realdelulu💜

You felt your thighs clamp together tightly in an attempt at soothing the sudden ache his words spurred from your body. You weren’t sure if he realized it or not, but this was all you really wanted from him.

“Yeah? You like that, do you?” Sweat begins to build up against the smooth planes of his skin and he’s nearly irritated by it. So much so that he finally slips up and drops that gentle, kindhearted act of his, “Oh, I bet you do.” Your lips smooch down against his swollen base as he holds you in place—the faint tuffs of a white happy trail tickling your skin. “Tell me then, tell me how much you like having your mouth properly fucked. Come now, let me hear it.”

“Mmmph!” You mumble around him, batting your eyes up rapidly at him.

Qifrey chuckles. He did quite enjoy it when you tested him, and that feeling only doubled down when he saw you like this, “Still putting forth your best efforts even when—nngh… y-your mouth is all full of me. How cute.”

Your partner—never boyfriend, for reasons you’re entirely unsure of—gains that different shaded glimmer in his eyes all of a sudden. You relish in the feel of his dick drooling something pleasantly nasty down your throat and he seems to be delighted by the sight of it. That, and the sexy way in which you squirm in between his legs like you wanted him to be meaner to you or something.

“Slow, my love.” He tried to warn you, tried to apply pressure to your head and steady how quickly you sucked at his cock. “S-Slow down, I’m close.”

His voice was so delicate even as his orgasm approached and you found yourself moaning around his shaft as his tone wavered and pitched in reaction.

Then your hands met his legs and you gripped at him, lifting your gaze back up and swirling your tongue across every reachable vein he had to offer you. He wanted you to slow down again, but just like the last time, you refused to do so and proceeded to suck faster ‘n harder.

Things click for him right then.

“Ah? You want me to… oh.” His cock was throbbing all against the constricting walls of your throat and he knew you felt it. Even so, you still swallowed him in deeper and ignored how gags threatened to interrupt your actions. Qifrey found himself grinning, “You’d like to swallow it, would you?”

Naturally, you nod.

The witch before you was many, many things—but a complete pushover for you was not one of them. If you were going to actively disobey his orders of slowing down just to get what you wanted, then he was going to only allow your desires to come forth on his own terms.

Which is exactly why he holds your head as he pushes himself up to stand. You try to pull back as if you needed to breathe but your mouth is rapidly clogged by the length of his cock pushing forward in one, mean thrust.

His balls smack against your chin and he feels you whining around him as he grunts, “Naughty girl.” Qifrey readjusts his hands to the sides of your pretty face before letting out a soft sigh. Though, his calming exhale was rather opposite to the vicious look in his eyes as he began having his way with your mouth, “I do hope this-, hah… satisfies your fantasies well. Mmgh.”

You somehow gain the bratty nerve to try and wiggle your head away from his steeling grip and he seems to find that most humorous.

Cocking his head to the side and narrowing those rude eyes at you, “Still—keep still,” He groans, rolling his hips forward more thoroughly so that you could feel each inch of his cock twitch around your mouth. To his surprise, you manage to stop your squirming, and for that he smiles and says, “Goooood. Now swallow.” before cumming directly down your tongue.

When he soon pulls out of you, he’s left to watch gallops of saliva and his cum string between his tip and your lips. The sight should’ve been seen as disgusting, given how wet and sloppy it was. And yet he was still hard, still twitching in front of your face even as he panted to catch his breath.

It really was unfair how gorgeous of a partner he’d obtained.

He couldn’t help but want to fuck every drop of his frustrations out into you—especially when you were peering up at him with those glossy eyes of yours, looking as though you wanted to go again and again until he had his fill of you.

You move to wipe at your mouth, “Qifr—“

“Actually,” He’s cutting you off rather sharply, taking his dick into one hand and shuddering from the sensitivity of it before his feet shift his body closer to you. Then his other hand finds the top of your head and he’s glaring at you like you’re nothing more than some toy for him to make use of, “I quite enjoyed that.”

You blink once.

Qifrey had a tendency to focus on your pleasure most days, claiming that doing so is most enjoyable for him too. But you knew there was another side of him he wasn’t showing you quite yet, and apparently this was it.

His fingers disappear into your hair and his palm is nearing the back of your head. You knew he was about to absolutely ravish your throat based on the way he was holding onto you.

“Let’s go again, shall we?” Serves as the only warning from his plush lips. Then you watch him move his hand from his dick and to your jaw, tipping your chin up before he swipes a thumb over your cheek in awe. He hates water but it would be quite the sight to see it falling from your face all because of him, “Preferable until you’re crying… and after that, you’ll keep quiet about this. Understood?”

Qifrey had to make sure your silence was a given these days, seeing as you’d created a small habit of hinting at the intimate nights you experienced with him. And to make those matters worse, he’d found out that you shared these vague details with Olruggio of all people.

Hence why you’re pouting, “Not even—“

The witch cuts you off by nudging the hardened edges of his cock in between your lips all unevenly, letting his shaft gloss over your wiggly tongue and deep down into the back of your trachea—easily causing you to gag.

“You will tell no one about this.” He orders, yanking your head back so that only your lips are left to quiver around his tip, “Not a soul. Now nod if I’m understood.”

Obediently, you do.

Then his cheerful grin returns, despite that darkened look remaining present in his eye. “Good girl.”

Gulp.

he’s tired—can barely move, and yet, he still calls you to him.

“sweetheart,” his voice gruff, carrying a slight rasp as he beckons you. “c’mere please.”

a frown etches itself on your face, walking your way to him from the kitchen. “baby, ‘m almost done with din–”

you don’t get the chance to finish your complaint when he’s pulling you by the arm into his lap. a soft gasp leaves your lips at the sudden movement. then you’re settled, straddling the large expanse of his lap and you feel it. 

he wraps his arms around your body, flushing you against his chest. his lips press against the shell of your ear and he whispers, “don’t care about dinner, just let me hold my wife, yeah?”

he swears it’s all he needs—to hold you close and inhale your scent—but his pulse is racing and blood roars in his ears all due to sheer desire and he can’t stop himself from shifting his hips the slightest bit. 

you feel that, too. it elicits a sharp gasp. 

you can almost hear the small smirk forming on his lips, “how was your day, beautiful?” he murmurs, hands moving to your hips. 

and his movements are so calculated. from the way he ever so gently grounds you into him to the way his breath fans against your ear sending shivers down your spine. 

“was fine…” you mumble, unable to stop the way you shift in his lap, body begging for more attention. “missed you.”

“yeah?” he asks, his voice is low and nearly unrecognizable. “missed you s’much more, my love. been waiting for this moment all day.” 

you pull back slightly to look into his eyes. they’re tired. exhausted even, but they still hold that fire. that pure, burning desire. they’re his fuck me eyes. and, god, do you love them.

“zaynie,” you whisper, unable to trust your shaky voice. 

he hums, and the soft, pitched noise has you leaking through your bottom, probably leaving a wet patch right on his pants. “tell me, sweetheart.” his hands squeeze at your sides and his hips slowly, but surely, roll into you. "what did you do today?"

you whimper, pussy clenching around nothing. "mmph, not much…" another roll, evoking another wet gasp. "fuck, just… cleaned, w-went on a walk—" he's pushing against you deeper now. you feel the outline of his cock push into you with every not-so-little thrust. "s-saw, saw that stray kitty in the park again."

"mmm, we should really take her in, shouldn't we?" he breathes, cock twitching at the sound of your voice breaking with every grind.

"zaynie," your hands grip his shoulders, pulling him back so you can look at him. his face is flushed, pink blooming over his cheeks and spreading to the tips of his ears. you gyrate against him, pulling a breathy moan from your husbands hung open mouth. "dinner's gonna burn."

"let it burn then." he says, the words coming out in a hiss. "need my wife—we can order takeout later, i'll even cook, don't care. let me just have you like this first." 

a beg. to the untrained ear, you can't hear it, but you know zayne like the back of your hand. you know that heat curls in his stomach, that tension lies in every bone in his body, that pure desire is the only thing he feels right now. the need to be close to you is strong, but the need to be fully sheathed inside you, fucking you till he's completely stress free and you're completely full of his cum is much, much stronger. 

it's why all the fatigue evaporates and he can't stop himself from flipping you onto the plush couch— rubbing into you you like he might die without feeling the outline of your pussy through your soddened panties and leggings . he can't even be bothered to rid you of your clothes… he craves the release. he needs it more than anything. needs you more than anything.

you let out a pathetic needy sob, overly worked up by him fucking you through your clothes. "z-zayne, more—ugh, need more. t-take it off, please." 

his cock twitches helplessly at the sound. it's what he's been missing while drowning in work for hours on end. 

"sweetheart," he moans brokenly. "promise i'll fuck you just the way you like—just need you to take this first. you can do that for me, can't you?" he whispers and the word shoot an immense amount of heat straight to your core. "you can be a good little wife, right, darling?"

you can never say no to him, especially when he talks to you like that. you respond wordlessly, giving your husband what he wants—no, what he needs—and wrap your legs securely around his slim waist. 

"that's it, good girl." and the way zayne sounds is the polar opposite of the weight of his words. his voice is frayed, desperate. "f-feels, ha, feels so good like this, yeah?" 

his hips move faster, imitating the way they would if he were actually inside of you fucking you with full force. your body rocks with every thrust, every grind, your tits bounce underneath your apron, the couch—even as firm as it sits—sways with you in tandem.

it goes on and on. endless, whiny praises from him, sobbing pleas from you, your bodies rubbing against one another effectively ruining his dry-clean-only slacks till you finally feel that tight knot form in your lower belly. 

and he's close, too, but zayne's been close to coming undone—he just didn't want to let go without you. 

it happens so quickly that you barely have the time to process it. "baby, baby," you gasp, nerve-endings coming alive while your heart pounds at the speed of light. "'m—oh, fuck, baby. 'm cumming, cumming, cumming."

"cum with me, sweet girl." he wheedles, never losing his momentum for a second. he grinds you both through it till he feels your body pull taut underneath him. till you're shaking and sobbing and clinging onto him for dear life. 

then he stills and his orgasm is explosive. he's vocal, moaning out your name mixed with all the sweet pet names he's given you. his cum leaks through his boxers and said dry-clean-only slacks, beading out of the fabric in a taboo, yet very erotic way. 

it takes you both minutes to come down till the smell of burning food fills your nostrils.

then you hear the unmistakable beeping of the fire alarm.

"oh, shit."

KIT SAYS... they took my yaoi/bl app away from me. if you guys know where i can read my yaoi ad free, email me. (dm me or send me an ask, I'm begging i need to fujo out over hot men that kiss) oh and this isn't proofread lol

you hadn't played it yet, hadn't dared to touch that button, but your phone had already detected what he was saying and transcribed it for you. and there in black text, clear as day, was your name written over and over again.

the pace at which your heart was thumping in your chest was like nothing else. you could already feel your face going warm at just the thought of what he sounded like. your finger was hovering over the button, but you were… nervous?

you shake your head as if ridding yourself of everything and just text him instead.

you : there's no way you actually did it.

you wait patiently, watching as the little text bubble appears, disappears for a moment, and then reappears.

caleb : listen to it.

he responds. it wasn't a question, not a suggestion. it was a demand.

you : how do you know i haven't already?

the response from him comes almost immediately this time.

caleb : because i know you too well.

your stomach twists and turns. god, you hated when he used that line on you. you hated how true it was. you hated how he used your little mannerisms to his own advantage.

you : i hate you.

caleb : you love me.

you don't take the time to reply before scrolling back up to the audio message, your finger hovering over the play button once more. you don't know why you were freaking out so much - you wanted this. whether it was a joke or not, you asked for it.

you inhale, and exhale, deeply before bracing yourself as you press play. your heart races as you bring it up to your ear, waiting to hear his voice.

at first, it's just silence, but you know he's there, you can hear his subtle breaths as he gets closer to the speaker. there's some shuffling, the sound of his necklace hitting the floor before he pushes up - as you suspect - and your name leaves his mouth in a raspy groan.

your breath hitches as the sound of his voice wraps around you - low, strained, inevitably yours. it's not just a push-up, he drags your name out like it's something he's been holding in for years.

your name leaves him again and again as he pushes his body up and down in sync. the sound is almost hypnotizing. his soft grunts and heavy breathing have you biting down on your bottom lip to hold back a quiet moan that threatens to escape.

with each repetition, his voice becomes more strained. the effort he's exerting is evident from the way he draws it out, and it's doing something to you. heat begins to pool in your belly as you imagine his muscles flexing with each push-up, sweat glistening on his skin and his cheeks beginning to flush. you loved it when he flushed.

you're biting down so hard on your lip now that you can feel the taste of copper on your tongue. you can't help but squirm, the sound of your name coming from him and the image of him working out, all because of you, it's almost too much.

you want to hear him say it again. you need to hear him say it again.

opening up the text box, you begin typing a message before stopping yourself and erasing it. you didn't know what to say to him now. would a 'that was nice' suffice? no. how about a 'can you send me more?' no.

then as if on cue, a message from him comes through.

caleb : that good, huh?

there he was, knowing you so well again. it was both a curse and a damn blessing. that, and the fact that he was probably watching your typing bubble appear and disappear continuously.

you can hear the smugness in his words, can imagine the way he was probably sitting back right now, waiting for your reply, knowing that he had this much of an effect on you without even being in the same room.

you hated how he got under your skin the way he did.

and you hated how much you liked it.

before you can begin typing again, your phone starts ringing and a photo of him pops up - it was one you had taken when you were out with friends. the two of you had decided to hang back while the others went into a store, it was late and he was admiring the stars. you couldn't not take a photo.

with a deep sigh, you swipe to answer.

"enjoy the audio, i'm guessing?" he sounds too damn cocky for his own good.

"you're such an asshole," you almost whine.

he has the audacity to laugh. the low, deep sound that makes your belly flutter.

for a moment there's only silence - nothing uncomfortable, just the two of you stuck in your own thoughts. and then he says it… your name. except this time it's so much lower, rougher than before, and suddenly your name doesn't feel like just your name anymore.

you're taken aback by it for a second, the sudden change in his voice so different to anything you've ever heard from him. it's huskier, and more… sensual. his breathing is heavy, the sound making heat pool in your lower belly once again.

"say my name," he demands.

and you don't know if it's the tone of his voice or the fact that you would do anything he asked of you, but you obey.

