We have a dam problem

"Thomas."

"—I will owe you forever, I will name my firstborn after you, I will—"

"I'll go."

So here you are. The door is unlocked, which means he knows you are coming or he has simply stopped caring about basic security, and with Rafayel it could be either. You let yourself in and the smell hits you first—turpentine, salt air, and a metallic undertone that clings to the house when he has been working for days without opening a window. The curtains are half drawn. Canvases everywhere. Leaning against the walls, stacked in the corner, one propped against the leg of the kitchen table for reasons you cannot begin to guess. A few look finished. Most do not. One near the window still has wet paint on it, deep blues bleeding into reds at the center, colors so saturated they look heavy.

You find him on the couch.

He is half sprawled across it with one arm thrown over the backrest and the other resting across his stomach, still in the same white shirt he had on two days ago when you dropped off food he has probably forgotten to eat. It is unbuttoned too far, sleeves shoved up, the fabric wrinkled past saving. His hair is a disaster. There is a faint sheen at his temples.

He doesn't look up when you come in.

You drop your bag on the nearest clear surface, which takes a moment to locate, and walk over.

“Rafayel.”

Nothing.

You move until you're standing directly in his eyeline."Thomas is losing his mind because you won't answer your phone, and apparently that's now my problem too. He called me four times. Four, Rafayel. I am not your secretary."

He blinks. Slow, like the signal has to travel a long distance before it arrives. His eyes finally move up to yours and the color in them is slightly off from usual. There is too much color on his face too. High on his cheekbones, a flush that had no business being there in the middle of the afternoon.

"You look terrible," you say to him.

The corner of his mouth makes an attempt at something"That's not a very nice thing to say."

"What's going on? Are you sick?"

"I'm fine." his voice is rougher than it should be "The paintings will be ready. Tell Thomas to calm down."

But his face does something when he finishes the sentence—the flush deepens fast, color rushing up his neck—and he turns his head away and brings his arm up over his eyes like the light has suddenly gotten worse. Or like he has decided you have seen enough of his face.

You watch him for a moment.

"Rafayel."

"I'm fiiiiiine," he says again, quieter. Still behind his arm. The tips of his ears now pink. "You can go. Really. I just need another hour."

He doesn't sound like he needs an hour. He sounds like he needs a week and possibly an IV drip, and the arm covering his face is now pressing slightly harder.

You pull the low table out of the way and sit on the edge of the couch near his legs. The apartment holds its quiet around you.

"How long have you been like this?"

Nothing.

"Was it like this yesterday?"

Still nothing.

"Rafayel, I'm going to start guessing and I'm going to keep guessing out loud until you answer me. I have a lot of time and nowhere to be."

You reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist to check his pulse and the second you touch him, he sucks in a breath and goes stiff beneath your hand. It wasn't surprise. You'd touched him before. This was different.

He pulls his arm back. The flush on his face has gone from concerning to alarming, deep red climbing all the way to the tips of his ears.

"Don't," he presses his arm back over his eyes "Please don't touch me right now."

"What do you mean? You just flinched like I burned you." you lean closer, trying to get a look at his face, which he is now actively shielding. "Rafayel. What is wrong with you? Is this an Evol thing? Did something happen? Do I need to call a doctor?"

"No." flat and immediate."No doctors."

"You are burning up!"

"It's not a normal fever." He curls slightly away from you, toward the back of the couch, and on a normal day it would be funny but his voice has gone rough enough that nothing about it is funny right now. "It'll pass. It always does."

"Raf" You keep your voice even. "Tell me what's happening."

He peeks at you from between his fingers. One eye, glassy and annoyed. “I’m an artist. We’re supposed to look tragic. It’s part of the look.”

“You’re part of the ‘about to pass out on your own couch and give me a heart attack’ look.”

He drops his hand with a dramatic sigh and flops further into the cushions like the weight of your existence is personally offending him. “You’re cruel. Coming into a man’s home, insulting his artistic suffering, and for what? So Thomas can sleep better at night?"

You crouch down beside the couch so you’re closer to eye level. Up close the heat rolling off him is worse. His skin looks damp at the hairline. You reach out without thinking and press the back of your hand to his forehead.

For a few seconds the apartment is quiet enough that you can hear the distant crash of waves through the open doors. Then he makes a soft, offended sound in the back of his throat and tips his head away, but not before you feel how warm he really is.

“It’s just… residual inspiration. Very intense residual inspiration.” He waves a vague hand at the half finished canvases. “I was in the middle of a breakthrough and then life decided to be rude. Happens to the best of us.”

You stay crouched there, unimpressed. “When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t coffee or paint water?”

“I had some grapes. Possibly yesterday.”

You straighten up and plant your hands on your hips. “Get up.”

He stares at you like you just suggested he set his favorite brushes on fire. “Excuse me?”

“Get up. We’re going for a walk.”

“A walk.” He repeats the word slowly, making sure you understand the gravity of what you've suggested. "When every bone in my body is requesting a soft death on this expensive couch. You want me to walk?”

“Yes. Fresh air. Ocean. Moving your legs like a person"

He throws an arm over his eyes again. “I should have never given you that spare key.”

“You didn’t give me a spare key. I stole it last month when you refused to answer the door for a week.”

“…That tracks,” he mutters.

You lean down, catch his wrist, and tug. Just enough to make it clear you’re not leaving without him. He resists for show, then lets himself be hauled into a sitting position with a long groan that would have been more convincing if he didn’t immediately lean into your space like the proximity was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Shoes. Now. Or I call Thomas and tell him you’re dying.”

That gets his attention. He looks up at you, eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Rafayel stares at you, weighing the threat.

“Fine. But if I collapse on the sand, you’re carrying me home. Bridal style.”

“Deal.”

Getting him vertical takes longer than it should. He sways once, catches your shoulder, and mutters something about gravity being a personal enemy today. You wait him out, steady, until he seems relatively solid on his feet. He shoves his feet into a pair of scuffed loafers without bothering to tie them properly, grabs a light jacket from the back of a chair, and follows you toward the door with the air of a man being led to his own execution.

Outside the air is cooler, the walk down toward the shore is quiet at first. You keep half a step behind him in case he decides to run for it. He doesn’t. He just walks with his hands shoved in his pockets, head tipped back like he’s trying to convince the sky to take pity on him.

After a few minutes the silence starts to feel intentional.

“You’re hovering,” he says without looking at you.

“I’m making sure you don’t faceplant into the ground.”

“I’m fine.”

“You said that earlier while looking like a Victorian orphan with consumption.”

He shoots you a sideways glance, the corner of his mouth twitching “You’ve been spending too much time with Thomas. You’re starting to sound like him. Next you’ll be scheduling my meals and color coding my paint tubes.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

The path curves and the beach opens up ahead of you, all pale sand and clear water. The tide is low. The air smells cleaner out here. Rafayel slows as soon as his shoes hit the sand.

“I hate sand,” he complains. “It gets everywhere. Inside my shoes and between my toes"

“You live by the ocean.”

“I live by the view. The view does not require contact with the sand.”

You keep walking. He follows, grumbling under his breath the whole way, but the color in his face looks a little less alarming now that he’s upright and moving. The sea breeze seems to help. Or maybe it’s just the distraction of having someone to complain at.

You end up near the waterline where the sand is firmer. Rafayel stops, kicks off his loafers with unnecessary drama, and digs his toes into the wet sand and you do the same. The water feels cold when it reaches your ankles. He hisses.

“Its cold, the ocean is being rude today.”

“Everything is rude today according to you.”

“You didn’t have to come, you know. Thomas worries too much. I would have eventually crawled out of the couch and finished the paintings. Maybe.”

You bump his shoulder lightly with yours. “Next time just answer your phone so I don’t have to play rescue mission.”

He is quiet for a moment. The waves keep rolling in, soft and steady. Then he says, almost too low to catch“Maybe I like it when you show up.”

You glance at him. He’s looking out at the water, expression carefully neutral, but the tips of his ears have gone pink again.

Before you can decide what to do with that, something catches the light near the edge of the tide line.

A pale shape, half buried in the wet sand a few meters ahead. Not a shell or glass.

You frown and walk toward it. Rafayel trails after you, curiosity overriding whatever lethargy is left.

“What is it?” he asks.

You crouch and dig it free carefully. It’s a protocore, small and pure white. Not the usual colors you’ve seen before. This one looks almost unfinished, like someone carved a piece of moonlight and left it on the beach for the tide to find.

It pulses once against your palm.

Rafayel goes still beside you.

“That’s…” He trails off, eyes fixed on the white glow in your hand. “I’ve never seen one like that.”

Neither have you.

The pulse happens again. Stronger this time. The air around the two of you tightens, like the moment before a storm breaks.

You look up at him.

He’s already looking at you.

The second his fingers brush the white protocore everything changes.

A sudden pull that yanks the air out of your lungs and folds the beach in on itself. All of it collapses inward like someone is sucking the world through a straw. You feel Rafayel’s hand close hard around your wrist a split second before the ground disappears.

Then you’re falling.

You hit something green and scratchy with enough force to knock the breath out of you. Leaves slap your face and twigs dig into your back. Somewhere to your left Rafayel makes a noise that is half groan, half pure offense.

“Ouch—my hand—”

You push yourself up on your elbows, leaves stuck in your hair, heart hammering against your ribs. The protocore is still clutched in your hand, warm and faintly pulsing like a second heartbeat. Rafayel is sprawled half on his side in the same bush, one arm flung out, the other cradled against his chest. He looks personally betrayed by the existence of shrubbery.

“What the hell was that?”

He sits up with a wince, shaking leaves out of his hair. “I barely touched it and the universe decided to throw us into a hedge. Rude. Extremely rude.” He flexes his fingers, scowling. “I think I scraped my palm on a leaf."

You scramble to your feet, brushing dirt off your clothes, and look around.

The beach is gone.

Instead of open sand and ocean you are standing at the edge of a garden that looks like it belongs on the cover of an architecture magazine.

You are inside a mansion.

A full, sprawling mansion of pale stone, all clean lines and floor to ceiling glass, the kind of place that makes expensive sound like an understatement. Balconies wrap around the upper floors. Somewhere behind the structure you can hear the faint splash of water.

Rafayel stares.

Then he says, very quietly, “Oh no.”

“What?”

He is already moving, shoving through the bushes with far less grace than usual, heading for an open side door a few meters away. You follow because what else are you supposed to do. The protocore is still in your fist.

