lookingfor.lia

Under the glamorous and blinding lights, he is a completely different force, commanding and bewitching the crowd and cameras like no other. But as soon as he gets off the stage, it’s as if someone cut off his strings. When the music dies, he crashes. And even worse, he becomes like a wounded and cornered cat, desperately demanding to be left alone even as he slumps against the cold concrete of the hallway, hissing and swatting away any help that comes his way.

According to Thomas, he has been like this for the past year, wasting away his energy until he simply has nothing left to fight with. But this time, to the utter shock of the staff, he doesn't fight you. Not in the end, anyway. It took every persuasion skill in your arsenal and an inhuman amount of patience to get to this point, but a win is a win.

“Rafayel, you need to pace yourself. You give it too much, too fast,” you mutter, shifting your stance to take his weight as you physically support him to hobble back toward his dressing room, his arm draped heavily over your shoulder.

He manages a weak, dry chuckle against your ear. “A puppet to my own music and the world,” he whispers, his voice barely audible over the distant roar of the crowd still screaming his name. “That’s all I am.”

He is so broken it makes your heart ache. You can see his struggle, the painful love-hate relationship he has with every song that made him famous.

Even though it’s only been a little over a week, you have seen glimpses of who Rafayel was before everything inevitably wore away at him, even with all his resistance. All his behavior ultimately stems from him simply needing to survive in a world where he no longer belongs to himself.

You purse your lips. There has to be something more you could do.

----

You have combed through every channel available to you, but you’ve truly hit a dead end. You now only have one more option.

After waiting for your chances for days, you finally find a moment to pull Thomas aside while Rafayel is locked in another grueling rehearsal.

“You want to know how Rafayel really started?” Thomas lowers his voice. You nod.

“Hit a dead end on your investigation, huh?” He offers a knowing, weary smile.

“I hate to admit it, but yes. Whoever it is, has done a good job of scrubbing the records.”

“It’s because there weren't many records to begin with,” Thomas says, glancing toward the rehearsal room. “Rafayel doesn't talk about his past. Neither does his contract allow him to.” He pauses. “My understanding is that he lost his family tragically at a young age. A small village by the sea took him in, but they were a struggling community… a rural town surviving only on the fishery, almost entirely secluded from the rest of the world.”

“And that’s where the scout found him?”

“By pure chance, playing piano at a dive bar. I don’t think Rafayel had much of a choice. He had no one. The label also agreed to provide infrastructure and support to the village in exchange for his signature and his total silence about his past. They keep it under wraps because… well, it was predatory, plain and simple.”

Thomas looks away. “His early songs were haunting, moving pieces of heartbreak. They never made it out, those don't work for a debut idol. He was pretty much forced into writing the songs the world knows now, catchy, intoxicating, insanely viral. Don’t get me wrong, they are brilliant. Better than what anyone else in the industry is capable of. But once you have heard the songs he writes with his heart, you know they are not the same. Those songs, once you have heard him sing them… they never leave you.”

Thomas turns back to you. “So now you know. What do you plan to do with the information?”

“...I propose to hold a fan greet,” you say calmly.

Thomas blinks at you slowly. “...You what?”

“At a blind location.” You watch as he starts to catch your hint. “Would you sign off on that?”

“...Perhaps. What else?”

“A small, extremely vetted audience. His most loyal fans—the ones who have been there since the beginning. People who would travel any distance, stay in a location they don’t know and aren’t allowed to disclose, and surrender every recording device they own without a second thought. People who would defend him to the end, who wouldn’t dream of whispering a single word that would hurt him in any way.”

“They can share footage after the event, but only the specific clips provided. This can be sold to the label as an ‘exclusive closed-door session’ to revamp the fan engagement that has been long paused. It’s an offer they can’t refuse.”

You pause.

“And, at the back,” you add softly, “we can open it up to the people from the place where he came from.”

After a stretch of silence, Thomas breathes out, and then lowly chuckles.

“I’ve been waiting years for someone to suggest we stop playing by the rules.” He meets your eyes, his expression calm. “Consider it signed off. You get him there, I will handle the rest.”

----

“......You……How?”

You imagine it’s not often that Rafayel is rendered completely speechless, but that is truly his state now.

The two of you are standing on the creaking boardwalk of a small, rural fishing village. It was a solid five-hour drive from the nearest city. Dusk is settling in, the sound of waves softly crashing against the still, quiet air.

Rafayel hadn’t paid attention to where you were going, which worked in your favor. He had slept through the entire drive and was absolutely stunned when he woke up to realize where he was.

The look on his face in that moment is not something you will forget anytime soon.

“The bar... it’s still here?” His voice is slightly coarse as the two of you follow the curve of the boardwalk.

“Yes. The piano is still there too,” you answer softly, knowing the fragility of the moment. “It’s an extremely small group of vetted fans. Thomas and I hand-picked them. They are your most loyal supporters, people who have been here since the very beginning and want nothing but the best for you. And there are... other people you might recognize. They will be at the back. You can talk to them after the fans leave and before we depart at midnight.”

You both stop as you reach your destination. He looks at the weathered door of the dive bar, the paint long peeled off.

“All you need to know is that the people inside all love you. It’s an extremely safe space, just for you. Thomas and I made very sure of it. Recordings, sound, access... everything is under our control.” You pause and then whisper, “Go in there and be yourself, Rafayel. Sing the songs you want to sing. Say what you want to say. Be who you want to be.”

He looks at you then, a mix of disbelief and something achingly vulnerable in his eyes.

“Come on,” you say, softly taking his hand. “Let’s go in.”

----------

The bar is quiet as you walk in, accompanied only by the sound of the ocean and the creaking of the floor. It’s as if everyone inside is holding their breath.

Rafayel walks to the piano and softly brushes his hand over the keys. His eyes slowly light up, a faint, fond smile tugging at his lips, as if he is greeting an old friend.

“The first song I wrote... it didn’t make it to the public,” he begins, settling into the seat at the piano. He speaks as if to himself, yet his voice captivates the audience like a spell. “It was about sudden goodbyes, and hoping against hope of maybe, one day, meeting again. It has my heart.”

His fingers find the keys. The notes from the well-worn piano and his voice start with a quiet, almost fragile intimacy, sparse and haunting. It slowly shifts and builds, a quiet current of longing and heartache circling, surging and clawing to break through the surface, his voice increasingly raw and coarse around the edges…

And then, all restraint breaks. The power in his chest erupts and the piano shakes with the heavy release of chords, soaring high notes tearing out all the pain, the anger, the exhaustion, and all the things he was made to bury, dragged to the light and released into the air like a desperate declaration of defiance. The air trembles from the physical eruption of sound and emotion, Rafayel’s voice breaking along with it, until slowly, the notes die down and ebb away, trailing off into a heavy, resonant silence.

Everything and everyone feels suspended under a spell that no one can break, not even Rafayel himself. He stays hunched over the keys for a long moment, his chest heaving, his eyes shut. Finally, he opens them and looks up. His eyes find yours—and he sees that you are crying.

He blinks in genuine surprise, his lips slightly parting. You immediately snap out of the trance and angrily gesture for him to look away, covering your face with your other hand.

A soft, breathless chuckle escapes him. He looks back down at the keys as the audience, finally breaking from the spell, erupts into applause and cheers.

After that, Rafayel plays a few more unreleased songs and takes song requests from the fans, talking about the backstories and creating intimate ballad versions of them on the fly. The warmth of it is enveloping, and it feels as if everyone in the room is being healed, little by little, as the night goes on.

After the fans are escorted back out to the city, and Rafayel has his tearful but quiet reunion with those who cared for him, he says his goodbyes and follows you back to the car in silence.

As you start the drive, in the quiet of the car, Rafayel leans his head back against the passenger seat and turns to face you, the moonlight pouring through the window and catching perfectly in the depths of his eyes.

“I made you cry.”

You quickly look over to glare at him before turning your eyes back to the road. “Of all the things you decide to say first...”

“But I did.” He sounds almost proud.

“You did,” you mumble. There is no use denying it, it was probably even caught on the official recording. “I was moved. They weren't bad tears.”

He doesn’t move or say anything for a long moment, his gaze weighing heavy on the side of your face. Then, slowly, he reaches out. He catches a stray lock of your hair between his fingers, and then lets the strands slowly slide off his fingertip as if he is memorizing the moment.

Even from the corner of your eye, you can tell there is something different. There is a look in his eyes you haven't seen before, something deep, steady, and... dangerously personal.

“Next time,” he whispers, “I would like to make you cry with a love song instead.”

---- Next snippet probably won't be for another week or two as I am all out of drafts now 😂 but hope you enjoyed so far 🙂‍↕️ next.. let the pursue begin

The protocore crackled on the ground, small arcs of prismatic energy skipping off its fractured shell.

You crouched, picking it up between your fingers, watching its unstable glow dance across your palm.

“A high-energy one, huh?” you murmured, slipping it into the reinforced pouch at your hip.

The half-dead Wanderer twitched beside you, its last fragmented thoughts and screeching bleeding into your mind like static.

You hated how clearly you understood them.

It made killing them a mercy and a torment at the same time especially the advanced ones, the ones who had begun to… feel.

Your dagger was still lodged in its skull. You pulled it out slowly, the corrupted protocore fused to the blade rattling where the Wanderer’s nerves should have been. You looked at the slimy substance on it, wiping it on your sleeve.

A weapon made by your own hands.

A painless death-bringer which was your single act of kindness for creatures everyone else considered monsters.

And they were, even to you sometimes.

Your veins lit up in response, glowing deep, river-blue beneath your skin. Resonating with the energy within it.

And the moment it hit you, your lips curved.

It had what you needed.

Nobody else knew in this world except you. Neither the hunters' association nor the researchers or elites or even the organisation you work for- Onychinus.

Well, even if they did- they wouldn't know how to make it useful.

Wanderers possessed something rarer than protocores. Something more dangerous than aether core. Something that, in the wrong hands, could end civilization if used correctly or rather incorrectly in terms of morals.

Something only you could detect because you were a failed experiment.

But, you were saved when the aether core's energy destabilised you, it was this that saved you.

You sliced through the Wanderer’s face, just above the forehead.

No blood, only thick, clear lubricant clinging to your fingers as you pushed deeper, searching for the hardened mass you knew would be there.

A mist- silver fading into gold swirled around your hand.

Residual energy spiraled inward, collapsing into your body as the Wanderer shriveled like burning paper.

When the last flicker of life drained away, you pulled it free-

A core no larger than a marble.

It was pure black and heavier than it looked. You knew if any artist would see this type of color, they would do anything to mimick this beautiful black.

It devoured every light, leaving behind only what could be compared to a void.

“My… I finally found you.” Your voice trembled in excitement. “Vanzol Core.”

But terrifying in its quiet power- power that no one could harness but you.

Your own energy pulsed wildly beneath your skin, unstable from the failed aether-core fusion that had nearly killed you as a child.

You still remembered the day the Hunters Association tossed you aside like trash, hoping to get hunted by some animal or a wanderer of your luck was not on your side.

You remembered what saved you.

You remembered what it left behind.

And the curse it gifted you with-

Your Evol which was undetectable, unpredictable and it made you hypersensitive to every other Evol around you.

Being near people destabilized them but touching them was worse.

So you hid it always. Not for their sake, but your own. Because no aether core can match your evol.

Your phone rang which made you almost drop the core.

You looked at the caller ID and let out a small, helpless smile.

“Mr. Qin,” you greeted softly, “What can I do for you?”

“There’s an auction in two weeks.” Sylus’s voice was monotonous and with a hint of urgency. "I need an extremely high-energy protocore by then.”

“So demanding, Mr. Qin.” you chuckled lightly, his coldness not being a foreign treatment to you.

“Did anyone in Onychinus ever tell you to be considerate? Or is that courtesy reserved only for her?” you continued with a cheeky smile, knowing that Sylus was pinching the bridge of his nose.

Oh, he knew you loved to get on his nerves.

“Can you get it done?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Always a yes for you.

The call ended which made you laugh. Anything to get under his skin.

but your heart squeezed, the ache that once tore you apart was numb now.

Sylus’s devotion was never yours.

Would never be yours.

You glanced at the warped skin on your bicep- veins threading each other like ink.

“Not much time left,” you whispered.

You kept the vanzol core in your bag, patting it gently like it was your pet.

“Just once… I wish I could hold you for the first and last time.” You exhaled, your eyes looking at the protofield shattering.

“But fate has always been against me, hasn’t it?” A bitter smile ghosted over your lips, remembering the countless other times you were snatched away from happiness.

But, now you found solitude in pain.

After all…

This was your last lifetime.

Your love would mean doom.

His love, if he ever chose it- would mean salvation.

But fate was cruel.

And between doom and salvation…

"Which one would win?"

⸻

Hey guys! This is a just sneak-peek in what would be the story. I will appreciate if you guys could let me know if you will be interested in reading this story.. I can make taglist as well!

This story obviously revolves around Sylus soul-bounded to MC and reader that I HAD to make powerful or maybe cracked idk but don't worry- there are plans :>

The Vanzol core doesn't exist in the game, it's something I made and a lot of new elements to the story that doesn't follow the canon one.

He stirred, his arm tightening around your waist. “You’re quiet today,” he murmured against your shoulder, his tone easy, affectionate.

You stared at the ceiling for a long time bracing yourself for what was to come. You swallowed thickly before you said the dreaded words, “I think it’s best we go our separate ways.”

His body went still immediately. The kind of still that felt wrong — too sharp for someone like him. He didn’t lift his head, didn’t even breathe for a few seconds. “…What?”

You swallowed, forcing your voice to sound casual, almost gentle. “I mean… maybe it’s time to end this. You know, before things get more complicated.”

That finally got him to move. He pulled back just enough to see your face, his eyes wide, searching. “End this? Y/n, what are you talking about?”

You sat up, clutching the sheet like it could shield you from the look he was giving you. “I just think it’s better this way. MC will be here soon, and—”

“MC?” His voice cracked on her name, soft but disbelieving. “What does she have to do with us?”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Everything, Xavier. She’s the one you’re supposed to be with. That’s how this goes. If she finds out about us—”

He sat up too, shaking his head slowly. “No, you’re wrong. I don’t feel that way about her, not anymore.” His tone stayed low, calm — but the calm didn’t sound like him anymore. It sounded fragile. “Besides, she doesn’t even know who I am.” His hand reached for yours, fingers trembling just slightly. “Y/n, look at me. You know how I feel about you. I love you.”

You flinched. You didn’t mean to, but you did. “Xavier…”

He caught the hesitation immediately, panic flashing behind his composure. “Did I do something? Tell me what I did. I can fix it, I swear I can. Just— don’t do this.” His voice cracked halfway through, but he tried to cover it with a strained smile. That made it worse.

“Xavier, it’s not like that,” you said quietly. “You’ll see. This… this was never supposed to last. You’ll feel differently once she’s here.”

That broke something in him. You could see it — the way his shoulders slumped, the way he blinked too fast, like he couldn’t process what you’d just said.

“Never supposed to last?” he repeated, voice almost a whisper. “You think what I feel for you is temporary?” You didn’t answer right away, and that silence must have said enough. He laughed — just once, short and humorless. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

You opened your mouth to say something — anything — but he spoke first.

“I’ve changed because of you,” he said, his tone unraveling now, no longer controlled. “Everything I am now— it’s because of you. Don’t tell me it was temporary. It wasn’t for me. Don’t make it sound like what we have didn’t mean anything.”

He reached for you again, but you backed away. That small retreat was all it took for his composure to snap.

“Please don’t do this,” he said, voice low and shaking. “Please. If you go, I don’t— I don’t know what will happen to me.” His breathing hitched, uneven, desperate. “You said you wanted to be with me. You said you wouldn’t leave.”

“Xavier—”

“Tell me what to do,” he cut in. “I’ll change. I’ll be better. Just… don’t leave me.”

The air around you shifted then — faint static, a soft hum that made the hairs on your arms stand up. The all too familiar tingling.

Warning: Emotional Instability Detected.
Please Recalibrate Affinity Parameters.

The system’s voice flickered into existence, glitching at the edges of your vision. Xavier couldn’t see it. He was staring at you like he was watching his world fall apart in slow motion.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispered. “Not after everything. Not when I finally have you.”

And for the first time since the system went silent, you were afraid. Not of him — but of what might happen if it broke him completely.

Warning: Emotional Instability Escalating.
User action required. Please stabilize subject Xavier.

Your blood ran cold.

You stared at it, unblinking. What did this mean? What would happen if you didn’t?

“Y/n?” Xavier’s voice was small, raw. He reached for you again, eyes wide and wet. “Please, just tell me what I did wrong—”

Critical emotional deviation detected.
Failure to repair will initiate reset.

Your stomach twisted. Reset. It was happening again. You took a step back, eyes darting between Xavier’s face and the warning blazing in front of you.

“Xavier, stop—” you started, but he didn’t hear you.

He was too far gone now, his voice fraying at the edges. “You can’t just walk away, you can’t—after everything, after me, you can’t!” His hand trembled as he reached for you again, panic bleeding through every line of him.

Final warning.
Instability threshold exceeded.
Reset imminent.

“Wait, don’t—!” you shouted, reaching out, but it was too late.

The world flickered.

Light collapsed in on itself, the room twisting and shattering like glass underwater. For a moment, you felt your body disintegrate — that familiar, awful weightlessness right before everything ended.

Then —

You blinked.

The sunlight was back, filtering through the curtains. The same warmth on your skin. The same steady rhythm of Xavier’s breathing beside you.

He stirred, his arm tightening around your waist. “You’re quiet today,” he murmured against your shoulder, his tone easy, affectionate.

Your throat went dry. You knew those words. Every syllable. Every breath.

You sat up slowly, your heart hammering in your chest. The sheet slipped from your fingers as you looked around the room — the same room, exactly as before.

No system message. No glitch. Nothing.

Just the illusion of peace.

You turned to Xavier, who was blinking up at you in confusion, his hair mussed, his smile soft and unknowing. “What’s wrong?” he asked, like he hadn’t just shattered in front of you moments ago. Like none of it had happened.

You stared at him for a long moment, realization sinking like a stone in your chest. The system hadn’t vanished. It had just gone silent. Watching. Waiting for you to make a wrong move.

You ran a hand down your face, laughing bitterly.

Xavier tilted his head slightly, concern shadowing his features. “Y/n?”

You forced a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Nothing,” you said flatly. “It’s nothing.”

But inside, something snapped. So this was how it was going to be. Fine. Two can play this game.

+++

You tried again.

Different place this time — not your apartment, not the bed where everything went wrong. A café. Neutral ground. Somewhere harmless, somewhere normal. The air smelled faintly of coffee and rain, the quiet hum of conversation filling the space. Xavier sat across from you, smiling the way he always did when you met up after work — like this was real life, not code and consequence.

You waited until he looked relaxed, his hand wrapped around his mug, before saying softly, “Xavier… I think we should stop seeing each other.”

The effect was immediate. His fingers froze mid-motion, the smile flickering, then failing. “What?”

You tried to keep your tone even. “It’s just not working. You deserve someone who—”

“Don’t,” he cut in quietly, his jaw tight. “Don’t say that.”

You sighed. “You don’t understand. You were never supposed to be with—”

Warning: Emotional Instability Detected.
Stabilize subject Xavier.

Your pulse jumped. Not again.

He leaned forward, voice trembling despite the calm he was trying to keep. “If this is about something I did—just tell me, please. I can change.”

Instability Escalating.
Reset Imminent.

“Xavier, stop, you don’t—”

Light fractured.
Your words dissolved mid-syllable.

And again!

The park. The sound of wind in the trees. You told yourself it wouldn’t happen this time, if you stayed calm, if you phrased it differently.

“Xavier, I think we need some time apart.”

His head tilted, confusion shadowing his face. “Apart?”

“It’s not you, I just— I need space.”

Warning: Affinity fluctuation detected.
Recommend immediate repair.

You bit your tongue, heart hammering. He reached for your hand. “Space from what? From me?”

“Yes.”

Instability increasing.
Reset imminent.

You barely had time to curse before the world blinked out again.

And again…

The marketplace this time, noise everywhere, people between you. Maybe that would help. Maybe if you made it short, blunt.

“I don’t love you anymore.”

It was a lie, but it needed to be said. You didn’t even look at him when you said it.

He went silent. For a long moment, the world felt suspended — like maybe, just maybe, you’d beaten it.

Then his voice broke the stillness. “Don’t say that.”

You turned to face him. His eyes were wet, wild, his composure cracking in real time. “You don’t mean that,” he whispered. “You can’t.”

Warning: Subject XAVIER emotional collapse in progress.
Reset will commence in—

“No—don’t you dare—” you snapped at the air, at the invisible voice, but the countdown never finished.

The world folded in on itself again.

+++

You woke up back in bed. Same sunlight. Same warmth. Same loop.

Xavier stirred beside you, but didn’t wake. His breathing was soft and steady, unaware of the chaos repeating endlessly in your head.

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. The moment felt fragile—like if you breathed too loudly, the world would reset again.

You didn’t know how many loops it had been. Three? Four? Enough that the pattern was burned into your nerves: the plea, the warning, the collapse, the white flash. Each reset left you more frayed, more tired.

Then the screen flickered into existence — faint, translucent light bleeding through the corner of your vision.

User’s feelings registered. Are you willing to accept the consequences of your actions?

***Yes.*** ***No.***

You blinked, heart jolting. It was a trap. You knew, but you were tired at this point. You were beyond caring. Your voice came out raw. “Yes… yes, please, fuck, whatever it is. I’ll take my chances.”

The interface shifted, light pulsing once, twice, before settling into two glowing lines of text.

Ending A: Heartbreak
As you choose this path, be mindful that severing a deeply rooted bond can lead to unforeseen consequences. Heartbreak may not always bring the clarity one expects; sometimes, it leaves lingering shadows and unanticipated ripples. Proceed with caution, for not every wound heals as simply as it seems.

Ending B: Compassionate Choice
While this path may seem gentle and protective, it’s important to remember that not all outcomes are as they appear. Sometimes, what seems like a safe harbor may conceal hidden storms. Are you prepared for the uncertainties that lie ahead?

You stared at the glowing words until your eyes ached. Both choices were vague — two polished cages dressed up as mercy. The system wasn’t offering you freedom. It was only asking how you wanted to suffer.

You exhaled a shaky breath. You glanced at Xavier, his white hair tousled, the faintest frown creasing his brow even in sleep. None of this was his fault. You hated the system, but you couldn’t bring yourself to hurt him. So you reached toward the light and chose Option B.

*****************************************

previous part ….. next part | ‘F*ck the system’ series

So, when it came to protecting Mikey, hesitation wasn't in Haruchiyo's vocabulary. It wasn't an option. Even as the vice president of the Kanto Manji Gang, commanding men who would have spilled blood for him without question, he had walked into an enemy trap alone.

Fourteen men against one.

It wasn’t a fight; it was a calculated sacrifice. A massacre.

Haruchiyo had fought like a demon unleashed, his katana moving with a precision and ferocity that turned the narrow alley into a butcher's den. Flesh tore, blood sprayed, and screams rose like a choir of agony in the night. For every cut he delivered, though, another fist found its mark. A bat slammed into his ribs. A knife grazed his body. Yet he didn't stop. Every movement, every ounce of pain, was fuel for the fire that burned him.

By the time the last man fell, Haruchiyo was barely standing.

Now, sprawled on the street, his breath came in wet, ragged gasps, each one an effort that felt like swallowing glass. The katana he'd fought so fiercely with had slipped from his grasp, its one-sharp edge dulled and stained crimson. A knife wound in his side pulsed with pain, the searing ache radiating outword with each shallow rise and fall of his chest. His blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the filthly street like a grosteque offering.

The world around him began to twist and blur, a kaleidoscope of dim streetlights and distant, faceless silhouettes. People were there—he could hear the hurried shuffle of their feet the murmurs of unease carried on in the wind. But none of them came closer. Their figures remained hazy and indistinct, heads turned away as if acknowledging his existence was an act too heavy to bear.

And maybe it was. He didn't deserve their pity. He didn't want it. What use did a knight have for mercy?

His hand slipped slightly, the strength draining from him faster than he could summon the will to move. The relentless ache in his body intensified, his limbs growing heavier with each passing second. A part of him recognised the truth: he was losing too much blood. The edges of his vision darkened, shadows creeping inward, threatening to consume him.

It was fine. This was how it was supposed to end, wasn't it?

Haruchiyo had always been a piece on the board, a knight thrown into battle again and again without hesitation. He was meant to break, to shatter, to be discarded when his usefulness ran out. As long as the king stood tall, untouchable, his sacrifice was nothing more than a necessary loss. And so, as the void began to reach for him, he let his mind drift, accepting its cold embrace with the faintest hint of a smile.

Until your voice jolted him awake.

“Are you alright?”

It was soft, hesitant, and impossibly gentle—so out of place in the brutal, blood-soaked reality he lived in that it made his eyes flutter open, despite the overwhelming exhaustion.

At first, he could only make out the shape of you—standing in front of him, your figure illuminated by the dim orange glow of a nearby streetlight. His gaze shifted, struggling to steady, until he caught sight of your school uniform—a pristine, ordinary thing that looked so absurdly out of place amidst the blood-soaked chaos. And then there was your face: wide-eyed and paled with worry, as you stared at him like you couldn't quite believe what you were seeing.

You shouldn't have been there.

Someone like you—a stranger, so normal, so untainted—had no business stopping for him. You should have turned away, just like everyone else. You should have kept walking, left him there to bleed out and vanish, just another nameless casualty swallowed by the night.

And yet, you hadn't.

You were holding out something to him—a handkerchief embroidered with flowers. It looked laughably small in your hands, the kind of thing that belonged neatly folded in a school bag. How could that delicate thing possibly fix the mess he was in?

When he didn’t move, didn’t say anything, uncertainty flickered across your face, and your hand lowered slowly.

“I just called the ambulance,” you said, your voice was steady, but he didn’t miss the way your fingers trembled. “They should be here any minute.”

Your gaze darted to his wound, and he saw the way your lips pressed into a tight line as if you were debating whether you should be doing more.

“I… I can’t stay long,” you added, almost apologetically. “I’ve got an important test to get to. But I didn’t want to just…”

You trailed off, biting your lip as though the words felt inadequate, as though you were ashamed of even thinking of leaving him.

His chest ached at your concern.

It wasn’t pity, though—your voice didn’t carry that patronizing weight. It was genuine. The kind of thing he hadn’t encountered in what felt like a lifetime.

He wanted to tell you to leave.

That your kindness was wasted on him. That people like him didn't deserve help, didn't deserve saving. That the world would be better off if he bled out here, just another piece sacrificed for the king's game.

But the words wouldn't come.

All he could do was lie there, his breathing ragged, his body a leaden weight against the cold asphalt. His eyes, hazy yet piercing, locked onto yours, as if searching for an answer he didn't know how to ask.

Then you knelt in front of him, holding out the handkerchief once more.

The mechanical mistrust ingrained in him since childhood roared to life. His instinct flared violently, screaming at him to shove you away, to guard himself. His hand shot out before he could stop it, knocking yours aside with more force than intended.

You froze mid-motion, your hand lingering in the air, your eyes widening slightly. A moment of silence passed, and he anticipated the usual response—fear, disgust, even hatred.

But your gaze softened instead.

"I'm not going to hurt you," you said gently as though you were speaking to a frightened animal. "I just want to help."

Help.

He stared at you, his chest tight with disbelief. The concept felt alien, as if you'd spoken a language he'd never learned. People didn’t help without wanting something in return. Not in his world. Not in the life he’d been swallowed by since the day Mikey pulled him out of the gutter and gave him a purpose.

Still, your hand came forward again, slower this time, the handkerchief trembling between your fingers.

The soft fabric brushed against his cheek, and he froze. Every muscle in his body locked, the instinct to recoil roaring in his mind, but his body betrayed him, rooted in place. Your touch was gentle, so impossibly careful, it felt like you were afraid of breaking him.

Breaking me? The thought almost made him laugh—if he weren't already choking on exhaustion. But I'm already broken.

His life had been a series of fractures, cracks spreading deeper with every betrayal, every fight, every sacrifice made in Mikey's name.

And yet, this—your touch, your gaze, your voice—scraped at a forgotten part inside him, a hollow space he'd long since buried beneath rage and violence. A part of him he didn't recognise anymore.

For that fleeting moment, Haruchiyo let you clean the blood off his face. The warmth of your touch soothed the sting of his wounds, both seen and unseen, you presence anchoring him a way he didn't understand and didn't want to question.

Then the panic set in.

"Don’t," he snapped, the word tearing from his throat, as he jerked your hand away again.

Letting someone in, even this much, felt like a crack in his armor, and the vulnerability clawed at him like a living thing.

You sighed in response, your frustration flickering across your face, but there was no anger. “Fine, I’ll stop.”

You tucked the handkerchief away.

Haruchiyo watched silently as you pulled out a notepad from your bag, scribbling something quickly before tearing the page free. You folded it neatly in your hands and held it out to him.

"I really need to get going now," you said, straightening to your full height. Your schoolbag shifted on your shoulder, a reminder of the normal life you'd be returning to—a world so far removed from his.

"But if you need anything, call me. Please. I mean it."

Haruchiyo stared at the paper, but he didn’t take it.

You hesitated for only a second before bending down and slipping it into his hand yourself. Your fingers brushed against his briefly, but the contact was enough to send a jolt through him—one he didn’t know how to process.

He stared down at the paper now crumpled in his hand, the faint imprint of your touch still linegering on his skin. His mind raced, torn between the instinct to throw it away and the inexplicable urge to hold onto it like a lifeline.

You.

Someone who had stepped into his world—this brutal, twisted hell he lived in—and hadn't turned away. Someone who didn't treat him like he was nothing more than a lunatic, a dog loyal to its master.

Someone who looked at him and saw a man worth saving.

He didn't understand it. He didn't trust it. But he couldn't bring himself to reject it.

You turned to leave, but paused a few steps away, glancing back over your shoulder with a small, uncertain smile.

"Don’t forget," you said softly, "you can call me, okay?"

And then you were gone, your figure swallowed by the chaos of the city.

Still, he didn’t move. The sounds of the world around him—the distant hum of traffic, the wail of approaching sirens—blurred into static. His heart pounded, erratic and uneven, a thundering rhythm he couldn't control. He couldn't explain it—why his chest felt tight, why his throat burned, why this small, stupid piece of paper felt heavier than the katana he'd wielded mere hours ago.

For the first time in his life, Haruchiyo Sanzu didn't know what he was supposed to do.

And it terrified him.

Haruchiyo Sanzu couldn’t get you out of his mind.

It was infuriating.

Days had passed since you left him on that bloodstained street with your naive kindness and a flimsy promise tucked into his hand. Days spent staring at white ceilings, surrounded by the antiseptic stench of the hospital Mikey had sponsored—quiet, pristine, and isolating. Mikey hadn’t even bothered to visit, and part of Haruchiyo expected that. The boss was angry.

Not that Mikey’s silence stung—it did.

But the truth was, Mikey had done enough. He’d kept the whole ordeal from reaching the police, hidden the mess Haruchiyo had made in his reckless attempt to protect the king. That was Mikey’s way: decisive and clean. Still, the absence of his leader left Haruchiyo restless, trapped in a limbo of recovery and idleness.

And then there was you.

Your voice, your face, the warmth of your touch—they haunted him. Haruchiyo scowled as he pulled the crumpled note from his pocket, smoothing the creases with his thumb. Your number, still smudged with his blood, stared back at him like a challenge.

“Don’t forget, you can call me, okay?”

He hadn’t called you.

Not even once.

He told himself it was for the best. You were a normal girl—innocent, untouched by the filth of his world. It would be irresponsible, dangerous, to drag you into the dark. But no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, the selfish, traitorous part of him wanted to see you again.

The knock at the door snapped him out of his thoughts, and Haruchiyo shoved the paper back into his pocket just as it creaked open.

Ran Haitani sauntered in like he owned the place, a shit-eating grin on his face, dark Kanto Manji Gang uniform hanging perfectly off his tall frame. His signature braid dangled over his shoulder, swaying with every step.

“You look like shit, man,” Ran quipped as he stopped at the foot of Haruchiyo’s bed.

Haruchiyo shot him a glare, his lips curling in irritation. “If you’re here to waste my time, get lost.”

Ran didn’t budge. Instead, he leaned against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, as if he owned the place. “Relax. I’m only here as a messenger. Boss sent me.”

At that, Haruchiyo’s eyes narrowed, his posture stiffening despite the ache it caused. “What does he want?”

“He’s pulling you out of the gang for a while. Says you’re supposed to rest.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Haruchiyo pushed himself upright, ignoring the sharp pain that lanced through his side. “Bullshit. Mikey wouldn’t say that.”

Ran shrugged, feigning indifference. “Believe what you want, but those were his exact words.”

Haruchiyo’s jaw clenched, his fists balling in the sheets. “There’s no one who can protect Mikey like I can. He knows that.”

At that, Ran’s smirk faltered, his violet eyes narrowing just slightly. “That’s the problem, Haru-chan. You think you’re the only one who can do shit? Like the rest of us are just for show?”

“Because you are,” Haruchiyo snapped. “None of you understand what Mikey needs. What it takes to keep him safe. You’re all just playing at loyalty.”

The room grew tense, the air thick with unspoken challenges. Ran straightened, his easygoing demeanor shifting into a chilling coldness.

“And you think kissin’ his ass makes you better than us? Newsflash, Mad Dog. Just because we don’t worship him the way you do doesn’t mean we’d hesitate to kill for him.”

Haruchiyo opened his mouth to fire back, but before he could get a word out, Ran’s fist connected with his face.

The punch wasn't hard enough to cause any real damage, but the impact jerked Haruchiyo’s head to the side. The sting was enough to leave him momentarily stunned, his fingers flying to his cheek as his eyes snapped back to Ran, blazing with fury.

“-The fuck?!”

Ran shrugged, a lazy grin spreading across his face as if he hadn't just signed his death warrant. "I’ve always wanted to do that. Figured now's my best shot since you're, y'know, bedridden."

Haruchiyo’s hands clenched into fists, his entire body vibrating with restrained rage. "You want to die, Haitani?"

"Not today," Ran replied smoothly, raising his hands in mock surrender. But there was no fear in his eyes, only that infuriating glimmer of amusement.

“Anyway, Boss got another job for you.”

Haruchiyo scoffed, his anger momentarily eclipsed by disbelief. "What job?"

"You're going to guard someone."

Haruchiyo frowned. Guard duty? That wasn’t his style. He wasn’t some babysitter.

“Who?”

Ran’s grin widened, and his next words came as casually as a bomb dropping.

“Mikey’s girlfriend.”

Haruchiyo’s body stilled, his mind whirring as the air seemed to shift around him. “What? Mikey’s girlfriend?”

“Surprise, surprise.” Ran chuckled. “Turns out Boss is a ladies’ man. Figures, huh?”

Haruchiyo said nothing. His expression was carefully blank, but his chest tightened with a foreign, unpleasant feeling. Mikey—his king, his leader—had a girlfriend? He’d never heard anything about her before.

The thought churned in his gut like acid, his loyalty and jealousy clashing violently. Who the hell was she? What kind of girl could hold a place in Mikey’s heart that wasn’t reserved for the gang—wasn’t reserved for him?

Whoever she was, Haruchiyo doubted she deserved him.

“She’s important,” Ran said, turning to leave. “So don’t screw this up, Haru-chan. If you do… well, I’ll have another reason to smash your face in.”

Haruchiyo didn’t respond, his mind already spinning as the door clicked shut behind Ran. He leaned back against the pillows, his head swimming with questions.

His fingers brushed against the paper in his pocket, its edges worn and stained. The burning question lingered like a curse: Who the hell was she?

And why did he already feel like he was losing something he never even had the chance to claim?

Haruchiyo Sanzu leaned casually against his superbike, its black frame gleaming beneath the afternoon sun. His presence alone drew a crowd, as it always did. Dressed in a loose black turtleneck and fitted jeans, with his pink hair pulled back into a ponytail, he cut a figure both intimidating and impossibly attractive. The all-girls school gate was abuzz with murmurs and giggles as students streamed out, whispering and glancing in his direction.

But Haruchiyo ignored them.

He wasn’t here for them.

Today, he had a job to do—a job he wanted no part of. Guard Mikey’s girlfriend. The words alone made his blood boil. He knew this wasn’t about trust; this was a punishment. Mikey was pulling him away from the gang, away from what Haruchiyo lived for, because he’d disobeyed. Charging headfirst into enemy territory was reckless, and Mikey knew it wasn’t just about protecting him. Haruchiyo enjoyed the fight. The blood. The chaos.

And this? This assignment was meant to tear that from him, to leash him like a misbehaved dog. Worse still, Mikey was entrusting him with someone weak. Someone unworthy of a king.

His phone buzzed in his hand, breaking him from his brooding thoughts. He glanced at the screen before answering lazily, holding the phone to his ear.

“Is that you with the bike? I’m right in front of you!”

The feminine voice rang through the line—soft, sweet, familiar. Haruchiyo frowned, his gaze lifting instinctively to search the dispersing crowd.

And then he saw you.

You were waving a hand above your head, your phone still pressed to your ear as you caught his eye. Your face lit up when you spotted him, a bright, cheerful smile gracing your lips as you walked toward him.

His breath caught in his throat.

You.

The girl who had stopped for him. The girl who’d knelt beside him on that blood-soaked street, her voice soft and kind, her hands unshaking as she wiped his face. The girl who had called an ambulance and disappeared, leaving him with nothing but a crumpled note and a memory that had been haunting him ever since.

What the hell is going on?

Haruchiyo stiffened, his hand tightening around his phone as he stared at you approaching. He felt the ground shift beneath him, felt a sharp and painful twist in his chest. The warmth he’d felt in that moment you saved him—the unspoken gratitude he refused to admit—curdled into a dark and bitter emotion.

“Hey,” you said as you stopped in front of him, lowering your phone. “You’re Sanzu, right? Mikey’s friend?”

He stared at you, his teal eyes wide in disbelief. “You…” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “Who the hell are you?”

You blinked, clearly confused by the question.

“I’m Mikey’s girlfriend,” you replied, the words light and cheerful—so matter-of-fact that you might as well have driven a knife through his chest.

Haruchiyo’s stomach dropped. The blood drained from his face, leaving him cold.

His girlfriend.

The truth hit him with all the subtlety of a freight train. His mind reeled, a thousand thoughts crashing into one another. You’re Mikey’s? The girl who had stopped for him, the girl who had shown him kindness he didn’t deserve—you were Mikey’s.

A hot, suffocating mix of anger and jealousy roared to life in his chest. It confused him, rattled him to his core. Jealous of Mikey? Jealous of you? He couldn’t tell anymore, but the fury was there, blinding and undeniable.

“Y-you’re Sanzu, right?” you asked again, your voice hesitant now as you took in his silence.

He ignored your question entirely. Turning away sharply, Haruchiyo pulled a helmet off his bike and tossed it at you without warning. You barely caught it, stumbling back as it hit your hands clumsily.

“Get on,” he ordered coldly, already swinging his leg over the bike and settling onto the seat.

“Oh… alright,” you said softly, your tone unsure, as if you’d finally realized he wasn’t the friendly face you’d expected.

Haruchiyo felt your weight shift behind him as you climbed on, the awkward shuffle of your movements pressing against his back. He didn’t give you a moment to settle; he twisted the throttle, and the bike roared to life, lurching forward so suddenly you were forced to cling to him.

Your arms wrapped tightly around his waist, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if he were the only thing keeping you upright. He could feel your body against his, your warmth seeping into him, and it only made the ache inside him worse.

The ride was silent.

Haruchiyo’s mind was anything but.

The wind whipped past him, cold and sharp, but he barely felt it. All he could think about was you. The girl who’d saved him. The girl who’d smiled at him, looked at him like he wasn’t just a weapon, wasn’t just Mikey’s loyal dog. That brief moment of kindness had lingered inside him, burning like a flame he couldn’t snuff out.

And now you belonged to Mikey.

Of course you did. Mikey got everything—every ounce of respect, every shred of loyalty, every good thing this world had to offer. And Haruchiyo? He was just the knight on the board, meant to protect the king. Nothing more.

But the worst part—the part that clawed at him like a splinter lodged deep in his chest—was the fact that you didn’t remember him.