"caleb."

you can tell that the sound of your voice saying his name is doing something to him. he groans, the noise so deep and rough that you have to bite back a whimper. he sounds just as affected as you are, perhaps even more.

"again."

you have to swallow before speaking again. your words coming out a little shaky, a little breathless and a lot more needy than you would care to admit.

"….caleb."

he practically hisses, the sound almost animalistic. there's a pause and you feel like your heart is going to thump right out of your chest. but then the words that leave his lips are so unexpected, so blunt… yet so him that somehow you're still taken off guard.

"say it again… please."

the begging tone of his voice, the desperate edge that you've never heard before, it's driving you insane.

your hand moves on its own, and you're gripping the phone in your other so tightly it feels like it could break. you have to close your eyes for a moment, have to take a breath, and his name spills from your mouth once more before you can stop it.

your hand roams further down, pushing beneath the fabric of your pants to where you were already soaked with arousal.

he groans as he hears the change in your breathing. his own heart was pounding and skin boiling to the touch. he knew damn well what he was doing to you, it was the whole reason he sent the audio to begin with.

"fuckk… are you touching yourself, baby?" he whispers.

you're too far gone to be embarrassed by it now. "mhm... are you?"

he lets out a sharp, breathy laugh - like the idea of him not being affected is absurd.

"you have to ask?" he rasps, then lowers his voice. "listen."

the unmistakable sound of fabric shifting and being pulled down has you breathing out shaky exhales, as if you're trying to catch up on oxygen you're no longer getting enough of. you can see him in your mind, in your head: that cocky, smug grin, those sharp, dark eyes, that jawline, the veins in his forearms as he-

"can you hear it?" he asks, and his voice breaks you out of your mental image, sending a shiver down your spine. "… how badly you're affecting me right now?"

your fingers move in slow, smooth, circular motions, "….yeah."

the sound of his ragged breathing through the phone goes straight to your core, adding fuel to the already blazing fire. and the way he rasps out the question that follows only makes it worse. "does it feel good?"

"yes…." the word is breathy and shaky, cracking away at his resolve. "tell me w-what you're doing to yourself."

he can't help the way he lets out a low moan. he was desperate, so desperate to hear more - to be more.

he groans at the request, his voice low and gruff. he'll never get over how wrecked he was by your voice alone. "you want the dirty details, baby?"

"uh huh" you sigh softly.

"you want to hear what i'm doing to myself, hmm? so you can picture it all in that pretty little head of yours?"

"….yes." you unashamedly admit.

that simple response has him moaning your name. god, he loved how open and unashamed you were being with him right now. loved knowing he was the one doing this to you.

his voice is still that low, deep tone that makes your toes curl, "can you imagine me right now? with my hand wrapped-" he pauses, letting out a huff that has you holding in a groan as he tries to steady his breathing. "..wrapped around myself?"

his words send jolts through you, your cunt fully soaked and panties along with it, and he can hear it in how your breathing pattern changes. he loved how he can tell how worked up you are even without being with you. you could hear how fast he was pumping himself, hear the stickiness of his fingers running over his cock, and your own begin to move faster around your clit, the slickness just loud enough for him to hear.

"ffuck… caleb…" you practically moan.

he groans at the sound, his hips jerking into his own grip. this was what he wanted, what he was aiming for - you falling apart for him on the other end, and he was falling apart for you in the same way.

god, you were both a mess, and all because you asked for a silly audio file as a joke.

"fuck, baby… you sound so good for me," he growls, the words rough with need. "gonna make you come just like this? just hearing my voice?"

the thought alone - of you, trembling and coming undone while he listened - has his hand moving faster over himself too.

"don't stop… don't stop talking," you're begging now, lost in a hazy, pleasure-filled daze as his words and the sound of your own pleasure consume your mind.

he was getting there too, his low moans and desperate groans echoing through your head and making your whole body tingle. you were close. so damn close.

"i can hear you," he murmurs, and you shiver at his words. "i can hear how hard you're working yourself… how bad you want to come for me. fuck-" he growls, and the way your name spills from his lips once more is enough to push you over the edge.

you can't stop the cry that rips out of you as your back arches off your bed, body trembling through the waves of pleasure.

he doesn't let up either, following right after you.

he's left breathless and shuddering - as are you - your name the only word echoing through his mind as he comes down from his own high. your fingers are still buried in your cunt, easing yourself down from your orgasm.

it takes a few seconds for either of you to say anything, your breathing heavy and erratic. but then, once it's finally steadied and the ringing in your ears has subsided… you hear him whisper one last thing but you can't make it out.

"…so," he starts casually, like the two of you hadn't just been tearing each other apart over the phone. "still claiming that sending that video was a joke?"

"i don't know... i might need some more convincing."

he laughs in disbelief. of course you weren't going to back down so easily.

caleb is a mix of amused and surprised and still completely captivated by you when he replies with an almost cocky hum, "is that so?"

his voice drops low, that teasing, seductive tone he knows drives you crazy making a comeback, "then i guess i'll just have to convince you tomorrow when i see you."

𝓵𝐨𝐨𝐤𝓲𝐧𝐠 𝓯𝐨𝐫 𝓶𝐨𝐫𝐞 .ᐣ library taglist form guidelines

Of course. The universe hated you.

The doors slid shut behind him, trapping the two of you inside a metal box that suddenly felt much smaller than it had five seconds ago.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Zayne stood beside you with the same impossible composure he carried through every surgery. Freshly scrubbed out of a five hour cardiothoracic procedure and somehow looked exactly as he had at six that morning. His white coat was spotless and despite the fact that he'd spent the better part of the day operating on a human heart, there wasn't a single sign of fatigue on his face.

You found that deeply irritating.

Normal people looked exhausted after a case like that.

Normal people had dark circles.

Normal people slouched.

Zayne looked like he'd merely finished answering emails and annoyed to be sharing an elevator.

You should have remain silent. Unfortunately, you possessed survival instincts roughly equivalent to a raccoon digging through electrical wiring.

"You know," you said casually, staring at the floor numbers above the door, "most surgeons say thank you at the end of their surgery."

Without looking at you, Zayne replied, "Most nurses don't mistake doing their job for heroism."

Your eye twitched.

"There he is."

That finally earned you a sideways look.

"There who is?"

"The reason every surgical resident on this hospital has stress induced nightmares."

His expression remained completely unchanged.

"If a resident enters my operating room unable to distinguish between confidence and competence, fear is an useful educational tool."

The elevator climbed another floor.

You folded your arms.

"Other surgeons at least pretend to like the people they work with."

"Why would I do that?"

"It's called morale."

"Morale doesn't repair arteries."

"No, but it stops others from fantasizing about pushing surgeons down stairwells."

Zayne hummed, a thoughtful sound.

"As long as it's a fantasy..."

You stared at him.

"Did you just make a joke?"

"No."

"You did."

"If that's your standard for humor, I understand why you find Rafayel entertaining."

You let out an offended gasp. "Leave Dr. Qi out of this."

"He spends thirty minutes adjusting the lighting in his OR before every surgery."

"He says fluorescent lights wash him out."

"They're lights."

"And yet somehow you're still the more dramatic one."

His gaze narrowed slightly.

"You seem unusually committed to having the last word."

You smiled sweetly "That's because I'm usually right."

The look he gave you could have frozen lava.

"That's a..." the elevator suddenly jerked. Hard.

The floor dropped beneath your feet for half a second before the entire car shuddered to a stop.

The lights flickered once, then settled.

Silence.

You blinked. Zayne looked up.

The elevator didn't move and a terrible realization settled over you.

"No."

The elevator remained perfectly still.

"No, no, no."

You stabbed the close door button. Nothing. Then the floor button "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

Zayne sighed. The sound carried the exhaustion of a man who regularly dealt with incompetent administrators and surgeons who thought protocols were suggestions.

"Pressing the button repeatedly will not magically repair the elevator."

"I know that."

"Then why are you doing it?"

"Because panicking feels better than standing still."

His expression remained blank. "That's not healthy."

"It is for me."

You reached for the emergency button and the operator answered almost immediately, assuring you that maintenance was already on it.

Five minutes, maybe ten. Fantastic.

When the line disconnected, you leaned your head against the wall "This is your fault."

Zayne looked offended. A rare achievement.

"My fault."

"Every time I'm trapped somewhere unpleasant, you're involved."

"That's statistically impossible."

"You make everything feel longer."

"So that's why."

"Uh?"

"You've spent weeks avoiding me."

Your stomach tightened, this was dangerous territory " I don't avoid you."

"You switched OR assignments three times this week."

"That was scheduling."

"You requested the changes."

"You checked?"

"I approved them."

You groaned. Of course he had, because apparently being chief of surgery meant monitoring everyone's movements like some terrifyingly attractive dictator.

"It's my job."

"There you go again."

"What?"

"My job. My department. My operating room. My hospital." you tried to mock the tone of his voice as best as you could.

"I'm responsible for what happens here."

"You don't own us."

"No." the answer came immediately, cold and precise "But considering how often you create additional work for me, I occasionally question whether you're aware of that distinction."

You stared at him in disbelief "I create additional work?"

"You challenge every instruction I give."

"Because half the time you're impossible."

"Half?"

"Fine. Most of the time."

"Why are you so eager to argue with someone you dislike."

The words landed harder than they should have, making the air between you change. Neither of you spoke for a moment, because the truth was— you didn't dislike him.

The elevator suddenly felt warmer. Too quiet.

"Why did you really switch assignments?"

The question caught you off guard, and judging by the way his gaze remained fixed on you, he knew it. Your pulse stumbled for a fraction of a second before you recovered.

"I already told you."

"You lied."

You let out a short laugh and shook your head. "You know, one of these days you're going to have to accept that not everyone is lying to you."

"No. I don't think everyone lies. I think you're avoiding the question."

You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Silence settled between you again, stretching longer than either of you seemed willing to break. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence but it was dangerous in a different way. It left too much room for memories to creep in.

A crowded bar after an exhausting day. Too many drinks, too many lingering looks and a different version of Dr. Zayne Li.

For weeks afterward, you'd both treated it like it had never happened. No conversations. No explanations. No acknowledgment whatsoever. Just two stubborn people pretending a night they both remembered perfectly had somehow slipped from existence.

The elevator chose that exact moment to jolt violently back to life.

The sudden movement threw you off balance, and before you could catch yourself, your hand shot out instinctively and so did his.

Your palm landed squarely against his chest, his hand closed around your wrist.

The world didn't actually stop, but it felt like it did.

The elevator continued moving, the machinery humming overhead as the floor numbers resumed climbing, yet your attention narrowed entirely to the man standing in front of you. His grip tightened slightly, steadying you before you could stumble, though for a brief second you couldn't tell whether he was trying to keep you upright or keep himself from moving.

Neither of you stepped away.

You became acutely aware of how little distance existed between you. Close enough to notice the tiny scar near his jaw that you'd somehow never seen in the harsh lighting of the operating room. Close enough to remember things you had spent weeks trying very hard not to think about.

His gaze dropped briefly to your lips before returning to yours.

The only thing you were aware of was Zayne standing impossibly close, his hand still wrapped around your wrist and his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that made it difficult to remember how to breathe.

"You can let go now," you said finally, though the words came out far quieter than you'd intended.

His eyes didn't leave yours.

"If I let go," he replied, his voice low and infuriatingly calm, "you'll probably find a way to injure yourself before we reach the next floor."

You stared at him, disbelief fighting with a laugh that threatened to escape. "That's the best you've got?"

A faint flicker of amusement crossed his face, so brief you might have imagined it.

"I'm a surgeon, not a poet."

His answer made your stomach twist unexpectedly. Maybe it was the fact that it sounded more honest than anything he'd said all day. Maybe it was the way he was still looking at you, like he'd forgotten every excuse he normally used to keep people at a distance.

His grip loosened slightly, but neither of you stepped back.

The space between you wasn't much to begin with, yet somehow it felt as though it continued shrinking anyway. Every second that passed stretched longer than it should have, charged with the kind of tension neither of you were willing to acknowledge. You could feel the warmth radiating from him and for the first time since you'd met him, Dr. Li looked almost uncertain.

The elevator doors slid open with a cheerful ding.

"ZAYNE!"

Both of you jumped apart so quickly it would have been embarrassing if your heart hadn't still been trying to beat its way out of your chest.

Standing outside was Rafayel Qi, an iced coffee balanced in one hand and a patient chart tucked beneath the other arm. He took one look at the two of you and immediately froze. His eyes moved from your face to Zayne's, then back again, and you watched realization dawn in real time.

A slow, delighted grin spread across his face.

"Oh."

"No," you said immediately.

"Oh, absolutely."

"No."

"Oh, this is incredible."

Beside you, Zayne's expression flattened into the look he reserved for particularly irritating residents and administrative meetings that could have been emails.

"Move."

Rafayel ignored him completely and stepped into the elevator, still staring between the two of you like he'd just discovered the hospital's best kept secret.

"You know," he said thoughtfully, "from where I was standing, it looked very much like I interrupted something."

"You didn't."

"I did."

"We were just talking."

Rafayel scoffed. "You were standing close enough to share a breath."

"It was crowded."

"There were two people in this elevator."

Zayne pressed the close door button with enough force to suggest violent intentions.

Rafayel gasped dramatically. "Oh my God."

"Rafayel."

"The Ice King has feelings."

"Get out."

The warning in Zayne's voice should have been enough to make anyone run. Rafayel had no instinct for self preservation.

As the elevator doors began sliding shut again and Rafayel started walking backwards he pointed between the two of you with the excitement of someone who had just acquired premium gossip.

"Oh, I'm..."

"No, you're not."

"I absolutely am."

"They are not going to believe you."

Rafayel's grin only widened. "They will when I describe the eye contact."

The elevator doors slid shut before either of you could respond, cutting off Rafayel's laughter and leaving silence in its place once more.

You were staring at the floor number above the doors as though it were the most fascinating thing you'd ever seen, while Zayne stood beside you, looking straight ahead as if the last several minutes had never happened.

"He's not going to tell anyone. Rafayel enjoys collecting information far more than he enjoys sharing it. If he tells people, he'll lose the ability to hold it over someone's head."

You immediately tried to suppress the laugh that slipped out., pressing your lips together and looking away, but it was already too late.

When you glanced back, you caught the smallest reaction from him, the corner of his mouth had twitched upward and the sight hit you with surprising force.

