. 

And if he has to get it from you, a woman he has no idea is a stranger inhabiting (what you can only rationalise to be) another woman’s body, then so be it. Wouldn’t it be a win-win, either way? Then, you could perhaps have the assurance that he won’t be bothering you after this.

You still feel awful though, even though none of this is your fault. It really does look like he’s got some serious, er, sentiments for ‘you’ here, which he should really only have for the MC—and how it all started in the first place, you don’t think you really want to know. It sounds very messy. And melodramatic. And probably eye-roll-and-yawn-worthy, if that makes sense. 

This is a love interest from a dating sim, remember. What else could one expect from such an individual and, well, world, other than silly theatrics?

“Well…” Falteringly, you try again to get the right words out, and deliver them best and as kindly as you can. I really, really don’t know what to say here. “I can see now that I’ve…hurt you, Sylus, and I should—apologise for that. I’m, uh, sorry. It’s clear I’ve been careless with—your feelings, despite being knowledgeable about them, and…essentially, er, cashing in on them, so to speak.” You wince; ‘cashing in on them’? Are you serious? Are you trying to rub salt in his apparent wounds here? “It was…terribly wrong and, as you said, cruel of me. So, well, it’s largely because of that, guilt has been eating at me, and…after last night…after, you know, um, having relations, I think I’ve—taken this too far.” Clutching the items in hand to your chest closely has a weak way of self-encouragement and shielding, you smile up at him feebly. Then you promptly avert your eyes at the look in his. Oh, lord. “…I really am sorry. I was selfish. It was unfair to you and, well, inexcusable.”

Left with nothing much else to add, you fall silent, hoping your ‘apology’ came across sincere enough. You’ve never been much of an actress. And this man, for all your familiarity with his character in-game, was never an easy one to fool—and certainly not one to suffer them.

“…I see,” Sylus finally utters, after a long, long moment of silence. His hands are on his hips and he’s still only half-facing you. He’s also, unfortunately, still quite unclothed. Not that he’s no sight for sore eyes, you ponder appreciatively, before wrenching yourself back to the present, scolding yourself. Idiot! Focus on the issue at hand, not his—assets!

“So that’s why…” you begin once more, just as haltingly, “it would be better if we went our separate ways, you know…?”

Again, nothing. He makes no reply. You stare down at your bare feet and wonder at how this is all going to end—how you’re going to get back to your world. Is there even a way back? Will I ever find out just what’s going on here? Like, why the hell I’m in the realm of Love & Deepspace?

With your other hand, you clutch at the robe around you, half-considering slipping it off and giving it back to him—after changing in the bathroom, of course. What a weird dream, whatever this is. Or way to wake up, I don’t know. I really haven’t the faintest idea what’s going on here. I’m in way over my head, aren’t I?

“Then, you don’t love me?” Sylus’s voice is quiet, but it makes you jump a bit again, nonetheless. Your head snaps up to stare at him, at his disconsolate, yet strangely resigned, expression. “You feel nothing?”

If you were in any other situation, in any other context? Sure. But right now? Not in the slightest. Being thrown into such a compromising—and dangerous, if he were any other man—position as this out of nowhere has effectively erased any and all feelings you may have initially had for what you believed to be nothing more than a bunch of pixels, of code and programming, on a screen. Objectively, he’s a total dreamboat, and even now, you’re actively trying not to stare—but that’s about as deep and far as it goes. Other than that, you feel nothing. Nothing other than dread and a need to flee, that is, even if you’re pretty certain he’d never intentionally hurt you. He may run a crime syndicate, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s the type who enjoys inflicting indiscriminate harm upon others.

So, with a contrite, awkward, slow shake of your head, you finally deliver, what you hope is, the softest final blow. “…No, I do not. I’m sorry.”

Again, silence. Penitently, you cautiously set about gathering ‘your’ things from the carpet, far more than eager to finally take your leave. I’d better find those boxes he gave me for this jewellery, so I can return them. Same with this dress—oh, and these shoes—

“Leave it,” comes his voice from above, and you jerk back in fright to peer up at him. And it’s clear Sylus noticed your reaction, too, which you feel immediately sorry for, because his expression just looks even more wounded. “…I’ll summon someone to clean this up for you in a bit. Just…if you need a shower, feel free.”

“Thank you.” Leaping at the chance, you straighten and bob a grateful bow in the meantime. It earns you a flimsy scoff from the man. “I’ll have one now. Er…I apologise for taking your robe, I—wasn’t thinking—”

“It’s fine.” Sylus waves a dismissive hand, still not looking at you. He instead strides for the wardrobe, pulling it open, selecting another robe inside for himself. The room is oppressive with his clear melancholy. I really didn’t mean to hurt him. “There are…plenty of your size in here, if you need one. Also, there are clothes. Take what you need.”