Inside is cool and quiet and smells faintly of citrus. The entryway alone is bigger than most people’s apartments. Polished floors. A vase of white flowers on a console table. Everything is spotless, lived in but somehow still perfect.

Rafayel walks straight to a side table near the door like he knows exactly where everything is. He picks up a folded newspaper that has been left there, glances at the front page and freezes.

You step closer. “What is it?”

He doesn’t answer. He just turns the paper so you can see the date printed in bold black letters at the top.

Two years ahead.

Exactly two years.

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on.

“That’s not possible,” you say “Protocores don’t— they don’t do that.”

He flips the paper open, scans the headlines like he’s hoping the date will change if he looks hard enough.

“This is one of my properties. I bought it last year as an investment. It wasn’t even finished yet. The pool wasn’t installed. The gardens weren’t—” He stops, swallows. “This isn’t supposed to exist yet.”

You look down at the white protocore still glowing faintly in your hand.

His eyes track the movement and he reaches for it again, fingers outstretched—

A sound cuts through the quiet, coming from the back of the house. Something that might be water. Or someone moving.

Both of you go still.

“That should be the pool,” he says after a second"Or where the pool apparently already is.”

You glance at him. “We should leave.”

“We should.” the newspaper is still clenched in his other hand. “But if this is actually… if we really are two years ahead…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to. Curiosity already written across his face.

You move together, quiet, following the sound through the open plan living space and out through a set of wide glass doors that lead to the rear terrace. The pool is exactly where the sound suggested— huge, water so clear it looks like glass.

And there, on a sunbathing chair is Rafayel.

Not the one standing beside you.

Another one.

He is half reclined, one leg bent, the other stretched out. A large sketchbook rests against his thigh. Charcoal smudges his fingers. He is wearing only a pair of dark swim shorts that sit low on his hips, and his skin is flushed a deep, uneven red across his chest, shoulders and the high points of his cheekbones, like he has been sitting in the sun for too long, or like something under the surface is running too hot. His hair is slightly damp, pushed back from his face. He is completely focused on the page in front of him, his fingers moving in long strokes.

Present Rafayel makes a sound beside you but can’t look away.

The drawing is… not subtle. Even from this distance you can see the curve of a bare hip, the arch of a spine, the suggestion of breasts. A woman. Naked. Rendered with intimate details that make your stomach twist. Future Rafayel’s hand moves again, refining the line of a thigh, and the flush on his skin seems to deepen.

Present Rafayel’s fingers close around your upper arm, hard.

“We need to go,” he's trying to tug you back "Right now. This is— this is private. This is extremely private and we are not supposed to be here"

You dig your heels in. “That’s you.”

“I am aware it is me. That is the problem.” his voice is louder“We are leaving before—”

A splash of water cuts him off.

Someone is climbing out of the pool.

She— you— rises from the water in one smooth motion, water streaming down bare skin. A pink swimsuit clings to every curve, soaked through and heavy. She pushes her wet hair back from her face, water droplets catching the light as they slide down her throat, between her breasts, lower. She look relaxed. Comfortable. Like she belong here. Like this is ordinary.

She walks toward his sunbathing chair and Rafayel’s grip on your arm turns bruising.

“Don’t look,” he whispers, almost desperate. “Please don't look. We are going to pretend none of this happened and—”

You look anyway.

And that is when you see what he has been trying to pull you away from.

One of future Rafayel’s hands is not longer resting on the sketchbook.

His palm is pressed firmly over the front of his shorts. The fabric is stretched tight. The outline of his cock is unmistakable. He is hard, and he is not even trying to hide it. His eyes are still on the page, on the naked figure he is drawing, but his hand starts moving in a lazy, self indulgent rhythm like the two things are connected.

Your mouth goes dry.

He is half naked in the sunlight and it is impossible not to notice everything at once. The breadth of his shoulders. The clean lines of muscle across his chest and stomach, still faintly damp from earlier swimming or from the heat rolling off his skin. The way his abs tighten when his hand presses harder. He looks like a sculpted god.

Present Rafayel sounds like he is being slowly murdered.

“Stop staring,” his ears are scarlet. His whole face is scarlet. “I cannot believe he has the audacity to— in broad daylight— with a sketchbook— I am going to have words with myself. Harsh words."

Future you reaches his chair and future Rafayel finally looks up.

He smiles at her like the sun just came out and the flush on his skin darkens another shade.

You cannot look away from the version of him stretched out in the chair, hard, watching her while he strokes his cock.

“Seriously, stop looking.”

“You stop looking.”

“I’m looking at myself!”

“So am I!”

“That is not the same thing and you know it. Looking at me looking like that is a crime against my dignity. Stop.”

You do not stop and he doesn't either.

Future Rafayel sets the sketchbook aside and leans back, one hand still pressed over the front of his shorts, and watches the wet version of you like he has been counting every second.

“Took you long enough, I was starting to think you’d decided to let me suffer out here alone.”

She moves and stops between his knees, water still running down her skin in slow tracks. She tips her head, droplets falling onto his thighs. “You looked busy. I didn’t want to interrupt the masterpiece.” her eyes drop to the thick outline under his palm. “Although it seems you are having a hard time staying focused.”

He lets out a breath that is half laugh when she reaches down and presses her fingers over his, forcing him to grind harder against his own hand. “You’re evil.”

She leans in until her wet hair brushes his chest and her mouth is close to his ear. “How long have you been out here touching yourself to a drawing of me?”

“I’m starting to regret every time I told you I liked it when you teased.”

“You love it when I tease.” her voice drops lower, soft and filthy. “You like it when I make you draw me while you're hard. When I sit there and tell you in detail what I'm going to do to your cock later and watch you try to keep your hand steady." she drags one finger down his chest."You've gotten close just from that. Just from my voice. Haven't you?"

His hips jerk under her hand. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“Let me come. I’ve been good. I waited. I drew every line exactly the way you wanted—look at it, it’s—”

She picks up the sketchbook, glances at the page, and sets it back down with a small, considering hum. “That’s good enough.”

She moves back to settle on her knees between his thighs. Takes her time about it.

Rafayel’s fingers dig into your arm. “Is she—"

Her hands move to his hips. Thumbs hooked under the waistband of the dark shorts. He lifts enough to help. The fabric drags down, catching for a second on the fat head of his dick before it springs free.

It's a really pretty cock.

Long, slightly curved, thick enough that her fingers look almost delicate wrapped around the base. The head is dark pink and shiny, already wet from how long he has been touching himself. A thick vein runs along the underside. A clear bead or precum gathers at the tip and threatens to spill.

“I did not need to see that. I did not need to see my future—”

She doesn't take him into her mouth right away. She leans in and licks a slow stripe over the head, catching that bead of pre on her tongue and humming like it was exactly what she wanted. His hand flies to her wet hair, holding on“Fuck—don’t tease, not after everything—”

She drags her tongue up the underside slowly, base to tip, and his thigh jumps against her shoulder.

Then she circles the head, the flat of her tongue pressing in, taking her time with the ridge of it, the specific place that makes his breath change, and she stays there until his breathing has gone uneven enough that she can hear it clearly over everything else.

She licks the tip once and his hips move forward and then stop, the effort of keeping still visible in every muscle of his thighs.

She licks it again. Slower.

His thighs are shaking now, a fine tremor he's trying to control and can't. She watches him and waits until it gets worse.

Then she opens her mouth and sinks down.

All the way.

Her throat works around him. He groans, head falling back against the chair as she starts to move, she pulls almost all the way off so her tongue can swirl over the head before she slides back down until her nose brushes the flushed skin of his stomach.

Present Rafayel is now quiet beside you. Heat rolls off him in waves. When you glance sideways his face is the same feverish red it was on the couch. He has angled himself carefully so the front of his pants stays hidden, but the tension in his shoulders and the way his throat works when he swallows tell you everything. Future him is deep in it. Present him is feeling every second.

You look back.

She keeps teasing—pulling off to lick long, wet stripes up the underside, sucking just the head while her hand strokes the rest in tight twists, then taking him deep again until his hips keep making small thrusts he is clearly fighting. His voice has gone wrecked and pleading.

“Please— I’ve been so patient— you said if I waited you’d let me— fuck, your mouth is so wet— don’t stop—”

She hums around him. The vibration makes his whole body jolt. Her free hand slides between his legs, cupping and rolling his balls while she sucks harder, faster, the wet sounds turning filthy. Spit slicks down his shaft. Her lips stay stretched around him. Every time she takes him to the root he makes a broken little sound like he cannot believe it's still happening.

He comes with a punched out groan, hips lifting off the chair, one hand fisted tight in her wet hair. She stays on him through it, swallowing, throat working visibly around every pulse until he finally sags back, panting, still twitching on her tongue.

Something in the air shifts.

The flush on future Rafayel’s skin deepens and when he opens his eyes they are no longer the same color. They glow in a bright, electric blue, completely different from the man who was begging a moment ago. The sea god is looking out through them now. You can feel it in the way the temperature of the air seems to drop, in the way the water in the pool goes unnaturally still for half a second.

He moves fast.

One second he is still half sprawled in the chair. The next he has hauled her up into his arms like she weights nothing, takes two long strides, and jumps.

Water explodes outward as they hit the pool together.

Present Rafayel’s breath leaves him in a rush. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no—"

They surface together and his mouth finds hers before she's finished catching her breath.

It's not a gentle kiss. It's wet and open and his tongue slides against hers like he's been thinking about doing this for hours.

He moves her back through the water.

She lets him. Her hands are at his shoulders, the water is chest high and he moves through it like it's nothing, one arm around her waist, the other already at the strings of her bikini top, pulling at the knot at her back while his mouth stays on hers and the tiled edge of the pool finds her spine.

He pulls back half an inch just to look at her, water running down her face, her hair slicked back, both of them breathing hard and then his hand finds the knot at her neck and tugs.

Her breasts spill free, wet and flushed, nipples tight from the cool air and the sudden attention. He makes a low, approving sound and ducks his head, taking one into his mouth. He bites—hard enough to make her gasp sharply—then soothes the sting with a wide stroke of his tongue before sucking hard enough that the sound carries clearly across the water. His other hand cups the second breast, thumb dragging roughly over the nipple until it is just as tight and sensitive.

Heat pools between your legs, soaking into the fabric of your panties. You can feel every pulse of your clit.

“We have to look away” you say, voice thinner than it should be.

Rafayel’s head snaps toward you. His eyes are glassy. The flush on his face has spread down his throat. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

He doesn't deny it again. He just stares at you, breathing too fast, while the sounds from the pool keep going.