That tiny crack in the perfectly controlled mask he wore every day felt far more dangerous than the almost kiss, the lingering eye contact, or the memory of his hand wrapped around your wrist.

You'd seen surgeons panic, you'd seen attendings lose their tempers, you'd even seen Zayne angry. But seeing him amused?

For the first time since the elevator had gotten stuck, neither of you seemed particularly eager to reach your floor.

Rafayel Qi had been having an excellent day.

Not just a good day or even a great day. An exceptional day. Potentially one of the greatest days in the history of modern medicine, at least as far as he was concerned.

Because after years of working alongside Dr. Zayne Li—Chief of Surgery, Professional Joy Vacuum, and arguably the most emotionally unavailable man in the entire hospital—he had finally witnessed something he was convinced most people would consider impossible.

The man had looked interested in someone. Interested.

He practically floated down the hallway after leaving the elevator, iced coffee in hand and enough gossip stored inside his brain to sustain him for the next week. The image replayed continuously in his head, growing more dramatic every time he remembered it. The eye contact alone deserved its own award. The tension had been thick enough to perform surgery on. And the way both of them had jumped apart the second the doors opened?

Absolutely magnificent.

He was already mentally composing an unnecessarily dramatic retelling for Caleb when he turned the corner toward the Burn Unit.

That was when his excellent day developed a problem.

Because you were standing near the nurses' station talking to Daniel Lee.

Rafayel stopped walking.

Daniel Lee. Anesthesiologist. Serial flirt. A man who treated the hospital like a dating app.

Lee was leaning against the counter with the confidence of someone who had never once been told to shut the hell up in his life.

And worse, you were smiling. It wasnt a big smile or a meaningful smile but it was a smile nonetheless.

Rafayel narrowed his eyes and took a slow sip of his coffee, then another, then a third.

He was a mature adult capable of observing a completely normal interaction without immediately inventing problems. But he was also Rafayel.

Which meant within twenty seconds he had already decided Lee's face annoyed him. A lot.

Rafayel wasn't exactly known for being selective when it came to romance. The nurses liked him. He liked the nurses. Everyone had a good time and everyone involved was a consenting adult who understood the arrangement. No heartbreak. No expectations. No emotional damage. Just mutual appreciation between attractive people and the occasional bad life decision.

It was a system that had worked beautifully for years.

So why, exactly, was Daniel Lee making him want to throw his coffee across the hallway?

His attention drifted back to you, and after a moment he realized what made the entire situation even stranger.

You weren't looking at Lee the way most people looked at Lee. You weren't flirting, you weren't hanging on every word, if anything, you looked mildly distracted.

One hand was holding a patient chart while the other pointed toward a photograph attached to the file. You were explaining something. Correcting something. Lee wasn't charming you. He was listening.

Rafayel knew that expression, he'd seen it hundreds of times before. You wore it every single time one of his patients was involved.

The first time he'd met you, he'd assumed you were impossible. The second time, he'd become completely convinced of it. Because nobody should have been that observant, nobody should have been capable of noticing every tiny detail that slipped past everyone else.

But you always did.

You remembered medication schedules without looking at charts. You noticed infections before symptoms became obvious. You caught complications before they became emergencies. You memorized treatment plans, family concerns, patient anxieties, and every detail that most people forgot the moment they left a room.

As a plastic surgeon, he viewed his work as art. Every skin graft, every scar revision, every procedure was a carefully crafted piece of restoration. He obsessed over aesthetics, symmetry, and outcomes months into the future.

But while he focused on what a patient would eventually become, you focused on what they needed right now, in your mind, both things carried exactly the same importance.

He'd watched you spend an hour comforting a terrified patient after a painful dressing change. He'd watched you argue with attendings twice your size because you thought someone deserved better pain management. He'd watched you advocate, challenge, correct, and occasionally threaten people in ways that made patients trust you immediately.

Most people backed down when Rafayel challenged them. You rolled your eyes at him. Corrected him. Ignored him. Sometimes all three in the same conversation.

The memory made him smile, which was deeply concerning.

He frowned into his coffee.

When had that happened? When had he started looking for you during rounds? When had he started inventing increasingly ridiculous reasons to visit the Burn Unit? When had your opinion become something he actively cared about?

Fuck no. Absolutely not.

This felt suspiciously like feelings. Real feelings, that came with emotional consequences and vulnerability and all the other terrible things he'd successfully avoided for years.

Across the hallway, Lee laughed at something you said.

The uncomfortable feeling blooming in his chest wasn't irritation. It wasn't annoyance. It wasn't even competitiveness. It was something much worse.

Unfamiliar and deeply inconvenient.

Jealousy.

Rafayel stared at the ceiling for a long moment.

"Unbelievable."

A passing resident slowed slightly.

"Doctor?"

Rafayel pointed dramatically toward the nurses' station.

"I've contracted a disease."

The resident immediately looked alarmed.

"What?"

Rafayel continued pointing.

"There."

The resident followed his finger.

"...The Burn Unit?"

"No."

"The nurse?"

Rafayel closed his eyes.

"Yeah."

Several seconds passed before the resident wisely turned around and walked away, not wanting to be involved in whatever crisis was unfolding.

Rafayel watched him leave before looking back toward you. Toward the concentration on your face. Toward the nurse who somehow managed to make one of the most dramatic surgeons in the hospital experience emotions he'd spent years avoiding.

He let out a long, theatrical sigh, the kind he usually reserved for tragic opera endings.

"Oh, this is awful."

He realized he wasn't interested in being liked. He wanted to be chosen. And that was significantly more terrifying than anything he'd seen in an operating room all year.

Caleb had always considered the gym his safe space.

Between the music, the clanging weights, and the occasional guy grunting like he was trying to lift a car, it was probably one of the loudest places he regularly visited. It felt familiar.

Unlike the hospital, where half his day involved paperwork and trying to convince patients that recovery required more than stubborn optimism, the gym made sense. Weight went up. Weight came down. Progress could be measured. Problems had solutions.

Which was why he was deeply offended to discover you standing in front of his squat rack.

"You're doing that wrong."

Caleb nearly dropped the bar.

There you were, dressed in workout clothes instead of hospital scrubs and somehow looking just as judgmental as you did during physical therapy consultations.

"You followed me here?"

You stared at him.

"I've been a member of this gym for three years."

"That's exactly what someone following me would say."

You rolled your eyes and took a sip from your water bottle "Your left knee is caving inward."

Caleb immediately looked down, then back at you, then down again.

"You saw that from over there?"

"I'm a physical therapist."

"That's creepy."

"It's literally my job."

"It's still creepy."

He knew you were right, his knee had shifted slightly during the last rep.

"You're overcompensating on your right side," you continued. "Probably because your hip flexors are tight again."

Caleb frowned. "My hip flexors are not tight."

"Caleb."

"They're not."

"Touch your toes."

"I can touch my toes."

"Then do it."

He hesitated and you smiled. A slow, victorious smile.

"Oh my God."

"I haven't even said anything."

"You don't have to." Caleb sighed before bending forward. His fingertips stopped embarrassingly short of where they were supposed to reach.

You immediately burst out laughing.

Caleb stared at the floor for a moment before standing back up.

"I don't appreciate being attacked in public."

"You walked directly into that."

"You set a trap."

"You set the trap yourself."

The smile on your face only grew and annoyingly enough, Caleb found himself smiling too.

It was a problem. A huge fucking problem.

Somewhere between arguing over rehabilitation plans and watching you bully orthopedic patients into actually following recovery instructions, he'd developed a habit of looking for you.

That was generally the point where a reasonable person acknowledged they had a crush.

Caleb had chosen denial but denial was harder when you were standing ten feet away, making fun of him.

"Are you smiling?" you asked.

"No."

"You are."

Caleb grabbed his water bottle. "You spend all day destroying my confidence."

"Your confidence is doing just fineee."

"It really isn't."

"You introduce yourself to patients by calling yourself the hospital's best surgeon."

"In orthopedics."

"You once corrected a magazine article because they called you one of the best."

"Because I'm not one of the best."

"Pfttt."

"I'm the best."

Your horrified expression was so funny he couldn't stop smiling.

"You're unbelievable."

"Yet you're here talking to me."

He leaned against the equipment beside him. "Every time I try to have a normal conversation with you, you immediately hide behind work."

"I do not."

"This is the longest conversation we've ever had that didn't involve a torn ACL."

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

There it was. That feeling, the one that had been getting steadily worse for months. Caleb liked being liked but what he wanted from you felt different.

It was ridiculous, because you humbled him on a near daily basis and that only made him want to spend more time around you.

You glanced at the clock on the wall. "I should probably finish my workout."

"Or."

"No."

"You don't even know what I was going to say."

"I do."

Caleb grinned. "You do?"

"You're going to ask me to spot you."

"Correct."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you will turn a ten minute workout into a forty minute conversation."

"I don't see the problem."

"I do."

"That's because you're mean."

You started walking backward toward the cardio area.

"You'll survive."

Caleb watched you go and immediately followed.

"Are you seriously following me?"

"I'm walking in the same direction."

"Caleb." God he loved the way you said his name.

"There are only so many directions available."

The look on your face suggested you were seriously considering throwing a dumbbell at him and he found that a little charming.

He fell into step beside you, enjoying the sound of your exasperated sigh and the way you shook your head like he was impossible.

Yeah, he had a problem, a specific problem, with your name on it.

And judging by the fact that he was currently abandoning his workout just to spend another twenty minutes annoying you, it wasn't getting better anytime soon.

An: I feel like they were a bit ooc this chapter. Please do let me know if it feels that way. 😣

He lifted his coffee and took a slow sip.

Outside, nothing about him changed. His expression remained calm, composed. Only the subtle tightening of his jaw gave away the tension building behind his temple. His gaze lingered on the curve of your hip, where the delicate strap of your panties sat high, biting softly into your flesh.

"You've been rearranging the same three jars on that shelf for the last five minutes." his tone carried its usual dry professionalism, though there was a faint pause before he continued.

"If you're looking for the tea, it's in the cabinet below. If you're looking for something else, this is a remarkably inefficient way of finding it."

You glanced over your shoulder.

A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth as you turned and leaned against the counter, folding your arms across your chest. The movement intentionally compressing your chest, pushing the lace of your bra into a clearer view beneath the wide, slouching neckline.

"Maybe I'm admiring your organizational system, Dr. Zayne, or maybe I'm waiting for you to finish working."

"My work was finished the moment you walked into the kitchen wearing that."

Zayne set his mug down with a quiet click.

His eyes slowly scanned you from your collarbone down to your bare thighs. There was no irritation in his voice, despite what he was saying.

"You're making it very difficult to enjoy a quiet evening," he added. "A clear disruption."

"Am I?" you shifted against the counter, the fabric of the sweater slipping just an inch further off your right shoulder, exposing the scalloped edge of the blue strap. "You could always look away."

"That's not a realistic option."

He pushed himself to his feet.

There was nothing hurried about the way he moved. There never was. Everything Zayne did carried the same deliberate steadiness he brought to every part of his life, as though rushing simply wasn't in his nature.

He rounded the island at an unhurried pace, his attention fixed entirely on you.

"Besides," he said, stopping in front of you, "I suspect that wasn't the outcome you were hoping for."

He stepped closer, planting his hands on either side of you as though to steady himself there, close enough to narrow the space between you without actually touching, while his eyes lingered on your face with a focus that made it difficult to remember what either of you had been talking about a moment ago.

"You've been walking around in that all evening," he said, his attention drifting briefly before returning to your eyes, "and unless I'm mistaken, you chose that particular color knowing exactly how distracting it would be."

A smile tugged at your lips, small and innocent enough to be unconvincing.

"I just thought it looked nice."

The look he gave you suggested he found that explanation deeply improbable, though there was a trace of amusement beneath the skepticism that softened the severity of it.

"I'm sure that's what you're telling yourself."

The response earned a quiet laugh, and for a moment neither of you looked away, the silence stretching comfortably between you as though neither felt any urgency to fill it.

"Sounds like a self control problem," you said, tilting your head slightly.

Something shifted in his expression then—not enough to call it a smile, but enough to suggest he was fighting one—as he held your gaze for another second before exhaling through his nose.

"An interesting theory," he replied, his voice calm despite the challenge in yours, "although I suspect you're considerably more interested in testing it than proving it."

"That's a bold assumption, Dr."

"Not really," he said, the amusement in his eyes becoming impossible to miss now. "You've spent hours waiting for me to notice, and I think we're both aware that strategy has been remarkably successful."

He remained where he was, making no move to close the distance between you. His gaze drifted over you with quiet deliberation before returning to your face, as if he were perfectly aware of the effect the silence was having and had decided not to rescue you from it.

The delay was becoming unbearable.

"Zayne..."

His name left your lips softer than intended.

"Patience," he said, the word low and unhurried. "It's an important skill."

You let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like frustration.

"I don't think you're being very fair."

"No," he agreed easily, "probably not."

Only then did he move.

His hand rose between you, the backs of his fingers brushing lightly along your collarbone as he reached for the edge of your sweater. The gesture was unhurried, almost absentminded in its precision, and somehow that made it worse.

With a small tug, he eased the fabric farther down your arms until it gathered at your elbows, leaving you to glare at him while he regarded the result with entirely too much satisfaction.

You were left standing in just your lingerie.

And he didn't try to take it off. He never did.

"You always leave it on," you managed to say, voice trembling.

A faint smile touched his mouth

"Why would I remove something that suits you so well?" Zayne’s fingers hooked under the top edge of the lace bra cup, pulling the fabric down until the tight elastic lodged beneath your breasts, baring your already hard nipples to the cool air of the room.

Before you could think of a response, he lifted you onto the counter with effortless ease. The cold surface contrasted sharply with the warmth that had settled beneath your skin, drawing a quiet gasp from you as you steadied yourself against the edge.

He stepped between your knees, his hand sliding down your stomach, passing the sensitive dip of your navel until his fingers met the barrier of your panties. He looked down at how the blue lace stretched over your mound, already darkening with a damp patch from your arousal.

With a firm tug he pulled them entirely to the side, wedging the fabric sharply against your hip, completely exposing your glistening slit.

His fingers instantly found your drenched core and he slid two fingers inside you without warning, stretching you open, his thumb pressing firmly on your engorged clit.

You cried out and he watched your face, reading the flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes rolled back, treating your pleasure with the absolute focus of a man obsessed with every detail of your anatomy.