To you, he was just Sanzu Haruchiyo. Mikey’s friend. A stranger on a bike.

Not the broken, bleeding boy you’d knelt beside.

Not the one you’d saved.

As the city blurred past him, Haruchiyo tightened his grip on the throttle, pushing the bike faster, as if speed could drown out the storm raging in his head.

But no matter how hard he tried, the bitterness wouldn’t go away.

You were Mikey’s.

And Haruchiyo Sanzu hated it.

Haruchiyo Sanzu leaned against the wall, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his expression blank. Or at least, he hoped it was blank. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to catch the storm brewing beneath the surface.

“Can’t believe Mikey’s letting some chick walk all over him like that,” he muttered, just loud enough for you to hear.

You froze mid-step, your head tilting slightly as his words registered.

“She’s got him wrapped around her little finger, sucking all the fucking edge out of him. Pathetic.”

The words were sharp, venomous, and entirely uncalled for, but Haruchiyo couldn’t stop them from spilling out. He told himself it was necessary—a reminder to himself, to you, that you were unworthy of Mikey.

And for a moment, he thought he’d feel better for saying it.

But then he saw the look on your face.

It was fleeting—so fleeting that anyone else might have missed it—but Haruchiyo caught it. The flicker of hurt in your eyes was like a dagger straight to his chest.

His heart clenched, his stomach twisting painfully. Guilt began creeping in slowly, wrapping around his throat like a noose. He wanted to say something, to take the words back, to apologize—but his pride slammed the door shut before he could.

Instead, he turned away, ignoring your gaze as he stalked off, every step heavier than the last. His heart thudded against his ribs as he tried to ignore the pang of regret gnawing at him. He didn’t know where he was going, but anywhere was better than standing there, looking at the pain he’d caused.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Haruchiyo didn’t know how to deal with this—how to deal with you. You weren’t supposed to matter. You weren’t supposed to be anything more than an assignment Mikey had handed him, one he’d reluctantly accepted out of duty.

You’d been targeted lately by outsiders—bullies, opportunists, people who thought messing with Mikey’s girl was a shortcut to provoking him. Mikey had ordered Haruchiyo to guard you, along with a few other trusted gang members, and Haruchiyo had obeyed without question.

But obedience didn’t mean he had to like it.

Your presence made him feel unsteady, like the ground beneath his feet was shifting constantly. He’d tried to shake it off, to focus on the task at hand, but being alone with you was unbearable.

So instead, he dragged you around the others, tossing his so-called responsibility to them under the guise of laziness. Kakucho, Ran, Mochizuki—hell, anyone else could do it. As long as he didn’t have to be alone with you.

But no matter where you were, his eyes always found their way back to you.

Ran’s voice broke through his thoughts. “What’s with the face?”

“What face?” Haruchiyo replied flatly, not bothering to look at Ran. His eyes were glued to you, watching as you chatted awkwardly with Kakucho.

“That face,” Ran drawled, a teasing lilt in his tone. “You look like you’re about to stab her. Or Kakucho. Maybe both.”

Haruchiyo didn’t respond. His grip tightened in his pockets as he watched you giggle at something Kakucho said.

That sound—your laugh—it was like a dagger twisting in his chest.

You were Mikey’s girl. You should only be laughing like that around Mikey. Or… him.

Before he could spiral further into his thoughts, the distant, throaty growl of Mikey’s Street Hawk sliced through the air like a warning bell. The familiar sound carried weight—authority—that silenced the room in an instant. Every head turned toward the door.

Haruchiyo’s spine straightened instinctively, his eyes flicking toward the door as the door swung open to reveal Mikey, calm and collected as always.

And then you moved.

Haruchiyo watched, his chest tightening as your face lit up the second you saw Mikey. That radiant smile—blinding, unfiltered, genuine—was a sight he hadn’t seen you give to anyone else all day.

“Mikey!” Your voice was filled with warmth, the kind Haruchiyo hadn’t realized he craved until it wasn’t directed at him.

Before anyone could process it, you were already rushing toward Mikey, throwing your arms around him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Haruchiyo’s stomach churned, the knot of emotions in his chest tightening until it felt like he couldn’t breathe. Mikey’s hand rested lightly on your back in return, his expression unreadable. But Haruchiyo knew Mikey—knew how rare it was for him to show affection so openly.

The casual intimacy between you and Mikey clawed at him, a sensation so raw and uncomfortable that he had to bite the inside of his cheek just to keep himself in check.

He didn’t even realize how hard he was staring until Ran’s voice slid into his ear again.

“Careful. You’re staring holes into them. People might start thinking you’ve got a thing for her.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Haruchiyo snapped.

Ran smirked, clearly enjoying the reaction. “Relax, Haru-chan. She’s just doing what girlfriends do. It’s not like you’ve got a shot anyway.”

The words hit their mark, and Haruchiyo snapped his glare toward Ran, his sharp eyes practically daring him to say more. But Ran, ever the provocateur, just chuckled and walked off, leaving Haruchiyo stewing in his own fury.

He tore his gaze away from you, but it was too late. The image of your arms wrapped around Mikey was already burned into his mind.

The jealousy bubbling in his chest was scorching, suffocating. And the worst part was, he couldn’t tell who he was jealous of.

Was it Mikey? Mikey, who had everything Haruchiyo had ever wanted—respect, loyalty, and now, you?

Or was it you? You, with your radiant smile, your soft laugh, your ability to draw out a side of Mikey that Haruchiyo hadn’t seen in years.

The lines blurred until all Haruchiyo could feel was a searing hatred for the way you made him feel.

Hatred, because he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Hatred, because he couldn’t stop looking at you.

And hatred, because no matter how much he told himself you didn’t belong in their world, a selfish part of him wanted you to stay.

Haruchiyo Sanzu knew exactly what he wanted.

He was a man of sharp edges, carved by desire and driven by instinct. When he reached for something, he never hesitated. Women were no exception—most of them fell for his dangerous charm, entranced by his striking pink hair and the unshakable confidence he exuded. But you? You were different.

Because you weren't just unreachable.

You were Mikey's.

That fact alone made every lingering thought about you unbearable. Every smile you gave to Mikey, every laugh that lit up your face—each one was a taunt, a reminder of the invisible line Haruchiyo couldn't cross.

And yet, you haunted him.

Haruchiyo had tried to convince himself that his infatuation with you would fade, that the strange ache in his chest every time he saw you with Mikey would eventually dull. He sought distractions, found fleeting thrills, and buried himself in the chaos of the gang’s world. For a while, he believed he had it under control.

The ache didn’t lessen, but he’d learned to hide it. He’d trained himself to stop flinching when you smiled at Mikey, to ignore the way his stomach twisted when you laughed, to dismiss the pang of jealousy that gnawed at him when he saw the way you looked at Mikey.

Then, one day, it all unraveled.

You came to him, tears streaming down your face, your voice trembling as you pleaded for his help.

“Mikey—he’s surrounded! There are too many of them. Please, you have to save him!”

Your words hit him like a knife to the chest, but it wasn’t just the message that cut him. It was the sight of you—your tear-streaked cheeks, your swollen red eyes, the desperation in your voice.

“The fuck are you doing here?! You tryna get yourself killed?!” His voice cracked like a whip, sharp enough to make you flinch.

His knuckles whitened around the hilt of his katana, the metal trembling with the force of his grip. Rage rolled off him in waves, but beneath it bled a deeper emotion—fear—desperate to be disguised.

He hissed through his teeth, voice dropping low. “Just… get the fuck out of here before you end up a corpse at my feet.”

Your tearful gaze wavered, lips parting as if to speak, but Haruchiyo had already turned away, jaw locked tight as though he couldn’t bear to look at you any longer.

You don’t belong here, he thought bitterly, his jaw clenching as he strode forward. Why the hell are you even involved in this mess?

He knew the answer: because of Mikey.

It was always Mikey.

The realization only stoked the fire inside him, the bitter lump in his throat making it harder to breathe.

By the time he found the enemies, Haruchiyo was already seeing red. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t stop to consider his actions. The first swing of his katana was precise and brutal, and the rest followed in a blur of blood and chaos.

His mind was blank, his body moving on instinct. He didn’t even register Mikey’s presence amidst the fight—didn’t notice his boss standing off to the side, silent and watchful.

All Haruchiyo cared about was eliminating every single threat.

When the last body hit the ground, Haruchiyo Sanzu stood amidst the carnage, chest heaving, blood dripping from his katana. He didn’t know whose blood it was anymore—his or theirs—but it didn’t matter. The red painted across his skin and clothes told the same story: violence and rage.

He turned to you.

You were still standing there, frozen, your hands trembling at your sides. Your wide eyes met his, but they weren’t filled with relief or gratitude.

They were filled with fear.

Haruchiyo’s stomach twisted painfully, but it wasn’t the trembling in your figure that drew him closer. It was the smear of blood on your cheek, stark against your pale skin, that compelled him forward.

Without thinking, he stepped toward you, his boots crunching against the blood-soaked pavement. His hand rose, unsteady, to wipe the blood from your face.

You flinched.

The sharpness of your movement cut hit him like a freight train, forcing him to stop mid-reach. His breath hitched, the sting of rejection settling deep in his chest.

What the hell was he doing? Trying to wipe your cheek like he was someone who could comfort you? Like he was someone who deserved to touch you?

His hand didn’t retreat. Instead, it lowered, wrapping gently around your throat.

There was no pressure, no intent to hurt—just his palm resting against your skin, feeling the rapid pulse beneath it. The warmth of your neck spread through him, grounding him in a way he didn’t understand.

For a moment, he let himself believe a lie.

That your quickened heartbeat wasn’t from fear but from something else. That it matched his own racing pulse, fueled by the same feelings coursing through him.

“Sanzu… Have we met before?”

The question jolted him.

He blinked, his grip loosening slightly as he stared at you.

“You were that boy,” you continued, realization dawning in your wide eyes. “The one I saw bleeding on the street.”

A bitter sneer twisted his lips, baring his teeth in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “What about it?”

Your words faltered, dying in your throat as his fingers flexed against your neck—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of his presence. His gaze bore into yours, searching, desperate to find something other than fear in your eyes.

But it wasn’t there.

The crunch of footsteps behind him made Haruchiyo freeze.

Your eyes snapped past him, locking onto the source of the sound. Relief washed over your features, softening the fear that had been etched there moments ago.

Mikey.

Haruchiyo didn’t need to turn around to confirm it. He could feel Mikey’s presence, calm and commanding, like a weight pressing down on his shoulders.

Your gaze darted back to him, uncertain, as if you weren’t sure whether to plead for him to release you or to run.

Haruchiyo almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

“Run,” he muttered, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

And you did.

You swatted his hand away, stepping back before turning on your heel and running straight to Mikey.

“Mikey!” Your voice cracked with emotion as you clung to his arm. “Are you okay?”

Haruchiyo didn’t move. His hand hung limply at his side as he stared at the empty space where you’d stood just seconds ago. The warmth of your skin lingered against his palm, but it did nothing to quell the cold sinking into his chest.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping as he took a moment to recompose himself.

When he finally turned, his gaze met Mikey’s.

You were holding onto Mikey’s arm, your tear-streaked face pressed against his shoulder. Your sobs were quieter now, but the sight of you leaning on someone else—even if it was Mikey—stung in a way Haruchiyo didn’t have the words to describe.

The weight of his guilt, his jealousy, his unspoken feelings pressed down on him, and for a moment, Haruchiyo couldn’t breathe.

He dropped to his knees in front of Mikey, bowing his head low.

“Boss,” he murmured.

Mikey’s dark eyes flicked to Haruchiyo, unreadable as always.

“Akashi.”

Haruchiyo Sanzu had spent years pretending he didn’t feel anything for you.

But he wasn’t stupid.

He knew what it was—this thing clawing at his chest every time you smiled at Mikey. He knew it when you clung to Mikey’s sleeve back in school, when you cried into his arms, when you looked at him—Haruchiyo—as though he was just a shadow standing in Mikey’s light. That hollow weight in his chest wasn’t hate. It was hunger.

Obsession.

He told himself it didn’t matter. That it would pass. That you’d go away or Mikey would grow tired of you. That he would grow tired of you.

But you didn’t. Mikey didn’t. And Haruchiyo never did.

He tried to drown it out. He tried. Even now, years later, with Bonten inked into his skin and blood on his hands, he was still haunted. Haunted by the shape of your mouth, by the way your voice rose when you were angry, by the way you existed without even trying—and drove him fucking insane while doing it.

The nightclub owned by the Haitani brothers became his escape.

Most nights, he’d end up in that dim, smoke-filled private room on the third floor, neon lights flashing like a heartbeat through the glass. Music pounding against the walls. Lines of white spread out neatly across the glass table, a lighter flicking on and off between his fingers. There were always women around—girls who giggled too loud and touched him too much—but they were nothing.

They weren’t you.

They didn’t sneer the way you did when you were pissed. They didn’t challenge him, didn’t call him a lunatic like it was a curse and a promise all at once.

They didn’t burn.

And so, Haruchiyo stopped pretending. He sent the girls away. He drowned himself in pills, crushed and bitter on his tongue, chased with whiskey that burned like guilt. The drugs numbed the rage but not the ache. Not the way your name still hovered in the back of his throat like smoke he couldn’t cough up.

Most nights, the Bonten executives left him alone. Too many bad nights. Too many broken bottles. Too many holes in the walls and bruises blooming across people’s faces when they touched him wrong.

He was too much when he was high, they said.

But alone—that’s when the worst came.

The drugs hit fast, coating his mind in a blissful, detached haze. Everything slowed down. Everything softened.

Except you.

You were always there. In the corner of his eye. In the phantom weight on his lap. In the echo of your voice curled around his name like a noose.

And fuck—it wasn’t fair.

Why did it have to be you?

Why was it only you?

He sank deeper into the couch, one hand running down his face, the other sliding beneath the waistband of his pants. He didn’t even hesitate anymore. Didn’t bother closing his eyes—he didn’t need to. Your face was already there, so vivid it made his chest hurt.

His breath stuttered as his fingers wrapped around his length. He was already half-hard just thinking about your voice—sharp and angry, soft and breathless. He imagined you straddling him, fists in his shirt, cursing him through gritted teeth while your body told a different story. He imagined the way you’d glare at him when he made you beg.

Haruchiyo’s hips bucked into his palm.

A sharp breath. A curse. His grip tightened.

He shouldn’t be doing this. Mikey would fucking kill him if he knew. If he ever knew what Haruchiyo thought when he looked at you—what he did when he thought about you.

But he couldn’t stop.

He wanted you too much.

He stroked faster, chased the edge like a man starved, his mind spinning, your name the only coherent thing in the chaos. You, sneering. You, crying. You, moaning. You, screaming his name like it meant something.

The orgasm hit hard—like a wave crashing over him, dragging him under. His breath hitched. He groaned, low and ragged, slumped further into the couch as the aftershocks rolled through his trembling frame.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Just his heartbeat, pounding like a war drum in his ears.

And then—

Disgust.

It crept up slowly. Sour and shameful. He stared at the ceiling, chest rising and falling, the back of his hand pressed to his mouth like it could somehow take the moment back.

He felt sick.

Not because of the drugs. Not because of the high.

But because you didn’t deserve this.

Because he didn’t deserve you.

And maybe that was the worst part. That even now—after everything—he still wanted you. Still craved you. Still wanted to be close, even if it meant seeing you in someone else’s arms.

Haruchiyo Sanzu didn’t believe in love.

But if he did… it would look like this.

Like obsession. Like hunger. Like madness in his veins.

And your name in his mouth.

Haruchiyo Sanzu rubbed a hand down his face, dragging the heel of his palm across his mouth like it could erase the memory of what he’d just done. His other hand trembled faintly, twitching with the remnants of the high—though whether it was the drugs or you, he couldn’t tell anymore.

Suddenly, a shrill, high-pitched ringtone shattered the silence, stabbing through the haze in his skull.

His head snapped toward the phone vibrating violently on the table.

That phone. Only one reason it ever rang.

Work.

And when it was that ringtone?

It meant Mikey.

He scrambled, wiping his hand on the nearest towel and snatching the phone up with a speed that nearly sent the table crashing.

The screen flashed: “King.”

He took one shaky breath and answered.

“Yo, Mikey.”

His voice was too casual. Too light. He forced it through his teeth anyway, trying to slap the familiar crooked grin into his tone. Trying to sound like he hadn’t just been stroking himself raw to the image of his boss’s girl.

There was a long pause on the other end. Then, finally, that cold, detached voice: “Come to my office.”

Manjiro’s voice was never loud. He didn’t need to be. The silence after his words was always enough to fill the room.

It wasn’t a request. It never was.

Haruchiyo’s mouth curved into something halfway between a smirk and a grimace.

“‘Course I’m comin’, Mikey.”

He hung up before his voice could crack.

/

The ride to Bonten was a blur of neon lights and roaring engines. His superbike carved through Tokyo’s streets like a blade, wind tearing through his open jacket, smoke still clinging to his clothes. The night air helped—cleared the static from his head, sobered the crawl of chemicals in his bloodstream. But it didn’t stop your name from echoing in the corners of his mind.

By the time he pulled into the underground lot, his hands were steady again.

Mostly.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime as he stepped into the heart of the beast.

Bonten headquarters was silent. Too silent. At this hour, only ghosts and executives moved through its marble halls. But tonight, the usual stillness had a different weight.

Haruchiyo’s boots clicked down the marble corridor until something caught his eye—Mikey’s office door, left ajar.

That never happened.

A muscle in Haruchiyo’s jaw ticked as he pushed it open.

Mikey sat slouched behind his desk, paperwork scattered around him. His silver hair was mussed, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves shoved up. He looked… frayed. Not weak, never weak, but not the untouchable king Haruchiyo bled for either.

Haruchiyo smirked faintly, out of habit more than anything. “Boss?”

Mikey didn’t look up right away. When he did, his voice came flat, detached—like he was announcing the weather.

“I’m getting married.”

The words cut clean through the air.

And Haruchiyo knew instantly.

Married. To someone else.

Not you.

It wasn’t even a thought—it was instinct. He could tell from Mikey’s voice—the absence of warmth, the absence of weight. Mikey wouldn’t sound like that if it were you. If it were you, the words would’ve carried something. Anything.

Haruchiyo’s chest caved in around the realization, bitter heat flooding his veins.

His brain—trained on bloodshed, chaos, and silence—refused to accept what it had just heard. He should’ve felt triumphant. Hell, maybe even smug. Mikey letting go of you meant you were free now. No longer wrapped around the king’s neck like a noose. No longer the soft spot that Haruchiyo resented you for.

But the image that bloomed in his mind wasn’t one of relief.

It was you—shattered. Eyes glassy. Lips trembling. Voice cracking around a scream you wouldn’t know how to let out.

Because you loved Mikey. You loved him in that all-consuming, sacrificial way. Haruchiyo had always thought it was stupid. Weak. But now the image of your heartbreak wouldn’t stop clawing at the inside of his skull.

His jaw clenched until it ached.

“The fuck you sayin’, Mikey?” Haruchiyo’s voice came out low, hoarse—barely restrained.

Mikey didn’t even flinch. “I’m getting married next week.”

Same flat tone. Same dead-eyed delivery. Like it was nothing. Like he wasn’t detonating every part of Haruchiyo that still felt.

Haruchiyo’s hands trembled. He wasn’t even high anymore, and still—his control was slipping.

He took a step forward.

“What about her?” he hissed. “You just gonna toss her aside like trash?”

Mikey didn’t answer. He stared—empty and unreadable.

And the silence sliced through Haruchiyo like a wire pulled taut.

He shouldn’t care this much. He shouldn’t be this angry. Mikey was his king. His god. If Mikey decided to marry some no-name woman to fulfill some ancient wish, it wasn’t Haruchiyo’s place to say a goddamn thing.

But you—

You would be ruined.

And Haruchiyo couldn’t stop seeing it.

“It’s what Shin wanted,” Mikey said at last, gaze drifting away. “It’s the least I could do to honor him.”

The words sounded noble. But they felt like betrayal.

Haruchiyo’s eyes flared wide, fury swallowing any logic left in him. He slammed his hand against the desk hard enough to make the papers scatter.

“And what about her, Mikey?” he growled again, louder now. “What the fuck about her?!”

Mikey’s eyes snapped back to his, a flicker of irritation flashing in that black void of a stare.

“You don’t question me, Akashi. I’m the boss here,” he said coldly.

Haruchiyo froze, just for a beat. The weight of his boss’s tone pressed down on him, suffocating. But it wasn’t enough. Not when his gut was on fire, not when the image of your broken face was clawing at him.

“Then maybe you should fuckin’ act like one,” he spat, venom dripping from every word. “Not some coward hiding behind his dead brother’s ghost!”

That did it. Mikey moved. Fast.

A blur of movement—fist crashing into Haruchiyo’s face with a sickening crunch. His head snapped sideways, blood exploding from his nose as he staggered back, nearly knocking over a chair. The taste hit instantly—metallic, warm, humiliating.

But he didn’t fight back. Instead, he looked up—lip split, pulse racing—and saw something that made his breath hitch.

Mikey’s expression had finally cracked.

There was no rage. No fury. Just… pain.

Real, raw heartbreak bleeding through his carefully built mask. The edges of his mouth trembled. His brows pinched. And in his eyes—those empty, abyssal eyes—was the unmistakable glint of pain.

Haruchiyo faltered.

Suddenly, everything made sense.

Mikey wasn’t letting you go because he wanted to. He was burying you.

Just like he buried Shin. Draken. Emma. Baji.

And every piece of himself he couldn’t carry anymore.

The weight in the room was unbearable. Grief hung in the air like smog.

Slowly—deliberately—Haruchiyo stood straight.

He looked at Mikey. At the man he worshipped. The man who had ripped him from the jaws of death and made him a monster.

Then, in one fluid motion, Haruchiyo dropped to his knees.

“Please… don’t do this to her.” His voice was low. Strained. Like it had been ripped straight from his lungs.

“You can fucking kill me. You can burn the world if you want. But don’t hurt her, Mikey.”

The room was silent. Not even the lights buzzed now.

Only the soft rustle of scattered papers. The heavy sound of two broken men breathing in a room that had no god left.

Mikey didn’t speak.

And for the first time since he was a boy—Haruchiyo Sanzu didn’t know if the man he knelt before was still a king…

…or just another corpse waiting to rot.

Haruchiyo Sanzu’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The pills rattled against his palm before he shoved them into his mouth, swallowing dry. His throat burned, his chest ached, and the familiar static began to crawl at the edges of his vision. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

The Haitani nightclub pulsed like a living beast—heat, sweat, perfume, alcohol, the roar of bass so heavy it felt like it was cracking his skull in half. Girls draped themselves over men like ornaments, and one had slithered her way beside him now, giggling, her nails grazing his thigh in a way that should’ve distracted him.

But nothing could tear his gaze away from you.

Not when you were in the back room.

Not when Mikey was there with you.

Not when he watched the moment your face shattered.

The scene carved itself into him like glass. Mikey’s voice, calm, empty, saying he was getting married to someone else.

He saw the disbelief in your eyes dissolve into something worse—betrayal. The way your body folded in on itself as though trying to contain the pain, the way your tears spilled before you could catch them. Mikey gathered you against him, wrapping you in those arms you once believed could hold up the whole world. He kissed the crown of your head like it was mercy.

Haruchiyo felt his stomach heave.

But it wasn’t jealousy. Not this time.

It was hollow. It was ruin.

He’d begged Mikey earlier. Like a fool, he’d begged.

Don’t leave her behind. Don’t abandon her. Even if you’re marrying someone else, don’t you dare let her stand alone in this fucked up world.

The words still burned his throat. He hated himself for it. It was pathetic. Weak. It wasn’t loyalty to Mikey anymore—it was weakness for you. All these years he’d told himself he was protecting you from this world, keeping you alive, keeping you safe. But now? Now he couldn’t bear the thought of you gone. Of you not here, within reach—even if it meant watching you cry in another man’s arms.

The girl beside him shifted, pressing closer, her perfume suffocating. She murmured something sweet and meaningless, her hand on his leg, tugging for his attention. And for once, Haruchiyo let her. His arm came around her shoulder, pulling her flush against his side. The gesture was intimate—too intimate for him, who never touched women like this unless it was transactional. Her breath caught in surprise, flustered.

But his eyes never left you.

Not when he tilted her chin and pressed his mouth against hers.

The kiss was hollow, mechanical—his lips moving against hers, his tongue tasting nothing but the bitterness of his own obsession. He kissed her like a weapon, not an act of passion. And when his gaze slid past her face and found yours—

That was when it hit.

You were staring. Through the tears clouding your vision, through the brokenness twisting your features, you were staring at him. The corner of your mouth trembled. Then your glare cut sharp and cold, searing through him like fire before you turned away, burying your face into Mikey’s shoulder.

Haruchiyo almost smiled against the woman’s mouth.

It was pathetic. Twisted. Ugly. But it was something.

If all he could take from you was your hate, your disgust, your rage—he’d take it. He’d hoard it. He’d carve it into his chest like scripture. Because even when it hurt like hell, it meant he still existed in your world.

Even if it was only as a shadow.

He pulled away from the woman, his pupils blown wide, the pills buzzing in his bloodstream, and he whispered into her hair like it was meant for you:

“I love you.”

And he did. In his own ruinous way, he loved you. Loved you even when every gift you’d ever placed in his hands was pain. Loved you enough to bleed himself dry just to watch you smile at another man.

That was the curse. That was the obsession.

That was Haruchiyo Sanzu.

< special part ends >

author’s note. finally dropping Sanzu’s POV, hot and messy just like him *ahem* it honestly took me almost a year to get this out–writer’s block had me in a chokehold, and this chapter was way harder than i expected. but i’m glad i pushed through because i really love how it turned out. hope you guys enjoy diving into his twisted little head as much as i (painfully) did while writing it. and thank you all so much for your patience, love +++ especially the sweet messages you guys left in my inbox while I was struggling with this part. you guys are the reason I keep writing 🖤

also, i maxed out the tag limit—so sorry if i missed anyone, promise it wasn’t intentional :(

taglist. @sleeplessreader12 @thisismarisaaa @fallensuguru @unfortunately-a-dazai-kinnie @celestica-1988 @taebaozi @tribbisweetdear @aizawap @aquamarixx @sadlyradley @gh0stgirl333 @iluv-ace @reiners-milkbiddies @bontenbabyy @risheliette @loveantonnlee @sukunas-bitxh @honeygonebads-blog @r3yk @soilaluna @l1ttl3m1ss666 @novv @slvdsjjk @miffysoo @qyoongi @drakensdarling @ask-the-insect-hashira @awkwardaardvarkforever @thebiggestlovergirlever @shinichirolover @kyyuuuuu @ajumma @ariilovesmoney @ravyaryn @aquaberrydolphin @sakuraflower01 @nightstarbutterfly @theethy @sanzu-02 @hemmofox13 @bontensbabygirl @childesdog69 @marigoldye @lu-na-tic @hotdumplingsss @madiexuberant @nctseventeensworld @farmboisucktoes-blog @kikiuma @babxteaars

The first time you slept with him had been easy enough to dismiss. A slip. A mistake. Something that could be brushed off, shoved into the shadows of a drunken night and ignored until it rotted away. Pretending it never happened was almost fun in its own right—watching the way it ticked him off when you acted indifferent, as though his touch hadn’t burned itself into your skin. But then came the second time. And the second time destroyed any illusion that it was just coincidence. Because having sex with Rafayel wasn’t forgettable. It was maddening and breathtaking all at once, infuriating in how much you wanted him and devastating in how much he gave.

But desire and feelings weren’t the same thing. You told yourself that again and again.

For more than two years you had played this game with him—academic rivals, relentless competitors, sparring back and forth in a rhythm that had become second nature. He challenged you, frustrated you, lit you up in ways no one else ever could. And you clung to that dynamic with everything you had, because it was safe. Because as long as it was rivalry, as long as it was just sharp words and bickering tension, it wasn’t love.

To admit you’d fallen for Rafayel would be to admit defeat. And you weren’t ready to lose. Not to him. Not like that.

————

After the second time you slept together, Rafayel wasn’t the least bit surprised when you acted like it had never happened. You had been moaning for him, gripping him, trembling under his hands—silently begging in every way except the one he wanted. Because of course you wouldn’t beg him with words. Not when admitting it meant surrender, and surrender wasn’t in your vocabulary. 

So you played dumb. You acted like your body hadn’t opened to him so sweetly, like you hadn’t clung to him with every shuddering breath. And when the sheets cooled and morning came, you slipped back into that insufferable indifference, brushing him off like nothing more than a headache you’d outgrown. And Rafayel, infuriatingly smug as he was, let you play.

Because he knew you too well. Knew how naturally combative you were, how hard you pushed back against anything that felt too close to vulnerability. If there was one thing he’d learned from you, it was that your stubbornness was less armor and more coping mechanism. You ran. Always. And right now, you were running from this.

He wasn’t above playing a little dirty. If you wanted to run, he would give you something to trip over. 

It took almost nothing for him to find the perfect pawn. Aylin—campus darling, social butterfly, and walking rumor mill. All it required was a handful of casual comments, a carefully staged smile, his hand brushing hers just long enough to be noticed. She did the rest for him, as eager as ever to spread the story of Rafayel and her tangled in his sheets.

Normally, Rafayel would have shut down talk like that with a disinterested scoff, letting everyone know just how little he cared about gossip. But not this time. No, this time he let it breathe. Let it spread like wildfire through the hallways, whispered between classes, giggled about at lunch tables. He let it crawl through campus until he was certain it would reach your ears. Because if he knew you at all, he knew one thing for sure. Your reaction would tell him everything he needed to know.

He was almost excited at the thought of pushing your buttons, of watching you squirm the way you’d made him at that party. You’d let some guy press too close, his hands wandering where they didn’t belong, and Rafayel had stood there and watched—jaw tight, tongue bitten bloody behind a smirk. Hypocritical, maybe. He had no right to expect anything from you. But it didn’t stop the burn in his chest, the twist in his gut at how easily you’d let someone else into that space he had already claimed a hundred different ways.

So yes, maybe it was petty, letting this rumor spread. Maybe it was reckless. But he would be damned if he let you dismiss him, dismiss this, like it hadn’t happened at all. He wasn’t going to be some forgettable slip in the dark, a mistake you could erase with a laugh.

Whatever this thing between you was, it was messy and complicated, tangled in rivalry and sharp words, but it was there. It pulsed in every glance, snapped in every fight, and more often than not lately, it broke wide open until you were in his bed, your body saying everything your mouth refused to.

And if rumors were what it took to see just how much it mattered to you, then so be it.

————

The audacity of this man truly baffled you. It didn’t take long before the rumor reached your ears—Rafayel and Aylin, tangled in his sheets. Supposedly the night after that party. The same night after you and him had torn into each other with teeth and hands, jealousy thick in the air, your bodies devouring each other until the line between rivalry and ruin had blurred completely.

You nearly laughed at the absurdity. The sheer prick really had a death wish, didn’t he?

The thought followed you as you stormed across campus, your boots clipping hard against the pavement, intent only on caffeine before you lost your mind. The rumor shouldn’t have mattered. He could sleep with whoever he wanted—it wasn’t like you were exclusive, it wasn’t like you were even together. But Aylin? And the day after? After he’d snarled against your neck that he was jealous, after he’d admitted in that ragged, unguarded voice that he couldn’t stand seeing anyone else on you… only to turn around and give everyone the impression he’d happily taken someone else home?

Your blood boiled just thinking about it.

Petty. That’s what it was. Childishly, gloriously petty. And the worst part was you couldn’t even bring yourself to blame him. Because it was exactly the sort of thing you would have done if the roles were reversed.

Still, if Rafayel thought this stunt would have you chasing after him, begging for an explanation, he had another thing coming. All it did was harden your resolve. Whatever happened between you that night, no matter how good, no matter how maddeningly addictive—it meant nothing. And if he wanted to play games, then fine. You would play better.

————

You had your coffee clutched in hand, sitting in the shade near the building for your next class, scrolling absently through your phone. The caffeine did nothing to quiet the irritation still gnawing at you, the rumor running circles in your head like a song you couldn’t shut off. You muttered under your breath as you texted a friend about meeting later that night, the words slipping out sharper than you intended. “Cocky bastard.”

You didn’t even notice the shadow until a familiar voice cut through, infuriatingly smooth and smug, carrying that mix of boredom and amusement only he could manage. “Who, me?”

Your eyes closed for half a second, more to stop yourself from throwing the coffee right at his head than anything else. You looked up at him with an expression carefully blank, your voice dropping to a cold hum. “If the shoe fits.”

He only smiled, leaning down a fraction closer, the corner of his mouth curled in that insufferable way that said he knew exactly how to needle you.

“Aw, what’d I do now, cutie?” his tone was mock-sweet, like he was daring you to list the ways.

You gritted your teeth, the urge to upend your coffee over his perfectly styled hair almost irresistible. Instead, you forced a smile of your own, syrupy with sarcasm. “Opened your mouth, for one.”

He laughed, low and warm, tilting his head as if that was the answer he’d been expecting. You rolled your eyes, looking anywhere but him. Across the courtyard, you caught the stares already directed your way—students whispering, curious as always when the two of you ended up in the same orbit. It was like waiting for an explosion, and everyone wanted front-row seats.

You scoffed and took a sip of your coffee, pretending their stares, and his nearness, didn’t bother you in the slightest.

Rafayel slid into the seat beside you like he owned it, and your jaw immediately tightened. Of course he’d have the audacity to sit here, smug as ever, as if rumors weren’t already crawling across campus with his name attached. He didn’t even try to hide the amusement flickering in his eyes—if anything, he looked more pleased than usual, like your irritation was the highlight of his day.

You tried to ignore him, sipping your coffee, scrolling aimlessly through your phone, but his shoulder brushed yours deliberately, his voice low and casual in your ear.

“By the way,” he murmured, almost bored, “I think you left this at my place the other night.”

Something dangled in front of your face—a necklace, glittering slightly in the sunlight. Pretty, delicate. And definitely not yours.

Your eyes flicked to it, then back to him with a stare as flat as your voice. “Cute,” you said mock-sweetly, rising to your feet with a tight smile. “Must be your pretty little girlfriend’s.”

His smirk deepened, exactly as you knew it would, and he leaned back on the bench, twirling the chain around his finger like it was nothing. “Jealous, cutie?”

The laugh that escaped you was sharp, humorless, as you grabbed your bag. “Not in the slightest. You couldn’t pay me enough to deal with your ego outside of campus.”

Rafayel hummed, tilting his head, eyes glinting like he’d just heard the funniest thing all week. “Strange, considering how loudly you were dealing with me the other night.”

Heat flared at the memory—at his smirk, at the eyes already watching from across the courtyard—and you forced yourself to keep your expression icy. You took another sip of coffee just to keep from snapping, your voice low and clipped when you finally replied.

“Keep talking, Rafayel. Maybe someone will actually start to believe your little bedtime stories.”

You turned around and left him on that bench, because if you’d stayed a second longer you might have poured your coffee straight over his perfectly styled hair and wiped that smug little grin off his face yourself.

That night, you went out with friends, slipping into something casual—a dress soft and simple, elegant without meaning to be. The evening started warm and bright, laughter tumbling across the table of the restaurant as wine glasses clinked and your friends celebrated their engagement. Later, the night carried you further downtown, swept up with more familiar faces, drinks and games stacking on top of one another until everything blurred into giggles and flushed cheeks. You were tipsy, leaning against the billiards table with a triumphant grin after sinking the final ball. Your friend groaned in defeat, and you couldn’t stop laughing at the tiny victory.

It was nice. Simple. You’d be graduating soon, stepping out into that so-called adult world too, and maybe it was the wine—but a bittersweet ache wound through you at the thought that soon you wouldn’t have to see him anymore. No more sharp words across lecture halls, no more smug smirks needling into your skin, no more heat curling in your stomach when you should’ve been rolling your eyes. It should have felt like relief. Instead, it made you restless.

At some point you slipped away to the bathroom, splashing cool water against your wrists before leaning into the mirror. The flush of wine was still on your cheeks, but it was the kind that felt good, buoyant. You reapplied your lipstick—deep red, sharp as a blade—pressing your lips together until the color gleamed. A little armor, that was all it was.

When you stepped back into the hallway, the buzz of laughter and music hit first. Then your gaze slid instinctively toward the bar. Aylin. Your eyes narrowed before you could stop yourself. You didn’t dislike her, not really, but something about her always put your teeth on edge. Especially now. Especially with the person standing beside her.

Rafayel was angled close, head tilted just enough to catch whatever she whispered in his ear. The corner of his mouth curled upward, that familiar smirk playing across his lips like a secret meant to be seen. And you hated the way it twisted something in your stomach—sharp, hot, bitter.

You bit the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper. This fucking bastard. He really took her out? Was he that dedicated to his little rumor, putting on a show just to rub it in your face? Or worse—was he actually into her? Into her enough to keep her close, maybe even into her enough to take her home. Again.

You didn’t let yourself look twice. Not a second longer. You turned on your heel, your spine stiff as you crossed back to your friends.

“Finally,” one of them teased, handing you a fresh drink. “We were about to play without you.”

You slipped back into your spot at the billiards table, taking the glass with a grin that felt sharp around the edges. “Like you could win without me,” you shot back, chalking your cue and lining up your shot.

They laughed, the conversation flowing easily, but your mind buzzed elsewhere, restless. You laughed louder than you needed to, sipped deeper than you should have, smiling until your cheeks ached. Anything to ignore the memory of that smirk. Anything to prove—to them, to him, to yourself—that you weren’t rattled at all.

You refused to let your eyes wander, refused to give yourself even the chance of catching sight of them again. If Rafayel wanted to sit at the bar with Aylin draped over him like some prize, fine. He could do that. You weren’t going to waste another second looking.

But a few more rounds in, with laughter ringing too loudly in your ears and your glass emptied one too many times, your stomach twisted—not just from the alcohol, though that was certainly part of it. No, this was sharper. More dangerous than any burn sliding down your throat.

You hated him. God, you hated him. Hated the smugness in his eyes when he got under your skin. Hated that you’d let him take you to his bed—twice. And most of all, you hated that it bothered you this much, seeing him with her tonight. After the whispers. After the rumor. After you had proof, seared into your skin, that he’d admitted to being jealous.

It wasn’t supposed to matter. He wasn’t supposed to matter. And yet, the thought of his hands on Aylin, his lips curving into that same smirk as she leaned into him—your blood ran hot with something ugly. Something you wanted to tear off him piece by piece, if only to prove he was still yours to provoke.

Your cue slipped in your hand, clattering lightly against the billiards table. Your friends laughed, brushing it off, already distracted by another joke, but your thoughts were elsewhere. Dangerous. Infuriating. Because if teaching Rafayel a lesson meant dragging him somewhere private, pressing him against the wall, kissing him until your lipstick smeared red across his smug mouth—tearing at his shirt until buttons scattered—then yes. You wanted to teach him a lesson. And you hated yourself for wanting it.

Your friends were already half-gone, flushed and laughing, leaning on each other as you all spilled out into the night. The cold hit instantly, a sharp bite against your flushed skin, goosebumps prickling across your arms. You wrapped yourself tighter in your jacket, giggling as you stumbled a little with them, exchanging sloppy goodbyes under the buzz of neon signs and streetlamps.

“Sure you don’t want me to wait with you?” one of them asked, eyes glassy with alcohol.

You gave him a reassuring smile, lighthearted enough to hide the buzz still racing through your veins. “I’ve got this. Go home, sleep it off before you regret everything in the morning.”

He laughed, hugged you once more, and then you were alone, the sound of their voices fading as they disappeared down the block.

You made your way to the corner of the club, phone already in hand as you ordered an Uber. The cold seeped into you fast, a stark contrast to the heat of the bar, and you shifted on your feet, rubbing your arms as you waited. Your head buzzed, the alcohol humming through your bloodstream, making the streetlights seem a little brighter, the air a little sharper.

You just wanted to get home. To take a long shower, wash off the smell of smoke and liquor clinging to your hair, crawl into bed and—maybe—let yourself give in to the other ache humming low in your stomach. Alcohol always did that to you, loosening your guard until you were restless with it. And the fact that you’d seen Rafayel tonight—his smirk, his lips tilted close to someone else’s ear—it didn’t help. If anything, it only made it worse.