Future Rafayel has one hand between her legs under the water. You can tell by the way her hips roll, by the way one hand clutches the edge of the pool hard enough that the tendons stand out in her wrist. They are face to face, breathing the same air, mouths almost touching.

His voice has dropped into something deeper, colder, older—nothing like the playful tone from before.

“You're shaking already and I’ve barely touched you. All that teasing earlier, all that swimming past me with your eyes on my cock, and now you can barely breathe. Pathetic.” He pushes two fingers in without warning and her head falls back with a broken sound. “You spent hours winding me up and the second I take over you turn into this?”

She is breathless. He adds a third finger and his mouth stays right against hers as he speaks, mean and relentless.

“Your pussy is needy today. Every time I curl my fingers you clench like you’re trying to keep them inside. You’re not keeping anything. I'll take them out when I want to take them out. You’re just a hole that gets wet when I stop being kind. Tell me what you are.”

“Yours—”

“Not good enough. Try again.”

“Your hole— fuck— your wet little hole—”

“Better.” the word is sharp, almost amused. “You pushed and pushed and now you get the consequences. He curls his fingers and holds.

"I'm going to make you come like this first." His mouth at her jaw. Just his lips against her skin, speaking directly into it. "Then I'm going to put my mouth on you and do it again. While you cry." his thumb circles her clit "Because you're going to cry. We both know that."

She opens her mouth.

"Don't even think about it" he says.

She closes it.

"After that—" his fingers pull back slowly and push forward and she clenches and he makes a quiet sound of acknowledgment that is worse than anything else he's done so far, "—if I decide you've earned it, you get my cock." He pulls back just enough to look at her face "Understand?"

She can only nod, trembling.

His thumb circles her clit again.

Once.

Her thighs try to close but his hand is in the way.

Twice.

She grabs at his arm. Not pushing, just needing something to hold onto. He lets her. His fingers curl inside her at the same time, in an angle he's already learned, and the combination of it makes her vision blur at the edges.

"Stay with me,"

Three times.

She clenches hard around his fingers and makes a sound that is embarrassingly close to a sob and he groans in response, satisfied, his mouth dropping to the side of her neck.

"There it is."

Four times.

She comes apart so fast it surprises her, her orgasm hitting before she's braced for it, her whole body seizing around his fingers. He keeps his thumb exactly where it is, keeps the pressure steady, works her through every wave of it without speeding up or slowing down, just that same circle while she shakes against him and grabs at whatever she can reach.

He doesn't stop until she goes still.

Then he pulls his fingers out slowly and she feels the loss of them immediately.

He looks at his hand.

"One"

Heat throbs hard between your legs. You realize you are panting, mouth open, and that present Rafayel is close and his eyes keep dropping to your mouth and then to your future selves like he cannot decide which is more dangerous.

In the pool, Rafayel ducks under the water without another word.

Her hands slap against the edge, gripping so hard her knuckles go white. Her back arches. The moan that tears out of her is loud enough that anyone walking by would think she is dying. He stays under, the water moving in small waves.

She grabs the pool edge and tries to pull herself out. He pulls her back down.

She cums with a cry that cracks in the middle and leaves her trembling.

He surfaces slowly, eyes still that bright, unnatural blue. "Two"

He doesnt give her time to recover.

He hooks her knees over his elbows, lines himself up, and pushes in with one hard thrust that punches another broken sound out of her. He fucks her like he is trying to leave bruises on the inside, his mouth staying close to her ear the whole time, voice still mean and devastatingly effective.

“Dont look away, watch me use you.” He snaps his hips harder “You're already trying to milk me. Greedy. You’ve always been a greedy girl"

She can barely form words.

“You’re going to come on my cock and when you do, you’re going to say thank you like you mean it. If you don’t, I’ll stop and leave you empty. Clear?”

“Yes— clear— please don’t stop—”

“I wasn’t asking you to beg. I was telling you the rules.” He fucks her deeper, the water splashing over the edge with every thrust. “So the next time you decide to tease me for hours, remember how it ends. Remember how the sea god fucks the attitude out of you until all that’s left is this—open legs and a mouth that only knows how to thank me.”

The heat is now unbearable. You turn away because the combination of the wet filth of it and the way Rafayel is breathing beside you makes it hard to pull air into your lungs. Your thighs are pressed tightly together. You can feel how soaked you are, how every mean word from the pool seems to land directly between your legs.

A hand brushes yours.

You look down.

Rafayel is right there—close enough that the heat of his body sinks into your skin, close enough that the flush on his cheekbones is impossible to ignore. His eyes are fixed on your face. The lewd sounds from the pool keep washing over both of you—water, skin, broken moans, the low mean murmur of future him still talking, still fucking into her with the same rhythm, still telling her exactly who she is and how he is going to keep using her.

His fingers slide against yours, until the tips brush the edge of the white protocore still clutched in your hand.

Gravity disappears. You feel his hand tighten around yours and the two of you are pulled hard into a sudden, familiar freefall.

It ends the same way it started, without warning.

You hit something warm and solid at the same time Rafayel does. The impact knocks the air out of both of you. But you are not side by side.

You are on top of him.

Your knees bracket his hips. Your hands have landed on either side of his head. His are on your waist, fingers spread like he grabbed for you mid fall and never let go. The white protocore slips from your hand and dissolves into the air. His chest rises and falls hard under yours. His eyes are wide and dark and too close.

The flush on his face from earlier has not faded. If anything it has gotten worse. Up close you can see the way his pupils are blown, the way his throat works when he swallows. You can feel every place you are touching. The press of his stomach against yours. The unmistakable hardness that is currently pressed against the inside of your leg.

He notices the exact second you notice.

The ocean keeps making its usual sounds like nothing has happened, like the two of you did not just watch his future self get his soul sucked out through his dick.

“Raf—”

“Don’t.” He closes his eyes like that will help. “Don't say anything. Dont move. I am hanging on by a thread"

You can feel the thread, currently throbbing against your thigh.

“You’re hard,” you say, because someone has to acknowledge the extremely obvious.

“Yes. Thank you for the live commentary. I was hoping we could both pretend the last twenty minutes did not happen and that I am not currently one deep breath away from doing something we will both have to live with for the rest of our lives.”

“We just watched—”

“I am aware of what we watched.” His eyes open again. They are fixed on your mouth. “Future me is a menace. Future you on her knees is a menace. The entire afternoon has been a coordinated attack on my ability to act like a functional person.”

You shift slightly and the movement drags you directly over the hard line of his cock. His fingers dig into your waist hard enough that you feel the shape of every single one.

His eyes keep dropping to your mouth and then forcing themselves back up.

“This is your fault,” he mutters. “You and your ‘let’s go for a walk’. I was having a relaxing day on my couch and now I have the memory of my own co—”

He cuts himself off.

“Rafayel.”

“What.”

“You’re still holding me.”

You can feel the damp spot between your legs, still lingering from everything you watched. Every inhale presses your chests together. Every exhale makes the space between your mouths smaller.

“If you kiss me right now I am going to let you. And then I am going to hate both of us for doing it on a public beach with sand in places sand should never be. So please, for the love of every unfinished painting in my studio. Do not.”

You don't kiss him but you also don't move off him.

His eyes are so dark they look almost black. You can feel the exact shape of his cock now and the way it jumps when you move your weight even a fraction.

A shadow falls over both of you.

Someone clears their throat.

“Am I interrupting?” Thomas asks, voice flat with exhaustion that only comes from managing Rafayel for years, “or is this the new method for meeting deadlines?"

He stands a few feet away with a folder under one arm. He looks from Rafayel's face to yours and then back to him again.

“You weren’t answering your phone. Again. The gallery has three collectors asking about the new pieces and I was informed—by you, last week—that they would be finished by today.” Thomas’s eyes drop briefly to where your knees are still bracketing Rafayel’s hips.

“I have been having a medical event,” Rafayel says through his teeth. “A very private medical event that is currently being made less private by the second.”

“You’re on the beach. On top of each other. In public. Do either of you need a hand up, or should I come back in ten minutes with a a plausible deniability statement for the local press?”

Rafayel’s hands finally leave your waist like they have been burned. You scramble off him, heart still hammering, face hot. He sits up slowly, carefully angling his body so the evidence of the last few minutes stays hidden behind one bent knee. His hair is a disaster. There is sand on his cheek. The flush is still there.

Thomas looks between you both one more time, then pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I’m going to pretend I saw nothing” he turns and starts walking back to Rafayel's home without waiting for an answer.

Rafayel stares after him for a long second. Then he drops his face into his hands and lets out a muffled sound.

You sit there in the sand beside him, trying very hard not to think about the way his voice sounded when he told you not to kiss him.

He stands up carefully, brushing sand off his pants and offers you a hand without quite meeting your eyes.

“Come on. Before Thomas comes back”

You take his hand.

It is warm.

He does not let go right away.

When he realizes he is still holding it he drops it and starts walking, deciding the only way to survive this afternoon is to pretend, pretend none of it happened and that he doesn't need a very cold shower.

You follow him and watch the back of his neck stay pink the entire way.

THE LAST PART FOR THIS SERIES IS VALKO, BUT FIRST NERD! ZAYNE (SYLUS) 😈😈😏

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Xavier

You and Xavier are sent on a high-level mission to clear out multiple lumnivores that have been tearing through the outskirts of Linkon.

With the threat level this high, hunters from every division have been pulled in — including people you trained with.

--

You have mixed feelings about seeing your old cohort again. Some of them you're glad to see. Some you'd hoped never to run into again.

One name in particular sits heavy in your chest: Brad.

He was sharp, always top of the class, a big broad-shouldered man with a fire evol and a permanent scowl reserved just for you. From the day he met you, he decided he didn't like you — and he never once tried to hide it.

He'd shove you in the halls for no reason at all. Whisper something to his friends the second you walked past, then laugh, mean-girl style, even though he was a grown man. He'd comment on your hair, call it messy, even when it wasn't.

It came to a head on an ordinary training day. Brad had been worse than usual — because that morning, one of the trainers had praised you in front of everyone for how much you'd improved. You'd taken his spot at the top of the monthly rankings, and for the first time in a while, you let yourself feel proud of it.

So you decided to talk to him. Calmly. Like an adult.

"I respect that you're a hard worker, and that a lot of people look up to you," you said, holding his eye. "I just want us to be able to get along. I don't think we are."

He laughed in your face.