"Eyes on me"

You forced your eyes open, blinking through tears of friction and pleasure. He was towering over you, still fully dressed and looking impossibly neat save for a slightly askew tie. Meanwhile, you were almost naked on the cold counter, breasts spilling over blue lace.

​He let go of your underwear to undo his belt and unzip his trousers, freeing and stroking his thick, fully erect cock, which throbbed with a heavy vein against his stomach.

There was no wasted movement. He slid his fingers out of you to grip the side of your underwear again, ensuring the fabric was cleared entirely from his path.

"Hold onto me"

You wrapped your legs tightly around him, your hands gripping the back of his neck. Zayne guided his tip to your dripping hole and slowly buried his dick inside you.

The fullness was overwhelming. You gasped, your mouth opening against his shoulder as he began to move. He gripped your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin to hold you still against the counter as he slammed into you. His pace was relentless—deep strokes that bottomed out against your cervix, the wet, slapping sound of his skin hitting yours filling the space between you.

"Zayne, oh god, faster —"

"No. You wanted to disrupt my schedule, now we're doing this my way."

"S' too deep, baby "

"It's exactly where I belong, you were made to be stretched out like this." his eyes dropped to the junction where your bodies met and reached down with one hand, his cool fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties, pulling them even tighter against your hip, still refusing to take them off. "You're soaking your pretty-fuck- pretty panties with your own mess."

""I don't care....harder..."

"You're so needy. If I go any harder, sweetheart, you're going to break."

"Break me," you begged, completely undone, your hips beginning to match his rhythm.

The submission in your voice almost had him coming on the spot.

"I'm—I'm close, I'm —"

"Hold it," his eyes were completely black, blown out with lust "Say my name, tell me who is filling you up."

"Zayne... Zayne, Zay....!"

That sudden, tight squeeze of you coming around him was exactly what he needed. He let out a rough sound against your neck—losing all his usual control—and on the last stroke, he buried himself so deep your hips slammed together.

A few minutes later he pulled out of you with a soft, wet sound. By the time he fastened his belt, his breathing had already begun to settle, the brief loss of control disappearing behind the calm exterior he wore so effortlessly.

Your bra was still pulled down beneath your breasts, your panties were still hooked tightly over your hip and something quietly satisfied flickered across his expression.

"Don't take it off yet," the words were delivered with the same measured certainty he used when he already expected to be obeyed. "I want to look at you exactly like this while I finish my coffee. You can clean yourself up when I'm done."

Still, his eyes were beautiful. Your hope flickered like a small stubborn flame in your chest that you wanted to guard against the blizzard. The marriage was simple. You showed up to the courthouse in a knee-length white dress, constantly adjusting at the pearls around your neck anxiously while he signed the papers. Once he was done, he’d simply slid it over to you, evidently avoiding your eyes. 

“Are you sure?” you’d asked meekly, as if speaking any louder than a whisper would shatter your heart. You weren’t sure if you were asking him or yourself. Not that it mattered, much.

He spared you a soft smile. Pity, maybe, with how his eyes remained empty, but you took it anyway. 

A starved man does not beg for more. The flame remained.

The only reason he married you was because MC had gotten married to another childhood friend of theirs. When he mentioned it, you thought nothing of it at first. But when the only photo he’d put up throughout your entire house was one of him and her as children, while your awkwardly situated courthouse picture sat beside it, you knew. He didn’t stop to stare at your photo, ever. Not any of the photos. Only hers.

The final blow to the puny flame remaining in your heart was when you’d finally initiated physical contact. To perform the marital duty, he’d hovered above you in just his pants while you stared up at him in your thin pajamas that did little to hide what was beneath it. There was no setting the mood. The air was cold, the room dull because only your half had any semblance of effort that had gone into decorating it. When he kissed you, it felt more like his lips were simply touching yours gently. Almost tapping it. 

It felt like nothing.

This was not romantic at all.

“Are you okay? Is this okay?” he asked, pulling back with a furrow in his brows—probably because you were lying lifelessly while holding your breath. You wondered how he could ask something so softly when his eyes remained so muted. Maybe not softly. Maybe just quiet.

“It’s okay.” You wanted to curl up and go to sleep, but he was the only semblance of warmth in the freezing room.

But when his hand slid up your shirt, resting atop of your stomach, you stopped breathing again. He stopped as well. Your gazes met silently, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. A dull, slow stop. And then suddenly, he was off you, clambering to pull his shirt back on as you sat up in confusion, eyes wide.

“I can’t,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”

The flame went out.

Were you really so distasteful? So disgusting that he didn’t want to lay his hands on his own wife? Or was it that you were just too different from her? Should you be offended? Are you even offended? Relieved? Hurt? 

Does it even matter?

Once you were sure he’s gone, you cried yourself to sleep.

The next few years are a blur that you wish had somehow gone even faster. The days are a bore. He’s away for weeks—maybe even months—at a time. In those periods of time, the house feels like a maze not meant for only one person. At the same time, maybe it’s better he’s away.

Caleb Xia is not a mean person. On paper, he’s a decent husband. He cleans, cooks, and never complains if you ask him to do something. He smiles, nods, and goes on his way. Yet, it feels more like a vaguely close roommate than a husband. The two of you eat in silence, watch TV in silence, and even go to bed in different rooms. You suppose you can’t complain—it’s not like you put in much effort to get to know him well anyway.

The only thing he does that even comes close to romance is bringing you flowers. You’d told him once that you wished the house had space for a garden to plant them, and he’d brought you a bouquet later that week. Since then, he brings them every few weeks routinely. They appear in the vase beside the couch as if they’ve just magically appeared. 

They’re pretty, you think.

Resentment builds, slowly but surely, probably on both ends as in most marriages. This kind of life is killing you inside. This lonely, aimless life in a house that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, in a bed that feels too large. 

“I want to work,” you say one day, picking at your food blankly. “I have an interview tomorrow, so I won’t be here for most of the day from now on if I get it.”

A fork clatters from across the table. “What? Why?”

You don’t necessarily have to work given Caleb’s plentiful paycheck, but you want to anyway because you can’t stand being in that gigantic house all by yourself. But of course, how could you tell this to the man in front of you? The man you don’t even know the favorite color of?

“It’s a regular office job.”

“I didn’t ask what it was,” he blurts, eyes narrowing in concern. “I’m asking why? Do I not give you enough money? You know you have access to everything on the card, right?”

You shrug. “It’s not about the money…I just think I need something to do throughout the day.”

“What about picking up another hobby?”

“I’ve exhausted most of them.”

“Then traveling?”

“By myself?” you frown. “It’s not like you’re ever here.”

You’re not sure why the words slip through your teeth, but they do, and the disdain is apparent. He seems surprised at first, blinking, before his shoulder slump again and the corners of his lips twitch downward. For some reason, it makes you feel—good? Alive, more so. So you keep talking. “You’re always working. You even missed my friend’s wedding after I told her we’d be there.”

He shoots back immediately, brows tight. “That was a special case—it was an emergency.”

“That’s fine,” you chew slowly on your food. “But I don’t want to wait around all day for you to get back.”

“You shouldn’t work if you don’t have to. I make more than enough.”

“Again, not the point.”

His lips tighten, pursing. “What will your family think if they hear that I’m making you work after I told them that I’d take care of you?”

You snort. “Is this what you call ‘taking care of’?”

Immediately, you can tell that you’ve struck a nerve. And for some reason, it feels good again. Like you’re alive, again. Maybe you just like pissing him off. His expression shifts momentarily to something you can’t recognize before it settles disapprovingly and silence befalls the both of you. You like when he doesn’t have that stupid smile he always has. The fake, lifeless smile he’d given you when you first met. You’d rather he just be upset, just like this. He looks like he wants to say something, but then shuts his mouth, swallowing the lump in his throat. 

His phone rings, slicing the tension in the air like a knife. Caleb glances at the caller ID for a split second before he’s already on his feet, pacing to the sink to put his plates away in a hurry. “I’m sorry, I need to take this. Let me know how the interview goes..”

You stare at your plate, listening to his feet pad around in a hurry. “Is it MC?”

He whips his head around. “What?”

You stand from your seat to dump your food into the sink, ignoring the slight clench in your chest. He’s always been this way. Jumping at any opportunity to be useful to her, while he leaves everyone else in the dust. “Nevermind. Go.”

Once you hear the front door shut, you slump into the couch face first, hoping it swallows you whole before he comes back. This has to be some sort of humiliation ritual. Perhaps you committed a grave sin in your past life, because you’re not sure what you could’ve possibly done to warrant such a feeling. The sunset seeps through the window planes and hits half of your face, bathing you in a warmth that had been missing from the rest of the house. The heat makes you sleepy, and you soon find your eyelids drooping shut, gazing lazily at a photo of the two of you on the coffee table. You don’t remember when it was taken, but in it, you genuinely look like you’re almost enjoying yourself. You can’t tell with him, though. You can never really tell.

“Stupid Xia,” you mutter as you fall deep into slumber.

When you awake again, the sun has fully set. There’s a blanket draped over you and when you blink away the blots in your vision, you’re met face to face with a fresh vase of flowers on the coffee table. They smell nice.

Damn it. 

Sometimes, you wish he was just an asshole.

You learn about him through the photo albums he has stashed away in the attic. It’s not like you were looking for them. You’d only been cleaning when they managed to topple right into your hands, and since he always says whatever’s his is yours, you figure you might as well satisfy your curiosity. There’s less than you expected, unfortunately. Most photos are taken by him, but there’s a few in between where he’s the subject. Him at his birthday party, his graduation ceremony, him packing for college, and the day he left for the DAA. 

It’s odd. You forget he was a normal teenager at one point, and not a high ranking colonel.

The pictures are through his eyes. Before you can stop, you find yourself becoming engrossed in lacing the photos together into some semblance of a story in your head. You see his childhood home and the model planes he enjoys building. His outings with MC and his grandmother. His last minute halloween costumes. Him and his friends carrying out a prank on someone. His studies. His likes. His dislikes. 

Caleb Xia is a charming person. If you hadn’t met the way you did, you think you might’ve liked him a little more.

When you ask him a question regarding one of the photos at dinner, he nearly chokes on his food. You quirk a brow in response. “Was I not supposed to see them?”

“No, it’s fine if you look…” he mumbles, taking a sip of water to gather himself. You squint—are his ears pink? You didn’t know he was capable of doing something kinda adorable. “It’s just a little embarrassing.”

“Like the picture of your airplane swim trunks from when you were a kid–”

He coughs again, and you snicker.

You think he’s tolerable—just a bit.

Weeks pass. Life gets a little easier with your job and more to do—it might even be a bit fun. With your new friends at your workplace and a new sense of accomplishment, the less you stress about your loveless marriage and the more you appreciate what you have. Your interactions with Caleb become less forced. Not because you’ve somehow managed to miraculously understand how his brain functions, but because you put less weight on what you say. It’s hard to see someone as intimidating when you’ve seen a photo of them in a stupid halloween costume. He seems to notice the change too. 

[Caleb Xia]: I got us fried chicken for dinner. Don’t be too late so it doesn’t get cold :)

Your mouth waters. It’s nice, almost. Emphasis on the almost.

Outside, the evening chill hits your cheeks, sharp enough to wake you up and wrap your jacket tighter around yourself. The street is busy but not crowded, as the sun has just set. A couple laughs too loudly across the road. Somewhere, a bus exhales.

You start down your usual route.

At first, it’s nothing. Just footsteps. Not out of place. People exist. People walk. People go home.

But something’s off. Your gut insists on it, and it’s hard to ignore.

You slow slightly, just enough to be subtle. The footsteps slow too.

Your fingers tighten around your bag.

Coincidence, surely.

You don’t turn around, yet. Turning means you have to see something and acknowledge that it’s real. Instead, you adjust your pace again. Faster this time.

The footsteps quicken, dropping your heart to your stomach. 

Your eyes dart around you anxiously. It’s dark. Streetlamps are guiding your path home, and though the neighborhood is nice, it’s empty. Well, except for you and the footsteps that seemingly sound like they’re getting ever so closer every few seconds. You throat feels dry. 

Phone. You need to tell someone. Even if you’re wrong—even if it’s just a hunch.

[You]: Still there?

[Caleb Xia]: Yea. why?

[You]: I think there’s someone following me

Your message sends, and for a moment air doesn’t enter your lungs.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

[Caleb Xia]: I’m coming.

You don’t know how he’s going to find you, but you don’t bother questioning it at the moment. You swallow, and your throat is dry enough that it hurts. The streetlamps cast long shadows across the pavement, and it’s hard to discern whether something is just a shadow or something else in the dark.

You don’t turn around.

Your legs carry you as fast as you can go without breaking into a sprint, and your grip tightens around your phone until your fingers ache. Hurry, you think. Hurry up, Caleb.

A car passes.

He’s closer now, whoever it is.

Your breath catches. Your shoulders tense, every instinct screaming at you to run, but your legs feel like they’ve forgotten how.

Suddenly, a car turns the corner too fast, tires kissing the curb before readjusting and you nearly jump out of your own skin. The tint on the car makes it too difficult to see inside, not that you’d be able to see much regardless due to the dark. It slows to a stop as it sees you, and you think if this isn’t who you’re expecting, it might actually be the end for you. 

The passenger door swings open.

“Get in.”

Relief floods your body when you hear his voice and you stumble to clamber in.

Relief?

This is Caleb Xia you’re talking about. Now that you think about it, you’re unsure why he was the first you contacted instead of the police. Your fingers had tapped on his profile faster than you could think. Was it just because he was at the top of your contacts? Was it because he was near? It must be, right? It had been instinctual. Your body had reacted—and it had somehow worked out. 

Regardless, you can’t possibly deny how relieved you feel right now.

You wonder if this is how MC always feels. It must be nice to know that someone so reliable is always at her beck and call, right? To come running at just a few words—maybe she wouldn’t have had to walk home in the first place. Maybe he would’ve driven her. You feel sick. This isn’t what you should be thinking about right now. Right now, you need to report it to the police and take a much needed nap. 

A part of you is envious of her.

“You should’ve called me earlier.”

The chicken doesn’t look as appetizing anymore even despite it sitting before you in all its crispy fried glory. The growling in your stomach from earlier is replaced by a slight pain, and it’s difficult to tell if you’ve only lost your appetite or if it’s a different kind of anxiousness. He watches you from across the table with a perplexed frown while you pick at the chicken aimlessly, nodding blankly.

