Transmission: Simping Hard

Caleb

He didn’t leave a note. Didn’t call. Didn’t say I love you. Just disappeared like a ghost in the night—like he never existed in the first place.

No records. No signals. No closure. The Farspace Fleet classified everything. You screamed. You begged. You waited. And then, when it broke you completely, you tried to let go.

You stopped checking the door. You stopped leaving your comm on. You stopped imagining what you’d say if he ever came back.

Because you knew he wouldn’t.

Until tonight.

You open the door barefoot, in the oversized Farspace hoodie he left behind— and he’s standing there. Soaked to the bone. Bruised knuckles. Split lip. One dog tag around his neck. The other? Clutched in his hand like a lifeline.

His eyes meet yours, and for the first time since he vanished, you see the truth: He never wanted to go. He just didn’t know how to come back.

“I didn’t know how to come home,” he chokes out, voice hoarse.

“But I kept trying. Every goddamn day.”

And then he drops. To his knees. In front of you. Head pressed to your stomach like he’s praying. Like he’s searching for proof that you’re real and breathing and still his. His arms wrap around your waist so tight it hurts.

And you don’t pull away.

You drop to the floor with him. Wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. Feel him shaking under your hands.

He sobs—quiet, guttural, broken. And you cry, too. Not because you’re sad. But because the worst part is over. He’s here. He’s yours. He’s alive.

You help him out of his jacket. His shirt. His boots. He lets you—like he's afraid if he moves too fast, he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again.

You guide him to the bedroom. He doesn’t let go of your hand the entire way.

And when you lie down, he doesn't rush. He touches you like you’re sacred. Fingers trembling, lips brushing against the inside of your wrist, your jaw, the scar on your hip. No teasing. No possessive growls. No control.

Just a soft, desperate whisper:

“I’m sorry. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve come home sooner.”

You pull him closer. Bury your face in his neck. And he sinks into you like a man who’s been starving for years.

What happens after? That’s between you and him. But the room is warm. The sheets are tangled. And the only sound is two heartbeats slowly finding rhythm again—together.

You never needed a grand apology. You just needed him.

And now that he’s home, you’re never letting go.

Xavier

Xavier didn’t leave because he stopped loving you.

He left because loving you had consequences. Because the last time he failed to protect someone he loved, it tore his world in half.

And this time— you were too close. Too vulnerable. Too precious.

He chose silence over goodbye. Erased his trail. Cut contact. Not because he didn’t care— but because he cared too much.

And for a while… you waited. You tried to believe he’d come back. That maybe there was a reason. That maybe he was alive.

But the days passed. And he didn’t.

Until one night, long after you stopped looking— you hear a knock on your door.

Soft. Hesitant. Like he’s not sure he deserves to be on the other side of it.

You open it, heart already pounding— and he’s there.

Rain-soaked. Exhausted. Hair longer. Expression unreadable. But his eyes… his eyes are haunted.

Like he’s been seeing ghosts for months. Like he never stopped dreaming about this moment.

“I didn’t know if I should come back,” he says—quiet. Almost apologetic. “But I… couldn’t stay away.”

He doesn’t step inside until you move. Doesn’t touch you until you reach for him. And even then, he hesitates.

Because Xavier’s never been good at reunions. He’s only ever known loss.

But when you whisper his name—just once— his whole body folds.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the day he left.

And when you wrap your arms around him, his tremble is barely contained.

He doesn’t say much that night. He doesn’t need to.

Because when he finally touches you, it’s with reverence. Like you’re made of something fragile. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again if he’s not gentle enough.

There’s no rush. No desperation. Just… presence.

The kind that says I’m still yours, if you’ll still have me.

Later, under the covers, he holds you with both arms like a shield— forehead pressed to yours. Fingers brushing your waist. Your name murmured once. Then again. Then again.

It’s not forgiveness he’s asking for. It’s permission. To stay. To be loved. To try again.

And when your hand finds his, threading your fingers together, he finally lets himself believe it:

He came back.

And this time— he’s not leaving.

Rafayel

Rafayel disappears like it’s an art form.

No chaos. No drama. Just a slow retreat. A quiet door. A whisper of salt in the air.

One day, he was beside you in bed—fingers tangled in your hair, sketching lazy lines against your spine.

The next? Gone.

Phone off. Studio locked. Socials silent.

And what’s worse—he left behind everything but you.