You huffed out a laugh to yourself, biting the inside of your cheek as you crossed your legs against the cold. God, you hated him. And still, his face was the one you couldn’t shake.

You nearly jumped when a hand pressed against the small of your back. Spinning on your heel, ready to slap whatever creep thought they could get away with touching you, you stopped short—of course, it was him.

Rafayel’s chuckle was low, lazy, the sound of someone thoroughly enjoying himself. His face was flushed with alcohol, his grin insufferably smug as he steadied you with that same offending hand.

“Whoa, princess,” he drawled, amethyst eyes glinting under the neon glow. “Although I like it rough, maybe spare the face, yeah?”

Your jaw tightened until it ached. You wriggled out of his hold, hissing under your breath, “Jesus, Rafayel.” a step back gave you breathing room, though not nearly enough. You bit out the words before you could stop yourself. “Why is it that you think you’re allowed to put your hands on me whenever you please?”

He only chuckled, unfazed, his arm sliding right back around your waist. You pushed at him again, but his grip tightened like iron, his voice still soft and smug but edged with something firmer. “Easy, cutie. You’re drunk, and clearly barely standing.”

“I can stand just fine, thanks,” you snapped, tilting your chin up at him, refusing to let him look down at you like that. Your eyes flicked around, sharp and unsubtle, searching for her. No sign of Aylin anywhere. Still, the irritation crawled through your tone like fire as you muttered, “Take care of your little girlfriend instead, why don’t you?”

The words tasted bitter on your tongue, and you hated how obvious it sounded. His smirk curved deeper, his amethyst eyes gleaming with something you didn’t want to name. He leaned in close enough that his breath brushed your mouth, laced with alcohol and heat, his whisper almost sing-song. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous—”

“As if.” you cut him off, sharp as glass, though the denial landed weak when your chest pressed against his with every shallow breath. His hair, normally so carefully styled, was mussed across his forehead, his cheeks flushed from drinking, and the sight of him looking just as reckless as you felt only made your blood boil hotter.

“Are you waiting for an Uber?” he asked casually, as if he hadn’t just cornered you with his hand still warm at your waist. The ease in his tone made you want to tear him off you—or drag him closer and kiss him until that smugness finally broke.

Instead, you shoved at his chest with more force this time, making him stumble a step back. Your voice came out raw, frayed with equal parts irritation and heat. “Clearly.”

“You’re more irritated than usual, cutie. Did something happen, or are you just very drunk?” his voice was smooth, smug as ever, but there was a spark beneath it—you knew he already had a damn good guess why you were acting this way.

You scoffed, eyes narrowing like daggers as you closed the distance again, too far gone to keep your composure. His face, his stupid grin—it made you want to slap him right here in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Why are you all up in my business instead of minding your own?” you shot back, finger jabbing against his chest with every word. Your chuckle came sharp, edged with venom. “Being all over me, baiting me, getting jealous when another guy puts his hands on me…” you dragged it out, each word harsher than the last, your voice dipping lower, tighter. “Only to fuck her the next day after I was in your bed.”

The words left your lips like spit, hitting their mark. His face flickered—first surprise, then a curl of something dark and delighted—and the mix only set your blood boiling hotter.

“For fuck’s sake, Rafayel.” your voice cracked sharp with irritation, and your palms shoved hard against his chest. He let you push him, step after step, until his back thudded against the brick wall of the club. The noise of the city blurred around you—cars honking, drunk laughter spilling from the door—but all you saw was him.

“You got pissed at me for brushing off what happened between us, pushed and pushed until you had me in your bed again—and for what, exactly?” your voice was ragged now, breathless with more than alcohol. “So you could put your hands all over her right after?”

Your chest heaved, every word tumbling out before you could stop yourself, your pulse racing as though your body was picking a fight your head wasn’t sober enough to finish. “Fine,” you spat, the word sharp as glass. “Then so be it.”

His eyes stayed fixed on you, unflinching even as you burned in front of him. Amethyst gleamed under the streetlight, something equal parts mocking and unreadable.

You were burning up—partly from the alcohol in your veins, but mostly from the rage knotted deep in your chest. Feelings for Rafayel were the one truth you refused to name, and now, knowing he’d been with her tonight, drinking in that bar, it made you want to claw the smug look off his face. Somehow, you always ended up like this with him—teeth bared, circling one another until the tension snapped.

This time, it snapped with his hand cupping your face, dragging you into a kiss so rough it stole your breath. You gasped into his mouth, clutching at his shirt as his body turned around and pinned yours to the wall. He hissed against your lips like the taste of you frustrated him as much as it thrilled him.

“You’re so damn stubborn, princess.” his words rasped between kisses, his voice roughened by liquor and something darker.

Your fingers fisted in his half-buttoned shirt, pulling him closer even as your mind screamed to push him away. His hand found your waist, grip punishing, forcing a gasp that let his tongue slip past your lips, hot and insistent. He tasted like whiskey and recklessness, and it infuriated you how fast your body melted against him.

You could already feel how damp your panties were, and you hated it, hated him, hated that this was the only way you seemed to release whatever was burning between you. His mouth trailed lower, biting at the column of your throat, leaving the kind of marks you couldn’t ignore in the morning.

A low chuckle rumbled against your skin. “You won’t admit you’re jealous if it killed you, would you?” his teeth grazed your neck, and your soft moan betrayed you.

“I’m not jealous,” you ground out, voice trembling despite the steel in your words.

“Mm,” he hummed, clearly unconvinced. His lips sucked another bruise into your skin, his fingers digging into the curve of your ass until you gasped. 

“You’re infuriating,” he muttered, his mouth claiming yours again, swallowing your sharp inhale. The kiss was hot, bruising, all teeth and stubbornness, until he pulled back just far enough to breathe against your lips. “But that’s what I like about you.”

His thumb brushed along your lower lip, slow and deliberate, while his amethyst eyes drank in every flicker of irritation still painted across your face. His voice slid low, teasing, taunting, and edged with that cocky lilt that always drove you insane. “It’s not that fun the other way around, is it?” his tongue swept across his own lips, the gleam in his gaze daring you to chase after him.

You almost chased his mouth, but you caught yourself, gritting your teeth as the words hissed out instead. “Go to hell.” you spat, though the heat in your chest screamed for the opposite—screamed to pull him closer, to stop fighting, to admit that the taste of him was already addictive.

He smirked, darker now, like he could hear the truth tangled in your defiance. His mouth dropped to your throat, lips dragging across the sensitive skin until you shivered. Then came the sharp scrape of his teeth, his tongue soothing over the sting as your thighs betrayed you, pressing tighter around the solid muscle of his leg wedged between yours.

“Admit it,” he whispered, biting the shell of your ear, his voice a slow drag meant to unravel you. You moaned, weakly muffling the sound against his shoulder. His grin curved into your skin, smug and pleased, before his words spilled hot against your ear, “Admit you’re jealous… admit you want me.”

You refused to give him the satisfaction of an answer, your lips parting only in a ragged moan against his throat as his knee pressed higher between your thighs. The pressure made you shiver, your whole body aching to close the gap you swore you didn’t want. His mouth dragged down the column of your neck, biting and soothing until your pulse thrummed wildly beneath his lips. Fingers dug into your waist, sliding lower to grip your ass, urging you closer still, and you hated how easily you obeyed, arching into him, tipsy and dazed and craving more than you’d ever admit out loud.

Rafayel’s voice was low, rough with desire but still laced with that insufferable amusement. “Should I back off and let you get home?” he whispered into your skin, his breath hot where it ghosted over your collarbone.

You groaned, frustration and want tangling into one, your hand yanking at his hair hard enough to make him hiss. Your teeth clenched around the words, like forcing them out physically hurt. “We both know my bed is not where I’ll end up tonight,” you bit out, your eyes glassy with a mix of anger and hunger as you dragged him into a kiss that was all heat and defiance.

He chuckled into your mouth, smug even as his breath came ragged, kissing you back like he wanted to consume you whole. Between the clash of lips and the scrape of teeth, he murmured against your mouth, “Oh, I know.”

————

Rafayel had you stripped down to nothing but a lacy pink bra and panties before either of you had the sense to breathe. The delicate fabric clung damp to your skin, already ruined, as you straddled his hips with reckless urgency. Your mouth was on his throat, biting and sucking hard enough to leave your fury branded on his skin, your lips bruising as your hands tore at his shirt in impatient tugs, like the very idea of fabric separating you made you want to scream.

He only leaned back against the pillows, lips parted in a low groan as though relishing the way you tried to devour him. His head tipped back, exposing his throat, his amethyst eyes hooded with hunger as your hips rolled shamelessly against his thigh. The friction sent sparks through your body, drawing curses from your lips that you tried to swallow into his skin.

Your voice was ragged, slurred with alcohol and irritation, but he heard it for what it was—desire, laid bare. “I hate you,” you hissed, the words little more than a gasp as your hand palmed the bulge straining against his pants. He groaned, the sound rough, almost pleased, before his own voice slid back to you—silky and smug despite the tremor in it.

“Does hating me get you this wet, princess?” his fingers slipped under the damp lace, teasing you slowly from back to front, circling until your hips buckled helplessly against his hand. You bit your lower lip so hard it almost hurt, a whimper catching in your throat as he dragged the pads of his fingers through the slick heat of you.

He pulled you closer until your nose brushed his, voice rasping between your panting breaths, “Soaked, yet still denying you want me.” his grin curved smug and sharp, but there was heat beneath it—heat that burned through every deliberate stroke of his fingers, every groan he let you swallow when your lips found his again.

You bit down on the curve of his neck, teeth scraping against flushed skin before your hands dragged his pants and boxers down, letting him kick free with an impatient wiggle. In the next breath, your mouth was already wrapped around his leaking tip, tongue circling before you sank deeper, taking him in until your throat ached with the stretch.

His fingers instantly tangled in your hair, grip tightening as his hips bucked up into your mouth, rough and unrestrained. You moaned around him, the vibration making him groan, your frustration pouring into every drag of your lips down his length. You wanted to ruin him—wanted to wipe that smug grin clean off his face, even if it meant doing it like this, with your lips stretched around his cock and your pride nowhere in sight.

“F-fuck—princess…” he gasped, voice breaking into curses as his thighs trembled beneath your hands, his chest heaving. His hips stuttered and you knew he was close, twitching against your tongue, desperate to release inside you. But you didn’t give him the satisfaction of control. You sucked harder, hollowing your cheeks, dragging him to the edge again and again until he was unraveling completely, groaning your name like he couldn’t hold it back.

When he spilled hot down your throat, his head fell back against the pillows, a hoarse sound tearing from his chest. His grip in your hair trembled, tugging like he wasn’t sure whether to pull you off or keep you there. The taste coated your tongue, and instead of shame, all you felt was sharp, biting satisfaction—your panties soaking further as you swallowed him down, victorious in the way you had him trembling for once, his cock twitching helplessly against your tongue.

You didn’t even notice the shift until your back hit the mattress, his weight pressing down, pinning you there. One moment you were tasting his release, the next you were trembling under him, gasping as his fingers slid beneath the lace of your panties and slipped inside you without hesitation. The intrusion was sharp, wet, perfect, and you cursed as your body betrayed you, arching into his hand.

His lips were everywhere—dragging over your jaw, sucking hard at your neck until your skin burned—while his hair fell damp against your temple, sweat beading at his hairline. His voice was low, rough, frayed at the edges when it finally broke against your ear.

“We both know this is more than sex,” he rasped, curling his fingers just right, dragging across that spot that made you shudder and clench around him. His mouth grazed your ear as your hips bucked helplessly into his palm. “So admit it. Admit you want me, not just a warm body in your bed.”

There was no smirk in his tone this time, no smug satisfaction. It came out ragged, clouded in want, in something dangerously close to need.

Your pride twisted inside you, clawing for air. Vulnerability burned like fire under your skin, and you couldn’t bear the thought of laying yourself open to him, of giving him that win. Even when your body pulsed, trembling around his fingers, even when your breath hitched so sharp it broke into a whimper, you bit back hard, shaking your head against the pillow.

“F-fuck—why…” you gasped, teeth sinking into your lip until it almost hurt, “why do you keep pushing this?”

It sounded like a plea and you hated that. Hated how desperate you sounded when you wanted to sound strong. But he didn’t stop. If anything, the tension in his touch grew, his fingers stroking deeper, firmer, determined to unravel you until you had no choice but to admit something.

His mouth crushed yours again, swallowing the shaky moans spilling from your throat as his fingers curled deep inside you. The wet drag of his thumb found your clit, circling mercilessly until your hips bucked against his hand. He rasped against your lips, voice low and steady, each word brushing fire into your skin.

“I know you, cutie. You don’t want to ‘lose’ to me, whatever this is—” his mouth lingered, smirking against your parted lips as you trembled beneath him, “—am I right?”

Your moan cut into his words, body betraying you as you clenched hard around his fingers.

He groaned into the sound, forehead pressed to yours, eyes burning down into your half-lidded gaze. “Fine. If you won’t say it, then I’ll say it for us.” his teeth grazed your lower lip, his thumb working harder, dragging circles that made your thighs quiver. “I want you. And yeah, sex with you is fucking insane…” he punctuated it with a curl of his fingers that made you choke on a gasp, the smug tilt of his mouth betraying his pleasure in your unraveling.

“…but I think you need to hear it spelled out. Straight to your petty, stubborn face.” he bit hard at the column of your neck, sucking until your skin bloomed red, taking you right to the brink before his voice cracked raw into your ear. “I’m in love with you.”

The words slammed through you harder than his fingers, shattering every wall you tried to keep up. A ragged gasp tore from your throat, your nails clawing down his back as your body gave out, eyes rolling as he pressed you over the edge.

“Now come for me, baby,” he whispered, almost a growl, pumping faster, deeper, until your release spilled hard around his fingers. Your cry broke against his mouth, sweet and wrecked, the confession ringing in your ears as your body trembled under him, undone.

Your head spun, chest heaving, every nerve still pulsing from release. His fingers slowed their rhythm inside you, leaving you trembling, eyes fluttering shut as you tried to catch your breath. But even with your lashes pressed tight, his words clung to you, stubborn and impossible to ignore. I’m in love with you.

You could lie to yourself. Pretend, play stupid, shove it all back under the same reckless label you both used when you clawed at each other in dark corners and tangled in his sheets. You could have sex and then walk away, call it nothing, keep your pride intact. But your chest ached. And the longer you lay there beneath him, the harder it became to deny that he’d ripped a piece of armor off you, leaving you bare.

When you opened your eyes, Rafayel was already watching. Not smug, not infuriatingly cocky—but steady, unreadable, a faint smirk tugging at his lips like muscle memory he couldn’t suppress.

You almost rolled your eyes. Almost. Instead, a groan slipped out, your hands fumbling with your soaked panties, tugging them down your legs with sharp impatience. It was an answer in itself—messy, wordless, but enough. But when you reached for your bra, his hand stopped you, pinning your wrist with an easy strength that made you freeze. His mouth caught yours again—hungry, needy, the taste of him dizzying—but beneath it you felt the question, the pause, the weight of what he wanted from you.

You hated that you knew what it was. Hated more that he wouldn’t let it go.

“Would it hurt your pride if I told you I’m not in love with you?” you deflected, voice hoarse, breaking against the heat of his mouth. Your thighs hooked tighter around his waist when he pushed you back against the mattress, his chest pressing you into the sheets.

Rafayel didn’t answer at first. His hand slid to stroke himself, his cock flushed and leaking as he teased against your folds, making you shiver and arch impatiently. A whine almost broke loose, your body betraying you, pleading for him even as your mouth tried to keep the upper hand.

His smirk curved, softer this time, though it still burned with that familiar sting of arrogance. He pinned both your wrists above your head with one hand, his other guiding himself into you with one deep thrust that knocked the air right out of your lungs.

You gasped, back bowing, nails clawing at his grip as his hips sank flush to yours. His voice broke against your mouth, low and certain, “No… because I already know you are.”

And sex with Rafayel was always good—heated, rough, something that left you dizzy and aching—but sex with Rafayel when feelings were tangled in every kiss, every touch, was something else entirely. It was overwhelming. Addictive. Out of this world.

He kept you in his bed until morning, relentless in the way he took you apart and put you back together again. Under him, spread out and trembling, moaning his name until your throat went raw. Bent over, taken from behind as his hand pressed into your back, your body arching as he groaned your name. His mouth between your thighs until you were shaking, too sensitive, tears slipping down your temples as you begged—not for him to stop, but for him to keep going, to keep proving the point he never said out loud before but always left you feeling.

You got tangled in his sheets because neither of you could get enough, and then ended up in the shower, steam curling around your damp skin as he pinned you against the slick tiles. He kissed you through your gasps, made you come again with the water rushing down your bodies, laughing low when your knees buckled against his.

By morning, you thought the storm had calmed—but then you found him in the kitchen, shirtless, hair messy, sliding a tray of breakfast into your hands like it was the most natural thing in the world. You’d never seen him like that before. Rafayel, who usually greeted you with smug remarks and biting comments, was just… calm. Sweet, even. Especially to you.

It almost made you laugh, how easily you’d gone from throwing insults across lecture halls to sitting cross-legged in his bed, eating pancakes while he teased you for getting syrup on your lip.

And to top it off, you wanted nothing more than to wipe that smug grin off his face—because now, without the haze of alcohol or the heat of jealousy driving you both wild, there was no excuse. Last night, tangled in his sheets, you both admitted it, breathless and raw, that you were in love with each other.

Now the sun was streaming through his blinds, and he was sitting there smirking like he had won the war. You hated it. Hated how he always managed to look at you like he had figured you out first. You glared at him over the rim of your coffee mug, hoping he’d choke on his pancakes. Instead, he leaned back against the headboard with that insufferable little curve of his lips, watching you too closely.

“Don’t,” you muttered, setting your mug down a little too hard on his nightstand.

“Don’t what?” his tone was light, teasing, like you hadn’t dropped the single most vulnerable truth of your life just hours ago.

“Don’t look at me like I’m your trophy, Rafayel.” you crossed your arms, but it didn’t help how warm your cheeks felt.

His laugh was low, unbothered, infuriatingly fond. “Cutie, if you were my trophy, I’d keep you on display where everyone could see.” he tilted his head, gaze narrowing slightly. “But that’s not it, is it? You’re not a prize. You’re the only one who ever kept me on my toes.”

Your throat tightened at that, but you rolled your eyes to cover it, muttering, “You’re freaking impossible.”

“Yeah, yeah…” he tipped his head, eyes glinting, voice dropping into something softer that still held its playful edge, “but you’d rather have impossible me than no me at all.”

You groaned, dragging a pillow over your face as he laughed again, reaching to pull it away so he could see your expression. His hand lingered at your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness that made your stomach twist.

And that was when it hit you—through all the irritation, the sharp remarks, the smugness that drove you crazy—you’d rather never go without him. No matter how insufferable he was, no matter how much he pushed your buttons, Rafayel had wound himself so tightly into your life that the thought of being without him felt unbearable.

————

The smug look plastered across Rafayel’s face as he strolled through campus with his arm slung firmly around your waist was almost too much to stomach. He moved with that effortless arrogance he always carried, the kind that drew stares even without you tucked against him, but today it was worse—because his hand rested possessively on your hip like he’d won some unspoken war.

You wanted to wipe the grin off his face. Or maybe kiss it away until he was breathless, though you’d never admit that to his face right now.

Students were definitely watching—whispering, snickering, maybe even glaring—but Rafayel only seemed to revel in it, smugness radiating off him like sunlight. He glanced down at you, amethyst eyes glinting as he bent to steal a slow, unhurried kiss right there in front of everyone, making sure the sight left no room for rumor or doubt. The bastard was proud, so damn proud of having you like this, and he didn’t care who knew it.

When he finally pulled back, lips curved in victory, you couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your own mouth, no matter how hard you tried. You rolled your eyes, shoving lightly at his chest, but he only smirked wider.

“Wipe that smug look off your face before I do it for you,” you muttered, trying for annoyance but sounding softer than you intended.

“By all means, cutie,” he teased, leaning closer as though daring you. “Preferably with another kiss. You seem to like shutting me up that way.”

Your jaw tightened, but the laugh that escaped gave you away. And he knew it, because his grin only grew sharper, triumphant as ever. And damn him for it—you hated how right he looked with you in his arms.

part 1 - here

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He let the silence hum in his ears, the pulse of the ocean vast and steady. It was a sound he had heard all his life, one he would hear until the seas themselves withered. Eternity stretched before him like a barren horizon, endless and flat.

The scrape of sandals against stone broke his thoughts. Elder Amund entered with his usual unhurried stride, white hair drifting in the current like a cloud. His lined face carried no reverence, only irritation tempered by long patience.

“Still sulking on that throne?” Amund’s voice cut across the chamber, rough and almost fond in its exasperation. “You’d think a god might find something useful to do with himself.”

“I’m not sulking,” Rafayel replied without moving, voice low and lazy. “I’m enduring.”

“Enduring what? A throne of coral, endless food, the devotion of every living soul under the waves?” Amund’s tone was dry, almost fond despite its sting. “Poor sea god. What a misery your life must be.”

Rafayel turned his head just enough to meet the elder’s gaze, lips twitching in something too humorless to be a smile. “It is, actually. Have you ever drowned in perfection, Amund? Everything gleams, everything shines, and still…” He trailed off, eyes flicking to the grand mosaic overhead. “…there’s nothing in it that feels alive.”

“You’re brooding.” Amund snorted, folding his arms. “The flame’s dying, Rafayel. You know what that means. Time’s running shorter than you’d like to admit.”

The reminder made his jaw tighten. He didn’t move, only let his gaze remain the mosaics overhead. Gods captured in shells and pearl fragments — faces locked in triumph and love. All frozen, all eternal, and not one of them stirred the emptiness pressing against his ribs.

“I know,” he said at last, voice flat.

“Then stop pretending you don’t. You need a devotee—a bride.”

Rafayel’s lips curled in a humorless smile. “So you’ve told me. Repeatedly.”

“Then listen, for once. The flame cannot burn without a bond. And without the flame, Lemuria falls. You were born for this duty, Rafayel.” Amund’s voice softened slightly, the sharpness edged with patience. “You’ve avoided it long enough.”

He dropped his hand from his cheek, fingers drumming against the coral armrest. “Tell me then, why must it be a bride? Why not any devotee? Why this ritual binding, this… bond, no one will explain to me? I hear the words, but they’re empty. Empty as this hall.”

Amund’s frown deepened, but his tone softened just slightly. “It isn’t words, boy. It’s survival. And it’s not a question of if—it’s when. You can’t keep yourself apart forever.”

Rafayel leaned back against the throne, the picture of languid defiance, though a flicker of truth stirred in his chest at the elder’s words. He hated the reminders, yes — but beneath that, loneliness gnawed at him, quiet and relentless.

He remembered the way others had looked at him in centuries past: with awe, with fear, with trembling devotion. Not once had it felt like being seen. Not once had it touched the hollow at his core.

Rafayel’s laugh was sharp, short, and lonely. “Forever is precisely what I have. And not one face I’ve seen is worth tethering myself to it.” He flicked his fingers, sending a ripple of heat spiraling upward, startling a shoal of fish into scattering. Their silver arcs vanished into the blue.

“No one has caught my eye,” he said quietly. “No one worth a second glance.”

Amund sighed, long-suffering, and turned toward the exit. “One day, Rafayel. Sooner than you think, someone will. And when that happens, all this brooding will seem very small.”

The chamber fell silent again when he left. Rafayel leaned back, staring at the ceiling of shattered pearls and broken gods, his chest a hollow tidepool.

“Find a bride,” he murmured, voice low with amusement and bitterness both. “As if such a creature exists.”

He let the silence swallow him again, not knowing the answer to his emptiness had already begun to take shape above the waves.

When Amund’s chiding footsteps faded, Rafayel lingered in the throne room a while longer, staring up at the drifting light as though it might offer answers. But the silence pressed heavy, and the weight of the flame’s slow guttering seemed to echo with every heartbeat.

With a sigh sharp enough to send a shiver through the current, he rose from the throne.

The city parted for him as he left — Lemurians bowing, turning their faces away, whispering reverently. He ignored them all. He moved like a shadow through the coral streets, past the archways of shell and pearl, past the flickering torches that struggled to hold the sea’s warmth. Always the same, always gleaming, always lifeless.

The water grew darker as he swam upward, away from the golden heart of Lemuria, through forests of kelp that swayed like ghostly hands. He rose until the pressure thinned, until he felt the tug of the moon pulling on the waves above.

When at last he broke the surface, night air kissed his skin, warm and salt-sweet. He drew in a breath as if he hadn’t tasted it in years, eyes narrowing at the stretch of sky overhead, stars scattered like spilled pearls across velvet.

The coast lay not far — a crescent of pale sand, the faint glow of torches flickering from a cluster of buildings beyond. The locals called it Verona, he remembered vaguely. A name carried to him on the tide, half-heard in the prayers of fishermen and drowned sailors.

He let himself drift closer, letting the surf bear him toward the shallows. From here, the human world unfolded in miniature: laughter carried over the water, the warm hum of music spilling from a distant tavern, the golden scatter of lanterns glowing like fireflies against the shore.

So fragile, so fleeting, yet something in it stirred a hollow place in his chest. Mortals, with their soft lives and easy joys. They burned bright, if only for a moment. How simple it seemed, to laugh beneath lantern light and call it enough.

Rafayel hovered just beyond the breakers, half-submerged, lavender hair slicked back by the waves. His eyes caught every flicker of movement on the sand, the way mortals moved together, touched, leaned close in secret whispers.

He told himself he had come only to clear his mind, to drown out Amund’s nagging voice with the chaos of another world. Yet as he lingered, watching the distant glow of Verona’s coast, he felt the faintest stirring of something that was not boredom. Not yet longing — but close enough that it made him restless.

“Humans,” he muttered, voice low, sardonic. “So loud. So brief. And still…”

The surf broke against the rocks, hissing like laughter, as though daring him to look closer.

The waves shifted, and there you were.

At first, Rafayel thought you a trick of the moonlight — a figure wandering the pale strip of sand, skirts brushing your ankles, bare feet leaving soft indentations in the tide-smoothed shore. But no, you were real, lit by the warm glow spilling faintly from Verona, haloed by starlight.

Something in him went still.

You wore white — a gown light and flowing, the kind that clung to no shape yet somehow revealed all. The fabric shimmered faintly where the water touched it, edges translucent, as if the sea had claimed part of you for itself. He drank in the sight, transfixed by how it moved around you, ghostlike, holy. For a moment, he thought of Amund’s words — of needing a bride, of the necessity of binding himself to someone, someday. And without meaning to, he pictured you in a veil, soft silk drifting down to frame your face, your hands reaching for his. The image was so startling, so visceral, that he drew a sharp breath and shook his head, as though the very thought were sacrilege.

He watched you bend to pluck a seashell from the damp sand, turning it over in your fingers with a concentration that was almost childlike. Then you straightened, tucking it away as you wandered on, the hem of your gown swaying with each step. Your toes brushed the edge of the surf, kicking lazily at the water.

So ordinary a thing, and yet…

Rafayel found himself leaning forward, twinkling eyes tracking every movement. He’d seen thousands of mortals in his lifetime — prayed to, feared, adored, dismissed. But none of them had ever looked like this. None of them had moved with such quiet gravity, as though the sea itself curved toward you.

The look on your face caught him: thoughtful, almost wistful, a crease in your brow that spoke of some weight you carried. Loneliness? A secret untold? He wanted to know. He wanted to strip your thoughts bare, lay them out like pearls in his palm.

And your voice — what would it sound like? Would it be soft and lilting like the tide at dawn, or hushed and secret, a melody meant only for him? He imagined it in his mind, low and warm, imagined the shape of his name on your lips.

Beautiful. You were beautiful in a way that unsettled him, not for your features alone but for the way you existed within the world: a mortal girl walking the shoreline as if the night belonged to you. No fear, no hurry, no thought of the god watching from beneath the waves.

Rafayel’s chest tightened unexpectedly. A strange, restless thrum ran through him, alien and unwelcome. The thought rose unbidden: What if she walks away, and I never see her again?

The idea clawed at him, sharp and unfamiliar. He had never cared before. Mortals came and went, their faces blurring together like foam on the tide. But the thought of you fading into Verona’s lantern-lit streets, of him losing this chance to look again, to know — it twisted inside him like a knife.

He shifted, almost without thought, letting the tide carry him closer. The beach was almost empty save for you; still, he sought concealment, slipping toward a scatter of jagged rocks where the surf foamed white. He lay against them, half-submerged, slick hair blending with the glimmer of the sea, eyes fixed on you with unblinking hunger.

Just once, he told himself. Just once, I need to see her up close.

It was a lie, and he knew it. Already the hollow that had gnawed at him for centuries roared with something dangerously like need. Already, the throne of Lemuria, the endless glitter of the flame, the monotony of his godhood — all of it paled beside the curve of your shoulders as you wandered the darkened beach.

He rested against the rocks, every sense straining toward you, waiting for you to draw close enough that the moonlight could sketch every line of your face into his memory. He told himself it was curiosity. That once he had seen you, once he had heard the sound of your voice on the air, he would be satisfied.

But the restless ache in his chest whispered otherwise.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The night wrapped itself around you like silk, cool and salt-scented, the hush of the waves smoothing over all the restless thoughts that usually crowded your mind. Verona had charmed you from the moment you arrived — its warm streets, its laughter spilling out of tavern doors, its balconies draped with vines. Yet this… this was what you had craved most. The sea.

It had been so long since you’d seen it, let alone felt it — that give of wet sand beneath your toes, the playful chill of foam as it rushed over your heels before retreating. You laughed under your breath as the tide lapped higher, teasing, only to ebb again, leaving your footprints glistening in its wake.

Your skirts fluttered against your legs, light as air, the white fabric catching the starlight each time the breeze stirred it. One hand gathered the edge absently, the other cradling a small treasure — a shell with a blush of rose at its heart. You tucked it into your pocket, already imagining the little pile you’d bring home, a pocketful of the sea to keep.

For the first time in ages, you felt weightless. No imposing deadlines. No workplace politics. No eyes measuring every step you took. Just you, the night, the ocean — endless, alive.

And then, faintly, something else.

A sound.

You froze, tilting your head toward the water. It was too delicate to be the wind, too deliberate to be chance. A melody — low and liquid, threaded through with something mournful, yet impossibly beautiful. Notes rose and fell like waves themselves, slipping between the crash of surf, until you weren’t sure if you were hearing them with your ears or simply feeling them in your bones.

Curiosity tugged you forward.

The song grew stronger as you walked, drawn as though on an invisible tether. You followed the curve of the shore until the sand thinned into stone, until jagged rocks shouldered into the surf like ancient guardians. The music seemed to seep from them, echoing between their dark shapes, coaxing you closer.

You hesitated only a moment, heart fluttering with the thrill of mystery — then you moved, white skirts whispering around your ankles, your bare feet finding careful purchase against the salt-slick stone. Each note reached sharper now, more urgent, as though whoever wove it was aware of you, calling you nearer.

You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop yourself. The melody was a hook in your chest, pulling you toward the source waiting beyond the rocks.

And then you saw him.

Sprawled against the grey stone as though the tide had carried him there, half-draped in foam and moonlight, was a figure that at first seemed dream more than flesh. His hair fell in wet, silken strands over his shoulders, a dusky violet that shimmered blue where droplets caught the silver light. His body gleamed faintly with seawater, pale skin adorned with delicate chains, their links threaded with pearls that glowed like captured stars. In his hair, golden pieces twisted upward in the likeness of coral, glinting like treasure drawn from some shipwreck deep below.

Your gaze fell lower, and your breath caught. Where legs should have been, there lay a long, gleaming tail — scales of opaline blue shifting toward indigo, each one catching the light like glass washed smooth by centuries of tide. The fin at its end stretched languidly against the rock, as if even in slumber he held the grace of the ocean itself.

Mesmerized, you moved closer without thinking, crouching down so the tips of your skirt just brushed the wet stone. He looked asleep, lashes resting like dark brushstrokes against skin too striking to belong to any man you’d ever seen. A thought flickered: is he hurt? And before you could second-guess yourself, the word slipped from your lips in a whisper.

“Hey…”

No answer. Only the hush of the tide and the far-off cry of a gull. The water lapped closer to your knees as you leaned in, hesitant but unable to leave. You reached out, brushing your fingertips lightly against the skin of his arm, warm and strange beneath your touch.

“Are you alright?” you asked, a little louder this time.

For a moment, nothing. Then his eyes opened.

They caught you immediately — blue, impossibly blue, tinged with shifting pink at the center, like the inside of a seashell or the heart of a flame beneath water. They looked directly at you, heavy-lidded but sharp, and your breath stuttered under their weight. He blinked once, slow, then a voice as smooth as tide over stone spilled from him.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, lips curving faintly, “you’re disturbing my rest.”

The words struck like a ripple, low and velvety, with an amused cadence that made your heart jolt against your ribs. You froze, stunned — not just by his voice but by him, by the impossible reality of him. Every part of your mind urged you to respond, to say something, anything, but your tongue faltered. You were too busy staring.

At the scales that glimmered across his collarbone. At the droplets sliding from the ends of his hair. At the endless curve of his tail, scales shifting like starlight each time the water sighed against them.

He tilted his head, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “Staring? Bold of you.”

Your cheeks burned hot. “I…I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry. I’ve just… I’ve never seen someone like you before.”

“Mm.” He let the hum linger, eyes dancing as though he could drink in your fluster. “Is that a compliment, then?”

You blinked, caught, tongue fumbling uselessly between denial and honesty. The laugh that bubbled from him was soft but edged with something sharp, teasing. He leaned in just slightly, and you caught the faint salt-warmth of his skin, the wet tang of the sea clinging to him.

“You’re shy, aren’t you, cutie?” His voice was velvet, dangerous in its ease. “Don’t worry. I won’t bite.”

He shifted against the rock, scales dragging over sand with a whisper like shattered glass tumbling in waves. The playful curve of his mouth faltered, replaced for a fleeting instant with a flicker of strain. His hand came to brace against the surface beneath him, fingers curling hard enough that the tendons showed pale beneath his skin.

The sound that escaped him was small, almost careless — a soft exhale that could have been a sigh, but your stomach knotted anyway.

“Wait—” you leaned forward instinctively, skirts soaking at the hem where the tide had crept closer. “Are you hurt?”

His eyes cut back to yours, the teasing gleam still there, though now it seemed threaded with something heavier. “Mm,” he hummed, dismissive, “a bruise, perhaps. Nothing worth your worry.”

But you were already scanning him, gaze darting to where his scales met skin, to the faint lines of red that glimmered between some of the opaline plates. Your chest squeezed. “Did you… wash up here? On the rocks?”

He tilted his head, damp strands of violet hair spilling forward across his cheek. The smile that rose was crooked, too sharp to be entirely reassuring. “What if I did?” His voice was low, rich, curling around your ribs like the tide itself. “Would you take pity on a poor sea-creature?”

You swallowed, pulse quickening. “At least let me help you back into the water. If you stay here, you could get worse. I’ll—” you faltered, then steadied yourself. “I’ll just… be worried if I leave you like this.”

Something shifted in his expression then. His lips parted slightly, and for the first time the playful mask seemed to slip. The way he looked at you — intent, searching — made your skin prickle with heat.

“You’d worry for me?” he echoed softly, as though tasting the words. His eyes, bright as tidal fire, narrowed just faintly, catching the moonlight in a way that made them gleam too brightly, too hungrily. A glint, sharp and fleeting, as though some secret thought had just bloomed behind them.

When you nodded, unsure why your throat felt tight, his smile returned. Softer, but not safer. “How curious.”

You blinked. “Curious?”

His gaze dragged over you, lingering at your lips, then back to your eyes. “Humans rarely offer kindness to my kind without a hidden hook. Tell me…” His head tilted again, slow as a predator circling. “…is this your trap?”

The words startled you, the accusation catching you off guard. “A trap? No—I don’t want to hurt you. I just…” Your breath trembled, but you forced the words out. “I just want to help.”

For a beat, silence stretched between you, broken only by the hiss of the sea pulling back against the stone. Then his laugh came, velvet and low, curling like smoke from a flame.

“How very sweet,” he murmured, though there was still something sharp in his gaze, something that made your skin warm and cold all at once.

You shifted closer, your eyes flicking to the faint way his arm rested near his side, fingers curling there as if unconsciously shielding something. The moonlight caught the lines of his torso, pale and wet from the sea, droplets still rolling down the cut of his ribs. You couldn’t help it — your gaze lingered on the place you thought he might be hiding an injury.

“Let me see,” you murmured, reaching before you could second-guess yourself.

Your fingertips skimmed the ridge of his waist, warm skin slick beneath them, the rise and fall of his breath pronounced beneath your hand. He went utterly still. For a suspended second, he let you touch him, and you swore you felt the faint flutter of muscle tightening beneath your palm. His cheeks flushed faintly in the moonlight, an almost imperceptible betrayal of his composure.

Then, his hand closed around your wrist. Not rough, but unyielding, the strength in his grip undeniable. “You know,” he said, voice a lazy ripple of amusement, “it’s rude to touch a stranger so freely.”

Your breath caught, heat rising sharply to your face. “I—I’m sorry,” you stammered, eyes darting away before you forced them back to his. “I thought you were hurt.”

His fingers lingered a moment longer, the weight of his hold reminding you of how easily he could keep you there if he wanted. Then he let go, slow and deliberate, leaving your skin tingling where his touch had been.

“Not anymore,” he said, the words slipping out in a tone just shy of flirtatious, layered with something you couldn’t quite read. His gaze caught yours and held, steady and intent, as if the silence itself was a game between you. The crash of waves filled the stillness, your heart beating a fraction too loud in your chest, the air between you strung taut as the tide’s pull.

Finally, he tilted his head toward the horizon, where the moon hung heavy and silver over the sea. “Stay,” he said softly, with a half-smile that could have been either kind or mocking. “Watch the moon with me… before I return to the sea.”

For a while, you both sat in silence. The sea stretched endlessly black before you, its horizon fused with the sky, while overhead the moon was a pale lantern suspended in eternity. You stayed close to him, though you kept a respectful distance, your skirts gathered against the wind. He was warm even without clothes, the heat of him striking against the cool night air. His hair caught the light as well — wispy strands threaded with violet where the moon touched them, sea-spray clinging to glittering ends.

“Have you ever been on land before?” you asked softly, half-afraid to disturb the quiet spell.

He tilted his head toward you, eyes glimmering. “No,” he murmured. “This is my first time… and already, I think it suits me.”

Your lips curved despite yourself. “Suits you?”

“Yes.” His gaze drifted over you — not crassly, but in a way that left your skin tingling as though he’d traced you with his fingertips. “The air is sharp. The ground is steady. And then there’s the company.”

You ducked your head, heat rising to your cheeks, but couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips. His words carried a weight that felt less like flattery and more like… seeing.

“And you?” he asked after a beat, voice softer. “Do you like the sea?”

You turned your eyes toward the restless waters, watching the pale line of surf break against the shore. “I always have. I used to think it was lonely out there, endless and empty. But maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s just… waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

Your throat tightened, but you managed a small shrug. “For someone to listen.”

His eyes lingered on your face for so long you felt the heat of it, the intensity. “Then it has been very lucky tonight,” he said at last, a faint smile curling at his mouth.

The question lingered on your lips before you even realized you had spoken it. “Do you… have a name?”

His gaze flicked to yours, bright and unbothered, and with a lazy curl of his mouth he said, “Rafayel.” The syllables slipped from him like a tide retreating from the shore, smooth and musical.

You repeated it softly, as though testing how it tasted in your own mouth. “Rafayel… it suits you.”

Something shifted in his eyes. The teasing lilt in his expression faltered just a fraction, and though he tilted his head away like the compliment meant nothing, you caught the faintest shade of warmth ghosting across his features — so fleeting you might have imagined it.

The silence that followed was no longer empty. It pulsed with the rhythm of the waves and the unspoken things that hung between you. You thought — absurdly, dangerously — that you could sit with him like this until the sun came up.

