just a kitten

Your eyes scanned the window, and you saw the message immediately—though no words were necessary. Mannequins stood on plush platforms inside, bathed in soft light, each one dressed in more daring pieces than the last. Silk. Lace. Leather straps and silver clasps. Garters that clung to faceless thighs. One wore a harness, black and minimal, buckled tightly around its waist like armor meant not for war, but surrender. A collar gleamed beneath the warm lights, its tag shaped like a tiny, delicate heart.

Ah. A sex shop.

You felt the corner of your mouth tug upward in amusement, a teasing comment already forming on your lips. You turned to look up at Zayne—ready to catch his reaction—only to find his gaze already fixed on the window. He wasn’t leering. Zayne never leered. No, his expression was thoughtful. Quiet. Observing.

You watched him for a breath longer than necessary. His profile was cut from shadow and streetlight—sharp jaw, lashes like ink, mouth slightly parted as if he were only just remembering to breathe. Something flickered beneath his calm, collected exterior. Something you’d seen before. A subtle shift in the way he held himself.

“Sugar and Sin,” you said aloud, swinging his hand gently, your voice light with amusement, “sounds like your kinda thing, Zaynie. Equal parts sweet and indulgent.”

That earned you the thing you’d wanted most: his pause. Zayne slowed beside you, footsteps easing to a graceful stop, and you felt the tug of his hand anchoring yours—his body angled slightly toward yours like a well-practiced dance step. A quiet chuckle slipped from him, low and rich, barely louder than the hum of traffic passing by.

“My kind of thing?” He echoed, amusement curling at the edges of his words. He cocked an eyebrow, the light catching in his green eyes, “says the girl who didn’t want a double scoop and then proceeded to inhale half of my banana split. I’d say you fall into temptation just as much as I do.”

You scoffed, unrepentant, a laugh slipping through your smile.

“Eating another’s food is more appealing,” you said as you leaned in, your voice lowering in playful defense. One finger trailed deliberately down the front of his tie—slow, light, flirtatious, “wise words from a certain rebellious snowman I know…Besides. You’re the one who’s always tempting me.”

The corner of Zayne’s mouth twitched with quiet delight. You could see the shift in his posture—the way he leaned in just a little more, subtly drawn to your orbit like a compass that always pointed north. His hand was still in yours, but the other rose now, fingertip lifting with unhurried precision to tap, featherlight, against the tip of your nose.

“Well,” he said, voice velvet-soft but threaded with a warm undercurrent, “this certain rebellious snowman wants to know if you’re just going to coyly tease me and drop subtle hints or say that you want to go inside of the sex shop.”

His smirk still lingered—barely there, yet charged enough to stir something unmistakable in your chest. That slow, delicious curl of anticipation. You took a step closer, just enough for your shoulder to brush his arm. Then, with a flourish of faux exasperation, you tilted your head and let out a long, exaggerated sigh.

“Zaaayne,” you drawled, pitching your voice into a playful whine. You tucked your hair behind your ear with dramatic flair, casting your lashes downward like a vintage starlet avoiding temptation’s gaze. Your smile peeked through despite your act, “you’re the one who’s supposed to lead me into temptation. I’m just an innocent little lamb who’s lost her way…”

Zayne’s chuckle rumbled low in his chest, that rare, quiet sound you adored—a sound reserved only for moments like this, where it was just you, him, and the unspoken dare between your bodies. He tilted his head as if thoughtfully playing along, the corner of his mouth twitching upward with mock solemnity.

“Okay,” he said, already taking a step toward the door, hand still firmly wrapped around yours, “so what does that make me, then? A wolf in shepherd’s clothing?”

You giggled, unable to help yourself, and leaned into him as he slipped his arm around your shoulders, guiding you with casual curiosity toward the glowing glass doors of Sugar and Sin. The scent of warm synthetic perfume drifted from inside, mixed with soft notes of latex, faux leather, and a hint of something darker. The threshold felt charged—like crossing it meant you were no longer quite the same as you’d been on the sidewalk.

“Yeah,” you murmured as he pulled you closer, your words purring beneath your laughter, “the kind whose jowls I look forward to having sink into me.”

The glass door swung shut behind you with a soft click, sealing you and Zayne into a space saturated with low amber lighting, the scent of new plastic and perfume mingling in the air like something forbidden and sweet. The hum of soft electronic music pulsed faintly from overhead speakers, rhythmic and slow, like a heartbeat stretched out.

And then you saw it.

Bold, unapologetic, and impossible to miss—SEX, spelled out in towering, backlit marquee letters near the back of the shop, as if announcing the main attraction of some unapologetically adult theater. It cast a soft glow across the tiled floor like the title card of a very specific kind of movie.

The walls were lined—flooded—with rows upon rows of sleek black shelving, every inch covered in things that felt like secrets made solid. Hosiery in every imaginable shade and sheerness hung like trophies: fishnets, thigh-highs, lace-trimmed, crotchless. Bottles of lubricants sat in shimmering rainbow arrays, some with gold foil labels and others promising heat, coolness, or tingling. Boxed vibrators stared at you from behind glossy packaging—some shaped like lipstick tubes, others bold and unmistakable. You caught the outline of something…Unholy in size and color and barely suppressed a laugh.

It was your first time in a store like this—his first time too. And walking into a place so publicly, brazenly drenched in sex had a strange, almost surreal effect. It wasn’t just what was on the shelves. It was the truth of it—how something so private, so deeply intimate, could be laid out like snack food, touched, turned over, compared. Whispered about, or laughed over.

You weren’t alone, either. A couple down one aisle was examining a pair of fuzzy handcuffs with giggles behind their palms, while a trio of college-aged kids walked past the latex section with barely-concealed snorts of awkward awe. Every now and then, you felt someone glance up. Not at the shelves—but at you and Zayne.

That’s when you felt it. Zayne’s hand, still slung over your shoulder, gave the faintest squeeze—not hard, not showy, just sure. The kind of pressure that said to the world that you were with him. No words, no glare, no performance. Just a subtle flex of possessiveness that rippled down your spine and anchored you to him all over again.

You slid a loose arm around his waist as you walked beside him, fitting yourself against him with practiced ease. Your thumb hooked through one of his belt loops, the movement casual but intimate—like touching something familiar and claiming it all over again.

You leaned in closer, your voice hushed with a smirk behind it, but still touched by that strange little thrill of uncertainty, “isn’t here something weird about just looking at sex toys together in public like it’s totally normal?”

Zayne cocked a brow, head tilting ever so slightly as he glanced down at you. The overhead lights caught in his eyes, sharpening that familiar look—mischievous, thoughtful, a little amused in the way he always watched you like he was studying something far more interesting than what was on the shelves.

“Weird?” He echoed, the corner of his mouth lifting just a touch, “I don’t think so. Why do you think it’s weird?”

You followed his lead as he began walking again, and you trailed beside him through the first wide aisle. A couple nearby was inspecting a bright purple vibrator with mild curiosity, one of them poking the tip like it might activate on contact. You caught sight of a young woman holding up a pair of satin handcuffs with raised brows, her partner laughing behind his palm.

The embarrassment you’d felt earlier crept in again—but softer this time. A blush that curled behind your ears instead of rising all the way to your cheeks. Why was it weird. Sex was normal. Human. So was curiosity. And yet…Your eyes flicked to a display of rose-gold butt plugs shaped like delicate hearts and then quickly away.

“…I don’t know,” you murmured, shrugging a little under the weight of his teasing gaze. Your voice dropped, touched with that quiet honesty that only surfaced in moments like this, when everything else in the world had dulled around you, “I guess because sex is something private. But not really when you’re in a sex shop full of people.”

“Well,” Zayne murmured, his thumb brushing a slow arc over your shoulder as he casually turned down the first aisle, “I highly doubt anybody here would be shocked to imagine that we, a couple, do in fact have sex with each other.”

The way he said it—so calm, so maddeningly matter-of-fact—made your entire body flush with heat. No hushed tone. No sidelong glance to see if anyone might overhear. Just a shameless admission delivered with the same ease as commenting on the weather. You blinked at him, heart thudding, as your eyes flicked instinctively around the dimly lit shop, past rows of sleek black shelves lined with toys, silk restraints, and other things you could barely bring yourself to glance at too long without imagining them in use.

God, Zayne. This was the same man who, when you’d first started dating, would hesitate to even brush your hand in public—so carefully guarded, so composed, so painfully aware of the space between you. But now? Now he walked through a sex shop with his hand on you as though he wanted the whole world to know exactly what kind of nights you shared. The kind of man who touched you like he was reminding everyone else that you weren’t just loved—you were his.

That restraint he’d once clung to had burned away over time, melted down into something rawer, more primal. What replaced it was a quiet kind of ownership, the kind that didn’t need to raise its voice or demand attention. It was in the weight of his hand on your skin. The slow glance he gave any stranger who dared look at you too long. The way he stood beside you now, relaxed and entirely unbothered, like there was nothing strange at all about the fact that he’d just declared your sex life to the nearest vibrating cock ring display. And the best, and worst part? The part that had your stomach flipping and your thighs pressing just a little closer together? You loved it.

“But what if we were one of those couples who are waiting for marriage?” You said, the teasing edge in your voice curling around the words as the two of you slowed near a wall of neatly arranged bottles.

Bright labels. Soft pastels. The air was thick with a sugary artificial scent—strawberries, cherries, warm vanilla, mango. Like someone had tried to disguise lust as a candy shop.

Your shoulder brushed his arm again as you tilted your head toward the rows of colorful lubricants, “what if, say, we were just here to hoard a bunch of stuff for our freaky little honeymoon?”

Zayne glanced sideways at you, his brow lifting ever so slightly, that familiar flicker of dry amusement catching at the edge of his mouth.

“Should I ask the clerk what kind of lubricant they recommend for a couple of innocent virgins, in that case?” He asked, his voice soft enough not to carry far, but steeped in teasing. His sarcasm always came like silk pulled slowly across skin—light, but undeniably felt.

You laughed under your breath, quiet and giddy and full of that warm kind of thrill that came with saying something outrageous in public and pretending it was nothing at all. Your fingers drifted over the bottles like they were perfume samples, landing on the first one you touched—a small, matte container labeled in cursive: Strawberry Kiss. You slipped away from his side just enough to lift it off the shelf, holding it in your hand like something delicate and scandalous. Then you leaned back toward him, your voice dipping into something hushed and deliciously coy.

“Excuse me, sir? Mister Cashier Guy?” You murmured, feigning innocence, “um, what kind of flavored lubricant do you recommend for someone’s first time sitting on her to-be husband’s mouth?”

Zayne didn’t miss a beat. His gaze flicked down—just for a moment—between your thighs, then back up to your face with quiet deliberateness. A microexpression. A precise calculation.

“Personally,” he said, voice low, “I’m a big fan of the natural kind.”

You grinned, lips parting in appreciation of his perfect, clinical obscenity. There was something about the way he said these things—so cleanly, so without the bravado most men used when flirting—that made it so much hotter.

“Buuuut…” You sing-songed, narrowing your eyes, “if you had to pick one to lick off of your to-be wife, hypothetically speaking?”

Zayne turned slowly toward the display, folding his arms loosely as he scanned the shelves. You could see the shift in his posture—a subtle lean forward, that slight narrowing of his eyes as he studied the labels like he was comparing surgical equipment. Rows and rows of flavors lined the wall. Desserts. Fruits. Exotic spices. It was almost overwhelming. Artificial seduction distilled into squeeze bottles and satin-gloss finishes.

And then something seemed to catch his attention. He reached forward with quiet certainty, lifting a small bottle with gold foil lettering and a pink-ribboned top. His eyes skimmed over the label.

“…Birthday cake,” he said, contemplative. His voice was unreadable, but you could sense something behind it. A flicker of curiosity. A challenge. Maybe both, “sounds—” he paused, glancing at you, “…Interesting.”

“Mm, yeah, that sounds good, actually, thank you,” you said, nodding with faux sincerity as you plucked the birthday cake bottle from his hand.

You gave it a little squint of approval, like a sommelier pretending to assess fine wine. Then your fingers drifted over the shelves again, landing on a bright yellow bottle with cheerful lettering. You picked it up, turning the label toward him with a laugh already bubbling at your lips.

“What about…Banana Cream Pie?” You grinned, eyes glinting, “this one seems fitting. No pun intended.”

Zayne paused—just a beat—before lowering his head and pinching the bridge of his nose in his very typical gesture of mock-suffering. His other hand found his hip, fingertips resting neatly just beneath the line of his belt.

“So,” he began, voice dry as a desert, “if you’re implying that you’d be my banana cream pie, what am I? The fruit filling?” His head lifted slightly, eyes narrowing with a long-suffering affection, “duly noted.”

You practically snorted, laughter bubbling from your chest as you reached for his arm with warm affection, curling your fingers around the soft fabric of his sleeve. You tugged gently, lowering his hand from his face with an amused shake of your head, “you’re so dry that now we have to get lube…”

That earned a real laugh from him—low, quiet, but unguarded. The kind that only slipped out when he was with you and only you. The kind of laugh that felt like a secret, even here, surrounded by silicone and silk. Together, the two of you laughed softly, the space around you folding inward for just a moment, like you were wrapped in your own private world of glances and ridiculous jokes. Zayne took the bottles from your hands, holding them without comment, as if flavored lubricant was no more unusual than a grocery list.

Still smiling, you both moved further down the aisle, walking side by side into a new section. The soft lighting shifted as you entered a corridor lined with lace and mesh. Lingerie displays bloomed around you like a forbidden garden—corsets hung delicately from silver hooks, sheer nightgowns draped over mannequins posed like lovers mid-reach. Racks of garter belts and thigh-highs swayed gently under the subtle hum of ventilation. And just like that, the playfulness between you began to quiet—not fading, but deepening. It became something a little softer. A little more electric.

“You really wanna get those?” You asked, tapping a bottle in his hand as you both slowed near the displays.

You didn’t look at him directly at first. Instead, you watched him from the corner of your eye, subtly noting where his gaze drifted. What his eyes paused on. What drew the surgeon’s attention when he wasn’t trying to mask it.

“I don’t see why not,” he said, voice as calm and even as if you were discussing tea blends, “who knows? We both might like it. It could be something fun to bring to the bedroom.”

His words settled between you with a quiet kind of ease. You smiled faintly at the honesty in his voice. Zayne had always been structured, clinical in the way he moved through the world. And yet, for all that control—for all the cool restraint that made him who he was—he was also one of the most quietly open people you’d ever known. Especially when it came to you. He never judged. He listened.

Whether it was your ridiculous ideas, half-formed fantasies, or the strange, half-whispered curiosities you’d only ever admitted in the quietest of nights—he took them in with that same thoughtful gaze. No dismissal. Just steady, open acceptance. Like nothing about you could ever surprise him, and yet everything about you still fascinated him.

And over time, he’d let you do the same. You’d learned to navigate his silences. To feel where the stillness in him shifted. You’d learned when to tease, when to push, and when to simply wait for him to unravel himself—slowly, deliberately. You’d watched his walls crack, not all at once, but brick by brick, until you’d found yourself inside a home you hadn’t realized you’d been building together.

Still, as the two of you wandered slowly through the aisle—past racks of lace bodysuits, halter bras, and tiny sheer things that barely qualified as clothing—you felt something stir at the edge of your awareness. A realization. For all the time you’d spent tangled in each other—for all the nights spent panting, moaning, whispering—you and Zayne had never really explored anything…Unconventional. You’d loved deeply. Fucked thoroughly. But you hadn’t really played. Not yet. Not like this.

You hesitated for a beat, eyes drifting to where his lingered. He was looking again—quiet, thoughtful, observant.

“…You like anything?” You asked, your voice softer now, more curious than teasing. You turned slightly, watching him watch the clothing displays, as if trying to read the outlines of his desire through his silence.

You stood still for a moment longer, caught between the soft rustle of hangers and the low hum of overhead lights. Satin and lace lined the walls in shades of midnight, wine, ivory—delicate things designed to tantalize and impress. But beneath it all, a quiet, unexpected thought settled in your chest. You had no idea what your fiancé liked seeing you in. It almost felt stupid to admit—to even think. You knew he loved seeing you. In anything. In nothing. Zayne had never been subtle about the way he looked at you when you entered a room—those eyes of his sharp and unwavering, always following the slope of your back, the soft lines of your body like he was memorizing them again for the thousandth time.

And when you wore something meant to catch his eye—those little lace thongs you’d slip into before bed, sheer pieces that barely clung to your hips—you knew exactly what would happen. You’d crawl under the sheets with him, feigning innocence as you pressed your ass flush against the heat of his groin, pretending to care about whatever muted documentary was playing on Netflix. But it always ended the same way.

His breath would hitch, his arm would tighten around your waist, and within minutes, that thong would be somewhere on the floor, forgotten. And then he’d bury himself inside you, deep and slow and groaning against your ear as your body folded around him. He made love to you like he was starving for it. Like it wasn’t just sex—it was some primal vow spoken in sweat and gasps. Like your body was the only language he still remembered how to speak.

You knew he wanted you. You never doubted that. But here, in this softly lit aisle filled with possibilities, you realized you weren’t sure what would catch his eye first. What would linger in his mind after the moment passed.

“Hm,” Zayne murmured beside you, rubbing his chin subconsciously, the pads of his fingers brushing over the curve of his jaw as his eyes moved across the lingerie display.

His gaze was quiet, not wide-eyed or flustered. Just…Studying.

“All of it is sexy,” he said after a moment, the words thoughtful, “but that’s the whole purpose.”

He glanced at you again, his expression soft, like he already knew where your mind had wandered.

“If you’re asking me if anything in particular stands out to me, I’m not too sure, honestly…” He admitted.

And he meant it. Not in a dismissive way—but in that signature Zayne way, where he refused to say something he didn’t believe. It wasn’t about the fabric. Or the color. Or the style. It was you. He was always looking at you. Predictably Zayne. Clinical. Measured. Always speaking with that thoughtful, steady cadence of someone who weighed his reactions before allowing them space to exist. It wasn’t coldness—it never had been. It was calculation born from a lifetime of discipline. From understanding the cost of impulse.

He wasn’t like the rest of the male population. Not even close. You’d learned that early on—how his desire didn’t come in the form of wolfish leers or thoughtless gropes. Zayne could press a kiss to your pulse point and have your knees buckling, all because he was intentional. Because every touch came with weight. Worship. Restraint. That was the word for him. Restrained. And yet—when he broke?

God, when that composure cracked and his hunger for you slipped loose…The way he’d clutch at your thighs, bury himself in you like a prayer mouthed at the altar, whisper hoarse things against your neck as he rocked into you slowly, endlessly…That wasn’t lust. Not really. That was love. Need. Devotion. So now, as you stood beside him in this place built on fantasy and indulgence, you wondered…Was there anything that would make him lose his composure—not out of reverence, but from sheer, aching carnality? Lust?

You watched him as he shrugged.

“I’d be happy to see you in anything,” he said simply, truthfully. Then, reaching for a nearby pair, he held them up for your inspection, “maybe these? What do you think?”

Fishnets. You blinked, surprised—but not by the suggestion itself. More by how casual it was. There was no spark in his voice, no shift in his posture. He could’ve been recommending a necktie. Okay, you thought. That was a start. Not exactly the key to unleashing his inner beast, but a foot in the door of fantasy. You took the small, plastic-wrapped package from his hand, eyeing the crisscross pattern with a raised brow.

“I think it reminds me of my sad girl phase back in high school,” you chuckled, twirling the package between your fingers, “I didn’t know you could be so edgy, Zaynie.”

“Oh, you want edgy?” He teased, one brow lifting with that subtle inflection he reserved just for you.

“Well,” you replied, your tone tipping toward something more sincere, “I wanna know what you’d like to see on me the most.”

There wasn’t even a pause.

“Myself,” he said, deadpan.

You laughed, bright and breathless, tugging him gently by the hand as you pulled him deeper into the aisle. His palm stayed loosely in yours, fingers curling with that natural ease that had developed over time—like his hand had always belonged there, in your own.

“You know what?” you said, smiling as you slowed again near another rack, “I know we just spontaneously walked in here for fun, but I am kinda curious to see if we find stuff we wanna try out together.”

Zayne nodded once, his expression softening into something thoughtful.

“I am as well,” he said, “I admit I haven’t thought about these things too much at all. Haven’t had to.”

And that didn’t surprise you. Not even a little. If there was one thing you knew with certainty, it was that Zayne wasn’t complicated when it came to arousal. He didn’t need latex or blindfolds or ropes—not because he didn’t appreciate the idea of fantasy, but because you alone were enough. He got hard from hugs. From the weight of your body curled against him in bed. From the scent of your body lotion as he’d nuzzle your shoulder. From the simple act of you existing in his orbit. Sometimes he’d come home and find you vacuuming in one of his old shirts, and you’d see the way he’d pause in the doorway, silently watching with a look that made your skin heat.

You were his pressure point. Sometimes all it took was the slow drag of your thumb across his lower lip, or the trail of your fingers sliding between the sculpted ridges of his chest. He’d be composed one minute, and aching the next. He never needed more than you. But still…You tilted your head, watching him. Thinking. There was a question you’d never asked. One that sat quietly between long nights and soft moans, never spoken aloud.

“…Do you have any crazy fantasies at all?” You asked, voice dipped just a little lower, edged with curiosity, “is there anything in particular that makes you hot and bothered to think about?”

Zayne looked like he was genuinely thinking about it. Not humoring you. Not dodging the question. Thinking—in that precise, deliberate way he always did, as if you’d asked him something that deserved real consideration, not a glib reply. And you knew why. You were his first. He was yours. So even though the two of you had shared each other in every possible position—sheets tangled, breath hitched, sweat slick between your bodies—even though he’d bent you over the dinner table and hauled you up on the kitchen counter more times than you could count, had bruised your hips with the grip of his hands while whispering that he loved you through every slow thrust…There was still something you’d never really touched.

Desire, unfiltered. Not the kind rooted in familiarity, or comfort, or need. But curiosity. Fantasy. Kink. You wondered if he even thought about those things. If Zayne Li even knew what turned him on beyond your skin, your scent, his own name moaned against his lips. Did he ever get aroused from a thought, from an idea, from something untested? Did he even know what made his body want before his heart followed?

“When I think about it, it’s all what one might consider vanilla,” he admitted, voice calm, almost clinical—but not closed off. Just honest, “why, does it bother you? Are you bored?”

You blinked, surprised by the flicker of uncertainty in his voice. It wasn’t defensive. Just cautious. He always cared about your needs more than his own. Always worried if you were fully met.

“Huh? No no,” you said quickly, reaching to clasp his hand as the two of you continued to walk slowly past the racks. The warmth of his palm in yours grounded you instantly, “not at all, honey. You don’t have to be into anything here. It’s more like…I wanna know if there are sides to you that I haven’t gotten to know. If there are sides that you might not even know about yourself…You know what I mean?”

Zayne didn’t flinch at the question. He nodded instantly, like the idea had landed somewhere true in him.

“I see,” he said, looking at you as if seeing you through a slightly new lens, “you want to learn the parts of me you don’t yet know.”

“Mhmm,” you smiled up at him, gentle but searching.

And there it was—just a flash of it—the softness in his emerald gaze folding into something warm, unspoken. The kind of moment you couldn’t plan for. The kind that made you feel like you were both standing on the edge of something quietly important.

“…I appreciate that,” he said softly, almost more to himself than to you. Then, a slow smile pulled at the corners of his lips—so small, so sincere, “thank you…The feeling is mutual.”

He squeezed your hand.

“It’s perfectly fine with me if you don’t find anything here that doesn’t speak to you. But if you do, show me. Tell me. I want to learn all of you, too,” he insisted.

You felt yourself warm in the face as he squeezed your hand, his elegantly long fingers firm and steady around yours. His hands were always like that—intentional. Zayne never touched you without meaning to, and in moments like this, even the smallest contact held weight. He was such a reverent man, that one. If you were a study, Zayne was the scholar. Not just reading for pleasure—studying you. Learning you. Seeking mastery, front page to back cover, down to the finest serif in your margins. He wanted to know you—not just your body, but your silences, your pauses, your in-between spaces. And you wanted him the same way.

Meshing wasn’t enough. You wanted to merge. You wanted Zayne in your bones. Pressed so deep inside you—emotionally, physically, wholly—that you couldn’t tell where he ended and you began. You wanted to be unraveled and redrawn by him. Not just fucked. Possessed. Revered and ruined in equal measure. You were on the edge of saying something, of maybe letting that ache spill out, when he spoke first.

“I—…” He said suddenly, eyes flicking up like something had surfaced in him.

He paused, then looked to a section of the wall just a few steps ahead. His gaze sharpened, subtle but unmistakable.

“…I know we’ve joked about me tying you up before,” he murmured, voice quieter now, eyes trained on a shelf of neatly coiled bundles, “but I do really enjoy restraining you.”

His tone was calm. As always. Like he was talking about something technical, something measured—but there was an edge underneath. Something felt. You followed his gaze. Ropes. Silken ones in soft tones—blush, wine red, black. Nothing crude or harsh. Just potential. Knots, lines, precision. And Zayne, the man with hands made for heart surgery, stared at them with a kind of quiet curiosity that made your pulse skip.

Of course. Of course! He did have a penchant for discipline. For control. For taming you. That’s how it always was with him—not aggressive, not theatrical. His dominance didn’t come in brute force or loud declarations. It came in the stillness before the storm. The command woven into the subtle clench of his jaw. The authority in the way he spoke when he told you what to do. It came in how he moved you. Pulled you. Bent you beneath his hand like you were a line of silk meant to be guided—not broken. His power lay in how unshakable he was.

Be a good girl for me, he’d say in that voice like velvet over steel. And you would. Now, watching him run his fingers along the edge of the rope, so composed, so curious—it sent a shiver low through your spine. Zayne was indeed quite a dominant man. You’d just barely begun to see what that really meant. And you wondered—ached to know—what that dominance would look like if he ever chose to unspool it completely. To let go and fall in lust.

“Come here,” he said, voice low but steady, as he turned toward you—his fingers now holding the rope with delicate ease, as though it were surgical thread and not something meant to bind.

The bundle unwound slightly in his hands, draping like silk between his long fingers. He didn’t look flustered. Didn’t look like he was trying to impress. Zayne looked…Curious. Maybe even a little excited—not in a lewd way, but in that quiet, deeply focused way of his. Like a new puzzle had just revealed itself to him, and he was already halfway to solving it.

He took your hands, gently bringing them together before him, thumbs brushing over your skin as if grounding you to the moment. You couldn’t help it—you grinned.

“You gonna show me how surgeons tie knots?” You teased, quoting his favorite mock-threats—the ones he liked to murmur when you were being mischievous—Grabbing his crotch in passing, slapping his ass while he stood at the stove just before you’d bolt away laughing.

Zayne lifted one brow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” he said with a faint smile, like you’d walked right into his trap.

He looped the rope under your wrists, then brought it up again—measured, controlled. His movements had that same grace they always did when he worked—purposeful and exact. You watched the lines of his forearms move beneath his long sleeves, the steady curve of his wrists, the way he didn’t rush, didn’t hesitate.

“We almost always use the square knot to tie sutures and ligatures,” he continued, his voice dipping slightly into that familiar, thoughtful cadence—part doctor, part lover, “it’s simple. You make a half hitch by looping one end of the thread over the other and pulling it tight.”

He demonstrated, the rope tightening slightly—not uncomfortable, but snug.

“There’s your first throw.”

Oh God. He was actually doing it. He was genuinely showing you how surgeons tied knots. And you didn’t know if that was hot, or adorable, or both. Your chest fluttered with the kind of quiet giddiness that was almost embarrassing—like he’d cracked you open with nothing but focus and string. It wasn’t even sexual, not in the way most people would expect. He wasn’t trying to seduce you. He wasn’t playing a role. He was just…Zayne. Sharing something with you. Offering you a piece of himself, in the form of knowledge, trust, and touch. And that was what made it unbearable in the best way.

You glanced around the store quickly, cheeks flushed. No one seemed to be watching. Still, your pulse thrummed with the strange electricity of the moment. Not just because of the rope around your wrists, but because of him. Because of how he could give you butterflies doing the simplest thing. Without trying. Without pretense. He stood there now, eyes focused, lips softly parted in concentration, his hands moving with elegance born of a thousand hours of precision work—and all of it was just for you.

You smiled—helplessly, wholly—as you watched him in that little bubble of focus. Like nothing else existed but this rope, your hands, and his desire to share something real with you. It was quiet. It was reverent. And it was intimate in a way no one else in the world would have understood.

“Now all you need is the second throw,” Zayne murmured as he twisted the rope ends again and pulled them taut—neat, efficient, clean. You felt the subtle pressure of it settle against your skin, “and there you have it. A simple square knot.”

It was nothing extravagant. Not ornate. Just a practical knot—tied with the same hands that held beating hearts steady in the hospital. You looked down at your wrists, then back up at him.

“Show me again,” you said, voice soft but clear. Your eyes searched his, playful but sincere, “do a few for me.”

Zayne’s brow lifted, just barely.

“You know how to do this,” he said, a quiet chuckle in his throat, “the square knot is used in everything.”

“Yeah, but maybe I like to watch you,” you shrugged, letting your tone turn light, teasing. But the truth was there—in the way you looked at him. You weren’t just playing.

He smiled then. That rare, curved-up, warm smile that only cracked the surface when he let himself feel it. And after a breath of stillness—a pause filled with choice—he began again. You felt it first in the subtle tension of the rope, the shift of its weight as he looped it gently up your wrists, forming a second knot just above the first. The cord moved like water through his fingers—fluid, controlled, intentional.

“You like to test my patience,” he said, gaze focused on your arms as he worked, “that’s what you like to do.”

“I won’t deny that,” you teased back, voice barely above a whisper, too wrapped in the rhythm of his movements to laugh properly.

You watched him—watched the way his hands moved over you with a kind of reverence that made your chest ache. Each loop of rope was slow. Deliberate. Climbing higher along your forearms, snug but never too tight. You felt his skin brush yours with every pass. Warm. Gentle. The faint drag of his knuckles, the slip of his palm, the hush of the cord as it wound across your skin like something sacred.

There was no rush. No showmanship. Just care. Zayne wasn’t trying to impress you. He wasn’t trying to turn you on. But somehow, that made it all the more unbearable. Because he held you like you were something fragile. Not breakable—but precious. Known. Loved. You could see it in his focus—the way the world faded out around him. The quiet he fell into wasn’t distant. It was devotion. The same focus he brought to healing, now turned on you.

And God, you would’ve let him tie a hundred knots if it meant feeling this way just a minute longer. Then Zayne slipped two fingers beneath the looped rope at your wrists. You barely had a second to register the movement before he gave it a sudden, sharp tug. Your breath caught. The rope pulled tight—not harsh, not painful, but firm—and it yanked you forward a couple steps. Your bound forearms bumped against the front of his chest, caught between the two of you as they rose with the tension. Your body tilted into him, instinctively, surprised by the speed of it.

Your breath came shallow. Zayne didn’t move—he just stood there, calm and grounded, the scent of his skin wrapping around you like warmth. You could feel the rise of his chest beneath your arms, steady. Collected. And when you looked up at him, eyes wide, you saw it: That smirk. Subtle. The kind of smile he only ever wore when he knew he’d caught you off guard in the best possible way. Like your reaction was adorable. Maybe even a little amusing.

Fuck. You felt the heat spill down into your abdomen in a sudden rush. That spark. That shift. The way he could go from reverent to in control in the space of a single breath. It was seamless—like it was something woven into his posture, his blood, his breath. Your cheeks flushed instantly, a warm bloom rising to your skin as your heart pounded hard against your ribs.

He looked down at you calmly and said, “I’m definitely buying this.”

Like it was a decision already made. Like the rope was no different than a tool he needed in surgery. Just another extension of his intent.

Then, without missing a beat, he leaned down—slow, close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, “next time you think about grabbing me in places you shouldn’t while I’m making breakfast, you’ll think twice.”

Oh. That. You grinned—couldn’t help it. Your smile bloomed slowly, wide and full of mischief, remembering every time your hand had wandered toward his crotch or his ass while he stood at the stove, flipping eggs or stirring his coffee with half-lidded patience. You’d always darted away laughing. Now, standing here, wrapped in the ropes he’d tied, your wrists still warm from his touch, you felt that same thrill surge through you again. You bit your lip, cheeks burning—the rosiest flush coloring your face—and looked up at him from beneath your lashes.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Doctor Zayne,” you whispered, breath catching, “I’ll take you up on that.”

And you meant it. Every word. The only thing that reminded either of you that you weren’t, in fact, alone in this world made of silk and quiet tension, was the rustle of voices behind a rack—a few college kids snickering at a boxed card game across the aisle. Plastic shifted, laughter rang out, too loud for a space that had just felt like a cathedral of shared breath.

You damn near jolted. Zayne stepped back. The rope loosened between you as he gently distanced himself, clearing his throat in that composed way he always did when something inside him had begun to unspool a little too far. His gaze broke from yours—briefly—but not before you caught the flicker of something vulnerable. Like a crack had formed in his polished exterior, and he was gathering the shards before anyone else could see.

His ears were pink. Not crimson. Not burning. Just the faintest blush at the tips—a quiet confession of excitement. He reeled himself in with efficiency, though his breaths were just a little deeper now.

“Right,” he said with a brisk nod, his tone clipped as he reached up to take your arms gently from his chest, lowering them with care, “should we get a basket? I didn’t think we were going to get into a shopping spree, but I’m not complaining.”

The rope slipped from your wrists, knot by knot, the silk passing over your skin like memory. He worked quickly, untying you without haste, but without lingering either. Still, you could feel the way his fingers brushed the inside of your wrists—purposeful. Like he could still feel the heat from where he’d tied you. You glanced down at his hands, watching them move.

“Sure,” you replied casually, though your voice held a note of challenge, “besides, it looks like your hands are kinda full there. I wouldn’t want you to take on more work than you can handle…”

The second you said it, you saw it. His hands paused—just for a fraction of a second. Barely noticeable. Then his gaze lifted, slow and precise, pinning you with a look that sent your pulse slamming into your throat. That smirk curled the corner of his mouth—lazy, knowing, dangerous.

“I can handle you perfectly well,” he said, voice quiet, low, measured, “you, on the other hand, never learn, do you?”

That tone. That look. The heat that surged through you was instant—your thighs pressing subtly together as you leaned in, your mouth already curling into a grin that said you were going to misbehave. Again.

“Nope,” you whispered closer, letting your voice drag, sultry and smug, “it seems like I’m a terrible scholar, Doctor Zayne…”

You tilted your face just enough to breathe the next line into his space.

“Why don’t you teach me a different kind of lesson?”

Zayne puffed out a soft laugh—quiet, tight in his chest—as he tugged one of the knots a little harder than the last. You flinched slightly, not from pain, but from the jolt of surprise at his force.

“Stop,” his voice was low. Measured. Holding back a smile.

“Stop what?” You asked, all wide-eyed innocence, lips already twitching with amusement.

He gave you a look that said not to play with him. But you could see it—the faint tug at the corner of his mouth, the narrowing of his eyes, the flicker of breath that ran just a little deeper than the one before it, “you know what.”

He bit back that smile as soon as he saw the glint in your eyes. That spark. That dare. You felt the arousal crackle between you like static, low and humming. Zayne exhaled once through his nose—steadying, as if the heat pooling in his chest needed reigning in. Of course it did. That was always his way. Still, you leaned in a little closer, dropping your voice to a lilt.

“What, did I get you a little flustered there, Zaynie?” Your grin turned shameless, “why don’t you pick out whatever you need here to give me a little spanking when we get home?”

His eyes cut toward you, sharp. And you could see the tension in his jaw—his breath catching at the edges. He didn’t immediately dismiss it. He didn’t laugh it off.

“If you really mean that, I’ll consider it,” he said instead, cool as ever. And that made your breath catch, “since you’re so…Adamant, about being disciplined.”

He tucked the rope neatly into itself, rolling it up like it was just another surgical tool. But you knew him too well. That precision? That sudden quiet? It meant he was thinking about it. That thought alone made your skin flush, your grin stretching uncontrollably.

“Wait,” you eyed him, suspicious now, tilting your head as the two of you began to wander slowly again down the aisle, “would you?”

His hand found yours again—fingers lacing like it was instinct—and he didn’t miss a step.

“What,” he said smoothly, “spank you?”

He didn’t smirk. He didn’t flirt. He just looked at you with that same steady gaze that could say a hundred things in silence.

“Why not?” He continued, voice even. Thoughtful, “if you wanted me to, I would.

Then he gave a faint shrug, like it was the most logical thing in the world.

“I’d just need to know if you’d actually want me to. If you think you’d enjoy something like that.”

Something about it—his voice saying it so calmly, so seriously—lit a spark in your chest that flickered down your spine. The image came to life in your mind, vivid and illicit: Zayne, your Zayne, sweet and reverent and endlessly loving, pinning you down with nothing but his steady grip and that quiet voice, delivering sharp, deliberate smacks to your bare ass until it bloomed red with heat. Until you were whining into the pillow, thighs trembling, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes—not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming intensity of being his. It did something to you. Naughty. Tingling. Hot. So hot.

He picked up a basket with his usual composure, as if this were just another quiet errand on a peaceful day, and casually dropped the rope in with the bottles of lubricant you’d picked out earlier—each item a quiet promise.

“So…” He said, glancing at you as he adjusted the basket on his arm, “do you want me to give you an old-fashioned rearing the next time you decide to get sassy with me?”

The way he said it—so calm, so matter-of-fact—only made it worse. Better. Your stomach flipped, a laugh catching in your throat.

“Yeah,” you answered with a lilt, the grin already tugging at your lips, “maybe I’ll actually behave for once if you can manage to tame me and make me be obedient.”

The words came with a giggle, light and teasing, but something darker stirred underneath—an unspoken dare. You caught the slight twitch of his lips, the fond amusement in his eyes as he watched you…And then, before he could answer, you bolted.

You turned on your heel and dashed a few paces ahead, laughing as your voice dropped into a dramatic whisper-shout, “but first, you’ll have to catch me!”

Zayne blinked, startled by the sudden burst of energy, and you could already hear the huff of restrained laughter behind you.

“Oh no, I can’t stop running toward the flogging section, it’s pulling me in!” Your voice echoed softly through the aisle, drawing a faint glance from someone across the store—but you didn’t care. The heat in your cheeks burned from joy as much as arousal.

Behind you, Zayne’s chuckle came low and warm—amused, adoring, a soft exhale of endearment as he began walking after you at his usual unhurried pace.

“Watch your step, at the very least…” He called behind you, not rushing to chase, just watching you—calm, certain, following like he already knew you’d end up in his arms again soon.

As Zayne followed you through the dim, softly lit aisles, you slowed your steps, gaze drifting over the vivid, absurd, and strangely hypnotic displays that lined the space. Strange. Colorful. Phallic. There were dildos in shapes that defied logic, sizes that bordered on absurdity, and colors that reminded you of melted candy. Glass ones. Ridged ones. Ones with glitter and embedded LED lights. A rainbow of silicone stood at attention on carefully lit shelves, proudly displayed like trophies of erotic experimentation.

You blinked, stunned—but amused. You made a quiet mental note to explore this section later. Maybe. Definitely. But it wasn’t what pulled you now. No, what drew you deeper was the wall in the very back. The darker one. The one that shimmered under the low lighting like something waiting to be unearthed. You walked toward it slowly, your footsteps soft against the floor, heartbeat rising with every step. As you got closer, your breath caught just slightly at what you saw. A whole wall lined with instruments of…Pain? Or pleasure? Or maybe—both.

You weren’t even sure what you were feeling, only that your chest felt tight with it. Wonder. Curiosity. Nerves. Heat. It was all there, tangled together, fluttering in your stomach like a secret you hadn’t known how to name before now.

There were whips in every shape imaginable. Long, thin ones with lashes that looked like leather. Short ones, their falls wider, heavier. Some with knots braided into their ends, designed to land with a sharper sting. There were paddles, too—plastic, wooden, polished metal. Sturdy riding crops that looked like something out of a dominatrix’s cabinet, and floggers so beautiful they could’ve doubled as high fashion accessories. It was a plethora of bondage tools.

Your fingers twitched slightly at your sides, itching to reach out and touch. You were in awe. You were curious. Nervous. Turned on. So many things, all at once. And then—of course—you thought of Zayne. Your sweet, gentle, affectionate fiancé. The man who kissed your shoulders in the morning like you were a miracle. The man who brought you hot compresses for your cramps and massaged your bum until you fell asleep with your forehead against his chest. The one who worshipped your body in bed like it was holy.

That Zayne…Wielding a whip? You couldn’t imagine it. Couldn’t imagine him inflicting pain—not even a little. But then…The idea shifted. Refined. Pleasurable pain. Controlled pain. Measured, delivered with love, precision, trust. Oh. Ohhh. Yes. That was different. That was Zayne. You could see it now—the image unfurling in your mind so clearly it nearly made your knees weak: those big, scarred hands curled around the braided handle of a smooth black whip. The calm, careful way he’d wield it, like an extension of his will. His voice low, instructive, telling you to hold still for him.

And then the crack—the sharp kiss of leather against your skin, a sting followed by warmth that bloomed out in waves. Your body jolting, breath caught, but held in place by his voice, his hands, his presence. Fuck. That was…Hot. More than hot. You understood, suddenly, how people could be drawn to this. Not for cruelty. Not for power. But for surrender. For control given willingly. For trust offered, then broken open with every strike and praise-laced command. And Zayne…With his quiet dominance, his calm authority…He was made for this.

“Finding everything okay?” A voice called, pulling you out of your whip-induced haze.

You nearly jumped out of your skin.

“Y—yeah!” You said a little too fast, spinning on your heel with the grace of a startled deer. Your back went straight, your shoulders squared. Stiff as a board.

The young man behind you looked friendly enough—probably store staff, maybe a couple years out of high school, with an eager smile that was trying way too hard not to be awkward.

“…Great, thanks,” you finally answered.

“Anything you’re looking for in particular?” He offered with a practiced voice, “if you need any help, just let me know—”

“—We’re just fine.”

That voice—Zayne’s voice—landed low and final beside you. You didn’t even need to look to know he was close. You felt his presence first—the smooth glide of his hand over the small of your back, anchoring, claiming. Not overtly. Just…There. His fingers spread gently across your spine like they’d always belonged there.

He gave the young man a polite but tight nod, “thank you.”

It wasn’t rude. It was just Zayne. Your good ol’ possessive, jealous, protective Zayne—always quick to swoop in anytime a man so much as breathed in your direction. Even when the interaction was harmless. Even when it was customer service. Because he noticed. He always did.

The staff member gave a quick, polite smile, probably more out of instinct than comfort, and walked off down the aisle, leaving the air between you just a little warmer than before.

You turned to your fiancé, unable to help yourself, and jabbed him playfully in the side with your elbow.

“No one can ever get past you, honey,” you said with a teasing smile as you reached up to pinch his cheek.

He didn’t flinch. In fact, he leaned into your touch, capturing your hand in his own and holding it there—pressed against the sharp angle of his face. His eyes flicked over the top of your head with one last look toward the guy, his expression unreadable. Then his gaze returned to you. Cool. Focused. Yours. And then…Soft.

“He was staring,” Zayne said simply, as if stating a medical fact, “you don’t notice these things, but I do.”

The way he said it…Low and certain, not jealous, not insecure—just watchful. As if protecting you was as natural to him as breathing. Like he was hardwired for it. You smiled that soft, stupid kind of smile you always gave him when he went a little too icy in public. When he turned all that restraint and control into a quiet claim.

“And that’s why I have my giant, icy shield,” you cooed, pinching his chin with affection, letting your fingers drag gently along the line of his jaw, “to protect me from wandering eyes and—…” You turned on your heel and pointed toward the other side of the wall, where a foot-long, violently purple dildo was proudly mounted like some prehistoric relic, “humongous dinosaur cocks.”

Zayne followed the line of your finger, blinked, and let out a quiet breath—half disbelief, half laughter, buried in a sigh that said he couldn’t take you anywhere. But he didn’t look away. He just smiled. That slow, helpless smile that guaranteed he’d follow you anywhere.

“You mean, you don’t want to have a sword fight at home?” He chuckled, his dry humor slipping into a rich, warm rumble at the sight of the towering monstrosity mounted to the shelf.

You damn near choked, laughter bursting from your chest with such force that you had to lean forward to catch your breath.

“Oh my god—” You wheezed, grabbing his arm and spinning him back toward the wall of actual implements, “no!”

You pointed dramatically at the row of paddles, voice filled with exaggerated exasperation.