Heart squeezing at the allusion in his words, you beat it down and do your utmost to tell yourself that you have nothing to feel bad for—it’s whoever, well, ‘I’ was before I arrived who’s at fault here! “…You, um, have my thanks. I’ll be quick, and out the door before you even know it! Haha…”

No response, and you shrink in on yourself in shame, inwardly cursing. The man merely dons the robe with his back to you, shoves his feet into his slippers, and barely spares you a glance as he turns to retrieve his phone from the bedside table. “…Your driver will be here in half an hour. There’s no hurry.”

With that, Sylus crosses the room, presses his phone to his ear, pulls open the door, and curtly clicks it shut behind him. Now, you are left completely alone in this vast room, where his clothes from the previous night still lay strewn on the floor, the bedsheets all twisted and haphazard on the expansive mattress, the analog clock on the wall faintly ticking away. It’s getting on to about nine in the morning. Wouldn’t this be Sylus’s bedtime? Well, you suppose that’s not your issue anymore—as if it ever was. Selecting the clothes you will wear from the wardrobe, you step into the ensuite, lock the door behind you, and get into the shower.

Well, what the fuck. It’s not everyday one ends up in a whole other dimension with a whole other life, let alone said dimension being an otome game and ending up in your favourite love interest’s bed. And then having a whole angsty dispute with him that would be quite soap opera worthy. Seriously, I have to be dreaming.

Oh, well. Once you get in the car awaiting you and depart the premises and never lay eyes on that man again, you suppose you’ll be able to adjust somehow to your new environment, and then get to figuring out a way to get back home. If that’s possible. I should hope it is.

sylus looks as if a fly has landed on the rim of his wine glass. a mild inconvenience, but not the end of the world. “i do.”

“my brother says people with rolexes have money.”

“that’s a reasonable conclusion, in most cases.” sylus crosses his arms. “unless they're thieves.”

carefully, the boy sizes him up, analyzing his tank, shorts, and sandals. “are you a thief?”

red eyes narrow—an implicit challenge. “not presently.”

the child thinks to himself, then risks it anyway. “can i have some money? i want a large, but my brother only has enough for a small.” he points to a taller child a few places ahead in line who's too engrossed in his phone to notice his missing mini-me.

sylus flits his eyes to the older boy, then back down to his brother. “sugar is bad for you,” he chides.

“water is good for you,” the child rebuttals immediately. 

if he so chooses, he’ll have a bright future on any school’s debate team.

the fly is inching down the curve of the wine glass now, leering precariously close to the surface of a thousand-dollar vintage. grimacing, sylus shoos it away with a flick of his finger. “fine. this amount should cover larges for the both of you,” he concedes, pulling a bill out from his pocket. “but when the sugar crash comes, you know who to blame.”

“thank you!” the boy grabs the money and beams, scampering back to his brother. a second later, you turn to sylus, whose flat stare is already set on you.

“when the ambulance comes to treat my heat stroke, tell them i’m also suffering from the effects of extortion.”

──────

after what seems like hours, you watch the child skip away with a snowcone half the size of him. now that the path is finally clear, you make your way to the front of the food truck. 

shaking a bottle of neon red syrup, a raven-haired girl with a cute, crooked grin greets you. “what can i get for you, sweetheart?”

“uh…” is it possible to get a brain freeze without having eaten anything? “cotton candy?”

“perfect.” she winks. “a sweet treat for a sweet gi—”

“make hers an extra large please,” sylus interrupts, tugging you into him from behind. “and i’ll have this…dragon’s blood flavor,” he adds with a wry smile. “a large.”

──────

“so…” with a frigid burst of sweetness on your tongue, you stare at the red-orange heap of ice in sylus’s cup.

“so?”

“does this count as cannibalism?”

thinking for a moment, he shrugs. “depends on if i like it or not.”

before you can ask for elaboration, he raises his spoon to mouth. it's a fun visual—big rich guy, comparatively small metal bench, flimsy plastic utensil. like watching a giant drive a clown car. 

he swallows and closes his eyes, and you swear you hear him rumble in satisfaction. “it’s nice,” he decides after a moment. “tangy.”

your lips spread into a triumphant grin as he continues eating, and you lean in and waggle your eyebrows. “oh? so it was worth the wait, huh? admit it.” 