“I’ll report it first thing in the morning,” Caleb sighs. “I should pick you up from work from now own. Or I’ll call you a taxi if I can’t.”

You nod again.

“Are you okay?”

Ah, he’s asking that again. You hate when he does.

You tilt your head. “I’m just sort of in shock, I think.”

“I know, but you should eat at least a bit. Here.” He holds a piece of chicken on a fork to your face and you scrunch your nose. He smirks. “Here comes the airplane?”

“I might vomit all over you.” A half lie.

He replies instantly. “Then I’ll clean it. Eat.”

For a reason that you just attribute to exhaustion, you don’t bother arguing. Instead, you pop it into your mouth, cheeks dusting pink at the intimacy of the act. He hums in approval and you try your best not to choke. Why was he feeding you—a grown woman? And why were you letting him? 

How bizarre. This whole day is bizarre.

At least you’re home—thanks to him.

“Thank you,” you mumble softly. “For getting there so fast.”

He looks almost offended, shaking his head. “Don’t thank me, it was a given. I’m just happy you thought to call me. I was worried you wouldn’t.”

Why did you call him? Well, you suppose he is your husband at the end of the day. One who has eyes for another, but your husband nonetheless. “Why wouldn’t I?”

He stops for a moment, as if in thought, and then smiles sheepishly. Not the annoying fake smile he puts on for show, but one that’s riddled with guilt. Shame. You want to know why. “Just assumed you wouldn’t.”

Strangely, the words make your chest tight.

Your eyes meet his usual striking violets, shoulders slumping as you look away once the eye contact feels too intense. “I’m glad I did.”

You barely catch the tips of his ears turning pink.

Caleb keeps his word for the months following the event. You never have reason to pass by that street again on foot, and although you continue to insist it’s not necessary, having him as your private driver of sorts does feel kind of nice. You think eventually, you’ve come to call him more than a stranger. He’s easier to talk to. Funnier than you thought, actually, when he’s not being annoying to tease you.

You’d never tell him that though, of course.

You blink warily, rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand when a ray of sunlight escapes through the shades of your bedroom and hit your face. However, it’s not what awakes you. Rather, it’s the insistent buzzing of your phone on your bedside table, which you barely manage to snatch without falling off the edge of the bed. 

[Caleb (husband)]: morning sleepinghead, you awake?

[Caleb (husband)]: Come eat breakfast :> made apple juice too

[Caleb (husband)]: I better hear you shuffling around in your room in the next few minutes or i’ll have to come drag you out.. :)

Caleb Xia, you find, nags a lot.

“Sleep well?” he chuckles when you finally emerge, still half-awake despite being fully dressed. You scratch the back of your neck, yawning as you perch yourself on one of the chairs at the counter where he’s standing with an apron tied neatly behind him. If you were just a tad bit more awake, you’d have a field day making a snide comment about it.

“Mm.”

He laughs again, gently. Did he always sound so soft?

“You can always quit your job, y’know,” he shrugs, placing a plate of breakfast foods in front of you. It smells immaculate, as usual. “Offer’s always on the table.”

You shove a forkful of eggs into your mouth, squinting at him. “Why do you wanth me shoo be unemployed sho bad? My parentsh don’t care.”

“It’s not about your family…It just doesn’t seem necessary.”

“I like working. Just not waking up so early.”

“I only want you to avoid overextending yourself if you don’t have to,” he pops a tomato into his own mouth. “I make enough for you to get whatever you want, don’t I?”

“But I want my own money, too.”

“My money is your money. This is the least I can do.”

“Careful,” you snort. “You sound dangerously close to being romantic.”

He tilts his head. “Why wouldn’t I be romantic? I’m your husband.”

This time, you really choke on your food, coughing as he quickly hands you the apple juice. He’s been doing that lately—dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they’re nothing. Somehow always when you’re least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he’s either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he’s doing.

You’re willing to bet on the latter.

Caleb Xia, as you figure out in the time you spend with him in his car on the way to work, has terrible taste in films.

“That movie is awful. There’s no way that’s your favorite.”

He gasps dramatically and you don’t bother suppressing the urge to roll your eyes. “Hey, don’t judge before you try it.”

“I’d like it if I never had to try it, actually.”

The smile adorning your lips falls in an instant the car slows to a stop. You find yourself growing disappointed when you arrive at your workplace, because it means you’ll have to leave him. You want to scold yourself for thinking such preposterous thoughts. What are you? A teenager who’s hanging out with a boy for the first time?

You’re married, for god’s sake.

Then again, so what if his company isn’t so bad? What if you think he’s a bit more to you than tolerable? Isn’t that allowed? He’s your husband, after all. If it doesn’t feel so bad, maybe you could let yourself reprise and enjoy it while it lasts.

“Ah, right, I should tell you—I’ll be leaving this weekend for work.”

Ah, nevermind. Reality has a way of slapping you across the face when you least expect it.

“How long?”

“A few weeks at best,” he pauses, voice quieter. “Months, if I’m unlucky.”

You really despise the subtle aching in your chest.

You hate how easily it slips in. How, for a second, it makes the flame that’s gone out years ago flicker, as if these moments could mean more than they do. They don’t. You know they don’t. They aren’t yours to keep. None of it is.

The warmth, the ease, the way he looks at you like this—like you’re something he actually cares about—it’s all fake. Stolen. You’re just standing in the space where someone else is supposed to be.

You press your lips together, forcing the feeling down before it can spread any further. Get a grip.

His palm pats the top of your head, making your cheeks heat against your will. With a grin, he nods. But it’s stiff. The slight crinkle between his brows. Upset. Upset? “I’ll see you tonight.”

It’s like he knows what you’re thinking before you know yourself.

“Who said I want to?”

“You wound me.”

As soon as you enter the building, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket.

[Caleb (husband)]: I know you’re at work, but…

[Caleb (husband)]: Movie night tn ?? i can make us popcorn :D

[Caleb (husband)]: And yes we’re watching my fav so you can stop calling it bad :>

[Caleb (husband)]: Last hurrah before i leave

This is dangerous, you think. Really, really dangerous. 

You seriously hope you don’t fall for him, if it isn’t too late already.

A few hours later, the living room is dimly lit with soft lights, the low hum of something playing in the background as Caleb sets everything up. The bowl of popcorn ends up a little too full, a few pieces spilling onto the counter as he carries it over, muttering something under his breath as he munches on the ones that are about to spill over. You sink into the couch, watching him move around the room—adjusting the volume and flipping through options he’s already decided on. 

It’s strange, how easy it feels. How normal.

You don’t realize you’re staring until he glances over.

So you look away quickly, fixing your gaze on the screen. But a few seconds pass, and you can feel his attention still lingering.

You pretend not to notice.

What are you doing? What are either of you doing?

You don’t say anything, swallowing the question down into the pit in your stomach.

The movie stars a side character with a passionate devotion to his family, who reminds you of Caleb. Oddly enough, the resemblance is almost uncanny. You kind of want to root for him but also want him to lose terribly. You huff quietly. “He’s so intense.”

Caleb glances over, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “What? You wouldn’t want someone like that?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I mean… he’s a bit much.”

A pause.

“…but it comes from a good place. I like him.”

He stills.

You pick at a piece of popcorn, rolling it between your fingers. “He reminds me of you a little.”

“Yeah?”

You shrug, still not quite looking at him. “Yeah.” A small breath escapes you before you can stop it. “MC is really lucky to have you.”

He goes quiet. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you.

“…Lucky,” he repeats, almost to himself.

You hesitate, then ruin it by saying more. "I mean, you're always there for her, you know? If she calls, you come running. Everyone wants someone like that."

It was supposed to come off lightheartedly, but it only digs the hole deeper.

Something in his expression shifts. His smile fades, his face losing its usual ease as it drops to something you’ve never seen on him before. It contorts in phases. Surprise, and then confusion, and finally into one you prefer the least.

Panic. Something is wrong.

You wish you’d just shut up. The long pause makes you wish you were just a fly on the wall right now.

“Is this why?” he blinks, and his eyes glisten with something you haven’t seen from him. Void of the usual emptiness but replaced with something fuller. Heavier. “Is this why you hate me so much? Because of MC?”

Huh?

“Fuck,” one hand pulls at the roots of his hair, his top teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he attempts to hide his face from you. “I’m a moron. I should’ve known.”

What? Despite your hands growing clammy, you feel cold. Like the blood is draining from your face.

“You must hate me so much.”

When did you ever hate him? You’ve loathed him, certainly, when he’d disappear for weeks on end leaving you all alone in this cold, lifeless house. You’ve wanted to punch your balled up fists into his chest, knowing that it wouldn’t phase him in the slightest simply to alleviate some of your own anger. You’ve wanted to run away a multitude of times. But hate? Have you ever hated Caleb? Can you hate Caleb?

“Caleb.”

“This is my fault. I should’ve been more aware. It’s so obvious now, I feel like an idiot.”

“Caleb.”

“I thought you just hated me because this isn’t a marriage you wanted,” his voice cracks, and he’s burying his face into his palms. “I thought staying away from you was what you wanted. Shit, I’m so stupid.”

“Caleb,” you say, more firmly this time, and he finally looks at you. There’s a watery film over his usually lifeless eyes, glistening against the light of the TV screen, and it makes the pit in your stomach grow deeper. You don’t like seeing him like this. You thought you would, but you don’t.

His voice is a mere whisper now. He looks like he wants to vomit out a million words at once, but there’s three specific ones that linger on his tongue. Is this what they call a woman's intuition? You’re not sure how, but in the moment, it feels like you’re in his head. For the first time in the 4 years you’ve been wed to Caleb Xia, you feel like you can understand him. 

A victory that doesn’t feel like one at all.

“Listen to me,” he grabs your hands in his, holding them in front of his chest. “I don’t love her—not as a woman. I haven’t in a long time. She and Zayne are like my family, and I’d be a terrible person not to be happy for them. I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear to you. I’m so sorry.”

Your heart doesn’t seem to be beating anymore.

The air is too thick. Like liquid entering your lungs.

Caleb opens his mouth and then shuts it again, his words stuck in the back of his throat. You’re not sure if you want to hear what he wants to say. The words hold too much value, too many years of hurt, and you don’t know how you’ll react. You don’t want to acknowledge any of this as real, because if it is, what was all of this for? What were the years you spent holed up in your room meant to achieve? Were you just being a fool? And in that case, would you even want to know?

No. You don’t.

So instead, you kiss him.

A wordless, messy kiss. Though he’s taken aback at first, he’s quick to slot his mouth against yours eagerly, hands flying to your waist to pull you closer as if a man starved. It’s desperate. Different from the kiss you shared with him at the courthouse, or for transactional purposes. His mouth feels hot against yours, and when his tongue swipes against your lip, you let him in. 

You climb onto his lap, straddling him as he presses you flush against him. The movie is long forgotten. His hair weeds through the crevices between your fingers and he deepens the kiss as if he’s trying to physically become one with you. His heart hammers against your own like a timer, warning you of what this could mean, but you don’t care.

“Put your arms around my neck,” he mumbles against you, and then you’re suddenly being lifted up to your room with his hands supporting your thighs around his waist. But even those few seconds aren’t worth staying apart for, because he’s kissing your neck, mouthing at spots that have you pursing your lips to avoid making any embarrassing sounds. He lets you down gently onto the middle of your bed and follows suit, pushing you onto your back.

You’re here again.

He’s looming over you, face flushed in a deep red this time. He’ll ask if you’re okay. If this is okay. And then he’ll take off his shirt and his hand will slide up yours. It’ll be better this time, because it’s not out of some twisted sense of duty. Desire pulses at your core, but you can’t help but shake off this curdling feeling in your chest, as if you want to hurl. You wait for what you expect, eyes never leaving his.

Instead, he breathes sharply. “I love you.”

The world stops. 

“You don’t have to say anything back that I don’t deserve. I just want you to know,” he whispers.

Can anyone love someone like you—much less, your husband? You start breathing again because you have to, staring up at him as if he’s gone insane. In fact, you think you’ve gone insane. Kissing him, lying beneath him, enjoying his presence, looking forward to his breakfasts, letting him drop you off at work, feeling disappointed that he’s leaving—you’ve most definitely died and come back as another person, because this is not you.

This is Caleb Xia. He is an unloving person. He cannot love. But what happens if he does? With tears stinging at his eyes, watching you with a mix of pure adoration and sorrow, he’s telling you he loves you. Love is a strong word, isn’t it? But he means it. He loves you. Caleb loves you. You want to call him a liar, but he’s not.

You want to cry into his chest and run away at the same time.

The flame flickers, and you panic. Not because you despise him, or because his confession is one you don’t want to accept, but because this flame is not one you welcome with open arms anymore. It’s too easy to hurt. Too easy to shrink, yet somehow impossible to destroy.

“I can’t,” you croak. “Not right now.”

Even Caleb can’t mask the hurt that deepens his frown, as if you’ve torn his heart straight from his chest. For a man with so much power, he’s never looked more powerless than he does now.

It feels too vulnerable. Open. As if you’re naked and he’s fully clothed, when it’s infact the exact opposite. You don’t want to open up to him again. You don’t want him to snuff out that small flame you have that never seems to go out no matter how much you douse it in water. Or maybe you do?

He forces a crooked smile, strained against his very will and nods before leaving the room. As the door slips shut, he doesn’t turn to look at you. “Sleep tight.”

You don’t get much sleep that night at all.

Morning comes anyway.

And then another.

And another.

His absence returns, but this time because you’re the one avoiding him. You leave earlier than usual, linger longer at work, find excuses in the smallest things—emails, errands, anything that keeps you just a little out of sync with him. When you do cross paths, it’s brief. Polite. A short good morning or a quick goodnight. It’s easier that way.

You tell yourself this is what you wanted—to put distance back where it belongs. Whatever that night was, whatever flame flickered between you, it will fade. It must fade.

He isn’t yours. Even if he says he is, there’s too much pain--too many years of resentment built up that you don’t know what to do with.

You catch yourself thinking about it at mundane times—standing in line, walking home, staring at your coworkers chatting amongst themselves. The apartment feels different already, like it’s preparing to be emptier. As cold as it was a few months ago, when he was still Caleb Xia, and not just Caleb.