“I want you to swat me over the ass with one of these, damn it.”

You could barely say it with a straight face, but the hunger behind the joke lingered under the surface. Even if it was said in jest—you meant it. Fully. And sure, the image of wielding a floppy, neon dino-cock like a broadsword while Zayne calmly chased you around the house in nothing but pajamas and judgment was absolutely hilarious—and honestly, not that hard to imagine—but the thing that held your focus now was more serious. More…Deliberate. A good old-fashioned rearing from him. You wanted to feel it—his authority, his heat, his dominance. All wrapped up in leather and control and the look he got when he was fighting not to break.

Zayne sighed—deep, exaggerated, mock-dramatic—as he turned his eyes toward the wall of leather, wood, and metal. And then, with infuriating gentleness, he slipped an arm around your waist and pulled you into his side. You landed softly against the firm warmth of his chest, your shoulder against his ribs, your cheek nearly at the height of his collarbone.

“And here I was hoping you’d entertain me with a romantic duel,” he mused, eyes lazily scanning the inventory like he was browsing textbooks, “fine. What catches your eye?”

You blinked up at him, just for a second, almost sheepish, and shrugged. He looked down at you.

“Oh, so now you’re the clueless one?” He teased, one brow lifting in that precise, knowing way he did when he was two steps ahead, “okay. I’ll decide for you, then, since I’ll be the one wielding it.”

That word—wielding—shot straight down your spine. Your hand slid across his stomach, fingers playfully tapping his hard abdomen.

“You mean, you don’t want me to smack you in the ass with my weapon of choice when you least expect it, Mister Breakfast Boy?” You whispered.

He caught your wrist in a flash, gentle but firm, his reflexes faster than they had any right to be.

His hand was warm, his grip confident as he leaned just a little closer. You felt his breath fan across your cheek as he tilted his head, eyes narrowing with that velvet-soft threat of intimacy he wore so well.

“Oh, please do,” he murmured, his voice pitched just for you, “give me a reason, Miss Fairy.”

Blood surged hot and sudden to your face at his words—at the way his voice curled around the syllables like he was tucking a secret under your skin. There was a smirk hidden in his tone, quiet and devastating, and it sent a rush of heat rocketing down from your chest to your stomach, through the flurry of butterflies that twisted there, landing deep—low. You felt the whole world tilt inside you. Just a little. Shit. What was he doing to you?

It was just banter. You knew that. Just harmless teasing. That was the dynamic. It always had been. And yet…Your body wasn’t listening. Your pulse was sprinting. Your thighs pressed together as adrenaline bubbled up under your skin, and there was this terrible, delicious temptation to keep pushing him. To see how far that calm, collected exterior could stretch before it snapped.

You laughed quietly—flustered and breathless—as you smacked your hand gently against his chest, “stop!”

His chest was warm. Solid. He didn’t even flinch.

“Stop what?” He asked, all innocence—his smile playing just faintly at the corners of his mouth. The kind of smile you could feel before you saw it, “I’m simply getting even. You’re the one asking for trouble…Quite literally.”

He let go of your waist, turning to toy with the leather falls of a whip hanging from a nearby hook. His long fingers brushed through the falls like he was inspecting a medical tool—something precise, something to be understood, dissected, mastered.

“Maybe I like getting in trouble with you,” you murmured, your voice drifting like smoke as your own hand slid along the smooth, cool surface of a paddle.

Your eyes didn’t linger on it long, because they were already watching him. Zayne picked the whip from its hook with no hesitation. The movement was clean. Intentional. Not flashy. You watched as he wrapped his hands around the falls, twisting them neatly, his grip measured. And then—

CRACK.

You flinched—visibly—spinning on your heel just in time to see him snap the leather clean across his open palm. Your breath caught hard. He was…Unbothered. Trying it out. Feeling the tool in his hand the same way he might test the weight of a scalpel or check the tension on surgical thread. Controlled. Calm. Curious. You, on the other hand, were vibrating. Your adrenaline spiked—sharp, sweet, leaving tingles down your spine and pooling somewhere deep and hot between your legs. You stared at him, transfixed, stunned by the fact that this man could look so composed with a whip in his hand.

Then—

CRACK.

Again.

Another strike, smooth and clean, echoing against the walls like a warning. Or a promise. You stood still, too distracted to pretend you were interested in anything else now. Your hands hung by your sides, forgotten. Because all your focus—every single ounce of it—was riveted to the way he moved. Zayne tugged the leather strands straight with a sharp flick of his wrist, letting them fall into place like a belt snapping taut. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t even glance your way. His attention was on the wall. Scanning. Calm.

And still…The way he handled that whip? It was graceful. His long, elegant fingers curled through the falls as he pulled them through his grip. You watched the rhythm of his movement, the tactile care he gave to the object, like it was part of his anatomy. Like he was learning it. Understanding it. He wasn’t trying to impress you. He was just interested. And that, somehow, that was what made it so hot you could barely breathe.

“Hm…It makes perfect sense,” Zayne murmured, more to himself than to you, turning the whip over one last time before placing it back on its hook with a gentle precision. He reached for a paddle next—black leather, thick and firm—and turned it over in his hands like he was reading something between its seams, “I can understand how something like this might be pleasurable for a lot of people.”

Ah. There it was. The medical explanation. You had to smile—of course that was where his mind would go first. He wasn’t the type to ogle or gawk or giggle at taboo. He dissected things. Analyzed. Understood. He needed to know the why of everything, even this. Especially this, and it was endlessly endearing.

“Why, Doctor Zayne?” You teased, brows arching as you picked up a sleek black riding crop from the wall. It felt smooth and lightweight in your fingers—cool to the touch.

He didn’t miss a beat.

“The impact of a whip, a paddle, anything like this, stimulates the mechanoreceptors and nociceptors in the skin,” he began evenly, shifting the paddle between his hands like it was a textbook model. His voice dropped slightly as he entered lecture mode—low, warm, articulate, “your nervous system reads that as a sharp sensation, and your brain responds by releasing endorphins and dopamine.”

Your smile deepened. God, he was such a smarty.

“Mmm,” you hummed, nodding along, smacking the crop lightly against your palm. It made a soft thwack, just enough to echo between you.

He continued—composed, clinical, compelling.

“Those chemicals reduce pain perception, heighten pleasure, and make you more aware of every touch,” Zayne explained, “local vasodilation increases warmth and sensitivity in the area, so anything that follows feels sharper…Hotter.”

He glanced at the paddle again, shifting it once in his hand.

“With control and trust, your nervous system starts to associate that sting, that rush of chemicals, and the closeness of the moment with—…”

You didn’t let him finish—not with words, anyway. You moved slowly, deliberately, flattening the crop against the center of his chest, right over his heart, pressing it through the soft fabric of his dress shirt. Then, just as slowly, you began to drag it downward—two inches, maybe three. Just enough to trace along his sternum. Zayne froze. Not in shock, but in calibration. His breath left him in a shallow exhale, audible only because you were so close. His hand moved with precision, catching the shaft of the crop before it could dip lower, his fingers curling over yours. Gentle. Intentional.

You looked up just in time to catch the way a soft, slow flush bloomed over his cheekbones. His eyes met yours. There was a beat of silence. Then—

“…Pleasure,” he finished, voice rougher now. Just slightly. Like something had caught in his throat and had to be coaxed free.

Without a word, Zayne plucked the crop from your fingers, unrushed. He placed it neatly into the basket, the way a parent might take a toy from a child too mischievous for their own good. His expression was unreadable—unimpressed, maybe. Or simply measured.

But you caught the flicker in his eyes. The way he was watching you. You grinned—wide, unrepentant, challenging—refusing to break eye contact. Two could play this game. Your hand slid over to the whip he’d tested earlier—the one that had made your pulse stutter and your breath hitch. You picked it up slowly, wrapping your fingers around the handle like it was a dare, twisting the falls through your palm, letting the leather slide against your skin. You pulled them back toward yourself in one gentle, fluid motion, and his gaze followed every movement.

“So,” you said, letting your eyes drift deliberately down his chest, slow and appraising, “you saying I might enjoy this?”

You flicked your wrist—light, teasing, harmless—and let the strands of the whip fall forward toward his abdomen. Zayne caught the falls midair, didn’t even blink.

“I think you will,” he answered smoothly.

Then, without ceremony, he took the whip from your hand and added it to the basket—along with the paddle. You blinked, brows rising.

“You want all of those?” You asked, eyes widening with surprise, “really?”

His gaze flicked toward the contents of the basket. The crop, whip, and the paddle, then back to you. He looked at you like you were asking the most obvious question in the world.

“A surgeon uses dozens of instruments in a single operation,” he said, “every tool has a purpose. This isn’t much different.”

Well, when you thought of it that way, it made sense. You could only imagine how many scalpels, how many scissors, clamps he’d go through in a single surgery.

“Well, when you put it that way…” You murmured, falling into step beside him again with a little smile curling at the corners of your lips, amused by the way he turned every naughty indulgence into a clinical tool of precise application.

You and Zayne continued to wander slowly, unhurried, side by side through the velvet-lit aisles of Sugar and Sin. The world here moved differently—quiet, pulsing under the hum of fluorescent light and ambient music, like a secret tucked in the folds of neon and shadow. The farther you moved in, the stranger and more enticing the displays became. Gloves made of soft leather but embedded with tiny metal spikes. Shiny chrome clamps clipped to mannequins in ways that made you warm between the thighs as you passed. Ball gags with red spheres and delicate buckles. Satin blindfolds that glinted beneath the soft lights like spilled ink.

Hell, even cock rings. You paused, eyebrows lifting as your fingers ghosted over the corner of a glossy black package. You plucked it from the shelf, curious, and turned it over in your hands, scanning the marketing text on the back. Huh. Apparently, they were designed to trap blood flow, to make an erection even harder, even more enduring. Some promised heightened sensation for the wearer. Others claimed to intensify orgasm. And this one came with a tiny, removable vibrating ring designed to press against the receiver as they…Rode.

Your breath caught a little in your throat. Oh. You swallowed, suddenly acutely aware of the cool air brushing your neck, of the soft weight of your own arousal beginning to pool low and warm. The image came to you without warning: Zayne laid back beneath you, his sculpted chest rising and falling, hands gripping your hips as you sank down onto him, the toy pressed between you, the vibration sending sparks through your clit, through him, through every moan you both swallowed from the other’s mouths.

Goosebumps shivered across your arms. You were absolutely putting this in the basket. Your hand moved toward the shopping tote Zayne was carrying, but it didn’t meet him. He wasn’t there. You blinked, startled, your arm still half-extended. The warmth of him, his presence at your side, his subtle gravity, had vanished without a sound. You turned quickly, scanning the aisle, your heart thudding a little harder now. Not in panic. Just in the sudden absence of him.

You scanned the aisle with swift, searching eyes—until you caught it. That familiar, obsidian-black head of hair rising above a display shelf just a few feet away. There he was. Of course. Calm. Unhurried. Zayne moved through a sex shop the same way he did through a crisis—methodically, silently, utterly unbothered. You stepped forward, weaving past a rack of boxed toys, intent on slipping back to his side, but something made you stop.

Your eyes snagged on movement, or maybe it was the glint of silver. Whatever it was, your attention drifted—caught by a tall male mannequin displayed like some sacrificial statue in the center of a darker alcove. You turned and promptly halted. The mannequin stood tall, broad-shouldered, cut from a mold that looked more like a villain in a graphic novel than a man. It wore black leather pants stitched tight to its hips, adorned with zippers and straps in a pattern that whispered of command, of danger. A single sleeve from a studded leather jacket clung to its right arm, held in place by several crisscrossing silver chains that glinted like restraints.

Its gloved hand had only three fingers covered in leather, curled at its side, cool and composed, like it was waiting to discipline someone. It was all so edgy. Something out of a dystopian nightclub. Or a dungeon. And yet…Hot. So hot. The look was ridiculous and intense, over-the-top,  but your brain betrayed you and filled in the blanks.

The blank mannequin face was suddenly replaced with your fiancé’s cool, sculpted expression. His steady gaze. His thick lashes shadowing those calculating emerald eyes. The jacket clung to Zayne’s torso in your mind’s eye, black leather taut across broad shoulders, hugging the defined shape of his chest. The straps wrapped around biceps you knew were strong enough to hold you up and pin you down. The gloves, God, the gloves, only emphasized the size of his hands, the way he’d grip, move, command. And the pants…Oh, the pants.

You pressed your thighs together, heart skipping as heat bloomed quietly between your legs. God. You were such a hopeless, horny simp for your fiancé. But could anyone blame you? The man was six-foot-one of pure, delicious restraint—a disciplined beefcake with the voice of a scholar and the body of a sin.

“My, how edgy—”

“—Ah!”

You jolted, physically flinching as Zayne’s voice appeared right beside you like a phantom out of the shadows, smooth and low with that unmistakable thread of amusement woven through it.

You clutched your chest dramatically, “babe, you scared me!”

He smiled. Teasing. Knowing. So damn pleased with himself, because of course he saw you staring, and of course he knew exactly what you were imagining.

“Sorry,” he murmured, stepping in close and cupping your shoulder with one warm, steady hand. His thumb rubbed soft circles into your skin through the fabric of your shirt as you breathed out slowly, still recovering from the jump, “I didn’t mean to catch you off guard. I thought you heard me coming by.”

He paused, then tilted his chin toward the mannequin, the very one you’d been mentally undressing him into moments earlier.

“Is it really that distracting?” He asked.

You cleared your throat, brushing off the heat in your cheeks like dust from your collar as you tossed the cock rings into his basked, earning a glance at them.

“…I just zoned out,” you mumbled, half a shrug, half a plea for him to let it go.

But Zayne wasn’t buying it. Not for a second. You could see it in the corner of his mouth, that smile, cool and dry like black coffee and velvet. He didn’t need to say anything else. The gleam in his eye said enough. Still, he pressed.

“I don’t suppose you’d want to see me in something like that?” He teased, voice all smooth seduction in that undercurrent tone of his.

You blinked, laughing awkwardly, instinctively tucking your hair behind your ear to do something with your hands, “w-where would you even wear it?”

His reply was immediate, quiet, and absolutely lethal.

“In the bedroom,” he said, leaning in just a fraction closer, “while I tie you up with the rope and you pretend that you’re unaffected by my edgy leather pants.”

A startled laugh broke from your throat—bright, unguarded, embarrassed. You had to drop your gaze before he saw the way your lips struggled not to curl too wide. He was too much sometimes. But you loved it. You loved him. Zayne turned his head slightly, reaching toward the mannequin with his other hand, and pinched a bit of the leather between his fingers.

“They seem quite uncomfortable,” he remarked thoughtfully, with all the detached logic of a man assessing a surgical suture, “I’m not sure how this would even fit with an erection.”

The way he said it so casually nearly made you choke on your own spit.

You nudged his side, giggling, “that’s when you’d have to take them off. I especially don’t think these would fit you.”

Zayne hummed low in his chest, glancing down along the garment with a considering tilt of his head.

“I’d be counting the seconds until I could take them off,” he agreed. Then his eyes flicked to you again, his voice a little softer now, more weighted—sincere, “you, though…You’d look very good in leather, I think.”

You blinked, taken aback by the suddenness of it—by how honest it sounded in the middle of all your teasing.

“I would?” You asked, a little laugh tucked into your voice. Surprised. Flattered.

He nodded once, slow, eyes warm as they held yours, “mhmm.”

Then, without breaking stride, he gently slipped his fingers between yours and began to lead you away from the mannequin, away from the mental image still burning hot in your thoughts, but not out of the mood. No, he never broke the mood. He just carried it with him, and you, like the atmosphere you both breathed in together.

You thought, naively, that he was leading you toward something soft. Something tame. Some lacy little number that hugged your curves just enough to earn one of those subtle, unreadable Zayne glances. But instead, without a word, he steered you deeper down the aisle lined with darker things. Edged things. Things that didn’t hint at sin—they declared it.

And that was when you saw it. The wall was a display of ownership. Leather. Studs. Rings. Collars. He stopped in front of it like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand lifted. And he touched it—casually. Like it was just another accessory. Like it was something lovely in a store window. His fingers brushed the supple leather of a collar—black, delicate, and deceptively soft. In the center sat a heart-shaped silver ring, polished to a high gleam, catching the low light like it meant something. It wasn’t gaudy. It wasn’t aggressive.

It was…Cute. Intimate. Quiet in its declaration.

“This is cute,” Zayne said softly, fingers toying with the strap.

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard him right. Your pulse had already begun to pick up, that collar burning itself into your vision, but it wasn’t until he turned to look at you—smiling, soft—that your brain practically short-circuited.

“Don’t you think?” He asked innocently, as if he hadn’t just pointed out a collar built for submission.

“…Oh, yeah,” you managed, voice feather-light as you nodded too quickly, trying to mask the flush already creeping up your neck.

But Zayne wasn’t done admiring. He unbuckled it from the display with gentle hands, and before you could even process, he held it up to you. The collar opened in his fingers like an invitation, the leather curved ever so slightly from its resting position. And then, with a slow, measured grace that made your knees soften, he stepped forward. He was going to put it on you. Here. Now. In a public store. And the strangest thing was how calm he remained, like it was no more intimate than fixing your necklace or brushing a stray eyelash off your cheek. Like this wasn’t the kind of gesture that could set your entire body on fire.

You swallowed, eyes wide, breathing uneven as his hands rose toward your throat. They brushed gently along your nape—God, his hands. Always so large, so warm, so careful with you. You could feel the pads of his fingers lightly grazing your skin, the delicate tickle of the collar settling against the hollow of your neck, the faintest pressure as he measured its fit—not tight, not yet fastened, just placed. Claimed. It wasn’t heavy, but it felt like a weight. Like something sacred.

Your lungs felt too full, too tight as you stared up at him, every inch of your skin buzzing with awareness. Not of the store. Not of the distant murmurs or the slow hum of the overhead speakers. Just of him. Just the heat between your bodies and the memory of every time he ever said “you’re mine” with his eyes instead of his voice.

He took a step back, but his hand lingered a second longer than necessary at your nape. A soft touch. A possessive whisper of contact. Then his gaze moved, down your neck, along the line of the collar, and back to your eyes. He smiled. Not teasing. Not wicked. Just…Pleased.

“I think it fits you very well,” Zayne said.

You caught it by accident. The mirror. A small, square fixture nestled into the display wall of black leather and chrome. It reflected the faint glow of low lighting, casting back the image of yourself—standing there with a collar gently pressed to your neck, your cheeks flushed, your mouth slightly parted, and your eyes caught in that hazy, glazed kind of daze that only he ever managed to pull from you. You looked…claimed, and it made something in your stomach twist up deliciously tight.

Your fingers lifted, almost on their own, ghosting over the cool edge of the leather. The material was smoother than you expected, supple beneath your touch, the soft weight of it resting lightly at your throat. Your thumb grazed the little silver heart loop at the center. You knew what it was for. Oh, you indeed knew. That ring, sweet in shape, but unmistakable in function, was made for one thing…To be clipped to a leash. And a leash would be held by Zayne. Oh God.

A shiver slipped down your spine, hot and subtle, like someone had whispered across the shell of your ear. The thought of that leash, taut in his hand. The weight of it. The weight of his control. Not loud, not violent—just quiet, knowing, commanding. The same energy he used to make you melt with a single glance. A single word. Your heart raced. And then—

“Would you wear it for me?”

Oh God. Your lungs forgot how to function. Your thoughts scattered like glass beneath a heel.

“I—…Sure,” you nodded quickly, too quickly, the motion small and jerky and completely betraying you.

You cursed yourself internally, knowing damn well the smirk in Zayne’s eyes said he’d seen everything. The rush of blood in your cheeks. The way your knees nearly buckled. The way your breath caught halfway in your chest like you’d swallowed lightning.

Your voice stumbled out again, desperate for cover, “we really do look like a couple of virgins going all out on their honeymoon…”

Zayne chuckled, low and warm, his body shifting closer like gravity had its own rules when it came to you. His hands lifted and slipped around your neck—not to take the collar off, not yet. Just to hold. Just to touch. The way his fingers rested lightly at your nape made your skin hum. His eyes found yours, steady and soft.

“Well, we make quite the exciting couple,” he murmured, voice a shade above a whisper, “far from your average romance.”

You laughed, nervous, breathy—desperate to channel all this flustered heat somewhere.

“Yeah, my fiancé wants to put me in a kitty collar,” you said, aiming for teasing, though your voice tilted a little more flustered than you intended.

In a bold flash of panic-humor, you reached for a black leash hanging beside the mirror and tossed it into the basket like it burned your hand. Zayne didn’t laugh. Not right away. Instead, his hands lingered gently at your throat, thumbs brushing once more against your skin in quiet consideration.

And then, slowly, he reached behind your neck. The faintest sound of leather slipping against leather followed as he unclasped the collar with that maddening care of his, no rush, no drama. Just a moment. Yours and his. He drew it away, let it hang briefly from his fingertips as he looked at it again. Then, wordlessly, he bent down and placed it in the basket, right beside the leash, as if that settled it.

“And mine wants me in tight leather pants,” he added a second later, cracking a little smile as he straightened up.

You groaned into your palm, shaking your head with a grin, only for him to pat your head with one of those giant, annoying, affectionate hands like you were the most adorable disaster on Earth. You peeked up at him with that wide-eyed look you gave when he caught you mid-daydream, mid-fantasy—utterly seen.

His smirk softened, his voice tender and composed again, “do you want to look at anything else…Or is this enough for now?”

“I think this is a pretty good start,” you said, breath still light as your eyes dropped to the basket Zayne held so calmly at his side. It was full. Maybe not embarrassingly so, but definitely not casual, either. A neat collection of soft and sharp things—ropes, leather, promise.

You swallowed back a bubble of laughter and added, “should be enough to keep us busy for a while, right?”

“Yes,” his answer came with that gentle cadence he always used when he was completely unshaken by the obvious chaos you were in.

Zayne reached down and slipped his hand into yours, fingers lacing with deliberate softness, grounding you even as your brain felt like it was made of fizz. Together, you began to walk toward the register, slowly, as if neither of you were quite ready to return to the real world just yet.

“I’m going to do some reading before jumping into anything, though,” he added with thoughtful weight, his thumb brushing over your knuckle, “I don’t want to use anything on you that I’m unfamiliar with.”

Of course he would say that. Leave it to your careful, clinical, brilliant fiancé to approach your spontaneous sex shop spree with the same preparation as a surgical rotation. You smiled through a soft exhale, eyes warm.

“You want a tutorial for flogging my silly ass?” You giggled under your breath.

Without hesitation, he replied, completely serious, completely sincere, “I do.”

You nearly tripped. His eyes flicked toward you, watching the corners of your mouth twitch into that helpless, flustered grin.

“If I’m going to do something like that,” he continued evenly, “I’m going to do it correctly. Efficiently.”

Efficiently. God. You bit your lip. Hard. There was something about that word. The way he said it. Precision dressed in velvet. Not cold, not clinical, just that quiet intensity he always carried, the kind that said if he touched you, it would be intentional. It would be devastating. It turned you on so badly. The fact that he was taking this seriously, not as a joke, not just for a thrill, but as something sacred to learn, to understand, God, it made your heart flutter and your thighs press subtly closer.

You walked alongside him, hand in his, trying to keep your breath even. But it was impossible, because the closer you got to the front of the store, the more your mind unraveled with all the things you didn’t say aloud, like the fact that you were already imagining it—Zayne, behind you. Commanding. Measured. Pulling you down over the edge of the bed like you were his own personal misbehaving patient, pressing a palm flat between your shoulder blades to keep you in place. You imagined the sound of leather hitting skin, the sudden warmth, the precise impact. The low rumble of his voice above you.

Oh fuck. Your pulse stuttered. Your cheeks were burning. And somehow, somehow, Zayne still looked completely composed. Basket in one hand. Yours in the other. Walking like you weren’t both seconds from combusting. You couldn’t help but glance up at him, overwhelmed with affection and desire all at once. He was everything. Your calm in the chaos. Your ruin in restraint. And even when he didn’t mean to, he turned you inside out.

How the hell were you supposed to make it home without combusting? You were so stupidly, thoroughly gone for him. And the most ridiculous part? He was just as gone for you.

He paid, the transaction smooth and unbothered, like he was buying groceries instead of lube and silk rope. Your purchases were tucked neatly into one large, matte black bag—discreet, but no less incriminating in your mind—and before you knew it, you were stepping out into the cool hush of the night air together. The streetlight cast a soft amber glow across the pavement as Zayne laced his fingers with yours again, warm and steady, walking you hand-in-hand to the car with that quiet confidence that always made your heart skip.

He opened the trunk, set the bag inside with care, then turned to open the passenger door for you like the gentleman he never quite stopped being—even when he was teasing you senseless. But just as you slid into the seat, his hand found your knee, his fingers curling lightly around it. He leaned in close, that maddeningly unreadable smile curving at the edge of his lips.

“There’s something else I want to get,” he said, voice low and smooth, eyes glinting with something mischievous, “but it’s a surprise. Can you wait in the car for me?”

Your brows furrowed immediately, mouth twisting in wary amusement, “…Just what are you up to now?”

Instead of answering, he raised one finger and pressed it gently to your lips, a barely-there touch that sent an involuntary shiver dancing down your spine.

“It’s a surprise, my dear,” he whispered, almost conspiratorially.

That look he gave you, equal parts affection and playful mystery, only deepened your suspicion. You couldn’t help the way your eyes narrowed, trying to read between the lines of his smile. Whatever he was plotting, you knew better than to think it was anything simple. With Zayne, surprises were never small things. And they were never innocent. Still, when he dropped your key into your palm and closed your fingers around it, your heart gave a traitorous little flutter.

“Lock the doors,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss you—soft, warm, and frustratingly brief.

Not nearly enough. Not when he was leaving you in the dark like this.

“I’ll be right back,” he said against your mouth, his breath brushing your skin, “just give me a moment.”

“Hey!” You called, grabbing a firm hold of his collar just as he was turning to go.

The tug stopped him mid-step, surprise flickering in his eyes—but only for a second before you pulled him back to you, lips meeting his in a kiss that left no room for argument. It was deeper this time, slower, the kind of kiss that said you weren’t letting him go that easy. You breathed him in, the warmth of his skin, the faint scent of his cologne, the way his hand immediately came up to cup your shoulder as if his body remembered the shape of you without needing instruction.

You were the one who pulled away first, but even then, he lingered, like his mouth wasn’t quite ready to part from yours. His gaze dropped to your lips, slow, lazy, unbearably fond, before it rose to meet your eyes, an amused smile spreading across his face like you’d just caught him doing something mischievous. You barely had a second to react before he kissed you again, laughing against your mouth as he pulled you into him with more urgency this time. You let him—how could you not? But the moment you felt him start to lean in, pressing a little too close, you started smacking at his chest in mock protest.

“Go!” You laughed, breathless and flustered, “before I follow you back in there.”

“Fine,” he chuckled, still leaning over you, eyes glittering with amusement.

He reached over your lap with that long arm of his and pressed the button for the seat heater. A wave of warmth buzzed to life beneath you as he ducked back out of the car and stood tall again, adjusting the collar you’d tugged out of place.

“Behave,” he warned lightly, already backing away with that damn smile of his, “I’ll be quick.”

“No promises,” you shot back, watching him walk away. You were still a little breathless, still smiling like an idiot.

You kept your eyes on him, trailing the long, purposeful strides that carried him back across the lot and through the glowing red doors of the sex shop. You couldn’t help but wonder what it was he’d left behind—something he’d seen and quietly filed away for later, maybe. Something he didn’t want you to notice until the moment was just right.

Curiosity buzzed in your chest, but the seat heater was lulling your body into a relaxed warmth, making it all too easy to reach for your phone and pull up a game, just to pass the time. The glow of the screen filled the car, your thoughts drifting back to the way he’d kissed you, the mischief in his eyes, the way he always left you just flustered enough to forget how to breathe.

You sighed, smiling faintly to yourself, voice soft and filled with something warmer than amusement, “you’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Zaynie?”

You were dying of curiosity. The kind that curled low in your belly and tapped insistently at the back of your skull, whispering, what did he buy? over and over like a chant. Zayne wasn’t predictable—not when it came to things like this. His wit was sharp, layered, always two steps ahead. It could’ve been anything. Something deliciously wicked, something thoughtful and soft, or, knowing him, something that would make you blush so hard you’d forget how to speak.

When he finally came back, calm as ever, he opened the trunk and slid the bag in like he hadn’t just disappeared on a mysterious mission. You tracked every movement like a detective tailing a suspect, but he gave nothing away—just closed the trunk, stepped around to the driver’s side, and climbed in with infuriating nonchalance. The engine rumbled to life as he fastened his seatbelt, the glow of the dashboard casting soft light over the sharp angles of his face.

You poked his thigh with a finger, eyes narrowing playfully, “are you gonna at least give me a hint?”

He turned to look at you, expression perfectly composed, then tilted his head like he was thinking about it, “no.”

You groaned, half-exasperated, half-laughing, “babe!”

But the grin was already tugging at your lips as you leaned into him, sliding your hand over his thigh with the kind of touch that was half-plea, half-tease.

“Come on, please?” You whined.

“Begging won’t get you anything,” he said with a smile, lifting one hand from the gearshift to gently press a finger to the space between your furrowed brows, “this isn’t a game of Kitty Cards. Do you think you can just charm me into saying yes to anything you ask for?”

“I do, actually,” you replied, unflinching as you nodded with mock conviction.

He exhaled a quiet laugh, eyes cutting toward you with amusement as he shifted into reverse, his arm reaching behind your seat to glance back. You felt the warmth of his hand just brushing the back of your shoulder, the casual intimacy of it making your heart stumble for a beat.

“And how,” he asked, voice low and just the tiniest bit wicked as he began backing out, “do you plan on bribing me this time?”

You reached for his hand without a word and guided it between your thighs, pressing him exactly where you wanted him. His reaction was immediate—fingers tightening with a slow, indulgent squeeze, claiming the contact like it belonged to him. A low, satisfied smile flickered across his lips, but he didn’t look at you—no, his eyes flicked ahead, casually scanning the road as he pulled the car out of the parking lot like he wasn’t currently palming you through your clothes. God damn him. That infuriatingly attractive, sensual bastard.

“Do you really think it’s wise,” he drawled, the warmth in his voice making you want to melt into the seat, “to let me touch you right now, when we both know I’ve got more patience than you do?”

You let out an exasperated little noise, rolling your eyes as you pushed his hand away and crossed your arms tight over your chest with a pout, “no…”

But Zayne wasn’t done with you. Not even close.

“No, no,” he said with mock scolding, reaching over to wedge his hand right back between your thighs like it was his personal right—as if your earlier resistance had been nothing but an invitation.

His palm was warm and solid and deliberate, giving you another bold, purposeful squeeze that made your breath catch, “finish what you started, honey. I thought you were trying to bribe me here. You can’t give up that easily.”

You clenched your jaw, pretending not to be affected, though the flutter low in your belly betrayed you. Your thighs tensed slightly around his large hand, and the corner of his mouth twitched in satisfaction.

“Fine,” you replied, lifting your chin with fake aloofness that couldn’t quite hide the heat in your cheeks.

You shifted in your seat, subtly angling your body toward him, your movements slow—deliberate. One arm propped lazily on the center console, the other slipped between his legs with featherlight ease. You didn’t even need to do anything yet—the anticipation alone made him crack. You caught the flicker in his expression, the way his eyes darted down, then quickly up again, trying and failing to hide that hitch in his breath. His composure faltered before you even made contact.

But then you did touch him—confidently, possessively—and the breath he let out was soft and unmistakably affected.

“Give me a hint, Zaynie,” you murmured, smile all sugar and feigned innocence, though your fingers knew exactly what they were doing. You could feel it—the steady pulse, the way blood rushed beneath your touch, heat rising as he hardened against your palm.

He swallowed, eyes darkening as his spine straightened just slightly, “oh, so you want to play dirty?”

“Yeah,” you said simply, grin lazy and challenging.

For a moment, he let it happen. Let you stroke him, let you feel him swell under your fingers. But you should’ve known Zayne couldn’t let you have the upper hand for long. He always turned the tables. Always had to remind you exactly who you were dealing with. He released your sex with maddening calm, and before you could register the shift, his hand circled your wrist, not to stop you, but to encourage the movement. His grip was firm but not rough, guiding you as you squeezed him again. Teasing control without saying a word.

“Go ahead,” he said, voice low, velvet-smooth, threaded with challenge, “I’m used to all of your little antics. Your misbehavior. I can maintain my composure until we get home.”

You stared at him, lips parting with something between a laugh and a gasp, caught between delight and disbelief. He was daring you. Daring you to try.

“Oh man,” you grinned, leaning in a little closer, hand flexing again as he twitched beneath your palm, “are you really gonna make me go all out on you?”

“I want to see how you plan on bribing me,” he murmured, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—just enough to make your pulse jump.

And God, he was so fucking calm. Driving like nothing was happening, like you weren’t touching him at all. But you could feel the tension in him, coiled tight beneath the surface.

You withdrew your hand from his lap with a slow, deliberate grace, not in retreat, but in the calm before the storm. Then you shifted in your seat, slow, calculated, slouching just a little lower, hips sliding forward, legs parting beneath the hem of your clothes. The air inside the car changed with that motion alone. He sensed it. You felt him sense it. Zayne glanced over at you, only for a second, but it was enough. His brow arched, eyes narrowing with interest as the corner of his mouth pulled into the beginnings of a smirk.

“Are you going to masturbate for me or something?” He asked, that silken drawl creeping into his tone, even as he kept his attention mostly on the road, “I do have to keep my eyes forward, unless we hit a red light.”

You didn’t answer him. Not yet. Instead, your hand dipped between your thighs, and just that subtle movement made your breath catch in your throat. You touched yourself quickly, just enough to gather the wetness he’d coaxed from you, dragging your fingers through the heat of it, and when you pulled your hand out, glistening with your desire, you saw him glance again—longer this time.

Then, without hesitation, you brought your fingers to his mouth. His lips parted instinctively, but his eyes locked with yours in stunned, ravenous focus. You slipped two slick fingers between them, and he melted. He didn’t just suck. He took you in, mouth warm and hungry, tongue curling around your fingers like he couldn’t help himself. He let out the faintest hum, deep in his throat, and you giggled softly at the sensation—the warm pull of his tongue, the tease of his breath over your skin, and the flutter that burst to life in your stomach like a shaken soda can. You swirled your fingers gently, massaging his tongue with a slow tease.

“I’m not touching myself,” you said sweetly, watching his eyes turn darker with every passing second, “I’m just showing you how much I’m dying to know what you got for us that you’re being so secretive about…”

When you pulled your fingers from his mouth, you felt him almost follow it, lips parting as if he wasn’t ready to let go. The hunger in his eyes was unmistakable—but you were quicker, yanking your hand away before he could catch your wrist and keep you exactly where he wanted you. He let out a quiet sigh, something between frustration and surrender.

“Weapons of mass destruction,” he muttered at last, his voice low, just slightly rough around the edges, “there. That’s all I’m telling you.”

You stared at him, dumbfounded for a second—then burst out laughing, half-exasperated, half-incredulous. So much for composure. For all the ironclad self-control Zayne loved to pretend he had, he was just as vulnerable to temptation as you were. He only wore his restraint like a tailored suit—perfectly fitted, but easy to strip away when the moment was right.

“That doesn’t tell me anything!” You laughed, hands flying up in disbelief.

“I guess you’ll just have to wait until we get home,” he replied, biting back a smug smile that made your stomach twist with something feral and wanting.

You tried not to pout as the rest of the drive dragged on, tension thick and unresolved between you, sitting like heat in your lungs. When you both finally reached home, Zayne was out of the car before you could even reach for your door handle. He rounded the trunk like a man on a mission, grabbing both matte-black bags before your mischievous fingers could even think about sneaking a peek. He knew you too well—far too well—and the little look he gave you over the trunk said it all: Don’t even try it.

You made a playful grab anyway, just to be annoying, and he effortlessly lifted the bags out of your reach, laughing under his breath. Then, with a hand at the small of your back, he ushered you both inside, two shadows slipping into the quiet of your shared home.

“Go upstairs and put on pajamas,” Zayne said like he already had a plan stitched together in his head, “I’m going to rearrange the living room a bit.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, suspicion flaring as you reached out and snatched the  one black bag that held the things you had picked out together, clutching it to your chest like a dragon with its hoard, “fine! If you say so.”

“Yes,” he replied, completely unfazed, and with that annoyingly sexy authority that always made your stomach flip. He gently turned you toward the stairs, then took a few steps behind you, clearly intending to see that you followed instructions, “I do say so.”

You glanced back at him with a playful glare, sticking your tongue out before darting up the stairs. You didn’t make it far before his hand caught you, quick and possessive, landing a perfectly timed smack to your ass that made you yelp with a surprised giggle. You turned in time to see his smile, smug and utterly endearing, like he’d just claimed some tiny, victorious prize.

God, you had the worst butterflies for that man. The worst. Almost three years in and he still managed to leave you breathless over the smallest touches, the slightest glances. The obsession hadn’t dulled—it had deepened, sharpened, curled tighter around your ribs like a ribbon you never wanted untied.

You practically buzzed with excitement as you made your way to the bedroom, clutching the bag like it contained sacred knowledge. Your fingers worked quickly at your clothes as you stepped over to the hamper, peeling off layers, slipping into something soft and clean and cozy while your mind ran wild with possibilities.

Below you, you could hear it—the low scrape of the wheeled couch legs dragging over the wood floors. Then the thump of something heavier. The coffee table, maybe. He was definitely clearing space. But for what?

You slipped into your pajamas—or what passed for them. One of his old shirts, soft and worn thin from love, hanging long over your thighs and swallowing your figure in that way you knew made him feral. Your thong clung beneath, a secret between you and the cotton hem. You pulled on a pair of cozy knee-high socks, soft wool hugging your calves, then padded out into the hallway, careful not to make the floorboards creak too loudly.

Peeking around the corner, you called down gently, voice laced with impatient glee, “can I come out now?”

There was a pause. Just long enough to make your heart skip.

“…Yes!” He finally called, voice rich with something more than just permission. It was anticipation. Invitation. A promise.

You bolted down the stairs, your excitement taking full control. You didn’t walk—you launched, almost skipping steps in your rush to get to him. And like he knew, like it was written in his blood, Zayne was already crossing the room, arms open, waiting. You crashed into his chest with the kind of reckless joy you never tried to hide around him, your momentum making your body bounce lightly off the solid heat of him.

He laughed, low and breathy, catching you with that instinctive ease that came from years of knowing your weight, your rhythm, your chaos. His arms snaked tight around your waist, and in one effortless motion, he lifted you. You gasped, breath catching with exhilaration as your arms flew around his neck, holding on, trusting him like gravity itself had let go and only he could keep you tethered.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, the stretch easy and familiar, knees resting just at his hips, and his hands slid beneath your thighs to cup your ass and hold you there—supporting you without even needing to think. Like your bodies were puzzle pieces that had already found where they fit.

And when your gaze met his, his face so close, his smile full of all the warmth you were bursting with, it felt like electricity humming in your veins. All you could do was stare at him, heart thudding, lips parted, floating in the kind of affection that made everything around you blur.

God, you were so in love with him.

“Would you look at that,” Zayne mused, carrying you into the living room with that effortless steadiness, his steps unhurried, confident. You were wrapped around him like he was built to carry you, and he acted like it was second nature, “my fallen angel has crashed right into my arms because she was running down the stairs in socks. Again.”

You could already hear the smile in his voice before you saw it. And when you tilted your head just enough to glance at him, sure enough, there it was: that soft, infuriatingly charming smile that made your cheeks burn and your heart ache in the most delicious way.

“It was my plan all along,” you replied, trying your best to sound self-assured even as you flushed, “but you were supposed to grab me by the waist and hoist me up into the sky so I could actually fly like an angel.”

And that was when you knew you’d made a mistake. You saw it instantly—the shift in his expression. The way the corner of his mouth twitched up with a wicked little glint that sent your pulse into a panic. That slow, dangerous smile that only ever spelled trouble for you.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said, lowering his voice dramatically, “how could I forget?”

And just like that, he set you down. Your feet barely touched the floor for half a second before you saw his hands come for your waist. Your heart flew straight into your throat as he crouched slightly—calculating. You knew that stance. You knew what came next.

“Zayne, no!” You shrieked, a half-laugh bursting out of you as you instinctively grabbed at his shoulders, bracing—but too late, “babe!”

You were airborne. He launched you skyward with practiced precision, as though you weighed nothing, as though he’d been waiting for this moment to turn your words into chaos. The floor disappeared beneath you, and a scream burst from your lungs, high and startled, until it crumbled into helpless laughter.

Adrenaline rocketed through you, your stomach flipping so violently you thought you might never recover. The room spun. Your vision swam. But none of that mattered—not with the wind in your ears, your legs flailing, and Zayne’s chuckle grounding you in delight. Your heart was pounding by the time your nails sank into his shoulders, desperately, instinctively trying to anchor yourself as he lifted you to the full extension of his arms, locking his elbows with slow, deliberate satisfaction. He held you high like he was gravity now and you were entirely at his mercy.

“My scared little angel suddenly doesn’t want to use her wings,” he said, voice warm with teasing, eyes glinting with pure mischief as he carried you a few more triumphant steps. You were trembling from the adrenaline, your laughter tearing out of you uncontrollably, your body light and buzzing in his arms, “she just wanted me to do the work for her.”

And he was doing the work. Holding you like you were precious cargo, arms flexed, body steady, not even breaking a sweat. Sometimes—God, sometimes—you forgot just how strong he was beneath the soft-spoken wit and those ever-neat, pressed clothes. His strength was tucked away behind ironed collars and understated charm, but when it surfaced like this—fuck.

It hit you in the gut and between the legs instantly. It was alarming, the way your body responded to it. Alarming in that electric, breathless way that made your thighs clench and your pulse throb in places entirely out of your control. To be carried by Zayne like that was to be set on fire from the inside out. And the adrenaline didn’t help—it only added fuel, like he’d soaked your nerves in gasoline and struck a match with nothing more than a smile.

“So mischievous,” he murmured, still breathless with quiet laughter as he finally—finally—set you down on the floor again, easing you down with the kind of care that made your heart ache, “your halo is merely held up by your horns.”

Your knees buckled slightly the second your feet touched the ground again, but his hands were already on your hips, firm and steady, pulling you into his warmth, into that safety you never questioned. His hold was protective, possessive, and impossibly tender all at once. And when you looked up at him, it was like the world fell away.

“You’re the one who gets possessed the moment you get a little taste of me,” you teased, poking a finger into his chest with more boldness than you actually had, your breath still ragged, cheeks flushed with residual laughter and heat. The grin tugging at your lips betrayed you, and you knew it—knew he could see straight through the bravado.

His arms slid around your waist without missing a beat, pulling you in with a firm, slow drag of his palms, and before you could prepare for it, he was ducking into the slope of your neck. You barely managed to stifle the gasp that shot through you as his mouth found your skin, his lips brushing warm, unhurried kisses along the curve where your shoulder met your throat. You twitched against him involuntarily, your head tipping to the side, shoulder lifting in a vain attempt to squirm away from the ticklishness of it—but it was useless. He knew exactly where to kiss you. How to unravel you.

“Zayne—” You started, barely a whisper, your voice caught somewhere between laughter and something far more dangerous, “honey…”

Your fingers gripped his shoulders, clinging to him as he pressed his body into yours, the heat of his hard chest flush against the way your spine arched ever so slightly. And God, you could feel it—that pulse, low and insistent between your legs, aching against the softness of your thong beneath his old shirt. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, but it was no use. His presence swallowed you whole.

“I won’t deny it,” he murmured, voice a breath against your skin, his lips grazing your neck again—lower now, closer to where your pulse beat faster and faster. He kissed that thrum, slow and reverent, as his hands slid lower, fingers gripping your waist and hips from behind, kneading gently, staying maddeningly close to the bare curve of your ass beneath the hem of his shirt…But never quite touching it. Barely skimming. Teasing. Controlling, “you’re my Kryptonite…”

The words landed like a brand, hot and low in your belly, and you could do nothing but melt into him, your body pulsing with a need that had nowhere to go. Not yet. Not until he decided he was done torturing you with that damn patience of his.

When he finally let you go after your soft, half-hearted little pushes at his chest, and the faint giggles you couldn’t hold in, Zayne stepped back just enough to exhale a low chuckle. His hands came to your shoulders, warm and steady, guiding you gently as he turned you around and led you toward the cleared center of the living room.