"Wow. That's a lot of bullshit coming out of your mouth." His eyes raked over you, contemptuous. "The reason I don't like you is because you don't deserve to be here. You're underqualified, your evol is useless — you should be cleaning my shoes, not training next to me."

His friends laughed on cue.

You didn't answer. His words didn't land the way he wanted them to — you knew exactly what you'd fought for to be standing there. You turned and walked away without a word.

That silence made him angrier than anything you could have said. He'd wanted tears. Groveling. Rage. Instead, he got nothing — and he decided the next time, he'd make sure you couldn't just walk away from it.

--

It was a bright, easy morning when it happened. You woke up, chatted with your roommate over nothing in particular, and were halfway through breakfast when a knock came at your door: your supervisor wanted to see you.

You didn't think much of it walking over — figured it was something about the mission rotation, maybe a schedule change. Then you pushed open the door and found the room already half full.

Captain Voss sat behind the desk. Brad was in the chair to the left of it, arms crossed, doing a poor job of looking neutral. And beside him, dabbing carefully at her eyes with a tissue she'd clearly brought with her, was Chelsea — the girl who trailed Brad and his friends everywhere, always laughing a beat too early at whatever he said.

You hadn't even sat down yet and the tears were already going.

"Oh — sorry," Chelsea said, voice wobbling on cue, pressing the tissue under her eyes without smudging a single thing. "I just — this is really hard for me."

Brad's hand found her shoulder immediately, rubbing slow, sympathetic circles into it. "Hey. Hey, you don't have to do this if it's too much." His voice had gone soft, gentle, nothing like the voice he used on you. He glanced at Voss. "Can we maybe reschedule? She's really shaken up."

"Of course." Voss was already halfway out of his seat with concern. "Chelsea, do you need a minute? Water?"

"No, no, I want to—" a small, brave sniffle, "—I want to get through it. I don't want to be a coward about it."

You hadn't said a single word yet.

"Right," Voss said, settling back down, his whole posture rearranged now, softer, like he was handling something fragile. He gestured for you to sit, but he didn't look at you the way he'd looked at her. "Let's begin. Chelsea, in your own time."

"I'll get straight to it," he said once you were seated, folding his hands on the desk. "A complaint's been filed against you. Bullying and intimidation."

You already knew who from. You didn't need it spelled out — you just hadn't expected the performance to come with it.

"I haven't bullied anyone," you said, keeping your voice level, careful. "Can I ask what I'm supposed to have done?"

That was all it took. Chelsea's breath hitched, sharp and audible, and her shoulders started to shake.

"See, this — " she managed, voice cracking beautifully, " — this is exactly it. The way she just — talks to people."

"Hey, hey." Brad was already leaning in, one arm curling around her, murmuring against her hair like she was made of glass. "You're okay. You don't have to explain it if it's too much right now."

"No, I want to." She lifted her chin, brave and trembling, dabbing at eyes that — you noticed, clinically, distantly — never actually produced a tear. "I just get so anxious around her. I never know which version of her I'm going to get."

Voss's whole face softened. He reached across the desk and slid the tissue box an inch closer to her, a small, automatic kindness he hadn't once extended to you.

"Take your time," he said gently.

You hadn't raised your voice. You hadn't said more than nine words. You filed that away and kept your face still.

"Several of your peers have described you as... a lot to be around," Voss continued, glancing at Chelsea like he needed her permission to keep going. "Confrontational. Difficult to approach."

"Difficult how?"

"Well — you tell people what you think. Directly." A small, tight shrug, like that alone explained everything. "Some people find that intimidating, coming from you."

"Coming from you." You noted the phrasing and said nothing yet.

"I raised a concern with a peer once," you said. "Calmly. In private. That's the only conversation I can think of."

"That may be how you remember it."

Chelsea made a small, wounded sound at that, and Brad's hand tightened around her shoulder like he was holding her together. "It's okay," he murmured. "You don't have to relive it."

"That's how it happened," you said again, quieter now, aware of how useless the words already sounded in the room.

Voss looked at you like you'd raised your voice, though you hadn't. He sighed, the kind of sigh that suggested you were the one being unreasonable simply by disagreeing with him. "Look — I'm not saying you did anything with bad intentions. But you have to understand how you can come across. You're... a very strong presence in a room. Loud, even when you're not trying to be."

You hadn't raised your voice once since walking in.

"I haven't raised my voice," you said.

"I didn't say you had." He leaned back. "I'm talking about energy. Presence. It's not really about volume."

You felt the ground shift under the conversation without a single thing about it actually being said outright.

"Several people have mentioned feeling uncomfortable in training with you. Like they have to walk on eggshells." He tapped his pen against the desk, and his eyes went, almost involuntarily, back to Chelsea — checking on her, the way you check on someone you actually care about. "One trainee described the environment as hostile."

"Hostile how? I run drills. I give feedback when I'm asked for it."

"Maybe it's not what you say. Maybe it's how you say it." His eyes flicked over you, quick and assessing, in a way that made your skin crawl. "You have to admit, you can be... a lot. Intense. It puts people on edge."

Chelsea sniffled again, right on cue, and Voss's hand twitched toward the tissue box before he caught himself. You'd worked under him for months. He'd never once softened his voice for you like that — not when you'd come in bruised after a training accident, not when you'd asked for feedback on a drill he'd praised in front of everyone else. It clicked, then, watching the two of them — the careless familiarity, the way his eyes lingered on her a half-second too long even now, the fact that Brad had never once been called into this office despite starting every single one of these incidents himself. Whatever this was between Voss and Chelsea, it wasn't just captain and trainee. And it explained, with an ugly kind of clarity, exactly why nothing you said in that room was ever going to matter.

"I'm doing my job the same way everyone else here is doing theirs."

"I'm not disputing that you're skilled." A small, thin smile, the kind meant to sound like a compliment. "Genuinely — you're one of the strongest in your cohort. But talent doesn't excuse making people feel small. Or scared."

"I have never once made anyone feel scared."

Chelsea's face crumpled fully at that, tears finally spilling — real or not, you couldn't tell anymore, and it didn't matter, because the room had already decided which of you was the injured party the second you'd walked through the door. "She's doing it again," she whispered, like it physically pained her. "Raising her voice at me."

You hadn't raised your voice.

Brad pulled her into his chest, glaring at you over the top of her head, and for one unguarded second you caught the smallest flicker of amusement pass across his face before he smoothed it back into righteous outrage.

"That's not what I'm hearing," Voss said, already reaching for the form, not even bothering to ask you to explain. "I'm required to log this as a formal incident. You'll be pulled from the joint exercises for two weeks while it's reviewed."

"This is because I said something to Brad, isn't it."

"This isn't about any one person." He wouldn't meet your eyes when he said it. "This is about a pattern of complaints."

"From people who happen to be his friends."

"I'd be careful," he said, voice cooling, "about how that sounds. Getting defensive isn't going to help your case."

"Defensive." You almost laughed. Nothing you said in that room was going to be heard as anything other than exactly what he'd already decided it was.

You signed the form because there was no version of refusing that didn't make it worse. You walked out numb, replaying every word, every raised eyebrow, every "you can be a lot" — trying to find the version of yourself he was describing and coming up empty every time.

You were punished for something you never did.

After that, you kept your distance. Stopped trusting anyone from your old cohort. Smiled less. Watched more. And you learned, in that one conversation, exactly how little it would take for the truth to stop mattering once someone had already decided who you were.

--

Present day, and you're a different person than you were back then — steadier, sharper, more sure of your own hands. You cut through the lumnivores with barely any wasted movement. Captain Jenna, pulled away to handle something else, leaves you in temporary charge of your unit.

You're mid-sentence, laying out positions and fallback points for your team, when a voice cuts through the noise behind you.

"Ahh, the black bitch thinks she's in charge now."

You don't turn around. You keep talking, keep pointing out the treeline, keep your voice level.

"This black bitch is actually ignoring me," Brad says louder, closer now, playing to the small crowd he's dragged with him. "Your shitty plan isn't gonna work."

You still don't turn — until his hand closes around your wrist and wrenches you around to face him.

You look at him with nothing but disgust.

"You still haven't grown up, have you, Brad?" A small, humourless smile. "Jealous?"

That's what breaks whatever thin control he had left. His face goes red, twisting into something uglier, and the words that come out of him are ugly to match — about race, about superiority, about things no one should ever have to hear said to their face. You keep your voice light, mocking, refusing to give him the reaction he's chasing —

— until his hand closes around your throat and slams you back into a tree hard enough to knock the air clean out of your lungs.

Xavier's head snaps toward the sound from two units over. The second he sees it's you, something in him goes very still, and then very fast.

It's a blur — a flash — and then you're on the ground and Xavier has Brad choked half-unconscious on the dirt, thrashing under him. You've never seen him like this. Not once.

"You piece of shit." His voice is a low snarl, nothing like the Xavier you know. "How dare you touch her."

Brad's lips are turning purple by the time three other hunters manage to drag Xavier off him.

The moment he's free, Xavier is on his knees in front of you, pulling you into his chest, hands shaking as he checks you over. You cry silently into his shoulder, and he just holds you, murmuring against your hair — that you don't deserve to be treated like you're less than, like you don't belong, that you are smart and capable and everything good he's ever known.

Your teammates bring you something sweet once you've calmed down. You get back up, finish the mission, and walk away with a commendation for it.

Brad gets fired. Not even his father's name can save him this time. He's made to write a formal apology — one you and Xavier read together that night, laughing until your sides hurt.

--

Zayne

You're a nurse at Akso Hospital — transferred here a while back, mostly so you could be closer to Zayne. It's the start of another twelve-hour shift, the kind that used to intimidate you and now just feels like home.

Since you and Zayne start at the same time, mornings like this are easy: he makes breakfast, you get ready, you kiss him on the cheek and thank him before he drives you both in. Small, steady rituals that make the long days bearable.

The drive in takes you past the same stretch of the city every morning — grey high-rises giving way to the sprawling glass-and-steel campus of Akso Hospital, ambulances already queued at the emergency bay even this early. Zayne parks in his reserved spot near the staff entrance, the one perk of dating the hospital's top surgeon that you'll happily admit to enjoying.

You're assigned to the emergency department — your bread and butter, the chaos you thrive in. You pull your scrubs on, clip your ID badge into place, and brace for whatever the day throws at you. The department smells the way it always does this early — antiseptic and stale coffee, the low beeping hum of monitors down every corridor, fluorescent light a little too bright for how little sleep you got.