But practicality tugged at you. The hour had grown late. You shifted slightly, gathering your courage. “I should go,” you said, regret heavy in your chest. “It’s getting late.”

You rose, smoothing your skirts, then hesitated. Something in you refused to leave so abruptly. Before you could think better of it, you reached down and caught his hand. His skin was warm, rougher than you expected, and the strength in his fingers startled you.

“Will I see you again?” you asked, the words spilling out more urgently than you intended.

His lips curved into something almost mischievous. “That depends. Do you want to?”

You flushed, holding his gaze, your grip tightening unconsciously. “Yes.”

His thumb brushed once across your knuckles before he withdrew his hand, slowly, as though savoring the contact. “Then meet me here. Tomorrow night. Same place, same moonlight.”

Relief and excitement flared through you, lighting your whole body from within. “I’ll be here,” you promised, your voice firm despite the fluttering in your chest.

“Good.” His smile deepened, equal parts playful and unreadable. “Then so will I.”

You lingered a heartbeat longer, reluctant to sever the connection, before finally turning away. The sea breeze tugged at your hair, and when you glanced back, he was still watching, eyes glowing with a brightness that rivaled the moon.

You walked back through the quiet streets of Verona with a spring in your step, the salt still clinging to your skin, the cool night air brushing against your flushed cheeks. The city had begun to settle into silence — lamplights flickering, the faint hum of crickets replacing the daytime clamor. Yet inside you, there was nothing quiet at all. Your chest felt alight, your stomach fluttery, every part of you restless with excitement.

You laughed softly to yourself, unable to believe what had just happened. A mermaid — no, a man from the sea. You had spoken with him as though it were the most natural thing in the world, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the sand while the waves whispered at your feet. Part of you wondered if you had imagined it, some whimsical dream conjured by the ocean breeze and the moonlight. But then you remembered his eyes — blueish-pink, deep and startling, so alive with mischief — and you knew no dream could have felt like that.

By the time you reached the modest little hotel where you were staying, your heart was still racing. You pushed open the door to your room, let it fall shut behind you, and leaned against it with a grin you couldn’t quite smother. 

What on earth is happening to me? you thought. 

You had come here for a quiet vacation, to collect seashells, to stroll the beaches — not to meet men from myths. And yet, now, the thought of tomorrow night tugged at you with such intensity you could hardly bear to think of anything else.

You sat in front of the small wooden table, pulling out the treasures you had collected earlier in the day. Shells in shades of cream, pink, and coral spilled across the surface, still dusted with grains of sand. As you sifted through them, arranging them in neat little rows, your fingers hesitated. Something was missing.

Your bracelet.

You frowned, glancing down at your wrist. The familiar glimmer of silver wasn’t there. A small panic fluttered in your chest, but you quickly forced it away. You must have lost it when you’d been crouching among the rocks, sifting through shells. Maybe the tide had tugged it away. It wasn’t the first time a clasp had given out — besides, it wasn’t valuable, not really. Just a trinket. You exhaled, shaking your head. No sense ruining tonight with worries.

Your gaze drifted back to the shells, and you let your fingertips glide over them until they paused on one in particular — a delicate spiral shell, rose blush and white with a faint golden sheen when it caught the light. The prettiest of them all. You held it up, smiling faintly as you turned it in your hand.

An idea bloomed. I’ll make this into a necklace. The thought made your heart thump. Not for yourself, but as a gift — for him. A keepsake, something of the land to give to someone of the sea. Silly, maybe. Absurd, even. But the image of placing it into his hands made warmth spread through you, made tomorrow feel impossibly far away.

You lay back on the bed at last, the shell still clutched in your palm, your cheeks aching from smiling so much. You’d never thought your vacation would turn into something like this — something thrilling, surreal, almost unreal. And yet… you couldn’t wait to see him again.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The sea cradled him as he swam back toward Lemuria, the tide folding over his shoulders in heavy silken sheets. His body cut through the water with practiced ease, yet his mind was not on the currents, nor on the pulse of the reefs, nor the faint hum of Lemuria calling him home. It lingered elsewhere — above the surface, where the air was thinner, sharper, and where you had stood.

Your warmth lingered against him, a delicious phantom heat where your hand had dared to rest. He had feigned the injury to tease you, just a test, but the way your cool fingers traced his waist — as if you were meant to be there, as if you had every right to touch him — sent a jolt of euphoria through him. His chest tightened, heart racing, a rush of delight he hadn’t expected. The audacity of your care, the intimacy of your touch, left him flushed, breathless, craving more.

Your face rose again and again in his mind, replayed endlessly: the softness of your eyes turned moonlit silver, your lips parted just slightly when you smiled, the way your voice had shifted between shyness and boldness as if you couldn’t quite decide which guise to wear before him. And god, your laughter. That small, bright burst of sound made him ache in a way fire and salt never had. He wanted more of it. Needed more.

But what lingered most was the sound of his name on your lips. The syllables, spoken in your voice, had curled through him like smoke and flame, leaving warmth in their wake. He imagined it again — softer, more intimate — breathed into the space between you when you lay drifting toward sleep, your hand tangled with his. He imagined it roughened by desire, torn from your throat when he coaxed pleasure from you that only he could give. Each version seared him, until he craved the sound with a desperation that felt perilously close to worship.

By the time he reached Lemuria, his blood was humming too loud to ignore. He made his way through the jeweled halls without a word to the guards, without acknowledging the servants bowing low. They mattered little. Their devotion was expected, perfunctory. But yours — your awe had been pure, unscripted, untrained. You had looked at him as though he were something wondrous rather than inevitable. That gaze had done what centuries of loyalty never could: it made him hunger.

He retreated to his private chamber, a sanctum carved of pale stone and glassy coral, lit by the sway of bioluminescent flora drifting in the currents outside. With a flick of his fingers, fire sparked to life — unnatural, searing orange and red, alien in the water-bound world. The candle flame wavered, imprisoned in its glass casing, and painted his sharp features in trembling gold.

He set the bracelet down before it. Your bracelet. The one you had been wearing when you walked the shore, when your hand brushed against his waist. He slipped it off when he grabbed your wrist, almost unconsciously — like a part of him needed to claim a piece of you then and there. Now it lay in his palm like a treasure wrested from fate itself. A piece of you — yours alone — now stays with him.

His fingers closed over it slowly, reverently.

“How well it suits you,” he murmured to no one, voice low, like he was coaxing a lover awake. “But it belongs here now.”

He pictured you draped in silks of oceanic blue, seated upon the coral throne beside him, the crown light glinting in your hair. He imagined your hand resting on the carved armrest — or better, in his. The people would kneel at your feet, their voices raised in worship not just for him but for you. You would command them with grace and cruelty alike, as the queen of Lemuria must. But unlike those before you, you would smile, warm and luminous, and the seas themselves would bow to your will.

He imagined it so clearly it made his chest ache. He saw you descending the marble steps of the throne room, the courtiers gasping as though the sun itself had entered their cold depths. He saw your lips curve, not for them but for him, always for him.

The candle flame bent under his breath as he leaned closer to the bracelet, eyes burning. Already he could not wait for tomorrow. Already the thought of you standing again beneath the moon — waiting, perhaps eager — was enough to set his blood to fire. He wanted to taste that anticipation, to see the way you looked for him, only for him.

Mine, the thought whispered unbidden. 

She is mine already. She simply does not know it yet.

The bracelet gleamed as though in agreement.

Rafayel let the fire play between his fingers, small licks of flame dancing along his knuckles before fading into steam. The sea was vast, endless, unforgiving — but in all its breadth, it had never given him something so wholly precious. A fragile little land-born thing, with a smile that warmed him more than fire.

Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow, he would have more of your voice, your gaze, your touch. He would let you think it was your choice to return, your decision to step closer to the tide. But he knew better. You were already caught in his current, already bound to him by something you couldn’t yet name.

The flame guttered low, shadows rippling across the walls. Rafayel reclined back, eyes never leaving the bracelet set before the light.

Yes. Tomorrow.

And soon — forever.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The morning sun pried its way through the thin curtains, striping the room in bands of gold. You stirred awake to the distant hum of mopeds on cobblestone, a faint chorus of gulls, the steady breath of waves rolling just beyond the city’s edge. It should have been an ordinary morning in Verona — another day to wander streets and collect seashells — but you woke with something else thrumming through your veins.

Excitement.

Today, tonight — you would see him again.

You rolled onto your back, staring at the whitewashed ceiling, grinning before you could stop yourself. Last night replayed in loops behind your eyes: the gleam of moonlight on his hair, the impossible sweep of his tail, the warmth of his hand around your wrist. You’d sat beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world. You pressed your hands to your warm face, muffling a laugh.

The room felt too small to contain your restless energy. You slipped out of bed, padding across the cool tile floor, throwing open the balcony doors. Morning air swept in — sharp with salt, softened by espresso drifting from the café below. Verona bustled already; scooters zipped past, vendors shouted in Italian, shopkeepers rolled up shutters to reveal displays of bright glass jewelry and leather sandals.

The lively scene filled you with an energy you hadn’t felt in weeks, leaving you smiling and moving to the mirror. There was already a brightness in your reflection, a spark in your eyes you couldn’t quite hide. You brushed your hair with unusual care, lingered over each pin and ribbon as though he might notice, even when no one else would.

A flowy dress was chosen not for comfort, but because you imagined how the color would strike against his eyes, how he might look at you. Every detail of your morning routine seemed to carry new weight, a quiet joy threaded through it.

On the dressing table sat the small shell, pale pinkish-white and iridescent, catching the sunlight like a treasure from the sea. You reached for it carefully, fingers curving around the smooth spiral. The thought had come to you before sleep stole you away last night — to make it into something more, something you could offer him when the moment felt right. A necklace. A gift that was yours alone to give. Just the idea had you flushing, heart fluttering with a sweetness you could hardly contain. Slipping the shell into a velvet pouch, you tucked it securely into your bag and left the room.

The streets of Verona were stirring, a warm breeze carrying the mingled scents of bread and flowers, the clamor of carts and the ringing of distant bells. Stone-paved alleys twisted and opened into sunlit squares where market stalls unfurled like bright sails, their wares glinting in the morning light.

Your eyes wandered eagerly from sign to sign, searching for a jeweler’s mark. Shopfronts gleamed with polished brass and delicate engravings, glass cases catching the sun like fractured stars. At each window you slowed, pulse quickening as you imagined the shell nestled in a setting of silver, perhaps with a chain fine enough to rest against his throat. The thought alone made your breath hitch, a smile rising unbidden.

You moved from one cobbled lane to another, the city alive around you — the lilting call of a fruit seller, the distant strum of a guitar, the murmur of tourists passing with maps in hand. Yet for you, the world seemed sharper, more luminous. Every step carried the undercurrent of what awaited you tonight, the promise of seeing him again. And all the while, you held the little velvet pouch close, the weight of the shell grounding you in its quiet significance.

The bell over the door chimed softly as you stepped into the little jewelry shop, the air cool and fragrant with polished wood and faint metal tang. Sunlight streamed through the tall windowpanes, scattering across glass cases filled with chains and pendants that caught the light like drops of water. A kindly-looking man behind the counter looked up from polishing a silver ring, his eyes creasing warmly.

“Buongiorno, signorina,” he greeted, his accent lilted and pleasant. “What can I help you find today? A gift, perhaps?”

You hesitated for half a breath, the shell clutched delicately in your hand, and then smiled. “Yes, actually. I… I found this shell while walking by the sea. It feels special, and I thought it could be made into a necklace.” You held it out to him, the pearly sheen catching the shop’s light.

His expression softened as he turned it in his fingers, inspecting its natural ridges. “Ah, very lovely. The sea always gives gifts to those who know how to look. A necklace is no trouble. Do you have a design in mind?”

Your heart quickened, not because of the design but because of who it was for. “Something simple, but elegant. Just enough to show it off. Do you think it could be ready… tonight?” Your voice tilted upward hopefully.

The shopkeeper chuckled gently, nodding. “For something this size? Yes, I believe I can finish it within a few hours. You may return this evening to collect it.”

Relief and excitement fluttered through your chest, your smile breaking wide. “Really? That’s perfect, thank you.”

His gaze grew a touch curious, and with a twinkle in his eye, he asked, “A gift for a sweetheart, perhaps? Someone special?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you laughed softly, shaking your head. “No, no… not like that. Just… a new friend I made while traveling. Someone I’d like to thank.”

The man hummed knowingly, still smiling as if he didn’t quite believe you. “Ah, well—whether friend or something more, I think they will treasure it. Gifts born from the sea always carry a little magic.”

You felt giddy as you handed the shell over, as though the secret of who it was for might spill out of you if you weren’t careful. A friend. That’s what you’d said, and it was true. But still, you couldn’t shake the little rush of warmth that filled you when you pictured Rafayel’s face — his wry smile softening into something gentler when you placed the necklace in his hands. The idea made your steps lighter as you left the shop, Verona’s streets alive around you.

Never in your wildest imaginings did you think you’d meet someone like him, let alone find yourself planning gifts as though you were a girl with a crush. And yet, here you were, heart buoyant with the thought of seeing him again tonight.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The great throne room of Lemuria shimmered with its usual austere magnificence. Shafts of refracted light filtered down through the domed ceiling of glassy mosaics, painting the marble floor in ripples of gold and azure. The chamber was empty save for Rafayel, lounging near one of the carved pillars, absentmindedly running his thumb over a small paintbrush he had tucked behind his ear. A low hum slipped from him — tuneless, but softened by the warmth threading through his chest.

“Curious,” came a voice, calm but edged with amusement.

Rafayel’s humming cut short. He glanced up to find Elder Amund standing in the doorway, his long robes flowing like tidewater around him. The elder regarded him with the kind of knowing gaze Rafayel often found irritating, though today it only made him more aware of the smile tugging at his own lips.

“You’re in good spirits,” Amund noted, stepping closer. His tone was measured, though not unkind. “Unusual, for you.”

Rafayel turned his face away, as if studying the painted mosaics on the far wall. “Don’t sound so surprised. I’m not incapable of good moods.”

“Mm. Yet I cannot recall the last time I heard you hum.” The elder’s eyes narrowed faintly, the corners creasing in suspicion. “Yesterday you were gone for some hours, and you returned late. Later than you ought to, given your duties here. Tell me, what occupied your time so thoroughly?”

Rafayel exhaled through his nose, feigning indifference. “I was on the surface. Watching the shore. The humans. Time got away from me.”

“The humans,” Amund echoed, as though rolling the word over in his mouth. He came to stand a little closer, lowering his voice as though sharing a private joke. “Did you meet someone?”

Heat prickled across Rafayel’s cheekbones before he could stop it. His hand flexed against his tail, betraying him. “...Just some human,” he muttered, as though the words themselves were nothing. His eyes betrayed more — flickering with the image of flushed cheeks, a laugh he’d been replaying in his mind since.

Amund tilted his head, not missing a thing. “Just some human?” he repeated softly, as though savoring the lie.

Rafayel’s jaw clenched, a flicker of irritation flashing through him at being read so easily. He lifted his chin, blush-tinted eyes sharp even in their evasiveness. “You’re imagining things, old man. I was curious, that’s all. Don’t weave your tales from a few hours spent above the waves.”

But the elder only smiled faintly, eyes heavy with meaning. Rafayel turned his gaze elsewhere, yet the faint flush still lingered on his skin, giving him away in spite of his words.

Amund let the silence hang just long enough to make Rafayel shift. Then, with that maddening calm that had always gotten under his skin, he said, “It’s good, you know. That you’ve found someone. Only yesterday you were brooding so heavily the sea itself seemed darker for it. Now I see a spark in your eyes again. You may pretend, but you can’t hide it.”

Rafayel’s shoulders tightened. His jaw worked as though he had to grind the words into dust before letting them slip out. “Don’t make this about the ceremony,” His voice was sharper now, edges cutting where before they had only hinted at steel. “Don’t cheapen it by dragging those traditions into this. You don’t know anything.”

Amund studied him for a long, quiet beat, the corners of his eyes creased in something that felt too much like pity. “If you say so.” The elder’s voice was mild, but the weight beneath it pressed like silt on Rafayel’s chest.

He snapped his gaze away. “Enough. Leave me.”

The water seemed to stir faintly at the command, and at last, Amund inclined his head and drifted from the chamber. The hush he left behind rang loud in Rafayel’s ears.

For a long moment, Rafayel sat frozen, pulse thudding in his temples. He hated how easily the man could needle at truths he hadn’t dared name. And yet — when he reached behind his ear, pulling the slim paintbrush free, it wasn’t Amund’s words that lingered. It was yours.

The thought of you unfurled, inevitable. He set before him a smooth slab of pale stone, its surface washed clean of grit. It gleamed faintly like moonlight filtered through water. His pigments lay scattered — ground coral, powdered shell, pressed kelp ash — and he set to mixing them with deft, restless hands. The motions were habit, but his mind was elsewhere: replaying the tilt of your smile, the fall of your hair, the brightness of your dress against the dim hall.

White, yes. That was what stood out most — the white of your gown, unearthly under the glow of moonlight. It had struck him then, that color, like a beacon he couldn’t look away from. He crushed shell finer between stone and palm, mixing it with pearl dust until it shimmered pale and soft. His strokes followed instinct, tracing the curve of a figure — your figure — indistinct, yet instantly recognizable to him even in silhouette.

It wasn’t enough. His brow furrowed. The lines blurred too easily, the likeness slipped away. He tried again, sharper angles for your chin, the ghost of your hair in loose sweeps, but frustration gnawed at him. This wasn’t your face. This was only suggestion, shadow.

His breath came out slow, controlled, but the fire of it burned in his chest. He wanted more. He wanted you precisely — every exacting detail, the arch of your brows, the heat of your gaze. He wanted to pin you to this stone so perfectly that no one could ever mistake who you were. And yet…

He sat back, brush poised, and told himself he had time. All the time in the world. Time to watch, to memorize, to study until your image was branded so deep into him that he could paint you in utter darkness, eyes closed, and still get it right.

The thought stirred a warmth in him — dangerous, heady. He gathered up the painted stone, still damp with fresh pigment, and rose.

In his private chamber, the shadows cradled the small shrine he’d begun without meaning to. Your bracelet glinted faintly where he’d set it beside a half-burned candle, its metal warmed by his touch too many times to count in the short time he’s spent with it. He placed the painted stone carefully before it, letting the faint shimmer of white on stone act as centerpiece.

For a moment, he only stood there, fingers brushing over the bracelet, curling to fit it against his palm. He imagined it encircling your wrist again, with his hand wrapped over yours, holding you still. The thought drew another pulse of heat through him, more satisfying than guilt, more intoxicating than shame.

It belonged here. You belonged here, he decided. And he had no intention of letting go.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The necklace sat warm in your palms, the little shell catching the light each time it shifted through your fingers. It really was pretty — delicate in a way that felt far too sentimental, far too revealing for something you had commissioned so impulsively. And yet, you couldn’t let it go. The closer you held it, the more restless your nerves became, winding tight in your chest.

Would he laugh at it? Think it was childish? Too forward? The questions kept crowding your head with every step you took along the sand, the tide whispering against the shore as if mocking your nerves. You weren’t sure why you cared so much — after all, this was only the second time you’d see him. He was a stranger, barely more than a passing figure carved in sea spray and moonlight.

And yet… the thought of him forgetting you unsettled you in a way you couldn’t name. You wanted to matter to him, to linger, even if it was only in some small way. Something he could hold, something that would make him think of you when you were gone.

Your grip tightened on the necklace as excitement pushed against the nervous flutter in your stomach. You let the sea wind kiss your cheeks, tangling strands of hair against your lips, and forced yourself forward. Each step over the sand and shell-strewn ground drew you nearer to the familiar rise of rocks, the place where you had first found him waiting like some secret written into the waves.

The memory of last night stirred vividly — his voice, his smile, the way his presence had felt both sharp and soft, like fire curling beneath cool water. You could still see him leaning in, just enough to catch your breath, just enough to make the world feel narrowed down to nothing but him.

The moonlight was softer tonight, almost silvery against the water, the tide lapping gently as if it were in no rush to leave the shore. You slowed your steps as the rocks came into view, breath catching despite how familiar the place already felt. And then you saw him — Rafayel, stretched along the stone as though it had been carved for him alone. His dusky hair caught the glow, shoulders relaxed, his tail idly sweeping against the surface of the water with a flicking rhythm that drew your eyes without mercy.

“Hi, cutie,” he said before you could even gather yourself, voice low, smooth, threaded with something teasingly intimate.

The sound of it made your heart flutter. You managed a breathless, “Hi,” though your voice came out softer than you’d meant. You tried to look casual, but the truth was you couldn’t quite tear your gaze away from him. Seeing him again felt unreal, even though it was only the second time. Something about him unsettled you, pulled you closer.

You settled beside him on the rock, close enough that your dress brushed the edge of his tail as it flicked lazily. You watched the movement, a little spellbound, the moonlight glimmering against each scale like it had been polished for this very moment. He didn’t miss your stare — of course he didn’t. His lips curved knowingly, and then his gaze dropped to your clenched hand.

“What’s that?” he asked, tilting his head toward it, voice light but edged with curiosity.

Heat rose up your neck. “Nothing,” you said too quickly, squeezing your fingers tighter around it.

He raised a brow, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Nothing? You look like you’re guarding it with your life. Are you hiding treasure from me?”

You shook your head, heart thudding. The nerves buzzing through you only got sharper when you whispered, “Close your eyes. Hold out your hand.”

He blinked, clearly amused. “Close my eyes? Hmm. Should I be worried you’re about to slip something dangerous into my palm? Maybe a crab?”

You gave him a look that made him chuckle, but after a moment he obeyed, leaning back a little as he extended his hand toward you. His fingers spread, palm open, his lashes lowering against his cheek as his eyes shut. “All right. I’m trusting you, little land-dweller.”

Your chest tightened. Carefully, as though the weight of it suddenly mattered more than it should, you set the necklace into his hand. “Open your eyes,” you whispered.

He did, and for a moment — just a moment — he said nothing. He stared at the small loop of silver, the pale shell threaded through it, moonlight gleaming against the polished surface. The silence stretched, long enough that your stomach twisted with doubt.

“I—if you don’t like it, it’s fine,” you stammered, words tumbling out before you could stop them. “It’s silly, I know. I just thought—well, I found the shell yesterday, and I wanted—”

His voice broke in, quiet, almost uncertain. “This is… for me?”

Your lips parted, your pulse jumping in your throat. “It is. I just… I wanted to give you something. To commemorate the night we met.”

His eyes flicked up, bright with something you couldn’t place, and then the corner of his mouth tilted. “Was it that special?” he teased lightly.

You puffed out a breath, cheeks heating. “Of course it was. It’s not every day you meet a merman! And it was your first time on the shore. That’s important.”

He laughed, a soft, rich sound that curled through the night air, and you knew he was laughing at your expression, at the way you were pouting without even realizing it. Embarrassment prickled your skin, and on impulse you reached forward to snatch the necklace back. “Fine, I’ll just keep it if you don’t like it—”

But his hand shot out, quick as the tide, wrapping gently around your wrist. “Wait.” His tone softened, velvet smooth but firm enough that you froze. His grip wasn’t harsh, just steady, warm where his skin met yours. His eyes held yours, and for a moment, something unspoken passed between you. “I love it.”

Your breath stilled in your chest.

“Truly,” he said, thumb brushing lightly over your wrist as if to soothe your nerves. Then he lifted the necklace, holding it up so the shell caught the moonlight, letting it sway between you. His smile this time was gentler, without teasing edges, carrying something almost reverent. “It’s perfect.”

And before you could say anything, he looped it over his neck. The shell lay against his collarbone, contrasting beautifully against his skin, and he touched it once, almost absentmindedly, as though grounding himself in the gift. His gaze flicked back to you, the amusement returning — but softer now, warmer.

“See?” he murmured. “Fits me perfectly. And now I’ll keep our meeting close to my heart.”

You tried to steady the rapid beat of your heart, but it was impossible with him smiling at you like that. He had to know exactly what effect he had on you — he always seemed to know — but for now, you didn’t mind.

You could feel the heat in your cheeks, though you hoped the moonlight hid it. His laughter lingered in your ears from when you’d tried to snatch the necklace back, your wrist still tingling faintly where his fingers had caught you. 

The shell hung against his bare chest, pale and gleaming against skin that looked almost carved in the lunar glow. He toyed with it idly, as if testing its weight, his tail flicking lazily against the shallows beneath him. Every little movement of that shimmering fin drew your eye, the way the iridescent scales caught and scattered light as though he carried a piece of the ocean with him.

You leaned an elbow on your knees, trying to sound casual even as your chest felt tight with how aware you were of him. “So… I’ve been wondering something.”

He glanced at you, mouth curving in that way that always made your stomach flip. “Mm? Dangerous thing, you wondering, cutie.”

You rolled your eyes at the nickname, though you couldn’t keep from smiling. “Can you walk on land?”

The corner of his lip kicked higher, a flash of amusement sparking in his eyes. He tilted his head, feigning seriousness. “Are you asking me if I can sprout legs like some fairytale prince?”

Your laugh came quick and bright, chasing the sound of waves. “I don’t know anything about mermaids, okay! I’m going off of movies and old stories.”

“Oh, I see.” He shifted closer, resting an elbow where his knee should be in a pose far too human for someone shimmering with scales and seawater. “So you’re expecting me to sing songs that lure sailors to their doom? Or maybe comb my hair with a fork you stole from a dinner table?”

You covered your face with your hand, laughing so hard your shoulders shook. “Stop. I can’t believe you’re making fun of me when I’m being serious!”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, his tone dripping with false innocence. His tail gave another flick, splashing the hem of your dress lightly. His smirk widened when you gasped at the cold droplets.

You huffed, but you were grinning, leaning in a little closer. “So? Can you?”

For a beat, he let you stew, gaze glinting like he enjoyed your impatience. Then he tipped his head back toward the horizon. “Yes,” he admitted at last, his voice softer, like confessing a secret. “I have another form. One where I can walk.”

Your breath caught, excitement bubbling in your chest before you could stop it. “Really? Could you—” you leaned forward, eyes bright “—could you show me tonight? We could explore the city together.”

He barked out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Greedy,” he accused lightly, eyes flicking to yours. “You want to steal me away from the sea already?”

“Yes,” you said instantly, earning a surprised lift of his brow. You softened it with a grin. “It’ll be fun! Don’t you want to see what life is like on land?”

His gaze lingered on you, thoughtful, before sliding down toward the water as his tail flicked again. He exhaled, low and almost reluctant. “Using legs is… a strain on my body,” he said, quieter now, almost warning. “It’s not something I do lightly.”

You tipped your head, shoulders dipping a little, a flicker of disappointment crossing your face. “Oh… well, I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” you murmured, eyes falling away for a moment. Then, as if catching yourself, you looked back up at him through your lashes, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “But maybe… if you did, I could make it worth your while.” The look you gave him was half-pleading, half-playful, lashes fluttering in deliberate innocence as you leaned a touch closer, coaxing.

His smirk returned, slower this time, something unreadable simmering under it. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“Not when I want something,” you admitted, your heart thudding harder than it should.

He sighed, but there was a hint of amusement in it, his eyes cutting to you again. “Fine. But there’s one problem.”

Your brows knit. “What is it?”

His smirk turned downright wicked, and you regretted asking. “When I switch forms,” he drawled, leaning just close enough for your skin to prickle, “I’m naked.”

Heat flared in your face so fast you almost choked on air. “Wh—what?”

“Mm.” He dragged the sound out, clearly enjoying every second. “No clothes. Nothing at all, aside from the jewelry.” His smirk widened as his gaze dipped to your flustered expression. “Was that your plan all along, cutie? Getting me out of the water just so you could look?”

Your denial was instant and far too sharp. “No!”

The way his laughter rolled out of him didn’t help your case. You could feel yourself burning up, tugging at the hem of your sleeve like that would ground you. “I wasn’t—stop laughing!”

“Relax, cutie.” He waved a hand, grin softening, though the teasing glimmer stayed firmly in his eyes. “I don’t mind if you were. It’s hard to resist my charm after all.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet, here you are,” he countered smoothly.

You peeked through your fingers at him, still fighting a smile despite yourself. He looked entirely too pleased, leaning back with the moon glinting off the necklace you’d given him, off the line of his bare shoulders.

You exhaled, trying to steady your voice. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a moment.”

His brow arched, but this time it wasn’t the usual lazy, teasing lift — it flickered sharp, quick, like the words struck something in him. “Back?” he repeated, tone smooth but edged with something tighter beneath.

“Yes,” you said quickly, brushing at the sand as you rose. “Just—don’t move.”

He straightened a fraction, pink gaze tracking you, a smile tugging at his lips as though he could play it off. “Should I be worried?”

“No,” you laughed, heart racing faster with each step you took toward the city lights in the distance. “I’ll be quick, promise!”

His laugh followed you — warm, lilting — but there was an undertone this time, a hesitation that wasn’t there before, like a tether pulled taut between you. You could feel his eyes on your back even as you hurried away, every step toward the streets beyond the beach thrumming with a nervous, electric energy.

The moment your figure turned from him, Rafayel’s chest tightened, as though someone had reached inside and given his ribs a cruel twist. He leaned forward slightly, resisting the sudden, ridiculous urge to spring up and follow you. He could still hear your voice in the salt-laden air, teasing and warm, your footsteps leaving prints in the sand that the tide was already reaching for.

His hand rose, almost unconsciously, to clutch the necklace at his throat. The shell was smooth, still faintly warm from your fingers, and the sensation of it made his pulse thrum. An offering. That’s what it felt like, as though you had placed a piece of your heart into his palm, delicate yet irrefutable. The thought made his breath catch, his lips curving in a smile he couldn’t temper.

His eyes narrowed slightly, fixed on your retreating figure as you moved closer to the city’s edge, hair catching the glow of the lamps lining the streets. You looked back only once, a fleeting glance, and he swore his heart stuttered. The faint blush that had tinged your cheeks when you’d given him the gift returned vividly in his mind, as if it had been seared there. The shy way you’d pressed the necklace forward, the curve of your smile betraying both nerves and delight — it had undone him completely.

So you did feel it — what he felt. Why else would you have thought of him? Made something, something simple yet striking, to press into his hands like a vow? No, this wasn’t silly sentiment. This was destiny moving, unfolding just as it was always meant to. 

The ceremony that had weighed on him for so long, shadowing his every step with duty, no longer loomed like a threat. Instead, he could picture it clearly now: not a ritual binding him in chains, but a celebration. A union carved in light. You at his side, Lemuria blooming beneath the weight of your shared love.

You were warmth incarnate, and it left him greedy. That laugh, spilling so freely, should never be heard by anyone else. That smile, bright as the sun on the water, should be reserved for him alone. And those eyes — alive with sparks that made even the ocean pale in comparison — how long would he have to wait before you looked at him as though you belonged to him entirely?

His fingers tightened around the shell at his throat, a lover’s caress against its edge. It wasn’t just a token. It was a promise. You just hadn’t realized yet that you’d given it.

Would you come back quickly? Or would you make him wait, push his patience, tease him with absence? He tilted his head, eyes lingering on the path you’d taken. Either way, you would return. You had to. The tide had already pulled you into his current, and he wasn’t about to let you drift away.

Your face haunted him — how the moonlight caught the curve of your smile, how the corners of your eyes crinkled when you laughed, how the warmth of your hand lingered against his skin far longer than touch should. That warmth belonged to him. Your laugh, your shy blush, your every flicker of softness. All of it. His. The thought lodged in him like a star blazing underwater: he would never let it go.

Time blurred, and he didn’t realize how long he’d been lost in that tide of thought until your footsteps returned, quiet against the sand. He looked up — there you were, hair slightly mussed from the breeze, clutching a bundle of fabric. A shirt of white linen, simple trousers folded neatly over your arm. The sight of you offering them, the faint pink on your cheeks as you held them out, nearly unmoored him.

“For me?” he asked, though he already knew, his lips curving into something both tender and sly. He took them carefully from your hands, letting his fingers brush yours longer than necessary. You turned quickly, flustered, facing away to give him privacy. His grin widened.

“Are you sure you don’t want a peek?” His voice was velvet and teasing, meant to snare. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“Just—hurry up,” you shot back, refusing to turn around.

He chuckled, tugging the linen over his head, relishing the brush of soft fabric against his skin. God, you were adorable. So easily flustered, so quick to flee. Did you not realize how your shyness only drew him in further? Someday, he thought, he would coax every hidden desire from you. Have you pliant in his lap, whispering your wishes against his throat, every secret pulled free. But for now, he would let you believe you held the reins. He could play along with this slow descent. It was all the sweeter for it.

“Done,” he murmured at last, stepping up behind you. Before you could move, his hand slipped around your arm, spinning you lightly toward him. He stood tall now, shoulders squared in the crisp white shirt, trousers hugging his frame. The way your eyes flicked over him, then lingered, made heat rush to his cheeks despite himself.

“You look nice,” you said, soft, a small smile curving your lips. “You’ll fit right in.”

For once, words failed him. He felt the blush creep unbidden across his face, warming his skin even as he fought to hold your gaze steady. To think that one simple sentence from you could undo him so completely. He gave a crooked little smile, heart soaring, the shell at his throat pressing warm against his chest.

You didn’t even know — you couldn’t possibly know — just how completely he was already yours.

The linen was warm when he slid his arm through yours, urging you forward with a warm, “Come on, didn’t you want to show me this city of yours?” His tone carried both tease and command, but it was softened by the small curve of his lips, the one he wore only when looking at you.

You beamed at him, the shy gleam in your eyes matching the spring in your step as you led him off the sands and onto the bustling streets of Verona. The cobblestones radiated faint heat from the day’s sun, lanterns already glowing along the boardwalk. Music drifted between the chatter of vendors and laughter of children darting through the crowd. To Rafayel, it was overwhelming at first, but with your arm linked through his, it felt like nothing could touch him.

You pointed toward stalls one by one, offering explanations as though he were a curious child — yet he let you, indulging every word, every gesture. When you stopped before a vendor spinning tufts of sugar into pink clouds, you turned to him with bright eyes.

“Have you tried this before?” you asked, holding up a stick of cotton candy.

His brows lifted, faintly amused. “It looks like spun coral.”

You giggled, tearing off a piece and offering it to him. “Try it.”

He leaned down without hesitation, letting your fingers press the fluffy sweetness past his lips. His tongue brushed your fingertips — accidentally, deliberately, who could say — and he hummed softly at the taste, head tilted. “Hm. Too sweet.” Then, grinning slyly, he plucked another piece and held it to your lips. “But I think it suits you.”

You hesitated, cheeks warming, then opened your mouth to take it, only for him to laugh low in his chest, delighted by the way you flushed.

Next came a game — ring toss, simple enough. You leaned forward in determination, tossing each circle with a grace that had him shaking his head in disbelief. When you landed the winning throw, the vendor handed you a plush doll, soft and ridiculous, but when you hugged it to your chest, Rafayel thought it might be the most dangerous thing he’d ever seen: you, glowing with pride, looking at him for approval.

He wanted to cage the moment, hold it until it burned into eternity. Instead, he teased, “So this is what victory looks like for you? A stuffed creature?” Yet his lips softened at the sight of you hugging it tighter, his chest aching in ways he couldn’t explain.

Then you tugged at his hand, dragging him toward a small booth draped in velvet curtains. “Come on.”

He eyed it suspiciously. “What is this contraption?”

“A photobooth,” you explained, excitement bubbling in your voice. “It takes pictures, little portraits. Don’t you have that underwater?”

“No,” he admitted, curiosity piqued. “Our memories… we keep them differently.”

“Then let’s make one,” you urged, eyes shining. “You can keep it. Proof you were here. With me.”

The way you said with me nearly undid him. He followed you inside, lowering himself onto the cramped bench, trying not to notice how close your thigh brushed his. The curtain fell, cocooning you both in soft darkness broken only by the flash of the machine.

You leaned against him easily, instructing him on how to pose. The first shot — both of you smiling. The second — you flashing the plush victoriously while he rolled his eyes, though his grin betrayed him. The third — you holding up a silly peace sign, him caught mid-laugh.

And the last — without warning, you turned toward him, leaned in close, and pressed your lips to his cheek just as the shutter clicked.

He remained perfectly still, outwardly composed, but inside — inside it was devastation. The ghost of your lips burned hotter than any flame he’d conjured in battle. His pulse thundered in his ears. That brief, chaste kiss shattered something in him — because it wasn’t just affection, wasn’t just play. It was intimacy so casual you might not even realize what you’d given him.

But he knew.

He knew, and the knowledge made him dizzy.

When the strip of photos slid from the slot, you plucked it up, beaming as you handed him a copy. “Now you can keep it,” you said softly. “A memory.”

He swallowed, forcing a crooked smile as he took the strip with careful fingers, as though it were more fragile than glass. “A memory,” he echoed. But inside, he was already clutching it like treasure, a vow, a brand burned into his soul.

You slipped your own photo strip carefully into your purse, still smiling that soft, radiant way that never failed to hollow him out and fill him all at once. Rafayel was still reeling, still trying to steady the storm inside his chest, when it happened.

A stranger — careless, rushing — bumped into you as they passed. The jolt made you stumble, just a step, but to Rafayel it was enough. His blood went hot, his muscles tight, his fire begging to be loosed.

His hand shot out to steady you, curling protective around your arm as he turned a glare on the offender. His vision sharpened, narrowed, a dangerous instinct rising fast. The man barely glanced back, muttering an apology, but Rafayel’s temper flared all the same. How dare they touch you, even by accident? How dare they make you falter when you should be untouchable, sheltered, safe? His lips curled, words sharp and venomous at the edge of his tongue, ready to scorch—

But then you looked at him.

Your hand pressed lightly against his chest, your voice soft, calm, like water against fire. “It’s okay, Raf,” you murmured. “I’m fine. Really.”

The fury crackled under his skin, but your eyes — pleading, patient — pulled him back from the brink. He forced his hands to unclench, forced the molten edge of his expression to soften. Not here. Not now. If he lost control in this fragile place, if he let anyone see what he really was, he might never be allowed up here with you again. And that would be unbearable.

He drew in a breath, steadying, letting his thumb brush your arm once before he let go. “If you say so,” he murmured, though the weight in his voice betrayed how unwillingly he yielded. For you, only for you, he buried the urge to lash out.

You smiled, easing the tension with a tilt of your head. “Come on,” you said, reaching for his hand like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Let’s go explore more. We haven’t even seen half of this place yet.”

He let you pull him along, every nerve still tight, but soothed by the warmth of your fingers lacing through his. If you wanted to wander, he’d follow. If you wanted adventure, he’d make the world kneel to give it to you. Anything, as long as it kept you close.

The neon lights thinned the further you led him, replaced by a path lined with lanterns strung low in the trees. Their glow bathed your face in amber, soft and fleeting, shadows playing across your smile each time you turned back to tug him along by the hand. He let you drag him anywhere you pleased — he would follow you into storms, into fire, into the deepest abyss — but still, his grip never loosened, thumb pressed lightly against your pulse.

The world felt quieter here, the noise of the crowd muffled to a distant hum. He could breathe again, though the phantom echo of anger still hummed in his bones from the man who’d brushed too close to you minutes before. His blood still surged hot, a feral instinct to tear that stranger apart for daring to collide with you. Only your touch, your voice coaxing him back, had stilled him. He hadn’t cared about the gawking eyes or the risk of drawing attention — it was you who kept him tethered, your plea soft but firm: it’s fine, it’s nothing. For you, he’d swallowed the urge to bare his teeth.

“Better?” you asked, squeezing his hand.

He let out a slow breath through his nose. “For now,” he murmured, tone light enough to mask the truth. His gaze lingered on your profile, haloed in lanternlight, too lovely to lose.

You laughed softly, skipping a half step ahead. “You’re intense, you know that?”

He tilted his head, lips curving. “And you’re only just noticing?”

That earned him another laugh, sweet and easy, and he drank it in greedily. He could almost convince himself this was ordinary — that you were his, that this night was a beginning instead of a fragile illusion.

But then, your words shifted the ground beneath him.

“This street is gorgeous,” you said, eyes wide as you looked up at the strings of swaying lanterns. “I’ve never walked down here before.”

Something prickled at the base of his spine. “Never?” he echoed, casual on the surface, though his mind sharpened like a blade.