There wasn’t a trace of the earlier chaos—no couch, no table, just space and the polished floor beneath your socked feet. You looked up at him, heart fluttering, and he looked down at you with that fond, quiet smile. He took your hands next, cradling them in his palms like something delicate, and then slowly lifted them up toward your face, his touch light but assured.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles as he blacked out your vision, “no peeking.”

You laughed softly, the sound breathy with anticipation, “not even a little?”

“No,” he chuckled, voice already moving away, like wind slipping past your cheek, “patience.”

You stood there, fingers covering your eyes, doing your best to stay still while the mystery twisted delightfully in your chest. Your ears strained for every sound, every footstep, every shuffle, but he was maddeningly quiet. You started counting in your head just to keep from bursting. Whatever he was doing, he was taking his damn time, and it only made your nerves stretch thinner and tighter with every second.

You heard him again, then—closer this time. Steps growing nearer, until he was standing directly in front of you, his presence unmistakable, like heat pressing gently against your skin.

“Now I want you to hold your hands out for me,” he said, voice soft but commanding, “without opening your eyes.”

You hesitated, just for a second, heart thudding behind your ribs.

“…Okay?” You breathed, amused and unsure, slowly lowering your hands from your eyes, “Zayne, what are you doing?”

Your voice came out like a smile you couldn’t contain, your palms turning up in front of you, trembling just slightly, half with curiosity, half with something warmer. Wanting. Willing. Waiting.

You felt it the moment he placed it in your hands, something cold, squishy, and unmistakably silicone. Your fingers curled around the long, thick thing with confused hesitation, your brows furrowing at the peculiar weight of it. Cylindrical. Slightly flexible. A strange texture beneath your skin that sent a ripple of realization through your spine before your eyes even fluttered open. And when they did—you nearly dropped it.

There, resting heavily in your palms, was a massive, ribbed blue dildo—freakishly large, obscene in both design and scale. But before you could form a single coherent thought, your gaze lifted, only to find Zayne standing across from you, solemn and utterly unrepentant, wielding his own equally monstrous green alien cock, gripped like a ceremonial sword.

A sound tore out of you, too loud to be a laugh, too full of disbelief to be anything else. You doubled over, shoulders shaking as the absurdity of the scene crashed over you in waves. He didn’t. He actually—

“I challenge you,” Zayne declared, lifting his toy high, the silicone wobbling in the air like some deranged flag of honor, “to a cock fight.”

Your breath stuttered as you tried—tried—to speak through the hysterics. “Babe, what the f—”

You didn’t even get the words out. He lunged. The green monstrosity whipped through the air with a slap of silicone on wind, aimed right for your arm. You shrieked, twisting out of the way at the last second, the dildo whistling past you in a rubbery blur. You stumbled back, clutching the ridiculous sword in your hands, laughter bubbling uncontrollably in your throat as you locked eyes with the man you were going to marry. This was madness. This was love. This was war.

“Hangar,” he said calmly—so calmly. Like he wasn’t Zayne fucking Li, world-renowned cardiac surgeon, darling of Linkon’s most elite hospital, standing in the middle of your living room slinging a wobbling, neon-green alien cock at you with all the poise of a seasoned swordsman.

You stared at him in a mixture of horror and delight, already laughing before the next strike even came.

“No!” You shrieked through the laughter, stumbling back a step, one hand thrown up in defense, the other still clutching your own massive blue dildo, equally monstrous, equally absurd, equally heavy and unwieldy in your grip, “ahh—!”

There was no time to strategize. No time to beg for mercy. It was fight or flight, and your brain chose fight. You instinctively dropped into a stance, gripping the base of your silicone monstrosity like a broadsword. Your heart pounded wildly, part adrenaline, part sheer disbelief, as you swung your weapon just in time to counter his next attack. The soft rubbery slap of silicone against silicone echoed in the open room like the world’s most inappropriate duel.

He lunged again—sudden, precise. His dildo struck toward your stomach with laughable speed, and you let out a garbled shriek, dodging to the side at the last possible second, the obscene thing grazing your shirt as you narrowly escaped a direct hit.

“You’re CRAZY!” You howled, breathless with laughter, twisting your body around as you turned on your heel and ran, dildo still in hand like some ridiculous makeshift shield.

“What kind of Hunter runs from her opponent?” Zayne called after you, his voice light with laughter, but still laced with that calm composure that never seemed to falter, even now, as he stalked you through the living room with a monstrous green dildo swinging at his side, “I demand a proper fight.”

You could hardly see straight, tears springing to your eyes as you scrambled to the far end of the couch, your body aching with laughter and adrenaline, your lungs burning as your heart pounded like a drumline in your chest, “Zayne—Zayne! Are you really chasing me with a giant dildo right now?!”

He froze mid-step.

His brows furrowed slightly, his expression full of mock confusion. He looked down at the wobbling green monstrosity in his hand, then looked back up at you with the utmost sincerity, so earnest, so deeply offended on behalf of his weapon.

“…Dildo?” He repeated, like the word itself was beneath him, “this is my sword. My weapon of mass destruction.”

You lost it. You doubled over, nearly collapsing to your knees from how hard you laughed, one hand bracing the back of the moved away couch, the other barely keeping hold of your own blue silicone weapon. Your entire body trembled. You were crying. You could barely breathe. And still—still—he stood there looking like a gallant knight defending the honor of his ridiculous sex toy.

But just as you gasped for air, trying to recover from your complete mental breakdown, he charged. You shrieked, high and wild, scrambling to the other end of the couch just as he rounded the corner like a man on a mission. The silicone sword flopped at his side like a noodle with vengeance, and your instincts screamed at you to run. So you did, screaming and laughing all at once, your socked feet slipping on the floor as you clutched your rubber weapon and bolted around the living room like it was a battlefield of absolute insanity. And the worst part? You were having the time of your life.

“Get away!” You squealed, laughter bubbling out of you as you grabbed the edge of the couch for balance, nearly slipping in your socks. You clutched your blue dildo sword with both hands like it was Excalibur, barely able to breathe through your grin, your cheeks flushed and aching from smiling so hard.

Zayne narrowly missed you, his long stride halting at the end of the couch where you’d been just a heartbeat ago. He let out a sigh—one of exaggerated disappointment, dragging a hand down his face like a knight thwarted by a particularly slippery dragon.

“My opponent wants a chase…” He mused aloud, as if this were some high-stakes game of strategy and honor, not an all-out cock battle in your living room with weapons straight out of a fever dream.

He lunged left, one sharp, sudden step. You bolted the other way. Or at least you thought you had the upper hand, until he spun on a dime with a clever, filthy little feint, appearing in your path from the other direction like some deranged war tactician. You screamed, a high, helpless shriek of pure betrayal, spinning on your heel and skidding around the other end of the couch just as he gave chase. You could hear his steps behind you, his laughter—low, rich, delighted—and you couldn’t stop laughing even if you wanted to.

Around the couch you both went again, full throttle, until finally you ended up at opposite ends, mirrored like combatants in a standoff. You paused, panting and trembling, wild with breathless joy, your hair a mess around your face, your eyes shining as you held your silicone weapon in front of you like a shield. Zayne stood cool as ever, not even winded, that maddening calm in his posture as he adjusted his grip on the absurdly huge green dildo. He examined it with mock seriousness, as if it were forged steel, not neon alien cock.

“I suppose,” he said thoughtfully, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours, “you want me to do this the hard way.”

Then—of course—his mouth twitched, the smirk slipping in like mischief under a closed door as he gave the green monstrosity a solid slap against his palm.

“No pun intended, love.”

And you nearly collapsed. Before the laughter could even leave your throat, Zayne moved—and your entire soul left your body.

With terrifying grace, he swung one long leg over the arm of the couch like it was nothing, vaulting himself up in a single fluid motion. One second he was calm and composed at the other end of the room, and the next—he was on the couch, towering over the cushions with that horrifying gleam in his eye and a massive dildo raised like some cursed sword of legend. There was something deeply terrifying about seeing a six-one cardiac surgeon running at you across a piece of furniture with a foot-long neon green alien cock in hand. Something unholy. Something primal.

“ZAYNE!” You screamed, bolting like your life depended on it, shrieking and laughing so hard your chest ached.

You didn’t think—you just ran. Your socks slid against the wood floor as you changed direction, eyes wide, limbs flailing, heart beating like a war drum in your ears as you flew toward the stairs. You could hear him behind you—thudding footsteps against the couch cushions as he chased you over the furniture like a predator. This wasn’t a man anymore. This was chaos incarnate under the put-together disguise of a neat button up and tie.

Your hand caught the stair railing as you threw yourself up the steps, hopping each one like a rabbit on adrenaline. You didn’t dare look back. The mental image alone was enough to make your legs fail you.

“Be gone, foul beast!” You yelled over your shoulder, breathless with hysterical delight, your voice bouncing off the walls as you climbed higher and higher toward sanctuary, “you’re lucky this isn’t an Evol paintball gun! You’d be dead by now!”

But even as you ran, panting and exhilarated, your laughter wouldn’t stop. Your body was in full survival mode, but your mind and your heart were thriving. You had no idea what you’d done to deserve a life where this was your night—but you were never letting it go. Never letting him go.

“An ice wall is thicker than plastic bullets,” Zayne called up after you, his voice maddeningly composed even as you heard his footsteps pounding up the stairs behind you.

You practically flung yourself down the hallway, laughing and gasping for air, legs half-failing you with every socked step. But you made it—you made it—to the bedroom, heart racing like thunder. You reached for the door, shoving it forward, praying for even a second of sanctuary. Too late. The second you tried to slam it shut, he was there—yanking it back open like a final boss tearing through your last line of defense. You froze. A deer in headlights. A warrior without armor. A rogue with nowhere to hide.

He stepped into the room with slow, measured confidence, wielding his monstrous alien cock like a king entering the arena. You backed up, breath catching, gripping the base of your dildo like a hilt, feeling the squishy give of it between your fingers as the two of you faced off in the center of your spacious shared bedroom.

Zayne mirrored your movements—weapon ready, stance low. You took a step to the right. He took one to the left. A circle began to form, slow and taut with tension, your socked feet sliding lightly over the floor as you sized each other up. The lighting was warm, intimate, almost too tender for the impending absurdity.

“You can’t beat a hunter at her own game!” You declared, voice loud, proud, and shaking from breathless adrenaline, “you’re just a cardiac surgeon! You don’t know how to use a weapon in battle!”

“Well,” Zayne said smoothly, his voice that maddening blend of silk and challenge as he casually twirled the monstrous green dildo in his hand like it was an extension of his arm, “I think we could both agree that if there’s anyone here with more experience wielding sharp objects…It’s me.”

You bit your lip, hard, desperately trying not to break. Your lips twitched, eyes narrowed in mock warning, but it was a losing battle. His composure was unbearable. His restraint was infuriating. That calm, measured cadence in his voice was textbook Zayne—controlled, dignified, completely inappropriate in the context of a rubber alien cock fight in your bedroom.

But oh, you knew better. You saw the flicker in his eyes, that glint of amusement tucked just behind the emerald of his gaze. You saw the way he tracked every little tremble in your lips, the rise and fall of your breath, the grin that wouldn’t stay put, the heat in your cheeks, the way your legs tensed beneath his shirt and your socked feet skated just a little with each step. You could feel him reading every detail of you, and worse—adoring it. He wasn’t just entertained. He was loving this. Every second. Every stupid, absurd, wonderful second.

“You, on the other hand…” He continued.

Your stomach flipped at the slight uptick of his brows like punctuation.

“Miss Hunter,” he said, each syllable slow, deliberate, almost reverent in its mocking. Then he turned toward you fully, feet shifting, cock-sword pointed like a challenge, “only know how to shoot.”

Your adrenaline exploded. The second he lunged, your body reacted—no time to think, only instinct. Your grip tightened around the base of your absurd silicone sword like it was your last line of defense. It was you or him now. Life or death. Honor or humiliation.

Zayne moved like a shadow—smooth, efficient, unpredictable. You had no idea what to expect from a man who could stitch a heart together one day and challenge you to a cock duel the next. But you were a hunter. And you’d hunted worse. When he swung the green monstrosity toward you, you ducked into a crouch, heart pounding in your ears as you twisted low and fast, swinging your massive blue dildo right at his shins like a gleaming silicone axe.

“The bigger they are, the harder they fall!” you cried triumphantly.

Zayne jumped back with a graceful step, narrowly avoiding your strike.

“The closer to the ground they are, the faster,” he countered with maddening calm.

Your head shot up—and there it was. That damn smirk. You barely had time to react before he raised the green dildo over his head, ready to smite you with righteous rubber vengeance. Your eyes widened as the shadow of it loomed over you like a meat flail of doom, and you dodged just in time.

The dildo struck the floor with a dramatic, rippling bounce, the recoil wobbling in slow motion like a gelatinous threat from the gods. You stumbled back, breathless with laughter, a wild sound that filled the room. Zayne was shaking, shoulders trembling with silent laughter, his composure barely hanging on. You locked eyes for a moment—flushed, breathless, feral with joy.

“You missed!” You declared triumphantly, breathless with chaos, cheeks flushed, hair wild around your face as you thrust the blue dildo forward like it was divine judgment in silicone form.

Zayne dodged it with ease—too graceful, too sure. But that was the point. It was a feint. You twisted your body with perfect timing, swinging the dildo hard the other way with all the power you had left.

SMACK!

It landed with a glorious thwack against his ass, the noise echoing through the bedroom like a slap of war drums announcing victory.

“Oh my God!” You gasped, one hand flying to your mouth in horror and delight, already knowing—you were so fucked.

Zayne froze. It lasted only a second. That stillness. That pause of stunned betrayal. Then he lunged. You screamed, turning to bolt, but it was far too late. He was done playing. The dildo was gone—abandoned in favor of vengeance. His arm snaked around your waist from behind like a lasso, catching you with perfect, terrifying precision. You shrieked as the air left your lungs, your feet lifted clean off the ground.

“No!” You cried between helpless laughter, your legs kicking in the air as he hoisted you up against his chest, “Zayne!”

He carried you with ease, cool, calm, the picture of a man completely in control now that his prey had been captured. Every step toward the bed was slow, theatrical. You squirmed, still laughing, but you knew there was no escape.

“No!” You gasped again, tears in your eyes from laughter, “I can’t die like this! I refuse!”

“Any last words, princess?” He asked, voice warm with amusement.

But something about the way he said it hit differently. The title curled around your spine like heat. Princess. His voice dipped low at the edges, playful but edged with something else—something thicker, warmer. You felt it. Right between your legs.

You turned toward his ear, lips grazing just close enough, your voice breathy, teasing, “please…Have mercy on me…”

He laughed softly, not fooled for a second.

“Mercy?” He murmured, and you felt it coming—the twist, the moment where the man you adored let something darker curl into his tone, “I’ve never heard of her.”

And then—oh God—he set you down. Right before the high bed. Facing it. Your toes barely touched the floor before he was moving behind you, folding your body over at the waist in one smooth, careful motion. Your hips met the edge of the bed, the firm mattress catching your body as you bounced just slightly, caught between laughter and a stifled moan.

His hand found your wrist, gently but firmly guiding it behind your back. The other followed, and now you were arched and trembling, breath caught in your throat, your bare thighs peeking from beneath his old shirt. You were breathless. Giddy, even, the way your laughter trembled in your throat, half amusement, half disbelief, your skin flushed and buzzing from head to toe. Your body twitched with adrenaline, your legs nearly kicking from the sheer delight of it all. You could hardly believe where this wild, ridiculous cock-fight had led. And yet…You weren’t complaining.

Zayne had your wrists now, both gathered behind your back in his large, warm hand, restraining you with a firm gentleness that sent something delicious sliding down your spine. That was new. You blinked hard, cheeks burning, your heart pounding like a caged animal in your chest. Had he been inspired back at the sex shop?

You turned your face to the side, cheek pressing into the bed as you tried to look up at him from the corner of your eye. The sight of him looming above you, composed and steady, shirt slightly rumpled from the chase, eyes molten with that quiet hunger, had your breath catching in your throat.

Then you felt it. His free hand, slow and deliberate, brushing along the hem of your shirt. He eased it upward, lifting the fabric inch by inch over the back of your thighs, then higher—until it crested the curve of your ass. You felt the way the air kissed your skin, how the soft lace of your thong suddenly felt inadequate, flimsy, and far too revealing.

You smiled, indignantly, teasingly, because you knew he was admiring you. And when the warmth of his hand met your skin, you couldn’t help the sound that escaped you. A faint gasp. The pads of his fingers traced lazy, reverent circles over the swell of your ass like you were something precious, something he adored just touching.

You melted into it. The softness of his palm, the heat of his skin, the possessive way he touched you as though you were his favorite work of art. You arched your spine instinctively, pressing your hips more flush to the bed, angling your ass higher, offering more of yourself subtly, but clearly.

You didn’t even know where this was going, but God…It was getting you so hot. Your thighs twitched. Your chest was tight. Your core ached with heat that hadn’t even been touched yet. Then—

SMACK!

The sound cracked through the room like a bolt of lightning, sudden and sharp. Your heart leapt into your throat. Eyes wide, breath caught in your chest, your whole body froze for one suspended, electric second. That sound, the sharp, clean smack of his palm meeting the bare underside of your ass, rippled through your nerves like a seismic wave. You felt the shock of it hit first, the sudden bite of heat across your skin, followed by the dizzying bloom of warmth that spread out in concentric circles from the center of the impact. Your flesh tingled, prickled, rippled, and for the briefest moment, all you could think was—Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Zayne had spanked you before, playful little slaps over your clothes, harmless and teasing, always chased by your giggling as you darted away from him in mischief. But this? This wasn’t teasing. This was sensual. It was intentional. It was Zayne—your Zayne—making a statement with the palm of his hand and the weight of your body bowed over the bed. And the way he did it with that quiet, exacting precision had your stomach bottoming out and your sex clenching with heat.

“Is this how you want to be punished?” He asked, his voice a low whisper of a threat, one that kissed the back of your neck without ever touching it.

HOLY SHIT.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. His voice cut through you, slid down your spine like silk drawn tight.

“You lack discipline,” he murmured, and his hand, so capable and careful, began to rub gentle, warm circles over the sting, coaxing you into softness again just as easily as he’d struck. It was reverent. Worshipful. You melted just a little. Until—

SMACK!

You jolted with a high-pitched squeal, your body tensing all at once, thighs pressing tightly together, a gasp caught on your tongue as your hands instinctively flexed behind your back. It hit you harder this time—woke something up in you that hadn’t been touched yet. The sting was sharper. The pleasure deeper.

“I asked you a question, Miss Fairy,” he reminded softly.

SMACK!

Another strike. Your thighs twitched. Your body betrayed you completely, heat crashing through you like a wildfire. You were pulsing between your legs, aching, dripping, no longer laughing, no longer remembering the cockfight or the toys or the running. All of that burned away under the heat of his hand and the command in his voice. You weren’t even sure who you were anymore. All you knew was this—this moment, this touch, this man whose hands had just rewritten the language of your body.

“I expect an answer.”

SMACK!

The word punctuated by the strike was a command, not a request. His voice didn’t need to rise, didn’t ever need to rise. It slid down your spine like a slow blade of ice. Controlled. Patient. Dangerous in the most delicious way.

Your breath left you in a shaky sigh as the sting unfurled across your skin again, the burn warm and steady, sinking deeper with each passing second. But his hand, ever skilled and knowing, followed with the opposite—a tender, deliberate caress, fingers kneading into your skin like he was molding clay. Reverent. Careful. Like you were something he loved to touch, even when he made you tremble.

The mix of pain and pleasure had your knees weak and your mind floating, the line between pleasure and punishment blurring into a dizzying haze. You wanted more. You were starving for more. But more than that…You wanted to provoke him. To get under his skin. To coax him past that control he held so close. It was instinct by now, the way you loved to push him to the edge of restraint until he broke, caught you, claimed you. You turned your face to the side, grinning up at what little you could see of him, your voice syrupy with mischief.

“Punished?” You echoed, light and smug, “please, Zaynie…Mister Fleecy can hit harder than that.”

You barely got the words out before—

SMACK!

You gasped, heels lifting right off the floor as the impact cracked through you, sudden and sharp, making your toes curl in your socks. You jerked against his grip, breath caught in your throat.

“Is that so?” He asked, a flicker of amusement in his voice, but darker now. Tighter.

SMACK!

You twisted, wrists still pinned, thighs clenching on instinct as another searing slap found the other side of your ass. The burn lingered this time, not just on your skin but deep inside, where your body had already begun to pulse with need. You clenched your hands, trying to stay composed, but your body was screaming for more.

“Try again, my darling,” he said, voice smooth as wine, low and thick with warning.

SMACK!

You bit your lip, hard, the softest sound slipping out of you as your hips moved on their own—writhing beneath his hand, grinding your ass back against the soothing warmth of his palm in search of anything to temper the sting that still smoldered on your skin. The ache was sharp, sweet, maddening. Your thighs pressed together again. Your breath hitched. Your cheeks burned, and not just from the flush of humiliation or arousal, but from the deep, molten heat spreading from where he’d touched you, to the very center of your core.

And God, the way he was talking to you—commanding you—handling you. It was almost too much. Zayne wasn’t playing a role. That was what made it so insane. He wasn’t dressing this up, wasn’t trying to be someone else. This wasn’t a performance. This was just…Him. The man you fell in love with. The one who always made you feel safe, grounded, seen. The same man who could silence an entire boardroom with a glance, who worked with a steady hand under pressure most people would crumble beneath. That cool, collected, strict Zayne was simply applying all that infuriating control to you now—in bed.

Or rather…Over it. With spanking. And restraint. And total command. And it worked. Oh God, it worked too well. Like it had always been there beneath the surface, waiting to be discovered.

You barely processed the way he adjusted behind you, releasing your wrists only to switch hands, just so he could lean in, his body heat wrapping around you like silk. He reached up with his newly freed hand, and with agonizing care, swept your hair aside, tucking it behind your ear. That one small gesture made your entire body tremble, tenderness wrapped in dominance, intimacy sharpened by the edge of control. Then his voice came again, close, deep, velvet-soft against the shell of your ear.

“Is this how you want to be punished?” He asked again.

You smiled up at him—soft, defiant, playful to your core, “I won’t know until you actually begin punishing me, my darling.”

And there it was again—that flicker at the corner of his mouth, that barely-there twitch of a smirk like a gloved hand tightening into a fist behind the calm. His composure never broke, but you knew that look. You lived for that look.

“Very well,” he murmured, voice even, effortless, dangerous, “be mouthy, be bratty for a moment longer. Have it your way.”

He adjusted again, smooth and deliberate as always, switching hands like it was routine. You could feel his body move behind you, patient, in full control of the moment like he was orchestrating a symphony of your nerves.

“Count for me.”

SMACK!

The impact landed fast, sharp, hotter than the last. You jolted, the sting bursting across your already aching skin like lightning. You bit your lip hard, holding in the whimper that threatened to escape, your body coiled with tension and heat. Then his hand returned not to strike, but to soothe, rubbing slow, reverent circles over the warmth he’d left behind.

And then—you felt it. The soft glide of his middle finger, teasing down your ass, down the thin strip of your thong, until it came dangerously close to your folds. Just a whisper of a touch. Too close. Too deliberate. Your whole body arched in response, your breath hitching as his fingertips ghosted over the ticklish skin, hovering near your heat. It was almost worse than being touched. The promise of it. The withholding. And God, you were soaked.

“Maybe you need a little bit of positive reinforcement,” he whispered behind you, the words brushing your skin like velvet, “some…Motivation, to behave.”

SMACK!

You cried out softly, your toes curling against the floor. The sting burned deeper now. Your skin was starting to swell with sensation, each strike building on the last, lingering longer, radiating heat straight to your core. You wanted to feel him touch you again. Just there. Just like that. Your resolve, strong and clever and teasing, bent under the weight of that heat. Just this once…You gave into Zayne.

“…One,” you breathed, voice soft but clear.

He hummed in approval, the sound low and devastating.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and the praise landed deeper than any strike, his hand squeezing your ass gently, possessively, “we’re going to go up to five together.”

SMACK!

“Two,” you managed, voice quivering as your body jolted from the impact. The sound echoed, sharp and clean, the heat radiating outward in spreading ripples beneath your skin. You couldn’t stop yourself—your hips began to move instinctively, a slow, desperate wriggle against his palm, chasing the soothing contact that followed.

And then his fingers dipped lower again. They brushed over the delicate strip of lace covering your folds, the barest touch—just enough to make your knees weak, just enough to make your breath catch. You could feel the contrast, the ache of your reddening skin beneath his hand and the unbearable softness where he ghosted over your center, where you were already hot, already soaked.

SMACK!

“Three…”

This time, you clenched down hard, your sex tightening with reflexive need as your body flinched forward, but there was nowhere to go. The mattress held you. He held you. The pressure of your wrists still firm in his grip behind your back, your movements limited to trembling, grinding, arching, presented and helpless and vulnerable in the most intoxicating way.

SMACK!

“Four!” You gasped, air catching in your throat as your foot lifted behind you against his calf, your toes curling tight. The sting was sharper now, more focused, more intimate. The burn dug into your nerves like fire laid gently across your skin, measured and unrelenting.

Then, stillness. Zayne’s hand slid over your ass again, careful, reverent. His fingers dipped low, lower, until they pressed right there, into the center of you through the lace. Not a tease this time. Not a brush. Pressure. A firm, deliberate stroke that parted the fabric, tracing the line of your soaked folds in one slow motion.

You trembled beneath him. The lace did nothing to hide you now. Your arousal had already soaked through, the shape of you perfectly outlined, presented to him like a gift. And you knew he could feel it. The slick heat. The pulse of need. You heard him exhale soft and low, like the sight of you knocked the wind from his chest.

SMACK!

The final strike rang out.

“F-five,” you breathed, trembling, your voice quiet but full of surrender. Your back arched as your body writhed beneath his hand, not to escape, but to feel. To absorb every lingering ounce of sensation, to stretch the moment as far as it could go.

And then came the release. He rubbed you slowly, gently, his hand warm and wide as it moved over your skin, chasing the pain with comfort. Your body sagged against the bed, sighing under his touch, as though the whole world had melted down to this: the heat of his palm, the rhythm of your breath, and the pulse between your legs, still aching, still waiting.

“So compliant,” Zayne murmured, almost to himself, as his fingers dipped lower again, “and so wet for me…”

His voice was reverent, admiring, laced with a kind of restrained hunger that made your breath stutter. You felt the slow tug of fabric as he hooked a finger beneath the strip of lace and drew it aside, baring you completely. Cool air kissed the slick heat between your thighs, and you gasped softly, back arching, fully exposed to him now.

Then his touch returned, unhurried, confident. He traced a single finger through your folds, gathering the slickness he found there, the sound soft and obscene. He moved with precision, curling his hand over your ass, holding you open as his fingertip circled and slid just inside, easing into your body with the kind of care that made your thighs tremble. You couldn’t help the moan that slipped from your lips, a sound thick with relief and pleasure, the sensation dizzying. His hand was steady, his finger exploring slowly, deliberately, just enough to make you melt against the bed, heat blooming inside you like a lit match dropped into oil.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” He asked, voice low and close, lips just above your skin. You didn’t need to see his face to know he was smiling—smugly, warmly, the way he always did when he had you unraveling.

“Mmm…” You hummed, soft and blissful, your cheek pressed against the fluffy bed.

The stinging welts on your ass pulsed with lingering warmth, mixing deliciously with the slow, building pleasure. Your eyes fluttered open, catching the shape of him behind you, the thick bulge beneath his slacks, so close, so present, before your gaze trailed upward to meet his.

“You are too…” You whispered, playful, teasing, even now.

“I am,” he answered without hesitation, his voice deepening, more breath than sound.

He leaned closer then, his eyes flicking downward to look at you. You felt it, that gaze, the weight of it, just as he pushed another slow finger in, stretching your limits with practiced care. You moaned, body trembling again, and then—

“Now,” he said, firm, calm, undeniable, “say it for me.”

You felt the warmth of his breath kiss your skin.

“I won’t ask again,” he added, his tone darkening, eyes locked to yours, “and I won’t reward bad behavior.”

You didn’t want to give in. You wanted to make him work for it—drag out the chase, test the edges of his composure until it cracked and crumbled beneath the weight of your defiance. That was the game, after all. That was your game.

But those fingers of his…God. They moved inside you like they already knew the shape of your surrender. Long, slow, perfect—searching, curling, stroking with such reverent intent that your resistance thinned to threads in seconds. It betrayed you in the soft sound that slipped from your lips, in the way your hips moved without permission.

“…This is how I want to be punished,” you whispered, the words dragged reluctantly from your mouth like confession.

There was silence—thick, full. Then came his voice, quiet and full of dark warmth.

“That’s much better,” he murmured, “my good angel…”

You whined, quiet, spoiled, craving, and the sound didn’t even feel like yours anymore. It was his. Pulled from you like breath from lungs. Still, even as he fucked you slow and deep with those practiced fingers, even as your wrists were bound by nothing but the strength of his grasp, you couldn’t let him win completely.

You twisted just slightly under his hand, your voice soft and breathless as you murmured, “Zaynie…Tie me up with the rope. My arms hurt…”

He stilled. Just for a second. Just long enough for the silence to break.

“…Right,” he said, slower this time.

You could hear the way his thoughts scattered. The momentary lapse of precision. The falter. It was subtle, but you knew him. Knew every detail of his control, and how to disarm it. He slid his fingers out of you slowly, purposefully, like he couldn’t bear to leave the warmth of your body just yet. You felt every inch of him go, every parting second, until your body clenched around the absence with a silent ache.

And then, he did what only Zayne would do. He raised his hand to his mouth, and licked his fingers clean. Not with exaggeration. Not for effect. It was quiet, instinctive, personal. A gesture not of showmanship, but of indulgence. His eyes half-lidded, his lips parting, his tongue dragging along the pads of his fingers as if your taste was the one thing that could soften him.

He released your wrists and rose from his place behind you, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve as he straightened with quiet resolve. Then he turned toward the far corner of the room, toward the sleek, matte black bag that sat waiting like a secret between you. The one from the sex shop. The one filled with temptation and possibility. His back to you, his attention fixed on choosing his next weapon…And that was your moment.

You slipped off the bed like a shadow and moved swiftly, silently. The oversized shirt hit the floor in one fluid motion, pooling around your feet. Your thong followed in a soft whisper of lace and skin, your fingers hooking the band and slipping it down with ease. The socks went next—those treacherous, slippery things discarded without ceremony. By the time he reached into the bag, you stood completely bare by the bed.

“I only know how to do the standard square knot,” Zayne muttered as he rummaged through the black bag, pulling out the smooth coil of blue silken rope you’d both picked out. His voice was casual, clinical, almost amused with himself, “don’t expect anything fancy until I’ve done some proper research about these things, okay?”

But then…Silence. Yours. Too still. Too long. He froze, his hand wrapped around the rope mid-pull as the silence registered. He turned to glance over his shoulder, expecting a teasing glance, maybe a smart little comment. But instead, he found…Nothing. Only your clothes on the floor. His gaze snapped to the door, and there you suddenly were. Completely naked, standing in the frame with nothing but heat in your cheeks and a devastatingly mischievous grin stretched across your face. You ran one finger slowly down the edge of the doorway, your expression all innocence and challenge, bare as sin, glowing with adrenaline.

“Okay,” you said sweetly, tilting your head, “but first…You’re gonna have to catch me!”

He didn’t even have time to react before you were gone—a blur of bare limbs and laughter as you took off down the hallway, the air alive with your shriek of delight and the slap of your bare feet against the floor. Behind you, you heard a sharp, incredulous exhale. Then—

“You’re in for it when I do catch you,” he called after you, already advancing fast and purposeful, “slippery woman…”

You hopped down the stairs with giddy, naked glee, your giggles bubbling up uncontrollably as the cool air of the house rushed past your flushed, bare skin. Every nerve was alight with mischief and adrenaline, your muscles vibrating with the thrill of escape. The wooden steps were chilly beneath your toes, and the smooth grain slid just a little underfoot, making each descent feel a little more reckless—deliciously so. But then, you caught a flicker of motion at the top of your peripheral vision, and your entire body tensed.

You turned your head, just in time to see none other than Zayne, swinging a leg over the railing like a panther, his body poised, elegant and dangerous, one knee braced against the banister, the other ready to launch. He looked down at you with a maddening calm, as if he weren’t about to defy gravity and intercept you before you even made it to the bottom floor.

For a beat, your breath caught. Your laughter stalled. You’d forgotten how athletic and strong he was beneath those neat and professional clothes. And suddenly, your giddiness turned into excited panic, the kind that sent a sharp jolt of heat through your chest, flushed your cheeks, and made your feet move faster.

“That’s cheating!” You shouted up at him, voice breathless with disbelief as you leapt down the last step and bolted into the living room, “you can’t just jump down from the second floor like a fucking spider monkey!”

“My house,” he said smoothly from above, and then, he moved, “my rules.”

You heard the thud of his landing behind you—a solid, practiced sound, not the stumble of someone reckless but the precise footfall of a man who knew exactly how to handle his body. His long strides hit the floor like thunder, quickening behind you.

You barely had time to scream—half laugh, half panic—as you tore across the living room, your feet flying across the hardwood, your breath catching in your throat. The cool air rushed past your naked skin, tingling, heightening the sheer awareness of your body in motion. You beelined for the kitchen, narrowly curving around the edge of the counter with the muscle memory of someone who’d bruised herself on it more than once. The cold tile kissed your soles with each hurried step. Zayne was close now—too close. You could feel him in the space behind you. Hear the rhythm of his breath, the graceful thud of each stride closing in.

You chanced a look over your shoulder. He was gaining. His tall frame moving with that frustrating, elegant efficiency, unbothered, like he knew he’d catch you eventually. The gap between you was shrinking, and you cursed every inch of his long legs, his God damn stamina, and the infuriating ease with which he seemed to glide instead of run.

Your heart was thudding wildly, pumping adrenaline through your limbs, your skin flushed from the chase and the laughter and the sheer, breathless knowledge that you wouldn’t outrun him. Then suddenly—silence. No footsteps. No breath behind you. Just the open hush of the spacious dining room swallowing every sound, and the thundering realization that Zayne…Was gone.

Your body stilled mid-stride, your laughter fading in your throat as the absence of him struck like a cold draft under the skin. You hadn’t noticed when the rhythm of his pursuit had stopped, hadn’t heard the moment his footsteps vanished. You’d been too busy laughing, too wrapped up in the thrill of being chased to sense the shift. Now, your bare feet stood planted against the cool wood floor, your chest rising and falling in the aftermath of motion, your heart beginning to race for an entirely different reason.

Shit. The silence wasn’t safety. It was strategy. Zayne was hiding. Your eyes flicked around the room, slowly now, adjusting to the quiet. Shadows sat heavy in the corners. Every chair, every cabinet door, every hallway entry looked suddenly too still, too full of possibility. You swallowed once, twice, trying to ease the tension mounting in your throat.

Your only chance was the stairs. The bedroom. But now, you’d have to earn it. No more giggles. No more thudding feet and scrambling turns. If he heard you now, it would be over, and he’d catch you before you ever touched the first step. You moved slowly, delicately, each footstep as soundless as you could make it, wishing—truly wishing—you hadn’t torn off those socks.

The floor was colder now against your soles, almost slick. Your skin, bare and flushed, was cooling quickly in the stillness, the contrast against your earlier heat making your senses spike. You were suddenly hyperaware of your nakedness. Every brush of air across your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thighs. It made you tense, arms drawing in around yourself for warmth and some poor imitation of protection.

You passed through the dining room like a shadow, careful not to let your foot catch the chair legs. You moved around the table with practiced grace, but your body remained tight with tension. Your eyes flicked over your shoulder again and again, searching for movement, for a flash of motion. Nothing.

When you stepped into the living room from the far side, the silence deepened somehow. The air felt thicker here. More intimate. Like breath held too long in a quiet room. You paused. The light was low, golden, stretching from the lamps in long, soft lines across the hardwood floor. And he was nowhere. No sign of Zayne. No shift in the shadows. No trace of his voice curling into the air to let you know he was close.

You eyed the staircase. It loomed ahead of you like sanctuary, like a finish line in some quiet, sensual war. If you made it to the top, you could disappear, regroup, taunt him from the safety of your bed. But each step toward it now felt like moving through enemy territory. You moved forward slowly, barefoot and bare-skinned, breath shallow as your arms wrapped tighter around your chest, your whole body alert and coiled.

The cool air licked at your skin, made your nipples tighten, made goosebumps bloom along your arms. You shivered not from cold, but from awareness. Just as your foot hovered over the first step, just as your breath caught with that fragile, flickering hope that maybe, maybe you’d made it—you heard it. One footfall behind you. Too fast. Too close.

You barely had time to register the sound before Zayne was on you, his long arms like iron bands sweeping around your waist from behind, and the only thing that left your mouth was a shriek, high and startled and bursting with laughter as he spun you to face him, the world careening for a second before—

“ZAYNE!” You gasped, wide-eyed, winded before your feet left the ground entirely, swept up like you weighed nothing, his arms anchoring you as your body went airborne with a jolt of adrenaline.

You clung to him on instinct, hands scrambling for his shoulders, his neck, gripping tight, breath catching as your naked body pressed flush against his chest. He slung you over his shoulder like a sack of mischievous cargo, your hair falling toward the floor, the world suddenly upside down.

“No fair!” You cried, laughing wildly, the blood rushing to your head as you squirmed in his hold, “Zayne, you play dirty!”

From over the curve of your back, you heard him hum with calm satisfaction.

“I learned from the master herself,” he said, maddeningly serene. And then—tap—his hand landed on your ass, a playful, possessive pat that made you jolt with a gasp.

You felt the shift of his weight as he took the first step up the stairs, slow and deliberate. His arm was firm across the backs of your thighs, holding you effortlessly, the other braced at your waist. His strength was absolute. It rippled through every movement, the kind of quiet power that made your breath stutter and your thighs instinctively press together.

“Besides,” he added, as if this were all a perfectly reasonable conversation and not a bare-bodied abduction, “I don’t recall there being any rules about catching prey in this household…Especially not of the naked variety.”

You clung tighter to him, giggling against the sway of his shoulder, “what’s my giant snowman gonna do to me now that I’ve been captured?”

His answer was soft, dark, threaded with the barest edge of something feral, “what predators usually do to their prey.”

You grinned through your breathless struggle, wriggling in his hold, voice sing-song with teasing, “what, pick your teeth with my bones? Hang my body over the fireplace?”

Zayne laughed low in his throat, the sound rumbling through your hips where they pressed to his chest, “no.”

You felt the change in the air around you. The shift in his tone lower, deeper, velvet-laced intent.

“I’m going to ravage you,” he said, “while you’re tied to the bedframe, so that you can’t escape this time.”

The moment the words left his mouth—ravage you, tied to the bedframe—a current of arousal ignited in you, sharp and immediate, like a live spark catching oil. It didn’t just stir between your thighs. It throbbed, low and deep, sending a molten ache spiraling through your core. Because you knew what that meant.

Zayne didn’t speak in empty threats. He was deliberate. If he said he was going to ravage you, he meant for hours. He meant with focus. With intention. With hands that mapped your body like sacred ground and a mouth that knew every point where pleasure pooled in you like water rising to the brim.

And when he said tied—God. You could already feel the ghost of the rope: smooth silk tightening at your wrists, holding you in place as you twisted, breathless, unable to squirm away from the heat of his tongue or the sharp, dizzying praise that always spilled from him when you whimpered his name.

Zayne’s stamina was the stuff of legend. Inhuman, honestly. There were nights he had you unraveling three, four, five times before he even considered undressing himself. He had an appetite that bordered on monstrous—obsessive, even—and it still stunned you that a man who spent half his day elbow-deep in open heart surgeries could come home and fuck like that. Like it was the only thing grounding him to reality.

But you understood it now. It was the way he reset. Where others needed silence, distance, sleep—Zayne needed you. He needed your body, your skin, the sound of your voice breaking apart under him. Sex wasn’t indulgence, it was language. It was his apology when he got home late. His promise when he held you tighter than necessary. His worship. His tether. His home.

When he reached the bedroom, his steps were unhurried. Calm. He was still breathing lightly from the chase, but his composure had already settled back into place, cool and devastating in that pressed white shirt, sleeves still half-rolled, veins and scars faintly visible down his forearms as he carried you to the bed like you were precious cargo.

Then he set you down. Deliberately. Slowly. Letting you sink into the mattress with a gentle bounce, your thighs parting instinctively, your breath still uneven, your chest rising and falling with the aftershocks of adrenaline and want. Zayne hovered just a moment, looming above you, adoring. His gaze swept over your flushed, naked body like he was cataloguing you all over again, like he couldn’t not look. That quiet reverence in his eyes made you feel hotter than anything else could have. Then, with a soft, amused huff, he straightened.

“You stay put,” he said, the edge of his voice impossibly calm, velvet-wrapped command beneath the silk, “I have my eye on you.”

And he did. It lingered on your lips, your thighs, your wrists, their soon-to-be-bound future written in the heat behind his gaze. You’d never wanted so badly not to run.

“What are you gonna do,” you asked with a grin, voice sweet and lazy with invitation, “keep me here until the sun rises?”

You twirled a strand of your hair around your finger, reclining slightly into the plush bedding, unbothered, almost taunting, your naked body half-shadowed in the low, ambient light. The sheets were warm beneath your thighs, your skin still flushed from the chase. And Zayne…Zayne was walking toward the door, back turned just enough to let you openly admire the utterly obscene shape of his arousal pressing hard and high against the seam of his slacks. Your mouth watered.

He paused with his hand on the door, glanced over his shoulder with that maddeningly patient smile.

“Have I become that predictable to you?” He asked, calm and smooth, voice full of quiet threat and amusement as he clicked the lock into place with finality. The sound rang out like a gavel.

You shrugged, feigning innocence, batting your lashes while your eyes traced the lean stretch of his back as he moved to the light switch, “I wouldn’t say predictable…”

He dimmed the lights, the warm glow softening into something dusky and golden. Intimate. Romantic.

“…Just insatiable,” you added.

That earned you a glance. You watched his silhouette move across the room, familiar and elegant in his shirt and tie and slacks, the tension of his desire evident in every quiet motion. He was so composed it was unfair. It should be illegal to look that put together while so thoroughly aroused.

He made his way to the dresser, where the blue silk rope rested from before, set down hastily in the moment before your gleeful escape. He picked it up, slow and thoughtful, fingers gliding over the weave of it, testing its softness again as if to reacquaint himself with its promise. You felt your breath catch. Zayne turned to you as he coiled the rope lightly in his hand, walking back to your bedside with the unhurried gait of a man who knew you wouldn’t go anywhere now.

His gaze devoured you. There was no other word for it. It wasn’t crude. It wasn’t rushed. It was intimate—a lover memorizing every curve of you, every soft line of your body, every place he planned to touch and claim and kiss. His smile deepened, not teasing, not even smug. Affectionate. Hungry.

“You don’t seem to have a problem with that when you’re screaming my name and crushing my head between your thighs,” he murmured, voice velveted with heat.

You flushed—visibly. That wasn’t even dirty. But somehow it was filthy coming from him. Zayne reached the bed and stopped, rope in hand, eyes locked with yours as he twirled it once around his fingers. Not rushed. Thinking. Plotting. And when he spoke again, it was soft. Gentle. Unshakable.

“Lie down on your back for me,” he said. A pause, “arms above your head.”

Oh, that voice. That calm, quiet command that slid beneath your skin like silk drawn across a live wire. It didn’t need to be loud. It never did. Because Zayne’s authority wasn’t in volume, it was in presence. In the quiet, magnetic certainty that wrapped around every word he spoke. Lie down. Arms above your head. Words that made your pulse thrum low in your body, heat blooming where your thighs met. Words that tugged your obedience to the surface so easily you hardly noticed you’d given in until your back was on the sheets and your hands were in place, fingers ghosting over the wooden slats of the bedframe.

God, you were going to marry this man. Sometimes you couldn’t believe it. You couldn’t believe you got to keep him, to claim him, to give your name to someone so composed, so powerful, and still so devastatingly tender with you. Looking up at him from this angle, back sinking into the mattress, arms stretched over your head in surrender, your eyes dropped to the gorgeous, throbbing outline straining beneath the fine fabric of his slacks, just a short distance from you.

The heat between your legs flared again. Fuck. You’d get on your knees for him in seconds. But you knew better. Zayne had rules, always had. He never let you go first—not until he had taken his time with you. Still, you teased him with a soft smirk, voice laced with mischief.