The handover from the night shift is a lot: a wanderer attack overnight, multiple injuries, exhausted staff. You're told bed five needs a CT scan and to run the standard checks on the rest.

Your first patient is a sixty-seven-year-old man, grey-haired, stubbled, complaining of chest pain.

"Hello, my name is Y/N, I'll be your nurse today," you say, calm and professional. "I'm just going to check your blood pressure, if that's alright."

"No. You're not touching me." His arms cross, voice hard.

"Oh — may I ask why?"

"I don't want you touching me." Each word deliberate, his face darkening.

"Can I ask why," you try again, gently.

"Because you're black." He says it plainly, like it's an answer that should satisfy you. "You people are everywhere, stealing our jobs. I want a white nurse. A white doctor."

You're hurt, but not surprised — you've met people like this before, people who doubted you, second-guessed you, looked past you for someone who looked more like them.

Then his hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist hard enough to bruise, a slur spat straight at your face, spit landing on your cheek.

You're scared now, and there's no one else on the floor — you're short-staffed, and it shows.

"Please, sir, let go of me," you say, voice steady even as your pulse isn't. "I'll get you a white nurse."

He doesn't let go.

That's when Zayne rounds the corner, a tray of coffee in hand for the nurses, and freezes at the sight of you — pinned, wincing, on the edge of tears, with no one around to help.

Something in him goes cold and precise all at once.

"Let go of her." His voice doesn't rise. It doesn't need to. He pries the man's fingers off your wrist himself, tucking your hand safely behind him. "This hospital has zero tolerance for violent behavior toward staff. I'm having you transferred to a different facility, and your family will be informed."

He doesn't wait for a response. One hand stays on your back the entire time he makes the call, guiding you to the break room, speaking to the head nurse in the same flat, controlled tone.

You're shaking. You've handled difficult patients before, but never quite like this. There's a lump in your throat you refuse to let win.

--

You'd barely gotten your breathing back under control when there was a knock at the break room door — the head nurse, apologetic, telling you the patient's son had arrived and wanted to speak to "whoever was in charge of his father's care."

You didn't want to go back out there. But it was your patient, technically, still, until the transfer went through, and hiding in the break room wasn't going to make that true any less.

The son was younger than you expected, maybe mid-thirties, arms crossed in a mirror of his father's posture from earlier. "What exactly happened out there," he said, tone already accusing before you'd said a word.

"Your father declined care and became physically aggressive," you said carefully. "Dr. Zayne intervened and arranged for a transfer to another facility, per hospital policy."

"He says you provoked him."

You felt your stomach drop. "I introduced myself and asked to check his blood pressure. That's the entirety of what happened before he grabbed my wrist."

"My dad's from a different generation," the son said, like that was an explanation rather than an excuse. "He didn't mean anything by it. Maybe if you'd handled it a little more delicately instead of getting the doctor involved, this wouldn't have turned into a whole thing."

Something in you went very still. "He used a racial slur and grabbed me hard enough to bruise."

"I'm not saying that's okay." He said it fast, the way people do when they're about to say something that makes clear it actually is, a little. "I'm just saying — he's sick, he's scared, people say things they don't mean when they're scared."

You didn't get the chance to answer. Zayne appeared at your shoulder, having clearly heard enough of the conversation from down the hall to know exactly where it was headed.

"I was here for the incident," Zayne said, voice level, professional, immovable. "There was no provocation. If you'd like to file a formal complaint, I'll have someone bring you the paperwork. Otherwise, your father's new placement is already confirmed, and I'd encourage you to focus on getting him there."

The son opened his mouth, closed it again, and left without another word.

Zayne turned to you the second he was gone, some of the careful professionalism cracking at the edges. "You okay?"

"I don't know why I let that get to me," you admitted, voice smaller than you meant it to sound. "I've had worse."

"You shouldn't have to measure it against worse," he said quietly, guiding you back toward the break room with a hand at the small of your back. "Bad is bad. You don't need to rank it to be allowed to be upset."

--

Once everything's sorted, Zayne takes your hand and leads you into his office. The door clicks shut behind you, and then his arms are around you, and the only thing you manage to choke out is *thank you* before you're crying into his chest.

"You're okay," he murmurs, stroking your braids, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "You're okay, my love."

He sits, pulling you into his lap, and unwraps a sweet, popping it gently into your mouth — the familiar fruity taste grounding you, slowing your breathing.

"You won't have to worry about that again," he says. "I love you, and you deserve to be here just as much as I do." A small, tired smile. "Without nurses, doctors like me are useless."

You laugh despite yourself, wiping your eyes.

"His son basically told me I provoked it," you say quietly, the words still sitting sour in your throat.

Zayne's jaw tightens. "I heard the tail end of that."

"It just gets exhausting," you admit. "Having to prove, every single time, that I didn't do anything to deserve it."

"You don't have to prove anything. Not to him, not to his father, not to anyone." He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, thumb lingering against your cheek. "I've watched you work this floor for over a year. You are, without exaggeration, one of the best nurses in this hospital. Anyone who can't see that isn't worth a single second more of your energy."

You rest your forehead against his shoulder, letting the words settle somewhere they might actually stick. "After your shift, let's do a movie night. That weird show you like."

"My shows aren't weird," you say, pouting.

"Thank you," you tell him again, quieter this time, holding him tighter. "I don't know what would've happened if you weren't there."

"You'll never have to find out," he says, pressing one last kiss to your temple before loosening his hold, reluctant, like he'd rather keep you there the rest of the shift.

Then you smooth your scrubs down, square your shoulders, and head back out to finish the rest of your twelve hours — steadier this time, his voice still sitting somewhere warm in your chest.

Rafayel

It's a warm summer night, and an important one — Rafayel's showcase, weeks of work leading up to this single evening in a pop-up gallery downtown. Watching him work these past few weeks has been its own kind of magic; the way his mind moves, restless and brilliant, is endlessly attractive to you.

Raf almost doesn't want to leave for it, clinging dramatically to your arm at the door like a man being dragged to his execution, until you physically peel him off and promise him a cheeky reward when you're both home again.

Since the event doesn't start until late, you take your time getting ready — a full pampering routine, a fresh wig install (no, raf didn't do your hair this time), a glass of champagne while you slip into a fitted lilac mermaid dress that hugs every curve exactly right.

You check yourself out in the mirror a little longer than strictly necessary, humming along to your favourite songs, feeling good. Then you call an uber and head out to support your boyfriend like the incredible partner you are.

The building is packed — a line wrapping the entire block. You feel a swell of pride seeing how many people showed up for him.

Raf told you that if you just gave your name at the door, security would let you straight in. So you approach the two men guarding the entrance — both well over six feet, built like brick walls.

"Excuse me, I'm Rafayel's girlfriend," you say, calm and polite. "He said if I mentioned that, you'd let me in."

"You got an invitation?" one of them says, arms crossed, not budging.

"Well — no, because he said—"

"Listen, sweetheart, we get girls all night claiming to be the artist's girlfriend, sister, cousin, whatever. If you don't have an invitation, get in line like everyone else."

"I'm trying to explain, my boyfriend told me I could just—"

"I don't care." His voice is flat with contempt now. "Why would someone like Rafayel date a black bitch like you anyway. He deserves better than someone claiming to be his girlfriend."

"I am his girlfriend," you say, feeling your face heat as the small crowd nearby starts to look over. "That was incredibly rude."

The insecurity hits before you can stop it — the quiet voice that's told you before that you don't deserve someone as brilliant and kind as Raf.

"I don't care. You're probably just trying to sneak in — cause trouble, maybe steal a piece." He smirks. "Perfect disguise, right? Bet your whole crew's in there right now."

You try to explain again, voice cracking now, tears building as the insults keep coming.

Across the room, Raf feels something twist in his chest — you're not there yet, and it's setting off every alarm bell he has. He weaves through the crowd, scanning every face, spiralling harder with every second he doesn't find you, half-convinced something's happened, half-convinced it's somehow his fault. Thomas trails behind him, having pulled him away mid-conversation with the gallery owner.

Then he sees you.

On the ground. Dress crumpled, hair coming loose from its careful style, mascara smudged down your cheeks, a security guard still looming over you as onlookers murmur and do nothing.

Something in Raf goes very quiet, and very red.

You'd seen Raf annoyed plenty of times — dramatic huffs, exaggerated pouting, a running commentary of complaints delivered with a flourish, all noise and no real weight behind it. This wasn't that. This was silence. A stillness that didn't belong on him at all, like watching someone slip out of their own skin.

"—just wait, you blackie, I'll catch your whole crew—" the guard is saying.

"What did you just say to her." Raf's voice is low. Too low. Flat in a way you'd never once heard from him, not even the time he'd found out a gallery had tried to pass off a forgery of his work. His eyebrows are drawn tight, his breathing gone shallow and fast, and for the first time since you'd met him, there was no performance left in his face at all. No sulking, no theatrics. Just something underneath all of that finally showing through.

Every head turns at once.

Thomas, a step behind him, goes pale. "Rafayel—" he starts, low, urgent, a hand half-raised like he already knows it won't matter.

Raf doesn't even look at him.

He crosses the distance like something unleashed, hauling the man off you by the collar, the strength in it entirely at odds with the lean, elegant hands you'd watched hold a paintbrush that same afternoon.

"I said — what did you just say to her."

"What are you gonna do about it, pretty boy." The guard doesn't recognize him.

Raf's mouth curls into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. It was the same smile he gave gallery owners who lowballed him, the one that always made you laugh because you knew there was nothing behind it but mischief. There was nothing playful about it now.

"Are you sure you want to find out?"

He cracks his knuckles, unhurried, almost lazy about it, and something behind his eyes goes flat and cold — the kind of calm that doesn't come from control, but from having already stopped caring about consequences.

The crowd that had been staring at you moments ago took an unconscious step back, the air around him gone thin and sharp, like the temperature itself had dropped. You'd never seen people afraid of Raf before. People adored him, fussed over him, indulged him. Nobody had ever looked at him like this — like something dangerous had just walked into the room wearing his face.

What follows is fast, and ugly, and entirely one-sided. He has the man pinned by the throat before anyone can stop him, movements precise in a way that felt wrong on someone who complained about breaking a nail.

"This is what happens when someone hurts what's mine," he says, almost pleasantly, watching the fear bloom in the man's face, his voice dropping into something low and intimate, like he was sharing a secret rather than a threat. "Watching the light go out of your eyes might just be the best part of my night."