You take the time away from him to reset. To think, but not too much. You find yourself flipping through his photo albums again, smiling when you flip to a particularly embarrassing one. You hear him shuffling outside your room, probably packing for his business trip. You’re aware of what he risks everytime he disappears for weeks at a time—not only his life, but the lives of his men—and you don’t know how he bears to leave home everytime he does. 

But he always comes back. He has to. 

You suppose it’s for the best for now. And when he returns, things will return to normal. The house won’t be as awkward as it is. The two of you will slip into your usual routine of a loveless marriage, and you’ll find other avenues in life to derive joy from. So will he.

The front door shuts faster than you anticipated. 

He’s gone.

This is fine.

This is what you wanted.

The house is empty again. You pace to the living room, and surprisingly, a fresh bouquet of flowers is propped inside their usual vase. You lift the vase into your hands, letting the scent of the flowers waft into your nose. They smell good. New. Sort of like the detergent he uses when doing the laundry.

You set the vase back down, nails pressing faint crescents into your skin.

His face when you last saw him keeps flickering in your mind. So much hurt. Raw with fear.

“I love you.”

You want to tell him he doesn’t. You want to remind yourself that this is your husband. Your heartless, cunning husband who kills people for a living—who doesn’t care about anyone but his family. 

But you’re his family, aren’t you?

You can still smell his cologne in the air.

You must’ve missed it from the glint of the sunlight in the glass coffee table—there’s a small shimmer of something sitting beside the vase. With a quirked brow, you pick it up. He usually never leaves trash lying around.

You nearly drop it.

His wedding band.

Your breath stutters, sharp and uneven, like your lungs have forgotten how to work. Your heart pounds as you realize that you're shaking, eyes wide as saucers as you stare at the object in your hands.

No.

He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t just leave it.

The ring sits in your palm like a brick that weighs your entire body down. This isn’t something you can pretend will reset when he comes back.

This means no more quiet dinners. No more stupid arguments over movies he insists are good. No more messages waiting for you when you’re at work. No more him, standing at the counter every morning with a pan in his hand. No more him.

And worst of all, no more chance to fix it. To tell him your side of the story.

Your body moves before your mind catches up.

You wrench the front door open, not bothering to lock it behind you as your feet hit the pavement with just your socks. The air burns your throat as you run, lungs screaming, heart still pounding like it’s trying to break through your ribcage.

He can’t leave.

The stinging beneath your feet go unregistered as you clutch the ring so tightly that it feels like it might dig into your flesh. 

Just forward, you hiss to yourself. Faster. You turn corner after corner, your body begging you to stop overexerting yourself, but you can’t bother to care. You don’t even register where you’re going, but you need to go somewhere. It feels like ages and seconds at the same time, as you beg nobody in particular for one more chance.

A chance for what, you're not sure.

Reconciliation? Love? Understanding?

Is any of that possible? And if not, why are you running like your very life depends on it?

The ring digs further into your skin, and you realize it doesn't matter as long as you find who it belongs to. Him. Caleb. The reason and bane of your existence, and apparently what has you running across the entire town in hopes of bringing him back.

Finally, you slam into something solid.

The impact knocks the breath out of you, your grip loosening as the ring nearly slips from your fingers. A hand catches your arms before you can stumble back too far, steadying you with a familiar scent that somehow lets you breathe again.

“Hey—watch it—oh.”

You freeze in place, breath hitching as you look up. Standing right in front of you, he appears slightly disheveled, one hand still gripping your arm while the other awkwardly balances a paper bag of groceries. Caleb blinks, his eyes immediately scanning over your frame before landing on your feet. “Why are you here? Are you okay? And where are your shoes, it’s dangerou—”

“Don’t go, Caleb,” you sniffle, tears already stinging at your eyes as your body finally has a chance to rest, though it doesn’t feel much better. “Please don’t go.”

He stares at you as if you've grown a third eye, nearly dropping his bag of groceries at your pleas. Even the tips of his ears turn red, flustered. "What are you--"

“Why did you leave the ring? Did you lie?” About loving me?

His expression falls, attention honing in on the ring gripped in your fist. Something seems to click in his head, and immediately, he shakes his head. “No, of course not, I was going to leave a note. I just went out to get groceries before I left—”

“So you were going to leave the ring?”

“Well, yes, but can we–”

“Do you not like me anymore?” you blurt, finger bunching at the fabric of his sleeve. “Is it because I ignored you for a week?”

He almost looks offended. “Of course I still like you.”

“Then why?”

His voice softens, as if speaking too loud will scare you away. Hesitantly, he sheepishly releases your arms. Instead, he slowly takes your hand in his, lips pursing as he sighs. His palm feels rough with calluses from the work he does, but light as feathers against your skin. His touch is gentle, as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. “I figured there was no reason for me to tie you to me anymore. I won’t force you to be with someone you can’t even stand to be around. Someone you hate. It’d be selfish.”

Your words tumble out before you can process them. “I don’t hate you.”

Finally, with your hand in his, the world feels okay again. This feeling tells you you’re screwed, but you don’t care.

“I’ve been mad at you, and I don’t know what to do with your feelings because they make no sense, but I don’t hate you,” you mutter. “You’re just too confusing.”

“...Confusing?”

“I just—I don’t know what to do, Caleb,” you wipe vigorously at your eyes with your free hand, head falling to avoid looking him at him. “I don’t know what to think about you. How to feel about you.”

His eyes ease, and you feel him squeeze your fingers. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.”

“Do you love me?”

“I don’t know.”

Caleb has always been better at reading you than yourself. A flash of hurt ripples across his face, but his eyes maintain its soft glimmer—because he knows. Even if you say you don’t know, he knows. He also knows that you’re afraid of those words, and he doesn’t blame you for it.

So instead, he asks something else. “What am I to you?”

You want to call him a million things. The man who left you by yourself, the man who refused to touch you for so many years, the man who’d chosen to sleep in the guest bedroom just to avoid taking up space in yours. He’s felt awful, inconsiderate, and cold. But he’s also the man who’s gotten you flowers, the man who’d break four speeding laws to make you feel safe, the man who makes sure you’re never hungry, the man who folds your laundry neatly and organizes it color-coded in your closet. The man who you wish you could slap across the face and hold close to you at the same time. The man who’s made you feel alone yet so cared for all at once.

You like him, you think. In some strange way that’s never been covered in the romantic films you used to clutch onto like a life line, you like him. The ‘L’ word teeters on the tip of your tongue like a marble rolling around to decide what these emotions settling in your heart really are, but it doesn’t really matter. All you know is that you need him. You want him. You want him to hold your face and kiss you tenderly, like he did that night. You want him to do it again and again until you can’t breathe, and all you can feel is him. You want to eat dinner with him every night and wake up in the morning to his stupid apron. You want to go grocery shopping with him. You want to fall asleep watching a movie in his arms.

“What am I to you?”

Tears fall down your cheeks in fat globs and you try your hardest not to let your voice crack. “My husband.”

His eyes widen for a moment, and then his lips split into a wide grin that resembles the lovesick expression of a teenage boy who’s holding hands for the first time. Caleb drops his grocery bag to his feet and reaches either hands to the sides of your face, cradling you gingerly as he guides you closer. Before you’re even registering it, he brushes a strand of hair out of your forehead and presses a soft but firm kiss to your temple, where you can feel him smile against your skin.

“Who am I to say no my wife?”

Your marriage is a messy, complicated jumble of emotions. The confusion. The fear. The warmth. It’s not perfect. It never will be. And despite it all, you don’t want it any other way, because Caleb Xia is a loving person.

sukuna had been fighting since he was fifteen and filled with a rage even he couldn’t understand. 

toji found him bloody outside a convenience store after some older guys tried jumping him for gambling money. 

it was clear they didn’t get the money but sukuna took that fire in his gaze out on them. 

sukuna still recalled the way toji looked down at him, droplets cascading down his sharp features and dark hair, damp cigarette hanging from his mouth while blood dripped steadily from sukuna’s split brow. 

“you fight like an animal,” toji began, taking a drag of his fading cig before tilting his head at the salmon haired boy, “what if i told you that you could beat the shit out of guys every day and get paid for it?” 

a fucking dream is what that was. he gets to utilize his anger and he could finally get out of his father’s house. 

how could sukuna even say no? 

somehow, it turned into this. 

years later, ryomen sukuna had become the name whispered through underground rings across the city. not because he was the biggest or the strongest, but because he was cruel. 

there was something deeply unsettling about the way sukuna fought. 

controlled, almost lazy sometimes. like violence came so naturally to him that he didn’t even need to think about it. 

people feared men who fought emotionally. 

they feared ryomen sukuna more because he never did. 

most nights, he fought beneath screaming neon lights while crowds chanted his name loud enough to shake the walls. 

they bet on him like he was a sure thing and fuck, did he get a shitload of money from it. 

he’d leave each night, beaten and bruised with a duffel of cash hanging off his shoulder.

he was living the dream.

that was until he arrived home, in his apartment downtown, and sat in silence while somebody else’s emotions bled quietly into his chest. 

a girl he’d never met yet somehow knew like the back of his hand, all too intimately. 

he knew she liked coffee because of the bursts of energy he’d feel during mornings where he usually slept in because his fights usually carried into the night. 

he knew she did yoga often because his muscles weren’t as sore as they would get when he was younger and god knows it wasn’t his doing. he didn’t stretch nearly as much as toji nagged at him to. 

he also knew that she despised him. 

that one was obvious. 

their bond always sharpened after his fights. her irritation sat bright and hot beneath his ribs every time he came home bruised and bloody. 

sometimes he couldn’t differentiate between his own rage and hers. 

maybe they were more alike than he thought. 

truthfully, sukuna didn’t know how to do things any differently and frankly, he didn’t care enough to. 

he hated this whole soulmates shit. why would the universe ever pair two people together with the utmost certainty that they were perfect for each other?

and what fucking masacre did this girl commit to be bonded with him of all people? 

violence was the only thing sukuna had ever been good at and he wouldn’t change that for anyone, especially some girl who was almost a mere figment of his imagination. 

he did that sometimes. pretended that he was a non-existent and that he was merely hallucinating her. 

non-existents made up a very small part of the population and they were essentially humans who didn’t have soulmates. like toji was. 

lucky bastard. 

sometimes sukuna believed toji was lying because he’d get this distant look on his face some days, kind of like himself when he felt his own soulmate torment him. 

so maybe he was a late bloomer? 

either way, he was in a better situation than sukuna was. 

“your girl’s pissed again?” toji commented dryly from where he leaned against the boxing ring ropes, head tilted with a knowingness sukuna hated. 

toji was the one sukuna had to confide in because who else did he have? 

when he was overwhelmed as a young teenager about his soulmate, toji would be the one he would reluctantly go to. the older man had taken him under his wing, so yes, he did trust him more than anyone. 

he also knew that toji cared about him in his own fucked up way. 

sukuna’s knuckles ached tonight, phantom annoyance curling beneath his skin that didn’t belong to him. it was her. 

probably studying somewhere in the city while silently wishing death upon him. 

the thought almost made him grin. 

throughout the years, pissing her off became a hobby of some sort, though he knew she didn’t find it nearly as amusing as he did. 

“at least you know she’s got personality.” toji stated once more as sukuna finally stopped punching and turned to shoot the man a glare. 

“shut the fuck up.”

toji huffed out a laugh, “god help you both when you finally meet.”

the thought made sukuna freeze momentarily. 

it was almost sad. 

usually, at least from what sukuna knew, people usually couldn’t wait to meet their soulmates. 

then there was sukuna, filled with dread at the mere idea. 

sukuna hated even talking about the bond. 

he hated how aware he was of her. 

because despite everything, the distance and never seeing her to begin with, she felt woven into him already, like a haunting. 

some nights, when his insomnia clawed violently at his nerves after fights, he’d feel her wrap her arms around herself beneath warm blankets god knows where. 

and sleep came easier those nights. 

he couldn’t explain it and truthfully, he didn’t like to think about it. 

he hated talking about her because the truth was ugly. 

that he didn’t particularly hate her. which is exactly why he knew meeting her would ruin everything. 

naturally, his solution was to sabotage everything which is why he started to sleep around with non-existents whenever he got the chance. 

and he knew what it did to her. 

good. he hoped it made her despise him enough to never want anything to do with him, whether they meet now or twenty years down the line. 

sukuna didn’t want anything to do with her. 

∞

you hated downtown on friday nights. 

it was always too loud and all too crowded. 

neon signs bled into rain-slick streets while bass-heavy music spilled from every open doorway along the block. 

girls stumbled across sidewalks in tiny dresses and tall heels, drunken laughter cutting through the humid summer night air while taxis lined the streets endlessly. 

the city looked beautiful after dark, but you still wanted to be everywhere but here. 

“stop looking at people with that judgy look of yours.” shoko muttered beside you, nudging your shoulder lightly as the three of you crossed the street.

“i’m not judging, i’m just looking around…” you defended with a huff as you hugged yourself protectively, little kitten heels clicking against the pavement. 

“you are judging,” utahime confirmed, “it’s your classic disgusted and glare-ey look.” 

“well excuse me, you’re the ones who brought me to crackhead-ville.” you glared at the two girls as shoko rolled her eeys before hooking her arm through yours anyway. 

she pulled you towards the entrance of yet another overcrowded building downtown.

apparently, tonight’s party was being held somewhere above an abandoned old bar. or beneath it. 

either way, something you found entirely too ominous but you were too distracted when shoko was explaining to actually disagree. 

your soulmate had spent the entire evening restless beneath your skin. not angry but worse. 

aware. 

you felt him constantly tonight. 

a steady pulse of adrenaline humming through your bloodstream that didn’t belong to you. 

your chest had felt tight since leaving the penthouse, some strange tension settling low in your stomach like your body was anticipating something before your mind could catch up.

it was unsettling. 

you blamed the lack of sleep, or rather, you blamed him. you blamed him for it all. 

“ew, ew…” you muttered as shoko pulled you through the door into what you could only describe as chaos. 

warmth and noise hit you instantly. 

bodies crowded wall to wall beneath flashing lights while music shook violently through the floorboards. 

cigarette smoke lingered in the air despite the open windows somewhere deeper inside the space. 

you physically recoiled. 

“oh my god,” utahime muttered beside you, laughing softly at the expression painting your features, “you look horrified.” 