“You don’t seem to have a problem with it either,” you murmured, gaze climbing slowly back up to his eyes.

“I don’t,” he said, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in that half-smile, warm, fond, and entirely hungry.

He climbed onto the bed with a knee pressed firm to the mattress beside you, the shift of weight making the frame dip slightly beneath your back. You felt the press of his thigh beside your ribs as he leaned over you, rope in hand, careful and practiced now as he took your wrists in his hands

The rope felt cool at first—slipping over your skin with a whisper-soft glide as he wound it deliberately. You could hear the faint sound of it brushing your skin, the soft friction as it passed through his hands. He slid a finger between the loops to make sure they weren’t too tight, adjusting as he secured the knot with a precision that only made your heart beat faster.

“You’re the dessert that keeps on giving,” he murmured, his voice like honey laced with heat, “and giving…And giving.”

Your giggle slipped out without your permission, airy and breathless. Your eyes fluttered down again—his cock, still straining beneath the sleek fabric of his slacks, now just inched from your face. So close. So temptingly framed between the sharp lines of his hips.

“You make me sound like a little slut, Zaynie.”

Zayne chuckled, the sound low and warm, laced with something fond.

“No I don’t,” he said easily, reaching to adjust the rope binding your wrists with that same steady care, “I’d never say that about you.”

But something about the word sparked heat under your skin. Because Zayne hadn’t said anything like it, anything even near it. Not when he was so deep inside you that his composure unraveled, not in those moments when he was rough, feral, cursing into your ear while he fucked you like he couldn’t help it. And maybe that was exactly why the thought turned you on.

Because Zayne didn’t talk like that. He didn’t need vulgarity to assert control. He didn’t need to call you names to make you melt. He had a whole arsenal of soft commands and gentle hands and quiet authority that already made you feel so thoroughly owned. But still. The idea of it—hearing that word in his voice, just once? It made your thighs clench involuntarily. You looked up at him through your lashes, wrists resting in their silken binds above your head. Your voice was soft. Coy. A little dangerous.

“…What if I wanted you to?”

That got him. His whole posture shifted, his head dipping slightly as his eyes widened, brows lifting with visible disbelief.

He looked at you like you’d just suggested a felony, “excuse me?”

You flushed instantly, face going hot with flustered embarrassment as you squirmed just a little against the sheets.

“I don’t know,” you stammered, breath catching on a nervous little laugh as you turned your face into your shoulder, “just—role-play with me tonight. Pretend I’m your…Your personal little toy or something. Your…Pet.”

That word lingered in the space between you like a lit fuse. And to your shock, Zayne looked away. Color bloomed across his ears, the tips going red as he cleared his throat quietly and reached up to drag a hand through his hair. Your Zayne, steady as stone, unshakeable under pressure, elite cardiac surgeon, was flustered.

“…Alright,” he said finally, voice quieter, a little rough around the edges, “well—…”

God, he was so endearing. Even with you naked and tied to his bed, he still processed everything like it mattered. He wasn’t flustered because he was embarrassed. He was flustered because he wanted to get it right. Because even in this, especially in this, he was thoughtful. Attuned. And completely incapable of doing anything halfway.

“…Tell me more, then.”

His voice was different now. Lower. Serious in that deliberate, quiet way of his that always made your pulse jump. You could feel his attention shift, the way he turned it fully toward you without even touching you. Like he was listening, not just to your words, but to the edges of your want. The shape of your need. He stepped away from the bed without hurry, crossing to the dresser where the black bag from earlier still waited. You could see the faint strain of his muscles beneath the cotton of his dress shirt as he bent to search inside.

He pulled out the bottle of birthday cake–flavored lube, turning it once in his hand like he was considering its weight in this new context. A symbol of indulgence. Of play. Then, slowly, he glanced over his shoulder at you. His gaze wasn’t playful. It wasn’t mocking. It was intent. Present. Dialed in.

“…What are you fantasizing about, exactly?” He asked. His voice was velvet-rich, but measured. Grounded. Honest, “I won’t be callous with you.”

“Not callous,” you mused aloud, voice soft, almost absent, as you stared up at the ceiling, its dim light casting gentle shadows across the contours of your body.

Your wrists shifted slightly against the rope, the silk cool and smooth where it held you fast to the bedframe.

“Just—…Hmm. Possessive. In a rough way. A dark way. You know…” Your voice dipped lower, “…To go along with the whole whips and paddles thing.”

You saw him pause mid-step, his back turned, shoulders rolling with a slow breath before he turned to glance over at you again. That knowing look was already on his face when he began to walk toward you once more, and the faint arch of his brow made your stomach tighten. His green eyes flicked down to your flushed cheeks—of course he noticed—and his voice wrapped around you, smooth as silk and twice as binding.

“Ah,” he nodded, nearing the bed, “you want me to dominate you. Understood.”

You swore your heartbeat spiked at the way he said it. No hesitation. No teasing lilt. Just fact. Stated with casual confidence like it was something as simple as checking your pulse. He had no idea what those words did to you—or maybe he did, judging by the sly, upward curl of his lips when your eyes immediately darted away from his. God. Fucking. Damn it. You tried to play it cool. A lazy shrug, a little turn of the shoulder, a lilt to your voice.

“Basically,” you said, tone as breezy as you could muster, “yeah…That.”

But your body betrayed you completely. Your thighs were pressing together. Your skin was burning. You couldn’t look at him without risking full combustion.

“Why are you so embarrassed about it?” He chuckled, smooth and low, still closing in. You could hear the faint shift of fabric, the creak of the mattress as he set one knee beside your hip again, “are you being shy, now?”

“No!” You shot back, too quickly, your voice pitching upward, “I’m not embarrassed…Or shy.”

The amused gleam in his eyes only deepened.

“Really?” He echoed, slow and skeptical.

Before you could reply, his hand moved, swift and sure, and your breath hitched as his long fingers slipped beneath your jaw, thumb and knuckle cradling the soft hinge of it. With one firm, effortless motion, he turned your face back to his. Oh fuck. Ohhh, fuck.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your legs, so defiantly pressed together a second ago, rose slightly from the mattress on instinct—knees curling inward like they could contain the heat now pooling thick between your thighs. Your spine arched subtly into the sheets, and your pulse pounded like a war drum in your ears. He leaned in just a little, face above yours, eyes studying every shift in your expression.

“Because you look a bit…” His voice dropped an octave as he tilted your jaw back and forth between his fingers, his thumb brushing tenderly over your cheek. The motion was both amused and affectionate, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh or devour you, “…Flustered.”

God, why was he so good at this? Why did it feel so natural for him to take control like this—quietly, effortlessly, like it belonged to him? Like you belonged to him?

Your breath trembled out of you, head sinking deeper into the pillow as heat curled low in your belly, pulsing, tightening. You could barely think around the throb between your legs. You were drooling over your fiancé, utterly helpless beneath the weight of his gaze. And your body, God, your body was giving you away. Embarrassingly so. Your nipples had puckered into tight, aching peaks, stiff enough to brush against the air and send a spark straight to your core. Goosebumps were rising over your arms in soft, visible waves, trailing from your shoulders down to your wrists, which still lay bound to the headboard.

“How?” You blurted, grasping for composure, your voice tighter than you meant it to be.

You could not keep your eyes off the bulge tenting his slacks. It was impossible. Unfair. The way he stood there, impossibly calm, looming above you like he wasn’t seconds from wrecking you completely. Zayne tilted his head slightly, that subtle smile never quite leaving his lips.

“Pupils dilated,” he began matter-of-factly, withdrawing his hand from your jaw.

He reached for the nearby bottle, popping the cap with a quiet click, and squeezed a small bead of clear lubricant onto the tip of his finger.

“Elevated heart rate,” he continued smoothly, eyes flicking briefly to your chest as it rose and fell, fast and shallow, “breathing is faster than baseline. Elevated temperature…”

Then, without shame, he looked down between your legs.

“…Probably very wet, by now,” he mused.

He didn’t need to check. He knew. And fuck, he was right. You were soaked. Shamefully wet. Arousal pooled at your core, your thighs pressed tight together for the smallest hint of friction, but it only made the ache more intense.

Zayne set the bottle aside, as casually as if he were folding a napkin, and brought his finger, slick with the glossy lube, to your mouth. You barely had time to react before he gently traced the viscous drop along the curve of your lower lip, spreading the sweet gloss over the soft, sensitive skin. Then, slowly, deliberately, he pushed his finger past your lips. Christ.

You let out the faintest sound, almost a whimper, and instinctively closed your mouth around him. Your tongue curled around the pad of his fingertip, tasting, licking, sucking like your life depended on it. It wasn’t performative. It was a reflex. Like your body needed to please him. To respond. To devour any piece of him he offered. The flavor hit your tongue a second later, shockingly sweet. Like icing. Buttercream and sugar and vanilla and birthday cake, rich and sticky and playful.

Zayne watched you. Watched your mouth. Watched the way your eyes fluttered slightly at the taste, the way your cheeks hollowed when you sucked deeper. And when he began to pull his finger away, your head rose instinctively, following him, chasing it, unwilling to let him go without protest.

“It tastes sweet,” you said breathlessly, your lips still glossy with the remnants.

“Does it?” He murmured.

His voice deepened, just a touch, his gaze flickering over your face, from your mouth to your eyes. One hand braced beside your head on the pillow, his frame caging you in, while the other tilted your jaw with soft control. Then, his mouth was on yours. A kiss that wasn’t rough, wasn’t hard, just deep. Intentional. Sensual. The way his lips claimed yours was like a secret, like a promise.

“Maybe that’s just you, sweetie,” he whispered into your mouth.

You were tingling everywhere. The kind of tingle that starts in the chest and melts downward, through your belly, between your legs, spreading like fire through a body already primed for ruin. The kiss had been deceptively gentle, his mouth molding to yours with a softness that contrasted the intensity simmering beneath the surface. A kiss that said he could take you apart right now, but he was going to enjoy this first.

Your hands strained against the silken rope above your head, wrists flexing in a vain attempt to reach for him. The soft fibers gave just enough to remind you they were there holding you, taming you. You were bound. Open. Laid out like a gift before him. You could do nothing but yield. And oh, how that thrilled you.

The realization that he could do anything to you, and you couldn’t stop him had your core pulsing with hot, needy want. Your legs instinctively shifted, searching for friction, your body arching to meet him, desperate for his touch. You were already trembling under the tension, already melting under the weight of his presence, and then his hand moved between your thighs.

Molten. That was the only word for it. His fingers brushed down the sensitive seam of your folds with such maddening ease, it stole the breath from your lungs. They didn’t press or prod. Just glided, effortless, glistening already from the slick coating your heat. He hadn’t even tried, hadn’t needed to. You were soaking for him. Open and aching.

A soft, involuntary gasp left your lips when one finger gently parted you—just enough to expose you further, to feel. And when he found your clit, swirling the pad of his fingertip in a slow, devastating circle, your whole body jolted in response. You arched upward with a soundless cry, kissing him harder, deeper, your mouth seeking something you couldn’t fully name. You wanted more. Needed more. But he wasn’t letting you have it yet. That fucking tease.

“You’re soaking,” he murmured against your lips.

His voice was warm. Observational. Calm, as always. A man describing the simplest of facts while his fingers toyed with your ruin. Then he slipped lower, dragging that same fingertip from your swollen clit to your entrance, barely pushing—just hovering, just feeling, just letting you writhe while he explored at his own pace. You whimpered softly when he didn’t enter you. Your body clenched around the ghost of his touch, but still, he held back, taking his time. The pads of his fingers slid over your folds with the care of a man savoring his favorite thing.

“And your clit is engorged…” He added softly, voice warm with quiet satisfaction.

You nearly forgot how to breathe when you felt him circle back up to your clit. His touch was maddeningly slow, measured, like every motion was being recorded, every reaction assessed. The same fingers that held scalpels with surgical precision were now rolling that swollen jewel of nerves in patient, deliberate circles.

A soft whimper left you, helpless to the way your body answered him. He kissed you again. Deep. Slow. Tongue unhuried, mouth warm and consuming. The kind of kiss that didn’t rush. That tasted you, savored you, possessed you. And all the while, he kept rubbing.

God, you could feel how swollen your clit was—fully emerged, pushed out from under its hood, as if presenting itself to him in supplication. Every drag of his fingertip over it made you squirm, sent sparks shooting through your pelvis, made you clench your thighs instinctively around his wrist in an effort to slow him down or pull him in. A moan escaped you, high and unfiltered, hips lifting into his hand as your restraints tensed above your head.

But then, he pulled away. Just like that. His fingers left your folds, his mouth slipped from yours, and you gasped in the absence, breath catching like you’d just been dropped from a height. He pulled back slowly, lifting off your body. You watched with wide, stunned eyes as he gathered himself—reined himself in.

His cheeks were flushed. His lips were kiss-bitten. His chest, rising with careful restraint. Oh, he was drunk on you. You could see it, read it in the tension in his shoulders, the way he rolled his jaw, like he had to bite back the urge to bend you open and eat you alive. All that from one kiss. One finger. He stood tall again, lifting his chin, and reached for the knot of his tie.

“No, come back…” You whined, your voice breathy, aching.

Zayne didn’t answer right away. Just loosened the tie from his collar with a quiet whisper of silk, the fabric sliding between his fingers with elegant ease. You watched him—watched him compose himself, watched him fall back into that unnerving calm he always wielded when he had you at your most desperate. He smiled down at you, soft, controlled, impossibly composed.

“I’m sorry, what?” He asked mildly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“Come baaaack,” you pleaded, dragging out the syllables as you shifted, your bound wrists giving a little tug against the soft ropes, “why do you have to tease me? I’m already completely helpless here…And needy.”

The words slipped out before you could think them through, and you regretted them instantly. His gaze sharpened. Just subtly. A flicker of delight crossed his expression as he draped the discarded tie onto the mattress beside you.

“And what are you needy for, exactly?” He asked, tone still light but layered with something darker.

Your eyes followed the movement of his fingers as he undid the first button of his dress shirt. Oh. Your breath caught. One by one, the buttons fell open. Each one exposing another sliver of his pale chest, the firm lines of muscle sculpted by years of quiet, habitual discipline. There was nothing casual about him. Not his work, not his body, not the way he peeled his shirt away now like he had all the time in the world to break you. You swallowed hard, eyes pinned to the planes of his torso.

“Mm…You,” you answered, a little softer this time. A little less cocky. A little more desperate.

Zayne raised a brow.

“What do you want from me?” He asked, shirt shrugging off his shoulders and down his arms, slipping away to reveal the full breadth of his lean, powerful frame.

You caught the shift of his muscles beneath his skin, the steady rise and fall of his chest, every inch of him deliberate. He tossed the shirt aside, and fixed his gaze on yours.

“You have to be more specific if you want me to consider your pleas,” he said, crossing his arms loosely, like he could wait all night, “I’m not so sure that you deserve to have your way at all, being that you tried to run off a moment ago…”

Your stomach fluttered. Oh, you loved when he made you work for it. When he used that cool, doctorly cadence to make you squirm and beg. You were a bound specimen beneath his gaze, wet, wanting, and entirely at his mercy. Damn it. If only this were a game of kitty cards. If only that same controlled man currently looming over you would let you win by default just because you pouted a little, batted your lashes, maybe whined out a sweet stretch of his name like a spoiled little thing.

But no. This was Zayne. Which meant there was no shortcut, no mercy, no free pass handed out just because you looked cute tied up and flushed and writhing. If anything, it encouraged him to drag it out further. To savor your helplessness like a fine wine. And you could see it—that quiet glint in his green eyes. He loved seeing you like this: breathless, defiant, and already dripping.

“It’s not like I can run off again,” you huffed, tugging on the silk rope binding your wrists with a slight squirm. The delicate friction of it whispered across your skin, tight but careful. His knots were deliberate. Secure, “alright, fine…I want you to eat it.”

Zayne blinked, lifting an eyebrow as if he hadn’t heard you clearly, “eat what—”

“—My pussy!” You blurted out with furious exasperation, your voice pitching up as heat bloomed across your face, flaming hot and immediate. The word snapped out of you like it had been ripped from your pride.

There was a beat. Then a low, amused chuckle. Zayne’s hands moved to his waistband, undoing the button of his slacks with graceful ease, even as that damn smirk lingered on his lips, “oh. I see. So you can use your words when you want to.”

He let the slacks fall, stepping out of them slowly, his movements calm and controlled—precisely measured, like everything else he did. Your eyes, traitorous and hungry, dropped to the heavy, swollen outline straining beneath the fabric of his tight briefs. Fuck. Your breath caught. Mouth damn near watered. He was hard. So hard. And yet he was still keeping those briefs on like he wasn’t in any rush at all. As if he had hours. As if he wanted you to suffer.

He moved to the other side of the bed, slow and unhurried, sinking down onto one forearm beside you. His presence was unbearable. Magnetic. Cool air met your bare skin when the mattress dipped with his weight, but it was nothing compared to the fire between your thighs. He rested his chin in his hand, gazing down at you like you were some rare creature—something caught and precious, something he was deeply amused by.

“You’re quite adorable when you’re helpless and needy,” he murmured teasingly, voice velvet-wrapped steel.

One long finger traced a slow, lazy path down your bound arm, making goosebumps rise in its wake. You squirmed involuntarily beneath the attention, the rope shifting slightly as you tugged, your body pulsing with need and frustration. His eyes swept over you with methodical precision, clinical in their gaze, devouring in their depth.

“When you’re not running that gorgeous little mouth at me…” He murmured, thumb brushing your wrist affectionately before dragging lower, down the inside of your forearm, “I think I like you like this.”

“I think you’re a big meanie, Zayne,” you grumbled, breath hitching faintly as your thighs involuntarily shifted, still slick and wanting.

Your words made him pause for a beat—then his soft, measured chuckle answered you, low in his chest, indulgent and unbothered.

“Well,” he murmured, leaning over you as he reached for his discarded tie beside the bed, “you certainly won’t get what you want with bad manners…”

He moved slowly, deliberately, dragging the length of silk over your bosom. You sucked in a breath when the cool fabric skimmed your breasts, brushing right over your nipples, which had already puckered from the tension in the room, the lack of touch, the unbearable anticipation. The sensation made you exhale a shaky sigh, your head falling back slightly against the bed. And Zayne watched you. Of course he did. Always watching. Noticing every twitch, every flutter of breath, every pulse in your body like you were his personal patient he was quietly, intimately diagnosing.

“But don’t worry,” he murmured, his voice dipping like velvet over skin, “I’ll teach you proper etiquette one way or another.”

You barely had a moment to wonder what he meant before he moved again. You felt the bed shift beneath you, his body rising, his knees sinking into the mattress on either side of your thigh. His presence was overwhelming when he loomed above you, his strength always apparent in the way he moved. You watched him draw the tie slowly up, and your breath hitched again, this time out of sheer anticipation. Then—Darkness.

Your vision was blackened all at once as he brought the tie over your eyes. You startled softly, instinctively trying to peek, but the fabric was smooth and unyielding, cool against your warm lids. You felt his hands at the back of your head, lifting you with practiced gentleness, fingers threading through your hair as he carefully tied it behind your crown. The knot was firm, but never cruel. Just like him.

Your heart pounded. Louder. Harder. You were officially blindfolded now, helpless in a new way, and the realization crashed through your body like a shiver. You had no idea what he was going to do next. And not knowing, not seeing, made everything more vivid. More real. Your breathing stuttered, your fingers flexing unconsciously against the silken rope that bound your wrists.

“What are you gonna do, edge me till I beg?” You dared, your voice a little shakier than you’d intended, though you tried to mask it behind a front of playful bravado, your nerves dancing along your spine like static.

“That’s too simple,” he said from above you, voice maddeningly calm.

You felt the bed dip and shift beneath you again, subtle creaks of the mattress beneath his weight as Zayne moved. The air stirred with him, soft against your naked skin. You could hear his breath now, closer. Steady. Warm. Then came the feeling of his knee nudging between your thighs—not harshly, not even assertively, but deliberately, parting them as he eased his way into the cradle of your hips. He was taking his time. Always so controlled.

With the tie still blackening your vision, your world had shrunk to the sensations he gave you. You felt him settle over you, felt the brush of his thighs against yours, the heat of his body radiating through the thin fabric still clinging to him. Your skin tingled from every point of contact, and the tension that built in your chest felt both euphoric and unbearable.

Then came his hands. Large, warm, precise. He gently brushed your hair back from your face, strands trapped beneath the blindfold. His touch was reverent—practiced. Like he’d done it a hundred times. Like he’d imagined this moment before. His fingertips moved with that same patience you knew from when he stitched open hearts and closed arteries, like your body was precious. Vital.

His breath ghosted over your lips. You could feel the shape of it, the rise and fall of his chest above yours, the way his frame caged you in like a shelter. A safe, inescapable prison. And it thrilled you to your core. The darkness only sharpened your other senses. The feel of the sheets beneath you, the sound of your own heartbeat, the shudder of your breath—all of it sharpened to a needle point, the tension beneath your skin tight and humming. Then, his voice. Low. Quiet. An inch from your mouth, as intimate as a secret.

“I want you to beg,” he whispered, “without me even having to touch you there yet…”

Your lips parted as your breath hitched, electricity snapping down your spine.

“I want you to want to be good for me.”

That soft, dangerous whisper, velvet and command all at once, was the only thing in the universe just then. It curled around you like silk. And the worst part? It was working.

You smiled, lips curving despite the aching throb between your thighs, “how do you think you’re gonna accomplish that?”

His answer was immediate. Certain, “by giving you a reason to be on your best behavior.”

The pad of his finger stroked a gentle path down your cheek. It glided over your jaw, then your neck, feather-light. You felt the heat bloom wherever he touched, nerves lighting up under your skin. Then his palm cupped the front of your throat, not squeezing, just resting there. Possessive. Grounding. Like he wanted to feel the flutter of your pulse beneath his thumb. And oh, he did—because you felt the slow pressure there, how he tested your heartbeat with physician’s precision.

“Mmm…” He hummed, almost to himself, “you feel so hot.”

The way he said it made your toes curl.

“Probably from all of your mouthing off,” he added, voice still maddeningly calm.

Your adrenaline simmered low and hot beneath your skin, humming through your veins like a livewire. You couldn’t see him, couldn’t anticipate his next move, and the uncertainty made every brush of sensation feel electric. All you could do was feel. Listen. Breathe. You sensed him shift lower, the heat of his body trailing down. His lips grazed your jaw, featherlight, before pressing slowly, reverently against the side of your throat.

“Fortunately,” he whispered, the warmth of his breath brushing over the sensitive skin beneath your ear, “I can take care of that.”

You barely had time to wonder what he meant because suddenly, everything changed. The air around your neck dropped in temperature in a split second, so stark it nearly stole your breath. And then, winter. A sudden, numbing chill pressed against the curve of your throat. You gasped, recoiling instinctively, the cold shocking you to your bones. Ice. Water beaded and dripped down your neck, into your hair, slow as it burned a path into your overheated skin. You writhed beneath him, helpless, arms straining uselessly against the soft bite of the silk binding your wrists.

“Oh fuck, that’s cold!” You gasped, half-laughing, half-begging, the sound raw and breathless as you writhed in place. The shock of it made your nerves spasm, sharp and fluttering, like wings beating beneath your skin. You couldn’t decide whether you wanted to escape the sensation or melt into it.

Zayne chuckled, low and impossibly warm, the sound coiling around your spine and sinking into your bones.

“Uh-huh,” he murmured, lips brushing against your jaw as he spoke, his breath maddeningly hot against the very place his evol had left frigid, “I know.”

And he did. He knew exactly what he was doing. With devastating patience, he let the ice between his teeth glide lower, trailing down the vulnerable column of your throat. The cold kissed your racing pulse, lingering in the dip at its base where your heart fluttered wild and frantic against the cage of your ribs. You could feel your body split open at the seam of contrast: the aching heat of your core, the chill crawling down your neck, and Zayne’s voice—that voice—threading through both like silk through skin.

You hadn’t expected him to use his evol like this—so intimately, so wickedly, weaponized in the quietest way. It wasn’t just a display of power. It was precision. He wielded control like a scalpel, stripping you bare without ever rushing a single movement. And now, with the temperature of your skin at his mercy, you could do nothing but feel everything.

Then again…This was Zayne. He always found a way to take the reins, especially when you dared to pull them from his hands. Control. Restraint. Dominance. They weren’t just traits—they were written into the marrow of him. But beneath that stillness…There was hunger. Feral, sharp-edged need, barely leashed. You’d seen it before, how his restraint only made his eventual surrender more consuming. And you knew the truth now, didn’t you? He would starve the both of you, just for the high of devouring you whole.

He dragged the ice cube slowly across your collarbones, the frozen edge skimming over your skin with cruel, glacial precision. Every nerve lit up, a sharp electric crackle chasing the meltwater as it spilled down your fevered chest. You writhed beneath him, body straining, trembling, not away, not entirely, but toward something else. Anything else. The warmth of his mouth, his breath, his weight…You would’ve welcomed the blaze of his tongue just to counter the sting of that bitter chill.

Instead, he stayed just out of reach, hovering above you like a shadow of heat. His control was maddening. A squeal burst from your lips, part laugh, part helpless gasp, as you twisted against the silk bindings at your wrists. But he only pressed down harder, his hips anchoring you, his weight a steady reminder that you weren’t going anywhere. Your legs parted further, involuntarily beneath him, every shift drawing attention to the unmistakable heat of his cock, heavy and hard against your inner thigh—pulsing with arousal even as the rest of him moved like ice.

And still, the cube descended. It traced a wet path down the center of your breasts, carving a line of stinging cold across your burning skin. You could feel each droplet gather, then fall, the sensation so vivid it made your back arch off the sheets. His bangs fell forward as he leaned in, brushing against your damp skin, tickling the same trail he was painting with the melting ice.

“Not my boobs,” you gasped, your voice catching, your breath breaking apart with adrenaline, “oh God…Not my boobs—please!”

He balanced the cube between your breasts like he had all the time in the world, letting it settle in the valley of flushed skin and shallow breath. Meltwater pooled there, cool against heat, and the contrast made you twitch beneath him again. He laughed softly, the sound a low ripple in the silence, warm, impossibly warm, even as your skin begged for the same.

“Why not?” He murmured, voice low, velvet-draped mischief. You could hear how close his mouth was, but you couldn’t see him. Couldn’t predict him. It made your heart pound harder, “I think your nipples look quite lovely right now. So hard…From how cold you’re getting.”

Your chest rose sharply with a breath you didn’t mean to take. Were you…What, exactly? Aroused? Shocked? Shaking from the chill or the closeness? You didn’t even know anymore. Your body wasn’t yours—it belonged to the sensation, to him.

Then his mouth descended. You gasped the moment you felt his lips, soft, warm, maddeningly slow, begin to trail toward your breast. The blindfold robbed you of warning, and the unexpected touch sent a jolt through your spine. In a panicked twist, you jerked away, instinct overpowering restraint. The ice slipped free, sliding down your sternum in a single, aching trail, and landed on the mattress beside you with a muted thud.

But not before it kissed your side, sharp and chilling, eliciting a full-body shiver that made your limbs flinch and strain beneath his hold. You heard the faintest sigh.

“Can’t stay still, can you?” Zayne’s voice, featherlight and slightly amused, stirred the air above you.

You could hear the small sound as he retrieved the runaway cube from the sheets.

“Fine,” he murmured, calm but with an edge of purpose, “I’ll have you hold it for me, then…While I’m busy.”

Before you could ask what he meant, you felt his body shift—sensed him rising over you, gliding up your frame like a tide pulling you under. You held your breath, lips parted slightly, your pulse thundering in your ears beneath the blindfold’s smothering dark.

And then—cold. The ice cube, slick and stinging, pressed lightly to your lips. You flinched, instinctively drawing back, but his hand was already at your jaw, firm and coaxing. A heartbeat later, his mouth brushed yours in a brief, intoxicating kiss—not warmth, not comfort, but command. The kind that stole breath and replaced it with obedience. He left the cube at your lips. You opened, helplessly, and he slid it inside.

The ice sat heavy on your tongue, foreign and biting. A chill spread instantly through your mouth, along your lips, your teeth, your throat, your body quaking under the sharp, glacial pulse of it. You could do nothing but hold it there, suck it slowly, trying not to choke on the cold, trying not to moan. It was cold. It was intimate. It was Zayne.

“Better,” he whispered against your skin, a smile curling around the word like smoke. You felt his thumb ghost along your lower lip, then trail delicately down your chin, collecting the stray water your breath had warmed, “your mouth looks the prettiest when it’s quiet…And sucking on something.”

Oh, that sly, infuriating bastard. You were spiraling, unraveling, your body strung so tight with need that even the sound of his voice made your toes curl. Every word he spoke sank into your skin like warm wax, soft, slow, and utterly consuming. The reverence in his touch made you feel like something sacred, even as his mouth desecrated you inch by inch. You could feel him descending, kisses mapping your throat in wet, shivery patterns, lips still chilled from the ice, making lewd little sounds that echoed louder in the darkness behind your blindfold.

You squirmed beneath him, breath coming too fast, your fingers tugging subtly at the silk rope. Not to escape, never that, but to ground yourself, to do something while he stole every scrap of control with maddening slowness. He was getting closer. Closer. Each kiss made your back arch higher, chasing him, aching. You didn’t need to see to know where he was headed—you felt it in the tension, in the pause before his breath hovered just above your breast.

And then his mouth closed around your nipple. The shock of it, his freezing lips, the sudden pull, made your whole body jolt. He suckled it into his mouth with a slow, sinfully thorough hunger, and your cry caught in your throat, strangled by the Goddamn ice still melting on your tongue. You could feel it numbing you from the inside, cold and intrusive, the taste of it mixing with the taste of him lingering on your lips.

He wanted you quiet. He wanted you still. He wanted you bound, blind, obedient—his favorite helpless thing to play with. But you were you. And no matter how hard your body begged for him, something in you couldn’t just lie there and take it. With a sharp exhale, you spit the ice cube from your mouth in a single, deliberate blow. It left your lips with force, flying somewhere across the room. You heard the unmistakable crack as it hit the wooden floor and shattered into pieces. The silence that followed was immediate. Heavy.

“I could say the same about you,” you said, breathless, your voice laced with a grin you knew he could hear. Cocky. Foolish. Defiant.

You almost regretted it the moment the words left your mouth. Almost. Zayne stilled. His mouth released a mark of your breast with a soft, wet pop, and for a moment, there was nothing—no sound, no motion. Just the lingering chill on your breast and the thunder of your heartbeat in your ears. He exhaled slowly. And not with frustration.

“Oh…” He said at last, voice smooth and quiet and fucking dangerous, “is that the case?”

You swallowed. Silence stretched out like a blade between you. You couldn’t see him. Couldn’t read him. You didn’t know what expression he wore, what he was thinking, what he was planning, and that was the worst part. You were trapped in velvet darkness, in quiet anticipation, your lungs frozen with suspense as your body burned beneath his. Your pulse thudded at your throat. Then, he shifted. A rustle of movement. A shift in the air.

“Alright, then,” Zayne concluded simply, voice like silk wound around steel.

Your stomach dropped. Shit. He moved before you could react, swift and smooth, a ripple of motion that knocked the breath out of you. Zayne kept a knee between your thighs, his body curling around yours like smoke slipping beneath a door. His hip shifted to your side, anchoring on the mattress, and then he reached, gripping your upper thigh and hauling it over his, locking you in place. The pressure was immediate. Immoveable. His palm spanned the entire underside of your thigh, fingers sinking into soft flesh, keeping you stretched open and stilled.

You gasped, chest rising, your mind racing in the dark. The weight of his upper body caged you while the lower stayed on the bed. His warmth pressed everywhere but where you ached for it most. And then—then—you felt it. Another ice cube. Formed with a flick of his will, a quiet twist of his evol. It pressed, without warning, directly to your nipple.

“Zayne—!” You cried, a yelp bursting from your throat as the freezing sting bit into one of the most painfully sensitive parts of your body.

The shock of it had you arching reflexively, back bowing, but you couldn’t get away—not even an inch. His arm slipped under you, around your waist like a bar of steel, hauling you flush to him as his mouth replaced the pressure of the cube, cold lips suckling over the numbed skin.

Your hands strained against the silk, your wrists twisting, but it was useless. He had you bound. Had you wrapped in him. His mouth was merciless, cold and wet and sucking, and the cube didn’t stop moving. He dragged it in slow, agonizing circles, icy trails crossing already-sensitive skin, burning in reverse.

“Zayne—fuck!”

You squirmed, tried to twist out from under him, but all it did was make him groan, low and gravel-rich, as he held you tighter, fingers digging possessively into the meat of your thigh. You cursed, whined, thrashed against him, but he soaked it all in like praise, like your fight only made him harder. And maybe it did, because you felt him.

His hips were close now, so close, and every frantic wriggle of yours only made your inner thigh brush against the thick, hot press of his cock, still trapped behind his briefs, but straining. Your breath hitched. And worse—God, worse—you felt it again. That slick glide, that devastating pressure, the perfect angle as your legs tried to close and instead squeezed around his thigh. The contact was subtle but firm, friction catching exactly where you were soaked and desperate, your clit nudged in a slow, torturous stroke against the muscle of his thigh. The heat in your belly twisted.

You shuddered—not from the ice this time. From Zayne. He felt it. Of course he did. You knew it in the way his breath caught, in the sound of a quiet, strained groan that rumbled against your chest. His mouth broke from your breast for a second, wet and glistening, and then his hand slid from your thigh to your ass and pulled. A sharp, possessive drag, rolling your hips forward against the hard ridge of his thigh. The angle, higher now, firmer, sent sparks skittering through your core. You gasped, hips jolting, clit grinding right against the seam of sensation as he held you there, watched you feel it.

You didn’t hear the crunch so much as feel it—Zayne’s jaw flexing above you, a sudden crack of ice breaking between his teeth. He bit it clean through like it was nothing, then swallowed. And before your lips could even part in confusion, he dove back down. His mouth closed over your nipple, and this time, it was worse. The cold was merciless. His tongue felt frozen, the wet heat of his mouth turned glacial as he enveloped your already oversensitized skin in the icy wetness. You cried out, spine arching so violently you thought your ribs might splinter under the pressure of it. Your arms jerked against the binds, fingers curling into fists—grasping at air, at restraint, at anything that could help you survive the exquisite sting.

And then he moved, just a slight shift, mouth gliding from one breast to the other, and again, that same blast of cold, that piercing zap of sensation as he sucked your other nipple into his mouth with a deep, wet pull. It was too much. Too sharp. You thrashed against him, but it only made things worse—better—as your hips rolled down, grinding hard against the thigh wedged between your legs. You hadn’t meant to. But God, you felt it.

The hard muscle of his quad was unyielding, and your slick, aching clit caught the pressure perfectly. Smooth skin met soaked skin in a firm, agonizing friction. The grind dragged your folds apart, your wetness spreading over his thigh as your legs clamped around it, desperate and tense. A moan escaped before you could swallow it, low and high all at once, drawn from the deep pit of want curled inside your core.

Your spine arched again, trembling with the shock of it, fireworks bursting in the darkness behind your blindfold. Your lip caught between your teeth, bitten down so hard you tasted the faintest trace of iron. And still his mouth worked you, wet, cold, relentless. And then, just like that, he stopped. The world dropped out beneath you.

His hands caught your waist and your ass with that same bruising control, pinning you in place as he shifted his weight, pressing down on you until his thigh was flush against your sex. But he didn’t let you move. Not anymore. No more grinding. No more rhythm. Just pressure. Unrelenting, heavy pressure that split your folds open, your slick heat spreading wide against his skin, your clit swollen and throbbing with need. He held you there, your hips immobilized, your body fully aware of everything he was denying you. Your breath caught, high and desperate in your chest, and you tried to push again, just a little roll, just a tiny movement, but he tightened his grip and stilled you completely.

The frustration hit like a slap. A sharp, aching whine tumbled from your lips, high and helpless. You tugged at the ropes with a wild jerk, wrists burning, body trembling beneath the weight of him, the heat of him, the denial.

“Zayne, please—” You gasped, the words slipping free, more plea than protest. You weren’t even sure what you were begging for anymore—his thigh, his mouth, his mercy.

He didn’t give you any. His cold lips returned to your nipple, still aching, still sensitive, and he resumed his worship like nothing had changed. Like you weren’t falling apart beneath him. Sucking, licking, nipping, his mouth moved in deep, languid passes, torturing you while your body writhed in the prison of his arms.

“So needy,” he murmured, tone maddeningly calm, like a teacher gently correcting a wayward student, “but you don’t get release…” His voice lowered, drifting with silken weight over your skin, “…Until you learn to behave properly.”

You choked on a breath as his tongue flicked again, slow and punishing. Your legs twitched uselessly around his, your sex still trapped against the warm press of his thigh—no friction, no motion, just the endless ache.

“I’m enjoying this, frankly,” he added, almost conversationally, mouth never once lifting from your breast, “you feel so warm and soft, twisting and turning against me.”

Dear God, that man was an angel with horns. You couldn’t take it, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Everything about him, every word that fell from his mouth was sculpted to make your skin flush with need. It didn’t matter how stern his tone, how calm and doctor-serious he tried to sound—especially not then. It was maddening. It was so hot. And he knew it.

“Please,” you sighed, your voice raw with need, trembling with the effort not to cry.

Your hips bucked weakly, grinding against the immovable barrier of his thigh, but he held you firm, one hand on your ass, the other tightening at your waist. You were going nowhere. Your heat had nowhere to go. It just stayed, trapped between your legs and against his body, swollen and wet and needy as hell.

“I’ll be good,” you whispered, breath hitching, “please, just—…Just let me use your thigh…”

Zayne didn’t respond right away. His lips moved instead, brushing reverently along the top of your breast. You shuddered at the tenderness, the restraint. Then, his voice again, low, silk-laced, warm despite the chill he kept inflicting on you.

“I don’t know if I believe you,” he murmured thoughtfully, words kissed into your skin like a brand, “you’re nothing but pure mischief wrapped in an innocent smile.”

You whimpered. His words landed like a blow and a balm at once. He could’ve scolded you, lectured you, and you would’ve thanked him. Why was his authority so fucking intoxicating? No one else made you feel like this. No one else ever had. Only Zayne. Only your Zayne. Your fiancé. Your infuriatingly strict doctor. And just when you thought he couldn’t possibly go further—he did.

“My rebellious little pet rabbit,” he whispered, voice darker now, roughened by memory and want.

Then—suction. A sharp, sudden draw of his mouth over the soft swell of your breast, so forceful it made you gasp. The kind of kiss that promised a mark. The kind of mark he’d examine later with clinical, possessive pride. Your breath tore out of you in a shaky moan as his words wrapped themselves around your spine and coiled like silk.

He remembered. He remembered what you’d said. The fantasy. The plea for him to treat you like his pet. His to discipline. His to reward. And he’d filed it away like he did everything that mattered. Not just remembered it. Built a world around it. With care. With precision. With zeal. Your mind was spinning. Your body burning. You were slipping fast, spiraling down into the warm dark of submission, and you didn’t want to stop. Not now.

“I’ll behave for you,” you promised, voice cracking on a whisper as you trembled beneath him, “I swear I will, Zayne—”

But you barely got the words out before he blew a stream of freezing air across your wet, raw nipple.

You mewled. It wasn’t pain. Not exactly. But the shock of it, the bite of sudden winter against oversensitized skin, made your whole body spasm. You twisted in his grip, back arching off the mattress, desperate for friction, for release, but still he denied you, keeping you pinned against the heat of his body like a caged thing.

“Please,” you gasped again, helpless now, “please, I’ll show you, just give me the chance, Zayne, please—”

He groaned. Just once. Quiet and ragged. And then, you felt it—the smallest shift. A loosening of tension in his grip. A faint ease in the hold of your waist. The subtle, delicious give of his thigh pressing back just slightly looser between your legs, not enough for full friction, but almost.

“You know just how to make me give into your pleas, don’t you…” He sighed, like the words weighed something real.

His mouth returned to your nipple, sucking it slowly into his mouth again, indulgent now. Lazier. Not cruel this time, but still firm. Still full of intent. And his hips moved. A fraction. A tilt. Just enough.

“Fine, then,” he breathed.

Suddenly—he was gone. The absence of him startled you, made you twitch in the silence. His mouth, his thigh, his breath, all gone in one smooth detachment. You whimpered in confusion, your body aching in the vacuum he left behind, skin still tingling from his touch, nipples raw and exposed to the cool air. What was he doing? You heard the subtle shift of weight on the mattress beside you, then the soft rustle of fabric as he grabbed something. His pillow. That much you could place. But why?

Then it happened. He lifted your hips, hands firm beneath your ass, and slid the pillow under you. You gasped at the sudden angle, hips tilted higher, thighs falling open wider. The vulnerability was instant. Piercing. The cool air hit your slick folds like a breath of warning. Oh fuck.

Your heart pounded. Blind and bound, tilted and trembling, you could barely process anything but sensation. What was he going to do to you? What test was this? How would he expect you to prove your obedience now?

You lay there, chest rising, nipples hard and tingling, wrists tight in the silk binding above your head. You strained to listen. You felt him move again, felt the warmth of his body pass over you as he reached across your form. Then the unmistakable sound: the click and quiet squelch of the lube bottle, followed by a wet squeeze. But not on you. Your lips parted, unsure whether to moan or ask. And then—Then you felt it.

He returned, lowering himself over you on his forearms, and his thigh—his lubed thigh—slipped right between your folds. You choked on a breath. It glided against you with sinful smoothness, warm and wet and impossibly slick, sliding in one perfect, devastating stroke up your sex until it caught and pressed against your clit. You gasped so sharply it felt like your lungs tore. Your back arched, your legs jerked, but he was already there, one knee keeping your thighs parted, his body rocking forward just enough to rut his thigh against you again. Slow. Controlled. Lustful.

“Z-Zayne—!” You stammered, his name falling apart as your hips bucked, as your body melted against the friction.

His weight shifted just enough to keep the pressure perfect, to angle you over the pillow and grind your clit harder against the curve of his thigh. And then you felt it—his hand, large and commanding, wrap around your throat. Not squeezing. Just there. Present. He turned your face toward him, gently, but deliberately, thumb under your jaw, fingers tilting your chin like he was adjusting a fragile instrument.

His lips brushed yours, the taste of breath and threat curling into your mouth as he whispered, “show me, then.”

The words dripped with expectation, dark velvet wrapped in silk and steel.

“I’m waiting.”

Christ in heaven. There wasn’t a hint of hesitation in you, not a flicker of shyness, not in the velvet dark behind your blindfold, not with the scent and weight and presence of Zayne all around you. He filled every part of your senses. You couldn’t see him, but he was everywhere. His skin. His breath. The weight of his thigh between your legs. The taste of his mouth still lingering on your tongue. So you moved. Unthinking. Needing.

You rolled your hips with purpose, arching your spine to get the perfect angle beneath him, grinding your soaking pussy down onto his slicked-up thigh. The lube made every motion gliding and sinful—your folds spreading wide and hot with each stroke, your clit dragged back and forth against the unforgiving muscle of him. He was warm, and you were burning. The texture of his skin, firm, hot, smooth, rubbed along your most sensitive nerves, and a ragged moan tore from your throat as you moved faster, bolder, fucking yourself over him like he asked you to.

Zayne dropped his mouth to your ear, so close you felt his lips brush the shell before he even spoke, “you want to do this to my mouth, don’t you?”

His words were velvet-drenched filth. Quiet. Intimate. The kind of private sin that no one else would ever get to hear from him but you. That tone, that holy whisper, made heat detonate through your core in rolling, tidal waves. You moaned aloud, face flushed and tingling as you kept grinding your clit against the slick of his thigh, unable to stop now. You wouldn’t stop if heaven struck you down for it.

“Uh-huh,” you moaned beneath him, breath catching, your spine arching higher to press your breasts against his chest. His body, solid, strong, was an anchor and a furnace all in one.

“You’re going to do such a good, thorough job of grinding on my tongue like this for me, aren’t you?” He breathed against your ear, lips brushing your overheated skin, featherlight but devastating.

“Yeah!” You gasped, moaning, hips quickening their rhythm as the pleasure surged louder in your blood. You squeezed your bound hands tight, the silken rope straining around your wrists, grounding you through the avalanche of sensation. You could feel your clit slip again and again over the gleaming tension of his thigh, that wet friction sending lightning right through your core.