The guard made a strangled sound, hands scrabbling uselessly at Raf's wrist. Nobody moved to help him. Nobody dared.

You've seen Raf angry before. Petulant, sulky, a little sharp-tongued when a critic said something stupid about his work. You've never seen this — this version of him that felt like it had been sitting coiled under the surface the entire time you'd known him, waiting for a reason.

"Raf — please." Your voice comes out small. His eyes flick to you instantly — and for just a moment, something in them wavered, like two different versions of him were fighting for control of the same face.

"He hurt you, cutie. Said the ugliest things a person can say." His voice was almost gentle again when he spoke to you, a jarring, unsettling softness right next to the violence still coiled in his hands. "He deserves to feel exactly what he put you through."

"Please. Just for me. Let's go home." You keep your voice soft, pleading, watching something in him fight itself — the boy who cried about leaving your apartment that morning.

"...You're scaring me."

That does it. He lets go instantly, crossing to you, fear flooding his face where fury had been a second ago — and just like that, the stranger who'd had a man by the throat was gone, and it was just Raf again, wide-eyed and stricken, looking at you like he was the one who'd been hurt.

"I'm sorry, cutie. I'm sorry — please don't be scared of me." His hands are shaking as he pulls you close, and you can feel it now, the tremor running through him, adrenaline with nowhere left to go. You're trembling too, though not because of him.

You sit together on the cold pavement while he apologises over and over, quiet and broken, the night air cooling the tears on your face.

Eventually you gather yourself, pull him up with you, and fix what you can of your smudged makeup with the back of your hand.

"Come on," you say, threading your fingers through his. "Let's go admire my talented boyfriend's hard work."

--

Sylus

The ballroom took up the entire top floor of the Aldaric Building, all soaring ceilings and gold leaf, chandeliers dripping crystal light down onto a sea of black tuxedos and jewel-toned gowns. A string quartet played something slow and classical in one corner, barely audible over the low hum of conversation and clinking glassware. Marble floors, polished to a mirror shine, reflected the chandeliers back up at you every time you moved. Waitstaff in crisp black-and-white wove between clusters of guests with trays balanced on one palm, and out past the floor-to-ceiling windows, all of Linkon City glittered gold and white beneath a clear night sky.

You didn't belong to this world, not really — but Sylus did, and tonight you were his, which was supposed to be enough.

He hadn't left your side for the first twenty minutes. Hand at the small of your back, murmuring names and titles into your ear before you needed to ask, steering you through the crowd like he'd mapped every inch of it years ago. It felt, briefly, like armor.

Then a hand landed on his shoulder.

"Sylus. There you are." A broad-shouldered man in an impeccable navy suit, flanked by two others you didn't recognize, all three wearing the particular polished smile of people about to talk about money. "We need five minutes. The Hendricks account isn't going to close itself."

Sylus's jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly. "Now?"

"Unless you want them walking by morning." The man's eyes flicked to you, brief and assessing, then away again, already dismissing you from the conversation entirely.

Sylus turned to you, and for a second the polished CEO mask slipped, something softer showing through. "Five minutes," he murmured, tucking a stray curl behind your ear. "I'll find you the second I'm done. Don't wander too far."

"I'll be fine," you told him, and meant it, or thought you did.

He pressed a kiss to your temple before he let the men pull him toward a private room off the main floor, glancing back once over his shoulder before the door shut behind him.

And just like that, you were alone in a room full of people who'd already decided, at a glance, exactly how much space you were allowed to take up in it.

The cool glass felt reassuring in your hand as you took a small sip. The champagne flute beside it probably cost more than your weekly food shop. You shook your head with a quiet laugh. Rich people really lived in a different universe.

"Excuse me."

You turned, expecting to see another guest. Instead, an elegantly dressed woman smiled expectantly at you, diamonds at her throat catching the chandelier light.

"I've been waiting nearly five minutes."

"...I'm sorry?"

"My champagne?"

Realisation settled over you. She thought you worked here.

"Oh." You offered an apologetic smile. "I don't actually work here."

Her eyes swept over your face before slowly travelling down the length of your dress.

"...Really?"

"Really."

A strained laugh escaped her.

"My mistake."

"It's alright." You turned back towards the drinks table, its white linen cloth lined with more crystal than you'd seen in your entire life. "I suppose I just assumed."

You didn't ask what she'd assumed.

You already knew.

--

"You look absolutely gorgeous," said the next woman, one closer to your mother's age, circling you slowly beneath the chandelier like you were a piece on display.

"Thank you."

"The colour is stunning on you." Her hand lifted, reaching toward one of your curls without asking. You stepped back on instinct; her fingers caught nothing but air.

"Oh — I was only going to touch it."

"I'd rather you didn't."

"I was just curious."

"I know."

"Is it real? All of it?"

"Yes."

"I've always wondered how—" She stopped herself, laughing awkwardly. "I suppose I shouldn't ask."

"No," you agreed.

"You probably get that all the time."

"I do." Your smile didn't reach your eyes anymore.

--

"You have excellent posture," an older gentleman offered a while later. "Modelling?"

"No."

"...Athletics, then?"

"Not really "

"Hm." He looked genuinely stumped. "So what do you do?"

"I work for the hunters' association". His eyebrows climbed.

"You don't look like someone who'd work in that field."

"What does someone in my field look like?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. "...Not what I expected."

Of course not.

--

By the time the orchestra changed songs and the crowd drifted toward the dance floor, you'd started recognizing the pattern before people even finished their sentences. The pitying tilt of the head. The "I'm just saying" tone dressed up in pearls and good manners.

"So — you came with Mr. Sylus?" one woman asked, all polished surprise.

"I did."

"I have to admit, I was surprised. I simply thought someone like him would've..." she searched for the word, "...chosen differently."

"Differently?"

"You know. Someone who matched him."

"I do match him."

She laughed like you'd made a joke. "I meant 'socially.'"

You held her gaze, steady. "What exactly are you trying to say?"

"Nothing." A smile. "My, you're rather defensive."

"I'm asking a simple question."

"I haven't insulted you." No — not directly. That was the trick of it. Everything was wrapped in enough politeness that reacting made "you" the problem.

--

A younger woman approached next, champagne in hand. "Oh — I've been looking for you. The organiser said staff would be in burgundy." Her eyes flicked to your dress. "I need someone to take my coat."

Before you could answer, the first woman murmured, just loud enough, "She doesn't work here."

The younger woman flushed and fled with an apology. The first woman watched her go, then turned back to you, almost sympathetic.

"It is a little unfortunate," she said, tilting her glass thoughtfully. "The dress is beautiful, but in this lighting... it all sort of blends together. I almost couldn't tell where the dress ended and—" She stopped. "Never mind."

She said it like a compliment. Your appetite vanished on the spot.

--

You slipped out onto a quiet balcony for air, the heavy glass door swinging shut behind you and cutting the noise of the ballroom down to a distant murmur. Stone railing, cool under your palms. Below, the city sprawled out in grids of light, headlights crawling along wet streets, the occasional horn drifting faintly upward. Rain hadn't started yet, but the sky over Linkon City hung low and heavy with it, clouds smothering the moon, the air thick with the particular electric stillness that comes right before a storm breaks. For the first time all night, you let your shoulders drop.

"You slipped away," said a voice behind you. Not again.

A man joined you at the railing, introduced himself, repeated your name slowly like it was a foreign object in his mouth. "That's... unusual."

"It isn't."

"I mean originally."

"I'm from Linkon."

His smile thinned. "You know exactly what I mean."

Before you could leave, the first woman reappeared with two others in tow, eyes dragging over your curls.

"I simply never imagined Mr Sylus would date someone quite so... bold."

"I suppose he likes making a statement," the man said, smirking into his glass.

"Or perhaps she's just a phase," someone else offered, and they laughed together, easy, like you weren't standing three feet away.

Your grip tightened around the stem of your glass. You'd smiled through the whole evening. Bitten your tongue through every backhanded compliment. But you could feel your patience finally running out.

"...Bold?" you repeated quietly.

"You know what I mean."

"No. I don't."

"Then perhaps you're choosing not to."

Another guest drifted over, catching only the tail end. "So this is her?" His eyes swept you top to bottom. "I didn't imagine Mr. Sylus would date a Black woman."

The words just hung there. Nobody corrected him. Nobody so much as flinched. They watched you instead, waiting to see how you'd react — like your reaction was the whole point of the evening.

"I don't see what my race has to do with my relationship," you said, voice tight.

"We're simply surprised," the first woman said, sweet as poison. "You can't expect people not to notice."

"I expect people to have manners."

Her smile slipped. "There it is."

"What?"

"The attitude."

"They always turn aggressive eventually," someone laughed.

Aggressive. Again. You let out a short, humourless laugh. "I've been polite to every single one of you all night."

"You've been defensive."

"I've been defending myself." Something in you finally snapped loose. "You mistook me for staff. You asked if my hair was real. You asked where I'm 'really' from. I'm from Linkon City. And somehow all of you have convinced yourselves you've been perfectly polite this whole time."

Silence. Then, quietly, devastatingly: "...So emotional."

That one landed the hardest. Because no matter what you said, you'd become exactly what they'd already decided about you before you'd opened your mouth. The aggressive Black woman. Right on cue.

You turned to leave — and stopped.

Sylus was already there, a few feet away, close enough that you hadn't even heard him approach. The whole ballroom had gone quiet around him without anyone quite noticing when.

He wasn't looking at anyone but you. His crimson eyes catalogued everything — the stiffness in your shoulders, the tight set of your jaw, the way your hand trembled faintly around the stem of your glass.

Then, slowly, his gaze moved to the circle around you. One face at a time. His expression didn't change. If anything, it went emptier, which was somehow worse than anger.

He crossed to you without hurrying, took the glass gently from your hand — his fingers brushing yours — and set it on a passing tray.

"...You're shaking."

You hadn't even noticed.

He took both your hands in his. They were freezing. His jaw ticked, just barely.

"Who started it?"

You hesitated. "It's okay."

"No," he said, quiet and absolute. "It isn't."

"I didn't want to interrupt your meeting."

Something flickered across his face, gone as fast as it came. "You think my meeting mattered more than you?"

You didn't answer.

"It never will," he said, and then, finally, he looked at the group. His posture shifted — shoulders squared, chin lifted, warmth draining out of his eyes like a light switching off. The temperature in the room seemed to actually drop.

"So." One word. Silence answered him.