“oh, absolutely not.” 

your mouth is agape. chuckling, he reaches over to shut it. 

In the image and in life, his hair is a mess: points jutting out every imaginable angle. It looks deliberate— fixed with gel, spray, or perhaps a spontaneous desire to be a talking point at breakfast— but his eyes are sharp with curiosity as he pats at his head. Is his hair really—? Yes, he can feel it under his hand.

Now that’s confusion, soft-bellied and exposed. You don’t know when you’ll have this chance again, so you take the shots you can, rapid-fire, no mercy:

“You look like you fell asleep in a washing machine. Like you were practicing alchemy, and it blew up in your face. Ooh, ooh! You look like a toilet brush that’s been used to scrub seven million toilets.”

Sylus hums as he pokes a hair tuft. “How… colourful.”

“Seriously, Sy. I know you’re a deep sleeper, but you’d think something was nesting in there, the way that—”

You gasp.

A little preoccupied, Sylus misses the ember. By the time he gazes up, sensing warmth and danger, it’s too late to stamp on it. He tries, anyway. “No. No. Kitten? No.”

…

“Hold still, Sylus!”

Mephisto wobbles on Sylus’s head, hunkering down for stability with a chirp.

“Take your time, sweetie,” Sylus grimaces, claws in his scalp as you take so many more pictures than necessary.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m almost done… try, uh… try to look really grumpy, yeah? Like you wanna kill me. Can you do that, Sy?”

He can’t, actually. He might be bleeding, ridiculed, but there’s light in his eyes as he watches you laugh and fuss over the composition of his downfall. When you say something about the rule of thirds, you catch his lip quirking; he’s trying not to smile.

You lower your phone, grinning. “Okay. I’ve got it.”

Sylus lifts Mephisto from his head— plonking him down on the kitchen counter, then finally, finally, tending to his hair. He mumbles as he smooths it back down, guiding silver-white curls with his fingers: “The things I do for you, kitten. Just make sure the twins don’t see it, hm? I couldn’t care less what they think, but the headaches, oh, they’d never let me hear the end of—”

Across Onychinus’s base, someone shrieks with laughter. Sylus flinches.  

You glance up from your phone, where your group chat with Luke and Kieran is open. “Hmm? Say that again, Sy, sorry, I missed it.”

I'm in my luteal phase and I can feel my blood boiling. I shot him a glare, hoping it would bore a hole to him.

“Need some help?” he confidently leans on the doorframe as if he's done nothing wrong.

The audacity of this man.

I'm mad. Really, really mad.

I said nothing, then proceeded to fetch a stepstool to reach that freaking mug. It was covered in dust, so I washed it in the sink. The cold water touches my hands, calming down my nerves and forgetting my roiling emotions momentarily. However, they became agitated again once I sense Sylus' footsteps approaching. I flick my wet hand, spraying him some soapy water. Then I set the mug on the rack, letting it dry.

“You went overboard this time, Qin Che. So don't talk to me.” I said in a stern tone, not even sparing him a glance as I walked past him.

The color from Sylus' face drains upon realizing what he had done. He usually enjoys bantering with you, especially when he gives you courage. However, with that coldness, he instantly knew it's a different kind of anger. He crossed the line this time. He didn't hesitate to follow you to the lounge area, and immediately kneeled before you.

“Kitten–”

“Are you done making me a plaything?” You said while gazing at your nails, an act to avoid Sylus’ gaze.

“Sweetie, look at me.”

“Am I a clown to you?” Your voice trembled slightly. “Does making me look stupid fun snd entertaining?”

“Sweetie…”

“You–” You bit your lips before you could say anything hurtful. You release a heavy sigh instead.

“I understand why you're angry,” Sylus' knuckles brush against your knees as if he's testing the waters, to see if he can initiate a physical contact. You gulp, hesitating whether you'd welcome him or not. Nevertheless, you didn't budge. Still, you're avoiding his gaze, afraid that he'd see right through you. The corner of your eyes are already stinging.

“You are not a clown, an entertainment, nor my plaything. I have overstepped it this time. I am really, really sorry.”

As soon as he finishes his sentence, you couldn't hold back any longer–you wrap your arms around him and your tears come flowing. Sylus was taken aback for a bit, then embraced you back.

“Ow,” Sylus groaned as you lightly smacked his broad back and pinched him.

“Payback…” You sniffled.

“Am I forgiven?”

“Yes, but I'm sleeping in the guest room.”

Sylus' heart sank again; he really overdid it this time and it will take a long time (depending on your mood) to regain your trust again…