You glanced back at him, sheepish. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, voice lazy, amused. But inside, a knot began to coil tight. He tilted his head again, studying you as if he could peel back your secrets. “You don’t know this area well, do you? Isn’t this your city, cutie?”

The question hung in the air, deceptively mild.

You hesitated, then gave a tiny shrug, as though it were nothing. “Not exactly. I’m just… here on vacation.”

The word detonated inside him.

Vacation.

He repeated it aloud, too quickly, too softly. “Vacation?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Just a short trip. I don’t live here.” You smiled, like you’d offered him something simple, harmless. “I’ll be heading back once it’s over.”

The smile didn’t reach him. He felt it like a knife sliding neatly between his ribs, the ground tilting beneath his feet. Heading back. Away. Away from him.

His hand tightened around yours before he realized, the lanternlight suddenly too dim, the night too small to contain the rush of panic clawing at his chest. You weren’t permanent. You were fleeting, a tide that would retreat and leave him stranded.

He kept his expression smooth — barely. A sliver of his grin remained, though his jaw ached with the effort. “I see.”

Inside, the spiral tore through him. He wanted to demand when, where, why you hadn’t told him sooner. He wanted to drag you back beneath the waves where he could keep you, where no one could take you. Already, his mind ticked through possibilities: how to tether you, how to make you stay, how to make vacation turn into forever.

But your eyes were on him, trusting, unguarded, and he couldn’t risk frightening you. Not here. Not now.

So he smoothed his thumb against the back of your hand, forced his voice steady, teasing. “A short trip, hm? Then I suppose I’ll have to make sure you never forget it.”

You laughed again, unaware of the storm behind his eyes, tugging him forward into the soft glow. He followed obediently, outwardly calm, inwardly unraveling — already crafting silent vows that he would not let you slip away. Not now that he’d had a taste of you.

You smiled softly, fingers brushing against his as if to reassure him. “There’s no way I could forget it,” you said, voice hushed and earnest, before your eyes lifted to his with that devastating sincerity. “Forget you.”

For a moment, the sea itself seemed to pause. The light cast a gentle halo over your features, making you appear all the more unreachable, all the more dangerous to his heart. His chest tightened — not with relief, but with something darker, hungrier. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

His mouth tugged into a faint, lopsided pout as his fingers twitched, betraying the unrest curling inside him. He forced a smile, but there was an edge beneath it, a flicker of shadow that the night itself seemed to lean into. “Humans…” he murmured, half-bitter, half-playful. “Always leaving.”

You blinked at him, surprised, before a small laugh broke from your lips, warm and sweet against the salt-heavy breeze. “I don’t want to,” you countered, tilting your head toward him as if to banish his sulk. “In a perfect world, I’d live in a city as beautiful as this. I’d spend every day by the sea.”

His breath caught. The words struck him like fire through dry reeds, igniting something uncontrollable. He turned his head toward you sharply, the amber light catching in his ocean-colored eyes, turning them molten. “Then why can’t you?” His voice was low, velvet over steel.

You faltered, lashes lowering. “Because…” you began, but your answer trailed, thin and evasive, slipping like water through cupped hands. “There are a lot of reasons. Life isn’t so simple on land…”

He studied you, eyes narrowing, the faint crease between his brows deepening. You weren’t lying, not exactly — but you weren’t telling him everything either. The vagueness cut at him, sharper than honesty would have. He hated not knowing what held you back, what dared to chain you away from him.

Still, you smiled softly, and it killed him that even in your hesitation you glowed like this. “I’ll really miss you,” you whispered, as though confessing something precious.

The words pressed into his veins like fire, a bittersweet intoxication. Miss him? No. He couldn’t allow you to.

His throat tightened. His hand twitched at his side, aching to clutch you closer, to press you against his chest where no distance, no reason, could ever tear you away. He forced himself still, swallowing down the feral thrum rising in him. “…I’ll miss you too,” he said quietly, his tone smooth but heavy, lined with truth he could barely contain.

But inside, the sea in his chest roared. He could feel you slipping away. He could see you walking away, fading into a world beyond his reach, a world he could not dive into no matter how far he swam. His pulse raced, frantic, until his hands itched with the need to seize hold of you and never let go.

And yet he smoothed it down, smoothing his thumb again over your knuckles, as though the small gesture could anchor him, mask the truth of his thoughts. He smiled, appearing gentle, composed — while inside his mind reeled with calculation.

You had said it yourself. A perfect world. You wanted to stay, to belong here, to belong with him. But something stood in your way. Vague “reasons,” distant obligations, that invisible wall between your heart and his ocean. If you would truly miss him — if you longed for the sea, longed for him — then all he had to do was remove those obstacles. Create that perfect world you dreamed of. One where you never had to face the pain of leaving.

His eyes lingered on your profile, bathed in golden light, lips parted faintly as though you might say more. Every flicker of the flames above seemed to crown you in warmth, each step you took beside him pulling him further into the orbit he could never, would never, escape.

You won’t ever have to miss me, he vowed silently, the words echoing in the cavern of his ribs. I’ll make sure of it. I’ll keep you here. I’ll give you the sea, the city, the world — anything, everything. You’ll never walk away from me.

He smiled faintly, just enough to hide the tightening in his chest, and gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. Outwardly, a companion walking with you under the lanterns. Inwardly, a creature sinking his claws deeper into the inevitability of you.

The words slipped from his lips before he could stop them. 

“When do you leave?” His voice was low, careful, as if asking might shatter something fragile between you.

You exhaled softly, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand where your fingers laced together. “Tomorrow’s my last day. My flight leaves tomorrow night.”

The light trembled over your features, and he caught the flicker of sadness in your eyes. That small downturn of your mouth — barely there, but enough to twist something violent and possessive inside him. His chest ached at the thought of you vanishing from his city, from his reach, returning to some distant place that had nothing to do with him.

Internally, his thoughts tangled. Too soon. I don’t have enough time. I need to anchor you here, somehow — tie you to me, to the sea, to everything you said you wished for. You don’t want to leave, I know you don’t. So why should you? Why should I let you?

He felt you squeeze his hand gently, pulling him back into the moment. You tilted your head, curiosity softening your expression. “You look lost in thought. Are you… planning something special for my last day?”

The question was almost playful, but it struck him with the force of a promise. He turned his gaze toward you, allowing a slow smile to rise — measured, charming, the kind that made people underestimate him. “Something like that,” he murmured, watching how your eyes lit at the words.

You brightened, laughing softly, the sound like glass wind chimes stirred by an ocean breeze. “Oh, come on. You can’t just say that and not give me a hint! What is it?”

He leaned in slightly, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath even in the cool night air. “It’s a surprise, cutie.” His tone dipped on the endearment, rougher, weighted with a heat he didn’t bother to hide.

You pouted, bottom lip jutting in a way that made his chest constrict. “It better be good.”

Rafayel chuckled under his breath, though the laugh carried more possession than amusement. He lifted your joined hands, pressing the barest kiss against your knuckles. The lantern light turned his eyes to molten blue, shadows catching in their depths. “You’ll love it,” he promised, almost too softly. 

Inside, though, his mind was racing. This is it. Tomorrow, I’ll make sure you see that perfect world you want — by the sea, beautiful, unending. You won’t miss me because I won’t let you go. You don’t need to leave at all. You’ve already told me what you want; now all I have to do is give it to you.

He let the silence linger, heavy but not uncomfortable, the night wrapping around you both with the scent of saltwater and honeysuckle from a nearby garden. Somewhere, waves kissed the shore, steady and endless.

He thought of keeping you here forever — your hand always in his, your laughter carried with the tide — and for the first time in centuries, the idea of forever felt too small.

The garden was hushed, all soft earth and green shadows, the air heavy with the perfume of blossoms just beginning to open under the late light. Rafayel walks beside you, a step slower than usual, letting you drift toward the rows of flowering shrubs. You reach out, your fingertips grazing petals, and he watches you as if you are the one in bloom here, more radiant than anything rooted in Lemuria’s soil.

You bend to pluck a flower — delicate, pale with a blush at its edges — and turn to him with that smile that undoes him every time. “Here,” you murmur, rising on your toes just slightly. He freezes when you slip it into the pocket of his shirt, right over his chest. Right over where the bond mark would be if fate had been kinder to him.

His breath stutters, chest rising beneath your fingers. He doesn’t dare touch you, doesn’t dare reveal the trembling reverence running through his veins, but inside he is alight — your gift is a vow, a symbol, whether you know it or not. To him, it feels like a claim. His.

The scent of the flower mingles with the salt-soft air and something inside him aches. He imagines your hands not just placing a blossom, but pressing over his heart, sealing yourself there.

“You’ll keep it safe,” you tease lightly, unaware of the weight of what you’ve done.

He swallows. His voice comes out huskier than he intends. “Always.”

The word hangs between you, heavy, unshakable.

You glance up at him then, and it happens — the look. The one he has been waiting for, the one that tilts the whole world on its axis. Your eyes linger too long, soften too much, the faintest curve of your lips betraying something deeper than playfulness. And he knows, suddenly and utterly, that if he doesn’t close the space between you, he will regret it for eternity.

Rafayel leans in before doubt can form, before his mask of irony or detachment can shield him again. He can smell your perfume — faint, sweeter than the blossoms, like something made just for him.

His hand hovers at your waist but doesn’t touch, not yet, as his lips find yours. The kiss is tentative at first, reverent. His mouth brushes yours like a question, but the way you sigh softly against him — the way your fingers graze the fabric over his chest, just above the tucked flower — answers him more clearly than words ever could.

The world seems to hush. Leaves whisper. Somewhere water trickles over stone. But all he knows is the press of your lips, the heat sparking through him like a struck match. He deepens it, just a little, enough to taste the sweetness of your breath, and feels the ground slip beneath him.

When he draws back, it’s only because he has to see you, has to memorize the look in your eyes right now. Your lips are parted, cheeks faintly flushed, your hand still resting over the flower on his chest as if to anchor yourself.

“You…” his voice catches, a rough edge breaking his composure. He recovers with a softer smile, almost boyish, the kind he never shows anyone else. “…you’ll ruin me, cutie.”

But inside, he thinks: No, not ruin. Save. Complete. I was always waiting for this.

The flower presses lightly against his skin through the fabric, right over the place where the bond should be, and he silently vows that soon, it will be there.

The lantern path faded into a curve of garden shadows, your hand still in his, when you slowed and turned those worried eyes on him.

“Are you doing okay?” you asked softly, voice lilting with that kind of concern that made his chest tighten.

For a moment Rafayel was blank — why would you think otherwise? His body thrummed with energy, every nerve singing after that kiss. Then it struck him. Ah, the little white lie he’d spun earlier. He had told you that being on his legs for long stretches was a strain. A convenient excuse then, a way to coax you into slowing down with him. Now you were looking at him like that, as though your tender worry could undo him.

He seized the opportunity.

He tilted his head, let a faint crease of weariness touch his brow. “Mm… you’re right, I’m a little winded.” he murmured, voice roughened, carefully measured. He slowed his steps, just enough to make it believable. “It’s catching up to me, cutie.”

You stopped short, squeezing his hand. “Then we should head back. Come on, lean on me if you need to.”

The invitation set his heart racing. He should have reassured you, told you not to worry — but instead he allowed it, allowed himself to shift his weight just slightly toward you, let his shoulder brush yours more firmly. Your smaller frame bore it without hesitation, your arm steady at his side, guiding him back toward the distant hush of the sea.

The path narrowed, lamposts casting pale pools of gold on the ground. He glanced sidelong at you, the soft line of your profile lit against the dark. You didn’t complain, didn’t tease — just walked at his pace, hand firm, steps careful as though you were shielding him. The smallest things undid him: the way you slowed at uneven stones, the way you angled your body so he wouldn’t stumble. He could have walked on his own with ease, but the warmth of you pressed so close was intoxicating.

“You should have told me sooner,” you murmured. “I don’t want you to overdo it.”

Rafayel swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He wanted to say: I would walk through fire if it meant staying at your side. Instead he managed a strained chuckle. “I didn’t want to cut our time short. Being with you makes me forget.”

Your fingers flexed in his, squeezing gently, and he thought he might combust on the spot.

The path sloped gently toward the beach, a pale trail dusted in the glow of moonlight that lit the way. Every sound — the rustle of leaves, the quiet crunch of sand beneath your shoes — sank into his memory, already etched into the shrine of moments he was hoarding. 

He turned his head to watch you as you looked ahead, the salt-kissed breeze pulling at your hair. How easily you held him, how unhesitatingly you offered yourself as support. It would be so effortless to let the mask slip, to tell you that it wasn’t fatigue at all, but longing — this endless, relentless pull to remain at your side, to be the weight you chose to bear every single day.

It wasn’t just indulgence. It was a taste of the devotion he craved.

Would you notice if he never let you go?

Would you even realize how deeply you were feeding the hunger inside him?

But then your voice cut through his thoughts again, gentle as tide foam. “You should rest soon. And… I should too. Tomorrow’s important, isn’t it?”

He smiled at that, soft and unreadable in the shadows. “It is.” His voice dipped lower, playful but not enough to hide the heat beneath it.

Your lips curved, but he could see the gleam of anticipation in your gaze. “Are you going to give me a hint now?”

He let out a low hum, as though considering, then shook his head slowly. “Mm… Nope. You’ll ruin the fun if I tell you now.”

You pouted, a small sound of protest leaving you, and god, if it didn’t light something feral in him. He wanted to capture that pout with his mouth, to feel it soften beneath his own. Instead, he chuckled, quiet and warm, and tipped his head closer. “Don’t worry. Tomorrow will be perfect.”

Your excited laugh broke through the air, light and unguarded, and he memorized it like scripture. The stars painted you in silver as you stopped at the edge of the sand, the sea spread out before you in diamond ripples. For a moment neither of you spoke, the world pared down to the hush of water and the brush of your hand still steady at his arm.

And then you did something he didn’t expect. You leaned in, slow, unhurried, and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

Rafayel froze. The world stopped with him. Your lips were warm against his skin, impossibly tender, like the brush of a prayer. He felt it in his veins, in his bones, as though that single kiss was enough to mark him, to bind him, to carve his place at your side in something deeper than words.

Finally, you drew back, your eyes lingering on him longer than they should have. “Goodnight, Rafayel. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

When you pulled back, smiling, the imprint of you still burned there. He wanted to lift his hand, cover the spot, hold it like a relic. His pulse thundered, his composure balancing on a knife’s edge, but he forced his smirk to remain, though his voice was quieter than he intended. “Sleep well, cutie. Sweet dreams.”

And before he could stop himself, he let his fingers brush against yours — just a fleeting touch, an unspoken tether — before you slipped away toward the city’s glow. 

Rafayel stood where you left him, cheek still tingling, chest tight with something uncontainable. He touched the flower in his pocket — the one you had tucked over his heart — and whispered into the empty night, “Tomorrow. Our life starts tomorrow.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Back in your room, the door clicked softly shut behind you, leaving the world hushed in the dim lamplight. The stillness pressed in like the sea air outside, salted and sweet, and for the first time all night you were alone — alone with your thoughts, your heartbeat, and the warmth of him still tingling on your skin.

You sat on the edge of the bed, toes curling against the cool floor, and let out a breath that felt too shaky, too full. The night was alive inside you — every moment replaying like waves lapping the shore: the garden blooming under silver moonlight, the gentle brush of his hand as you guided him back to the beach, the rare openness in his eyes when he allowed himself to lean on you. And then that kiss — soft, fleeting, but enough to leave your heart clenching so hard you thought it might burst.

You pressed your fingertips to your lips, smiling helplessly. It had felt like something stolen from a dream. Maybe all of this was — this enchanted island, the way time seemed to fold into a space where it was only him and you, no obligations, no end. But tomorrow there would be an end. The thought cut sharp, leaving your chest tight. The idea of leaving him — of him becoming just a memory, another fleeting encounter washed away by distance and reality — was unbearable.

You swallowed down the ache, pushing the fear away. Tonight, you wanted to hold on to the sweetness, not let it sour. You lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling with a giddy little laugh slipping past your lips. Because how could you not laugh? Rafayel was… Rafayel. Magnetic and impossible and so full of hidden depths that you were desperate to learn. He made you feel alive in a way you hadn’t known you were missing — like the world had more colors, more air, more pulse.

Your mind kept circling back to the way he’d looked at you in the garden, as though every petal you touched, every breath you drew, was something sacred. It made your skin burn, made your stomach flutter with something you couldn’t name. He wasn’t temporary. You refused to let him be.

But for now, tonight — you let yourself bask in it. Hugging the pillow close, you whispered his name against the fabric, cheeks hot with the confession you couldn’t quite voice to him yet. You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, only that you were eager for it, eager for him.

Whatever surprise he had planned, you’d face it with your heart wide open. Because Rafayel wasn’t just a fleeting dream. He was the thing you wanted to wake up to.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Rafayel drifted down into the stillness of his quarters, the faint glow of Lemuria’s currents illuminating the carved walls and pale stone. Here, the water always seemed hushed, a cocoon of silence where even the eternal heartbeat of the sea softened into reverence. Only the shrine before him gleamed warmly, the single candle at its center holding steady, flame dancing as if it breathed with him.

He bent, careful, reverent, the flower still fresh in his hand. Its petals were tender, fragile — yet it had survived your night together, the laughter, the garden air, your kiss. He brought it close, almost brushing his lips against its edge, before pressing it to the shrine. Fingers splayed, flames seeped out, golden warmth weaving into the veins of each petal, into its heart. The bloom shivered once as though startled alive, then stilled, caught in the amber glow. Immortalized. No rot, no decay — forever as it had been when you held it.

He let his hand linger. The beginning of our covenant, he thought, the words resonating through him like a vow. You had given him your laughter, your touch, the tremor of your lips against his. This flower was not merely a token — it was proof of what had bloomed between you, of what he could not allow to be fleeting.

Next, carefully, he drew the small strip of photobooth prints from the pocket of the shirt you had given him. The corners were already softening from where he’d thumbed them again and again. He stared, unable not to. Each frame was its own world: you smiling, laughing, lips parted mid-tease, your face turned toward his. And the last — the one that clutched his heart mercilessly — the imprint of your kiss against his cheek. He could feel it still, phantom heat pressed to his skin, deeper than memory. He brought a hand to his cheek as though the warmth would remain.

With a murmur, he lifted them into a protective bubble, a shimmer of his fire surrounding them like glass. They drifted upward and settled near the flower, haloed by candlelight, untouchable. Treasures, every one of them.

But it was the ribbon — silken, crimson-black in the low glow — that made his lips curl faintly, made something sharper and darker stir in him. You had not noticed when it slipped from your hair during the kiss. He had plucked it while you were consumed by him, unable to resist the keepsake. Now, he laid it across the base of the shrine, twining it delicately around the candle as though binding flame and fabric together. You. Him. A tether.

Rafayel curled his tail underneath himself, gaze fixed on the shrine. The candle’s flame caught the edges of the flower, the ribbon, the photographs, everything — your essence, gathered, sanctified, his offering and his claim. His breath slowed, reverence heavy in his chest.

But his mind did not stay still. It drifted to you, as it always did — your words still echoing in the night air. You had spoken of flights, of leaving. He felt the faint ache pulse in his jaw as he clenched it. Leaving… No. You did not truly wish to go. He had heard it in your voice, seen it in the way your eyes lingered too long, touched him too softly, kissed him with something like desperation disguised as daring. You wanted to stay.

And so, he would make you stay. He had the means. A storm — yes. A sky so heavy with thunder and rain that no flight could ever take you from him. He would weave it carefully, not cruelly, only as fate’s intervention. A gift of time, of impossibility turned opportunity. The storm would keep you here. And he would lead you, finally, to the sea. To the place you belonged, where he had always waited for you.

But first — preparation. A new life must not begin with less than perfection. He would ready gifts, silks, the finest garments the surface could offer. Things worthy of your beauty, of the world he intended to give you. The room you would call yours had to be dressed in warmth and luxury. Everything had to be touched with the certainty of forever.

The candle flickered, throwing gold across his face as he stared into it. Tomorrow, he thought, heart beating like the steady tide. 

Tomorrow she will see. Tomorrow, she will know.

And as he rose from the shrine, leaving the flame to burn, he carried the phantom of your kiss with him — its warmth, its promise — the vow he would make unbreakable when he finally brought you to the sea.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The storm howled outside your window, a ceaseless roar of wind that rattled the glass and made the curtains tremble like frightened birds. You awoke slowly, disoriented by the booming thunder that seemed to rattle the bones of the earth itself. For a moment you just listened, heart thudding with unease as the flashes of lightning painted the room in stark, white-blue light. The storm was merciless, rain lashing against the panes, each strike of thunder carrying a weight that set your nerves on edge.

Your first thought was of Rafayel. Was he safe in this chaos? Had the storm scattered whatever he had planned for you today, forcing him back into the depths? A pang of disappointment tightened in your chest, quickly swallowed by worry. He was of the sea, yes — but storms like this, storms that tore the horizon apart, felt unnatural, as if conjured by something greater than weather itself.

Reaching for your phone with trembling fingers, you blinked against the glow of the screen. A notification lit up your lock screen:

Flight Canceled: Due to severe weather conditions, all departures postponed until further notice. 

You scrolled numbly, searching for clarity, until the pit in your stomach grew heavier.

The television flickered on, filling the silence with the urgent cadence of a newscaster’s voice. Grainy footage of the storm appeared on the screen, waves the size of buildings battering the coast, trees bending to breaking points. The words were a blur — unexpected formation… no signs of dispersing… citizens urged to stay indoors… remain cautious… But your attention slipped, lost to a faint sound threading its way through the static air.

A melody.

So soft you thought at first it was a trick of the storm, some errant whistle in the wind — but no, it wound around you, curling like smoke through your chest, through your very thoughts. You froze, blood running cold, as the notes slipped beneath your skin. It was achingly familiar, a haunting strain you recognized as his. 

The music tugged at you, an invisible tether pulling you from the safety of the room. Your bare feet touched the floor before you realized you’d moved, body responding not to reason but to command. The storm outside no longer sounded like chaos but like a drumbeat to march you forward. You didn’t question, didn’t resist — couldn’t resist.

Through the corridors, down the stairs, your steps were silent and sure, despite the tremors in the walls and the occasional flicker of the lights. Rain lashed against you the moment you stepped outside, soaking you instantly, chilling you to the bone. Still, the melody pressed on, louder, closer, compelling. You trudged through streets nearly deserted, the storm beating down so fiercely that most had shuttered themselves inside. Debris rolled across your path, palm fronds and trash cans toppled, but you barely noticed.

Your hair clung heavy to your face, your clothes plastered to your skin, but all you could hear was the song. It guided you down narrow paths, across the slick roads, until at last the land gave way beneath your steps and you found yourself on sand, waves thrashing against the shore.

Only then did you falter.

The trance cracked like glass under pressure, your awareness rushing back all at once as the icy water lapped at your ankles, pulling at you with greedy hands. The storm was a living thing around you, lightning clawing across the sky, the sea itself enraged. You shivered, finally seeing how dangerous it all was.

Amid the chaos, something moved.

The water churned, not with the wild randomness of waves, but with purpose, parting in slow arcs. Your eyes widened as you caught sight of him, floating just beyond the break. 

Rafayel. 

His form half-shadowed, half-illumined by the lightning above. No longer the man you’d walked with under lantern light, but something otherworldly. His long tail shimmered with every surge of water, scales refracting the storm’s light into shards of silver and deep cerulean. His hair fanned around him like a halo, wet strands gleaming as though kissed by fire beneath the ocean spray.

But it was his eyes that stilled you where you stood. They glowed faintly, not just with reflection but with their own surreal radiance, a blue that seared through the darkness like twin beacons. They found you even in the storm, unerring, and in that instant you felt stripped bare, seen in a way that made your heart hammer.

He looked like something pulled from myth, something beyond the reach of men — an ethereal figure risen from the storm itself, commanding it. Godlike, untouchable.

And he was looking only at you.

Your breath caught. Your lips shaped his name before you realized you’d spoken.

“Rafayel…”

His head tilted, that faint, mischievous smile you knew so well curving his mouth, but it carried something else now — an intensity, a hunger. Slowly, effortlessly, he cut through the waves toward you until he was close enough to reach for your hand. Cold water dripped from his fingers as they wrapped around yours, his grip unshakably firm despite the storm.

He raised your hand to his lips and pressed a cool kiss against your knuckles, the salt of the sea clinging to his mouth.

“Surprise, cutie.”

Confusion tangled inside your chest. You blinked at him, rainwater running into your lashes. “I don’t… I don’t even know how I got here.”

“I brought you,” he said simply, as though the answer required no further explanation. His voice was steady, almost soothing despite the chaos around you.

Your brows knit. The words should have unsettled you, and they did — but more than that, his nearness tugged at you, the familiar pull you couldn’t resist. Still, unease lingered sharp in your gut.

He drifted closer, drawing you forward until the surf soaked your skin to the waist. His tail swept behind him, stirring up glowing ripples where it cut through the water. “I want to show you the sea, cutie.” he murmured. “It’s dangerous on land right now.”

You froze at the edge of his invitation. Your gaze flicked out at the endless black horizon, then back to his glowing eyes. The ocean whispered of darkness and unknowable depths, an abyss waiting to swallow you whole. “But… I can’t breathe underwater.”

The softest laugh escaped him, low and resonant, as though the sea itself hummed in his chest. He leaned close enough that the tips of his wet hair brushed your cheek. “Do you trust me?”

Your heart pounded against your ribs, your head screaming caution, but your body betrayed you — you could only nod.

The smile that touched his lips wasn’t entirely the one you knew. Sharper, brighter, tinged with something ancient. His hand didn’t let go of yours as the waves pulled higher, tugging you into him, into the sea, into the shimmering glow of his otherworldly form.

The cold swallowed you instantly, rushing up your spine, your neck, then over your head. You panicked, lungs seizing, heart thrashing, your body instinctively clamping down to hold what breath you had left. Darkness pressed from all sides, the storm muffled into a hollow roar above.

Your wide eyes searched for him — only to find him right there, cradling your face in his hands as though you might break. The glowing blue of his gaze anchored you in the chaos, drawing your focus. His lips brushed yours in a soft, lingering kiss, stealing the panic for a heartbeat. Against your mouth, he murmured, low and commanding, “Breathe.”

Your body resisted, fear clawing at your throat. But when you did — when air rushed in — there was no water, no drowning. It was air, pure and effortless, as though the sea itself bent to his will for you.

You broke away, eyes wide in shock, chest heaving. He chuckled softly, brushing a thumb along your cheek, his voice dripping warmth. “See, cutie? You’re safe with me.”

You could only stare, lips parting soundlessly. Your thoughts scrambled, unable to piece together what had just happened, the impossible truth that you were breathing beneath the waves. The storm’s flashes caught in his eyes, in the sheen of his tail, in the curl of his hair floating like dark silk around his face. Ethereal. Yours.

You smiled weakly, still stunned.

Before you could think, his arms wrapped tighter around you, tugging you against his bare chest, your cheek pressing to the line of his throat. His skin was cool and slick, but his embrace was firm, steady, grounding. “Hold on to me,” he whispered, his breath stirring your hair even here beneath the surface.

Your fingers curled against him, clinging.

And then he moved — tail surging in great, powerful sweeps, carrying you both down, deeper, into the vast, endless dark. The sea closed around you like a cathedral, its silence heavy and sacred, your heartbeat echoing against the steady rhythm of his body guiding you through the abyss.

The water grew darker the deeper Rafayel carried you, shadows folding over shadows, but you clung to him as though his warmth was the only anchor left in this alien place. His arm locked firm around your waist, keeping you pressed to his chest, and though the sea was biting cold against your skin, the heat of his body seemed to radiate outward, enough to still your shivers. You could feel the steady strength in him as he propelled you downward, his movements cutting through the water with impossible ease, each powerful stroke sending you both gliding through the vast silence of the abyss.

The world below began to change. What first looked like nothing but endless blue and gloom slowly came alive with color — fronds of kelp swaying like banners, glowing plankton spiraling past in ephemeral bursts of light. You tightened your hold around him, your fingers curling around the nape of his neck, heart pounding not from fear now but from wonder. And then, as the sea floor came into view, you saw it.

Lemuria.

It was like stepping into a dream. Spires of coral rose high as towers, their surfaces inlaid with veins of pearl that shimmered when the light struck them. Vast arches carved from living stone framed wide avenues that wound between crystalline domes, each one glowing faintly from within as if lit by captured starlight. Schools of fish darted like ribbons of silver and gold through the streets, scattering when Rafayel’s presence brushed against them. The city pulsed with a rhythm all its own, a living, breathing sanctuary beneath the weight of the sea.

Your breath caught, and you turned your face up toward him. “Where…are we?” Your voice came out in a soft awe, even though part of you still couldn’t quite believe you were speaking at all beneath the water.

Rafayel’s eyes glimmered with a warmth that cut through the otherworldly strangeness. His lips curved as he answered, simply, “This is Lemuria. It’s…home.”

You stared, your chest swelling, and couldn’t stop the small, incredulous smile tugging at your lips. “So this was your surprise?”

He nodded, his hand slipping down to catch yours, lacing his fingers through yours even in the drifting current. “Do you like it?” His voice carried something almost boyish in its undercurrent — hopeful, as though your answer mattered more than anything.

You squeezed his hand, still unable to tear your gaze from the gleaming avenues, the ethereal beauty around you. “Yes,” you breathed, still dazed. “It’s… beautiful.”

That earned you one of his true smiles — the kind where his eyes softened at the edges, his teasing sharpness mellowed into something far gentler. He tugged you closer, brushing his thumb over your knuckles as though to anchor you against the impossible wonder of it all.

“Then come,” he said, pulling you with him through the water. “There’s more to show you.”

He guided you through the sweeping arches, weaving down a path that opened into a temple unlike anything you had ever seen. Its columns were carved from dark stone streaked with veins of pale opal, rising higher than you could fathom. Murals shimmered across its walls, painted in pigments that caught the bioluminescence, their figures moving subtly as if alive, telling stories of gods, kings, and storms long past.

Inside, the space unfolded into wide chambers, the light refracting through crystal inlays scattered throughout the floors and ceilings, painting the walls with shifting hues of blue and gold. Statues of Lemurian guardians lined the halls — fierce, beautiful, half-human, half-creature, their eyes set with gleaming gems.

“Do you live here?” you asked softly, your voice echoing in the vastness.

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “Mm. I spend most of my time here when I return. It keeps the sea from swallowing it whole.”

You traced your fingers across one of the carved reliefs, its surface cold beneath your touch yet thrumming faintly, almost alive. “It’s beautiful,” you murmured, glancing back at him. “Even more than the city.”

Rafayel chuckled under his breath, trailing after you, eyes following your every movement. “Careful, cutie. The elders would not like to hear that their jewel has been upstaged by a ruin.”

You shot him a small smile, unable to help the dry amusement in your tone. “I’m sure you’ve charmed worse crowds.”

“Maybe,” he conceded, grin sharpening, though his eyes softened as they lingered on you.

He led you deeper still, through narrow halls where the walls glittered with embedded shards of shell and gemstone, until you entered a chamber that opened into a wide atrium. The ceiling was cut glass, letting streams of pale light filter down from the surface far above, turning the whole place into a cathedral of rippling color.

Rafayel watched you turn slowly in place, taking it in. He didn’t speak at first — just let you look, let you marvel, his hand warm and steady in yours. And though the sea was vast, and the temple grand, there was a quiet hum beneath it all that made the air between you charged.

It wasn’t just a place he was showing you. It was a piece of himself.

The throne room opened before you in a breathtaking sweep of marble-white stone and pale opalescent light, the walls glittering as though embedded with shards of pearl. The water itself seemed to hum with reverence in this space, currents slowed to a languid drift, as though the sea itself bowed to its master. Your gaze drifted to the centerpiece of it all: a throne carved from coral and shell, shimmering with mother-of-pearl and streaks of silver that caught every mote of bioluminescence. It seemed impossibly regal, too grand, too holy — and for a moment, you wondered who could possibly be worthy of sitting there.

“Is… is this yours?” you asked softly, voice hushed with awe as you turned to Rafayel.

He followed your gaze, expression unreadable in the dappled light. Then, without the slightest hesitation, he said, “Yes.”

You blinked at him, your mind tripping over the simplicity of his answer. “Are you like…the king of Lemuria?” The words tumbled out before you could stop them, half incredulous, half reverent.

At that, Rafayel laughed. Not his sharp, mocking laugh you’d grown used to, but a low, velvety sound, rich with amusement. His hair rippled like ink in the current as he turned back to you, smile curling with mischief. “Not quite,” he said, voice dropping conspiratorially as though telling you a secret. “I’m not their king. I’m their god.”

Your jaw dropped. Heat rushed to your face even though the water was cool against your skin. “You’re joking,” you blurted, searching his expression for any hint of teasing. “You have to be joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking, cutie?” His eyes glowed faintly, a strange otherworldly shimmer that matched the quiet pulse of the sea itself.

You stared at him, speechless, before finally throwing up your hands. “And you never thought to mention this to me before?”

He tilted his head, pretending to study the mosaics on the ceiling instead of your wide-eyed face. “It didn’t feel important when I was with you.”

“Not important?!” Your voice echoed faintly in the vaulted chamber, incredulous.

His lips twitched, failing to hide a smile. “What did you want me to do? Should I have made you bow to me and offer to grant your wishes?”

Despite yourself, a laugh burst from your lips, bubbling into the water. You pressed your hand over your mouth, still staring at him like he’d just told you the sky was a dream. He grinned, satisfied at your reaction, before glancing back at the throne.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing lazily toward it.

“What? No.” Your refusal was immediate, a flush heating your cheeks. “That’s yours. I—I can’t sit there.”

“Can’t?” His brows arched, teasing. “Or won’t?”

“Both!”

He drifted closer, circling you like a predator amused with its prey, his tail flicking lazily through the water. “You’re already here. No one else is around. Humor me.”

“I’ll look ridiculous.”

“You’ll look perfect.” His tone left no room for doubt, and the way his gaze fixed on you — hungry, unyielding — made your chest tighten.

You shook your head, flustered, but the intensity of his stare wore you down. Slowly, hesitantly, you crossed the wide expanse toward the throne. Each step felt heavy, surreal, until you finally lowered yourself onto its cool surface.

The moment you sat, Rafayel froze. His smile faltered — not into disappointment, but into something softer, something reverent. His eyes widened slightly, drinking in the sight of you as though he’d conjured you from the sea itself.

“You…” His voice was low, almost reverent. “You look like you’ve always belonged there.”

Your breath hitched. The water hummed faintly in your ears, every sense heightened under the weight of his gaze. He drifted forward, slowly, his tail curling beneath him as he bowed low — not playfully, not mocking, but with the solemn grace of something ancient.

Then, gently, he reached for your hand. His fingers brushed yours, and he lifted it to his lips. The kiss was featherlight, yet it sent a shiver spiraling through you, heat blooming where his mouth touched.

Your cheeks burned. “Rafayel—”

“Shh,” he murmured, lips curving against your skin before he finally pulled back just enough to look up at you. “Do you know how beautiful you are right now?”

Your breath tangled in your chest, your protest catching on your tongue. He was close enough that you could see every glint of color in his irises, the quiet awe softening his features.

“You’re teasing me again,” you managed weakly, though your voice betrayed the flutter in your chest.

“No,” he said simply, with a conviction that made your heart stumble. “This time, I’m not.”

The air — or what passed for it down here — seemed charged, the weight of his words pressing around you. You could only stare at him, face warm, lips parted, unable to form a reply as his hand lingered against yours, anchoring you to the moment.

Rafayel’s lips trailed soft, deliberate kisses up your arm as he pulled you gently from the throne, his touch both reverent and claiming. “Come,” he murmured against your skin, his mouth brushing the tender inside of your wrist before he let it go. “Follow me. There’s one last surprise I have for you.”

Your mind reeled, flustered from the spectacle of moments ago, his words still echoing in your head. You could hardly imagine what else he could possibly have to show you. And yet, dazed and breathless, you let him lead you down the gleaming corridor, his hand warm around yours, the soft sweep of his tail gliding alongside him in the water.

When he pushed open the carved doors to his private quarters, your breath caught. The chamber was unlike anything you had seen before: every surface gleamed with treasures. Fine garments, silks so delicate they seemed to float in the currents, cascades of pearls, jewels that caught and refracted the candlelight like fragments of stars, rare shells polished smooth as glass. Light seemed to find its way in through clever lattices in the walls, dancing across the room in dappled waves, mingling with the glow of countless candles. It was beautiful — immaculate, radiant, overwhelming.

“These,” Rafayel said, his voice almost casual but his eyes trained on you, “are gifts for you.”

You stared at him, speechless. Your lips parted, but for a moment no words came, your chest tightening as you turned to take in the magnitude of what he’d done. “I… I don’t know what to say,” you finally whispered, shaking your head faintly. “How could I ever repay you? You didn’t have to—”

“Yes, I did,” he interrupted smoothly, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. His eyes softened, but there was a firm certainty in his tone. He stepped closer, the faintest smirk at his lips. “A beautiful woman deserves beautiful things. Though…” His gaze swept down your figure, then lingered on your face again, “they don’t come close to you.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, flustering you further. You looked back at the room, struggling for words, until his question cut through the silence: “Do you like it?”

“How could I not?” you breathed out, almost too quickly, nodding once. “I love it. Thank you.”

His smile curved slow, self-satisfied. “So you’ll stay.”

Your head snapped back toward him, caught off guard. “Stay? What do you mean?”

“With me,” he replied simply, as though it needed no further explanation. “In Lemuria, in this temple.”

Your heart lurched. “You… you want me to live here?”

Confusion flickered across his expression, though it was tempered by amusement, as though your doubt entertained him more than anything else. “Didn’t you ask for this, cutie?”

“I—” The stammer caught in your throat, helpless, and before you could gather yourself, he was already closing the distance.

His hand came up to cradle your face, fingers threading gently behind your ear. His touch tilted your chin, guiding your gaze to his, and then his lips brushed across your cheek, featherlight, coaxing, coaxing. “You said you’d miss me,” he whispered against your skin, each kiss punctuating his words as he trailed them down the curve of your jaw, the slope of your throat. “Now you’ll never have to.”

His breath was warm against your neck, his mouth a torment of soft heat as he continued, his voice low and persuasive, like velvet winding around your thoughts. “You can spend your time in the sea… in a city more beautiful than dreams. Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?”

Your lashes fluttered shut, your hands coming up instinctively to press against the hard plane of his chest. His heartbeat thrummed beneath your palms, steady and alive, as he kissed along your neck. A sound slipped from your lips — half whisper, half moan — his name barely formed, broken by the shiver coursing through you.

“Rafayel…”

You felt the heat of him press against you, his lips trailing along your jaw, brushing over the hollow of your throat, teasing, coaxing, leaving the faintest bite that sent a shiver down your spine. Every nerve in your body hummed, torn between the wild pull of desire and the stubborn whisper of hesitation. You wanted him, wanted him desperately, but part of you froze, aware of how far this was going, how much control you were giving up.

And then, out of the corner of your eye, something caught your attention. A flicker of movement, shapes, light… a shrine. Your breath hitched, your pulse stuttering. It was unmistakable.

Your bracelet — once lost, now resting there like it had never left. A ribbon from your hair, placed carefully as though he had plucked it from the very moment you had given it without realizing. The photos, the flower, a hoard of all your memories together. The candle flickered, warm and steady, anchoring the small, sacred collection.

You pushed him back, just enough to create space, eyes wide and heart racing. “What… what is that?” you whispered, voice trembling despite yourself.

Rafayel blinked, startled out of the haze of your nearness. “What…?” he echoed, then followed your gaze to the shrine. His expression softened, understanding dawning, but there was an unmistakable gleam in his eyes, something proud and possessive all at once. “Oh… those?” His voice was quiet at first, but firm, deliberate. “They’re tokens… of your devotion to me… and of mine to you. Our memories.”

Your gaze lingered on them, drawn magnetically. Your hand trembled slightly as you stepped closer, compelled to touch, to understand. The silhouette on the smooth stone caught your eye, instantly recognizable — the outline of yourself from that first night you met him. You picked it up carefully, almost reverently, fingers brushing the surface. “This… this is me, from the night we met,” you breathed, awe-struck.