Zayne exhaled, shaky, rough-edged. You could feel how much he wanted you. Not just physically, but emotionally. That desire, that reverence, that pull between his need to control and his need to worship—it leaked out in the tremble of his sigh, in the tenderness of his hand as it slid up your jaw. His fingertips slipped along your chin, then pressed forward, and you knew exactly what he wanted.

You opened for him. Greedy. Immediate. Your lips parted, sucking his fingers in with obscene ease, your cheeks hollowing around his knuckles, tongue wrapping them in a slow, salivating kiss. You couldn’t see him, but you knew he was watching you—watching the way your mouth begged for him, needed him, obeyed him.

“I love it when you do,” he whispered, and your stomach fluttered, “it’s the most amazing, addictive feeling for me…”

He kissed your cheek with searing tenderness, reverent and hungry all at once, then moved lower, his breath hot on your skin as his control began to fray.

When his mouth reached your earlobe, he gave it a teasing bite, lips warm against your shiver, “when you grab my hair and shake around me the moment your clit starts to twitch…”

Your whole body convulsed at that. The memory. The way he knew. The promise of what was coming if you earned it. And God, you were so close to doing just that.

“Zayne, please—!”

The words tore from you, raw and breathless, cracking like thunder in the dark. His voice, his filth, his praise, his knowledge of your body had ignited something inside you, something frantic and deep and molten. You didn’t just want him now. You needed him like air, like salvation, like something that had always belonged between your legs. Your hips rolled with abandon, chasing friction, grinding slick and needy against the hot steel of his thigh. It was all unraveling—your composure, your pride, your restraint. Gone.

“Please,” you begged again, feeling the shape of him even through the blindfold, “I need it, please, I need you…”

His answer was a low, dark hum, vibrating from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Needy girl…” He murmured, almost to himself, like the words were a truth he cherished. You felt his thigh shift, rubbing down hard over your aching clit, wet skin gliding against firm muscle in a way that made your whole body jerk, “my needy, beautiful, desperate girl…I’ll give you anything you want of me.”

You barely had time to moan before his mouth was on yours. He kissed you hard, with a passion so immediate it made your head spin. You clung to him, lips parting, tongue hungry, body arching beneath the sweet, punishing heat of his mouth. It was all teeth and worship and longing pressed into one kiss that left you gasping by the time he pulled away.

Then—he descended. You felt it in the shift of the mattress, in the drag of his mouth against your throat as he began his slow descent. He kissed his way down your neck in a trail of heat, each press of his lips wet and deliberate, smooching obscenely as he went, not caring if it was messy. He wanted it to be messy. He kissed you like you were something decadent he got to devour one inch at a time.

Then lower, across your breasts. Your nipple popped into his mouth and you gasped, back arching. Then the other, just as warm, just as reverent, but fleeting. He had a destination in mind. And you weren’t the only one who was needy anymore. You felt the pillow shift beneath you again, Zayne’s hand sliding under your hips to pull it free. Then the soft, papery sound of the pillowcase being yanked off.

Confusion flickered, but only for a second. You gasped when you felt the warm cloth brush your inner thighs. He was wiping you down, gently, methodically, cleaning away the lubricant—not rushed, not clinical, but intentional. There was nothing impersonal in his touch. Nothing careless. Even here, even now, he made it feel like worship.

Then, warm lips. Low on your belly. You shivered. He kissed his way down your stomach with a reverence that made your chest ache, each damp smooch searing into your fluttering skin. His breath fanned hot across every inch he touched, dragging anticipation across you like silk and fire. His hands mapped your body as he went, large palms pressing over your breasts, sliding to your ribs, molding down the curve of your waist until they found your hips. Then your thighs.

He gripped them. Needy now. You felt his fingers tighten, not rough, but intentional, as he spread your legs wider, pulling your knees apart with quiet authority. You whimpered, helpless, and your arms stretched high above your head with the rope’s give as he dragged your body closer to his mouth, closer to his breath, closer to that final touch.

And then, finally—finally—his lips descended to your sex. Zayne kissed you first with love. Not lust. Not yet. It was love that shaped those first tender presses of his lips to your sex, gentle, slow, almost aching with emotion. You felt it in every part of you: the way his mouth lingered, how his breath ghosted warmly between each kiss, the way his hands molded over your thighs like they were something sacred, something meant to be held.

Then…He slowly gave in. The kiss deepened. Shifted. Love bled into hunger. And then Zayne was devouring you. He smothered his mouth against the open, vulnerable splay of your folds with a low, guttural sound of satisfaction, as if he’d been starving and finally—finally—had been allowed to feast. His lips parted against you in a wet suck, tongue lapping, kissing, pulling your swollen lips into his mouth like he couldn’t get enough of the shape, the heat, the taste of you. His fingertips dug into the tops of your thighs, anchoring you, spreading you wider as he groaned low and deep into the kiss. And then, a shock.

You gasped, head tipping back with a cry as he pushed his tongue inside you, “oh my God—”

The slick muscle wiggled and flexed as it slipped into you, and your walls fluttered around him in stunned pleasure. The heat, the wetness, the intrusion, it caught you off-guard, your whole body jolting beneath him, your legs trembling against his shoulders as he moaned into your core like a man possessed.

He squeezed you as he fucked you with his tongue, his hands tightening, hips subtly grinding down into the mattress as though your pleasure alone was what kept his pulse beating. He licked and licked, then sealed his mouth over your sex with another hungry, wet suck, kissing you in deep, sticky, sinful pulls.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice muffled, drunk on you. The sound vibrated directly through your core. He kept kissing, sloppily, feverishly, wet smooches sticking to your skin, slick and obscene, “you taste just like cake, oh my God…”

Cake. The word struck you like lightning. You’d almost forgotten the flavored lube until now. Until Zayne said it like he was overwhelmed, undone, high off the flavor of you. His mouth sucked you in deeper, greedier, and the intensity of his movements surged with new hunger. It wasn’t just lust anymore. It was worship. Devotion.

His moan deepened as he latched onto your lip again, slurping it into his mouth with a feral pull. The pop that followed echoed in your bones, sharp and wet and needy. He didn’t even pause before switching to the other, repeating the motion with a greedy hunger that made your thighs twitch. You whined beneath him, trembling, totally helpless under the blistering heat of his mouth.

And then—then—his tongue found your clit. A single, deliberate drag. From your entrance to the very tip, the flat of his tongue smeared over your most sensitive nerve like he was licking icing off his favorite dessert. The sound you made was not human. A shudder cracked through you from head to toe, your back arching off the mattress so violently the rope tugged taut around your wrists. You couldn’t stop it. You didn’t want to stop it. Your moan came out like a cry, breathless and high and trembling as your head fell back into the pillow, every muscle tightening as his name fell from your lips like a plea and a prayer all at once.

“Zayne—yes!”

You were beyond aroused. You couldn’t think. You couldn’t breathe. The world behind your blindfold was a kaleidoscope of heat and sound and pulse. The throb of your heart was deafening in your skull, pounding like war drums. But even that rhythm had to compete, with the wet, noisy suckling of Zayne’s mouth, with his groans of unfiltered pleasure, with the ragged, high-pitched breaths tearing free from your own chest.

Your lungs worked on instinct. Nothing else in you remembered how. Zayne’s mouth worshipped your clit like it was a prayer he’d waited years to speak aloud. His tongue, hot, soft, fervent, circled you, licked over you with heavy, dragging passes, then sealed you into his mouth again and again. Greedy. Sharp. Wet. The suction was intense, lewd, perfect, his lips tugging your slick flesh with the kind of hunger that made you writhe helplessly beneath him.

Zayne was gone. Unraveled. Feral. Drenched in your need and his own. And all it had taken was a taste. A single lick of your sweet, slick fruit, honeyed from how desperately you craved him, and he was lost. Utterly, blessedly lost in you. Like your pleasure was his favorite sin, and he’d stopped asking for forgiveness long ago. Then his voice, that voice, came low and hot against your skin, breath branding your soaked, swollen clit as his mouth hovered over you, smooching softly, reverently.

“You’re not leaving this room until I say so,” he whispered, lips brushing your aching bundle of nerves between each word, “am I understood?”

“Y-yes, baby!” You cried, breathless, clinging to the edge of yourself as his tongue slapped over your clit, once, then again, then again. Your eyes rolled back into the blindfold, your hips bucking, “I’m all yours, Zaynie, I’m all yours…”

Your legs moved without thought, thighs curling around his head, heels locking behind his back as your hips lifted, driven by instinct, by heat, by the need to give him everything. You pushed your sex against his face, against the hot, wet heaven of his mouth, grinding upward into his insatiable hunger. God. The way Zayne was eating you  out while you were restrained—blinded, bound, his—was maddening. Dazzling. Transcendent.

You felt like you were floating, suspended in some molten ether where only touch existed. Your whole body hummed with it, skin hypersensitive to everything. You could hear him breathing—hear him—every moan he made pressed into your core like a soundwave, every kiss of his lips a firecracker under your skin.

The slurps. The smooches. The way his tongue curled and flattened, the pressure, the rhythm. It made your head spin violently behind the blindfold, the sensory isolation amplifying everything. You were adrift in the smell of him, the feel of his fingers digging into your thighs, the wet heat of his mouth moving in time with your moans.

He was relentless. And you were coming undone. The coil inside you wound tighter with every passing second, no teasing, no delay, just that feverish, perfect worship, as if your body was the altar and Zayne, your priest.

“C-come here,” you moaned, breath hitching on the edge of a sob, your voice wrecked with pleasure as you reached out blindly with your leg, wrapping your calf behind his head, pulling him in with aching, deliberate need. The muscles of his neck met your skin, and you held him there, claimed him, smothering his mouth in your slick with no shame, no hesitation, just the overwhelming truth of your desire, “oh, fuck, Zayne!”

That broke him. You felt it the moment it happened—that exact second when your raw, desperate pull snapped the last of his control. His mouth groaned into your sex, loud and ragged, and then—motion. Sudden. Powerful. His hands grabbed your thighs with a force that made your heart lurch, and before your mind could catch up, gravity tilted. Your world shifted as your ass lifted straight off the mattress. You gasped, breath stolen as your stomach flipped, the blood in your body rushing downward with a giddy, dizzying momentum.

Zayne rose with you, lifting you like nothing, like you were weightless in his arms. He was kneeling on the bed now, back straight, thighs bracketing your shoulders, and you, your whole body, was curled upward, hoisted almost fully upside down against him, ass in the air, back bowed, bound arms stretching over your head as the silk rope pulled taut.

You let out a breathless moan, somewhere between shock and exhilaration, “babe!”

Your legs were spread, thighs hooked open and locked in his grip, held sturdy and high as he positioned you just how he wanted. You could feel the strength in his hold, in the way his fingers dug into the front of your thighs and hips, palms hot and hard against your skin. The shape of him around you, towering, reverent, starving, made every nerve spark like static under your skin. Your breath came shallow and wild. You were helpless, suspended, offered, opened. And then—his voice. Rough. Graveled. Commanding.

“You come here,” he demanded, and yanked you closer.

Before your mind could even catch up, before your body had fully processed the inversion, Zayne reached up and pulled the tie from your eyes. Light. Dim. Blurry. You blinked rapidly, pupils adjusting, disoriented. It was like surfacing from a dream you didn’t want to leave, like waking mid-orgasm, gasping, dazed. But this? This wasn’t waking. This was real. And reality was just as good. No, better. Because the first thing you saw, the first thing that came into stunning, devastating focus, was your fiancé. Zayne. Your precious, worshipful, reverant Zayne.

Kneeling strong and composed on the bed, clutching you upside down by the thighs, his fingers dug deep into your soft, parted flesh as his mouth moved mercilessly against your dripping sex. And that stare—God. His eyes were locked on yours. Heavy-lidded. Black with lust. He didn’t waver. He stared down at you like you were his prey. And yet, worshipped you all the same.

Your breath caught. Your chest rose in a shallow gasp. For a moment, you didn’t know whether you were about to be devoured or held. Dominated or adored. But maybe that was the truth of it. You were both. Prey and queen. Helpless and adored. His. You trembled, your entire body shaking with the flood of heat that poured into you under the weight of his gaze. You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe as his face moved in time with the wet, open flicks of his tongue. You watched it all—watched his quick, relentless strokes dragging over your swollen clit, his mouth so wet, so committed, so damn beautiful you almost forgot how to speak.

And fuck, it was you he was doing this to. You. His love. His obsession. His soon-to-be bride. Your breath hitched on a sob of pleasure. Your fingers curled tight around the silk rope binding your wrists above your head, knuckles tight, nails biting into your own palm as your legs twitched and squeezed in his hold. Your vision blurred around the edges, eyes fluttering but locked to the carnal sight of him feasting on you. You felt the coil in your belly twist sharply. A whine broke from you before you could stop it, high-pitched and desperate.

“Y-you’re gonna make me cum right away like that!” You cried, the words nearly slurred by how high you already were.

“I know I am,” he murmured against you, his lips brushing your clit in a warm, wet smooch that sent a quake through your spine. His voice dripped into you, low and reverent, vibrating with both worship and sin, “and you’re going to keep giving me all of your orgasms…”

A slow lick—up the full length of your sex, tongue thick and deliberate, savoring you like something eternal.

“…One after another.”

You clenched, your insides fluttering violently at his words, the sensation exploding outward like sparks catching a dry field. The heat trickled deeper, lower, hotter, lighting you from the inside out until your whole body began to tremble. He held you steady through it all, kneeling strong, thighs flexed around your back, arms anchoring your trembling body as if to tell you that you weren’t going anywhere. That you were going to give him what he wanted. And God, you would. Every last piece of yourself.

“The dessert that keeps on giving,” he reminded, dragging his tongue over your soaked folds like a reward.

You whimpered, high and broken, your body pulsing under the pressure of it all. The coil inside you wound tighter and tighter, impossibly sharp, impossibly full. Every lick from him was like fire to the fuse. Every word from his mouth made you ache in ways you hadn’t known existed. It wasn’t just what he did to you, it was how he looked at you. Unashamed. Unshaken. Devoted. And hungry.

You craved more. Craved him. The sweet, gentle man you loved, the man who brought you flowers and checked your temperature and kissed your forehead—but twisted. Possessed. Dirty. Yours. You wanted him filthy, you wanted him asserting his ownership over you, over your helpless cunt. Then—

“My gorgeous,” he breathed, smooching your clit and the trembling flesh around it into his mouth before letting it pop free with a lewd, wet sound, “lovely,” he hummed again, another smooch, firmer this time, pulling a cracked whimper from your throat, “scrumptious little slut.”

That was it. A loud, shattered moan tore free from your lips, raw and unrestrained as your body snapped. It hit like a wave—no, like a flood breaking through a dam you didn’t know you were holding back. You convulsed, thighs locking tight around his neck, legs trembling violently as wave after wave of pleasure crashed into you. Your vision sparkled, your breath gone. You pulled him in, tighter, harder, hips bucking up with mindless desperation as your fluttering sex smothered against his open mouth.

You chased him. Chased his magnificent tongue, his kiss, the friction, the presence of him. Your whole body screamed for more even as it shattered into pieces in his arms.

“Z-Zayne—!” you sobbed, voice breaking into syllables, into vowels, into nothing, “unf! Ah! Baby!”

Because God. You were really cumming—hard—from the sound of that man, that sweet, soft, affectionate angel of a man, calling you his scrumptious little slut. You were cumming from the sheer, unholy hotness of that voice, that mouth, those words. Earth-shattering ecstasy took you from the inside out, flooding every nerve, every muscle, every scrap of breath. You screamed—screamed—jaw unhinged, voice wrecked with noise and desperate encouragement, the sounds spilling out between gasps for air as your body shook in his grasp.

Your toes curled violently. Your hips spasmed, jittering into his face. Your thighs locked like a vice around his neck, trembling, squeezing, twitching in blissed-out reflex as the orgasm ripped through you in unstoppable waves. And still, you rode it. You clung to the euphoria like a lifeline, writhing, arching, shaking with electric greed as one climax bled into the next—chained together, each one crashing harder, deeper, hotter. You couldn’t stop. You didn’t want to. Your body was insatiable, drenched in sweat and slick, your clit aching but still pulsing with want.

And Zayne—Zayne held you through it all. Solid. Steady. Unyielding. His hands never slipped, his mouth never faltered. He held you up with strength and worship, grounding your chaos in his rhythm as he kept feasting, deeper and more selfish with every desperate moan you let out. Every time his name flew from your throat like a plea, he groaned into you. Every breathless, shuddering gasp, he answered with another deep suck, another slow drag of his tongue. You were his favorite prayer, and he was lost in you.

God…That sweet, reverent man loved making you cum. Loved the sight of you like this—soaked and undone, your body a trembling furnace of overstimulation and need. He loved the way your voice cracked when you moaned, the flush in your cheeks, the tears prickling at your lashes, the way your glassy eyes locked onto his just long enough to see him buried in your sex.

But soon—Too much. It hurt now. Your clit was raw and red, every flick of his tongue lighting a fire you couldn’t escape from. You twitched, hissed, body still responding with half-finished shocks of pleasure, but the heat inside you had shifted—burned. It was unbearable now. Your pussy fluttered, empty and frantic, begging to be filled. You needed him. You needed the weight of him, the stretch of his cock, the pound of his hips, the claiming. You would’ve pounced on him, dragged him down by the hair and begged to be ruined, if not for the damn rope restraining your wrists high above your head, locking you in this beautiful, maddening hell.

“Enough—enough—enough!” You gasped, the words falling apart as your head thrashed against the sheets. Your thighs quivered, your clit throbbed, your breath came in ragged sobs of overstimulation.

You were a mess. A hot, wet, ruined mess. Your brain was mush. Your vision blurred. You blinked up at him, at the man between your thighs who had done this to you, and saw the masterpiece he’d made: your sex glistening, your folds swollen, your skin flushed and trembling, every inch of you glossy with spit and sweat and bliss.

“Honey, please—” you whimpered, voice high and ragged, lips trembling, begging for mercy you weren’t even sure you wanted.

He lifted his face with a breath like he’d just come up from water. A deep, chest-filling inhale—like he hadn’t realized he needed to breathe until your orgasm had finally released him. Like he’d been holding himself under, drowning in the slick heat of you, lost to the rhythm of his mouth and your moans, and only now was he surfacing, dazed and dripping.

You blinked up at him. His eyes met yours through the haze, and what you saw made your stomach clench all over again. Zayne was wrecked. His face was flushed deep rose, cheeks tinged with heat and effort, his breath still fast, his lips swollen and shiny from your slick. A sheen of sweat coated his forehead, and a few soaked strands of jet-black hair had fallen over his heavy-lidded emerald eyes, glassy with the same trance he’d just broken you in.

But you knew that man. And he wasn’t anywhere near finished. You could see it in the way his chest rose and fell. In the gleam in his eyes as he looked you over—really looked—taking in the quivering of your thighs, the wild flicker of your breath, the glistening mess he’d made of you.

His jaw flexed as he exhaled through his nose and gently let your body down onto the mattress, setting you back into the bed like something precious. But then—He cracked his neck with a sharp roll. Then his back. Then wiped his face with the discarded pillowcase in one efficient motion. And just like that, he was back to the moment. Like a man possessed. Driven. On a mission.

You could barely process it. You lay there, stunned, chest still heaving as your pulse thundered in your ears. The ceiling swam above you, a swirling blur of nothing as your limbs melted into the mattress, bones like jelly. You weren’t sure where your body ended and the bed began. You were mush. Everything between your legs throbbed—sweet, sore, aching, and empty. And still, somewhere inside that heat, you wanted.

You barely registered the shift of the bed again until Zayne’s hands were back—this time not to restrain, not to control, but to free. He crawled up beside you with quiet purpose, and you felt the brush of his fingers at your wrists, undoing the knots that had held you captive. The silk ropes slacked, and as the tension gave way, your skin sang with relief. Your arms dropped limply, tingling from release.

His hands again. So warm. So careful. He massaged the red marks his rope had left, thumbs pressing into the indents with the same hands that had held you down. His touch was reverent, apologetic, but also proud. Because you’d taken it. Given it. Given him everything.

“You did so good for me,” he breathed, voice ragged and low, still damp with affection and awe, “you’re so perfect…”

You blinked slowly, barely able to respond—but he didn’t need words from you. He leaned in, gently stroking the sweaty hair from your face, eyes scanning your expression with that practiced tenderness he gave only you. He was checking—reading you like a chart. Like a lover. Like the man who knew your pulse better than his own. And God, even like that, especially like that, he made you ache.

Because while he kissed the sore spots at your wrists, while he smiled so softly you could’ve wept…He was still hard. So unbearably hard. That beautiful cock of his stood thick and flushed, twitching slightly between his thighs, the tip glistening with precum. It leaked with every little movement, catching the light, eager and swollen and soaked with everything he’d held back for you.

And you couldn’t look away. The tenderness only made it worse. Only made you need Zayne more. Because how could a man be this gentle and this ruined? How could his sweetness feed your hunger? You didn’t know how he did it.

“Did I?” You breathed, voice still trembling from the aftershocks, from the ache still echoing in your thighs, in your ribs, in your soul.

Zayne was above you, flushed and wrecked, but you could see it in his eyes—the worship, the high, the need that hadn’t gone anywhere. It lived in him. In his skin. In the way he looked at you like you were the beginning and end of every fantasy he’d ever had.

You cupped his face, the heat of him like a furnace under your palms, and your thumb swept over his glistening lower lip—wet with you, soft and slightly swollen from how desperately he’d used them on your body, “let me see for myself…”

You pulled him down, into you. And when you kissed him, you tasted yourself. Warm. Sweet. Raw. It hit you all at once, the scent of your own sex still thick on his breath, the taste of you heavy on his tongue, mingled with his own heat, his own need. And he kissed you like a man starved of oxygen, like you were the air he needed to survive. It was feral devotion, poured into the meeting of your lips, poured into the way he crushed his mouth to yours as if he wanted to disappear into you.

God, you loved him like this. Possessed by your taste. Obsessed with you. And you couldn’t help it. Your hand moved on instinct, greedy, aching, claiming. You fumbled between you, fingers brushing over the stiff, aching heat of him, and found his cock—thick, hard, hot to the touch, and leaking. You gave him a firm, needy squeeze, and he gasped into your mouth, breath stuttering like he couldn’t handle your touch after everything he’d given you.

“You think I did a good job cumming for you over and over again, Zaynie?” You muttered against his lips, voice soft, teasing, your thumb stroking slow circles around the thick shaft in your palm.

He groaned into your mouth, so deep, so low, the sound soaked right into your bones. You tingled everywhere. From the way his cock throbbed in your hand—too hard, too full, your thumb barely able to wrap around the base—to the way his hands gripped your body like he was anchoring himself to you. One slid beneath your head, cradling, pulling your mouth back to his again, while the other wrapped tight around your waist, fingers splayed, pulling you closer, like closer could ever be enough. He kissed you like he needed you to breathe. Like if he wasn’t inside you soon, he’d fucking die.

“God, yes,” he rasped between kisses, lips brushing yours as his voice cracked, “you did…S–such a good job…”

You lived for that sound. That stutter. That glorious fracture in his composure, the little crack in the marble mask of your doctor, your love, your fiend in silk and control. And then—

“Want you to…” He breathed against your lips, voice hot and shaking with desire, “do it again for me…And again…And again.”

“Yeah?” You murmured, voice slick with promise, your lips curling into a smile between the rough, messy kisses he couldn’t stop giving you.

You fisted your free hand into his hair—tight, possessive, claiming—and pulled him down into your heat, your need, your lust as your other hand still stroked his cock, hot and hard and aching. His breath caught.

You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and dropped it, soft, sinful, sharp, “am I your good little slut, Doctor Zayne?”

The effect was instant. You felt the shock roll through his body before you saw it, his spine stiffening, muscles flexing, a bolt of pure electricity ripping through him like you’d whispered the code to his undoing. And then his face—God, his face. His emerald eyes snapped wide open, pupils blown, his whole expression slackening into pure, stunned arousal. Like you’d punched all the air from his lungs and he loved the way it hurt.

He didn’t even try to hide it. Couldn’t. That look—that fucking look—told you everything. The wild hunger. The flinch of disbelief. The way his jaw clenched and his breath shuddered. You’d caught him off guard. You’d made him weak. And he loved you for it. But Zayne was never stunned for long.

He moved in a blink, seizing you like the moment demanded more than worship—it demanded domination. He grabbed you and flipped you hard onto your front, your cheek hitting the mattress with a startled gasp as he loomed behind you, caging you with his weight, his size, his heat. You could feel the shudder of his breath against your neck, feel the tremor in his thighs as he rolled his hips and dragged his cock through your slick folds, sliding along the aching seam of you with a desperate grind.

He was chasing it now. Your heat. Your filth. Your permission. And he was feral. His cock slipped along your slit, the thick head catching at your entrance and gliding up to your clit, smearing wetness in long, breathless strokes as he rutted against you slowly, uncontrolled, undone. Then—his hand in your hair. Fisting. Tugging. He grabbed a handful of it and pulled your face up, not roughly, but with purpose, with intensity, with the kind of authority that made you melt.

His lips came to your ear, hot, close, possessive. Your gaze met his. In the dim reflection of the mirrored closet, you saw everything. Your body trembling under his. His body towering over yours. Your flushed skin, your glazed eyes, the tension in his jaw as he looked at you like he was about to ruin you from the inside out.

His eyes locked on yours in the glass, voice low and razored against your ear, “you’re my perfect little slut, beautiful…”

The head of his cock aligned, thick and burning hot, and in one long, shuddering push, he entered you. Your jaw fell open. Your eyes rolled back. Your breath hitched so hard it punched through your ribs, your brows knotting, your mouth trembling as you gripped the sheets like they were the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

That stretch—God. That sting of him forcing you open. That deep, aching fullness you could never quite adjust to. It didn’t matter how many times you’d taken him. You never got used to the way Zayne filled you. Invaded you. Possessed you. It always hurt just right—too good, too full, too much.

Your sex fluttered around him like it was overwhelmed, your entire body trembling at the slow slide of his cock disappearing inch by inch into the desperate grip of your heat.

You felt his breath stutter against your ear, warm, broken, utterly overwhelmed. Then his mouth. Kissing you there. Soft. Molten. Reverent. As if even in his hunger, he still had the presence to remind you this wasn’t just fucking. It was worship.

“You don’t mind giving yourself to me again and again tonight…” He whispered, the words low and molten, his voice like silk soaked in fire. Then his hand, large, commanding, cupped your chin, turned your head back toward the mirror with a firm flick of his fingers, “do you?”

Your gaze met his again, your reflection and his joined in the glass, the image obscene and beautiful. And then, his fingers. He slipped two of them between your parted lips, sliding past your tongue with a low hum of approval, and your insides clenched as your mouth welcomed him, sucking them in with greedy warmth. You moaned around them, lashes fluttering, tongue swirling.

“If I’m greedy for you…” He breathed, lips grazing the conch of your ear, his fist still locked in your hair, holding you in place, “if I’m a little more…”

Suddenly—thrust. His hips snapped forward with a firm, sharp pound, his cock driving deep and unforgiving. You yelped, the sound muffled around his fingers, your body jolting under the weight of him, thighs twitching with overstimulated shock.

“Demanding…” He finished in a whisper, like a vow.

Then the next thrust. And fuck. Zayne sighed at your ear, deep and blissed out, his whole body melting into the pleasure of it as he massaged your tongue with his fingers, hips grinding forward with a rolling force that pressed your pelvis down into the mattress. Pinned you there. Used your soaked, fluttering cunt as if it was made to be taken. And it was. By him. Always by him.

“I love when, w-when you’re demanding,” you murmured thickly around his fingers, your voice muffled but drenched in truth.

Your sex fluttered in sync with your words, clenching tight along the full length of him, savoring every thick, gorgeous inch of stretch. Every slow, deep stroke made you dizzy—the way his body moved over you, how he rolled his hips with measured strength, the pressure of his weight pressing you into the mattress as he chased deeper and deeper.

“Is that so?” He said with a smile in his voice, but you felt the way his control faltered, the twitch of his cock, the skip of his breath. Then—thrust. Harder. Sudden. You jolted, eyes flying open, a choked noise escaping around his fingers as your breath caught. Your pussy gripped him on instinct, like your body couldn’t help but tighten in reward.

After a long night dealing with shady guys for Onychinus business, Sylus decided to relax his exhausted muscles with a bath.

His body acted on its own and his hands automatically collected the products you'd always use whenever you'd take a bath together: the same soap, salt, and oil, just so everything can be exactly the way you want it. It has to be the perfect temperature and texture, you always tell him.

This time, however, there was an extra item that's placed next to the bath soap: a scented candle, and a pink sticky note.

'Have a lovely bath, Sylus! I hope you're not overworking yourself and your poor, strong muscles! Use hot water so you can be more relaxed! But make sure not to use all the soap! We're gonna use a lot of it when I come back! I want it to be extra bubbly~ 😽 ps: this candle smells so delicious, pls use it. ily ily'

Just by reading the note, Sylus could hear your voice, exactly how you'd talk to him whenever he'd come home after a nasty fight with troublesome enemies. You'd drag him to the bathtub and dump a whole bunch of things to make it hot and bubbly, because it would make his body feel better.

Then, you'd come up next to him and massage his sore muscles before he eventually pulls you in the bathtub with him. After all, nothing makes his body feel better than by having you next to him.

This time, unfortunately, you're not there to give him a massage. For now, he decided to accept your gift and lit up the scented candle before going in the bathtub.

Right away, he detected the scent of pomegrante, mixed with a few other typical candle elements. It's one of the scents that he always finds comforting whenever he catches a whiff of it, and he hadn't realized that you'd picked up on that.

Sylus closed his eyes and leaned his back against the rim of the bathrub, letting his body relax to the peaceful atmosphere.

On one hand, he craved for your presence even more. He wished you were there with him, resting your head on his chest while the two of you talk about pointless, yet entertaining topics that could go on for hours.

He'd always watch you play with the foam of the soap, sometimes putting bubbles on his hair just to mess around and give him silly hairstyles.

On the other hand, even though nothing beats having you there with him, he's feeling much better than how he was hours ago.

You knew ahead of time that he'd eventually be needing hot bath and left him a candle along with a sweet little note. Just you thinking of him and taking care of him even while you're away... It's a simple gesture, but it means a lot to him.

And if he ends up getting too comfortable in that bath and falls asleep... it'll all be your fault. He'll remember to tell you about it later when he calls you.

Just a few more days left. So close, yet so far.

He could technically show up wherever you are and act like it's just a coincidence— and it wouldn't be the first time he'd done that, but he knows you're working in a security-tight environment with lots of hunters, so his presence might just make you more stressed out. That's the last thing he wants to do, so he'll just have to suck it up and wait for you to come back.

Today is a Saturday, and he'd usually be spending the night with you. This time, he's embraced by the coldness and silence of the house. Mephisto and the twins are out and about, so the house feels lonelier than usual.

What to do?

There are no urgent Onychinus business to do at the moment. All of his motorcycles are up to date, and none of his weapons need tinkering. He just finished boxing, so that's out of the question.

You aren't available for a videocall until about three hours, so what can he do to kill time while he waits?

"Hmm? What's this?"

He was just about to get himself a glass of wine when he found something placed next to his favorite bottle that's not been opened yet.

It's a CD inside a clear case that has a pink sticky note on its cover.

'Feeling bored? Lonely? Listen to this playlist I made just for you. You might still feel bored and lonely, but at least there'll be nice music playing in the background! 😽

(But jokes aside, I miss you. I'll be by your side soon. Pls don't drown in too much wine while I'm gone. You can drink more when I'm by your side to take care of you.)'

Sylus tried to be nonchalant as he made his way to the nearest room with a music player, which happens to be another lounging room where you like to relax and read books when he's asleep.

The very first song that played is a cheesy, happy, upbeat love song that he remembered you playfully singing to him not too long ago.

The sound of his laughter muffled the first several seconds of the song as Sylus couldn't hold back his amusement. His lips curled into a wide smile, shaking his head as he pictured you singing in front of him.

His heart ached and swelled at the same time, longing to see you so badly so he can hold you close to him.

For the rest of the night, your playlist and a glass of wine had kept Sylus company.

When Luke and Kieran came home, they found their boss sleeping on a sofa, with an empty, clear CD case carefully held against his chest, while a calming song plays in the background.

"Looks like the boss had a nice night."

- zayne -

An exhausted Dr. Zayne goes into his office after a long night of successful surgery. He sat down on his chair and loosened his tie so his body could breathe a little more, and the sweat on his skin would dry out faster.

Suddenly, he spotted a sticky note that wasn't done by him. It has jasmine flowers at the bottom of the familiar handwriting.

'Tired? Text your name to this number. A special drink will be sent to you immediately! It's on me! 😉'

Out of curiosity, Zayne followed your instructions and sure enough, a delivery guy dropped off an iced-vanilla latte, exactly the way he likes it, just fifteen minutes later.

It's from that 24-hour coffee shop near your work. Zayne loves going there, not just because he enjoys their coffee, but also because it gives him an excuse to see you 'coincidentally'.

He hasn't been going there lately because he'd been busy, and because you're not around to motivate him to make the extra stop. You've been out of Linkon for two weeks now due to a serious mission that should take at least another month and a half.

He's already been feeling lonely without you, so he's been working more to keep himself out of the house. As long as he's there, he notices your absence even more.

No one to hold at night while talking about the most random things.

No one coercing him into trying the silliest yet fun activities.

No one to share his desserts with.

But despite you being away, you're still somehow bringing him joy.

Just a week ago, he started finding candies in the pockets of his coats and jackets. He knows it's from you because you especially love that brand. You picked up that habit from him, as he, too, would randomly leave candies in the pockets of your clothes.

And two weeks later, there was more surprises that came for him.

This time, it was a box of macarons of various flavors, delivered right at his home during his day off.

'Try not to eat these all at once. By the time you empty this box, I should be back by your side to give you some more <3'

And that wasn't the end of it.

You also left colorful heart-shaped candies (contained in a plastic bag) all over his lunch bag and house, though mostly in his home office.

The hearts contained the following texts engraved on them:

ily

go to sleep

xoxo

go to sleep

ily

go to sleep

go to sleep

ily

Everytime he pulled an all-nighter, he'd eat those candies with a smile on his face.

Zayne didn't notice it sooner, but now, he can't stop smiling everytime he has to do paperwork in his office at the hospital.

Before coming to the hospital, he was feeling a little down. He hasn't gotten the chance to talk to you for the past two days because of your busy schedule. To top that off, his own work had been giving him headaches.

Then, his eyes caught something as he entered his office.

There were new pens on his container on his desk. A sticky note had gotten wrinkled and buried at the bottom of it, but he'd found it just this morning along with the new additions of pens.

Three blue pens with cute pictures of seals on then.

'Gotta make sure you have the best tools at work !!!! Stay focused, Dr. Zayne ~ you got this! With these little guys, you will be the coolest, best doctor ever! If anyone disagrees or laughs at you, tell them I will be speaking with them once I get back. Have a wonderful day! Love you!'

It wasn't much, but seeing your note almost made him hear your voice and feel your presence, and it was enough to calm him down and take a deep breath.

At that moment, he felt that everything was okay. And so, his day instantly got better.

Not only did his young patients love the pens, even his colleagues can't help but admire them. Yvonne complimented his new pen yesterday, and right now, Greyson is using one to write on a file that he will he giving to Zayne soon.

"Here you go, all done, Dr. Zayne!"

"Thanks."

Greyson handed Zayne the document, then he gave him a wave of goodbye before heading out the door to leave the office.

"Ahem."

Greyson paused, noticing Zayne's fake cough.

"Huh? Did you need something, Dr. Za—"

"I'd like my pen back, please."

Greyson looks at his hand to realize that he's still holding the seal pen. "Oh! Sorry about that, haha! It was so comfortable to use, I didn't realize I was still holding onto it!"

At least one pen was in his pocket for the rest of the day.

To him, it felt like a good luck charm.

Zayne frowns at the cold, empty side of the bed.

Still no calls or text messages from you either.

You did tell him that there's a high possibility of you losing all sorts of communication within the next few days, as you will be entering a zone that does not receive radio signals, so he expected the lack of updated.

Still, he can't stop himself from feeling lonely.

You've gone on far, long-lasting missions before, so this isn't the first nor the last time, but it never really gets easier. Whether if it's you or him leaving Linkon for work, the distance is always uncomfortable.

Today is his day off. He'd woken up early as usual, though he doesn't really have any plans in particular, so he decided that he'll take the long route during his morning run.

And by the long route, he means the one that would pass your apartment building.

He knows you're not there, so there's no reason why he needs to come there... but still.... he just wants to pass by.

It's been a while since he did a run around there anyways.

And so, Zayne got out of bed, did his morning routine, and put on his running outfit.

While doing so, he found a light blue towel folded along with his compression shirt.

Not just a random towel, but one with a penguin sewn on it.

As he unfolded the soft cloth, a white sticky note with jasmine decorations fell out from it.

'Next time you go running, I'll be there to wipe all the sweat off you. For now, your old friend, Mr. Penguin, will have to do my job. Mr. Penguin, pls take care of my Zaynie for me while I'm away.'

Zayne laughs at the penguin on the bottom right corner of the towel. He could tell that you've personally sewn it, as the stitches reminds him of the other accessories that you'd personally made for him

His thumb traced over the designs and warmth spreads across his chest before embracing the soft item, as if it's you that he's holding.

He'll take good care of this towel.

In fact, he almost feels that it'd be a waste to use it. However, you do want him to use it specifically for running, so that's what he'll do.

That's why, during the entire time he ran, Zayne held the towel with gentle care, as if it's your hand that he's holding.

- caleb -

His house at Skyhaven is always dead silent and cold whenever you're not there. Sure, it has gotten much more lively after you started putting your own belongings and personal touches all over the place, such as your growing collection of plushies, but nothing compares when you're around.

While you're away for a mission that'll last for at least three months, Caleb spends his free days at his home, lonely and bored.

Yes, he thought about showing up to wherever you are and just say that the Fleet just happened to have business in there as well. He thought about doing that on a daily basis, actually.

However, you gave him an earful lecture for the last time he did that, so this time, he really has no choice but to just simply wait for your return.

Most of his time is spent looking out the windows, as if you'd just magically appear in the middle of the clouds just to see him.

What to do, what to do.

Caleb digs around a shelf by the living room to search for any unfinished models he'd forgotten about, and suddenly his eyes catch something next to his new Star Wars figure that somehow have gotten disassembled.

It's three CDs inside a clear case with a sticky note attached to it: a green sticky note with a green apple at the bottom.

'I have a mission for you, Colonel. You have to watch this series and tell me which characters you think we are. Think carefully because we're gonna have a long discussion about it when I come back. There ARE wrong answers. Yes, there are three movies and yes, they are three hours long, each. Have fun! Don't you dare fall asleep or else I won't give you any souvenirs from my trip. <3'

As if the choice of sticky note wasn't obvious, the handwriting gave away who decided to give him such an interesting homework.

Caleb chuckles as he examines the mysterious CDs that doesn't have a single image that'll hint what movie, nor genre, he will be watching.

Well, he's up to the task. Once you come back, he'll be ready to pull out his notes full of character analysis, so you better be prepared.

As he started the first movie, Caleb's mind instantly went to you. He wished you were cuddling with him as you watch the movie together. You'd instantly start rambling about the characters, sharing your first impressions about them, while muching on the popcorn that he made.

Was your goal to distract him from feeling lonely or to make him miss you more?

Gideon watches with amusement as Caleb fixes the scarf around his neck and sniffs it for about the seventh time within the thirty minutes they'd been out together.

It's a coral, cotton scarf that Gideon could've sworn he'd seen before. But more importantly, Caleb seems to be quite happy with it. Too happy, in fact.

But that's better than how he was a few hours ago, when Gideon videocalled him to talk about where they will be having their monthly dinner tonight.

When Caleb answered the videocall, Gideon almost thought he was sick and was unable to go out. His tone didn't have its usual playfulness, and his eyes lacked some light.

Gideon joked about you being mad at him, and Caleb didn't even laugh. For a moment, he thought that was actually the case, but now he's wondering if he'd imagined the whole thing.

Caleb looks like an excited puppy now.

"Good find, Gideon. I'm definitely coming back to this restaurant."

With you, of course. Caleb didn't need to say it. Gideon already knows he had you in mind.

"Maybe she'll like this one." Caleb checks the menu. "This one too. Definitely not this one— she'll for sure make me finish it after taking three bites. Oh, and this one's pretty sweet so she'll love them."

Caleb rambling about you is nothing new. It's always been that way since their university days. Caleb not rambling about you would be when anyone should worry.

"I'm gonna go buy something from the vending machine real quick! There's something I want to give to her when I pick her up in two weeks."

"Sure, go ahead."

Once Caleb stood up and walked away, Gideon learned just what put him in such a good mood. A sticky note had fallen out from Caleb's pocket, now resting on his chair.

'Caleb, don't forget to wear a scarf when it's cold outside. I know you can be a dummy sometimes by forgetting your scarves at my apartment. This time, I'm leaving my scarf to you so you have something to wear. You better not catch a cold and get sick! If you get sick, I'll make you eat a lot of cilantro. Don't test me!

Also. By the time you read this, I'll most likely be on my mission so I can safely confess something: I ate the cookies you baked this morning sorry sorry I love them I love you bye don't get sick.'

Gideon laughs and shakes his head.

Silly you, worrying about him getting sick, when you're the one who got Caleb out of whatever sickness he was in just hours ago.

Caleb lets out a soundless sigh, leaning back on his chair while he tries his best to look interested in the meeting that he's currently forced to attend.

He's surrounded by a handful of men from the Fleet, all discussing their upcoming activities, which didn't necessarily require the Colonel's presence. He's just there to approve of all the arrangements.

He'd much rather be in his own office. What if you call him at this moment? He'd been waiting for a single call or text message since two days ago. You said you'd contact him at some point today, as soon as you're able to. He wouldn't want to miss your calls.

He desperarently needed to hear your voice and find out how you've been doing. He wants to listen to you rant about all the things that happened on your mission, and what interesting things you ran into.

The fifth sigh he lets out caused Liam next to him to glance, though the man says nothing like always.

It wouldn't hurt to just take one second to look at his phone, right?

And so, Caleb reached down to the left pocket of his uniform jacket to take a peek at the screen of his phone.

His eyes then widen as he realizes that the item he's looking for isn't there at all. Instead, two things had taken its place: a paper, and something tiny, solid, and sharp.

Furrowing his eyebrows, Caleb made sure his hand remains hidden under the table as he pulled out whatever is in his pocket.

The first item is.... a small heart, made out of red legos. It's small enough to be fully hidden with his fist.

He tilted his head as he looked at it carefully. His heart is already racing as his mind pictured the gift's sender.

To confirm his assumptions, Caleb fishes out the paper in his pocket and learns that it's an origami. A red, heart-shaped paper with handwritten words written all over them.

Caleb feels his face heating up as he unfolded the heart-shaped paper.

'Caleb, did you like my surprise present? I worked extremely hard putting together those six blocks of legos, just for you.

I wonder when you'll find these. Maybe when you're half asleep while getting dressed for work? Maybe while you're doing some paperwork? Or maybe when you're in the middle of using The Force and torturing someone for information? Either way, I hope you like it.

This heart is tiny, but it's strong despite it being designed to break easily, just like my own heart, which is yours, as it always have been. Please take care of it and don't let anyone take it. You're the only one I trust with it. You're the only one that can keep it safe. You're the only one it can ever belong to. You're my safe place. For as long as you have this heart, I'll always be by your side.'

With a shaky hand, Caleb quickly shoves the lego heart and the love letter back in his pocket.

He shouldn't have read that during this meeting. Because now, he feels like tearing up. His heart is racing like crazy, and his entire body feels hot. His eyes feel heavy, but his shoulders feel light, his stomach is fluttering, and his chest is swelling.

"Colonel, are you feeling alright?" One Fleet member asked, seeing him cover half of his face with a gloved hand.

Caleb was quick to put back his cold mask and straighten up. "I'm fine. Carry on with the discussion."

No one questioned it, but it didn't fully go unnoticed. Liam had seen the whole thing, as he was sitting right next to him.

Again, he stays stilent. However, Liam had a strong feeling who was responsible for making the Colonel act so flustered in the middle of a meeting.

- rafayel -

Rafayel drops down on your couch after watering your plants. Your apartment is warm but lonely, so it doesn't feel as welcoming as it usually does. Still, being surrounded by your things brings him comfort.

As he lies down on your couch, Rafayel closes his eyes and imagines you next to him. You'd be resting your head on his chest while his arm is around you, holding you close to him, while the two of you talk about the most random topics.