"You mistook my partner for staff." Nothing.

"You questioned her intelligence." Nothing.

"You commented on her hair." The woman's hand twitched toward her own without meaning to.

"You questioned where she 'really' belonged."

The businessman looked away.

"You implied she was beneath me — because she's Black."

"Mr. Sylus, that's not what we meant—"

He looked at the man. That was all it took. The man went silent immediately.

Sylus took one slow, deliberate step forward. No raised voice. No sudden movement. Every single person in that circle stepped back anyway, like their bodies knew something their pride hadn't caught up to yet.

His fingers stayed laced through yours the entire time — grounding himself as much as you.

"I've spent years cultivating relationships in this room," he said, voice smooth, almost pleasant. "And yet I find myself wondering why." He looked around at them, unhurried. "Because if this is Linkon City's elite, your standards are embarrassingly low."

He drew out his phone, typed one message, and put it away without a word of explanation.

"...What was that?" the businessman asked, unable to help himself.

Sylus smiled. Cold. Beautiful. Genuinely frightening. "Nothing that concerns you." His gaze swept the group one last time. "I hope you enjoyed your evening. Tomorrow will be considerably less pleasant."

No threats. No shouting. Just certainty, delivered like a weather report.

He slid an arm around your waist. "We're leaving."

Neither of you looked back.

-

The drive home was silent at first, the car's leather interior smelling faintly of cedar and rain, the dashboard's soft blue light the only glow between you. Rain finally broke as the city thinned out behind you, tapping gently against the windshield, then harder, streetlights smearing gold and red across the wet glass as Linkon City blurred past in long, watery streaks. The wipers kept a slow, steady rhythm, the only sound besides the hum of the engine. You stared out the window until you couldn't hold it in anymore.

"I'm sorry," you said.

Sylus glanced at you immediately. "For what?"

"I ruined your evening."

"You think that's what I'm upset about?"

"I should have handled it better."

He pulled the car over, killed the engine, and turned fully to face you.

"You handled it with more grace than they deserved."

Your eyes stung. "I just—" Your voice cracked. "I'm so tired."

Those four words did something to him you could see happen in real time.

"It's stupid," you said, laughing weakly, except it came out more like a sob. "I keep thinking maybe one day it'll stop. But it never does. I walk into a room and people decide who I am before I even open my mouth. They think they can touch me. Ask where I'm really from. Treat my hair like it's public property." Another broken laugh. "And the worst part is I wasn't even surprised."

He didn't say anything. He just reached across the console and pulled you into him, one hand cradling the back of your head as you buried your face against his chest, and held you like he could physically shield you from every cruel thing the world had ever aimed at you.

"You said something back there," he murmured into your hair. "'I'm used to it.'"

You nodded against him.

"I know." His arms tightened. "And that's exactly what breaks my heart."

He kissed your forehead. "You shouldn't have to be used to being treated like that." Another kiss. "You should never have to wonder if you belong in a room." His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek. "You belong anywhere you choose to stand."

For the first time all evening, real anger crept into his voice. "And if anyone ever makes you question that again, they won't be comfortable enough to try it twice."

You pulled back to look at him. "You really meant all of that back there?"

His expression softened completely. "I've never meant anything more."

He rested his forehead against yours. "They looked at you and saw someone to judge." A small, private smile. "I look at you and see the woman I intend to spend the rest of my life protecting."

For the first time that night, you smiled, and it wasn't forced at all.

--

Caleb

A new mission, a new cover. This time, you were sent in as a cadet with the Farspace Fleet to find out whether the base was quietly manipulating protocores to push further into the deepspace tunnel than anyone was supposed to. You and a handful of other hunters had been sent to investigate.

It was a brutal, grinding winter. The Farspace uniform clung to your skin, useless against the cold, as you stood in a line of cadets on the training field — some huffing and complaining under their breath about the captain taking his time, others standing perfectly still, falling in line with everyone around them.

And you. Just watching. Eyes moving from face to face, working out the shape of the place before you had to move through it. Caleb didn't know the details of your mission — you hadn't told him, hadn't wanted him treating you any differently from the other cadets. He only knew you'd be here, training, same as everyone else.

The captain stepped out, and the whole field went silent except for the rustle of people straightening their spines.

"Cadets." His voice boomed out, loud, condescending, carrying easily over the wind. He paced the length of the stage, looking over the new intake like he already knew exactly what he thought of every one of them. "I'm Captain Jennings, and I'll be overseeing you lot."

He kept pacing, authority radiating off him with every step. "This isn't going to be easy, cadets." Then his eyes landed on you and stopped there — a beat too long, a small, unreadable smirk pulling at his mouth — before he carried on with his speech about commitment and what it took to make it under him.

You filed it away as strange. Wondered, for one uneasy second, if your cover was already blown`. Then the cadets were dismissed to their dorms, and the thought got buried under the business of settling in.

--

The weeks that followed were brutal — up at five every morning, ten laps around the building before an actual workout, all of it a near-perfect echo of your old hunter training, which meant you handled it easily where half your cohort struggled. You caught Caleb occasionally, pulled into empty storage rooms and supply closets where the two of you melted into each other for a few stolen minutes before duty called you both back. Outside of that, the days blurred into routine.

Then a letter reached you from another hunter stationed at the base — quick, careful, unsigned. A warning. *Watch yourself around Captain Jennings. He has a documented history of treating people who don't look like him very differently. Be careful.*

It clicked something into place — the stare on day one, the smirk that had lingered a beat too long.

You didn't dwell on it. Kept up the routine — laps, deepspace tunnel theory, combat drills, the slow work of tracing the protocore experiments back to their source. Your body had adjusted to the early mornings well enough that you started waking an hour before everyone else, using the quiet time to move through the base unnoticed, gathering what you could and passing it along to another hunter who'd been embedded there far longer than you. She warned you about Jennings too, in almost the same words as the letter, like it was common knowledge nobody said out loud.

Then came the announcement: Captain Jennings would be taking a more hands-on role in training this cohort. More personal. More involved. He gave some polished excuse about being passionate about cadet development, about wanting to set a good example — and the room ate it up.

That was the beginning of it.

It was subtle, at first. Your form corrected in front of the group when it had been perfect. Other cadets quietly encouraged to go harder on you in combat drills than anyone else, because — in his words, murmured just loud enough for you to hear — "your kind can handle it." Small things, easy to second-guess, easy to tell yourself you'd misread.

It stopped being subtle at lunch one day.

Jennings held court near the front of the line, cadets gathered around him soaking up another one of his deepspace stories, laughing on cue, hanging off every word. He was well-liked — practically worshipped, if the night before was anything to go by, cadets falling over themselves to praise his work ethic, his leadership, even his looks, which you'd had to bite back a laugh at.

Then you heard your name.

"Cadet L/N." Condescending, pitched to carry. "Go fetch some water."

You didn't refuse. Couldn't afford to, not with the mission on the line, not with every eye already halfway to you. You swallowed the look on your face and went.

On your way back, you heard him laughing to the group — loud, easy, delighted with himself.

"Ahh, you know Blacks are only good for one thing, and that's being slaves. I don't get why they ever stopped it."

The laughter that followed was uneasy, scattered, people who clearly didn't want to laugh but were too afraid of what it'd cost them if they didn't. You kept your head down and pushed through it, water in hand, saying nothing.

It got worse from there. He started steering other cadets into stripping you down to nothing but your underwear during drills and leaving you out in the cold while they laughed, mocked you, said things about you that you didn't let yourself repeat even in your own head afterward.

He stopped using your name entirely. *Slave* was the only thing he called you now, in front of everyone, like he was daring someone to correct him.

You tried to endure it quietly. Tried to keep it contained, compartmentalized, something you could carry alone until the mission was done. But it wasn't sustainable, and it wasn't you — not really.

You didn't tell Caleb.

You'd repeat it to yourself on the walk home each night, like a mantra: *I can handle this. I fought too hard to get here to let one bitter man make me small.* So you kept your head down. Did the extra laps in the rain until your boots filled with water. Scrubbed the gear until your knuckles split. Told Caleb you were just tired when he noticed you'd gone quiet over dinner, when you stopped talking about training the way you used to, when you started flinching at the buzz of your comms.

He didn't believe you. Not for long.

He noticed you flinch at Jennings' name lighting up your screen. Noticed how you'd go still, just for a second, when his hand landed on your shoulder or your waist the way it always had — a flinch you tried to smooth over too quickly for it to be nothing. Noticed the shadows deepening under your eyes a little more each time he saw you, like sleep wasn't doing what it used to. Noticed the way you'd sit on the edge of the bed after a shift, boots still on, just staring at the wall like you were bracing for something that had already happened. Noticed the new stillness in you, like you were holding your breath through your own life.

One night he found you like that — sitting on the edge of the bed in the dark, still in uniform, hands folded so tightly in your lap your knuckles had gone pale. He didn't turn on the light. He just knelt down in front of you, took your cold hands in his, and waited.

"Talk to me," he said, voice low, steady. "Whatever it is. I'm not going anywhere until you do."

And something in you finally gave out.

You told him everything. The names. The extra punishments dressed up as discipline. The way Jennings' face would light up with something ugly and satisfied every time he found a new way to grind you down. You hadn't realized how much you were carrying until it was spilling out of you in the dark, your voice cracking on words you'd swallowed for weeks.

Caleb didn't interrupt. That was what frightened you a little — how quiet he went. How still. His jaw worked, tight and controlled, and his thumb kept moving slowly over the back of your hand the entire time, like he needed the contact as much as you did.

When you finally ran out of words, he pressed a kiss to your knuckles, gentle in a way that contrasted sharply with the look that had settled behind his eyes.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. Don't worry about him anymore."

You should have known that wasn't the end of it. Caleb's voice had a particular calm he only used when he'd already decided something couldn't be argued with.

--

The room he chose had no windows the base ever used anymore — an old storage block in the east wing, thick-walled, soundproofed more by neglect than design. A single barred window near the ceiling let in the storm: thunder rolling low over the base, lightning strobing white through the bars at long, uneven intervals, throwing the room into brief, stark relief before swallowing it back into dark.

Caleb sat on the edge of the desk in the corner, one boot braced on the floor, the other swinging idly. A knife turned slow circles between his fingers, catching what little light there was — flash, gone, flash, gone — while he hummed, low and unhurried, a tune only you would have recognized. Something you'd sung around the apartment a hundred times without thinking. He'd apparently been thinking about it more than you realized.