“Yes,” he said simply, voice a little lower, a little huskier. His eyes never left you. You could barely form another word, overwhelmed.

Before you could react, he was there again, closing the space, warm hands sliding around yours, taking the stone carefully. He placed it back at the center of the shrine, with meticulous care, reverence in every movement. And then he was close to you again, too close, his chest against yours, eyes locked on yours, lips barely hovering, whispering, “We’ve formed a bond, cutie… a bond that can’t be broken. You’ll stay here… with me. You’ll rule Lemuria alongside me. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words tangled, trapped by the storm of feelings swirling in your chest. You wanted to answer, desperately, but hesitation held you, sharp and impossible to ignore.

Rafayel’s gaze sharpened, intensity deepening, voice dropping into a rich, commanding timbre that made your pulse thrum painfully in your ears. “Say it,” he murmured, a dangerous edge to the softness. “Say you’ll stay.”

Your throat tightened. “What about… my life?” you asked, the words barely audible, almost a plea.

His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your skin, grounding you, but his other hand pressed against your waist, holding you immovably. His eyes were locked onto yours, and when he spoke, it was both a promise and a declaration: “That… is keeping us apart. I’ll remove any obstacle. Any. One way or another, you’ll stay with me.”

You trembled, heart hammering, caught between disbelief, longing, and fear. His presence surrounded you completely, intoxicating, overwhelming. Every breath, every shiver, every heartbeat screamed his name, his claim, his desire, and yours intertwined in the echo of the shrine’s candlelight.

You could feel the pull of him, the unyielding weight of his intent, and against every instinct to resist, a different part of you — a reckless, thrilling, impossible part — wanted to fall entirely into it, to trust him, to belong.

He pressed his forehead to yours, warm, insistent, and whispered, softer now, velvet against your ear, “Say it… say you’ll stay with me, cutie.”

Your lips parted, breath catching as the world narrowed to him, the shrine, the glow of candlelight, and the pull of something you didn’t understand yet couldn’t resist.

The words spilled from you before your mind could argue, before hesitation could take hold. “I… I’ll stay,” you whispered, breathless, heart hammering in your chest. Your head screamed at you that this was insane, that you were plunging headfirst into something impossible, but the pull of him — the warmth, the intensity, the magnetic hold of his gaze — was too strong. Your body betrayed your caution, leaning toward him, melting against the pressure of his chest.

Rafayel’s eyes lit up, a dangerous, radiant glow that made your knees weak. “I knew you would,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction and something warmer, deeper. Without another word, he bent toward you, capturing your lips with his in a kiss that was equal parts claim and tenderness, fierce yet feather-light, leaving you dizzy, breathless, entirely undone.

Your arms instinctively wound around him, tangling around his strong shoulders, your body pressed to his as if it had always belonged there. Every inch of contact sent shivers up your spine, a storm of heat and anticipation coiling inside you, making your world shrink to the point where it was just him, just you, and the delicate weight of the shrine’s candlelight flickering beside you.

Then — a knock. Sharp, insistent, breaking the fragile bubble of intimacy.

Rafayel froze, lips still brushing yours, eyes narrowing, tension snapping through him like a live wire. “What?” His voice cut harsh, clipped, like steel on glass.

A guard’s voice called through the door, steady but urgent: “Elder Amund wishes to see you, Rafayel. It is… urgent.”

Rafayel’s jaw clenched, a storm brewing behind his eyes. His tail flicked, and you could see the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his entire body seemed to bristle at the interruption. “I’m… not available,” he said through gritted teeth, tone sharp enough to make you flinch.

The guard’s voice didn’t waver. “It is important, Sir. Elder Amund insists.”

Rafayel’s gaze flicked to you, and for the first time, there was a touch of reluctance in his eyes, a fleeting vulnerability. He exhaled, running a hand through his hair, and the sharp edge in his expression softened slightly, though the tension still hummed in his muscles. He lowered his forehead to yours, brushing against your temple for a moment, and whispered, voice rougher than before: “Stay here. I’ll be back soon.”

Your chest tightened at the thought of him leaving, even for a short while, and you nodded, barely able to form words.

Without another pause, he leaned down, pressing a searing kiss to your lips, lingering just long enough to imprint the memory of him before pulling back and glancing toward the door. His eyes were dark, stormy, full of promise and possessiveness. Then, in a blur of fluid motion, he swept out of the room, leaving you trembling in the afterglow of his touch, the shrine’s flickering candle casting long shadows across the floor.

You stayed rooted where you were, heart still hammering, hands brushing against the stone silhouette and the bracelet, the pull of him lingering like electricity in the air. The room felt impossibly quiet without him, and yet you could feel him everywhere — in the warmth that lingered on your skin, in the echo of his voice, in the scent of him that clung faintly in the air.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The corridors of Lemuria seemed to hum beneath his tail as he glided toward the throne room, the echo of the storm above still vibrating faintly through the water. Every flick of his tail mirrored the storm brewing in his chest — an unsettled mixture of irritation and cold calculation. He arrived at the threshold, tail coiling beneath him like a spring ready to strike, and his eyes fell on Amund, waiting as if he’d anticipated Rafayel’s impatience.

“What do you want, Amund?” Rafayel’s voice was clipped, sharp, carrying the edge of a predator who had already run out of patience.

Amund’s gaze, steady and unflinching, held him in place. “I see you’ve finally found a devoted follower,” the elder said, his tone almost ceremonial, almost approving. “It is time you completed the ceremony, Rafayel.”

Rafayel’s lips quirked in a scoff. “So that’s what this is about,” he said, letting the words drip with controlled disdain. The idea that this was a duty, a ritual, a game — an obligation — grated against the raw heat of his own will.

“The flame will not last much longer,” Amund continued, voice firm. “It must be completed, or Lemuria itself will suffer.”

Rafayel’s crimson eyes narrowed. “And what, exactly, must I do for this ceremony? You’ve kept me in the dark long enough.” His voice rose with the imperceptible weight of command, though externally he appeared composed, coiled tension restrained beneath polished poise.

Amund hesitated, then relented, his tone lowering with the weight of inevitability. “You must take your devotee’s heart and offer it to the flame. Only unwavering devotion can save Lemuria.”

Rafayel’s jaw tightened, the words slicing through him like a blade. Calm on the surface, he blinked once, twice, masking the storm inside. Disgust churned in his chest, mingling with disbelief and a fierce, protective heat. Her heart? My beloved, her life… The thought alone made his stomach twist. To hear Amund speak of you as a mere sacrificial tool, as though your devotion could be measured and burnt, repulsed him down to his core.

He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing, voice low and dangerous. “And you… you will be guiding this ceremony?”

Amund nodded. “Yes. I will oversee the ritual, ensure that it is done properly. It is for the good of Lemuria.”

Every muscle in Rafayel’s body coiled tighter, tail flicking impatiently, eyes darkening. The elder’s certainty, the cold expectation in his voice — it was an obstacle.

He dares stand between me and her. He dares treat her like this, as if she were a tool, a means to some flame. I won’t allow it. 

Internally, a plan began to take shape, intricate, precise, and absolute. 

I promised I would remove any obstacle that stood between me and her. This ends tonight.

Rafayel straightened, his voice dropping into a quiet, commanding growl that carried the weight of his resolve. “Very well. I will complete the ceremony.” He let a pause hang, letting it rattle the elder just slightly.

Amund’s brow furrowed, a flicker of surprise flashing across his face, though he masked it quickly. “Good. I’m glad to see you finally take your duty seriously. Lemuria will be better for it.”

Rafayel’s pulse was steady outwardly, but inside it was a hurricane. A mixture of disgust, wrath, and almost intoxicating exhilaration coursed through him.

I will show him what devotion really means. I will prove that no one, not even the tome of this kingdom, can stand in the way of us. 

He let his gaze sweep over Amund, unyielding, unflinching, radiating the authority he wielded naturally, one he knew would bend the elder to his will.

“Get everything ready,” Rafayel said, tail flicking with controlled menace. “Tonight, we complete it. Prepare the ceremony. I will see it done.”

As Amund nodded, subdued under the quiet storm of his god’s fury, Rafayel’s mind already raced ahead, mapping every detail, anticipating every possible complication. Your safety, your life, your very devotion — it was all his now, and no one would dare take it from him. The ceremony would be completed, but not as Amund envisioned. 

Tonight, I will bend fate itself to bring her fully into my world.

He lingered a moment longer, eyes glinting with a mixture of wrath and desire, before turning back toward the halls, already calculating the next moves. The storm above mirrored the one within him, and Lemuria would bear witness to his resolve.

The corridors of Lemuria stretched before him like a labyrinth of muted light and echoing footsteps, but Rafayel barely noticed. His mind was a storm, churning faster than the ocean above. Soon, everything would be claimed — every lingering obstacle erased. Lemuria would belong to him and to you, irrevocably, eternally. Every plan he had meticulously laid, the time he spent with you, all the gifts, all the care — it all pointed toward this night, toward the inevitability of your devotion entwined with his. You were more than a follower; you were not a mere devotee. You would be his bride, his beloved. The thought made his chest tighten with a heady mixture of possessiveness and triumph. Nothing — no one — could take you from him now.

He pushed open the door to his private quarters, expecting to see you there, waiting, smiling, flushed with anticipation. His pulse quickened, a delicious ache spreading through him at the thought of you, of finally claiming your place beside him. But the room was empty. His heart dropped, a cold claw tightening around it. The candlelight flickered against the walls, catching the shimmer of shells, pearls, and the myriad gifts he had prepared, but there was no warmth of your presence.

“Cutie?” His voice broke the stillness, carrying across the room. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

Silence answered him, thick and mocking.

His gaze snapped to the door, the windows, every shadow, every corner. Nothing. Every instinct in his body screamed that something was wrong. His tail coiled tighter beneath him, fingers clenching into fists that left faint impressions in his palms. He surged forward, voice rising slightly as he called again. “Where are you?”

A guard appeared, bowing hastily, sensing the sudden tension radiating from him. “Your Highness… I… I think she… she must have snuck out,” the guard stammered.

Rafayel’s eyes narrowed, the fire within him igniting into something darker, sharper. Fury and worry collided, a maelstrom of emotion. His chest heaved, lungs burning with a need to act. “Snuck out?” His voice was low now, dangerous, the calm veneer slipping. “Do you know where she went? Did anyone see her?”

The guard shook his head, hesitant. “No, Sir. She… she’s gone from the temple.”

Rafayel’s tail lashed against the floor, sending ripples of water and tension cascading through the room. His mind raced. 

What if something happened? What if she left me? What if all of it — her promises, her devotion — was a lie? 

The thought made his stomach twist with both dread and possessive fury. He could not allow it. 

She wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Not my beloved. Not my bride. But… if she had… it would be okay. I will find her. I would bring her back. I would make her understand. She belongs here, with me. There is no corner of this world where she could hide from me now. All of my senses are attuned to her. Every flicker of thought, every heartbeat, every breath — I would find her.

The fire of his obsession flared. His mind conjured a thousand possibilities, all leading to the same end: you would return to him. Whether by fear, by reason, by love, or by necessity, you would not escape. Lemuria itself would bend to ensure it.

“I will find you,” he whispered, voice taut with a dangerous mix of devotion and threat. “No storm, no path, no shadow… nothing can keep you from me.” His eyes glimmered, the eerie blue glow of his tail reflecting off the walls like liquid lightning. Every sense heightened, every instinct sharpened — he was no longer merely searching; he was hunting, a predator whose prey was the one he loved, whose desire for your safety and possession were indistinguishable.

Rafayel surged through the halls, tail propelling him with unnerving speed, moving with fluid grace, as though the very water of Lemuria carried him toward you. Every thought circled around you — the curve of your smile, the warmth of your lips, the softness of your voice, the gentle flush of your cheeks when you looked at him.

Everything she is is mine. Everything she does, every glance, every word, every heartbeat is mine. And I will not allow her to leave, not now, not ever.

The storm above mirrored the chaos within him, yet inside, he was crystal clear. You would be found. You would be safe in his grasp. You would stay. He had prepared a world for you, a life, a home. And now, the hunt was on — not for vengeance, not for conquest — but for what was always, inevitably, his. His heart. His bride.

Every shadow, every ripple of water, every sound in the halls became a guide. He could sense you, almost tangibly, as though your very presence emitted a beacon only he could detect.

She cannot escape me. She will never escape me. 

And with that certainty burning in his chest, Rafayel surged forward, every movement a promise, every thought a vow. Tonight, nothing — not even the wild sea, nor the storm above — would keep you from him.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The rain hit you like jagged shards of ice, soaking you to the bone, plastering your hair to your cheeks, masking the tears that ran freely down your face. The storm hadn’t relented, and the thunder rolled across the sky in deep, ominous rumbles, shaking the sand beneath you. You could barely see the water ahead, the violent waves churning under flashes of lightning. Your lungs burned from gasping for air after the frantic swimming, and every muscle ached, trembling from exhaustion.

You sank to the shore, letting the cold sand bite into your skin, trying to ground yourself even as the wind whipped around you. Rain stung your eyes, making it impossible to focus, and the memory of what you had heard — what you had overheard — looped through your mind, relentless. Rafayel… agreeing to take your heart. Amund’s words echoing in your ears, distorted by the storm: “You must take your devotee’s heart and offer it to the flame. Only unwavering devotion can save Lemuria.”

Your chest felt hollow, each breath a struggle against the storm and the horror inside you. You had trusted him, let yourself feel something you hadn’t in years, maybe ever, and now the weight of betrayal pressed down like the storm itself. How could someone you had begun to care for — someone who had been so gentle, so kind, so impossibly beautiful — agree to something like that?

You buried your face in your arms, sobs breaking through the storm, hot and helpless against the cold rain. Every fiber of you wanted to run, to hide, to disappear completely, but even thinking of leaving brought no comfort. You didn’t know where to go, who to trust, or what to do. The shore stretched endlessly around you, the waves thrashing and hissing like a warning.

Fear gripped your chest in icy fingers. The thought of dying here, alone and powerless, churned your stomach. But there was more than fear — it was the heartbreak, the sickening betrayal that twisted through every beat of your heart. You had believed in him, in what you felt when you were near him. And now it all seemed like a lie, or worse, a trap you had walked straight into.

You hugged your knees to your chest, shivering from exhaustion, rain, and terror. The storm around you blurred into a wall of gray, but inside, your world had narrowed to this one unbearable truth: you didn’t want to die, and you didn’t know how to get out of the mess you had fallen into. The sea before you, once so enticing, now seemed alien and threatening, and even the memory of Rafayel’s warmth made your chest tighten with betrayal.

You cried on, letting the water mix with your tears, letting the storm drown out your thoughts for a moment. You couldn’t see a way forward. You couldn’t even see the shore behind you. All you had was the cold rain, the biting wind, and the impossible weight of knowing that the person you had begun to trust — maybe even love — had agreed to something so horrifying. And that knowledge left you trembling, broken, and utterly alone.

The storm raged on around you, rain slashing at your skin, thunder rolling like the roar of some furious god, yet all of it seemed to shrink away as the sea in front of you moved differently. A swell rose from the waves, glinting with electric streaks of lightning, and suddenly, Rafayel emerged, water cascading down his bare, gleaming body. His tail shimmered beneath the surface before he brought himself fully upright, shoulders taut, eyes flashing with that surreal blue glow.

Your breath caught in your throat. Fear clawed at your chest. “R-Rafayel…” you whispered, voice trembling. The rain blurred your vision, but the sight of him — so impossibly real, so otherworldly — made your heart race in a way that wasn’t entirely fear.

“There you are, cutie,” he said softly, voice carrying over the storm, almost too calm, too certain. He moved toward you, and instinctively, you stumbled back, arms raised. “Stay away from me!” you shouted, panic rising in your chest.

Rafayel’s eyes narrowed, and with a flick of his hand the sea obeyed — a massive wave surged up behind him, impossibly tall, blotting out the horizon. The roar of it swallowed your breath, the sheer force vibrating through the sand beneath you. His gaze locked on yours, unblinking, merciless.

“If you try to leave me, if you run…” His voice was low, sharp as the edge of a blade. “…then I’ll make sure there’s nothing left for you to return to. Your life isn’t there anymore. It’s with me, in the sea.”

Terror iced your veins. You stared at the towering wall of water, heart hammering, throat dry. You could almost feel it ready to crash down and sweep everything you’d ever known away.

Another forward motion, and before you could react, he had caught your arm, pulling you up, his fingers curling around it with unyielding strength. “You can’t leave me,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “You’ve already promised yourself to me.”

Tears blurred your vision. “Let go! You can’t—” You tried to wrench your arm free, but he was stronger than you imagined.

He tilted your chin up gently, almost tenderly, and whispered against your temple, “Shh, it’s okay. I’ll hold you. I’ll lock you up if I have to… until you understand, cutie.” His eyes shone with a manic light, the storm reflecting in the depths of them, a fierce, desperate devotion that made your stomach twist.

“Our promise…” he murmured, and there was no hesitation, no doubt. “It’s okay if I’m the only one who keeps it. We’ll stay together until the end of time.”

You pushed against him finally, hands on his chest, trembling with a mix of fear and fury. “Stop lying!” you shouted, your voice cracking. “You’re going to take my heart! You brought me here to sacrifice me—you betrayed me! I trusted you, loved you, and you—” your breath hitched, breaking on the word, “—you used that against me!”

For a heartbeat, he was still. And then… a wicked, almost gleeful smile curved his lips. The way it made your skin crawl was undeniable, but it didn’t erase the pull, the impossibility of looking away.

“So…that’s why you ran,” he said softly, moving closer again. You tried to shove him back, but he was like water itself — fluid, inexorable, impossible to resist. His hands cradled your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with frightening intimacy. “Cutie…I love you. I told you…I will remove anything standing in our way. I will never let anything hurt you.”

“How… how could I believe you?” you whispered, fear lacing every word.

His answer wasn’t immediate. Instead, he lifted one of the iridescent scales from his tail, water dripping from it, sparkling even in the storm’s dim light. He held it delicately in his palm before taking your hand, pressing your ring finger to his lips. Heat flared, his touch both electrifying and possessive.

The scale shivered in his hand, glowing faintly as he infused it with his fire, reshaping it, transforming it until it fit perfectly on your finger. The ring was warm, pulsing slightly against your skin, as though alive. Your breath caught in your throat.

Rafayel’s voice was soft, intimate, yet edged with certainty that made your heart quake. “Tonight… during the ceremony, our covenant will be witnessed and blessed by the sea. We will form a bond everlasting. You are my bride.”

“Elder Amund…is a fool. If he believes I’d sacrifice you for some unworthy flame—” He scoffed. “—Then, he can show us his devotion tonight. His heart will feed the flame.”

His words, the fire, the intensity of his gaze — it all overwhelmed you. You could feel the storm’s energy, the pull of the ocean, the heat of his devotion pressing against every nerve. Your hands rested against his chest, feeling the steady pulse of him beneath the water. You were terrified. You were exhilarated. And somehow, impossibly, you felt pulled into him, into the certainty of his possession, into the promise of what he called your future together.

Your mind screamed with reason, yet every fiber of you, your heartbeat, your very breath, was tethered to him. He held you in the rain and surf, the storm bending around him, and in that moment, it felt like there was nothing in the world outside of him, you, and the fierce, unrelenting claim he had on you.

The sea roared. Lightning split the sky. And Rafayel’s eyes bore into yours with a devotion so complete, so terrifying, that all hesitation, all resistance, all fear seemed to fold into an intoxicating, dizzying surrender.

Your words came out, just above a whisper. “We…We’re going to kill him?”

Rafayel’s grin deepened, wicked and fond, his eyes glinting like lightning on the water. “I was planning to do it myself… but if you wish, I’ll place the blade in your hand, cutie.” He leaned closer, brushing his lips against your temple, his laugh low and soft, curling into your skin. “I didn’t realize my bride had such a fierce streak.”

But the weight of it all pressed heavy on you, and you shoved gently at his chest, forcing him to look at you. “This is serious, Rafayel.” Your voice trembled, caught between fear and the pull of his nearness. “How do I know this isn’t just another trap? How do you even know sacrificing him will work?”

His chest rumbled beneath your palms with a soft chuckle. He caught your wrists, guiding your hands to rest over his heart, the steady, powerful beat thrumming against your skin. His eyes softened, though a dangerous glimmer still danced in their depths. “The only trap you’ve fallen into,” he murmured, brushing his lips along the curve of your jaw, “is a life spent by my side. Does that honestly sound so terrible?”

His fingers curled lightly at your waist, grounding you in the storm, and the world seemed to shrink to the warmth of his touch and the certainty in his voice. “If Amund’s heart cannot save Lemuria…” He drew back just enough to meet your gaze, his voice carrying a quiet, unshakable conviction. “Then I’ll raise a new city from the ruins. Just for us. A kingdom where I will worship you for eternity.”

The words sank into you like heat spreading through chilled skin, dizzying, dangerous, but irresistibly sweet. His thumb traced a slow circle against the inside of your wrist, his breath warm at your cheek. “Trust me,” he whispered, pressing your hand more firmly to his chest so you could feel the steady, unwavering beat of him. “Let me show you. You’ll always be safe with me. Always cherished. Always mine.”

The rain battered down, the sea raged behind him, but in his arms there was warmth, promise, and a terrifying, magnetic devotion that pulled at the very core of you.

Your throat tightened. You wanted to argue, to tell him that none of this made sense, that every word should frighten you — but the warmth of his heartbeat beneath your palms, the steadiness of his grip, the quiet reverence in his tone…it all unraveled you.

You shook your head weakly, but it wasn’t no. It wasn’t anything at all. You could feel the last of your resistance thinning, slipping away like a fragile thread in a storm. “Rafayel…” Your voice cracked on his name, softer this time, weighted with a plea you didn’t fully understand yourself.

His lips curved, tender where a moment ago they’d been sharp, and he drew you closer until the world beyond his arms felt impossibly far. “That’s it,” he whispered, brushing a kiss across your damp cheek. “Stop fighting what you already feel. Stop doubting what you already know.”

The fight inside you twisted painfully — fear clawing against something deeper, something warmer, something that had already entwined itself into the hollow of your chest. And then, with a shuddering exhale, you let it go. Your forehead dropped against his shoulder, your fingers curling in helpless surrender against his chest.

He exhaled too, a sound of satisfaction that rumbled through him as his arms closed around you, holding you as though you were both fragile and irreplaceable. “There you are, cutie,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. “My beloved bride.”

Before you could think to speak, he shifted, gathering you effortlessly against him. His body coiled, tail cutting through the surf with an elegance that made the storm itself seem clumsy. The sea accepted him, parting around his movements as he carried you back into its depths.

You clung to him as the water swallowed you both, salt stinging your lips, hair tangling in the currents. Fear still flickered in you, but it was dulled beneath the steady heat of him, the way he held you like you were treasure, like you were home.

And despite everything — despite the storm above, despite the terror still whispering in your chest — you let yourself rest in the cradle of his arms. Because even as fear gnawed at you, safety pulsed just as strong. Because surrender, for better or worse, felt inevitable.

Rafayel pressed a kiss to your hair, his voice vibrating through you like a vow. “We’re going home.”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

The city had never looked so alive.

Silks wound your figure like liquid light, pearls strung through your hair until each step seemed to catch the glimmer of the tide. Beside you, Rafayel was resplendent in sea-blue robes threaded with gold, his dusky hair pulled back to reveal the impossible artistry of his face. The two of you walked hand in hand through the streets of Lemuria, and the world pressed in around you like a living tide.

The people sang. Their voices rose in haunting chords, praise upon praise for the god who had saved them, prayers spilling like foam for the flame that kept their city alive. You felt the sound in your bones — it vibrated through the jeweled stones underfoot, it swelled in the salt-wet air, it pressed against your ribs until your heart couldn’t keep its rhythm. Their devotion should have been comforting, but instead it only deepened the tight coil of dread at the pit of your stomach.

You caught glimpses of faces — children throwing flower garlands, elders bowing low, eyes shining with tears of gratitude. You wanted to feel that warmth. Instead, you felt as though each reverent gaze passed through you, a reminder that you were here for a purpose greater than yourself, a purpose you still did not fully understand.

When you stole a glance at Rafayel, you nearly stumbled. He was smiling faintly, not at the crowd but at you, as though you were the only thing in this city worth looking at. His grip around your fingers tightened, firm, grounding. Your chest ached at the tenderness there, even as doubt screamed in the back of your mind.

A temple loomed ahead, carved from coral and obsidian, its gates wide open to swallow you whole.

And then you were inside.

The noise of the people died instantly, leaving the hush of waves against the stone, the faint crackle of the flame at the temple’s heart. The chamber was vast, but it felt suffocating in its emptiness: only three figures within it — you, Rafayel, and Elder Amund.

The elder stood before the great brazier, the flame of Lemuria burning dull within it. His robes brushed the ground as he opened the tome, the thick vellum pages glinting with seawater ink. His voice was low and steady as he began to recite the words of sea god’s past, each syllable rolling like a tide, heavy with weight you could feel but not name.

You shivered.

The air was charged, prickling across your skin. Every breath tasted of salt and smoke. You folded your hands against the silks at your waist to stop them trembling, to anchor yourself to something tangible.

This was it. This was the moment that would decide everything. Whether you had been led to love or led to ruin. Whether Rafayel’s devotion had been true or only the mask of a predator.

When you dared to meet his eyes, your fear both sharpened and softened. There was something there that should not have been possible under this roof, in this moment — adoration, aching and raw, as though every song of praise sung outside meant nothing compared to you.

And yet, still, the words you had overheard echoed in your mind. The reveal that he needed your heart. The smile when you had accused him.

You swallowed hard, pulse hammering in your throat. You wanted so desperately to believe him, and for a moment — when you saw the devotion burning in his gaze — you almost did.

Amund’s voice rose again, low and sonorous, each word resonant, strange, utterly unfamiliar. The cadence of it was ancient, a tide rolling in a tongue not meant for you, and it made your nerves coil tighter. You couldn’t parse his meaning, but you knew it was meant for the gods, for the sea itself.

Beside you, Rafayel shifted, and your breath caught when his hands found yours, enveloping them in warmth. He leaned closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice pitched low enough for only you. “You look beautiful right now,” he murmured, and though it was soft, there was conviction thrumming beneath it, steadying. His thumbs stroked the tremor in your knuckles. “Don’t be scared.”

Your gaze flicked up to his, and for a moment the sacred chamber dissolved into the molten tenderness in his eyes — blue lit faintly by flame, heavy with devotion. The nerves tangled tighter inside you, not from fear of him but from the weight of what you were about to step into.

He reached into the pocket of his silk robes, and when he drew his hand out, your breath stilled. Resting against his palm was the flower you had given him in the garden, its petals now alive with light, glowing softly with his fire. He lifted it reverently, pressing his lips to its bloom, and then held it to you.

With trembling breath, you leaned forward and brushed a kiss against the petals, your lips grazing warmth and energy. He smiled faintly — an expression that felt like the sea itself had curved toward you — and pressed the flower to his chest.

The bloom vanished in a shimmer beneath his palm, and where it had touched, a sigil of fiery orange bloomed through his skin, pulsing faintly with power. The mark glowed like living flame, and when he drew your hand over it, the heat radiated up your arm, searing and intimate.

“This bond,” he said, voice hushed yet certain, “gives you the power to command me. I will obey. Always. Through it, I can sense you—your breath, your heart. By the heart of Lemuria, our covenant is formed. The sea has given its blessing.”

Your chest tightened, but not from dread. Instead it was the staggering rush of love, of devotion mirrored back at you with such raw honesty it nearly undid you. The nerves were still there, curling like a storm below the surface, but they were tempered by the warmth of his hand, the heat of that mark, and the certainty of his vow.

When he bent to kiss you, it was slow, tender, carrying the weight of everything spoken and unspoken. The taste of him was salt and fire, soft lips and steady breath, the promise of eternity bound between you. And as you kissed him back, the unease fell away, replaced by the heady truth — you loved him. Fiercely, impossibly, against all sense.

Even in the shadow of fate, that love blazed brighter than fear.

Rafayel lingered close, his forehead resting briefly against yours, his hands still wrapped around yours as if he could anchor you through the storm. Then, at last, he drew back — reluctantly, gently — as the sound of movement stirred the water around you. Amund was stepping forward, robes shifting like waves, his gaze solemn and intent. He came to stand before Rafayel, and with both hands raised something shining between his palms.

The dagger gleamed as Amund pressed it into Rafayel’s palm, the weight of it sending a shiver through you. Your throat went dry, and you felt your breath catch in your chest. A single thought hammered through your mind: this is it. The jagged edge of fear settled in your stomach, cold and suffocating. For a terrible moment you could already feel the point of that blade sinking into your chest, splitting you open, tearing your heart free.

Amund’s voice was low, solemn. “Are you ready?”

Rafayel’s fingers curled tightly around the hilt. He didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he said, his tone steady, certain.

You held your breath, trembling, braced for betrayal. Every muscle in your body screamed at you to run, but you couldn’t move, couldn’t blink. The world narrowed to that knife, to the man you loved holding it, to the certainty that your fate hung in his next motion.

But instead of turning on you, Rafayel shifted — slowly, deliberately — toward Amund. His crimson smile slashed across his face, sharp and humorless. “You have followed me for years,” he said, voice smooth as black water. “You guided me since I was young, formed me into the god I stand as now. Does that not make you my most devoted follower?”

Amund stiffened. His hand twitched against his side. Confusion lined his features. “Rafayel… what are you saying?”

Rafayel laughed, low and cutting, void of all warmth. The sound made the hairs on your neck rise. “I am giving Lemuria what it needs. The flame asked for the heart of a devotee. You told me to sacrifice my beloved’s heart.” He glanced toward you, and for a moment, the sheer intensity of his gaze made you falter. “But I am unwilling. Surely, you, Amund, who has devoted everything to me… surely you are willing to give your heart in her place.”

Amund stumbled back a half-step, his composure cracking. “No—you’re mistaken. Rafayel, listen to me. You don’t understand what you’re doing—”

“You’re wrong,” Rafayel cut in, and his voice dropped to a chill whisper. “I understand perfectly.”

Before you could exhale, before Amund could speak again, Rafayel’s arm moved in one swift, merciless arc. The dagger plunged into Amund’s chest. The sound — the wet, final thud of steel tearing through flesh — struck you like a physical blow. Amund’s strangled cry echoed through the chamber before it dissolved into silence.

Your lungs burned as you released the breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, trembling so violently your knees nearly buckled. Your vision blurred. Still, you couldn’t look away. Rafayel’s hand was steady as he withdrew the dagger, slick and red, and in the same motion drew forth the gleaming essence of Amund’s heart.

He glanced over at you, expression softened just slightly, though his words held no less weight. “Don’t look if you’re scared.”

But you couldn’t peel your eyes away. You were transfixed — horrified, trembling, but unable to tear yourself free from the gravity of him, of this moment.

Rafayel turned to the waiting flame. In his hands, the heart seemed to pulse faintly, as if clinging to life. He lifted it, offering it upward. At first, nothing happened. The silence was suffocating. Doubt clawed at you — had he been wrong? Had this sacrifice been for nothing?

Then the fire stirred. A flicker, small, uncertain — before it swelled, brighter and brighter, until the chamber blazed with radiant light. The flame roared alive, crackling and burning with a power that felt eternal.

Rafayel smiled. A slow, triumphant curve of his lips as he turned back to you, his eyes glowing like the fire itself. “The sea has accepted my offering. Lemuria is ours now.”

Something broke in you then — your fear, your hesitation, your doubt. Your nerves dissolved into a rush of heat that sent you stumbling forward. You didn’t think, didn’t question. You simply threw yourself into his arms, clutching at him with everything inside you. The dagger clattered forgotten to the floor as he wrapped you against him, holding you close, anchoring you in the storm he had created.

“Do you trust me now?” he murmured against your temple, his voice low, coaxing, and impossibly tender after the violence you’d just witnessed.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice breaking. A tear slipped down your cheek as you pressed your face to his chest. “I’m sorry for doubting you. I should have known.”

His hand came up, gentle where it cupped your jaw, his thumb brushing away your tears. “It’s okay,” he soothed, eyes softer now, molten with something deeper. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing stands in our way now.”

Your gaze drifted despite yourself, catching on the crumpled, lifeless form of Amund sprawled across the stone floor. Your stomach churned, the image searing itself into your mind.

Rafayel saw. He was quicker than your doubt, quicker than your grief. His hand tightened against your cheek, tilting your face back to him, forcing your eyes to his. “Don’t look,” he commanded, voice low, magnetic. His twilight gaze consumed you, pulling you back into his orbit. “Just look at me.”

And you did. You drowned in him.

When he kissed you, the world seemed to collapse and expand all at once. His mouth was fierce and unrelenting against yours, as if sealing a pact, as if binding you to him with every press of his lips. The sea outside surged in answer, the flame roaring higher, wrapping around you both like a witness to your union.

You clung to him, trembling, tasting salt and fire and something irrevocable. The world was ash and water and Rafayel, and nothing else mattered.

The temple doors opened with a groan, heavy stone swinging wide as you stepped into the open air. The sudden brightness of Lemuria’s streets made you blink, the flickering light of the sacred flame behind you replaced by the shimmer of the undersea city. The crowd had gathered in droves, the sound of their anticipation a restless hum that instantly erupted into cheers the moment Rafayel appeared, your hand still tangled in his.

“Behold!” His voice carried easily, smooth and commanding, echoing off the marble facades and coral-draped arches. He raised the dagger, now sheathed, for all to see. “The flame has accepted my offering. Lemuria is safe. She will prosper.”

The people roared, voices mingling with the distant song of the ocean current that drifted through the city. Hands reached out, flowers were tossed into the street, petals catching in the water like confetti. For a moment you were swept into their joy, watching faces alight with reverence and hope, their god and his chosen bride at the heart of it.

But Rafayel didn’t linger. The moment the announcement was spoken, he clasped your hand tighter, tugging you from the swell of voices. His tail flicked swift and powerful, weaving through side passages and narrower streets, past guards who bowed their heads as he passed.

You stumbled a little to keep up, still glancing back toward the crowd. “Shouldn’t we stay? Celebrate with them?” you asked, the sound of laughter and music already swelling behind you.

He looked back at you over his shoulder, a hint of mischief softening the gravity of his expression. “Celebrate?” His thumb brushed over the back of your hand, slow, deliberate. “My love, we just forged our covenant in flame and blood. I’d rather celebrate with my bride than share her with the city tonight.”

The word bride hung between you, sharp and intimate, leaving your chest tight and your cheeks warm. You swallowed hard, the heat rising in you more startling than the roar of the people outside. Still, you let him lead you, feet moving without protest, the press of his fingers at your wrist a tether you didn’t want to slip free of.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Rafayel’s grip on your hand was firm, magnetic, pulling you through the glittering halls toward his private chamber. The light of the bioluminescence flickered along the walls, catching on the golden threads of your silks, the jewels adorning both of you shimmering with every step. Your pulse raced with each step, excitement and anticipation coiling in your belly as you followed him without hesitation.

Then he stopped abruptly in the throne room, tail flicking behind him with a lazy, deliberate sweep. His eyes met yours, a slow, wicked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Sit,” he commanded softly, but there was an edge to his voice, a spark of mischief and possession.

You flushed, biting your lip. “Rafayel… knock it off,” you murmured, though your knees betrayed you, weakening slightly at the sound of his voice.

“I’m serious, cutie,” he said, tail curling and flicking as he moved closer, letting the weight of his presence press around you. “It’s as much yours now as it is mine.”

Reluctantly, heart hammering, you obeyed, settling onto the throne once more. His hands didn’t linger long on your waist before sliding down your thighs, the silk warm and soft under his touch. Each brush of his fingers sent shivers crawling up your spine. You gasped softly, pressing your thighs together instinctively.

“What are you—?” Your question caught in your throat.

“Worshipping you,” he murmured, voice low, husky, brushing against your ear. “Every inch of you deserves attention, cutie.”

His lips followed the path of his hands, kissing your thighs, trailing the silk higher and higher. Your body arched toward him without thought, breath catching with each deliberate motion, heart pounding like a drum in your chest. He paused for a heartbeat, letting the anticipation coil tighter, before his hands peeled the silk from your lower half.

“Rafayel…” you whispered, trembling, unable to stop the flush of desire crawling through you.

He chuckled softly, a sound that vibrated through your core. “Shh… just feel, just be mine.”

Then his mouth found you, hot and wet, tracing a slow, deliberate stripe up through your slit. Your knees quivered instinctively, the cold of the throne beneath you contrasting with the searing heat pooling low and deep. He lingered, tongue teasing the sensitive flesh, flicking, circling, tasting. Each brush of him sent tremors shooting up your spine.

You gripped the edges of the throne as your heart thudded erratically, the steady, powerful pull of his presence anchoring you even as your body betrayed you. “Ah… Rafayel…” your voice broke, a fragile mix of moan and plea. “I… I can’t—”

“You can, cutie,” he murmured against you, lips curling into a mischievous, possessive smile you could feel vibrating through your core. “You taste so good… so sweet.”

His tongue teased, pressing deeper, slipping over the sensitive nub of your clit, suckling gently, coaxing you into the dizzying haze of arousal. You gasped, body arching toward him without thought, hands tangling in his hair. Each pull, each flick of his tongue, each press of his lips was precise, worshipful, yet maddeningly possessive.

A soft sigh escaped him as he slipped a finger inside you, slow and wet, curling expertly to hit all the spots that made your knees threaten to buckle. Your breath hitched, half a moan, half a cry, the mix of his mouth and finger driving heat through your body until your vision blurred with desire.

“Rafayel… oh—” you whispered, voice trembling, fingers gripping his violet hair tighter, as if holding onto him could keep you from floating entirely into the pleasure he orchestrated.

“You’re finally mine,” he murmured, lips pressing against the slick, sensitive flesh of your heat. His finger pulsed inside you, slick and insistent, every movement perfectly timed, driving you closer and closer.

He drew back slightly, just enough to capture your clit between his lips again, sucking and nipping lightly, teasing, tasting, coaxing a sharp, delicious moan from your chest. His other hand traced along your hip, pressing and kneading, grounding you in his heat, in the way his tail flicked and coiled behind him, echoing the deliberate, fluid rhythm of his body.

“I’ll have you like this everyday… this entire temple will be marked by you,” he murmured between kisses, teasing the tender flesh, sliding a second finger in to curl and stroke. The slow, deliberate motion had you trembling, whining against him, body arching, the heat pooling so impossibly deep it felt like it might consume you whole.

A coil tightened deep inside, a delicious, unbearable knot of pleasure, and you shivered violently. Your voice tore past your lips in a guttural, high-pitched whine, a mix of moan and cry, your body arching forward, hips trembling as your climax crested with shattering intensity. Your toes curled, and your fingers tugged at his hair with a ferocity that made him groan low and soft, his tail flicking in the water-like rhythm behind him as if echoing the pulsing waves of your release.

“Rafayel…ah—don’t stop,” you cried, gasping, your entire body practically melting against the throne as your climax rolled through you in waves, leaving you trembling, quivering, and impossibly spent.

He let you ride it, murmuring soft praise, whispering low and possessive words into your ear, lips brushing your temple, fingers holding you steady even as you shook. “Mine… all mine… so perfect,” he breathed, voice vibrating against you, making your core tingle anew even as you sagged weakly against him.

Once you’d caught your breath, he gently lifted you from the throne, his arms firm and warm around your trembling body. The wet silk of your dress clung to your skin as he carried you through the halls, your limbs still too wobbly to protest. When he opened the door to his private quarters, the room blossomed into golden light, each candle igniting as though by magic, the glow soft and warm, flickering across the walls, reflecting off the fine garments, pearls, and shells arranged throughout the room.

He set you carefully onto the bed, your body still shivering from the aftershocks of your release. For a moment, he simply gazed at you, eyes dark and worshipful, and then a mischievous glint crossed his face. He took your discarded silk panties, holding them up for a brief second, and then deliberately placed them near the shrine.

You blinked at him, laughter spilling from your lips despite your flushed, breathless state. “You’re insane,” you said, shaking your head.

“Haven’t I made that clear already, cutie?” he replied smoothly, the faint curve of a smirk on his lips, his eyes dark with amusement and desire.