No wait, that doesn't make him feel good. Because now, he feels even lonelier.

It's only been two weeks since you left for your mission and he feels as if you've abandoned him. He should be used to it by now. You occasionally going away for some time, and him leaving Linkon for his job purposes— you two actually have lots of times when you have to be apart.

But it never gets easier.

"Ugh.... Wait, what's that?"

Rafayel opens one eye and finds something next to the flower vase on your center table across the couch.

He sits up and finds a little pink bag full of coins. No, not coins, tokens. For the Claw Machine. Inside the bag is a pink, rolled up sticky note with jellyfishes on the background.

'Rafayel, if you find this, I'll assume you've dramatically fallen on my couch, and you may or may not want to get up because you're feeling tired or bored. If you're tired, pls go take a nap. If you're bored..... will you do me a favor of finding me a new bestie that I can have when I come back? I'll trust this important job to you, the claw machine expert.'

Rafayel immediately left your apartment building and drove his fancy car right to the arcade, heading straight to his favorite claw machine.

"It'll be so embarrassing if I don't take home at least one. Please work with me here, plushies. I might get dumped if I fail. This is a life and death situation, so please..."

Rafayel made sure to concentrate on the plushies that he knows you've been wanting to get. He can already imagine how excited you'll be when he shows you what he's won.

"So close.... I'll get this one this time for sure!"

He was in there for quite some time. He'd received stares from other adults, but Rafayel doesn't have the time and energy to care: he has an important mission.

At the end, he got exactly one plushie. He's proud of his accomplishment and he can't wait to show it to you.

Rafayel stares at the empty canvas in front of him, twirling his paintbrush that has yet to do a single stroke. Nothing is coming to his mind. His body doesn't seem to want to move either.

All he wants to do is lie down in his bathtub and talk to you for hours.

Unfortunately, you won't be available to call for at least three days, as you will be going somewhere that can't receive communications. For now, all he can do is wait for you.

Rafayel knows you're more than capable as a hunter and your team are full of highly skilled people too, so he has no doubts about you returning safely.

Still, his mind would sometimes bring up a touchy subject. He sometimes wonders, what if, one day, you might not come back from a mission and he might never see you again. What will he do then?

Rafayel shakes his head, forcing himself to stop thinking such terrifying thoughts. He has work to do. Thomas will be coming today to check on him, so he has to do something. Anything.

"Wha—pffftt!"

As Rafayel was rummaging through his toolbox, he found an opened journal, displaying one of the funniest, silliest drawing of stick figure he'd ever seen.

"What is this?"

He picks up the journal and saw that the doodle is just a coverup. The rest of its contents had caused him to hold his breath.

Random pictures of you and him, with your own personal comments on the sides, plus some more doodles that aren't as silly and horrible as the first one, and random things such as lists of date ideas, movies and shows to watch, places to visit together, food to try, and a whole lot of to-do things.

The journal is more like a scrapbook and bucket list.

On one of the pages, there are only a few words written.

'We need to add more stuff! Professor Rafayel, will you help me make this prettier? When I come back, we need to do all the things listed here! Put whatever you want, and we'll do it ASAP! Oh, and don't forget to put pictures of our plushies! They are part of our family! 😘'

And so, that is how Thomas came to find Rafayel working extremely hard.

He caught him working on the floor, humming a song while cutting paper scraps and drawing pictures with amazing details that should belong in an artbook.

Because he looks so happy, just this once, Thomas will allow Rafayel to skip work.

On his bed, Rafayel is curled up in his blanket and staring at his phone on his nightstand.

It's three in the morning. He'd just talked to you an hour ago, and now, he can't sleep.

Hearing your voice did put him at ease, but it also made him miss you even more. He wishes he could call you again and talk to you some more, despite the last phone call being almost three hours long. You have to sleep now, so he'll have to resist contacting you again until the next day.

That's why he's glaring at his phone as if it's his number one enemy.

He can't touch it, no matter what. Otherwise, his fingers will act on their own and call you by muscle memory.

He has to sleep.

But he can't.

The bed is uncomfortably cold and it feels bigger than usual. The empty space next to him feels like it's mocking him.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Rafayel gasps and falls out of his bed to get his ringing phone. "Hello, cutie! Did you—"

"Hello. This is the ZZ-Company calling to let you know that you have an unpaid toll—"

Rafayel almost pops a vein as he ends the call and shoves his phone in the drawer of his nightstand out of frustration.

"Stupid scammers got nothing better to do at three in the morning. Hmph!"

As he dropped his phone in the drawer, it bumps into something hard and a high-pitched sound made him pause.

"What is this?"

A small, lilac box with a sticky note.

'You're always the one singing me a lullaby to sleep and making sure I end the day in the most peaceful way. Your voice is always the last thing I hear at night and the first thing I hear in the morning, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

For the days that I'm away, you can take a break. Instead, our old friend will be the one to sing you to sleep. I hope he keeps you company and makes your nights feel just as wonderful as you do with mine.

I have your lullabies engraved in my heart. I will be dreaming of you tonight, so if you don't mind.... will you meet me in my dreams, Rafayel?'

He opens the box and Rafayel meets a spinning whale in the middle of a disk that's disguised as the pink sea.

It's a music box that plays a very special melody that only you and him know about.

Rafayel places it down on his nightstand and sets a timer so it could play for at least two hours. He returned to his bed and wrapped himself in his blanket, then he faced the music box and watched the whale spin slowly.

At last, his body relaxes and he grants your wish of meeting you in his dreams.

- xavier -

Xavier came to work with dark clouds over his head, and his colleagues knew not to bother him too much.

He was supposed to come with you on the faraway mission that'll take at least two months to wrap up. However, a new hunter ended up taking his spot because Xavier's expertise is needed for a local mission. He has to stay in Linkon.

Now, he sits behind his table with a little pout on his face and you're not around to get rid of it.

Sighing, he rested his head down on his desk to prepare for a nap.

But before closing his eyes, his gaze landed on his pen stand and saw something next to it: a box of Pocky and a white sticky note with stars on it.

'Did you know that everytime you eat a Pocky, a star is born? If you eat all of these, there will be enough stars to make your nights a little less lonelier. I will be eating some too so I can have some stars to keep me company while my guiding, shining, favorite star is a million lightyears away 💕'

The dark clouds over his head vanished instantly as soon as he opened the box of Pocky.

Xavier pulled one out and smiles as he stared at it, recalling the words you've written on the note. He then took a bite and felt the tightness in his chest going away.

Only then did his colleagues became brave enough to approach him.

Xavier entered your apartment to check on your plants and pick up the package that he accidentally got delivered to your unit, but he ended up staying for roughly three hours.

The first half an hour was spent watering and trimming your plants just as planned, and the following two hours was spent sleeping on your bed.

Xavier couldn't resist sinking down on your soft mattress, just for five minutes, he hold himself. And then, he knocked out.

Something about your bed made it hard for him to get up. Maybe it was your scent lingering on your pillows and bedsheets.

Maybe it's the memories of some of the activities you two had on that bed that stripped away his sense of reality.

Or maybe it's just his exhaustion he felt after working for hours with no one to refuel him. Whatever it was, Xavier was trapped on your bed for quite some time.

And for the last thirty minutes, he did some cleaning up so that you don't come back to dusty windows and furnitute.

That was when he came across something that you left for him.

Hanged on a key hook next to the the spare key of his apartment is a red bracelet with yellow beads and a white star.

There was also a rolled up sticky note attached to it.

'I made this bracelet for you and I meant to give it to you sooner but I didn't finish until the night before I left. I'll just leave it here and hope that you find it eventually.

It's not much, but this is a little charm that takes away loneliness! Everytime you wear it, I will be by your side to look after you and make sure you're smiling and eating and sleeping well! If you fail, then you will be cursed and an evil witch will show up at your door to feed you the grossest, healthiest food she can find at the market. Okay bye love you please don't burn down our apartment building turn off your oven right now !! 💕'

Xavier laughs and holds the bracelet against his heart to appreciate the gift.

One minute later, he teleports to his apartment because he did in fact, left the oven on.

Xavier has decided to hold a grudge against you for leaving him alone during such a cold time of the year. He has no one to cuddle with and keep him warm. He only has Bunbun and his siblings, but the plushies aren't enough to keep him from feeling lonely.

He's in his living room and reading a book, though his eyes have been scanning the same two lines for the past five minutes, as his mind is elsewhere.

You should be next to him, on his lap, listening to him as he reads the words from the book outloud, until the two of you start to feel sleepy. Then, you two will go to the bedroom and.... not sleep.

But instead, he's here all alone in the cold, and you're with four other hunters. He wondered if you're cold too. What if someone asks to cuddle with you? What if...

Xavier shakes his head to push out such irrational thoughts and set the book on the table in front of him. Clearly, he won't get any reading done tonight.

He has no choice but to do what he was supposed to be doing in the first place: laundry.

He gathered all his dirty clothes in his room and threw them in his laundry basket, until he picked up something that got buried with his other clothes worm recently.

"Huh?"

It's a hoodie that he hasn't seen before.

It's pastel-colored, yellow and pink, soft, slightly oversized, it has pockets that'll keep his hands warm, and most importantly, it smells just like you.

He reached a hand inside the pocket and raised his brows as he found a sticky note.

'I'm sorry I'm not there to give you hugs, but hopefully this will provide all the warmth and comfort you need. Just don't get used to it though! That's still my job! 💕'

The very first thing he did was embrace the hoodie as if it was you. He held it in his arms and closed his eyes, then he lets out a content sigh as his nose detected the familiar perfume.

He held the hoodie tighter, only to feel nothing but air, and that's when Xavier had to open his eyes and remember that there's still no you to hold.

For now, this'll do.

He put on the hoodie, replacing the white one he was already wearing. Despite the similar texture and materials, the one you'd given him feels a lot warmer and more comfortable.

Maybe it's just in his head, but it doesn't matter. He's warm now.

"So soft... just like you..."

Xavier took a moment to lie down on his bed and close his eyes to appreciate the comfort that the hoodie provided him.

“You wanna try that again, cutie? Not sure the people in the restrooms heard you.” Rafayel snickers into his mug, lightly tilting it back to finish the rest of its contents. 

Even in crowds, like this one, Sylus somehow always manages to find you. You notice him just as quickly, but he’s hard to ignore. Freakishly tall and muscular with silver hair and red eyes that stand out against any backdrop. A color so bright not even the glaring fluorescent lights in the auditorium could dim them. 

Devilishly handsome indeed.

“If you’re just going to sit there and undress your professor with your eyes, I must admit I have more important things to do.”

“Oh, who are you doing this week?” You smile innocently as he gathers his things, suddenly very eager to escape. 

“Haha, you’re very funny.” His words drip sarcasm, his movements remain confident, but a tinge of pink graces his fair complexion. 

Oh, whoever it is must be quite special if they’re being kept secret. 

“Rafayeeeel? Are you seeing someone behind my back? I’m appalled!” You gasp, he glares. 

“I don’t understand why I hang out with you.”

“Because you love me” 

“Fuck… I do, don’t I. Why do you have to be so lovable?” He sighs deeply and rolls his eyes as he slings his backpack over his shoulder. 

With two small steps he’s at your side and you tilt your cheek toward him out of habit. He meets you halfway to plant an unnecessarily wet smooch to the corner of your mouth. 

“Ew, Raf. That was gross!”

“Oh puh-lease, we’ve done worse.” He proudly declares with a wink in your direction before placing a much more appropriate kiss to your cheek. 

“Could you at least try to not sound so smug when you say that.”

“Love you too, cutie!” His long legs have already carried him halfway to the exit as he says his goodbyes. 

Oh no… Rafayel's absence has made you a target. When your best friend so loudly announced his departure, you instantly felt the energy in the room shift. 

‘Curse you Rafayel for reacting so poorly to my very innocent snooping!’

It didn’t take long before a shadow loomed over your shoulder. A scent you shouldn’t recognize envelops you like a warm embrace you could never fall into. And then, he speaks… 

“Who is he?” Even after half a semester taking his class, that voice still does unspeakable things to you. Deep and rich like dark caramel. The kind that sticks to your gums and eventually rots your teeth.

“Good afternoon, Professor Qin.” Your posture instantly straightens as your voice slips into that appropriately distant tone of professionalism. 

You could say it was good posture and professionalism, but the clammy palms, slightly agitated heart rate and strained breath all amounted to something else entirely. You were nervous. 

“He seemed awfully comfortable practically licking your face in such a public place.”

His arms were braced on the table in front of you, detached enough to not draw unwanted attention but close enough to make you squirm. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the top two buttons of his wine colored shirt undone signaling the end of his workday. 

“It's just Rafayel.”

“And he’s your..?”

“Friend.”

“Does he know that?”

“Yes?” Your brows furrow in confusion. 

“Good.”

“Why?” You shouldn’t ask any more questions, this conversation needs to end before he tricks you into saying something you’ll regret. 

“We’re halfway through the semester, you’re getting close to graduating. I’m just making sure my admirable patience and restraint isn’t for nothing.”

“This is you showing restraint?” Your attempted mockery is betrayed by the shaky breathing you can’t seem to reclaim control over. 

He laughs at your unimpressed comment like it’s a challenge. Clearly he needs to step up his game if he is to meet your expectations. Sylus fought hard to keep up pretenses. You fought harder.

“I think we both know I can be quite patient, with the promise of such a sweet reward.”

“I haven’t promised you anything, Sylus…” You whisper, shyly glancing at the people around you making sure they’re all engrossed in their own conversations rather than eavesdropping on yours.

“Oh, so it’s Sylus now? Well well, aren't we bold tonight, sweetie.”

“You think you’re really clever, don’t you?”

“Only when I make you blush like that.”

No wonder he has such a big ego…

“If you’ll excuse me, Professor Qin, I have a bus to catch.”  Thankful you didn’t have to lie to get away, you quickly pack up your things as he steps back, but now away. 

Your hair falls forward acting as a shield in front of your still blushing cheeks. It takes all Sylus’ power to not reach forward to tuck it behind your ear so he can see your beautiful face. 

This had been an ongoing game between the two of you since the semester began. While he had always found you physically attractive, it was your wits and quick thinking that attracted him to you initially. You dared challenge him, not to make jokes or be funny in front of your peers, but because you valued a good healthy discussion. 

It didn’t take long before Sylus started taking note of your usual routes around campus, just so he could accidentally bump into you on the way to class. He knew he shouldn’t have, that he still shouldn’t. But for the first time in his life, he felt almost powerless. Your claws had buried themselves in his heart, even if you didn’t know it yet. He was curious and impatient. 

He was confident you felt something for him too, even if you didn’t dare say anything. The blushing, the glares that always had a little smirk at the end of them. All he could do was wait and keep reminding you that he was still there, that he would be ready for you when you graduated.

The following day was dull. You didn’t have Sylus’ class today, and whenever you had a spare moment Rafayel was busy with his own education. How rude of him… 

The cafeteria is pretty barren this late in the day, you were just waiting for Rafayel to finish his last class. Of course some of the faculty were sharing a late lunch just three tables over. From your seat, you had the perfect view of his side profile. He politely nodded and engaged in mandatory conversation with his coworkers, but you caught him glancing oh-so-subtly in your direction more than once. His forearms rested on the table in front of him, hands tensely folded together. Even from here you could see the faint red crescent indents of his nails on his golden skin, a sign of declining composure. 

‘Stop staring! He can see you, you know. Focus on the screen in front of you, keep your eyes busy with schoolwork. He’ll be just as devilishly handsome in 5 minutes, you can safely look away without missing anything.’

Sylus let his head drop a bit, hiding his face slightly from the other people at his table, and offered you a slanted smile as if to say ‘I know you’re staring at me and I like it’. You quickly look away but when you bravely glance back at him, he’s still smiling. The butterflies in your stomach claim control of your body for a split second and you shyly smile back. 

‘Are you intentionally licking and biting your lip to get his attention? The guy is surrounded by colleagues, leave him be!’ 

He exhales, so overcome with relief that his eyes threaten to flutter closed. Red eyes remain fixed on you until someone asks him a question, rudely interrupting your impromptu staring contest. 

“Hey, cutie! Did anything interesting happen after I left yesterday?” Rafayel probes as he gracefully glides into the chair next to you. Obviously unaware of Sylus’ presence.

You quickly shush him with wide eyes, hoping he’ll pick up on what you’re trying to convey.

“Oops.” He whispers when he finally sees the red eyes quietly observing him.

“I don’t get you, Raf. How is it that one minute you’re reminding me of how bad it could get and the next you practically shout at him to make a move?”

“I did no such thing, how dare you assume my innocent mind had concocted an evil plan to ensure you got flustered after you teased me about my lovelife?” He pouts and you roll your eyes at his dramatics.

You both laugh for a bit before he leans back with his arm resting on the back of your chair. 

“Sooo, did he talk to you?”

“Yes, he did.”

“And..?”

“He asked about you.”

“Me? Did you tell him I’m kinda seeing someone?”

“No, I didn't want to be the one to break the news. What if he’d started crying in the middle of the cafè?” You flick his forehead but he catches your wrist before you can make your escape and pulls you closer with a determined look on his face.

Rafayel absentmindedly glances in Sylus’ direction and his whole body instantly tightens and your wrist is released. You didn’t see Sylus’ face, as you finally succeeded in keeping your eyes off him for longer than thirty seconds, but the sheer force of his threatening gaze was enough to make Rafayel momentarily fear for his life.

“Ready to go?” He sputters nervously.

You nod questioningly at his sudden nervousness while you begin packing up your stuff. 

“If you hurry I’ll tell you about the guy I’m seeing.” You’re still confused about his agitated demeanor, but the promise of information is great motivation.

“Oh, it’s a guy?” You smile, halting your frantic packing just to take in his beautiful face, once again painted pink.

“I’m not saying anything else until we’re out of here.”

“Okey, okey. What’s gotten into you?” The rhetorical question is the last sound to escape you until you and Rafayel have left the premises and headed back to your dorm.

Sylus hadn’t meant to scare your friend so greatly, he just wanted to silently tell him to ‘back off’. Although, the reaction of the purple haired man who far too often clung to your side, was admittedly quite entertaining.

The consequence was that you were gone. Sylus had hoped he might be able to catch you on your way out. He was going to claim to be going in whatever direction you were headed, but then he showed up. 

Patience and restraint… 

He was doing fine (sort of) until Rafayel held your wrist and pulled you toward him. For a moment it looked like he was going to kiss you. Sylus had already had to bear witness to it once before, and it was not a sight he wished to see again.

Occasionally you would book a room at the university for group projects and study sessions – today was one of those days. There were supposed to be three of you, but the rest of your group bailed last minute claiming to have fallen ill. The fact that it was a Friday afternoon probably had nothing to do with the sudden onset of illness.

Your group abandoning you in favor of parties and alcohol did not change the fact that the project was due the following Tuesday. So you stayed and applied your best efforts like the good student you are. 

The quiet was nice, but heavy. Digging through your messy collection of unorganized playlists you click on one with calming lo-fi and no lyrics. That would be too distracting. Rough sounds mixed with faint static seeps out from your shitty laptop filling the room with slightly less loneliness. 

Dimmed overhead lights make your handwritten notes look far neater than they really are and dull the brightly colored neon highlighters into something much more palatable. The little frosted glass window on the door lets in light from the hallway reminding you that the world outside still exists. You’re locked in, fully focused on your assignment, nothing can break your concentration.

“Oh, sorry. The room looked dark, I thought it was available.” Professor Qin admits as he almost stumbles into the small room.

“It’s not. Sorry.” You reply coldly. “Don’t you have an office?”

“I do, but staring at the same four walls for so many hours a day is quite tiresome. I sometimes wander the halls for an empty room. Friday afternoons are usually a day I have several options to choose from, but I suppose people are finally starting to feel pressured to study.” You pretend not to listen too intently but the fact that he spends his Friday afternoons at the university and not literally anywhere else does surprise you a bit. 

“Do you mind..?” He gestures toward the chair opposite yours. 

Your mind is racing, hurling insults at your heart for even considering allowing him to stay. He shouldn’t even be asking… 

“I’m… I guess bu –” You stumble over your words in your search for the appropriate ones. “I can just leave…” You sigh and shuffle uncomfortably in your seat.

“No, there’s no need. I won’t bother you.” 

Before you have time to refuse he has already shut the door behind him and pulled out a chair. 

“What are you working on?” He asks.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t bother me?”

“I didn’t realize a simple question about your assignment was considered bothersome.”

“It is.” You glare at him through your lashes, irked by the smirk on his face that seems to only grow in the presence of your restlessness.

The problem is that you’re stuck, and the answer to that problem is sitting right in front of you. You didn’t find the topics in Professor Qin’s classes particularly hard, instead you found yourself adequately challenged in his lessons. The man himself was another story. But this one question has been glaring at you for the last ten minutes, and you do not know how to approach it. 

Eventually you give up, too annoyed to waste another second on the sentence in front of you. With a defeated exhale, you spin your laptop so the screen is readable for the both of you.  

“What did you mean by this question?”  You lean forward on the desk to point at your problem, keeping your eyes glued to the screen and not on him. 

But then he moves, leaning forward to get a closer look. His glasses low on his nose allowing him to peer over them with furrowed brows. You can feel the warmth radiating from him with this new proximity as you’re both angled in such a way that has your shoulders almost brushing against each other. You’re not looking at the screen anymore… 

“Did you hear what I said?” The sudden question catches you by surprise. He is facing you now, only inches away. So close you can feel his breath on your slightly parted lips.

His thumb lightly brushes over the back of your hand, but he doesn’t say anything. For a moment, Sylus is content with just existing quietly in your space. Fearing the moment will soon come to an end he reaches out and pushes a strand of hair behind your ear with the most delicate touch. He barely moves, but something in you tells you it's time to act before something happens. 

Slumping back in your chair with great urgency you roughly tuck that piece of hair behind your ear over and over like your touch will ultimately erase his. You dodge his scrutinizing gaze like it's a sport completely oblivious to the pained look of regret on his face. 

‘Fuck, how could I do this to her. Idiot! She won’t forgive me for this. I’ve ruined it, ruined us, before we even got the chance to be anything.’

Before Sylus is able to fully process what just happened, your laptop is tucked away into your bag with your notebook haphazardly forced down behind it. You stand, he follows, and for a moment you both just stare. Lost. Confused. Hurt…

“I’m sorry.” He says.

“Mhm. I bet.” You twist your fingers in the hem of your shirt as your cheeks burn bright red with both anger and embarrassment. 

And then you leave…

The next week is spent trying to avoid him. Not that you want to, but you have to. This thing the two of you were so close to tumbling into would jeopardize your education and his career. You couldn’t risk everything for a silly crush

Cause that’s what this is, right? Just a silly little crush…

You missed him. The teasing, the fun discussions in class. The fact that he looked at you like you mattered, like you were important to him…

You can tell he’s sorry, that dreary look in his eyes haunts you every single day. That spark he usually has during class has faded too. Hopefully you’re the only one who notices. Surely this pain of his is only visible to you because you caused it. No one suspects anything, even if you wear the matching other half of his sorrow. 

As your mind keeps drifting back to him you decide that you’re clearly not in the right headspace to study, so you pack up the disorganized mess you’ve created on the café table and get ready to face the cold evening air. 

As the sun sets in the distance, barely visible through the heavy onset of dark clouds, you find yourself stuck at your usual bus stop on your way home from the study session at the café – since Friday afternoons at campus had become treacherous territory, you came here to study instead. 

The rain starts slowly, almost pleasantly tickling your skin. It doesn’t take long before it’s pelting down on you. A punishment delivered by some unknown force for teetering too close on the edge of desire. 

Too many hours surrounded by stress and badly recycled air had eaten away at your defenses. You were tired, too tired to force your eyes to leave his. Every day you would choose a seat further and further towards the back of the auditorium, making sure to go for a different spot each time. It was never enough to escape him. 

Then the punishment stops. The familiar sound of rain against plastic surrounds you along with that scent. The one you shouldn’t recognize, that you shouldn’t crave. 

“When is your bus getting here?” His calm voice questions as he fixes the strap of your bag. It didn’t need fixing, that was just an excuse to move closer. An innocent touch containing so many secrets. 

It is also a silent way for Sylus to test the waters and see if you’ve missed him like he’s missed you. If this tiny gesture is accepted, perhaps there is still hope.

“It should have been here ten minutes ago.” You sigh, annoyed at your unreliable source of transportation. 

“Do you need a ride?”

“No.” Yes.

“I’m just being polite.”

“You always have ulterior motives. Don’t make me remind you of last week.” The words came across a lot harsher than you intended.

He pauses for a moment, like he’s actually a bit hurt by your accusation. Which is not a surprise as your own words burned against your throat while you forced them out. 

“Why are you so often frowning when I see you?”

“I think you just answered your own question.” 

“You wound me.” He said sarcastically but it was not a lie.

“Where is that restraint you spoke of so proudly a few weeks ago?"

“Believe me, it’s still present. You’d know if I’d ran out.” You turn slightly as he speaks, locking eyes with him for the first time since he appeared by your side. “My offer still stands, sweetie.”

“Fine… But don’t get the wrong idea. I just want to go home.”

He smiles triumphantly and raises his arm silently inviting you closer to his side. A new chance to show you that he can be close, without crossing over that edge. You freeze instantly, eyes wide and lips slightly parted as you stare up at him. He looks at your mouth only for a moment but immediately reclaims his composure pretending that he didn’t desperately want to lean down and kiss you.

‘A first kiss in the rain? Such a clichè… No, I have to wait. She’s still my student… She’s worth the wait, no matter how painful it proves to be.’

“It’s easier to keep us both under the umbrella if I can hold you like this while we walk to my car.” Smooth recovery, surely you didn’t notice how his breathing changed and his gaze flickering rapidly.

You don’t know whether to giggle uncontrollably or scream at him. But still, you accept his offer.

Behind the professional facade you both worked so hard to maintain, there were cracks. Tiny hairline fractures you hoped no one else could see. For every passing day more and more of the repressed tension bubbling underneath slipped through to the surface. 

Fleeting glances evolved into longing gazes across rows of unsuspecting witnesses. Jokes only you understood became a common occurrence leaving the rest of the class confused at the professor's strange sense of humor. And now he was touching you in a much more obvious way than an ‘accidental’ caress against your hand. In public.

This is dangerous. He’s being reckless… 

He opens the door to his car gesturing for you to get in. With one final stern glare, you do as he says and climb into the plush seat. Your bag is carelessly dropped on the floor by your feet but before you get the chance to reach for the seatbelt he has it in his grasp and leans over your smaller frame, buckling you in. His hand lightly brushes over the curve of your upper thighs on its retreat back to its master. Your gaze is locked in on his warm touch only parting to briefly stare at the strong line of his jaw and perfectly angled nose. With a deep exhale, he straightens himself and swiftly moves to the drivers side of the car. 

Taking out the claw clip pressing against your skull, you place it on the dashboard and relax into the seat. Sylus follows the brightly colored piece of plastic out of the corner of his eye and smiles at the sight of how your personal item looks so natural in his private vehicle. You had placed it there without a second thought, like it didn’t matter if you forgot to take it with you cause you’d be in this car again tomorrow anyways. 

He knows you won’t be, but a man can dream. 

“What’s your address?” He asks tapping at his phone awaiting your information. 

“I’m not telling you that.”

He scoffs, almost laughs, at your apprehension. “Sweetie, if I intended to start making house calls I wouldn’t need you to tell me where you live. I could access your info through the university.” 

“Oh.” That’s sort of a creepy thought… “Just drop me off at campus, I can walk from there.”

“It’s raining pretty badly, you know. Wouldn’t want you to catch a cold and miss out on any important schoolwork.” He teases, flashing you that stupid smirk of his. 

“Why do you say that? Are you planning to drop another elaborate assignment on us Monday morning?”

“Tsk tsk, spoilers.” 

Your facade cracks a little bit more and you smile. Not at him, no, can’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he had any part in it. Instead you smile at your thighs. Thighs who look very lonely without his warm palm gliding across them…

Get your head back in the game, don’t let him charm you. Think of Rafayel, what would he think? What would he say if he saw you now? 

‘You know you can’t go there, right?’

‘If he tried to kiss you right now, would you let him?’

‘You know where to find me if you ever get too lonely, just knock first, please.’

Of course, that last one was probably off the table now that he was in an almost official proper exclusive relationship and all. 

Which leaves you in Sylus’ car on a Friday night. The second Friday night in a row spent in his presence. 

The ride to campus is far too short, yet you’re glad it's over. You politely thank him for the ride and open your door. Suddenly a long arm stretches across you and shuts it. You gasp at the movement but you’re already preparing an appropriate scolding lecture in your head.

“Don’t go.” He says, like the thought of you walking away would cause him great pain. 

“Sylus, I —”

“Please don’t say it. No jokes about my lack of restraint, believe me I am painfully aware.” 

“What do you want from me?”

“I just need you to admit it.” He doesn’t specify what, he doesn’t need to. 

“I can’t…”

“Why not? It doesn’t have to change anything, I just need to hear you say it. Just once.”

You feel guilty. You shouldn’t but you do. This man whom you have been quietly admiring for months now, who seemingly never lets anything get under his skin, is pleading and begging for a mere drop of your honest affection. You can be honest, can’t you?

“I can’t…” You whisper as your gaze falls to your thighs once more. 

“Why?”

“Because if I say it, everything changes. You say it won’t, but I know I will not be able to look at you the same way if I admit to my feelings.” But you kinda just admitted it, didn’t you? Try looking at him now. 

‘If he tried to kiss you right now, would you let him?’

Rafayel’s question echoes in your head. 

“Yes.” 

“What?” He sounds relieved, like you plucked a heavy weight off his shoulders without knowing you instead placed it on your own.

You don’t speak and you’re surprised when you see your hand moving toward his that is currently resting between you. Just before your fingers touch you manage to reclaim some of that highly sought after restraint that everyone seems to be running out of lately, instead opting for absentmindedly playing with the sleeve of his jacket. The warmth from his hand can be felt against yours taunting you for being such a coward as you settle for this almost touch. 

“Sweetie, I —”

“You can’t call me that. I should go, right? It’s late. Good night, Professor Qin.” You don’t look at him, you can’t. The tone of his voice tells you everything you didn’t want to know. 

You quickly grab your bag and return to your punishment of heavy rain soaking you to the bone. Clutching your bag to your chest, hoping and praying that your laptop doesn’t have to be punished for your sins, you sprint in the direction of your dorm. 

You can’t stand clichés but as you catch sight of yourself in the mirror, completely drenched, you let yourself cry. Drops of rain compete with your tears for real estate on your cheeks. The rain will dry up and the tears will win. 

You’d already spent the last months fighting against everything that felt right. At first you were simply enchanted, like any other being on this planet with eyes would be at the sight of him. Then he spoke, intelligent and wise beyond his years but always open to input from others. For the longest time you tried to convince yourself that he reacted similarly to any student who raised their hand in his class, there was nothing special about his reaction to your voice and words. Except there was, he admitted so himself.

Sylus sounded hurt, wounded. Like you had stabbed him in the chest without a second thought only to press the blade deeper with your pathetic excuse of an almost confession that probably left him with more questions than he already had. You’d never seen him properly sad before, you hated it. Mostly you hated that it was your fault.

The auditorium is almost empty today, which is strange considering Professor Qin has become quite popular. Eventually the excitement of him obviously had to die down, and the Monday blues wore too heavy on many of your classmates. You didn’t mind though, that meant you could sit at the very back, next to the exit and be the first one out the door. 

It was silent with only the most engaged students present and everyone working efficiently inside their own little bubble. You fought hard to do the same, but he was on the move. Something about the way the steps sounded told you it was him who was making his way up to the back of the auditorium. To you.

“Meet me in my office after class.” He whispered, but with how quiet the room was, his voice still traveled farther than he would like. Hence why he tried to keep the information to a minimum.

You were not convinced and silently blinked at him in response.

“Claw clip…” He mumbled, scratching the side of his head to distract any wandering eyes from the strange reasoning for his request. 

Oh, you’d left yours in his car before the weekend. How badly did you want it back? You could manage without it, you have others.

But by the end of the day your feet are dragging you to his office after your heart convinced your mind that this claw clip was important. 

You stop before you make the last turn into the hallway, startled by the sound of voices. One unknown female, and his. A brave peek around the corner reveals Sylus and another student from your class. He is standing in the open doorway into his office, she’s standing just beyond the threshold. Far too close. Then she moves, luckily not in your direction. 

So, you were just one of the many then… Simply the next in line to fall for his ‘cheap smirks and cocky attitude’ like Rafayel had called it. It shouldn’t bother you, but of course it does. 

“Miss?” Sylus’ voice echoes in the now empty hallway. 

‘At least he didn’t say ‘sweetie’.’

“Yes, Professor Qin.” You reply coldly.

He gestures for you to enter his office and you do, making sure he sees your displeased look before you pass him. The door shuts and you’re alone together.

“You forgot this.” He says almost bashfully as he hands over the worthless hair accessory.

You take it and place it gently into your backpack. If you came home to it missing teeth you would sue the manufacturer… 

“If I speak, will you listen?” He softly pleads as he leans back against his desk, keeping his hands firmly planted on the cold surface to prevent them from reaching for you.

“How many students are you shamelessly trying to seduce right now?” He stares at you, puzzled by your accusation.

“Only one, and I guarantee you it is not without shame.”

“Then, why was she here? Looking much more comfortable in your presence than I would consider normal.”

“She was curious about a theory I presented today and wondered if I could suggest where to find more studies on it. She never entered this room.” He paused, scanning your face for anything other than fury. “I am not immune to gossip and I am aware of how some students see me. Which is why I take extra care to avoid situations where they might try to take advantage of me and my position. I have no interest in being at the center of a scandal and no interest in them.”

“Then why am –”

“You, I can’t resist.” His reply is quick, without any hesitation.

“What if I’m just like them? What if I also want to take advantage of you and your position?”

“Then I have made it very easy for you to do so for months now, yet you have not initiated anything.”

“So..?”

“I trust you.” He says and for some reason it shocks you. 

He looks shorter than usual when he’s leaning on his desk like that, less intimidating, more vulnerable. You cross your arms protectively across your chest, just in case he’s able to see your heart pounding against it. The force of the rapid beats makes it feel like your arms are shaking along with the rhythm. So, you tuck your hands into your backpockets instead. Imprisoning them for wanting so desperately to reach out and touch him and wipe away that look of painful hesitation he far too often has to wear in your presence. 

You take a step forward, then another. Sylus’ gaze is fixed on your shoes, his breath hitches with every timid stride that brings you closer to him.

Once you are so close that he has to part his knees to make room for your body, he whispers. The sound of your name on his voice makes you gasp. Not ‘Sweetie’, not ‘Miss’, just your name.

His hands have turned into fists pressing themselves into the hard surface of his desk. Every muscle is tense with restraint so agonisingly painful Sylus worries he will break any second.  

“Can you say that again, I didn’t quite hear you.” You lean forward, bracing yourself on his strong thighs to keep yourself from falling into him.

“Say what?”

“My name.”

He says it again with such longing and adoration, like it truly means something to him. But you’re not satisfied, you want more.

“Again.” You rest your forehead against his as he obliges your request, whispering your name like he’s worshipping you. 

You take one of his fists and pry apart his fingers to make room for yours. He is still hesitating, still scared. He still needs to hear you say it, say that you want him.

“Sylus…”

“Don’t touch me like that unless you mean it.” His voice is shaky now, honest, naked.

“I mean it.” You take the hand that isn’t laced with his and place it on his chest before letting it map out the shape of his collarbones, adamsapple, jaw and cheek. “I mean it.”

“Tell me to stop, now. One more second like this and I won’t be able to hold back any longer.” His arms wrap around you, tracing your body like you’re a book he’s been aching to read. Slow and patient, savoring every breath and tremble. “I’ve waited, I’ve been so patient. I will keep waiting if you choose to pull away. I won’t be upset.”

Your lips quiver, so you hold your breath attempting to keep them still. The sensible part of your mind who has been shouting at you to remember that Sylus is your Professor hasn’t given up yet. So you fight it, with as much force as you can muster. Your lips hesitantly brush against his, barely there before they disappear again. 

‘Please, Sylus. Pull me close, I’m so scared. Please, kiss me…’

But he can’t read your mind, and he is determined that he will not be the one to cross the final barrier. The choice is yours, it always has been. 

Your fingers have found their way to the nape of his neck, lingering close to feel the steady hum of his pulse. One hand travels to his soft silvery strands and you anchor yourself to them, using your grasp to guide him forward so your lips can finally touch.

The instant relief of his lips on yours makes your now relaxed body reliant on his strong arms to keep you standing. The kiss is deep, hungry, but not rushed. His grip on you grows tighter and tighter as you lose yourselves in the closeness you’ve been craving for much longer than you could ever admit.  

Sylus’ hands venture lower until they can get a secure hold of your thighs, lifting you easily before turning your both around and depositing you on top of his desk. His lips never part from yours, he wouldn’t dare.

“I’m.. So… Sorry… Sylus…” You mumble between and during kisses causing him to pause and pull back slightly with concerned eyes.

“Whatever you think you need to apologize to me for, I assure you it is not necessary. I know we have many things to discuss, but can’t it wait? I wish to enjoy this moment a little longer.” His warm hands caress your cheeks making you feel safe, even with the possible consequences of your actions hovering somewhere close ready to strike you down at any moment. 

You nod eagerly and he’s back on you in an instant.

The next few weeks pass by in a hazy blur of broken rules and hidden kisses. That conversation you were supposed to have was put on the back burner in favour of simply savouring each other. Irresponsible. Immature. Greedy.

You hated it, but there was no way in hell you’d let it end. Rafayel was also still kept in the dark, which made you feel like absolute shit. 

He was beaming, clearly falling hard for his new boyfriend, Xavier. You were so happy for him and wanted nothing more than to share your own happiness too! But you couldn’t. Cause you had to go fall for your Professor while Rafayel fell for the cute boy next door.

“Raf, why do you smell different today? It’s not bad, just different.”

“Oh, I accidentally grabbed Xavie’s sweater this morning. It was dark and I was in a rush.” He says nonchalantly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

For most couples it probably is. 

Xavier seems like a great fit for Rafayel. His generally calm vibes swoop in whenever Raf gets caught up on something that troubles him. Sort of similar to what Sylus does for you, except he has to be sneaky about it.

“Have you been with anyone recently?” 

“Huh?” Don’t blush, don’t blush, don’t blush.

“You just seem a bit distracted, lonely even. And now that I have Xavier and I’m not taking care of you the same way I used to I’m just wondering if I’ve gotta help you find someone to keep you company.” 

‘I already have someone.’

You and Rafayel were sitting on a secluded bench soaking in the late spring sunshine like you were immune to the inevitable burn. An iced coffee passed back and forth between you for sustenance. 

“So, cutie. Will you do me the honor of letting me be your wingman?”

“Sylus…” Speak of the devil and he appears in a sleek black car that probably costs more than your tuition. 

“What?!” Rafayel screeched. 

Oh, you’d said his name out loud.

His shocked reaction is loud enough to draw Sylus’ attention to you. Rafayel is clearly unimpressed when he finally makes the connection. If you whispering his name was enough to raise suspicions, Sylus’ almost terrified expression completed the puzzle. 

Sylus rubs the side of his neck before dropping his shameful gaze to the ground and walking away. Each step more painful than the last. 

“Cutie, you didn’t. Did you?”

“Keep your voice down, please!” Your look of sadness softens his tone before he speaks again.

“What did he do?” He accuses, disdain dripping off each word.

“Nothing, Raf. We’re —” A couple, friends, an enigma, practically illegal? 

You can't even say you’re friends with benefits, you haven’t slept together yet. What does stolen kisses in dark corners and late night phone calls amount to? 

“— We have a mutual agreement.”

“And how long have you had this ‘mutual agreement’?”

“Three weeks or so.”

“And you didn’t tell me?” 

“I wanted to, but… I don’t know, Raf. We barely know what we’re doing and until I graduate we’re kinda limited on ways to figure stuff out.”

“Is he nice to you?” 

“Of course. I wouldn’t put myself through this if I didn’t think he was worth it.” His question confuses you. 

Rafayel stares at you intently, like he’s searching for bruises or scars he somehow neglected to heal. 

“And here I thought you seemed lonely…”

“You’re not wrong, even if I know he’s there I can’t need him. It is lonely.” You know your best friend like the back of your hand which makes it easy to tell that Rafayel is also bothered by something other than you dating your professor. “Raf, what’s on your mind?”

“How’d I miss it? I should have seen that the change in your behavior wouldn’t be fixed by simply getting you laid. I’m sorry.”

“Woah, Raf, slow down. How did me having a secret relationship with my professor turn into you apologizing?”

“I don’t know! Maybe I’ve been so caught up in my own relationship that I unintentionally neglected ours leaving you open to his advances.”

You crawl into his lap and put your entire weight into embracing him, just how he likes it. 

“I promise I have not felt neglected. I love you and I love you with Xavier. I promise.”

“I love you too, cutie.” He breathes into your hair and squeezes you against him. “I can’t say I fully approve of this ‘mutual agreement’ of yours, but if I try to ignore what he does for a living I’m very interested in the details.”

You pull back and smile. 

“I’m not going to be able to tease you properly without having all the info, you know.”

You made it a grand total of two minutes into your much needed ramble about Sylus before Rafayel made a joke about you ‘not just jumping his bones already’, but it was exactly the reaction you expected from him. You want him to know everything, you want him to tease and taunt you for being so utterly smitten with the tall, dark and handsome man who’s technically supposed to be off limits. It felt like a weight was lifted off your shoulders with each dirty joke that escaped his lips. You loved it. You loved that he finally knew. 

That afternoon you did something possibly stupid. After your final class you went back to that same bench and waited. 

His car is still here, good. 

You hear a heavy door open and close somewhere nearby. Determined steps thump along the asphalt before a broad back clad in a leather jacket moves in front of you. He can’t see you from here, but that’s ok. Before he has time to get in his car, you pick up your phone and call him. 

“Sweetie? Why are you calling at this hour? Are you ok?” 

“I’m ok, I just wanted to hear your voice.” Even though you can’t see his face, you know he’s smiling.

“Alright, I’ll indulge you. How did it go with your friend earlier? Judging by the look on his face I assume he figured us out?”

“He did, yeah. I told him everything and it felt so great to finally share it with him. I hope that’s ok?”

“I’m glad, Sweetie.” A breath passes. “Can I take you to my place tonight? You don’t have to stay over, but it would be nice to finally spend some time together.” 

You have to fight back giggles in order to formulate a response. “Mhm, that would be nice. I’ll just head home to get some things and check when the next bus leaves.” 

“I want to drive you.”

“Isn’t that a bit risky?”

“Probably, but forgive me for not having too much faith in the public transport around here.”

“Okey then. Meet me in the alley behind my dorm in about 20 minutes?”

“I’ll do my best to survive the wait.”

“Hey, Sylus.”

“Hm?”

“Turn around.”

He looks confused for a moment, but then he sees you and stares like you’re some beautiful mirage in the desert he’s been traversing for far too long. Except you’re not a mirage. He can touch you, feel your warmth because you’re real and you’re his. 

Exactly 20 minutes later you carefully emerge from your building, with the hood of your sweater (Rafayel’s sweater) covering most of your face. Your backpack is stuffed to the brim with your usual school stuff, plus a change of clothes and toiletries, just in case. 

You scan the area like you’re on some undercover mission, making sure the coast is clear before you move. Almost hidden in the shade of the surrounding buildings, you find your target. 

“Hahaha, you look ridiculous, Sweetie.” Sylus exclaims as you enter the car. His shoulders shake with the low rumble of his laughter.

“What? Why? I didn’t want to be seen.” You laugh back at him attempting to justify the oversized hoodie currently hindering your eyesight.

He continues to laugh, and you let yourself drown in it. 

Then he takes his sunglasses out of the glove compartment and places them on your nose.

“There, now no one will recognize you.” 

You swat at his arm unaware that he’s launching a sneak attack. He takes your misbehaving wrist in his hand and brings it to him. The sensitive skin pulses against his warm lips and you can already feel your body getting impatient. 

But then he stops and pulls away with a questioning look.

“Who’s sweater is this? It doesn’t smell like you.”

“Oh, it’s Rafayel’s.” 

“Hm…” You wait for him to say something more, but he doesn’t. Instead the conversation shifts back to regular topics, like you were a normal couple catching up on the other persons day. 

Sylus’ house is huge! Your shitty little dorm could probably fit inside his house at least 10 times. 