“i am horrified!” 

shoko snorted, “rich kids.” 

you threw her a glare before the three of you squeezed through the crowd until you reached a quieter section tucked near the back of the room. 

a curved leather couch sat half-empty beneath dim red lights, thankfully far enough from the speakers that your skull stopped vibrating the second you sat down. 

you exhaled deeply, chest deflating as you blinked up at your friends who were looking at you with amusement. 

“drinks?” utahime questioned as shoko nodded eagerly while you merely hummed, shoulders tense as you gazed around the sea of bodies. 

utahime disappeared toward the bar while shoko took a seat beside you, the leather beneath you sticky in a way that had you shuddering, sitting at the very edge of the couch. 

fuck, you hated this and you couldn’t explain why. 

yes, you hated parties in general but you just felt wrong. 

“you’re being weird tonight.” shoko observed, eyes narrowed on your tense figure. 

you frowned faintly, “i know…i feel weird.”

your skin felt like it was buzzing, chest vibrating in a way it usually wasn’t. 

it wasn’t necessarily bad, but simply off. 

you felt your soulmate more than ever tonight, you were almost hyperaware. 

he felt electric. 

every emotion coming from him felt sharper somehow, close enough that you could almost mistake them for your own. 

your pulse kept jumping for no reason. 

fuck, you hated this. 

“is it devils dick?” shoko casually asked as your eyes closed momentarily. 

how would you explain that it was both yes and no. 

yes, the bond felt different tonight. 

but no, it wasn’t muscle aches or phantom pain you were feeling on his end, though you didn't want to speak too soon. 

it was a friday after all. friday nights usually meant bruised ribs by saturday morning. 

“oh my god, guys!” hime stood before you, handing shoko her drink before placing a water bottle in your hand, “everyone’s saying gojo and his crew are gonna be here!” 

your eyes rolled gently, very much aware of utahime’s obsession with those random illegitimate fighters. 

underground fights happened constantly throughout the city. 

illegal betting rings buried beneath clubs and abandoned buildings, violent enough that respectable people pretended they didn’t exist despite everyone secretly knowing otherwise. 

your father even told you how known politicians and well known figures even placed bets they hid from the public.  

and lately, there was one name that everyone kept talking about-

“do you think sukuna would show up?” shoko questioned, eyes wide with excitement, taking a sip of her cherry vodka as you looked between the two girls. 

ryomen sukuna. 

you’d heard it constantly from utahime the past few months. 

uathime, shoko, sora and percy often went on double dates to these underground fights you had zero interest in. 

you were very much used to fifth wheeling alongside your friends, that wasn’t the issue. the issue was rooted in the prospect of spending the night in a filthy underground boxing ring riddled with people and violence alike. yuck. 

still, amongst all the fighters utahime gushed about, ryomen sukuna seemed to be the most known. 

the undefeated underground fighter with pink hair and a snake tattoo across his shoulders and collarbones. 

people were terrified of him just as equally as they were obsessed with him. 

“percy says sukuna knocked his opponent unconscious in under thirty seconds last week!” shoko stated, taking another sip as utahime nodded frantically. 

“he’s insane!” utahime gushed, “like, gojo is obviously a show off and just cares about the clout he gets but sukuna? he’s terrifying…”

utahime continued, you were sure. you could see her mouth moving but you didn’t-couldn’t register the words she'd uttered. 

the world around you turned hazy, just enough to feel like everything slowed in a way that definitely wasn’t normal. 

your heartbeat stopped, not metaphorically, but physically. 

a sharp wave of adrenaline crashed violently into your chest hard enough to steal the breath straight from your lungs. 

you went still, every muscle in your body tightening instinctively. 

you could see both of the girls leaning towards you, brows furrowed in concern, mouths moving and uttering words you knew were dipped in concern. you couldn’t hear any of it. 

you swallowed hard, eyes darting up and around you, as if a siren was luring you towards the crowd, come to me, come, come. 

fuck, were you drugged or something?

your heartbeat stuttered painfully beneath your ribs, once, twice then again. 

you felt like you’d been dropped underwater while everyone else remained above the surface. 

the bond felt raw and entirely too overwhelming.

it felt like standing at the edge of something life-altering, like your soul had recognized something before your mind could catch up to it. 

for the first time since you’d first felt your soulmate, he didn’t feel far away. 

you had grown used to the idea of him, something intangible and not truly real. 

merely a ghost haunting the edges of your nervous system, phantom bruises in the middle of lectures and an adrenaline rush at three in the morning. 

he was the deep-seated exhaustion that riddled your body but didn’t belong to you. 

but this felt real. close enough to touch. 

the sensation crawled slowly beneath your skin, winding around your ribs like invisible string being pulled tighter and tighter and tighter until you thought you might choke on it. 

the realization hit your bloodstream like a drug. 

he was here, you knew it. you could feel it in your bones. 

your eyes darted towards the door that had swung open, summer air rushing inside alongside four figures dressed almost entirely in black. 

the first thing you noticed was height. 

they all carried themselves with the same dangerous sort of confidence, the kind that came from men who had never truly feared consequences before. 

one of them had snowy white locks, the tallest of the bunch, bright enough to catch beneath the flashing lights, sunglasses balanced lazily across his nose despite the fact that it was nearly midnight. 

another stood beside him, quieter with shoulder length black locks with stretched gauges in his ears and sharp eyes that swept across the room once before settling into bored indifference.

the third one was shorter than the rest but still tall, black locks in two spiked buns with a joint resting between plump pink lips, eyes hooded in a way that exposed that joint not being his first of the night.

they were all attractive in a way that felt almost unfair and dangerous. 

people moved out of their path without being asked. 

your eyes turned to the one trailing just a step behind them and your breath caught so violently, it hurt. 

the salmon colored locks gave him away. 

ryomen sukuna. 

tattoos curled dark against tan skin disappearing beneath the collar of a black shirt that stretched across broad shoulders. 

even from where you stood, you could see the dried blood and bruises across his knuckles. 

he looked nothing like what you’d imagined from shoko’s descriptions. 

and simultaneously, exactly like it too. 

something deep inside you snapped taut, your stomach dropping. 

you could tell he was dazed too, jaw locked and eyes blinking at a slow pace, eyes looking around the sea of bodies. 

the soulmate bond surged so hard beneath your ribs, you physically recoiled, fingers gripping the edge of the leather couch. 

oh god. no, no, no.

oh my god…

“oh my god,” utahime whispered beside you, though unlike you, she sounded impressed rather than horrified. 

shoko looked moments away from passing out entirely. 

“that’s him!” she breathed out quietly. 

you couldn’t answer, breath stilling and hands trembling. 

because sukuna had stopped walking.

fuck, the realization came slowly enough to feel cruel. 

maroon eyes met your own and the room around you dissolved entirely. the music became muffled noise, lights blurring and the crowd disappeared.

all you could see was him. him. him. him. 

he was all you could see, feel and you knew all he could see was you. 

sukuna felt it the second he stepped through the doorway. 

you. 

the bond snapped violently alive beneath his skin hard enough that his entire body locked for half a second mid-step. 

he almost thought someone had drugged him until he remembered he hadn’t even drank anything yet. 

then what was this feeling? 

his eyes locked on yours and he felt the most alive he’d felt in his life.

something even the ring and the violence couldn't offer. 

there you were, all too pretty and wide eyed. 

he barely heard gojo speak beside him anymore, the lanky man rambling on about some idiot from last week’s fight who apparently called him out on twitter after. 

sukuna ignored him completely because across the room sat a girl staring at him like she’d seen a ghost. 

and in some ways, he was your ghost. 

he haunted you and lived under your skin in ways he was sure you didn’t appreciate in the slightest. 

his soulmate. 

years of phantom feelings crashed together all at once so violently, it almost made him sick. 

because the realization hit him harder than he’d anticipated and yes, he had anticipated this. 

the moment he’d meet his soulmate. 

well, he dreaded more than anticipated it. 

it hit him hard because he realized that he knew this girl. 

sukuna had never met you, yet, he bet he knew you more than the two girls hovering over you. more than fucking anyone. 

you were the girl whose stress bled into his bones during finals week, the girl who wrapped her arms around herself at night and somehow lulled him to sleep from miles away. 

you were real. 

and you looked soft. 

that was the first thing he took note of. 

soft skin, soft wide eyes, soft pink shimmery gloss coating your plush lips he recognized only through phantom warmth he’d felt against his own skin before. 

his soulmate was a pretty little thing, so pretty it almost made his chest ache. in your tiny skirt and halter top.

far too fucking pretty to belong anywhere near him. 

“sukuna?” 

choso’s voice cut through the haze faintly and sukuna snapped out of it, gaze finally leaving hers to glance at his friend who tilted his head towards the other side of the room. 

sukuna resisted the urge to glance at you as he made his way across the room.

fuck, fuck, fuck! 

this couldn’t be happening, this was a fucking nightmare. 

just as he made it across the room, he felt it. 

warm fingertips brushing his own skin despite his hands at his sides. 

his pulse stuttered once. 

his gaze snapped to yours once more and your eyes widened instantly when you noticed his hand drift to his neck where your own hand was resting. 

slowly and carefully, sukuna lifted his own hand. 

his fingers brushed lightly against the side of his jaw, a barely there touch. 

yet, across the room, your breath hitched sharply as warmth bloomed against your own jawline seconds later. 

not imagined or coincidence. it was all real, so so real. 

your stomach twisted violently. 

oh no. no no no no. 

shoko was gazing at you, “what’s wrong?!” 

you couldn’t answer, eyes stuck on a pair of crimson that held you hostage.

her eyes narrowed as both her and utahime followed your gaze before catching sukuna’s eyes on you. 

then they both looked between you both a total of five times before realization hit. 

“wait,” shoko whispered harshly, hand shooting out to grip your arm, “WAIT.”

utahime’s jaw physically fell open, “holy shit…”

your heartbeat pounded so violently, you thought you might faint right then and there beneath the flashing red lights.

what you despised most is that it made sense. 

of course it was him. a violent and dangerous underground fighter, fuck, that explained everything so perfectly.

if fate was a person, you’d have her by the neck right now. 

because sukuna was still staring at you, as if he knew you already and perhaps, he did. 

then horrifyingly, he smirked. 

and suddenly, you understood exactly why the entire city feared ryomen sukuna. 

sukuna moved before he could really think about it, jaw clenched but determined.

one second he stood on the other side of the room and the next, his body was already weaving through the crowd toward you like the bond itself had wrapped invisible fingers around his spine and dragged him to you. you. his soulmate. 

people moved instantly to let him pass. 

you took note of that immediately. 

you noticed the way conversations died around him, the way bodies shifted out of his path and nobody dared touch him, even accidentally. 

it was fear, you realized. people feared him. 

the recognition made your stomach twist. 

“oh my god,” shoko whispered harshly beside you, nails digging into your arm, “he’s coming over here!” 

“i can see that.” you hissed back faintly, though your voice barely sounded like your own. 

fuck, you should leave. you should absolutely leave. 

except, you couldn’t move, body drilled to where you sat, frozen in place while ryomen fucking sukuna rossed the room toward you like some predator chasing prey. 

closer and closer and closer. 

until suddenly, all his 6’4 glory was towering above you. 

your breath caught embarrassingly hard. 

up close, he was worse. 

taller than you’d imagined and broader too. 

there were faint bruises scattered along his jawline beneath the dim lights, on the very spot that you woke up feeling sore. fresh cuts healed across his knuckles. 

and his eyes, god, they looked at you with the same recognition burning through your own chest. 

sukuna looked down at you for a moment too long. 

fuck, you were even more ethereal up close. 

that thought hit him first and annoyingly hardest. 

his pretty little soulmate sitting curled into the edge of a leather couch looking at him with wide doe eyes, almost expectantly with a mix of fear and restraint. 

“hey.” 

his voice slid down your spine like smoke. 

low, dangerous and rough in a way even your mind couldn’t conjure up.

fuck, was this really happening?

your throat tightened instantly, “hi.”

the word left you horrifyingly softer than you’d intended and sukuna’s lips twitched at the sound. 

your voice was his favorite sound, instantly. 

“um,” shoko hummed, eyes wide as she shared a glance with utahime, “we’ll give you two a second.”

you almost wanted to yell in protest, but the two girls were already shuffling away, shooting you encouraging looks. 

as you glanced up at the dangerous man once more, you felt your heart still in a way you hadn’t ever felt before. 

not in fear or apprehension but calm. 

he made you feel calm, your body stilling and quieting in a way you hadn’t expected. 

regretfully, fuck, you despised it, but when that gentleness overcame you and you looked up at him…

his disheveled pink locks, his handsome rugged features and his dark eyes, all of it was him. 

and you felt stupid for trying to deny that this man was your soulmate. 

who else would it be? 

“i’m sukuna,” he stated lowly, moving to take a seat beside you, leaving an appreciative distance between you, “ryomen sukuna.” 

your name left you softly with a nod. 

as you gazed at each other, the same realization overcame you both. 

even with barely an introduction, you knew each other. 

while sukuna had only fond memories of what you’d done for him, your mind was riddled with poisonous ones. 

this was the man who often trained in the middle of the night, filling you with soreness and a rush of adrenaline that left you sleepless most nights. 

he was the one who fucked other girls knowing what that put you through. 

your heart clenched. 

beyond all those things, he was the one who hugged himself to sleep after that one night of utter hell. 

he was the one who held a hot water bottle to his stomach when your cramps left you nauseated and pained in bed. 

as much as you wanted to forget those things, to snap yourself out of the sad patheticness that riddled you, how could you?

how could you when those were the only memories that kept your hope that he wasn’t a total monster alive?

your eyes travelled along his bloodied knuckles, “you get those a lot.” 

sukuna’s fists instinctively clenched at the attention.

“and you burn yourself with whatever you do your hair with at least twice a week.”

your eyes widened instantly. 

“and you get punched like every other day!” 

sukuna’s mouth twitched and you hated how your eyes drifted towards the movement and your heart stuttered. 