Then he crawled over you, careful, slow, letting his chest press against yours, heat radiating through his body, tail curling beneath you. With a swift, fluid motion, he flipped you so that you straddled him, his tail moving beneath you like a living thing. The sensation of it pressing against your clit was immediate, searing, sending a fresh pulse of delicious, electric pleasure through your body.

He placed his hands firmly on your hips, rocking them against him with deliberate, teasing pressure. “Use me,” he murmured, voice low and reverent, almost worshipful. “Take what you need… I’m yours, cutie. All of me, for you.”

You gasped at the friction, the heat, the impossible intimacy, and he kept his eyes locked on yours, watching every shiver, every tilt of your head, every clench of your thighs. His hands moved with patient guidance, hips nudging against yours, tail adjusting with each subtle grind, ensuring every movement pressed the pleasure right where it needed to be.

“So soft,” he murmured, voice husky, as he encouraged you to move faster, to find your rhythm. “Every inch of you… mine to worship. Let go for me, cutie. Let me feel it.”

Each movement, each press, each deliberate, teasing grind of him beneath you sent shocks of heat curling through your body, a delicious mix of desperation, surrender, and awe. You clutched at his shoulders, heart hammering, breath catching in short, stuttering gasps as he guided your movements, eyes never leaving yours, reverent, obsessive, completely devoted.

You could feel it building again, a coiling knot of pleasure that had nowhere to go, tightening, pulsing, and every teasing flick of his tail and pressure of his hands made it burn hotter. Your breaths came ragged, uneven, gasps and soft whines spilling from your lips as he murmured into your ear: “That’s it, cutie… mine… let go for me… my bride…”

Your hands clawed at his shoulders, fingers digging in as the knot inside you snapped, exploding in searing, shuddering waves that ran through your body, hips trembling uncontrollably over him. You cried out, shivering, collapsing slightly against him, unable to hold yourself upright as the pleasure crashed and crashed again, each pulse wringing another whimper from your throat.

Rafayel’s lips found yours instantly, kissing you hard, deep, possessive, leaving you tasting the remnants of your last climax on his lips. His hands moved to your chest, fingers teasing, pinching your nipples just enough to make you gasp and shiver in renewed arousal, tail coiling tightly beneath you, pressing against you in every possible way.

“Mine,” he whispered into your lips, voice rough and reverent, “Say you’re mine.”

Your pulse fluttered wildly. The words slipped out before hesitation could catch them, a breathless vow against his mouth. “I’m yours… and you’re mine.”

For the briefest instant, everything stilled. Then his lips curved into a wicked, almost triumphant smile — one that made your stomach tighten with both fear and aching want. He wanted you just as unmoored, just as ruined with need for him as he was for you. And you had just proven you were.

His fire shimmered fully over him, scales fading to skin, muscles shifting beneath the new solidity of his legs. You barely had time to gasp at the change before he moved, a predator’s grace and a lover’s hunger combined. His hands caught your wrists, pressing them above your head as he rolled you onto your back, pinning you into the soft sea of blankets. The sudden weight of him above you stole your breath, made you arch instinctively against him.

“Perfect,” he growled lowly, his lips brushing your ear. “You’re perfect like this… beneath me, trembling for me.” His hips pressed forward, teasing your slick entrance with the heavy heat of him, and you whimpered, every nerve lit.

He kissed you then, slow and deep, his tongue tasting, claiming, before breaking away just enough to murmur, “Say it again. Say you’re mine.”

The head of his cock slid against your folds, spreading your arousal, making your back arch desperately. “I’m yours,” you gasped, nails scraping at his shoulders when he rocked forward just enough to give you a taste.

“And don’t forget,” he added, voice rough with both restraint and reverence, “I’m yours too, cutie. Every piece of me. No one else will ever have me—only you.”

The sincerity tangled with the wickedness in his gaze, a worshipful obsession that left you raw. Then he pushed in, slow but insistent, stretching you inch by inch until he was seated fully inside, his chest pressed to yours, his mouth capturing your every gasp.

The rhythm he set was deliberate at first, almost punishingly slow — making you feel every pulse, every drag of him deep inside. He worshiped you with his touch: lips trailing fire down your throat, teeth nipping at your collarbone, fingers tweaking your nipple until you gasped and writhed. His other hand slipped between your thighs, rubbing slow, dizzying circles against your clit in perfect time with his thrusts.

“Look at you,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to see your face twisted in pleasure. “So beautiful like this… my love, my bride. You were made to take me, weren’t you?” His thrusts deepened, hitting that perfect spot that made your eyes roll back. “Say it again. Say you’re mine while I’m inside you.”

Every word dripped with possessive reverence, as though he was binding you to him with each stroke, each breath. And the more he pressed, the more you felt yourself unravel, every nerve alive with the worship of his body against yours.

Your lips parted on a shuddering breath, his words shoving you closer to the edge. “I’m yours,” you gasped, eyes locking with his even as they threatened to roll back from the pleasure. Your nails dug into his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor you against the force of him. “Always yours, Rafayel—ah—”

That last admission drew a wicked smile to his face, his chest rumbling with a low, pleased growl. He crushed his mouth to yours, tongue sliding deep as his thrusts turned harder, more demanding, each one angled to drag the sweetest sounds out of you. His hands were everywhere — gripping your thighs, sliding up your sides, claiming every inch of you as though he could mold you to fit him perfectly.

The kiss broke only for him to nip at your lip, your chin, the arch of your throat, sucking bruises into your skin as his hips drove against yours with delicious force. “Mine,” he rasped again, words vibrating against your pulse. “You feel how you were meant for me? How your body opens for me?” His teeth grazed the curve of your shoulder before his mouth returned to yours, hungry, insistent.

Your body clenched helplessly around him, heat coiling, building with every rough thrust that hit deep, with every reverent word he poured into you like worship. His thumb found your clit again, circling in tight, teasing motions that made you jolt and whimper into his kiss. Your back arched off the bed, the sharp pleasure pushing you closer, closer — until it all came undone.

You shattered around him, a cry muffled against his mouth as your third climax crashed through you. Every muscle seized, fluttering and gripping around him so tightly it dragged a broken moan from his chest. He didn’t slow, didn’t let you drift away, driving into your convulsing body with a heat that only grew rougher, desperate.

“That’s it, cutie,” he growled into your ear, breath ragged, pace relentless now. “Want you to feel me spill inside you. My bride—made for me.” His hips slammed deep, his thumb never leaving your clit, forcing your body to wring every ounce of release from him.

And then he groaned, low and raw, mouth crashing to yours as he spilled into you, hot and unrelenting, pulse after pulse filling you while you milked him with trembling walls. His kiss was frantic and claiming, tongue tangled with yours, as though he needed to fuse himself to you completely in that moment.

By the time his thrusts slowed, dragging out every last drop of release, your body was trembling, spent beneath him, lips swollen from his relentless kisses, skin marked with his reverence. He didn’t let you go — still buried deep, breathing hard against your lips — as though he couldn’t bear to be apart from you even for a heartbeat.

His breath was still ragged against your ear, his body heavy over yours, the heat of his release pulsing deep inside you. For a moment, the only sound was the mingling of your uneven breaths, the slick press of skin against skin as he held you close.

When he shifted as though to pull back, you clung to him, arms winding tight around his shoulders, nails faint against his skin. “Don’t,” you whispered hoarsely, pulling him back down, chest pressed to chest. “Don’t leave me.”

Rafayel stilled, then angled his head to look at you, blue eyes softened in the dim glow. “Cutie,” he murmured, brushing his lips over your damp temple, “I’m not leaving.”

“You can’t,” you pushed, voice shaking with exhaustion but burning with fierce need. Your grip on him only tightened. “You promised yourself to me too. You can’t take that back. If you ever try—” You swallowed, your pulse hammering, the words spilling unbidden. “If you ever try to go, I’ll use our bond. I’ll force you to stay. I’ll lock you away if I have to.”

For a heartbeat, he only stared. Then a slow, wicked smile spread over his lips, and a low laugh rumbled from his chest, rich with delight. “My bride,” he whispered, kissing you hungrily, tasting your vow on your lips. “You sound just like me.”

You flushed at his words but refused to release him, and he only gathered you tighter in his arms, as though you were the most precious thing he’d ever hold. He nuzzled into your hair, breath warm against your ear, a final murmur of, “Good, claim me, just as I’ve claimed you.”

The last threads of your voice faded into the hush of the room, and for a moment, only the steady cadence of his breathing filled the space. Rafayel shifted just enough to look at you, the faintest curve of his lips betraying the storm of delight behind his eyes. You felt it through the bond too — warmth, possession, that unshakable tether between your souls thrumming like a vow newly forged.

He brushed a strand of damp hair from your cheek, fingers lingering against your skin as though committing the shape of you to memory. “Sleep, my heart,” he murmured, softer now, reverent. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

You pressed closer, sealing yourself against him as if daring fate to try and separate you. In that cocoon of heat and breath, there was no world beyond the two of you — only promises spoken and unspoken, only the pull of a bond neither of you could resist.

When sleep finally claimed you both, it did so in perfect synchronicity — two heartbeats aligned, two souls entwined, as though the night itself had accepted your vow.

a/n: finally.... yandere raf is here. i didn't make this super dark since its for a celebration and honestly super dark content isn't my thing, but i hope it still hits. writing this was so fun even though i lowkey ruined my sleep schedule finishing it, it was so worth it. i hope u all enjoy and thank you again for 1k ♡ i love u guys

“So violent,” he coos, delighting in the way your eyes narrow. You huff— even when sleepy, he’s a pain in your ass.

It’s only when your hand motions to retract from his mussed head of silver hair that he frowns, one of his hands darts out from beneath the sheets, grasping your wrist and determinedly tugging it back to tangle in his hair.

”Keep doing that. It feels… nice,” Sylus murmurs, all but melting under your fingers when you do as he asks, scratching pleasantly at his scalp and running your fingers through his hair. He does that rumble again— that purr as his eyes flutter closed, and you’re not even sure if he’s aware of it, but he inches just the slightest bit closer to you, his head sliding onto your own pillow as if it were his own.

Clingy, you want to tease, but you know the word will come out too soft. So instead you just sigh and continue to run a hand through Sylus's hair, slowly listening to his breathing even out as he falls asleep.

And if you snuggle close before you sleep, face buried in his neck and legs tangled with his, then it's a secret for only the two of you to keep, too.

You consider switching schools. Or switching husbands.

Not that anyone knows you already have one.

It’s not just Caleb. It’s the entire school. They’ve turned your professional rivalry into a spectator sport.

The whole school ships you.

Not loudly. Not with banners or fan edits (thank God). But it’s there—in the way students smirk when you argue in the hallway, or how they exchange glances every time Caleb calls you “Miss Xia” with that infuriating little smile. He calls you “Miss Xia” in front of students like it’s a joke.

You haven’t legally changed your name. You haven’t even told anyone you’re married.

But he says it with that smug little smile, and you let him—because correcting him would mean admitting the truth.

And you’re not ready for that. Not yet.

You’ve overheard whispers. A few ‘just kiss already’ comments. One student asked if you were dating during a quiz review, like it was relevant to Newton’s third law.

You denied it, obviously. Professionally. Firmly.

Caleb coughed. Loudly.

You glared.

He smiled.

Someone snorted.

You gave up after that.

Let them speculate. Let them write their little theories and ship you like it’s a group project.

They don’t know you already share a Netflix account. Or a laundry basket. Or a last name.

Heh. Fools.

You’ve become the school’s favorite subplot.

Forget curriculum reform or budget meetings—your hallway interactions are the real drama. Students time their bathroom breaks to catch glimpses of your “fights.” Staff members place bets on who’ll snap first.

You once found a sticky note on your desk that read “Enemies to lovers? Or lovers pretending to be enemies?” No signature. Just chaos.

You suspect Year 11.

Caleb, of course, encourages it. He thrives on attention and absurdity. He’ll lean against your doorway mid-lesson, arms crossed, voice loud enough to echo down the corridor.

“Hey, Pipsqueak. You seen my protractor?”

You don’t look up. You’re mid-sentence, explaining centripetal force to a room full of teenagers who are now laser-focused on the drama unfolding in your doorway.

“Try checking under your ego,” you say.

Someone chokes on their water bottle.

Caleb grins, unbothered. “Already did. Found a thesaurus and half a granola bar.”

You sigh. Loudly. Deliberately.

He takes it as an invitation.

Strolls in like he owns the place, plucks a spare protractor off your desk, and holds it up like a trophy. “Victory,” he announces.

You snatch it back. “That’s mine.”

“Sharing is caring.”

“Then care less.”

The class is silent, hanging on every word. One student mouths married. Another writes Caleb + Pipsqueak = OTP in the corner of their notebook.

You pretend not to see.

Caleb winks as he leaves, and you swear he does it in slow motion.

You resume the lesson, but the damage is done.

No one remembers centripetal force.

They remember the way you said care less like it was a love confession.

It gets to the point where the students tried to play matchmaker.

One time you and Caleb both got locked in the supply room. Another time it was the gym closet.

One leaves a folded note on your desk: If you were a molecule, you’d be polar—because you’ve got chemistry.

Another starts a rumor that you and Caleb were spotted at the same coffee shop. You were. Along with half the faculty. But that part gets edited out.

Then there’s the anonymous suggestion box. You open it one morning and find:

•            Field trip idea: Escape room. Lock them in together.

•            Extra credit: Write a love letter using Newton’s laws.

•            Petition to make Caleb a guest lecturer on flirting through physics.

You start assigning more homework. They start turning it in with doodles of you and Caleb arguing in speech bubbles that end in hearts.

Caleb sees one. He doesn’t comment. Just grins like he’s been waiting for this subplot to kick in.

During a class party, students hand out personalized juice boxes. Yours says your last name. Caleb’s says Mr. Heartthrob. Inside each is a folded note: You two are the reason we believe in tension. Caleb raises his juice box in a toast. You drink yours in one long, pointed sip.

It’s after school. The halls are quiet, save for the distant hum of a vacuum and the occasional locker slam. You’re in your classroom, reorganizing lab reports and pretending you don’t hear Caleb’s footsteps approaching like he’s auditioning for a rom-com entrance.

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, smug as ever.

“You know,” he says, “I think the Year 10s are planning a fake wedding. There was a glue stick labeled ‘ring’ in my drawer.”

You don’t look up. “Tell them I’m already married.”

He grins. “To who?”

You glance at him. “To my job.”

“Oof. Cold.” He strolls in, picks up your red marker—now permanently scented with his overpriced cologne—and twirls it like he’s about to deliver a TED Talk on emotional repression. “So. How long do you think we’ve got?”

You blink. “Until what?”

“Until someone figures it out.” He gestures vaguely, like your entire relationship is a subplot he’s tired of keeping secret. “The marriage. The laundry basket. The shared Netflix account with my cursed algorithm.”

You sigh. “I told you to stop watching documentaries about competitive cheese rolling.”

“They’re inspiring.”

You set down the papers. “I give it a month. Maybe less. Someone’s going to catch us slipping.”

He tilts his head. “Slipping how?”

“Like when you called me ‘babe’ in the staff room.”

“I was quoting Shakespeare.”

“You were asking if I wanted Thai food.”

He shrugs. “Same energy.”

You cross your arms. “We could just tell them.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And ruin the mystery? The drama? The hallway tension that fuels their academic engagement?”

You stare. “You think our fake rivalry improves test scores?”

“I think it gives them hope.”

You snort. “In what? That love is just bullying with paperwork?”

He steps closer. “In the idea that two people can fight like hell and still choose each other. Every day.”

You hate him a little for that. Mostly because it’s true.

Then he’s in front of you—closer than he should be, marker forgotten, hands sliding around your waist like he’s done this a thousand times and still isn’t used to how you tense when he does. His mouth finds yours before you can think, before you can argue, before you can remind him that the blinds are half-open and your dignity is hanging by a thread.

It’s heated. Familiar. His hands are so not innocent—one trailing down your back, the other skimming the edge of your blouse like he’s trying to rewrite the dress code.

You break the kiss with a sharp inhale, palms pressed to his chest.

“Hands,” You slap it. Hard. “We are in school, Mr. Xia.”

He blinks, dazed. “Right. Sorry. Got carried away.”

You straighten your blouse, ignoring the way your heart is trying to escape through your ribs. “You always do.”

He grins, sheepish. “Can’t help it. You’re very... grade-ruining.”

You shove a stack of papers into his arms. “Then go ruin them. Quietly. In your own classroom.”

He salutes. “Yes, Miss Xia.”

You roll your eyes. “One month.”

He’s halfway out the door when he turns back. “You know I’m going to lose, right?”

“He said that to you?!” Abigail’s voice booms throughout the tiny art studio.

You stand at the bathroom sink, modified so you can dunk your arms in without getting water everywhere, scrubbing the paint off of your hands and arms. You push the stained towel into your skin, scrubbing so hard you’re about to tear your skin off. Glaring at the very slowly disappearing blotches of paint you turn your head and look down the hallway while Abigail heads towards you.

“I know! The bitch said I’m like Sister Wives but with men,” you roll your eyes, aggravation already flooding right back into your body. "A fucking harem!"

You thought that by channeling your anger into a new painting would be helpful towards your artistic pursuits but the canvas ended up as one big blob, an unappealing blob mind you, that resembled a dead fish rather than the mermaid you were aiming for. The painting is as unappetizing as a plate of under seasoned and overcooked chicken, a plate filled with saltines and no glass of water to help it go down.

You turn back to your arms, your scrubs now much lighter and nicer towards your body, as you clean off the last of the dried paint. Bright yellows and oranges remain beneath your fingernails but you’re too tired to care about it, not in the mood to become fully presentable for Rafayel and whatever his dramatic antics have planned for tonight.

“Are you sure you want to go to the carnival with him? Maybe he can say that you’re sick and handle Rhys on his own,” Abigail enters the bathroom.

She holds earrings in her hands and brings them up to your ears, trying to see which one she likes best before settling on a nice pair that will compliment the dress she has for you. You swat away her hands, rolling your eyes as you step out of the bathroom. You storm down the hallway and she is quick to follow.

“I have to,” you say, groaning to yourself. You enter the office where a dress is laid out and begin to peel the dirty smock off of your body, tossing it onto the sheet of plastic Abigail has laid down. “If he goes on his own, I know he’ll somehow fuck it up for us. I have to be the reasonable one since he decided to put the drama queen crown on his head.”

“You two are like ticking time bombs whenever you’re together,” Abigail muses with a smile, already moving to help zip up the back of your dress. “It’s just a race to see who explodes first.”

“Ha ha ha,” you sound out your sarcastic laugh with another eye roll, fixing the dress’ skirt.

It stops halfway down your thighs and the fabric is light with a floral pattern. It’s simple, something that a regular person who is in love with an insufferable twat would wear. All you can do now is hope that Rafayel sticks with the plan and doesn’t change his clothes. You flatten out the skirt, grumbling obscenities to yourself about how you’re going to shove where the sun don’t shine if Rafayel fucks this up tonight.

“It’s going to be okay! I already asked Thomas to help reel Rafayel back after the scene he made today and he said that he’s going to slip one of his xanaxes into his drink before he goes,” Abigail smiles at you, handing you the pair of earrings from before.

“A xanax?” you raise an eyebrow, laughing as you put the earrings on. “I didn’t know working with Rafayel made him get to that point so early in his life.”

“I can’t help but feel bad for the guy,” Abigail sighs, moving behind you as she begins to fix your hair. It’s too late to do anything special to it, so she’s going with the cliche of a low messy bun to make you look windswept instead of a sweating mess that painted what she perceived to be a chicken nugget form hell. “He has to deal with a newborn when he goes home and when he’s at work.”

“We should get him whiskey for the holidays,” you murmur, turning to look at the tiny mirror that sits on her desk.

“Thomas deserves tequila,” Abigail nods, “he deserves to have a good time.”

You gag at the thought of tequila. You can’t have it anymore due to overconsumption of said alcohol two years ago. It was Abigail’s birthday, which just happens to be the same day as a big holiday in Linkon. You can barely remember it that’s how bad you were. Your hangover lasted for a solid week, the first twenty four hours filled with constant puking and for the rest of the week, you were battling a horrible migraine that left you bedridden. At least Thomas will get some fun out of it.

“What time did he say he was going to come again?” you ask and bring the mirror to your face. You check out your makeup, which somehow stayed in tact during your painting session.

“Thomas texted saying he left ten minutes ago. He should be here any moment,” Abigail plucks the mirror from your hands and grabs a nearby sweater, tossing it into your small backpack.

You groan, already annoyed from Rafayel’s presence and he isn’t even here yet. You wonder how long this night is going to be. You already know that it is going to feel longer than it already is. It makes you want to stab forks into your eyes so you have an excuse to not go.

You have to, though. You have to face the purple haired bitch who thinks that you’re too difficult to be in an actual relationship, your rival ever since you laid your eyes on him.

A car honks from the studio’s driveway. You suck in a breath, rolling your eyes as you turn to look outside the window.

There he is: the price of drama and all things intolerable.

Rafayel sits in his sports car, the roof tucked away in the back so it’s a convertible. His purple hair is disheveled, messed up due to the wind. He has a pair of dark sunglasses on his face. You raise an eyebrow at the sight, glancing at the moon that hangs in the fresh night sky. He honks again but this time the honk continues, ruining the peaceful quiet of the beachside.

You groan and turn to look at Abigail, an unimpressed look on your face. She shrugs and passes off your backpack. You begrudgingly take it, the backpack swinging in the air as your drag your feet towards the front door of the studio.

“What happened to the Xanax, Abigail?” you ask, glaring at her from over your shoulder.

“Maybe the fish has a brain!” she calls after you with a laugh, closing the door behind you and locking it.

You slowly approach Rafayel’s car. You have your arms crossed over your chest, glaring at him while the car horn pierces your ears. He notices you and finally releases his hold of the car’s horn.

“Are you done yet?” you call out, annoyance prominent in your voice.

Rafayel swipes off the sunglasses, gazing at you. He honks the horn one last time, a petty move on his part, and gets out of his car. He leans against it, tossing the expensive sunglasses into the backseat. He wears a simple outfit made up of dark jeans and a brown hoodie, comfortable yet he still exudes a sense of wealth with the brands proudly on display.

“You look fine,” is the first thing you say to him, your greeting cold.

“Oh? Are we starting off strong today?” Rafayel comments, matching your crossed arms.

“Depends,” you tilt your head to the side, looking him up and down, actually liking the way the outfit looks. Your eyes meet again and you’re reminded of his unnecessary comments about you being too difficult to handle. “Are you wanting to meet my boyfriends? One of them wanted me to ask when you’re going to join the group. They want to know if you prefer washing dishes or cooking dinner.”

“First off: I am very sorry about my comments from earlier. I feel really bad—”

“Really bad?” you quietly mock him, your words falling onto deaf ears.

“—and second of all, I prefer cooking. I have this thing where if I touch soggy food, I have the urge to throw up.”

You raise an eyebrow at Rafayel, foot tapping against the loose gravel of the driveway. Rafayel’s eyes move to you, the blue and pink hues catching you off guard by the remorse that hides behind them. You let out a quiet sigh, your arms falling to your sides as you round his car, getting into the passenger seat. He follows suit and starts the car, looking over at you.

“Truce for tonight?” Rafayel asks, holding out his pinky to you. You glance at it, having to hold back a laugh by just how childish the gesture is.

“You know,” you lean towards him, reaching your hand up. You wrap your pinky around his and yank his hand towards you. Your narrow your gaze at him and he swallows the lump that forms in his throat. “If you break this pinky promise, I get to chop off your pinky.”

“Yikes.”

“I’ll have my brother husbands put it in clear resin, a trophy of how you broke the promise you’re making right now.”

“You need psychiatric help,” Rafayel whispers, half genuine with his remark.

You release his pinky and turn to face the front of the car, crossing your arms back over your chest. Glancing up at your hair, you groan, glancing over at Rafayel as he starts the car once again.

“Hey, Rafayel?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think we can…put the lid back on the car?” you ask with a sweet smile. Rafayel turns to you, an unimpressed and insulting look on his face. You lean forward, your fake smile growing as wide as it can.

“Do you want me to?” he asks, reaching for a random button that sits in front of him.

“Yes, please! It would be so—”

Rafayel turns the volume up of the car. Music pours out of the speakers, one of today’s pop music hits that you simply cannot stand to listen to. A smug smirk crosses his face as he shifts the car out of park, the back wheels spinning against the gravel, launching it into the bushes. 

The car lunges forward as you gasp, reaching for the handle that isn’t there, your hand meeting air. Rafayel laughs, throwing his head back as the car makes it onto the public road. The two of you zoom down the city street as the fresh sea air hits your face.

Your once semi-okay bun made by Abigail is ruined. Your hair falls out of place, sticking up and everywhere as the wind tosses it everywhere, knotting it with every turn that Rafayel takes, the car practically leaning on two wheels every time he yanks the steering wheel in one direction. You gasp and yell, screaming at him to slow down and to use his blinker as his maniacal cackles fill in the quiet spots of the screaming wind.

The carnival, which is being held in Linkon inside of Jiexin Park, which is connected to a large fairground. Rafayel drives you through the city, weaving through the lines of skyscrapers and districts that the city has. You watch as the buildings pass you by, a blur before moving into the next district.

You’ve given up on your hair, thinking that it’s not the worst thing to come out of tonight, like almost dying with the way Rafayel is driving. You internally blame Thomas for not slipping him a xanax like he told Abigail he would but here you are: butt cheeks clenched as Rafayel recklessly drives through Linkon City’s traffic.

The car comes to a screeching halt in front of Jiexin Park. Your body lurches forward, your hands smacking against the dashboard in front of you. Slowly turning to look at the man beside you, watch as he casually tosses his perfect windswept hair out of his eyes, a smile on his face. You turn to look at yourself in your phone’s camera, looking like you were just running for you life in a zombie movie but as one of the extras that are made to look much uglier than the main leads.

You glare at Rafayel. He knew exactly what he was doing. This was a targeted attack on his behalf.

You get out of the car and slam the door behind you, the vehicle shaking. Rafayel gasps, scurrying out and following after you as you walk towards the park entrance. You ignore him as he yaps into your ear about respecting the car, that it is worth more than all of your paintings combined.

You approach an empty table, a line quickly forming behind the two of you.

“Two tickets please,” you smile at a woman at the plastic table, which acts as a — quite poorly made — ticket booth. 

“Of course! Is it date night?” the woman asks, nodding her head at Rafayel.

You glance at him, deciding that now is a good time to practice your fake affection towards the Lemurian. Slipping your arm into his, you bring him to your side, catching him off guard as you rest your head against his shoulder. Rafayel looks down at you with a raised eyebrow, ready to push you away before he realizes that Rhys can be watching from any angle. He relaxes and clears his throat.

“Yes…it is date night. I thought I’d take her out and have some fun,” Rafayel shrugs, a smug smirk plastered across his face.

“Well isn’t that just peachy!” the woman muses. She reaches to the side, dealing with the tickets and punching in the numbers.

Rafayel chuckles, leaning down, his lips grazing the outer shell of your ear. You shiver from how close he is, darting your gaze away. He doesn’t say anything, though, and makes it look like he gave your head a kiss before pulling away.

“Fifty gold coins,” she says in the most unimpressed tone ever.

“What? Me?” Rafayel points to himself. He turns to you and all you can do is look. Between him and the ticket lady.

“You’re taking her out on a date, are you not?” the woman asks, leaning forward with a stamp in her hand, ready to lunge at him for his carelessness.

“I’m a feminist,” Rafayel leans forward, offering a wink to the ticket lady before turning back to you, nodding his head in her direction, “my beautiful girlfriend will be paying.”

A silence befalls the line. All eyes land on Rafayel, who is oblivious to their shocked gazes. The ticket lady’s smile falls, all joy from within her eyes dying as if she heard the worst thing imaginable.

“She’s going to be paying? Because you’re a feminist?” she asks in a deadpan tone. Your eyes slowly widen, looking up at Rafayel who proudly nods. “Well in that case, let me give you the ‘man who claims to be a feminist’ discount,” the lady absentmindedly presses imaginary buttons on the plastic table.

Rafayel’s smile falls as he realizes what is happening. You cover your face, slight embarrassment over whelming your body. You look around and give everyone sympathetic looks as your fake boyfriend becomes enemies with the ticket lady.

“That’ll be fifty gold coins, Mister Feminist.”

Rafayel nods, not wanting to anger her further, and looks bewildered as he moves his touch from your body. You step to the side, watching as he gives himself a full body pat down. You cross your arms over your chest, looking back at the ticket lady who looks so unimpressed with your “date.” Rafayel stops and looks up at you, eyes big and wide.

“Hey, erm, babe,” Rafayel begins. You hold up a hand, closing your eyes.

“You forgot your fucking wallet didn’t you?” you know that this is going to embarrass him. It’s pay back after declaring to the pier yesterday that you’re the new version of brother husbands with all the men who lay at your feet, which is a grand total of none. Rafayel doesn’t need to know that, though.

“I can run back to the car—”

“No. It’s fine,” you huff, making your movements exaggerated. “It’s just like all of the other times you forgot your wallet—”

“Oh okay. I see what you’re doing here. Very funny,” Rafayel rolls his eyes while he watches you dramatically rummage throughout your backpack.

“—I feel like your sugar mommy, Raf,” you sniffle for extra effect, earning the ticket lady’s sympathy.

She stares at Rafayel with daggers in her eyes, slipping a red wristband over your hand. She grabs a green one, not even putting it on for Rafayel as you drop cold coins onto the table in front of her.

“She’s being dramatic—” Rafayel tries to reason with the ticket lady as she tosses him the green bracelet.

“You better treat her real well tonight, you hear?” the lady glares at him.

People from around you chuckle, turning their faces away to hide their laughs. Even you have to stop yourself from smiling as you help Rafayel put his wristband on.

“Oh look, he needs her help to put it in, oh I mean on—”

“I GOT IT!” Rafayel, who is clearly overwhelmed by the sudden attention on him, swatting your hands away as he shoves the tiny bracelet over his hand.

“Oooh, someone’s touchy,” the ticket lady’s side comment makes you snort, your hand slapping over your face to hide your giggles.

“I got the fucking junior size or something,” Rafayel mumbles under his breath.

Rafayel takes your hand and glares at the people that stare at the two of you. You sigh and lean close to him, following him as he walks past the table.

“It’s okay that you’re broke, babe,” you claim loudly enough for the people to hear, “next time I’ll give you the coins so it looks like you paid—”

“I’M NOT BROKE STOP TELLING PEOPLE I’M BROKE! AND THAT I’M BAD AT SEX. I AM GREAT AT SEX!” Rafayel snaps.

You can’t help but laugh at his reaction, having to press your temple to his shoulder, shielding your face from the people in line, laughing as Rafayel squeezes your hand, trying to get your other squirm and let go first.

“Why did you have to do that?” Rafayel whines, dragging you along as you enter the carnival.

“A petty act of revenge,” you respond with a smirk, leaning up to whisper into his ear, “for my brother husbands.”

“Okay you can let it go now! Thanks!” Rafayel is snippy as always, making you laugh more.

The scenery is lively, golden lights hanging from inside the trees, strings of lights looking like they’re floating from one place to another. Stalls are lined up throughout the grassy park with a line of food trucks sitting off to the side. There’s a band that plays music with a small crowd gathered in front of it. To the side of the music sits a large white tent, where you can only assume the  art competition is being held.

Families sit at tables along the empty spaces of grass and many couples walk hand in hand with plushies hanging from their bodies or are tucked beneath their arms. You look around, taking in the fun ambiance. You completely forget that you’re attached to Rafayel’s hip as you walk through the bustling crowd.

A large sign displaying Asko Hospital makes Rafayel roll his eyes, watching as the medical tent is filled with its doctors ready to step in when needed. You wake up past it, peering inside as a dark haired man with glasses attends to a young child’s scraped knee.

“How long do we have to be here for again?” Rafayel asks you, your hands still connected, fingers laced together.

“Well,” you look around, spotting a row of carnival games. The booths are covered in plushies, a big blue and pink seahorse catching your attention. “We just need to see Rhys, make it seem like it’s a coincidence that we’re bumping into him, and then we can leave. Or—”

“You want to play games, don’t you?” Rafayel deadens. You nod, a small and genuine smile forming across your face.

“We can say that you won me the plushies,” you lean into him, steering him away from the art tent and towards the array of carnival games.

“Fine,” Rafayel turns his chin up, puffing his chest out, “we will play your silly little guppy games. Maybe I’ll even win you a few.”

“Sure you will,” your comment drips with sarcasm. You snort and earn a glare from Rafayel, who slightly pulls away and looks down at you, his eyebrows knitted together.

“What? You don’t think I can?” the Lemurian questions, actually flabbergasted at the idea you don’t think he can win a few children’s carnival games.

He was once the God of the Sea! Someone to be feared! Someone to kneel before! And here you are, mocking him into oblivion for the umpteenth time tonight, so Rafayel will be damned if you don’t leave the carnival tonight with every plushie you want.

“Alright, fine,” Rafayel narrows his eyes and looks around, his purple hair flopping with every move, “pick a game — any game you want! I will win you every damn plushie here!”

“With what money?” you snort. He turns his attention back to you. “Oh? You need your sugar mommy to pay for it?”

“Obviously,” Rafayel says the word so matter of factly that it drives you insane. You glare at him, ripping your hadn’t away from his.

“Fine. I’ll fund your little dick size competition — who you’re competing with, I’ll never know — but if I don’t get that blue and pink seahorse by the end of the night, I’m going to tell everyone here that you cry when you—”

“Fine! Deal! You’re going to get the blue and pink seahorse and so much more!” Rafayel snatches your hand in his, dragging you along to the first booth of the night.

It’s a ring toss booth. You let go of Rafayel’s arm, looking at the dozens of milk bottles lined up in a perfect hexagon in the center of the booth. People gather around it from all sides, the four booth attendants smiling and collecting money. They casually throw the plastic rings, the plastic bouncing off of glass rims.

“Are you sure this is where you want to start for the night, Raf?” you ask, your hip bumping into his as you pass off the metal coins to the booth’s employee.

Rafayel takes the multicolored rings in his hands. They’re minuscule in comparison with him, the rings resting in the palm of his hand. The Lemurian turns to you with a smug smirk, winking at you.

“This is exactly where I want to start off, thank you very much,” he leans in and scrunches his face up, mocking your question. You roll your faces and push his face away from you, groaning. “I have to win my…beautiful girlfriend the best plushie here! Pick out which one you want, cutie! Cause they’re coming home with us!”

“You are insufferable, Raf,” you groan and take a step back, giving him his much needed room.

Rafayel tosses the first ring. It glides through the air, the two of you leaning forward as you watch it connect with the milk jugs’ rings. It clinks and bounces away, falling onto the floor. You let out an audible ‘oof’ and turn away, hiding a small laugh. Rafayel turns and looks at you as if it’s your fault for the ring not landing on the glass bottle.

“Well,” the booth’s employee steps up to the barrier, looking straight at Rafayel, “you can’t win the large prize, but you can still win medium or small!”

Rafayel groans and turns back to the booth, his face scrunched up as he tosses the next ring towards the center of the booth. It collides with the glass rims but ultimately slides across the top, landing on the floor with the others. You move to his side, smiling at the booth employee, before turning up to Rafayel.

The tips of his hears are a bright pink color, a big frown overtaking his face, glaring daggers at the milk bottles. You pat his back and watch as he flings another one into the air just to immediately bounce away and onto the floor.

“What in the actual fuck,” Rafayel stutters. You hold back your laughs of pure joy and amusement and watch as he slams his fits down onto the booth’s wooden counter. “I want another go! Now!”

“Calm down, Raf,” a woman’s voice sounds from behind, “you’ll get another turn soon enough.”

Rafayel freezes beside you. You turn and look to see a pretty woman with dark hair and vibrant eyes standing beside a hunk of a man. He has white hair and red eyes, his gaze dominating and making your legs feel like jelly. You quietly gasp and look him up and down, feeling Rafayel give in to his urge to turn around as well.

“MC?” Rafayel asks, his eyes darting between you and her. He takes a step to the side putting space between you two before realizing that he’s your fake boyfriend and moving right back to your side. He wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you close as your fingers lace together on your side. “What are you doing here?”

“My boyfriend and I thought it would be fun to come support a friend and the hospital’s cause,” she responds with a casual shrug and smile.

“Boyfriend?” Rafayel repeats the word, leaning forward as if it’ll help him hear better. You nudge his side, still unable to take your eyes off of the behemoth of a man in front of you. He turns to look at the man beside her, having to turn his head up because of the sheer size of the man.

“Yes! Rafayel, meet Sylus! Sylus, this is Rafayel, my ex I was telling you about.”

“Ex?” you blurt out, turning to look at Rafayel. He grimaces, lips tugging upwards as he tries to play it off as best he can. He shakes his head ever so slightly, turning his attention back to MC and Sylus.

“It is very nice to meet you, Sylus,” Rafayel says through gritted teeth. He looks the man up and down, taking in his all black outfit, his jacket with red and white lines running down one side of his jacket and sleeves. “That’s…a lot of leather.”

“I need it when I’m riding my motorcycle.”

Oh. My. God. His voice!

You contain a giggle, having to bury your face into Rafayel’s shoulder, turning away as your cheeks immediately heat up. His voice is so sexy — so husky and low — if his motorcycle engine isn’t purring right now, something else is!

“A motorcycle? That’s so…yeah!” Rafayel awkwardly comments, his hand swallowing yours whole, putting all of his strength into squeezing your hand. You glance back at Sylus, your eyes meeting, which makes you giggle and blush further. Rafayel smiles through the pain, leaning down to whisper into your ear, “Get a hold of yourself, woman! Stay strong!”

“Are you still playing the ring toss game?” MC steps forward, releasing Sylus from her touch.

You move away from Rafayel, right on cue of course, and step away as the two of them begin to talk with each other. Their repertoire with one another comes so naturally to them, their laughs and side nudges coming to fruition as if it is muscle memory to them. You can’t help but feel just the slightest twinge of jealousy in the back of your mind.

Sure, you and Rafayel are fake dating but god damn, where is this effort with you? Rafayel and MC look more like a couple than the two of you do! This is going to ruin your chance with Rhys and your chance of being one of the greats is going to die and wither away!

At least you get to chop off his pinky and have it as a trophy of his fuck up.

“So,” Sylus’ deep voice sounds from behind you. You slowly turn, your head fully looking up at him as he rests his weight onto his back foot. “Are you and Rafayel are dating?”

“Me and Raf?” a laugh leaves your lips before you can even realize it. You quickly shut up and let out a horribly timed cough, covering your mouth with your fist as Sylus raises one eyebrow at you. “We are…yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re nervous,” Sylus cocks his head to the side, his red eyes peering deeper and deeper into your soul. You lean back as he leans forward. “You aren’t dating. It’s fake.”

“What the fuck,” you breathe out, watching as he pulls away from you, his eyes moving back to MC and Rafayel as they throw rings. “How did you—”

“I know. I’ll keep your secret.”

“Ooh,” you shimmy your shoulders and turn to watch them, “how nice of you.”

Silence sits between the two of you. You and Sylus watch as MC and Rafayel toss more and more rings, Sylus handing her as many gold coins as she wants with a small smile on his face. They’re so cute together. Just absolutely adorable. If Rhys sees them compared to you and Rafayel, he’ll choose them to be the headliners instead.

“So, Sylus,” you decide to ruin the silence, turning to face him just as he turns to face you, “what do you do for work?”

“I happen to run a…very humble fruit stall,” a tinge of a smile spreads across his lips as he glances at MC. There is nothing but love behind his eyes for MC.

“Do you know anything about gardening?” your question catches Sylus off guard, the tall man looking down at you with a perked up eyebrow, his crossed arms slowly moving to his sides.

Rafayel groans as his ring misses a milk bottle. MC chuckles at his side, nudging into him. He glares at her, a slight pout on his face as he hands over more coins.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, turning his attention back onto the rings.

“Nothing! I just love seeing how determined you are to win the game,” she smiles and tosses another ring, the small piece of plastic bouncing off the glass jars, lodging itself in between bottles.

“It’s rigged and we all know it, Gary!” Rafayel narrows his eyes at the booth’s attendant, earning a laugh from him.