In front of him, Captain Jennings knelt bound on the concrete, wrists lashed behind his back, a strip of fabric cinched tight over his mouth. Tear tracks cut clean lines through the dust on his face. His eyes — wide, wet, uncomprehending — followed Caleb's every small movement like a man trying to read a language he'd never bothered to learn.

Lightning cracked. For one white-lit second, all Jennings could see was the shape of Caleb rising from the desk, unhurried, and then the dark swallowed him again, and the only warning of how close he'd gotten was the sound of boots on concrete.

Caleb crouched down in front of him, slow, deliberate, until they were eye to eye. Whatever calm he wore around you had been left outside this room. What was left in his expression didn't look entirely sane.

"I should just cut his tongue out," he mused, almost to himself, tilting his head like he was working through a math problem. The muffled sound behind the gag spiked, frantic, pleading.

"Wasn't talking to you." Caleb rose again, towering over him, and Jennings flinched hard enough to rock back on his knees.

Caleb drifted back to the desk, propping himself against the edge again, knife spinning idly between his fingers as he resumed talking — not to Jennings now, just thinking out loud, the way you'd sometimes catch him doing over paperwork.

"To think this thing actually believed it deserved to keep breathing." He scoffed, eyes flicking up, knife tilting lazily in Jennings' direction. "After everything he said to her. Called her a slave. Told her — in front of an entire cohort — that her existence was insignificant." His jaw tightened, just slightly, the only real crack in the composure. "Among other things I'd rather not repeat."

He pushed off the desk.

"You know what's better than making someone disappear quietly?" His voice had dropped, quiet and even, somehow worse than shouting. "An eye for an eye."

He started walking. Jennings scrambled backward on his knees, graceless, desperate, until his shoulders hit the wall and there was nowhere left to go. Caleb followed at the same unhurried pace the entire way, like the outcome had never been in question.

He crouched again, level with him, and drew the flat of the blade in one slow line down the side of Jennings' face — light enough that it left no mark at all, just the promise of what it could do. Jennings went rigid, breath coming fast and ragged through his nose. Then, almost gently, Caleb hooked the knife under the edge of the gag and cut it free.

"Please — Captain, I didn't mean it, I swear, I'll do anything, please—" The words tumbled out fast, slurred with panic, his composure gone entirely, a dark stain spreading across his fatigues as his voice cracked into full sobbing.

"So you didn't mean it," Caleb said, and his face didn't change at all, "when you told one of your cadets she was worthless. That her whole existence was an inconvenience to you. And worse." He caught Jennings' chin between gloved fingers, black leather turning the man's face up to his, gentle in a way that made it so much worse. The knife drifted upward, unhurried, toward his mouth.

Jennings tried to twist away. It didn't matter. Caleb's grip didn't so much as shift.

What followed, you were grateful — later, always — that you never had to witness. Only the sound reached anyone outside that room, and even that was swallowed fast by the next roll of thunder, a scream cut short and wet, and then nothing at all but the storm.

Caleb straightened afterward, wiping the blade clean with a small, disgusted flick of his wrist, like he'd handled something merely unpleasant rather than done what he'd just done.

"There," he said, to no one who could answer him anymore. "Now you can't spout nonsense anymore."

That wasn't the end of it, either. What came after stretched over days — quiet, methodical, relentless — long after any reasonable person would have called it finished. Caleb didn't believe in finished. Not for this.

And when it was over, when there was nothing left of Captain Jennings worth calling a threat, Caleb simply pulled the strings that needed pulling and had him quietly, officially, unglamorously fired.

--

You never found out the details. Only the aftermath, arriving in pieces over the following days.

Jennings stopped showing up to command briefings. His name was quietly struck from the roster boards like it had never been there. When you finally worked up the nerve to ask Caleb what happened, he didn't even look up from what he was doing.

"He resigned," he said. "Personal reasons."

You didn't believe him. Not fully. There was something in the set of his shoulders, something careful and deliberate in how he avoided your eyes, that told you the truth was a great deal uglier than a resignation letter.

You noticed other things, too, in the days that followed. The way every officer in your division suddenly went out of their way to be scrupulously, almost nervously fair with you. Overcorrected, even — like an unspoken memo had circulated through the entire command structure, one nobody had actually seen but everybody somehow understood down to the letter. Nobody looked at you sideways anymore. Nobody "forgot" to put your name on the roster. People who used to avoid eye contact now went out of their way to greet you.

You never asked Caleb again what happened to Jennings. Some things you already understood the shape of, even without being told the specifics — and some part of you, quieter than you liked to admit, was grateful not to know exactly how far he'd gone to make sure it never happened again.

That night, wrapped up against his chest with the window cracked and the city humming outside, you finally let yourself exhale properly for the first time in weeks.

"You didn't have to do anything," you murmured against his skin.

"I know." His arms tightened around you, deliberate, absolute. "I wanted to pips."

A pause, his voice dropping lower, quieter, more dangerous than you'd ever heard it directed at you.

"Nobody touches what's mine and gets to walk away clean."

You didn't ask him to explain that. You didn't need to.

Valko

Valko’s company didn't hire people who couldn't keep up — that was the whole premise of the place, gleaming glass and merciless standards stacked forty floors above the city. You were Head of R&D, the youngest in company history to hold the title, and you'd earned every square inch of the corner office with sleepless nights, a mind sharper than half the department combined, and a stubborn refusal to let anyone tell you otherwise.

Not that everyone in the building had gotten that memo.

The new research assistant — Priya, hired last month on Marcus's recommendation, all polish and no substance as far as you could tell — made her opinion of you clear during a project review, in front of the entire team.

"I just think it's interesting," she said, voice pitched to carry, sugar-sweet and razor-edged, "how someone gets to head an entire department without... I don't know. The usual credentials."

The room went very quiet. Someone's pen stopped scratching against their notepad.

"I have the credentials," you said, evenly, not looking up from your tablet.

"Do you, though?" She smiled, tilting her head. "Or did you just spell your way into the position. Diversity hire and all that."

A ripple went through the room — a few sharp inhales, someone shifting uncomfortably in their seat — but nobody said a word. Nobody corrected her. You kept your expression neutral, your spine straight, because you'd had a lot of practice at exactly this.

"I earned this position," you said, quiet and precise, "same as everyone else in this building."

"Sure," she said, unconvinced, already turning back to her tablet like the matter was settled. "Sure you did."

You didn't dignify it with anything more. You finished running the review, delivered your notes on the prototype timeline without a single crack in your voice, and walked out of the conference room like nothing had happened at all.

You didn't think about it again — or told yourself you didn't — until Valko called you into his office that evening.

--

His office took up the entire top floor, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city gone gold and orange with sunset, the kind of view that cost more than most people's annual salary. He was standing at the window when you walked in, jacket off, sleeves rolled, backlit by the dying light. He didn't ask how your day was. He already knew — Priya's comment had reached him within the hour, because very little happened in that building without eventually reaching him.

"Sit," he said, and you did, lowering yourself into the chair across from his desk with more composure than you felt.

He studied you for a long moment, the kind of look that always made you feel like he could see straight through whatever careful face you'd put on.

"You're not upset."

"I'm fine."

"That's not what I asked."

You looked away, toward the window, toward the city lights starting to flicker on below. "I've heard worse. I'm used to it."

Something shifted across his face — not quite anger, something colder and far more controlled than that, the kind of stillness that came right before he made someone's professional life very difficult.

"You shouldn't have to be," he said. "Used to it."

"Valko—"

"I built this company on the idea that talent doesn't come with a face attached to it." He came around the desk, closing the distance between you, and leaned back against it directly in front of your chair. "You are the best hire I have ever made. Not despite anything about you. Because of everything you are."

You didn't trust your voice not to crack, so you said nothing.

He was quiet for a moment, gaze drifting toward the window, toward the last of the light dying out over the skyline. When he spoke again, his voice had lost some of its usual polish.

"You know what I am," he said. Not a question. Half-wolf, half-human — something the company's glossy profiles never mentioned, something the board had fought him on for years before he'd simply stopped asking their permission to exist the way he did. "When I was starting out, nobody in that boardroom wanted my signature on anything. Didn't matter what I brought to the table. All they saw was what I was mixed with. Heard people use the word *feral* in meetings like I couldn't hear them from across the table." A humorless huff of breath. "Learned very early that being twice as good only bought me the right to be resented twice as hard."

You blinked at him, something in your chest twisting. He so rarely talked about that part of himself — usually kept it folded away behind tailored suits and boardroom composure, like the parts of him that weren't fully human were a liability to be managed rather than lived with.

"I didn't know that," you said quietly.

"Most people don't. I don't advertise it." His jaw tightened, gaze sharpening back onto you. "But it's exactly why I won't sit here and let someone talk to you the way Priya did. I know precisely what that sounds like from the inside. I know exactly how long it sits with you after the room's gone quiet."

He crouched slightly, bringing himself level with you, and tipped your chin up with two fingers until you had no choice but to meet his eyes — gold-flecked, sharper than they had any right to be in this light.

"Next time," he said, quiet, absolute, "you come straight to me. I don't care if it's a comment in a meeting or someone at the front desk who doesn't like the way you walk into a room like you own it. You tell me. Immediately."

"You have better things to do than deal with—"

"I don't," he said, cutting you off without raising his voice. "There is nothing in this building more important to me than making sure you never have to swallow something like that again. Not while I have any say over what happens under this roof."

--

By the following morning, Priya's badge no longer worked on the elevator. It didn't work on the front doors either. Security had already boxed up her desk by the time the department arrived.

Nobody asked why out loud. Nobody needed to — you watched the news travel through the office in hushed, wide-eyed conversations by the coffee machine, in glances exchanged over the tops of monitors. Valko hadn't made an announcement. He never did. He simply made sure, in the quiet, surgical way he handled everything, that the entire company understood exactly where he stood without a single memo being sent.

You found out later, from Marcus of all people, that Valko had personally sat in on the termination meeting. Reviewed the incident himself. Made absolutely certain Priya understood, in explicit and uncomfortable detail, precisely why she wasn't welcome back — and precisely what would happen to any reference check that came across his desk.

When you thanked him for it that evening, he brushed it off entirely, sliding an arm around your waist as the two of you looked out over the same golden skyline from earlier, now gone dark and glittering.

"Don't thank me for doing the bare minimum," he murmured against your hair.

"This was the bare minimum?"

"Baby." His mouth curved against your temple, something wicked and warm in it. "I haven't even started."