“Gawking?” He smugly notes as he snatches your backpack from your grasp.

“Mhm.” You don’t even try to deny it. 

“Let’s go inside, Sweetie.” He chuckles some more, guiding you over the threshold.

You didn’t even notice the bags of groceries he carried, he must have gone shopping whilst you were getting your stuff. 

“Wait here.” Sylus kisses your cheek, drops the groceries and bolts. It sounds like he must be tackling at least two steps at a time up the staircase.

Before you even have time to consider following him, he’s back by your side.

“Take your shirt off.”

“What?!”

He tosses you something he’d kept hidden behind his back. A soft black hoodie that unmistakably smells like him.

“Syluuus.” 

“Yes, Sweetie?”

“Are you jealous of Rafayel?”

“Is it wrong of me to want my scent on you rather than another mans?” 

You lick your lips in subtle annoyance and roll your eyes at him, but of course you’re going to do what he asks. As you grab onto the sides of Rafayel’s hoodie and slowly tug it upwards, a strange sense of vulnerability washes over you. It’s not like you’ll suddenly be naked in front of him, you’re wearing a t-shirt underneath. But there’s still something very intimate about taking your clothes off in front of him.

Sylus glances away, but he only manages for a second. Once he sees the white hem of a t-shirt, he dares return his gaze. He’s wanted you for so long that the tiny slither of bare skin above the waistband of your jeans revealing itself when your arms lift above your head, is enough to stir something deep inside him. 

But, this is a date – the closest you’ll be able to get to one anyways. He’s a gentleman, and he wants to show you. 

“I’ll get started on dinner. Can I get you anything to drink?” He says once you emerge from his hoodie.

“I have –” Then he steps closer. His hands find their way up to the neckline of your hoodie. The tips of his fingers trace along the edge and intentionally brush against your skin. “— Schoolwork.” 

He takes a small step backwards and glances proudly down at the dip of your collarbone like it holds his secrets. 

“I haven’t handed out anything this week?” He ponders, almost like he’s wondering if he’s lost track of his own assignments.

“I have other classes apart from yours, you know.”

“Oh, you do? And here I thought I had your undivided attention.” He smirks, as usual, and you fight the urge to stick your tongue out at him. “Allright then, be a good student and get to work. Let me know if you need anything.”

He kisses your cheek and returns his attention to the groceries you forgot about the second he tossed you his hoodie.

You consider your options for where you want to study. The couch or the kitchen island? You’d probably get more done on the couch with some distance between yourself and the man who will apparently take on the role of your personal chef for the evening. So of course you stroll into the kitchen and unload the necessary books and your laptop onto the island. 

And that’s when you see it; he’s tied a neat little bow around your neck with the strings of his hoodie. 

“You look cute, like a kitten with a collar.” He smiles, almost arrogantly, but with a genuine adoration.

This time, you do stick your tongue at him. 

Sylus somehow manages to prepare what is likely the best meal you’ve ever eaten. You compliment him, carefully, making sure not to inflate his ego any further. You’ve had a glass of red that cost a small fortune, he has barely sipped his.

“Sylus, did you not like the wine?”

“No, I do.”

“Then why have you barely had any?”

“I didn’t want to make any assumptions, in case you decided you wanted to go home and would need a ride.”

You blink at him, probably looking stupid and confused for reasons you’ll never know. For each second your eyes nervously flicker away from his, his posture tightens slightly. It’s not like he expects you to stay, that’s a choice only you can make. But there is no denying that he hopes he won’t have to gather the strength to say goodbye to you tonight. 

Pouring some more wine into your glass, you pick it up and hold it towards him. Sylus stares at it, red eyes beaming at the deal being made once his glass touches yours.

Clink.

You sip. He indulges.

Once the plates are cleared and you’ve both had a bit more wine than you should have allowed yourself for a normal weekday, he offers you a tour of his house. He has a gym, of course, spacious office, cozy tv-room that could probably be classified as a home cinema. The tour finishes upstairs with the bedrooms. He has four.

“You can choose which one you want. Mine is at the end of the hall.” He’s barely touched you all night, almost like he’s afraid. 

Being here with you, in the comfort of his own home offers freedoms he has craved for months. But now that his dreams of worshipping you freely, without concern for who might see, are coming true, he finds himself hesitating. Not because he doesn’t want to touch you, oh gods he does, but perhaps he had a little more restraint left in him after all and letting the final bits of it go when he’s held onto it for so long is a surprisingly daunting task. 

“I can choose whichever one I want?” You question innocently and he hums in agreement. “Then I choose yours.”

He blinks, breathes, takes a moment to mull over your words. Why is he surprised? He shouldn’t be. 

“Is that ok, Sylus? If it’s not I –”

“No, you’re more than welcome to share my room, Sweetie.”

“Why are you holding back? You seem more hesitant now than ever before.”

“It seems surreal to finally have you here. No potentially prying eyes or boundaries beyond the ones you and I decide on together. It’s almost too much freedom, I don’t know how to utilize it.”

You take his hand in yours, raising it to your cheek so you can nuzzle against his palm. He caresses your cheek gingerly in response. 

“You don’t have to be afraid anymore. I want you too.” Your attempt to soothe his worry seems to instead fuel more questions.

“What makes you think I’m afraid?” What he should have asked is how you can tell that he is. 

“Because you tend to hide behind borderline arrogant confidence. With me you know you don’t have to maintain that facade but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to let it go. Just relax, Sylus.” You can tell he’s about to make some snarky comment on your assessment of his personality, but you don’t let him.

You reach out and brush your thumb over his bottom lip just as it separates from the top one. Instead of words you are met with a gentle fan of warm breath as he exhales deeply at your touch. 

“The first time we kissed, you told me you trust me. Do you still?” You lean further into his palm that still cradles your cheek and kiss it tenderly.

“Of course, Sweetie.”

“Good.” You take his hand back into yours and guide him down to the end of the hall.

It still surprises you that he teased and flirted with you for months, driving you absolutely crazy in more ways than one. But when it comes to physical intimacy and crossing into new areas of your relationship, he wants you to open the door. 

His room is meticulous, you’re not surprised. Dimmed lighting, his welcoming scent much stronger than on his hoodie, and satin sheets you were ready to lose yourself in. You turn to face him as he lingers in the doorway and you can’t help but laugh at the sight.

“What?” He asks puzzled.

“This is your room, Sylus. Why does it look like you’re waiting for permission to enter?”

“Maybe because I am.”

Perhaps you can use his restraint against him, get back at him for every flirty remark and comment he uttered purely to make you blush for him. What would it take to see that blush finally erupt on his face rather than your own?

You unbuckle your belt and slowly shimmy out of your jeans. The original intent was to keep your eyes locked on his to gauge any possible sign of change in behavior. That plan had to be abandoned when you felt your own skin tingle warmly at the thought of him watching you undress. Even if your attempt to make him blush had been successful, you wouldn’t know because you were too busy trying to hide your own. 

Sylus watches in awe. This girl who had been fighting his advances for so long (rightfully so), was standing in his bedroom barelegged in his hoodie beckoning him toward her. He adjusts the collar of his shirt, as if it would make a difference to his increased temperature. It doesn’t.

“You coming?” You smile innocently and reach out a hand for him to take, which he does.

But now you feel your own fears bubble to the surface. You have no doubt about what you want, but you realize now how important he has become. This won’t be like it was when you were a teenager having sex for the first time, thinking you were in love but secretly being absolutely miserable. It won’t be like with Rafayel, safe and familiar in a way only a best friend can be, without fear of what will happen the next day. No, you and Sylus have high stakes invested in this. Emotion, unspoken promises, anticipation and yearning that has been plaguing you both for so long. 

He can’t read your mind, but sometimes it feels like he can. His fingers are back to tracing your neckline before he quickly undoes the bow he tied earlier and then he smiles. Almost a smirk, but warmer and intended for comfort. He leans down and you meet him halfway in a slow, languid kiss. 

The kiss grows hungrier as two sets of hands roam and explore both your aching bodies like you’re sculptures at a museum you’re not permitted to touch. It doesn’t take long before you’re both confident enough to claim the other like they were always supposed to be yours. 

Sylus’ hands slip lower and his warm palms connect with the goosebumps on your thighs as you begin the tedious job of unbuttoning his shirt. You had imagined doing this so many times; you were going to work each button slowly, savour every new inch of skin that revealed itself under your touch. But reality had its own way of unfolding and you were simply far too impatient. 

Sylus was not faring much better than yourself and with each new button undone his grip on your backside grew bolder and bolder. Then you felt the weight of his hands kneading the soft flesh of your rear, nudging you closer. 

With the final button out of the way you immediately go for his belt. 

“Slow down, kitten. There’s no need to rush.”

“I thought I was a kitten because of the bow you tied, I’m not wearing a collar anymore.” You remark breathlessly, unapologetically eager to resume undressing him. 

He grabs both your wrists in one of his before you can reconnect them with his belt and pins them behind your back. His other hand gently tilts your head so he has access to your neck where he drags slow, wet kisses in a horizontal line. Without releasing you, he guides you over to a mirror, angling you just right so the light catches his saliva on your skin. 

“There, a new collar for my kitten.” You roll your eyes but when his low chuckle reaches your ears you can’t help yourself and laugh along with him. 

You can see his bare shoulders in the mirror but the rest of his naked torso is hidden by your own reflection. Turning around proves impossible as he still holds your hands tightly. 

“Not yet, Sweetie. Let me look at us for a bit longer.” He breathes against your neck keeping his eyes fixed on your reflection. “You’re beautiful. And you smell like me, like you’re mine.”

“I am yours.”

Those three words coming out of your mouth ignites the fire inside him, transforming it to an inferno only you have the power to put out. 

Your body is quickly turned around so you’re facing him again as his lips glue to yours. With your hands finally free you get back to undressing him, but where your hands were expecting to find his belt buckle you instead make contact with the elastic waistband of his boxers. Belt gone and zipper already pulled down. 

Caught off guard by your sudden discovery you pull back and draw a much needed deep breath. You can see him now, all of him. All firm muscle and smooth skin, the undeniable shape of an erection poking through the taut fabric of his boxers. 

“Enjoying the view, kitten?”

You violently blush, caught in the act, but Sylus just laughs. The sound is welcomed with open arms, even if you scowl at him like it isn’t. You’re just glad he has been able to relax. 

He maintains eye contact with you as he pulls down his trousers; successfully completing the task you had attempted earlier, without blushing. 

You stare. You can’t help it. The erection you caught sight of earlier was pretty much staring back at you like it was challenging you to a duel or asking if you know any good self defense techniques. Right now you wish you did, looks like you might need some. 

The mattress dips and Sylus shuffles himself under the sheets. He must have somehow read your mind again and sensed your intimidation because he’s not teasing or flirting or trying to get a reaction out of you anymore, he’s just Sylus.

“Come here.” He says calmly with a voice so deep you might drown in it.

The air around you is warm and almost heavy with the weight of the moment. Biting down on your bottom lip you take slow steps toward Sylus’ concealed figure. You swear you can still see his bulge through the satin that so valiantly tries to detain his undeniable arousal. 

“We can just sleep if you want.” His voice is low, careful, but still full of want and desire. 

Except you don’t want to sleep, not yet anyways. You bravely lift your body to stand on your knees before placing one thigh on each side of his slim waist. But you don’t lower yourself down, keeping a few centimeters of safe distance between you and his overwhelming size. 

“Sweetie?”

“Hm?”

“If you want to stop, just say it.”

“I don’t want to stop.”

He doesn’t ask what’s bothering you, he knows. It’s not exactly hard to figure you out when you keep staring like that. 

“Can I take this off then?” The question is followed by his hands twisting themselves into your hoodie. 

You nod and it’s gone in an instant. 

“And this?” He asks, this time referring to your t-shirt.

You nod again.

“From this moment forward I’m going to require you to use your words, Sweetie. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes.” You answer confidently. 

“Good girl.” He purrs. 

You shiver at the copious amount of bare skin revealed to his hungry gaze, but his words are what really get to you, causing your knees to buckle and threaten the distance you still maintain.

With your t-shirt discarded somewhere across the room you are left in your mismatched underwear consisting of black cotton panties and a baby blue bra adorned with lace that Rafayel gifted you for your birthday. The fact that you didn’t wear the matching thong will haunt you for the rest of your life. 

“Hey.” He whispers. “Look at me.”

You blink down at him, frozen in a strange state of aroused and apprehensive. 

“Do you still want this?” He asks again and you feel yourself getting annoyed. Not at him, but at yourself for making him question just how badly you want this. 

Bracing yourself on his chest, you lean forward to capture his lips. You kiss him with the force of every word you haven’t been able to say and he reciprocates. 

Strong arms wrap around you again pulling your chest down to meet his. A soft moan suddenly escapes you and the sound causes Sylus’ hips to jerk forward causing his hardness to make contact with your damp core. 

You break the kiss to hide yourself in the crook of his neck. 

“Sweetie, what’s the matter?”

“You know what!” You mumble into the pillow.  

“Tell me.” Even though you can’t see him, you know he’s smirking. He knows exactly what he’s asking you to say but being quiet about it is obviously not doing you any favors.

“Its such a cringey thing to say though, please don’t make me!” You mock cry against his shoulder. 

He chuckles, almost cackles at your mortification. He’s cruel… He’s Sylus, and he’s yours. 

“Sweetie?”

“Ugh, fine.” You sigh defeatedly before sitting back up to face him. “You’re big, you’ve got a big dick which I’m pretty sure isn’t exactly information you need me to tell you. Happy now?”

“Music to my ears.” He teases earning himself a slap without any real force or anger across his chest. 

“You’re infuriating.” 

“You love it.”

“Maybe I do…” You whisper, like it’s a secret that will never escape this room. A secret the man below you will never forget. 

He gulps loudly and shuffles himself back up into a seated position. The movement causes your balance to falter and the distance between you vanishes into a cacophony of needy moans and hungry kisses. This time, he’s not letting you go and he presses you closer to prove his point. 

Desperate palms take hold of your hips encouraging you to move as his lips drag down your neck before settling at the top of your breast. You can feel his teeth nipping at the plush mound followed by a gentle tongue to soothe the sting. 

Grinding down on his clothed cock is slowly sending you down the path of insanity. Going against your better judgement, you beg. 

“Sylus, please.” You whimper against his neck. 

“Please what? Use your words, Sweetie. Just like we agreed.”

“Please touch me.” You seal the deal with lazy kisses along his chiseled jawline and a particularly slow grind against him. 

The world tilts and he’s got you pinned underneath him. His mouth eagerly returns to your breast, this time accompanied by a kneading palm, increasingly annoyed by the presence of your bra.

You arch your back to grant him access to the clasp, which he undoes with one skillful flick. He pulls back to take in your bare chest and then you see it; that faint tinge of pink subtly ghosting across his cheekbones. 

‘I finally made him blush…’

“Why are you smiling like that, Sweetie?”

“No reason.” You shrug innocently. “Pink looks good on you.” A teasing finger glides across the affected area and he spoils you as the color blooms brighter under your touch. 

A sound reminiscent of a growl erupts from somewhere deep inside him before he dips back down to your chest. The warmth from his cheeks presses against your skin as his lips inch closer to your exposed nipple. 

His tongue teasingly drags across your skin before he envelops your hardened peak in the warmth of his mouth, sucking gently. Your back arches, pressing your chest even firmer against him and his skilled tongue. 

Your hands tangle in his hair, preparing to pull him up to kiss him and beg for more. Luckily you don’t have to because he swiftly shifts his attention to your other nipple where the sensation of his touch feels brand new again. 

It takes you too long to notice that you’ve been grinding up against his lower abdomen for an unknown amount of time, the sudden realization carries the unpleasant taste of embarrassment. 

His gaze settles on you, filled with tenderness. 

“Don’t you dare be embarrassed for wanting me.” His body moves further down, kissing every piece of skin in his path before his determined fingers wrap themselves around your underwear. “Don’t hold back, Sweetie.” 

Then you’re graced with the feeling of his tongue and lips mapping out the expanse of your folds. He works meticulously, taking his time to gauge your body’s response to every lick and suck he provides. 

His hand finds one of yours and places it back in his hair and you desperately grab a fistful. Soft lips and a perfectly firm tongue, who seem to have finally discovered their true purpose, work in tandem to bring you pleasure that normally would be reserved for divine goddess’. To Sylus, you deserve nothing less. 

A long finger eases its way inside you, quickly followed by another providing a pleasant stretch. His fingers curl just right and you find yourself trembling from the steadily increasing pleasure of him between your legs. 

“Sylus, I’m — ah!”

“Didn’t hear you, Sweetie. Speak up.” He mumbles without fully breaking contact with your sensitive clit. 

You oblige his request, whether intentionally or not, as your orgasm crashes down on you. His name proudly dances on your tongue mixed with wanton moans of indescribable pleasure. If not for his strong hands on your thighs, you’re certain you could have accidentally strangled him with them. Your hand tugs slightly at his soft hair as he works you through the aftershocks of your climax, not stopping until you tug again with more determined precision. 

“Pink looks good on you too, Sweetie. But we knew that already.” He gazes up at you through his unfairly long lashes, smiling like he’s just won a game you didn’t realize you were playing. 

Fighting the urge to reach down and slap him again you instead opt for covering your flushed cheeks with your hands. 

The warmth of his body hovers above you once more and before he can make any more comments on the state of your post orgasmic self, you pull him down by the nape of his neck for a hungry kiss. Even now, you find yourself eager for more of him.

Pulling back, he peels off his tight boxers revealing himself to you in his entirety. No matter how hard you try to ignore it, that feeling of intimidation rears its ugly head again. 

Reaching over to the nightstand, Sylus obtains a condom from the top drawer and rolls it onto himself with shaky hands and unsteady breaths. 

He was nervous too, of course he was. What if he was too big for you and no matter how thoroughly he prepped you, it would never be enjoyable? 

“Tell me to stop if it’s too much.” He almost whispers against your lips. 

You nod, and he accepts your response even if he would have greatly preferred to hear you say it. 

He kisses you softly and lines himself up before gently and slowly pushing forward. Sylus continues to spoil you with tender pecks, making sure to leave room for any complaints or apprehensions. 

Despite your best efforts to remain relaxed and pliant, the sting soon evolves into a burn and you tense up. 

The tiniest whimper of pain escapes you and Sylus pauses instantly. 

“Don’t pull out.” You exclaim, followed by another whimper that sounds much more akin to something pleasurable. “Just hold still for a bit.”

“Thank you for telling me, Sweetie.” He says and proceeds to carefully lift one of your legs to rest over his back. 

Sylus’ hips remain stagnant but his kisses are endless. When he feels your hips moving slowly upwards to meet his, he picks up where he left off and sinks further into you. 

Breaths filled with pleasure and relief fill the room before they are replaced by satisfied moans. His sound stupidly sexy, of course. 

He keeps a slow steady pace, still reluctant to push himself all the way in. You don’t even notice there are still a few centimeters that have yet to be enveloped in your warmth. 

“Are you ready?” He asks. 

“For w-what?” You can barely get the words out through the haze of pleasure he’s providing. 

With a final slow thrust he buries all of him deep inside you at last. 

“Oh! Sylus! Ah!” The pain has almost completely dissipated and you feel full in the best way possible. 

One hand snakes its way under your back, keeping you tucked snugly against him as he moves his hips into you. The other hand blindly searches for yours guided only by a need for the pressure of your fingers tethering him to you. 

Finally, he’s yours! You can touch him, kiss him, talk, joke, play, no one can tell you you’re not allowed to love each other. 

You smile against the crook of his neck eager to uncover the secrets of the future with him. With your Sylus. Suddenly life seems a little less daunting, feeling bored had become a foreign concept the day you met him and you felt dedicated to explore what lies ahead with him by your side. 

This giant of a man who could probably snap you in half if he wanted to, is treating you like exquisite fine china as he showers you in the most tender adoration. 

Somehow, he’s making you feel like you actually deserve it. 

“Nng… Sweetie, you’re taking me so well. I never thought I’d — mmh! Can I cum? Is it ok if I cum?”

“Cum for me, Sylus. Please, cum for me.” You whimper as you trail warm kisses across his shoulder. 

His body instantly tenses and he holds you even tighter as his hips thrust deep for the final time. 

Your only regret is that you couldn’t see his face as he came. That would be a priority for next time. 

“I’m sorry, Sweetie. I was caught off guard.”

“Don’t you dare try to apologize for anything, not now! I already came once, now we’re even.” You kiss his cheek and wrap your arms firmly around his broad back. 

“I’ll make it up to you.” He says as he tries to pull away, but you won’t let him. 

“Nah-ah! Do whatever the hell you want, as long as you can do it from right here.” 

He chuckles deeply, voice sore and slightly roughened from the strenuous activities. 

“Fine, I’ll stay right here.” He whispers and returns your kiss with one of his own. 

It doesn’t take long before you feel a hand pressing itself in between your bodies clearly aiming for your sensitive clit. You did say he could do whatever he wanted as long as he didn’t move away, technically he’s not breaking any rules… 

The alarm was set intentionally early the next morning so that you’d have extra time to spend with each other, and time to concoct a master plan to ensure you both made it to campus without being spotted together. 

He made you breakfast, likely the only proper breakfast you’d had since before you started university. He kissed you, a lot. Claimed it was to make up for all the kisses he wouldn’t be able to give you for the rest of the day. You had no complaints, obviously. 

It felt strange to be in his class and try to pretend like you hadn’t had sex last night before spending the rest of the dark hours tangled together in his bed. It honestly sucked to have to pretend it didn’t happen, but you didn’t have a choice. A few more weeks, then you graduate, and an appropriate amount of time after that you’d get to openly have each other. You hated the wait, but he was worth it.

You’d already made a mental note to inform him of the fact that he can’t stare at you like you’re still naked underneath him when he’s in the middle of his lecture. The fact that you did the same to him wasn’t as big of an issue, cause the only one who could properly see your face was him. 

Suddenly the incessant blaring of a fire alarm reverberates through the entire building and the clothes you had mentally removed from Sylus’ body had to come back on. 

“Alright everyone, out the door. Slow and steady.” Sylus’ calm voice utters loudly as he gesticulates toward the door to his left. 

Everyone else is busy with themselves, too busy to notice how his eyes have been locked on you since the alarm began. 

Even if it’s just a false alarm, he needs to make sure you’re safe. There was no way he’d let you out of his sight once you both joined the rest of the evacuating students and faculty beyond the door. 

So you move slowly, ensuring that you’re the last person out before he joins you. 

The hallways are packed. Some people are stressed, others just happy to get a break. Out of the corner of your eye you spot a head of purple waves, clutching the arm of a blonde wearing a white knitted sweater. And right behind you is the familiar warmth of that embrace you were not supposed to fall into, but you did anyway. 

And you would do it again in a heartbeat…

AN: This is only my second attempt at writing smut and my first time with Sylus, hopefully it was enjoyable and I didn't disappoint any Sylus mains who might come across this 🥀 Thanks for reading! 🐦‍⬛ Likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! If anyone is interested in being added to the taglist, let me know!

Taglist: @babyx91 @lemurianmaster @morrigan87 @dawnbreakerswife @sylusgworl @seraphimcollections @plzdonutpercieveme @dailydoseofanimeawesome @paneratargaryen4312 @sapphic-daze

You scoffed at this idea but were quick to change your tune when you allowed Mephisto to sit on your lap or shoulder, smiling softly when the crow decided that you were an decent enough pillow to fall asleep on, you didn’t dare move from the coach and watched over Mephisto’s nap until they woke up again and pressed their beak against you in thanks for before flying off.

This became a reoccurring thing as you soon had to find something to put the little trinkets of shiny things the crow would give you every now and then, and you would let the bird use you as a perch whenever they wanted to the point where Mephisto rarely used the perches within the house you shared with Sylus anymore, not when you were nearby for the crow’s conveniences.

Sylus is glad you’re getting along now but what he hates is that he had to deal with Mephisto coming into view when he tries to kiss you, hug you, or give you any sort of affection whatsoever. It doesn’t matter where or when the crow was intentionally cock blocking him from scoring a kiss off of you or allowing him in close proximity to you and he wasn’t best pleased about that.

He wanted to kiss you in the morning? Mephisto was standing on your chest like an overprotective guard bird.

He wanted to give you a little tickle? Or a hug from behind? Mephisto is dive bombing at his hands to keep them away from you before perching on your shoulder proudly.

He wanted to have quality time with you without Kieran or Luke? Mephisto is already crashing the party by making themself the third occupant of your quality time.

Luke and Kieran find all of this hilarious.

It was supposed to be a simple stunt. It was never supposed to end with you in the back of one of the production assistant’s cars with them, Adam, hysterically crying while you’re laid out in the backseat holding your very much broken arm, contemplating where things went wrong in your life.

You were only on set because of a girl named Olive from your math class. She was complaining to your group about one of their stunt actors dropping out at the last minute because of mono, unable to get out of bed. It was a great opportunity for you to get another credit under your belt — regardless of it being a student film or not — and offered your services. You knew how to properly do the basic cheerleading stunts and techniques, which was needed for the role, and thought that the free pizza offered during the crew lunch break would be a nice reward to eat while you walked back to your dorm.

Now, you’re nursing your broken arm while the driver, Adam, continues to cry while the Mario Kart Rainbow Road song plays in the background. Olive is begging her lawyer father to find some way to sue you back in the event that you decide to sue her. She looks back at you every now and then with a worried look on her face. She turns into the phone and comments that she may fail math now that the smart person she cheats off of hates her.

Truly, what has your life come to?

The car comes to a screeching halt in front of the hospital. Olive gets out and opens your door, helping you out before she jumps right back into the car, her voice shrieking as she yells at Adam, “hit it!” It’s a comical sight, really. The car is like the gang in Scooby Doo when they begin to run but remain in place for a few seconds before they actually move. You watched as Adam burns rubber and the car launches itself across the hospital parking lot, disappearing from your sight while you stand in front of the emergency room doors, holding your broken arm close to your body.

You suck in a breath and turn around, shaking your head from the mild disappointment that overtakes your body. Maybe you should sue Olive since she just left you here. Eh, whatever. You knew what you were getting yourself into. A broken arm is just a minor set back, but that doesn’t mean you can’t put yourself out there for stunts! If anything, the cast you are sure to get on your arm will help protect the bone, so it really works out in the end!

The emergency room is calmer than you expected it to be. The waiting room is still flooded with patients, only a few empty seats here and there, but it doesn’t seem to be overwhelmingly busy like you would see in a movie. One half of the waiting room is filled with coughing people, clearly sick with something that you should stay away from, while the other side is with your people — the broken boned and concussed — and it was like a sight for sore eyes. Hell, just getting away from people with a simple head cold is a treasure in itself. You hate being sick. It is quite literally the bane of your existence.

You walked to the front desk, placing your broken arm on the countertop with a sharp inhale, the pain so much more bothersome than you thought it would be. Looking up from the forms you fill out, you notice the nurse staring at your arm. Deep purple and red bruises sit underneath your skin where your bones broke, right in the middle of your forearm. It was a nasty sight. One that makes your stomach churn just by looking at it. You turn back to the nurse and shake your head, trying to act calm despite the pain you feel.

“Tis but a scratch,” you say, quoting one of your favorite old movies that you consider to be a comedy classic. Who doesn’t love Monty Python and the Holy Grail? Judging by the unimpressed and slightly annoyed look on the nurse’s face, you finally reconcile with the fact that maybe not everyone has seen this movie you just quoted. You pick up your arm and clipboard, looking at an empty seat just up ahead. “I’m just gonna take this and…yeah.”

You turn around and begin to walk towards the chair, eyes fixated on the clipboard. It is unfortunate that you broke the arm that you write with, having to scribble in complete and utter nonsense to the best of your ability. The pen you stole teeters on the edge of the clipboard, ready to fall. Your broken arm sits on top of the clipboard, trying to keep it under its weight. You suck in a breath, moving your arm so the pen will roll towards your body instead of away from you, when you collide head on into someone’s back.

The clipboard falls to the ground. Your arm ignites form pain, the fiery feeling making your body take a screenshot, jaw dropped as the doctor in front of you turns around. A mix of a gurgle, gasp, and a cry barely makes it out of your mouth. Your eyes sting from tears, bottom lip trembling as you close your eyes. All you can do is stand there and wish for the pain to go away, hoping to disappear from the face of the earth if it meant that you did not have to feel your broken bones grinding against each other inside of your arm.

“Are you okay?” a familiar voice asks. You open your eyes and your jaw drops even further if possible. His expression reads confusion before he comes to the same realization that you do, the familiarity between two people rushing back to both of your senses.

It’s him. The hot doctor from last time. The one who took care of you after you skated right into him and earned yourself a concussion. The hot doctor is standing right in front of you and you, my dear, are a mess. You’re wearing a cheerleading uniform, one that is now dirty from the tumble you took into the ground, paired with the zombie makeup they put on your face. You’re covered with patches of blood and SFX makeup, making you look worse than you actually are, and your hair is just a complete mess with dirt and a few blades of grass from the ground tucked between the strands of your hair.

How fucking humiliating.

“Oh fuck,” you mutter under your breath, cheeks heating up from embarrassment. “You just had to be working today?”

“Being a doctor requires a very demanding schedule,” Zayne responds in a neutral yet matter of fact tone, tilting his head to the side. His green eyes take in your dissolved appearance, unsure if this is your normal state or a special circumstance that you found yourself in. “This is your fifth time here. You seem to be a glutton for punishment.”

“I am just a girl, Dr. Li,” you reason with him, tilting your chin up, “you cannot blame a girl for wanting to have a good time.”

“Does a good time always include a trip to the emergency room?” he asks with a shake of his head, a light laugh leaving his lips. He notices the way you hold your arm to your body, the bruised skin. He lowers himself to pick up the clipboard and pen, looking at the horribly messy handwriting. He silently connects the dots and shakes his head, fighting back the urge to smile at your helplessness. “Follow me. I’ll take care of you.”

Zayne casually guides you through the hospital. He quietly asked you the questions on the form while you answered, filling out the paperwork for you. You still feel super embarrassed, unable to even comprehend the fact that this doctor has made it his personal mission to take care of you whenever you step through the emergency room doors. Well, the first time was kind of his fault since he’s built like a a brick wall, but that’s besides the point. Zayne stops when you reach an empty room, allowing you to step inside first before he follows in after, closing the door behind you.

“I’m assuming you broke your arm,” Zayne asks. You nod and take a spot on the chair, watching as Zayne sits in the doctor’s chair and rolls across the floor, settling in front of you. He wears navy blue scrubs, discarding his white lab coat after you stepped inside of the examination room. He smells like cleaning supplies, mainly the soap from the hospital’s bathroom, and a light hint of jasmine from his shampoo. “May I see?”

“Sure,” you nod. Without really thinking and pushing the pain away, you hold out your arm for him to look at.

It’s comical how your arm is straight until it isn’t. Your hand follows the law of gravity and falls towards the floor, your arm hanging at a ninety degree angle. The break is in the center of your forearm, both bones having snapped from the fall. You have to hold back a laugh at Zayne’s expression, the way his eyes widen in horror from behind his glasses at the sight. He knew it was bad but he didn’t know that it was this bad. His eyes flicker to yours, hands gently attaching themselves to your arm to guide it towards the table beside you. You suck in a breath and he quietly apologizes, watching as he moves your arm into the correct place.

“Well,” he speaks with a hint of dry humor in his tone, “I can confidently diagnose you with a double fracture. As for your other wounds,” he gestures to the SFX makeup on your arms and legs, the fake lesions on full display, “I may have to suggest amputation. Perhaps we should put you down instead...put you out of your misery.”

“Ha-ha,” you sound out your laugh with an eye roll, “very funny, Zayne, thank you for your humor.”

You snort, laughing at how serious and dry his tone is. Or maybe it’s from the intense pain you feel. Maybe both. Both is good. The corners of his lips perk up for the briefest moment before falling, his eyes returning to your arm. It makes him feel good to know that you can smile despite breaking your arm in a horrendous way. Clearly, you can handle your fair share of pain because it was just a week ago when a forty year old veteran came into the emergency room with a less extreme broken arm; he was crying his eyes out from the pain, begging for pain relief. His eyes move over your body, taking in the sight of the bloodied cheerleader uniform, the anticipation bubbling inside of his chest, ready to hear the story behind the outfit.

“We will not know the severity of the fracture until we get an x-ray of it. You will need a surgery to ensure that the bones are properly realigned for the healing stage, that much I know for sure,” Zayne moves around the room while he speaks, hiding his amused smile from you, “since it’s a double fracture, we’ll need to undergo surgery to fix your bones into place. There’s an opening in an hour that we can get you ready for so you don’t have to wait long.”

He reaches into a nearby cupboard and pulls out cleaning supplies, likely to clean up the makeup and SFX makeup on your body, and places them onto the table. He rolls to the door and opens it up, ordering an x-ray from a nearby nurse, before he rolls back towards you. He grabs the towel and runs it under the water of the sink, immediately fixing himself at your side once again before his eyes flicker to you.

You watch him with a small smile on your face. One that’s both thankful and warm, loving seeing the way he works, how he can switch between being Dr. Li and Zayne. You much prefer Zayne, the one who offered up powdered donuts the first time you were in the hospital, the one who stayed by your side until the head of neurology himself came to take over your case. Dr. Li is fun too, though, with the way he operates around the hospital with ease. The way he is listened to and respected by the nurses and other doctors.

The smile on your face, though, is made out of something more. Something new and fresh, a bubbling excitement that makes your stomach flutter and heart skip a beat whenever his hazel eyes meet yours. You adore just how easy things come with Zayne, how you can easily laugh at his dry humor and deadpan tone, how just a simple touch from him is enough to make the pain in your arm go away. It is something that you want to hold onto, even if it means hurting yourself in the future with the hopes of seeing the doctor again.

“Tell me,” Zayne speaks, capturing your attention from your own mind, “how are you planning on explaining your other wounds?”

“Oh, that’s simple actually,” you brighten up with a smile, leaning forward as Zayne gently cleans the makeup off of your broken arm. His touch is light and delicate, ensuring your comfort. “I am pushing the boundaries of society by pursuing my passion in cheerleading, even in death as a zombie. I am breaking glass ceilings and arms, Dr. Li, as a loud and proud zombie.”

“A zombie,” Zayne murmurs the words, humored by your enthusiasm. He remembers you telling him about your dreams of becoming a stunt woman, slowly realizing that this is one of those instances. “Is this another one of the films you were working on?”

“Unfortunately,” you laugh, using your non-broken arm to peel off the dried liquid latex, revealing your bare skin underneath the fake lesion on your body. “The plot doesn’t make sense, like, at all, but a job is a job.”

“And how much are you being paid to do this?” he asks, unable to contain his professional curiosity as he tosses the towel away, grabbing a new one.

“Free pizza,” you smile at his reaction, a look of exasperation and disappointment flickering across his face.

“Pizza?” he repeats, unimpressed with the form of payment.

“Pepperoni pizza, Zayne,” you wiggle your eyebrows at him, trying to get him to be impressed with you. “It’s probably cold now. That sucks."

“Everyone knows cold pizza is the best,” Zayne comments. You widen your eyes and tilt your head to the side, impressed that he would even know of such a delicacy. When you don’t respond, though, is what prompts Zayne to double down on his comment. “Obviously, pizza fresh from the oven is the best. But leftover pizza is best cold. When it’s reheated, it becomes a weird texture…why are you laughing?”

“Nothing!” you try to contain your chuckles, slight delirium from the pain in your arm taking over your body. “I just think it’s cute that you feel so passionately about leftover pizza.”

“Would you prefer to talk about brains?” Zayne humors you, leaning forward, the grin on his face slowly forming. “I heard that zombies consider the hippocampus to be a delicacy.”

That only makes you laugh more.

“Good job, you two!” Doug yells at you and Peter from the sidelines, watching as an elaborate fight scene unfolds in front of his eyes.

Zayne stands beside Doug, wearing a casual outfit. Well, casual by his standards. He wears black dress pants and a black shirt, black sunglasses on his face to shield himself from the sun that seeps through the open warehouse doors, the sun ready to set at any moment. His arms are crossed over his chest while he aches the fight scene run at full speed, his eyes focused on you and you alone.

Zayne’s eyes track your body with the utmost precision. His body tenses whenever one of the other men swing at you, their fists narrowly missing your body as you dodge. He remembers all of the injuries he nursed when you were together. A multitude of broken bones, road burns, bruised bones, and torn ligaments and muscles. Every single one coming from this dangerous profession of yours, one that you happily jumped into without another thought on your body’s wellbeing.

What was it that you said back then? That you would rather die in an exhilarating manner than something boring?

Your hands are handcuffed together, the character you’re stunting for having been captured by the male lead. Peter and you are basically attached at the hip, using each other’s momentum to land fake punches and kicks. Sweat rolls down your face as you duck beneath an arm, letting out a shriek as instructed so Tally, the director, can see what the actual scene would look like in action.

Her actors, Tiffany and Matthew Hardy, have yet to show up to stunt rehearsals yet. Their agents are acting weird, stating that they have bigger fish to fry than to properly learn the fights for when they’re needed on camera. So, the pressure on you and Peter has been turned up, essentially taking the places of the actors.

Peter grabs the metal between your handcuffs after you swing your arms in his direction, allowing him to pull you into his chest. The two of you dodge in sync, working together as the other stuntmen work through their own fight choreography. When he pulls you back to him, a quiet gasp leaves your eyes, eyes meeting Zayne’s darkened one from over his shoulder. You remain close to him as instructed, watching as he pretends to shoot the people from all around you.

The stunt people fall when Doug yells out the ‘bangs’ from the guns. He yells your name as a cue and you slip from Peter’s grasp, rushing away just like the scene instructed. The rest of the stuntmen stop the scene as it evolves to just you and Peter, the man quickly following after you You hop onto a balance beam, something to act like a metal beam since the scene takes place in the middle of a skyscraper construction site, and jump off of it, pretending to hook your handcuffs onto something before properly landing on the ground, rolling before springing back up to your feet.

Zayne contains his flinch as he watches you collide with the floor, relaxing when you stand up with ease and a smile on your face after Doug calls ‘cut’. 

“Perfect!” Doug and Tally call out at the same time, clapping their hands together.

You smile at them, out of breath from the fight scene. Tally compliments every single one of the stunt people with a high five while Doug issues out his criticism, pointing out where they need to fix certain parts of the fight scene to make it safer and more realistic. Your eyes fall onto Zayne, who diverts his gaze as soon as your eyes meet, busying himself with a stunt person who has a complaint about a sore wrist. You turn away and look at Doug, who approaches you with Peter at his side.

Questions burn in the back of your mind. You know that you shouldn’t care about what he has to say about your stunt performance. Zayne is by no means a stunt professional, although he definitely saw his fair share of injuries in the emergency room during his clinical years, and he definitely shouldn’t have an opinion on if you were good or not. You definitely don’t need to know if he thinks that you’re a professional badass now nor do you need his acknowledgment that you were graceful during the fight scene despite depicting the role of a victim.

“Alright, so there is one small thing we need to fix that involves you two,” Doug’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. The world comes back into focus, blinking your vision back into use. You didn’t even realize that you were staring at Zayne, who simply looked back at you with slight concern written across his face. You tear your gaze away, cheeks heating up from embarrassment.

You step towards Doug and listen as he explains the new move, something that Tally wants to implant with a new camera movement into the scene. You walk and listen, watching as Doug and Peter slowly walk through the move with Doug in your spot. You soon take his place and stare straight ahead as Peter wraps an arm around your chest, pulling you close to him, acting as his captive in the movie Too Many Bullets — and yes, the movie has changed it’s name due to studio interference which is just the worst — and yet your eyes move back to Zayne, watching as he works with the stuntman on break.

Zayne stands off to the side, just straight ahead. He’s helping wrap the stuntman’s wrist yet his eyes are focused on you while murmuring basic care instructions to the man that definitely knows how to take care of a sprained wrist by now. His eyes drop to Peter’s arm that holds you to his chest, the way your cuffed hands hold onto his forearm. You suck in a breath, unsure if the heat in your cheeks is from a blush or from slight embarrassment that Zayne is now the one who gets to watch you at work, the man always having shown up after you were done with being a daredevil.

You are stuck in your mind, trapped in the memories that resurface from your old relationship with Zayne. Before you know it, Peter quickly moves after Doug yells out ‘action!’, the man yanking you back as if he is pulling you away from a punch. You gasp, genuinely taken by surprise since your focus was on Zayne and not the stunt at hand. Peter’s arm slips up your body, his forearm connecting with your throat. He inadvertently chokes you out in a headlock while looking back, pretending to shoot at imaginary people. You let out a surprised gurgle, eyes flying open, signaling for the stunt to be stopped as your airflow is cut off.

“Shit! Cut!” Doug immediately steps forward, hands reached out towards you.

Just as he is about to make contact, Zayne quickly steps in and pulls you towards him. He cups your face and looks down at you, eyes quickly scanning across your face to see if anything is wrong or broken. A simple cut would be enough to send him over the edge. His eyes finally move on to you, the green shades of his iris sending shocks throughout your body.

“Are you okay?” he asks, concern in his low voice, “can you breathe?” You nod, unable to force a single word off of your tongue. Zayne turns away and looks at Doug, who can’t decide who to look at, his hands falling from your face. Suddenly, you’re able to breathe again, letting out a deep breath as Zayne addresses the stunt coordinator. “I think that should be all for tonight. It’s late and they deserve a break.”

“Good idea,” Doug tears his gaze off of the image of Zayne being so…protective over you. “That’s a wrap for today everyone! Get home safe! We have an eight a.m. call time tomorrow so be ready! I heard that Emilia will be bringing donuts!”

The room erupts with quiet ‘oohs’ and laughter. Even you laugh, breathy and slightly wheezy, before Zayne turns to look at you, the worried expression still on his face. You can feel yourself soften up looking at it, buried emotions slowly beginning to unearth. Emotions and feelings that you haven’t felt in five years. You tear your gaze away, stepping around Zayne and holding your hands out for Doug to remove from the cuffs. Once you are free, you immediately scurry away, disappearing among the crowd of other stunt people while you gather your belongings.

You try to busy yourself with grabbing your water bottle, shoving it into your backpack, pretending as if Zayne isn’t standing off to the side while he discusses more safe protocols when practicing stunts with Doug. You ignore the fact that his eyes are glued to the side of your face, the way he pretends that he is looking at something else during the conversation. Zayne excuses himself from the conversation when you stand up, pulling your sweatpants over your legs and tossing your backpack strap over your shoulder. You turn away and stare at the warehouse’s exit, watching as they begin to close the large doors.

If you run really fast, faster than you have before, then maybe you can escape before Zayne—

“May I offer you a ride?” his voice comes from behind you, snapping you back into the real world. You turn and look up at him, gripping onto the strap of your backpack like your life depends on it. “They have you housed in the hotel in Azure Square, correct? I overheard Emilia talking about it. It’s on my way home. I can drop you off.”

“Zayne,” you breathe out his name, feeling your cheeks heat up all over again. “I can’t. You shouldn’t, I mean, it’s out of your way and I can catch a ride with the others—”

“Please,” he lowers his voice, “I would like to speak with you…you’ve been avoiding me all week.”

Something in it makes you pause, hesitating to decline his offer. Is it the sudden vulnerability that he shows in his face? The softness of his voice. The way he unconsciously reaches for your hands before drawing back into his place, his hazel gaze turning to the rest of your body, trying to distract himself by finding any other kind of injury on your body.

He remains in his spot but you know that if you were alone, he would act like he always did in your relationship. To take a step forward and bring your hands into his, his hazel eyes burning into yours. You can smell the scent of his shampoo, having remained the same over the years you were separated. It lures you in with the sweet promise of reliving old times with him, with the man you loved so dearly before you broke his heart in the form of a letter, the ink stained page burned into your shared memory.

“Okay,” you quietly respond, your voice just above that of a whisper. You are going against the screaming voices of your mind, unsure if this is a good idea, if it is worth going through the eventual pain of addressing the past and the way you left him without another word.

You tear your gaze away from him, clearing your throat. The majority of the stunt people have taken their leave, probably heading off to some protein and carb filled dinner to try and make up for the amount of exercise that they went through that day. Zayne’s company is the better option anyways. There is no pressure to lie about the stunts you have done, to make yourself seem more badass than you actually are. With Zayne, you know that you can be yourself. That you don’t have to compensate for the fact that you aren’t trained to properly skydive yet or that you just learned how to properly roll a car for chase scenes.