“barely.” sukuna stated cooly, a small smirk painting his features. 

your eyes drifted toward him again before you could stop yourself. 

and then you remembered. 

every phantom feeling, every sleepless night and every ache.

all attached to him. 

the violence, the pain, the girls. 

your jaw tightened, "you’re not exactly the best person to be connected to, you know.” 

sukuna’s expression didn’t shift much, still cool, but you felt it. 

the hollow drop in your stomach that wasn’t yours. guilt. 

real and immediate, it almost made you laugh in disbelief. 

of course he felt guilty, he had to know he was a fucking nightmare. 

sukuna leaned back slightly, jaw working once as his gaze flickered away from yours for half a second, “yeah, i bet.” 

your brows lifted, “that’s it?” 

his eyes returned to yours, low and indifferent. 

you scoffed, anger bubbling up so quickly, it nearly startled you, “that’s all you have to say?” 

sukuna let out a breath through his nose, “what do you want me to say?”

“oh, i don’t know,” you let out a sharp little laugh that held not an ounce of humor, “maybe sorry would be a good place to start?!” 

sukuna’s head tilted, “sorry.” 

you stared at him in utter disbelief before a laugh left you once more, this time softer and dripped in something worse than anger, “wow…” 

sukuna’s eyes borrowed, “what?” 

“you’re unbelievable is what!” 

“you asked for sorry.” 

“not like that!” you nsapped, voice rising just enough to have your cheeks flushing, “not like you’re apologizing for stepping on my shoe!”

his expression hardened slightly and you felt it immediately, the irritation beginning to curl beneath his skin. 

ugh, you hated how the closeness made both your emotions so heightened. 

though, you hoped he could feel your rage. 

"an apology isn't gonna change shit. won't make y'feel better either."

his words enraged you even more.

“you have no idea what you put me through,” you continued, voice trembling despite you rbest efforts, “none.” 

sukuna’s gaze darkened, “don’t do that.”

“do what?” 

“act like i wasn’t there too.” 

you blinked at him, something hot and ugly twisting in your chest. 

was he for real? 

“you were there?” you repeated quietly, “you were there?” 

his jaw clenched, “don’t-”

“no, please,” you leaned forward slightly, anger sharpening every word, “explain it to me. because to my knowledge, you were the one making my life miserable while i was the one trying to keep us both sane!”

sukuna looked at you for a long moment, jaw clenching and unclenching. 

the lights washed over his face in flashes of red, making him look even more unreal than he already did. 

“you think i wanted this?” he stated more than asked and your heart clenched. 

hurt shot through you, your eyes growing glassy against your will because you knew he wasn’t referring to the pain he’d put you through. 

he meant the soulmate thing in general, fate as a whole. 

he didn’t want you.

you bit the inside of your cheek, willing your tears to stay in your eyes before breathing out, “no. but neither did i.” 

silence settled between you then, not peaceful but loaded. 

sukuna could physically feel your hurt and his eyes dropped briefly to your hands where they trembled in your lap. 

your fingers curled instantly, too proud as you hid the movement. 

it was too late. he’d seen it. 

even worse, he’d felt it.

“i didn’t know.” he stated lowly and you froze. 

your eyes flickered up, “what?” 

his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, expression unreadable. 

“at first,” he clarified, “i didn’t know what it did to you.” 

your chest tightening, knowing what he was referring to and his words didn’t soothe you in the slightest. 

“and after?” 

in fact, it made it all worse. 

especially as he said nothing. 

your face fell slightly, all the anger in you cooling into something quieter and melancholic. 

“after, you knew.” 

his gaze remained on you as his fingers flexed once against his thigh, “yeah, i knew.” 

your eyes burned and you hated yourself for it. 

you hated that it still hurt despite knowing already, you hated that hearing him say it aloud made it real in a way the bond never had. 

“why?” you asked, the one word absolutely humiliating as much as it was devastating. 

sukuna looked away first and somehow, that hurt too, “because it was easier.” 

your lips parted faintly, “easier?” 

he lout out a grunt, “if you hated me, you wouldn’t look for me.” 

the words settled between you like something deadly. 

for a second, you genuinely couldn’t speak. 

then you did, “that is the stupidest, shittiest thing i’ve ever heard.” 

hsi eyes snapped back to yours, scowling, “careful.” 

“oh, fuck you!” you hissed lowly, “you don’t get to do that! you don’t get to hurt me on purpose and then act like it was some noble sacrifice.” 

his jaw tightened, “it wasn’t noble.” 

“yeah, no shit.” 

“it was necessary.” 

you laughed once, incredulous, “necessary? well, congrats, you got what you wanted, i absolutely fucking despise you.” 

sukuna’s jaw clenched, eyes glaring at you, “good. because you don’t know shit about me, this saves us both the hassle.”

“i don’t know you?” you shot back, “i know you more than anyone, probably. i know your body hurts more often than they don’t. i know you clench your jaw when you’re mad. i know you can’t sleep because of your nightmares and unless somebody practcially forces your nervous system to shut down, you could go days without it. i know you’re so angry at the fucking world, it makes you so hateful.”

sukuna went still, too still. 

you swallowed hard, eyes burning once more, “and i know that for years, i was the one cleaning up the damage you left behind.” 

his eyes darkened, “cleaning up?” 

“yes,” your voice cracked despite yourself, “me. i was the one hugging myself to sleep because you wouldn’t. i was the one stretching every morning because your body always felt like fucking concrete. i was the one coloring like a goddamn toddler at three in the morning because it was the only thing that made your anger stop choking me!” 

sukuna said nothing and you hated that even more. 

you wanted him to argue back, to answer, to fucking care. 

“do you know how pathetic that feels?” you whispered, “taking care of someone who kept hurting me?” 

his expression shifted, barely, but you felt it again. 

the guilt, even deeper this time. 

sukuna looked at you like he wanted to say something cruel and couldn’t quite manage it, settling with, “you didn’t have to do all that.” 

your laugh came out watery, tears now trickling down your heated cheeks. 

fuck, you felt nauseous, you felt so fucking sick. 

“yeah, i know that now.” 

something passed across his face then, a flicker of pain so quick, you almost missed it. 

but the bond didn’t allow you to miss anything. you felt it bloom in your own chest, sharp and unwanted. his. 

for one terrible second, you almost let it soften you. 

almost. 

because there it was again. 

that tiny, stupid sliver of hope you’d spend years nurturing because it was the only thing that kept you mildly sane. 

the one that whispered that maybe he wasn't all cruelty. maybe there was something beneath all that violence and pain. 

maybe the boy who held a hot water bottle to his stomach when your cramps got bad had to exist somewhere inside the man sitting in front of you. 

you looked at him then, through your blurry vision, really and truly looked. 

the hard line of his jaw, the coldness in his eyes and the casual arrogance sitting across his shoulders like armor. 

and that hope crumbled quietly inside your chest. 

not dramatically or all at once, but piece by piece, like something old finally accepting it had been dead for a long time. 

utter disappointment filled you then. you should have known better. 

this shouldn't be surprising. 

sukuna had spent years telling you exactly who he was, painting you the worst image of himself and you had hoped it was just that. 

the worst of himself. 

except the worst was all of him. 

sukuna was cruel. not because he didn’t know better but because he did. 

because he’d known what hurt you and decided hurting you was easier than wanting you. 

you swallowed around the ache in your throat, suddenly exhausted in a way a thousand years of sleep couldn’t fix. 

all you wanted was to be home now, cuddled up with ani in your room alone. 

“right,” you whispered, nodding once to yourself. 

sukuna’s brows pulled together slightly, “right what?” 

you pushed yourself to your feet, smoothing trembling hands over the front of your skirt because you needed something to do. anything that didn’t involve looking at him. 

“this was enlightening.” 

his eyes narrowed, “sit down.” 

the command sparked something sharp beneath your ribs, the thorn twisting in your heart. 

you let out a hollow laugh, “fuck you.” 

his jaw flexed, “don’t make a scene.” 

your name left him then and you hated the way your stomach fluttered at the melody of it in his voice. 

fuck, your heart hurt. 

because he was your soulmate. yours.

because some sick, twisted part of you had expected the universe to redeem itself when you finally found him. 

you expected the first moment to feel like every story you’d grown up hearing, witnessed amongst your friends. 

warmth, recognition and relief. 

instead, you were standing in front of the man who had turned your body into a battlefield and your heart into collateral damage. 

“i hope i never see you again.” 

something flickered across his face then and you didn’t stay long enough to decipher it. 

you turned around, the crowd swallowing you almost immediately as you walked away. 

music slammed back into your skull, bodies pressing close as you pushed through them with shaking hands and blurred vision. 

your chest felt too tight, lungs too small for the oxygen your body ached for. 

behind you, you felt sukuna rise before you saw it. the immediate pull.

his presence growing closer and your heart stuttered stupidly. 

some miserable, pathetic part of you sparked alive at the thought before you could kill it. 

maybe he did care. 

maybe he was going to take back all the words he regretted, that he would stop you and apologize properly this time. 

he would say what you’ve been waiting years to feel. 

the thought was so humiliating, it almost made you sick. 

“fuck are you lookin’ at?!” 

you heard his voice aimed at the crowd of people that were watching you both, probably since your conversation on the couch. 

you shoved through the door and stepped into the narrow hallway outside the main room, the music muffling instantly behind you. 

the air was cooler here, damp with rain and cigarette smoke, blue neon bleeding through the cracked windows at the end of the corridor.

you took in a breath like you hadn’t breathed in days, eyes shutting as your heart hammered against your chest, trying to simply process everything that had taken place. 

“hey.” his voice followed you out and you froze, heart stilling. 

stupid, traitorous thing. 

you turned slowly, eyes fluttering open. 

sukuna stood a few feet away, tall and shadowed beneath the hallway light. 

away from the party, he seemed even more dangerous. less like a person and more like a warning your body had spent seven years failing to understand. 

he was an enigma. 

for one breath, neither of you spoke. 

your hope stood there too, fragile and shaking, fucking pitiful. 

waiting. 

sukuna’s gaze dragged over your face once, catching on the wetness beneath your eyes and his expression tightened faintly. 

say it, you thought bitterly. 

say sorry! say you didn’t mean it! 

say something!

his jaw worked once, “no one can know.” 

your brows furrowed, the hope dying cleanly. 

“excuse me?” 

sukuna stepped closer, voice lower now. 

his mouth opened to clarify when his gaze met your own once more. 

your wide glassy eyes. your pretty face that was streaked with tears, your plump bitten lips. 

the little sniffles that left you, making his ribs ache. 

and suddenly, he froze, the words stuck in his throat. 

fuck, he had to get it together. 

“about this.” 

your lips parted faintly, “about us?”

the word us felt absolutely pathetic in your mouth. 

all too soft and hopeful. undeserved, even. 

something in his eyes shifted at the sound of it but it was gone before you could hold onto it. 

“there is no us.” 

oh. you actually felt that one. 

not through the bond, nor as some phantom ache borrowed from him. 

the pain was yours, all yours. 

you laughed once, quiet and disbelieving as you took a small step back, “wow…”

sukuna followed you, taking one step forward as his jaw clenched, “listen to me-” 

“no,” you shook your head slowly, voice trembling, “no, i think i understand perfectly.” 

sukuna’s eyes darkened, “you really don’t.” 

“oh my god,” you shook your head, “i can’t believe i thought-” 

you stopped, humiliation burning up your throat. 

sukuna stared, taking a step closer, his chest now brushing your chin, “thought what?” 

his voice was almost desperate and you swallowed, blinking hard, “nothing.” 

his face tightened and he felt it anyway, of course he did. 

the hope and hurt. 

the fact that some tiny, unbearable part of you had wanted him to come after you because he simply couldn’t let you leave. 

sukuna looked away first as you took a step back. fucking coward. 

“it’s dangerous.” he stated as you stared at the side of his face.

“dangerous?” 

“yes.” 

“for who?” 

his gaze cut back to yours, “for you.” 

you almost laugh but he continued before you could. 

“people know me and if they know about you, they’ll use you. you make me weak.” 

the words landed colder than you'd expected. 

sukuna watched you closely, as if waiting for the fear to register and maybe it did. 

somewhere deep, deep down, but anger got there first. 

“so that’s what this is?” you whispered, tears leaving you without you noticing, “damage control?” 

his silence was answer enough and you nodded faintly, tears burning hot once more. 

“right.” 

“you need to keep your mouth shut about it.” 

you flinched before you could stop yourself and sukuna paused, regret flashing through instantly. 

“don’t talk to me like that.” you stated lowly and his jaw clenched. 

“i’m trying to keep you safe.” 

“oh, how big of you.” 

the hallway seemed to shrink around you both. 

outside, rain tapped gently against the glass. 

inside, bass thudded like a second heartbeat through the walls. 

you looked at him then, this man that fate had tied to you with an invisible string and cruelty dressed up as destiny. and for the first time since you’d felt him at sixteen, you stopped wondering what it would be like to find him. 

because now you knew and god, you wish you didn’t. 

it felt like losing something you’d never even had. 

“is that all?” you questioned lowly, clearing your throat once.

sukuna stared at you, nose flaring and throat bobbing once, “yeah.” 

another piece of you gave out as you nodded, “okay.” 

the word was so calm, it made his eyes sharpen. 

you turned away, walking past him but his hand caught your wirst before you could take  full step. 

skin met skin and the bond went silent, completely and utterly silent. 

no buzzing or aching or distance. 

just him, all warm and real. terribly real. 

your breath hitched at his touch. it was the first time he’d ever touched you. 

sukuna froze too, fingers wrapped around your wrist like he’d touched fire and couldn’t make himself pull away. 

for one second, just one, all the cruelty fell quiet. 

and you felt him beneath it, scared and lonely, wanting and waiting. 

you felt it and you hated him for letting you feel it now. 

slowly, you looked down at his hand then back up at him, “let go.” 

his grip tightened by a fraction, “this is the best thing for the both of us.” 

your face crumpled before you could stop it. 

you pulled your wrist free and this time, he let you. 

“oh, trust me, not having to be stuck with you? i couldn’t agree more.” venom laced your words as sukuna’s expression changed, tightened and you felt the hurt then. 

sharp and immediate and you were glad for it. 

you turned and walked away then, tears streaming down your cheeks and a sob left you as soon as you were out of his vicinity. 

for the first time, the bond didn't feel like a thread pulling you closer…

it felt like noose.

∞

an | was so late with this but had the worst past few days so SORRY! anyways PLSSS lmk what u think cuz i'm iffy abt the direction of this BUT this is lowk my fav thing i've written omg! this is kinda like a prologue pt2, next chapters will deffo be longer! i cannot wait to write more of these two and sukuna's a dick but bear w him ! also each chapter in the masterlist will be titled a song and i recommend listening to it while reading for the vibes 🫡