“Are you doing this for her?” MC asks with a smile, leaning in and wiggling her eyebrows.

Rafayel scoffs and rolls his eyes. He moves the plastic rings between his fingers, the colorful circles swinging around his fingers with ease

“Her? Puh-lease,” Rafayel chuckles, “we’re…partners. Not in that way, but in schemes.”

“Is she now?” MC turns around and looks at you and Sylus. “Is she your rival you were always spewing nonsense about?” Rafayel nods, confirming MC’s suspicion.

You look up at Sylus, mouth slightly agape while he watches MC and Rafayel. Rafayel turns and follows her gaze, his eyes landing on you, a small smile spreading across his lips.

“You’re built like a Dorito,” your voice carries over the loud crowd.

“Oh?” Sylus hums.

“Yeah…I would say you’re like the Nacho Cheese variety but you scream Sweet Spicy Chili instead.”

Sylus pauses for a moment, nodding to himself before glancing at you and saying, “Good choice.”

Rafayel’s smile falls at your weirdly framed compliment towards the man. He rolls his eyes and looks back at the bottles, jealousy tickling the back of his mind.

“Definitely not winning it for her,” he groans, his face scrunched up as he rills the rings between his fingers.

“Uh huh, sure, keep telling yourself that,” MC comments.

He absentmindedly throws another ring, watching as it spirals around one of the bottles finally landing. Rafayel gasps, his posture straightening as he claps his hands together. He turns to MC, who jumps with him, pure joy sounding out from their yells and cries of victory. Rafayel snaps his fingers and points to a very small seahorse that sits on the bottom level of trophies to win, the level being that of a participation trophy for those who have spent obscene amounts of money at the stall.

“Gimme the damn seahorse, Gary!” Rafayel yells.

Just as Gary hands over the tiny seahorse, which is vibrant and tiny, its neon colors fading from pinks to greens to purples and blues. Rafayel turns around, holding the tiny seahorse up into the air. He crosses the space between you and him, watching as he lowers it into your outstretched hands.

“This is for you,” Rafayel smugly smiles, leaning in. MC stands behind him with crossed arms, rolling her eyes as he openly contradicts himself from not even thirty seconds ago.

“Why thank you!” you smile, looking at the seahorse with a spark in your eyes. Funnily enough, you kind of want to paint it, the colors calling to you. “Who knew that after fifty coins worth of tries that you’d be able to win something!”

You turn to look up at Rafayel, laughing as he rolls your eyes, draping his arm over your shoulders, tugging you into his side. His cologne, a scent that reminds you of the ocean but also those ads where the actors run through a desert or swim in the ocean while sharks circle them. The two of you smile at each other, faces scrunched up as you lean in, your noses barely touching to try and show the world, and Rhys if he’s watching, that you are a united and very much in love couple.

“It’s okay if it takes you more than twenty tries, Sylus,” Rafayel proudly boasts. You can feel him flexing his biceps through the fabric of his hoodie, “not everyone is as good as—”

Rafayel quickly shuts up as he watches Sylus approach the booth, rings in hand, tossing them into the air with such precision that it’s shocking. Every single one of his rings lands around the milk jug’s necks, swirling around the rims before making itself at home around the neck. Rafayel’s jaw drops.

Sylus turns around, a big kitten plushie in his arms as he passes it off to MC. She cheers, taking the plushie into her arms. In Sylus’ hands, it looked like a normal size, but in MC’s, the plushie is ginormous.

You turn to look at Rafayel, who wears a scowl on his face. You gently push him towards the next stall and listen as he grumbles obscenities underneath his breath about how life isn’t fair and that his rings must have been rigged to automatically win. You pat his back as an attempt to console him.

“That’s okay, you’ll get the next one,” you lean into his side, smiling as your eyes scan the crowd to see if Rhys or any of the other part people you know are also at the carnival.

“Hey!” MC’s voice comes from behind you yet again. Rafayel doesn’t turn around as he sits himself down at a chair, his hands latching onto the handles of a water gun, ready to win. “Would it be okay if we joined you? It would be so much fun to have a double date!”

“Of course!” you beam back at her.

Rafayel gasps, looking up at you with an angry expression. You push his face away, though, his nose smushed beneath the palm of your hand as MC and Sylus take their seats beside you. You sit down and release Rafayel’s face from your hand but he’s quick to lean in, his lips brushing against your ear.

“What the fuck are you doing?” the Lemurian asks, irritation in his voice.

“What? It’ll help us with Rhys,” you angle your head towards him, leaning in, “a double date will help us sell the fact that we have other couple friends to hang out with.”

Rafayel slowly pulls away. His eyes are narrow and fixated on you. The pink and blue hues move away from your face, staring at Sylus who sits on the other end of the group, a smug smirk on his lips. Rafayel moves his attention back to you. You shrug and bat your eyelashes at him, Turing away as you grab the handles of the water gun.

“Are you fellas ready?” the game’s attendant approaches the group, a big and goofy smile on his face.

You and MC cheer, clapping your hands, while Rafayel and Sylus simply nod at the man, barely even paying attention to him as they glare at the target in front of them.

“Well…alrighty then! Let’s get started!”

The game alarm sounds off, signaling the beginning of the game. Rafayel and Sylus immediately hit the target, the steady stream of water flying across the small distance while you and MC laugh with each other, giggling about how competitive the boys can be. The two of you barely pay attention to the game and instead choose to try and get your streams to touch, earning a wiggling of eyebrows from the minimum wage employee.

The game’s bell sounds off. The two of you gasp and turn towards your respective men, seeing which one won. Spoiler: it’s Sylus with Rafayel right behind him.

Rafayel stands from his chair, glaring as the man grabs another large plushie from the hooks, passing the obnoxiously large pufferfish off to MC. She smiles and thanks Sylus, who gives her a shrug and playful flirtatious comment in return. You stand and follows Rafayel as he leaves the booth, arms crossed over his chest.

“Raf? It’s okay! You’ll get it next time!” you try your best to encourage him as he walks to the next booth.

“Am I?!” Rafayel snaps at no one, punching the air in front of him. “How can I win when he’s around! Oh, I hate him. I hate him!”

“Stop being a drama queen, Rafayel, pull yourself together,” you roll your eyes, trying your best to keep up with his quick pace.

He huffs and puffs to himself, his purple hair falling back and forth every time he whips his head to the side. You clear your throat and take his hand. He immediately yanks it away from yours, stopping to look down at you.

“What are you doing?” he asks, placing his hands on his hips. You groan and flick the space between his eyebrows, catching him off guard, before grabbing his hand once again. “Flick me again and I’ll scream.”

“Calm down,” your nails dig into the skin of his hand, making him wince, “I’m playing the role of sympathetic girlfriend who is trying to calm down her dramatic feminist boyfriend.”

“Oh…right. Yeah. That makes sense too,” Rafayel’s voice lowers in volume, the man smiling at the surrounding crowd.

“It’s okay if you don’t get me the pink and blue seahorse,” you say with a shrug, “I don’t want a memento of you anyways.”

Although, you wouldn’t really mind having it in the first place.

“No, no, I’m getting you that damn seahorse,” Rafayel looks down at you, his eyes flickering to the smaller ones in your hands, “they need a sibling.”

“You’re a child.”

“Am I? Or do I have an active imagination?”

“No, you’re a child. A big one that cries whenever he doesn’t get his way,” you roll your eyes, pulling him to the next booth with Sylus and MC hot on your tail. “What about this one?”

“Do you want me to look like an imbecile on that?” Rafayel groans, staring at the rope ladder.

A teen hops onto the inflated floor, climbing onto the ladder that lies across the small stretch of distance between the front and the back where a bell hangs. The ladder wobbles back and forth, the teen boy quickly losing his balance before he tips over. People who stand and watch laugh and clap their hands, shouting that he tried his chest and that he’ll get it next time as the person to the side of him makes it halfway. They’re quick to fall over, too, earning a fun comment from the person operating the game.

“I mean…yes, I always want to see you be humiliated, but this seems like fun regardless! You have great balance, right? This will be a piece of cake!” you try your best to hype Rafayel up, even going as far as to stand behind him, massaging his shoulders.

“You think I can?” Rafayel asks, glancing at you from over his shoulder. You nod and wink, encouraging him to try.

“Ah, another game,” Sylus’ voice vibrates your chest. You bite your lip and turn to look at him, raising an eyebrow at him. “Let’s do it. Seems…thrilling enough.”

“Oh, you bet your ass—”

“Language,” you chime in,

“—that we’re gonna do it! My girl wants the panda!” Rafayel announces, finger pointed in the air.

As soon as people hear Rafayel’s declaration, they turn to watch as the two men approach the ladders. Sylus hands the person gold coins, enough for the both of them much to Rafayel’s dismissal. You and MC stand beside each other, shoulder to shoulder as you offer to hold one of the plushies for her.

The first couple of seconds are awkward so you turn to look at MC who turns back with a smile.

“So…does MC stand for anything?” A beat. “Something like ‘Mary Catherine’ or ‘Marie Curie’?”

“Definitely not like the radioactive scientist.”

Rafayel glares at Sylus, the Lemurian taking off his brown hoodie to reveal a white t-shirt underneath. His eyes remain on the taller man. He tosses his hoodie at you, watching as the brown fabric pathetically falls to the ground at your feet. Rafayel’s face goes red, turning to look at you.

“Oh, was I supposed to catch that?” you ask, awkwardly leaning over the large teddy bear plushie to pick it up, dusting it off by hitting it on the metal fence.

Rafayel groans and turns back to Sylus, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Are you ready?” Rafayel asks.

“Are you?” Sylus counters with an amused chuckle.

Without another word, Rafayel turns away and approaches the first ladder while Sylus steps towards the one beside it. Rafayel drops down, grabbing the first rung. His palms are sweaty, his nervousness taking over his entire body once he realizes that a whole crowd has gathered to watch him fail while getting a panda for you. 

He is already wobbling back and forth. You step towards the fence, leaning over it, yelling encouraging comments in his direction. His breaths are slow and steady, slowly moving to the next rung of the ladder. He smiles, already making it halfway as the elevation increases.

“I’m doing it!” Rafayel yells, looking over his shoulder, ass popping out, his eyes meeting yours. “I’m gonna win!”

“Keep it up, babe!” you yell back, feeling a little too comfortable in the role as fake girlfriend.

Rafayel begins to make his next move when the crowd gasps. He stops, his pink and blue eyes moving from the ladder and to his side, watching as Sylus finally makes a move.

The tall, white haired man doesn’t get on all fours like how everyone has done it, no, no. Sylus takes a single step, hands casually placed inside his leather jacket’s pockets, and he walks across each of the rungs. Every step is precise and casual. The ladder barely even makes a move, staying as still as possible as Sylus effortlessly crosses.

“He’s an angel,” you breathe out, watching as Sylus glides across the ladder.

“I know…I can’t look away,” MC mumbles.

Rafayel’s jaw drops. He watches Sylus, unable to look away. Sylus glances at him, smirking, as he reaches the end of the ladder, reaching down to ring it. While he’s there, Sylus uses his Evol to grab the panda plushie, the same one that Rafayel declared he was going to win for you, and brings it into his arms, walking back down the ladder as if it’s just an average Tuesday evening for him.

Rafayel loses balance and falls onto the inflated mattress beneath him. The crowd screams, cheering for Sylus as he hops off of the inflatable. Rafayel scurries after him and watches as Sylus hands you the panda plushie. You take it from him with wide eyes, looking between the panda and the fuming Rafayel who stands behind.

“I…I definitely can’t take this,” you say, blinking at the oversized panda bear.

You look at Rafayel, who has quickly gained his composure back, and saunters over to the group. He swipes his hoodie back from your hands, quickly throwing it over his shoulder, finger hooked into the collar. He stands beside you and looks around, clearing his throat as if he wasn’t just casually humiliated by a man who looks like he was sculpted by the gods themselves.

Fuck. Does that include Rafayel, too?

“Well,” Rafayel looks at the panda bear, pinching its nose, “I did say that you’d get it. So I’m not technically wrong.”

Just by looking at him, hearing the slight crack in his voice, you know that he feels horrible. That his self esteem has just been shit on by a man who looks like he could break your back with just a simple thrust flick. You sigh, moving the teddy bear back to MC while you hold the panda. You reach out and take his hand, gently squeezing it as his fingers lace between yours like its second nature.

“I want the seahorse anyways,” you comment with a shrug, turning back to Sylus and smiling at him. “Thank you for the panda.”

“Of course,” he nods his head, looking down at MC who smiles at him like he is the only person to ever exist in the world. He smiles back, a hint of smugness in the gesture.

Oh, how you want to smack that smug smirk off of that damn face for making your fathead sculpin feel embarrassed.

“Hey Sylus,” you pass off the panda and tiny seahorse to Rafayel. He looks at you with bewildered eyes, trying to figure out your angle to your sudden proposition. “I’d love to take you on in a game. How about,” your voice falls off. You pretend to look around the carnival, acting like you’re trying to find something. “Basketball?” You shrug, facing him with raised eyebrows. “Sounds fun!”

“You’re on,” Sylus chuckles, nodding his head. He takes MC’s hand, walking them towards the miniature basketball court.

You watch and smirk, cracking your neck and fingers, loosening up your body. You begin to walk after them with Rafayel following close behind. He looks at the side of your face, watching as you tame your hair into a tight ponytail.

“Uh…are you sure this is a good idea?” Rafayel asks as you approach the court that has two hoops. Sylus hands over the money, turning to look back at you as he shrugs off his leather jacket.

“Rafayel, honey,” you turn to look at him. You grab his chin, yanking him down to your level. “Don’t you ever question me ever again. Now kiss my cheek like the good feminist boyfriend you are and hold my damn panda.”

Rafayel sucks in a breath, his cheeks and ears heating up. He leans down and kisses your cheek, quickly moving to kiss the other one. You smile at him, pretending like your blush is fake — news flash: it isn’t — and turn to the court, skipping towards it.

One court belongs to you and Sylus while the other is occupied by other customers. The man watches you with a close eye, the muscles of his biceps flexing underneath the carnival’s bright and colorful lighting. You have to look away, screaming at your mind to stop having dirty thoughts, and grab the basketball as he passes it to you.

“The man was kind enough to let us have a court for our own use,” Sylus claims, sweeping his hair out of his face, “so whatever game you’d like to play, we will.”

You dribble the ball between your hands, making yourself look as awkward as you can. Sylus tilts his head to the side and you look at him, bouncing the ball on the floor so it lands back into his hands.

“I’ve always like the game of HORSE,” you smile, gesturing your head towards the basket, “I’ll let you have the first shot.”

Sylus nods to himself, dribbling the ball. He takes it easy the first time, standing at the free throw line. He shoots the ball and it swishes inside with ease. He passes you the ball and you easily match it, a small crowd beginning to gather around the court.

It goes on like his for twenty minutes. The two of you refusing to let up a shot, going all over the place before you miss the first one, a three pointer from the side with no backboard to rely on.

“Oh,” you pout, turning to look at him, “what a shame. Oh well, there’s plenty of game left!”

An hour passes and the game is tied. Both you and Sylus need the other to miss so the person gets the letter ‘E’ to join the accompanying ‘HORS’.

The silver haired man passes the ball to you, the placement of the shot being left up to you. You look around, moving the ball between your hands as you wander around the court. You glance at Rafayel, who looks like he is about to implode at MC’s side, unable to look at anything but you. Your heart skips a beat and you turn away from his gaze, looking back at Sylus.

You slowly make your way behind the basket, standing by the three point line. The crowd goes silent. Even nearby vendors and customers stop to watch as you launch the ball into the air. Everyone leans forward, eyes fixated on the brown basketball, watching as it plops into the basket with ease.

“Fuck yeah! Get his ass, cutie!” Rafayel yells from the sideline. He turns to the crowd and points to himself. “I’m her boyfriend!”

Sylus quickly intercepts the ball once it hits the ground, sauntering over to you. You step out of the way and place your hands behind your back, inching back towards the fence where Rafayel is. You press your back to the metal fence, feeling Rafayel lean forward and press his cheek against yours.

“Personal space, Raf—”

“Oh, right, sorry,” he mumbles but stays close, watching as Sylus dribbles the ball.

Sylus launches it into the air. The world goes silent from all around you. Even you lean forward with the crowd, watching as the basketball connects with the hoop. The ball dances around, connecting with everything but the net of the hoop. After a few seconds, the ball rolls across the rim and spills out, falling to the side of the hoop.

Rafayel launches himself over the fence, cheering at Sylus’ demise. He drops the panda and seahorse, pulling you into his arms. You jump up and wrap your legs around his waist, hands resting on the sides of his face while he holds the back of your thighs cheering before you collapse onto the ground with a thud. The basketball court employee rolls his eyes and approaches, catching yours and Rafayel’s attention.

“What prize—”

“We want the big ass seahorse!” Rafayel, who lays on top of you, yells. You point to the big seahorse, its pink and blue colors bright underneath the carnival lights.

“Whatever,” the man, who is most likely a stoner now that you think about it, rolls his eyes and collects the prize.

Rafayel stands up, pulling you with him, and snatches the seahorse teddy bear from the man, passing it into your arms. The two of you cheer and giggle with each other, looking at the glittery details of the fins and scales, details you never noticed from afar.

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as Sylus and MC share a kiss, giving the two of you a wave, before leaving. You wave back, nudging Rafayel to do the same, before he turns back to the plushie.

“Hell yeah, we won this!” Rafayel exclaims, grabbing its fins before spinning it around in the air, catching it with ease before handing it back to you.

“We?” you laugh, feeling as he rests his arm around your waist, guiding you towards the art tent.

“Yes, we did! I riled him up for you, cutie, don’t you ever forget that,” Rafayel comments with a smile. “You had to come and save me…you’re my hero! I’m a simple damsel in distress while you channeled the powers of your brother husbands to help you save the day.”

“This is your sign to stop talking like that,” you fake vomit to the side, earning another hearty laugh from the Lemurian.

“You were so badass, though. You really did give him a run for his money. I think I saw him sweat a bit,” he comments, leaning in to kiss the top of your head but he holds back, diverting his gaze elsewhere as he tries to play it off as cool as possible.

Rafayel can’t kiss your head otherwise cheek or lips because you two totally aren’t dating and will never, ever be a thing. Like ever!

“He totally did, didn’t he?” you bask in Rafayel’s praise, never having heard it from him before, and laugh as you approach the white tent.

People move in and out, two young artists standing outside the tent’s flaps passing out fliers for the event. Rafayel situates the panda on the back of his shoulders, holding onto its legs, while you keep the seahorses tucked underneath your arm, smiling as you accept one of the fliers.

“Where is he?” Rafayel whispers, nodding his head with a bright smile at people who wave to him, colleagues from within the art industry. “He’s supposed to be here, right?”

“Well, we did get sidetracked because of your quest to get a seahorse for me,” you whisper back, trying to get him to drop the panda from his shoulders.

“No! My panda!” Rafayel whisper yells at you, dodging every attack that you throw at him. He fights you and slips away from your touch, rushing to the other side of the tent, his giggles floating throughout the tent.

“Be careful!” you whisper as he leaves but he’s already vanished into thin air.

A deep and hearty chuckle approaches you. You turn around, noticing Rhys approach you with his wife on his arm. Your smile widens, posture straightening, as you hold the seahorse on your hip like it is a baby.

“Rhys? What are you doing here?” you ask, waving to him and his wife.

“I love supporting young artists! It’s always nice to see what up and coming talent there is and who to look out for,” his presence is already so comforting despite the heightened anxiety you feel inside your chest. “Now, where is that boyfriend of yours?”

“What day is it? Tuesday? Oh, right, it’s Rafayel’s turn today,” you laugh along with them, earning a wink from his wife, her approval already coming your way from the sly joke about rotating boyfriends. “He’s around here somewhere. He wanted to win me as many prizes as he could before stopping by.”

“What a gentleman!” Rhys’ wife gushes. She leans forward and grabs the fin of the seahorse plushie, giving it a little shake. You laugh, indulging in the comedy of the older generation and scrunch your face up as they laugh and look at each other.

“Cutie! Why didn’t you tell me you were in need of some company?” Rafayel slips himself into the conversation, panda still on his shoulders. “Rhys! It’s way past your bedtime! How are you still up, old man?”

Rhys and Rafayel laugh with their entire bodies, hunching over and slapping each other on the back. You and his wife look at each other, both sharing an eye roll by their dramatics and antics.

“I heard you won many prizes for this pretty lady right here,” Rhys gestures to the toys that hang off of your bodies.

“I did, yes!” Rafayel wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you to his side. “I will win any game that people throw my way if it means that I get to see her smile.”

You blush, looking away before hiding behind the seahorse’s head. You know that he’s lying, that he doesn’t truly mean what he says, but you can’t help but feel satisfied that he’s the one winning you prizes — well, trying to at least — and nobody else. That’s a secret you’ll never tell, though.

“Look at them, darling,” Rhys leans towards his wife, kissing the top of her head. “Young love is something special. I hope that you two never lose your spark. The fire behind your passion!”

Rafayel and you nod, letting out awkward and quiet laughs. You both feel guilty about tricking Rhys into thinking you’re in love, that you two haven’t been enemies ever since you laid eyes on each other in this life.

“Before I let you go, may I ask a favor from the two of you?” Rhys asks, stepping forward and lowering his voice.

“Of course,” the Lemurian responds, “we’re ready to help out whenever you need us!” Rafayel immediately looks at you, the smile on his face growing alongside yours. His grip on you tightens before you turn back to Rhys, nodding as excitement floods throughout your body.

This is it! He’s going to ask you to be the headliner! Are you excited! Oh my sea god you’ve made it! You’re not a failure! Who cares if you and Rafayel used each other to get here? You’re winners, baby! Nothing is going to stop you now!

“As you probably know, I teach a life drawing class at The Dreamscape. We just recently lost our two models, something about restraining orders and divorce or something—”

“Oh what a shame.”

“—and I would love it if you two would be able to step in and be our models! The theme is love, of course, and we want a couple to be our models for the class. What do you think?”

You turn to look at Rafayel, tilting your head to the side, puckering your lips as you narrow your eyes. He matches your expression, raising his eyebrows halfway up his forehead.

We have to! He signals to you.

Bad idea! What if he catches us bickering?

Every couple fights! Don’t be a pussy and do it!

Fine! You owe me for this!

“We’d love to!” You and Rafayel turn back to Rhys and smile. You lean in, temples touching each other as the seahorse is smushed between the two of you.

“Wonderful!” Rhys claps his hands together. “I’ll send the date and time to your agents! I won’t bother your date night with the details. Go have fun, kids! Be sure to stop by the table in the back for a gift just in case you decide to buy a piece of art from one of the kids who presented their paintings tonight.

“This art?” Rafayel snorts. “It looks—”

“The sick children did the best they could. They’re so sick and tired all the time and see ing their smiles while they worked is one of the most fulfilling experiences that I will ever have in my life,” Rhys’ wife gently speaks.

“—it looks so great and amazing! I love how abstract is is! They have an eye for art and I bet it’s because of your influence!” Rafayel quickly recovers.

You have to turn your head away, hiding behind Rafayel’s shoulder, as you cough through the laughs. His hand leaves your waist, moving to your ass as he pinches it. You gasp and he smirks, waving away Rhys and his wife.

“Hey! Why did you do that?” you pout, pushing away from him as you rub the spot where he attacked you.

“That’s for laughing at me! Now, let’s go buy some kid’s art and get out of here,” Rafayel walks away, panda bouncing with every step he takes.

You laugh and follow after him, eyes scanning the wall of art. A lot of them are of flowers, which is easy to draw, while others are of outer space. One of them catches your attention, though, and you grab Rafayel’s hand to stop him before he goes too far.

“I want this one,” you point to it.

“That one?”

“Yes, bitch, that one,” you look up at him, brows knitted together. “What did I say about questioning me?”

“I’m not a brother husband,” Rafayel turns to look at the painting, tilting his head to the side. He holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers at you. “Card, please. I’m a feminist who forgot his wallet.”

“Very slick,” you roll your eyes and turn around, shimmying your backpack. “It’s somewhere in there. I don’t know, have fun finding it.”

Rafayel lets out a dramatic groan, leaning down. The panda’s face hits yours and you swat it away just for it to round back to you. Rafayel rummages through the backpack, giggling when he sees your backup tampons, grabbing your wallet. He walks away, giving you the middle finger as you protest him taking the entire wallet, stating that he only needs a card.

You sigh and turn back to the painting, the smile returning to your face. Your eyes move over the blue waves, looking at the crabs that sit beneath the surface. A couple walks hand in hand on the beach, their feet submerged beneath the water as the sea life flourishes to the side. Something inside of it calls to you, your connection to the sea knowing no bounds.

“Alright, we got it!” Rafayel comes back a few minutes later and tucks the wallet back into your backpack. “I had to fight an old lady for it, so, you’re welcome.”

He helps take it off of the wall, a clear plastic bag full of water in his hand with a small fish floating on the inside. You stare at it, unable to even comprehend how the fuck he got a fish. 

Rafayel casually rolls the painting, making sure not to ruin it, as he slips it inside the complimentary tube to take home. You point to the fish, head falling to the side.

“Hey, Rafayel.”

“What now?”

“Where the fuck did you get a fish?”

“Oh, this is Reddie,” Rafayel casually holds the bag up, pointing to the tiny red fish on the inside of the bag. “He’s the gift Rhys was talking about. I fought a four year old for him.”

“Why wouldn’t you let the kid have him?”

“Because this fish spoke to me.”

“And you were the one who said I needed psychiatric help,” you roll your eyes and take the tube, turning on your heels, and exit the tent.

Rafayel stays close to your side, holding Reddie in one hand while balancing the panda with the other. You follow as the crowd leaves, making sure to wave goodbye to the ticket lady, who mouths fuck her good to Rafayel. He cringes, making a face just as the two of you step out of the park’s gates.

You reach the car and sigh with relief, already feeling your body relax. You set the tube in the backseat of his convertible and place the seahorse in the seat. You lean in and buckle its seatbelt, watching as Rafayel snorts at you.

“You’re ridiculous,” he comments.

“Says the guy who couldn’t win a single game today,” you shoot back.

“I got you the smaller seahorse! What more do you want from me?” Rafayel frowns, slamming the panda into the seat beside the seahorse.

He grumbles under his breath and proceeds to buckle the panda in. His eyes move to you, watching you get into the car, smile on your face as you give Reddie a finger wave. A soft smile spreads across his face, his expression softening. He turns to the panda and scowls, giving it a big ol fucking slap before getting into the driver’s side of the car.

He reaches over your lap and opens up the glove compartment, plucking a silk scarf from the abyss, and places it onto your lap. You stare at it then at him. The car roars to life with Reddie vibrating in the cupholder.

“What’s this?” You ask, feeling the patterned material beneath your fingertips. It’s smooth and cool, looking like something a woman from a spy movie from the 1950s would wear.

“It’s for your hair,” he shrugs, the car already moving out of the parking spot.

“You had this the whole fucking time and now you’re giving it to me?”

“Whoops,” Rafayel smiles, laughing as he looks over at you.

“You’re such an asshole,” you mumble, unable to hold back the smile on your face. You hide your hair under the silk scarf, protecting it as much as you can as Rafayel watches you form the corner of his eye.

He’s unable to contain his smile as well, looking at Linkon City’s skyscrapers to distract himself from the way his heart pounds inside his chest. He revs the car engine and pulls out of the parking spot, making sure to drive slow just for you instead of being a mad man like before.

The car ride home is nice. The music plays in the background as you two familiarize yourself with he fresh sea breeze instead of city smog. You smile and feel the wind between your fingers, looking at your painted nails while Rafayel gazes at you.

It’s so peaceful, so serene. One would think that the two of you are an actual couple instead of enemies who are forced to work with each other. Rafayel takes the long way home, driving through the scenic route of Whitesand Bay. He loves hearing your laughs as the car quickly moves up and down the rolling hills.

He wishes the night isn’t over as soon as he stops in front of the tiny studio you also use as your home. The two of you are so alike and yet so different, it’s interesting to think about.

The convertible comes to a slow stop in the house. The lights are still on with Abigail at home, probably watching some shitty reality tv show without you. You sigh and begin to unbuckle your seatbelt, gathering your belongings. Rafayel, is quick out of the car, racing around the side to open the door. You smile at him and get out, a quiet laugh leaving your lips.

“Thank you,” you say, feeling Rafayel tuck the seahorse and panda underneath your arms. “I think Reddie will be in better care with you than me.”

“Totally,” he nods, matching your smile. “I, uh,” he scratches the back of his head, “wanted to apologize about earlier today.”

“It’s okay, Raf,” you wave him away, the plushies wiggling with the movement.

“No, I was out of line and you didn’t deserve that,” Rafayel sighs, looking down at the gravel, unable to bring himself to look into your eyes.

“I forgive you,” you say the words before you can think about it. He looks up with widened eyes, the pink and blue color looking so beautiful under the moonlight.

“You do?” he asks. You nod, biting your lip. “Thank you.”

Rafayel steps forward, taking your face between your hands, and kisses you. You gasp, eyes flying open. You quickly melt into the kiss, though, with your eyes fluttering shut and you stand up on your toes, helping close the distance between you two.

The kiss lasts for a few seconds, your lips lingering on each others for more than they should have. You slowly pull away, looking into his eyes while his hand caresses your cheek.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” you breathe out.

“I don’t regret it,” Rafayel quickly says.

The Lemurian takes a step back, watching you with a small smile as he gets back into his car. He drives away, giving you one last wave before disappearing down the street.

You smile at nothing, lips tingling from the kiss. You slowly turn around, laughing to yourself, when you look up, eyes connecting with Abigail, whose jaw is dropped. She stands in the open doorway, tub of ice cream falling to the floor.

“What the fuck?!”

It should have set you ablaze. It should have sent your pulse racing, your hands trembling, your breath hitching in your throat like some lovesick fool. But instead, it just sat there, a dull ember in the pit of your stomach.

You let out a slow breath, tilting your head back against the couch.

If he had loved you, why couldn’t he say it?

The answer was simple. Because he hadn’t. Because he couldn’t. Because there had always been her, her laughter ringing through the halls, her presence like sunlight in a house that had only ever been shadows. You were the alternative. The backup plan. The one who stood just close enough to pretend, but never close enough to matter.

A dry chuckle escaped you.

God, you were pathetic. Getting worked up over this? Over him? This was Sylus. The man who had built an empire out of blood and secrets, who had never once in his life needed saving. If he was in trouble, if, then he would get himself out. He always did. Luke and Kieran would come bursting through the doors, guns blazing, or he’d slip his restraints like they were nothing, leaving EVER’s scientists gaping at an empty chair.

You weren’t even a variable in this equation.

If anything, you were just getting in his way. Taking this too seriously. Making it about you, when it had never been about you at all.

You dragged a hand down your face.

Two years. Two years of rebuilding yourself, of waking up in an apartment that was yours, of walking into a lab where people greeted you by name, where your ideas were listened to, where no one watched you with cold, calculating eyes, waiting for you to slip up.

You were happy here.

And wasn’t that the cruelest joke of all? That the moment you walked away from him, the moment you stopped being his shadow, you finally found something that felt like living?

So why now were you even considering throwing it all away?

And that too for him?

The answer should have been easy. It was easy.

You stood abruptly, the sudden motion sending a sharp pain through your temples. The serum was tomorrow. The stronger serum. The one that would kill him.

Your fingers twitched at your sides.

No. No, you weren’t doing this. You weren’t going back. You weren’t risking everything, your job, your safety, your life, for a man who had never once risked anything for you.

You trudged up to your bedroom, the plush carpet muffling your steps. The closet door creaked as you yanked it open, fingers sifting through the familiar fabrics until you found what you were looking for. Soft, worn sweatpants and an oversized shirt that smelled faintly of lavender detergent. You peeled off your work clothes, tossing them into the laundry basket with more force than necessary, as if you could discard the weight of the day just as easily.

The shower hissed to life, steam curling into the air as you stepped under the scalding spray. The water burned, just shy of painful, but you welcomed it. Maybe if it stung enough, it would drown out the thoughts gnawing at the edges of your mind.

Him.

Of course this was all part of his plan. Sylus didn’t get captured. Sylus allowed it. He’d walked into EVER with his eyes wide open, knowing exactly what would happen, knowing you would be the one to see him strapped to that chair. It was a game. It had always been a game.

You scrubbed at your skin until it turned pink, as if you could wash away the memory of his crimson gaze through the observation glass.

He doesn’t get to do this.

The thought was sharp, furious. He didn’t get to waltz back into your life after two years and upend everything. Not after the way he’d let you walk away. Not after the way he’d never once, not once, told you what you’d so desperately needed to hear.

You knew him. Better than most. Five years at his side had taught you that Sylus was a man who took what he wanted. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t second-guess. If he had wanted you, he would have said it. He would have shown it.

But he hadn’t. And that was answer enough.

The water turned cold, snapping you back to the present. You shut it off with a rough twist of the knob, stepping out onto the bathmat, your skin prickling in the chill. The mirror was fogged over, but you didn’t need to see your reflection to know what you’d find there, the same tired eyes, the same clenched jaw, the same woman who had spent two years convincing herself she was over this.

Over him.

You dragged a towel through your hair, your movements jerky.

This was your life. Your choices. You were the one who got to decide what to do, who got to say no, who got to walk away and never look back.

So why was it that the moment you’d seen him again, every carefully constructed wall had crumbled down?

You knew why.

You’d always known.

Somewhere, buried deep beneath the anger and the hurt, there was still a part of you that remembered the way his voice sometimes softened when he said your name. The way his fingers had lingered on the back of your chair, just close enough to feel the warmth of him. The way he’d looked at you, really looked at you, when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

Maybe that was the worst part.

Not the betrayal. Not the silence.

But the hope.

The stupid, traitorous hope that maybe, just maybe, you hadn’t imagined it all.

You exhaled sharply, pressing your palms against your eyes until stars burst behind your lids.

No. You weren’t doing this. You weren’t falling back into that same spiral.

You tugged on your clothes, the fabric soft against your skin, and padded back into the bedroom. The bed was unmade, the sheets still tangled from this morning’s restless sleep. You didn’t bother fixing them.

Instead, you sank onto the edge of the mattress, your fingers curling into the sheets.

You don’t owe him anything.

Tomorrow, you’d walk back into that lab.

And when they brought out the serum, when they strapped him down and prepared to tear his Evol from his veins, you’d make a choice. One way or another.

***

The alarm blared at 5:00 AM sharp. Your hand slapped it silent before the second ring could pierce the quiet. No hesitation. No groggy fumbling. Just cold, mechanical precision, like every other morning.

You rolled out of bed, your bare feet meeting the cool hardwood floor. The apartment was still dark, the city outside still hushed in that eerie pre-dawn stillness. You didn’t bother with the lights. You didn’t need them. Every step, every movement was muscle memory by now.

The kitchen light flickered on as you entered. Coffee first. The machine gurgled to life, the rich, bitter scent filling the air. While it brewed, you cracked two eggs into a pan, the sizzle loud in the silence. Toast popped up. Butter melted. You ate standing at the counter, barely tasting any of it.

Today’s the day.

The thought slithered through your mind, unwelcome but persistent. Today, they’d administer the stronger serum. Today, Sylus would either escape or die.

Your fingers tightened around the coffee mug.

He won’t die. You knew that. Of course you did. Sylus didn’t die. Sylus didn’t lose.

But the sinking feeling in your stomach refused to fade.

You showered. Dressed. Tied your hair back. Every motion was methodical, practiced, like you were a machine going through its programmed routines. The face in the mirror looked back at you, steady, composed, betraying nothing.

Good.

The walk to the transit station was quiet. The streets were still mostly empty, the occasional early riser passing by with bleary eyes. You didn’t look at them. Your mind was elsewhere, turning over possibilities, scenarios, every damn what-if that had kept you awake all night.

What’s his plan?

That was the question, wasn’t it? Sylus always had a plan. Always. So what was it this time? A distraction? A bomb? Were Luke and Kieran already inside, lurking in the vents like shadows?

The train arrived with a hiss. You stepped on, finding your usual seat by the window. The glass was cool against your temple as you leaned, watching the city blur past.

He wouldn’t let them take his Evol.

That much was certain. Energy manipulation was his lifeblood. Without it, he was just a man. And Sylus had never been just anything.

The facility loomed ahead, its sleek, glass-and-steel exterior gleaming under the morning sun. You swiped your keycard at the entrance, the doors sliding open with a soft whoosh.

Everything was normal.

Your eyes flicked to the security cameras, still operational. The elevators, functioning. The researchers milling about, alive, unharmed, chatting about weekend plans like today was just another day.

No explosions. No alarms. No masked figures storming the halls.

Nothing.

A frown tugged at your lips as you stepped into the elevator, pressing the button for Sublevel 7. The descent was smooth, silent. Your reflection stared back at you from the polished metal doors, calm, collected.

The doors slid open. The hallway stretched ahead, sterile and bright. Your footsteps echoed as you walked, the sound too loud in your ears.

Lab 7’s doors hissed at your approach. You punched in the code without thinking.

“Dr. (Y/N), authorization code Rose-9-White.”

The locks disengaged. Your eyes went straight to the observation window.

Empty. Again.

You exhaled, though you weren’t sure if it was relief or frustration.

Shaking your head, you crossed to your workstation, pulling on your lab glasses and gloves with practiced ease. The logs for the day blinked up at you from the holoscreen, routine checks, data analysis, prep for Phase Two.

Your stomach twisted.

You forced your hands to move, pulling up the files, scanning the data. Numbers. Charts. Cold, clinical facts that didn’t mention the man strapped to a chair somewhere in this building, the man whose blood they’d be siphoning today.

Where is he?

You shouldn’t care. You didn’t care.

But your gaze kept drifting to the empty observation chamber, to the dangling restraints, to the faint smudge of blood still on the floor from yesterday.

What are you planning, Sylus?

The question burned in your skull, unanswered.

You turned back to your work.

And waited for hell to break loose.

The lab doors hissed open, and you glanced over your shoulder out of habit, only to freeze for half a second when you saw Dr. Voss stride in.

Weird. He was never late. In fact, he’d once fired an intern for being two minutes behind schedule. You’d assumed he slept in his office just to avoid the indignity of traffic.

Shaking your head, you turned back to your workstation, fingers flying over the holoscreen as you logged the latest batch of data. 

But then you heard a sharp gasp. Then another. Your head snapped up.

Dr. Voss stood near the observation window, his back rigid, his usually immaculate suit rumpled. He was speaking in hushed, urgent tones to a cluster of senior researchers, their faces paling by the second. One of them, Dr. Cho, actually took a step back, as if physically recoiling from whatever Voss had just said.

Mara sidled up beside you, her elbow nudging yours. "Wonder what’s going on?"

You didn’t take your eyes off them. "If it were anything minor, he’d be screaming by now," you muttered. "He’s never late. If he could, he’d kill anyone who is."

Mara snorted, but her amusement faded as Voss turned toward the rest of the lab.

And that’s when you saw it. The sweat.

A thin sheen glistening across his forehead, droplets rolling down his temples despite the lab’s controlled climate. His hands, usually so steady, trembled faintly at his sides. His throat worked as he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing like he was forcing down bile.

Then, without warning, he cleared his throat. The sound was like a gunshot in the sudden silence. Every head in the lab turned. Every breath held.

Voss opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"I–" His voice cracked. He tried again. "I advise you all to start putting away everything and get ready to evacuate. You’ll be getting the notice soon."

For a heartbeat, there was nothing.

Then, chaos.

Gasps. Panicked shouts. The clatter of equipment being dropped, stools scraping back, voices overlapping in a cacophony of panic. The lab had never been this loud. Not even during the fire drill last month.

Mara stepped forward, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade. "What’s going on? You can’t just come in like that, tell us to drop everything and leave!"

Voss’s gaze locked onto hers. For a long, terrifying moment, he didn’t speak. It was like watching a man hesitate before jumping off a cliff.

Then, finally, he exhaled.

"The subject," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "Our subject… he’s–he’s not in the cell."

Silence. Absolute, suffocating silence.

Then Mara, ever the pragmatist, frowned. "So? He escaped. Call security. Lock it down."

Voss didn’t blink. "He didn’t escape."

Your heartbeat was hammering in your ears. 

"The cell’s still locked."

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