Zayne steps away for a quick moment, gathering his briefcase and other belongs before finding you at the exit, saying goodbye to your co-workers. He lingers behind, not wanting to intrude. He watches with a close eye, the warmth from your familiarity heating his ice cold skin. Your smile has remained the same even after all of these years, bright and warm as you contribute to the conversation. Even your laugh is still as goofy as it was before, wild and untamed. It’s enough to make him miss you. His eyes flit to your hands, the way they squeeze onto the backpack strap for dear life. You’re nervous, your chuckles slightly strained.

Even after all of this time, he still knows your tics. He doesn’t know whether to be proud or ashamed of himself.

Zayne steps forward, finding his space at your side. He gently slips the backpack off from your shoulder, moving it onto his own. He stares at the group as the conversation comes to its natural end, your co-workers dispersing while you stay behind. You slowly turn to look up at Zayne, your smile faltering when your eyes meet his icy face. Well, you knew that it was just Zayne beneath the cold demeanor, that he does not feel the need to put a mask on to save the feelings of others. A blunt honestly that is always spread across his expression and yet you could never truly see what it is he was feeling in that moment, relying not he sound of his voice instead.

“Did you have a good day?” Zayne asks, tilting his head to the side. His voice is gentle and soft, genuine in wanting to have a conversation with you. “You did well today. You drank water when needed and took proper breaks when you were tired. You also—”

“Zayne,” you breathe his name out, interrupting his train of thought. He falls silent, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I had a good day today thanks to the doctor who advocated for all of the stunt people’s well-beings. Thank you for that.”

“Of course,” Zayne’s expression softens. He truly does appreciate your words, the way they come to you without having to be forced. The way you know when to stop him while he’s ahead.

A silence falls between you and Zayne. You look away, staring off at the Linkon city lights to give yourself something to do. The twinkling lights are pretty, even as the sun begins to set beyond the horizon. He attaches his eyes to the side of your face, taking in the way the warm colors of the sunset fall onto your face so beautifully. The wind’s breeze is gentle, picking up your stray strands of hair, pushing them to the side of your face.

He remembers how he always carried a headband with him, one made for sports, of course. He made you point it out to him in the sports store during one of his days off from the hospital. Admittedly, the doctor bought multiple sets and stashed them secret places so one would always be available to you. He would always pass it off to you so you hair would stay out of your face while you walked to his car, hand in hand, with a smile on your face. The doctor always liked having it on him so he can see your face better.

Zayne instinctively reaches into his bag, slyly fumbling around before the tips of his fingers brush against the familiar material. He pulls it out, the tie dye material bright and vibrant. Blues and whites with a hint of green. He clears his throat and you turn to look at him, the smile returning onto your face. He holds the headband out to you, withholding the blush in his cheeks, the embarrassment that he has not gotten rid of his habits. The ones he made while dating you. While in love with you. Hopeless and helpless. The way he changed so many aspects of his life to fit you into it, a wildcard that always kept him on his toes.

Old habits die hard, he supposes.

“Shall we?” Zayne asks, watching as you take the headband from him with a nod.

Zayne’s car is different. It’s much more expensive than the older model he drive while you were in college and he was doing the last rounds of medical school in Skyhaven. You remembered the white paint, the chips in its surface from years of wear and tear under the Skyhaven sky. The leather seats were beginning to peel away from the chairs and the engine vibrated every five minutes, trying to keep itself alive. You happily called the passenger seat your home despite all of this and made yourself familiar to the car.

That is in the past, though. Now, Zayne’s dark gray car is sleek and expensive. The paint is not chipped and it looks like the engine purrs instead of coughing. As Zayne walks you to the passenger side of the car, he opens the door to the backseat, placing your bags in the back while you lean down, looking through the tinted windows. You gulp, unsure if you are even fit to sit inside of such an expensive piece of machinery, especially when you decorated his last one with a slurpee from the Harmonious Convenience store. You straighten your posture and turn to look at Zayne, eyes lingering on the string design of the car’s brand on the passenger seat.

“Nope,” you shake your head, already thinking of how you’re going to call a taxi or carpooled Uber, “this is too much. I can’t—”

“You can and will,” Zayne’s voice is calm and reassuring. He reaches behind you and grabs the passenger door handle, pulling it open as you step out of the way. He leans against the door and looks back at you, nodding his head towards the empty passenger seat. “Get inside. You can touch all of the buttons you want.”

“I know you’re trying to humor me right now and while I really appreciate it,” you begin, forcing a nervous smile onto your face, “but it’s too nice of a car. I mean…you know me, Zayne. You know I’m a mess and am bound to destroy something in your car.”

“It’s okay,” his voice instantly calms your nerves, “it’s insured.”

You blink at him, slowly processing his words. His lips don’t move, not even up into its usual sly smirk if he is joking. You narrow your eyes at him and he tilts his head to the side, raising a single eyebrow.

“Are you joking?”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean, was that a joke?” you ask, gesturing to nothing but his previous sentence. “About the car being insured.”

“I never joke about insurance,” Zayne shakes his head, “but I suppose I did say it in a joking manner to try and make you feel better.”

“Oh,” you breathe out and nod your head. You look away but remain in place, feet cemented into the ground. Zayne leans forward, looking at you from over the rims of his glasses.

“Did it work?” he asks.

“Not at all, no,” you shake your head. Your gazes connect again and his face slightly falls.

Zayne shakes his head and moves behind you, placing his hands on your shoulders. He gently eases you towards the opening of the car, helping you inside of the passenger side. He even bends down and helps guide your feet inside once you sit on the plush leather seat, stammering about how you’re scared your sweat is bound to ruin the leather material. Zayne doesn’t respond, not wanting to give into your fears or even begin to inform you how sweat will not ruin his car because it’s just not scientifically possible for it to happen after just one time.

Because this car ride is just a one time deal, right? That’s what the two of you are telling yourselves anyways.

The door closes and you suck in a breath, unable to bring yourself to move. The car smells new, you know, like that good ol’ new car smell before the funk of drive thru food and inevitable spills ruin it. You glance to the side, looking at the impeccable state of the vehicle. Zayne’s old car was a mess, yes, but he took such good care of it. Now, his new car is a sleek beast that shows no imperfections other than a single navy blue scrunchie that is settled around the gear shift. You blink at it, unsure who it could possibly belong to. Zayne wasn’t really a scrunchie person, always preferring the sports headbands you wore to keep his hair out of his face when he needed it (he would never openly admit to it, but he frequently uses them while in surgery because of how convenient it is when putting his surgical cap on). You clear your throat as soon as he gets into the car. The man catches you staring at the scrunchie before you turned away, a sense of dread washing over him like a sheet of ice.

“I can explain that,” he immediately speaks, wishing to dispel the thoughts that are undoubtedly running through your mind.

“It’s okay,” you smile at him. Zayne doesn’t believe in the genuineness of the smile. Hell, even you doubt if it’s a smile you forced or if it came out of happiness of his silent relationship status. “You don’t have to explain that you have a certain…” you go quiet trying to figure out the proper words. Zayne is polite enough to not interrupt. “…lady friend in your life.”

“I do not,” Zayne stops talking. He lets out a quiet chuckle, closing his eyes, and shakes his head. “Lady friend? Is that the term you’d like to go with?”

“Fine,” you huff out crossing your arms over your chest, “girlfriend! You and your girlfriend’s scrunchie, Zayne!”

His lips press into a thin line. The displeasure he tastes on his tongue is bitter. He fights the urge to laugh at you, the kind of laugh that stems from pure shock and surprise. Complete and utter shock at the fact that you would think that he would date another woman after you. He wants to laugh at the idea that he would even think about replacing the empty place in bed next to him, to fill the void that you left behind. He wouldn’t even know where to begin. Zayne doesn’t want to even think about it. He just wants to be near you, even if your fate is apart from one another and he is forced to watch you from afar, too close yet far enough to make him want to try and reach out to feel the warmth of your skin against his.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Zayne clears his throat. He instinctively curls his fingers around the steering wheel, pressing the ignition. The engine purrs. He glances at you before focusing on the road ahead, the headlights from his car illuminating the road ahead. “I haven’t dated since you.”

“Oh,” you whisper. You gather your hands in your lap, staring at the hangnails and torn skin on your fingers. The slight ache prevalent on your wrists.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him, to stare at the man whose mind has been consumed by the thought of you coming back after all of these years. You can’t bring yourself to face the fact that you have most likely ruined any chance of him putting himself out into the world, to try and find someone to take the place by his side. Someone to help him soothe the aching feeling of loneliness after a long shift at work.

Your mind wanders back to the days of you being stuffed inside of your dorm room. The way you always waited for his text that he was outside and wished to come inside or to steal you away back to his place so that you don’t have to listen to your roommate’s weird rambles about why they think the Joker is a relatable character. You try to not think about the way you always spotted him in the same spot from your dorm window, standing in the aisle between two dorm buildings with a sweet treat in his hands or flowers while he wore his scrubs. He always looked so tired after a long day at the hospital, especially the times he was thrown into the emergency room. His face always lit up with a small smile when he spotted you, waving to you with one hand while nodding his head to the car that was parked just to the side.

Oh, how your heart aches at the memory.

“It’s…an old habit I picked up on for you,” Zayne quietly admits while shifting the car into drive, “you didn’t like having them on your wrists so I always put them there. I suppose it’s second nature for me to have it there.”

His words twist the knife that you drove into your own heart. Your stupid mistake of dumping him through a note and emptied apartment while he was working a double at the hospital, the last few days of his fellowship before he became a full fledged cardiac doctor, specializing in the organ that had you enamored while he spoke about it. You remembered the way he cuddled you from behind in your small dorm bed. His long and slender fingers pointing out the two different ventricles of the heart and explaining the purposes of the different arteries and veins. He even made a joke about how the heart as a sinus just like our heads do but the joke flew over your head.

The car ride is silent except for the soft murmur of the radio. It’s a radio station that speaks about new advancements in technology in the medical field. They also talk about new research findings, even mentioning Zayne’s name when it comes to research on protocore syndrome and its effects on the body. Your ears perk up at the mention, staring at the dashboard screen as if the person behind the microphone is speaking directly to you. You glance at Zayne, ready to ask him any and all questions, but fall silent when you notice his lips pressed into a think line, eyebrows slightly furrowed as the car slows with the rush of evening traffic.

His car comes to an inevitable stop. The minutes begin to tick by. The traffic does not move, barely inching forward as police officers and hunters rush onto the scene. The sounds of honking cars fills your ears, overtaking the quiet sound of the radio station. You clear your throat in an attempt to dispel the awkwardness that settled into your body. 

You’re ready to combust from the awkwardness. From the silent tension that neither of you wish to fully address. Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your shirt, the air from the air conditioning making you cold. You reach into the backseat, grabbing a hoodie out from your backpack before throwing it over the top of your body, covering the tie dye material of your shirt. You adjust in your seat and buckle your seatbelt back in, earning Zayne’s attention.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” you nod, looking back at him, “just tired. And hungry...really hungry.”

“Would you like to get dinner?” he asks another question, one that makes your body go still. He picks up on this, watching as your divert your gaze to the outside world. “That’s okay. Another time, then.”

The cars begin to move. Hunters and police officers stand in the traffic with yellow vests and light sticks to help direct traffic into two directions. You huff and look out the window, wishing for some kind of release from the boringness of the car. Sorry, Zayne, but your medical radio station just isn’t cutting it and you’re too polite to ask to change it.

That’s when you spot it. A Harmonious Convenience Store. A holy grail in the dead of night that makes your stomach rumble. You sit up in your seat, eyes set on the golden warm lights. You turn to Zayne, gently tapping it shoulder. When he turns to look at you, he already knows what you want, the faint glow of the store making it look like you have a halo. Or perhaps that’s just how Zayne always sees you as…an angel. His angel.

“Sure,” he nods his head, answering your question before you even ask it.

It’s not long before Zayne rolls down his window to alert the police officer that he needs to get off of the next exit. They help stop traffic for him to safely drive you through it, your eyes still glued to the store. Saliva forms in your mouth at the sight. You think of all the goodies that the store has to offer. Freshly made baked goods and sandwiches, a plethora of ramen noodles and microwavable stir fries.

Your favorite section of the store, though? The enormous amounts of snacks and chips that they have available at any time of the day.

Zayne parks his car, slowly unbuckling his seatbelt. You have already jumped out of the car, though, and are rushing towards the convenience store. He shakes his head and chuckles, not realizing just how eager you have always been whenever you spotted a convenience store, let alone a Harmonious one. His eyes meet yours as you pull up your baggy sweatpants, your dark blue Skyhaven Medical School hoodie loose on the top of your body. He sucks in a breath at the sight, wondering why you kept it. Kept the one item of clothing that you stole from him all of those years ago.

You are a sight for sore eyes. Your hair is frizzed beyond belief and the oversized hoodie rides up your body as your raise your hands in the air, pointing to the sign with excitement written across your face. He doesn’t need to hear you call his name, the memory of his name rolling off of your tongue loud inside of his head. You look like an angel in the night under the convenience store lighting. His north star, the one thing that he knows will keep him grounded despite your desire to be up in the clouds, to reach new heights and to push new limits, to push him for something that he does not know if he can have anymore.

The Skyhaven University Medical Center’s logo stares at you. You blink at it, a light blue cast wrapped around your arm after the swelling from the surgery has gone down. The words are big and bold above the hospital’s emergency room sign.

It has been about a week since the surgery, since the last time you saw Dr. Li. Zayne. The dark haired and extremely handsome man who always seemed to make time for you whenever you showed up in his workplace. The same man who was there when you were discharged from the hospital, offering you a bubblegum flavored lollipop since the children in the ICU stole your favorite flavor: root beer. It was a consolation prize at best but when his fingers grazed against yours, the feeling was electric. A spark that ignited between the two of you.

So, you did what you knew best and decided to show up at the emergency room. Only, you aren’t hurt this time but instead are exhibiting stalker-like behaviors. You’re hanging outside of the entrance, unable to convince yourself to step inside to ask if he is even working today. You are simply here to try and repay him the same kind of kindness that he has shown you whenever you show up but in your own way. Instead of pushing ahead of other surgeries, you plan on taking him to the one place you consider to be home: the movie theater.

It is the place of magic. A place where people go to laugh, to cry, to care because everyone needs those emotions in their loves. It is that indescribable feeling of when the theater lights begin to dim. It transports the audience someplace they have never been before. They are not just entertained: but reborn. The dazzling images on the the huge silver screen and the sound that one can feel makes heartbreak feel good in a place like the movie theater. The heroes of the story are like the best of us and, well, stories feel perfect and powerful because at the movies? They are.

It’s a stupid plan, really. One that you definitely didn’t think through. You rock your weight back and forth on your feet, going from the heels of your feet to your toes, trying to pass the time. After an hour, though, hope feels lost. You huff out a breath of air, eyes staring at the hardened cast on your arm. You sigh, shaking your head while you address the light blue casing.

“Well, it was worth a shot. I’m a big idiot, but—”

“Are you hurt again?” Zayne asks from behind you. You gasp and turn around, shocked eyes meeting his calm ones. “I think this would mark the sixth time I’ve had to treat you. My prescription for you will have to be bubblewrap. Perhaps a prayer.”

“Hilarious,” you note and point at him with a smile, “but that’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh?” he muses, stepping towards you.

“Don’t sound so shocked,” you hold back a laugh, eyes traveling up and down his body.

He wears his usual blue scrubs, tired bags under his eyes. His black hair is messy and is sticking out all over the place. His backpack hangs from his shoulder, one hang gripping the strap. He shifts his weight to his back foot and looks down at you, the corners of his lips slowly tugging up. Dr. Zayne looks delectable, really, and you’re ready to jump his bones when he says your name, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Huh? What was that?” you ask, completely clueless. You step and lean forward as if it’ll help you hear him better. Zayne rolls his eyes and moves towards you, gently taking your cheeks into his hand. Your cheeks immediately heat up, a blush creeping onto your face. You look everywhere but his eyes, watching as he leans in close to you. “What are you, uh, doing?”

“I’m checking to see if you have a concussion,” Zayne murmurs under his breath. His eyes flicker to find yours. You sharply inhale, unable to look away from his gaze and tear yourself away from his cold touch. “You have a tendency to get them.”

“Just the one,” you whisper, trying to save yourself as much as you can.

“Oh?” Zayne’s smile grows by a millimeter.

“Don’t sound so shocked,” your blush deepens. His icy cold fingers feel nice on your face. It is almost as if they are meant to be there.

“Why are you here?” he asks in a stronger and firmer tone. He slowly pulls away, his cold hands leaving your hot cheeks. You bite your bottom lip, clearing your throat as you take a step back. Zayne crosses his arms over his chest and raises his eyebrows at you while you slowly recover from his sudden closeness.

“I, uh, remembered that we never got the date I promised you,” you nod your head as you speak, trying to sound confident and badass. “You know, from the one and only time I got a concussion—”

“That’s debatable,” Zayne shrugs.

“—okay ouch, but I was wondering if you had any plans for the rest of the night? Thought I could treat you to that date but away from the hospital cafeteria…I don’t know if I’m strong enough for the mystery meat in the meatloaf,” your comment causes Zayne to laugh, your smile growing brighter at the heavenly sound.

“I’m in my scrubs,” Zayne sighs, shaking his head ever so slightly, his black hair falling out of his face. “Is that okay?”

“Did you work with any infectious diseases today?” you ask with the wiggle of your eyebrows.

“Not until right now,” Zayne comments in his neutral tone, tilting his head to the side as you stare at him. “Your charts said you have cooties.”

“Oh so you’re a comedian tonight,” you nod, holding back your laugh but Zayne can tell by the smile on your face that you enjoyed it. You roll your eyes and reach into your pocket, ripping out a sharpie from the depths of your sweatpants. You hold it out to him, biting the inside of your cheek. “Before we go, you have to sign my cast. It’s only right.”

Zayne hums a laugh. He plucks the pen from your hand, taking another step forward to close the distance between you two. His eyes meet yours, humored and amused, before looking down at your light blue cast. A color that he helped pick out, by the way, since you were overwhelmed with the amount of colors that were available. He gently grabs your cast, drawing it just the slightest bit higher as he inspects the landscape. He hums to himself for a second, thinking to himself about the best place to place his name. Zayne’s hazel gaze moves back to yours before dropping to the cast, the man pressing the tip of the sharpie into the cast.

He slowly signs his name, focused on making it perfect, while you remain focused on him. Your expression softens, thinking it is so cute how hie brow slightly furrows when he’s focused on something, the way he gives it his whole attention so he doesn’t mess up. He is so precise with his movements. Every swipe of the pen is like a surgeon with a scalpel. You’re beginning to adore the way he works. The silent ferociousness, the way he quietly exhales once he’s done. He looks up to meet your gaze, slipping the sharpie back into your hand. You look down at your cast, your smile growing at the sight of his name.

Zayne.

Right at the very top of the cast on the top of your hand. It is in a place where you can’t help but look at it, his name forever available for you to stare at while you have to wear the cast. You can now think of him in math class when you drown out the professor’s ramblings about numbers, you can stare at it while you take on-campus bus back to your dorm where your weird roommate waits in their den. Zayne’s name will be on display for all to see, marking you as his without having to say a word.

“Right,” you contain your blush and look back up at the man, “let’s go! We have one stop to make…”

You and Zayne now stand in front of a Harmonious Convenience Store. He looks down at you with a raised eyebrow, hands resting on his hips. You turn to look up at him with a smile on your face, unable to contain the joy you feel whenever you step foot into one of these stores.

“What?” you ask, turning to fully face him. He mimes your actions and nods his head at the sign while his eyes remain on you.

“Are you on a budget?” Zayne asks, slight concern yet a hint of humor in his voice. He doesn’t know if he should be concerned about your financial status or if this is some cute way to get to know him. He has seen those FuzzBeed quizzes about what your convenience store food item says about you. Perhaps this is one of those times!

“No,” you roll your eyes, “I am not on a budget. If anything, this is the much fancier version of a vending machine so, Zayne, I like to think of this as an upgrade.”

“An upgrade,” he shakes his head and looks back at the sign, “what’s your true budget, then?”

“Fifteen dollars and a dream, Dr. Li! Fifteen dollars and a dream!”

Zayne watches you from the aisle filled with a multitude of chocolates. His fingers drag across the labels, his Evol icing the candy before they melt from the store’s slightly warm temperature. You have busied yourself near the sour candies, the watermelon and tropical flavors having captured your attention. He remains in his spot, unable to move, unable to believe that you’re right there, just a few feet away from him.

Is this a dream? Has he fallen into a coma that he can’t escape out of? Zayne has tried to find every logical and medical explanation as to why you agreed to let him drive you home in the first place. He is also trying to find a logical conclusion as to why he even allowed you to steal him away for the night, essentially acting as a willing prisoner as you burn your way through Linkon.

He aimlessly picks up a box of macaroons and a milk chocolate and caramel treat, slowly crossing the distance of the convenience store. His eyes fixate on you, watching as you try to pick between a sour and sweet watermelon candy and a bag of fruit flavored chews. He rolls his eyes and moves to stand behind you, reaching around your body to grab the bags from your hand, taking them into his own. You gasp and turn around, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Hey! I was still deciding,” you frown.

All of your anger disappears when you realize how close he is to you. You can smell the faint scent of his shampoo, the light hint of cologne he wears. His black shirt is perfectly fitted to his body. His eyes move to the candies you were deciding between. You take your time in staring at the scars on his hands, looking at how they disappear from underneath his sleeves.

“You’re staring,” he comments.

“Am not,” you immediately respond, your eyes moving to his pants and expensive shoes. Of course, he is dressed in his expensive clothes while you’re wearing cheap sweatpants from a super franchised grocery store chain. The wealth disparity between cardiac surgeons and stunt double has never been more prevalent. “I am simply wondering why you changed your shampoo.”

“I haven’t,” Zayne’s eyes move to yours, slightly narrowing, “the brand decided to change the formula to the jasmine scent.”

“Oh my god,” you shake your head, “please tell me you did not call the company to ask.”

Zayne’s silence is loud. Deafening, even. He look away for a split second before turning his attention back to you. He shakes his head to silently refute this claim but you know that the truth of the matter. He totally called the company. He can be such a fucking Karen sometimes.

You cover your mouth with your hand and gently smack his shoulder with the other shaking your head. You grab the candies back from him and make ‘tsk’ sounds as you step away from him, picking up a few extra bags of candy as you head towards the front of the store. Zayne follows in your wake, hot on your tail, and quickly takes his place at your side before you quickly turn down another aisle, the one filled with chocolates, and observe the desserts.

“It was a simple question I needed answered,” Zayne reasons with you, also finding slight humor in the matter but deciding that he has to double down in this moment so you don’t think of him as a Karen or anything worse.

“Uh huh, keep trying to save yourself I see,” you smile, reaching out to grab a bag of chocolate mushrooms. You turn and look at him, waving the bag in his direction. One of his favorites. You toss the bag and he catches it with ease, a breath of air leaving his lips. “You’re crazy, Dr. Li.”

“I am merely a customer who wishes to remain satisfied,” he responds, voice softening as he looks down at the chocolate mushrooms. They’re cheap compared to the other candies in the aisle. Small chocolate shaped mushrooms that are just delectable. He looks up and reaches out, quickly taking the candies in your hands back into his arms, not wanting you to carry everything. “I see you’re still on a budget.”

You laugh. The sound is so sweet and airy to Zayne. It immediately dispels all of the nervous energy he holds in his body. He lets out his tension in a huff, the small smile returning to his face as you approach him with more bags of candy, chocolate, and savory items in your arms. You dump them into his since he was so kind to offer his services and pat his shoulder, brushing past him. Electricity shocks between your bodies, the two of you ignoring the feeling.

“I have a higher budget now actually,” you comment as you pass by, “I have twenty dollars and a dream.”

You leave his vicinity, your laugh echoing inside of his head. Zayne remains in place, closing his eyes. He memorizes the sound, the joy in your giggles and just the happiness that you feel.

It makes Zayne feel whole again. The hollow space where his heart used to be is slowly filled with your presence once again, the warmth from your smile making the eternal winter he’s been stuck in begin to change seasons. Spring is just around the corner and he hopes that nothing changes. That he gets the chance to stay in your life after this, that once filming is over, you won’t disappear in the wind once again. That he can at least get your number so he can check in on you while you’re running away to the next big thrill of your life.

Would it be selfish of him to ask if you ever found him to be thrilling? To be as exhilarating as the stunts you perform? He remembers your words so clearly, the admiration you had when you spoke about Buster Keaton, the original daredevil of film. He showed him all of the crazy stunts he did, videos dating back to the 1920s when a new era of film was just beginning. The man was crazy. A certified nut job who jumped from moving trains, stood in just the right spot as a building’s wall was dropped from all around him. He distinctly remembers the way you face lit up when you watched the black and white silent films, the joy in your eyes while the two of you were cramped into your small dorm bed.

Zayne can only stand here and wish that he is…was as important to you as being a stuntwoman is.

He chooses to remain silent, though. To bask in the sadness of the disappointment he made of his own accord. He was the one who thought that he could have changed you, to keep you stationary and in one place instead of being picked up by the wind. He doesn’t want to bring up the past, the dirty and uncomfortable truths that have yet to be spoken between the two of you. The last thing Zayne would want to do in this moment — a moment so perfect and calm and serene — is to ruin it. To start up another nasty argument between the two of you. To raise his voice like he has in the past, his desire to keep you by his side causing him to lose his cool.

Only you have seen that side of him. The nastiness of his selfishness to keep you by his side. The way his face turned red from yelling, the disappointment in his voice after seeing you in the emergency room due to another injury after you promised him to be safe and to not get hurt. He knows that accidents happen, but whenever they happens to you, he can’t help but feel as if he has failed you, that he should have been there to catch you as you fell.

“Zayne?” your voice lulls him free from the white noise of his mind.

The doctor looks down at you, eyes slightly widening. He clears his throat and reaches up to busy his hands, pushing his glasses up his face. You tilt your head to the side, reaching out. You gently place your hand on his forearm, your touch igniting his skin like fire. You close the distance and now he is the one who gets to smell the scent of your shampoo and body wash. His cheeks and ears turn a light pink color, slightly embarrassed.

“Are you okay?” your voice is quiet and soft. Oh, how he wishes that you would yell and scream at him like you have in the past instead of being so…kind. You have always been so kind, especially when he didn’t deserve it.

“I am,” he nods his head and pushes away the heat from his cheeks. He looks at the cashier and clears his throat again, unable to fully dispel the awkward feeling in his body. “I am simply worried how you will be able to afford all of this with twenty dollars and a dream.”

“Thank Astra I have someone who isn’t on a budget,” your smile is infectious. Beautiful. Effervescent. Everything that he has missed so fucking much these past five years.

He follows you like a lost puppy to the front of the store. He drops all of the bags onto the counter, the loud crinkles and sounds of plastic hitting each other filling his ears. He reaches for his phone to pay, his eyes noticing that you’re focused on your phone.

Your screen showcases Linkon’s movie theater website. The array of tickets and the corresponding films stares back at you. All of them are good options and span across a wide variety of genres. You immediately shake your head as you pass by the horror movie option, not wanting to be scared tonight. You roll your eyes at the romcom action movie that rejected your stunt application. Zayne reaches over as the cashier bags the candy, his finger gently swiping to the next option.

A mystery movie. An option to buy tickets and be surprised as to what plays.

You glance up at him, a small smile on your face. You raise an eyebrow, a silent question, and he simply nods in response. You nod back in confirmation and turn your attention back to the phone, paying for two tickets towards the back of the theater since it was about three quarters full. You were just thankful that it was in the middle of the screen and not to the side. At least one part of your viewing experience won’t be ruined! The sound will be the only thing that’s off but honestly, it’s a sacrifice you are willing to make.

“Date night?” the cashier asks. Zayne’s eyes flicker to you but you’re not even paying attention as you fight through website that continues to reject your card information (you keep putting in the wrong expiration date). He looks back to the cashier and nods, quietly collecting the bags from him.

“She pays for the tickets, I pay for the snacks,” he repeats the same phrase you always used with one another when it was mandatory movie date night. An easy way to divide the finances of the night despite Zayne insisting that he pay for everything.

Zayne reaches out and taps your shoulder. You look up and turn to the cashier, thanking him before scurrying out of the convenience store. He follows after you, eyes fixed on the back of your head while you approach the passenger side door. He’s quick in opening it up, picking up the pace to close the distance. You quietly thank him and get inside, the man placing the bags of snacks onto your lap before closing the door. He walks around and settles into the driver’s side, looking over at you as the presses the button to start the car.

“Does it give any fun hint as to what could be?” he asks, trying to fill in the gap in conversation.

Back in Skyhaven, the mystery movie used to come with a hint as to what it could be. It would become a competition between the two of you, one that you won about ninety percent of the time. It was a fun time for Zayne. He always used his breaks asking around the hospital what the answer to the hint of “this movie has the first recorded on screen toilet flush” (the answer is Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho from 1960!). He refused to search up the answers and instead relied on context clues and help from his medical school friends. Hell, even his mentor, Dr. Noah, joined in on the fun and tried to help Zayne a few times. When Zayne took you to the theater, he would confidently guess a movie he has never seen before while you answered correctly, earning yourself a fun free gift such as an enamel pin or even a free poster. On the rare occurrences that Zayne would win, you would make him stand in front of the theater door with his gift in hand, smiling at the camera before you went in and found your seats.

“Mhm,” you nod your head, turning to look at him, “the movie’s hint is: this non-silent film includes eighty-eight minutes where it is completely dialogue free.”

Zayne can tell by the look on your face that you already know the answer. It is so obvious to you but is so obscure to him. If only there were fun hints that involved the human anatomy or heart that he could answer instead of film trivia. He purses his lips and looks away, putting the car into reverse as he silently thinks over the answer. The car quickly finds itself back onto the roads, the traffic now gone more the most part but with Hunters and police officers still directing the steady traffic.

“Alright, I see you, Zayne,” you chuckle from the passenger seat, “taking a method actor’s approach to this question. Gonna remain silent until we get there.”

“I know that the movie is old,” he nods his head as he turns down the city street, quickly finding his way to the movie that starts in just under a half hour. “It’s probably one of the ones you showed me…perhaps it comes from a highly regarded director if he was able to get the studio to green light eighty-eight minutes of silence—”

“There’s actually sound during it but whatever—”

“—and from what I have seen online recently, there is an anniversary for a movie coming up soon,” Zayne continues to ponder his answer aloud. You smile and nod along, helping nudge him in the right direction. “Is it a science fiction film?”

“Just say sci-fi, Zayne, but yes,” you brightly smile at him when he looks over at you with a slightly annoyed yet amused glare, turning his attention back onto the road.

“Is this a…personal favorite of yours?” he asks, the question hanging in the air as he turns into the parking lot.

“That is for you to find out,” you turn away, cheeks heating up.

Of course, Zayne would remember your list of favorite movies. Well, he actually remembers the multiple lists of movies you love. There is the objective list where the movies just objectively the best — this is the list he pulls his answer from for tonight’s movie — and there’s the list of your personal preference no matter how bad or good they actually are. Oh! There’s also the list of movies you like to watch when you need to decompress and the list of movies you watch whenever you need comfort.

Zayne expertly parks his car into an open parking spot near the entrance of the movie theater. The dazzling, golden lights lure you in, making you so excited to see one of the best films known to man on the big screen. You hop out of the car but keep the door open, leaning back inside to fetch the bags of candy. Zayne, who already knows the drill, walks to your side of the car, holding open the sides of his jacket so you can begin to stuff his pockets with the convenience store snacks. You smile up at him and begin, on a mission to stuff as much as possible into his pockets. He hands you his keys and phone, pocketing them on your person, and he looks down at you, holding back a small and loving smile, one that will surely give away his true feelings towards you. Feelings that didn’t fade with time like he expected them to.

“You know,” Zayne quietly speaks, listening to the rumpled sounds of plastic being forced into pockets and empty spaces on his body that he didn’t know he had, “we could just pay for the snacks inside—”

“Oh my Astra, Zayne, you know how I feel about that!” you stop stuffing his pockets, holding the bag of chocolate mushrooms in your hand. you wave it in front of his face, knowing that he said that to rile you up before you have to calm down to watch the movie. “Theaters are greedy with their food prices! There is no way in hell I am going to buy a small ass bag of these chocolate mushrooms when I can buy a bigger bag for a cheaper price at Harmonious!”

“Still passionate about concession prices, I see,” Zayne chuckles.

“If there are no haters against concession prices,” you hook your finger into his belt, pulling him closer to you so you can shove the chocolate mushrooms into his pants, “then I am dead. You better avenger me.”

“I will,” he quietly says, his face heating from a deep blush, “I promise.”

“Good,” you nod and turn around, closing the door. You look back at Zayne, who looks kind of ridiculous with his pockets filled with the numerous snacks but looks good enough to sneak it past the teenagers who work at the theater — they won’t even care anyways. You look him up and down, the man lowering his arms. The sound of crinkling plastic catches your attention and when he takes a single step towards the theater doors, the sound is more than noticeable. “Okay maybe we need to keep a few bags in the car…”

After ten minutes of reorganizing the snacks on Zayne’s body, leaving behind the bags of chips and bigger bags of candy in his car, the two of you have finally settled into your seats inside of the dark theater. The commercials are playing and the room is buzzing with excitement. You look over at Zayne as he tries to quietly unload all of the candy and chocolate into your lap, earning the slight glares from the people around you. You apologetically smile at them and take the last of the snacks before he settles into the seat beside you. After he relaxes into the chair, hands folded on his lap, you reach into your pocket and grab out the enamel pin he won from correctly guessing the movie.

You lean over and pin the design onto the collar of his jacket, the red spaceman bright against the black and gray fabric. He turns and watches you, a small smile spreading across his lips before it fades away, a slight ache forming in his heart at the sight of your matching yellow space man pinned to his old Skyhaven Medical School hoodie you wear.

“Who would’ve known that Dr. Zayne would remember 2001: A Space Odyssey?” you quietly muse, not wanting to further annoy the people from all around you. Your gaze is focused on the pin while Zayne’s is focused on your face. “I’m so proud of you. I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder!”

A sharp pain slices through his heart. The lights of the theater begin to dim and the loud sound of the movie’s overture — because yes, Stanley Kubrik did include an overture — fill his ears. He stares at the word on the screen before his gaze moves back to you, your gentle touch on his bicep as you lean in to whisper into his ear. He meets you halfway, something that he was accustomed to during your relationship, and quietly clears his throat.

“Did you know,” you whisper, breath hot against his chilled cheek, “that Stanley Kubrick hired Alex North to compose the score for the film. He didn’t like it, though, and decided to change it to an all classical soundtrack for the movie?” You pull away, a giddy smile spread across your face before you turn your attention back to the screen, ready for the movie to begin.

If someone were to ask Zayne what he feels in this moment, he would not know how to respond. He feels a mix of overwhelming emotions, unsure if being by your side is a good thing or not. Things between the two of you feel so right, so perfect. It is as if this is how things were meant to be, that you could disregard the five years spent apart and instead pick up right where you left off. Zayne could forgive the arguments, forget the pained words thrown at each other. He will promise to be more open with you about how he feels, about how he just wishes for you to be safe and okay. To come home in one piece instead of being wrapped in gauze and bruises.

Zayne wishes that he was a better man for you in the past. He was just twenty-two years old, though, and just completed his fellowship in the Skyhaven Cardiac Department. He was far more immature then than he is now. He received an offer to work at Akso Hospital, the one place he wished to work at. You, on the other hand, were planning on leaving Skyhaven and going someplace far, somewhere across the country where the film industry lives. He wanted you to stay with him, to leave for Linkon and to start a life with one another. He couldn’t see it then, the way you wished to live your own life outside of your relationship, to hold onto something you love so dearly just as he did. To follow your passion for film just as he pursued medicine.

He just wish that it didn’t drive you apart. That his selfish reasons are not to blame for you running away, leaving a simple note behind in your place. He does blame himself, though, for being the reason you left.

Zayne stares at you in the dark of the theater. He can feel a sting in his eyes, the memories of the past slowly resurfacing from the depths of his mind. He remembers all of the late nights you shared together, the way you fought to stay awake when he came back to you at odd hours of the night. He remembers giving you the key to his apartment, saving you from your weird dorm roommate. He remembers holding you when you cried, the pain from your latest accident making him wish that you never did the stunt to begin with. Zayne remembers the way his television screen lit up your face just as the theater’s screen does now. He remembers the path his eyes always look while watching you.

He started at your eyes, noticing the reflection of the film in them. Then, he followed the curve of your nose down to your lips, allowing himself to take his time in memorizing the new bruises and cuts that were etched into your skin. He’d move back up your jaw and the side of your face, always fighting the urge to tuck your frizzed hair out of your face before giving into the urge — an urge that he refuses to give into tonight — and would take notice of your posture, eyes taking in the sight of your shoulder as you found the comfiest position available, even in a public space such as this.

Zayne misses the way you placed your head onto his shoulder. He misses the feeling of your hair on his cheek as he used your head as his own resting spot, giving into the outrageous plot that unfolds on screen…even if the plot is about monkeys and them learning how to make weapons and new technology from the bones of their deceases fellow monkeys.

Zayne thinks that he should call his parents to check in on Sweet Potato, his adoptive monkey brother.

You let out a quiet sigh. His eyes focus onto yours. He watches as you readjust in your seat, the snacks in your lap quietly crinkling as the scene of monkeys fighting each other unfolds on the screen. He shifts to the side, silently offering up his shoulder for you to use. You glance at it then your eyes flicker up to him, eyebrows raised.

Are you sure? The silent question is written across your face. He nods.

Always.

You clear your throat just as the monolith comes onto the screen. You shift to the side, tilting your body towards Zayne.

That’s when it happens. You placing your head on his shoulder.

Zayne’s heart skips a beat. His face flushes from a deep blush, one that he hopes you don’t see as the movie unfolds in front of your eyes. He does not pay attention to the monkeys on screen or how the monolith acts like a catalyst for the monkeys to give into their violent urges while progressing technology forward to where humans are today. He licks his dry lips, remaining as still as possible.

He tries his best to slow his heart beat so that you don’t hear the effect you still have on him all of these years later, so you don’t realize just how fucked he is when it comes to falling in love with you all over again.

A frustrated groan fell from her lips as she placed her head on her laptop, the ‘v’ key being pressed down, causing her paper to flood with that letter.

“Is there a reason you’re filling pages with a single letter?” A voice asked behind her. She picked her head up, tired eyes greeting the man behind her who looked as tired as she did, if not more.

The library was rather dead tonight but that didn’t stop either of them from talking in low voices out of respect for the other overachievers amongst the shelves. She sat at a table facing a ceiling to floor window with a wonderful view of the city. Unfortunately, the city lights didn’t magically give her the right motivation for her work.

“Zayne… I thought you would have been tucked away in one of the study rooms.” She comments, her fatigue evident in her tone.

“Mmm… normally yes but they have all been taken. Finals are in a month and well…” he said before shrugging his shoulders a bit. Yes, she knew all too well how med students needed to study. She had been friends with Zayne for little over a year now, meeting in freshmen year in a history class of all things. The two were complete opposite fields yet still working in the sciences. She was studying STEM, just not his version. Zayne wanted to be a cardiologist. He was an overachiever at being an overachiever, already pushing into junior year credits for most in his sophomore year. He wanted to graduate early so he took classes throughout the entire day, racking up about 18 to 20 credits per semester just so he could become a surgeon faster. She wasn’t even sure that was allowed but he was doing it.

She, however, was barely able to manage a 13 credit work load. Then again, she didn’t share the same motivations he did.

“Can I sit here and work?” An unexpected question for sure. Zayne was a loner and the times they had studied together could be counted on her fingers. Her shock must have made it to her face because Zayne chuckled a bit before walking around the large table and sitting down without a second thought. She watched him confused as he pulled out all his books and his laptop. It was like clockwork how he began to study with no hesitation. She envied him. She envied him so very much.

As her music switched she realized that Zayne didn’t grab headphones. “Are you just raw doggin’ studying?” She questioned, gaping at him like a fish. There was no way-

“Um… if you mean not having distractions then yes. I work better with silence,” he answered, clearly taken back by her choice of words.

“Gods, you cannot be human-“ she mumbled before looking back at her screen and grimacing at the 3 pages of ‘v’s. She missed Zayne’s small smirk at her comment as she started highlighting the letters to delete them.

The two got back to work. She found it easier to work when the man across from her was so dedicated. She wanted to be like that so desperately. His ambition was beyond anything she could ever manage and she really wondered how he always did it. She knew he was lucky with his family supporting him because he didn’t have the time for a part time job like she did.

She wanted to ask if he ever had fun. Well she knew the answer to that. “This is fun” he would say with his nose still stuck in his book. She wanted to scream at that moment. Why did she have to be so burned out? Well she knew… Zayne had explained to her that in a recent study it was shown that student’s pain receptors go crazy when faced with the idea of homework like math. She wondered if Zayne felt that too…

Yet she continued to work, doing little dances when a good song would come on. It wasn’t long before motivation showed up and she was actually having fun with her studies.

She didn’t notice Zayne taking peeks at her every once and a while, a small barely there smirk present on his lips. He decided in that moment that he needed to study with her more often. He enjoyed her light presence and her whispered words while she revised out loud. It was interesting to see the way she would light up when a concept clicked or when something was getting really interesting. Like now he could see her practically buzzing in her seat over something.

“What’s got you so excited?” He asked, setting down a highlighter to give her his attention. He could use a small break to listen to her.

“Oh- sorry I didn’t mean to distract you,” she chuckled awkwardly, a blush creeping up her neck.

“You didn’t. I just know that look, what’s interesting?” He pressed, wanting to hear her ramble.

She looked a bit surprised before she took a few moments to consider her words before she launched into a rant about her current study material. Zayne didn’t really understand it. Her area of expertise was not his own. He listened though, finding it interesting nonetheless. His chin rested in his palm while he watched her. He admired her passion, how she expressed herself. It was clear she cared about what she spoke about, it was rare to find people who were passionate.

The rest of the night they sat in silence, only noises were her whispers and typing. It stopped when she leaned back and yawned loudly though.

“Calling it a night?” Zayne asked curiously. She looked at him with heavy eyes before nodding. “Definitely, I’m so tired. I finished enough for today.”

Zayne nodded, assuming she was just going to go. “Would you like to grab some food?” She asked him, eyes hopeful. Zayne looked around at his work, realizing that all he was really doing now was repetition. He had finished his work.

“Food would be nice. Do you have a spot in mind?” He asked while starting to pack his things.

“Um… no. What is even open this time of night?” She wondered while pulling out her phone to look.

“Ah, I know a stall that stays open all night.” He stood up, his backpack slung over his shoulder. He smiled while holding out a hand for her. “I could go for something sweet.”

“You could always go for something sweet,” she countered and Zayne just nodded with a small smile. She noticed a few months into their friendship how Zayne always had a sweet treat in class. He wasn’t a fan of history, normally opting to work on different subjects while the professor lectured. However, that work was always accompanied by a candy of some sort. She had started bringing her own as well, then soon they brought each other candy. She enjoyed their mostly silent exchanges. Neither of them really discussed their shared sweets, they just fell into the habit.

The two walked through the library in comfortable silence until they were outside. The air was chilly and she shivered as a gust of wind swept through her core. Moments later a long coat was draped over her shoulders.

Looking over, Zayne was now just in a sweater, his coat in her possession. “Zayne- you need your coat!” She tried to argue but he didn’t seem to worried.

“I’m used to the cold, remember… ice Evol?” He chuckled, using his hand to create a few snowflakes for emphasis.

“Right,” she grumbled before adjusting the coat to actually put it on and move her bag. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said simply before walking off, wordlessly leading the way to their sweet treat of the night.

Upon arriving she insisted he get something with more sustenance. Zayne pretended to be upset by this but his cheeks warmed from her insistence. He blamed it on the cold but in reality he was shy about having someone else care for his health. As an aspiring doctor it’s hard to focus on your own health. However, here she was, taking care of him like it was her job.

The two didn’t stay out much later and Zayne insisted on driving her home for the night. She didn’t give him back his jacket after getting out of his car and he didn’t say a single word to remind her that she was cuddled up in it. Instead, he just gave her a gentle smile and wished her a goodnight.

The smile he received back, sleepy and content, was enough to have his cheeks flushing all over again. She didn’t notice this time though, it was far too dark.

Zayne watched her go into her apartment, making sure she got in safely before driving off.

What Zayne didn’t know is that she had known she was still wearing his jacket but she wanted to see if he would ask for it back. She giggled to herself as she hung it neatly next to her own jackets by the door.

“What a gentle snowman…”