Paintings. Dozens. Hundreds. All of you. All moments he never told you meant something.

You swore you wouldn’t go looking. That if he wanted to vanish, you’d let him.

But when a friend mentions an island. A rented shack. An exhibit that never opened— you go.

Because you have to. Because even if he doesn’t want to be found… you still love him.

You find him just before sunset. Alone on the beach. Knee-deep in the tide, sketchbook soaked, hair wild, shirt unbuttoned like he forgot how to live like a person.

And when he sees you— he smiles.

But it’s not real. It’s tired. Cracked. Fragile.

“You found me,” he says, voice too calm. “Wasn’t sure if you’d want to.”

You don’t say anything. You just step forward. He doesn’t stop you.

You slap him. Hard.

Then grab both sides of his face and kiss him harder.

He stumbles back into the waves. Laughs—hoarse and aching— and lets you.

When you pull away, eyes glossy, chest burning, he finally looks like he feels it too.

“I painted you like I’d never see you again,” he whispers, hands trembling. “I thought if I could just get it right—one perfect version of you—I’d stop missing you so much.”

That night, he brings you into the studio.

Every wall. Every canvas. Still you.

Sleeping. Laughing. Crying. Smiling. Moments you didn’t know he remembered. Moments you forgot.

He says he didn’t mean to hurt you. He just… broke. And couldn’t stand the idea of you watching him unravel.

“I love you in every shade,” he murmurs, fingers brushing your cheek like a brushstroke. “But I didn’t think I could be enough for you without ruining the picture.”

You don’t let him finish. You kiss him again.

Slower this time.

And when he lifts you onto the nearest canvas-covered table— you let him take his time.

There’s no rush. No performance. Just the sound of his breath catching when you say his name.

He touches you like you’re the only masterpiece he ever got right.

And when the lights fade, and your bodies tangle under linen sheets and salt-slick air, he whispers:

“Don’t leave in the morning.”

“Not yet. Stay until the paint dries.”

Zayne

Zayne always knew how to disappear cleanly.

No confrontation. No dramatic exit. Just... absence.

His toothbrush missing. The spare mug gone. His favorite sweater folded neatly on the couch, like a memory waiting to be grieved.

At first, you thought it was a mistake. That something had gone wrong. You called the hospital. He wasn’t on the schedule. You tried his comm. Straight to silent.

And when you went to his apartment— the locks had been changed.

He hadn’t been taken. He’d left. On purpose.

And it broke something in you you didn’t know could break.

You told yourself you’d stop waiting.

But every time the floor creaked in the hallway, every time the wind rattled the window— you still turned, half expecting to see him standing there with that clinical calm and those eyes that never said what they felt.

And then one night— you open the door to take out the trash, and he’s there.

Soaked from the rain. Collar turned up. Medical gloves half-pulled off in his pocket.

He looks thinner. Like he’s been eating guilt for months and calling it survival.

“I didn’t think I’d make it back,” he says quietly. “Didn’t think I should.”

Your heart stutters.

He doesn’t ask to come in. Doesn’t beg.

He just stands there— a surgeon used to saving lives, now hoping you might save his.

You let him in. Of course you do.

He moves through your apartment like he still knows it— like he never let himself forget.

You don’t ask why he left. Not yet. You just stand in front of him until he finally breaks.

And when he does— it’s not loud. It’s a tremble in his voice. A crack in the dam.

“There was a hit out on me. I thought they’d go after you to get to me. And I knew if I saw you again—if I heard you— I wouldn’t be able to stay away.”

You reach for his hand. He flinches, like he doesn’t think he deserves to be touched. But he doesn’t pull away.

Your fingers curl around his like a lifeline.

And for the first time in months— he exhales.

Later, when he’s in your bed again— he doesn’t move fast.

He undresses you like a ritual. Not to seduce. But to reconnect. To memorize. To apologize.

Every kiss is soft. Every touch careful.

He runs his hands down your body like he’s checking for damage— like he’s still a doctor, and you’re the most fragile thing he’s ever had in his care.

“I never stopped loving you,” he whispers, lips brushing your shoulder. “I just thought loving you put a target on your back.”

You cup his cheek. Guide his forehead to yours.

And in that quiet, breathless moment, you remind him:

“I was never safer than when I was with you.”

There’s no more distance after that.

Only closeness. Softness. Breath on skin. And the feeling of Zayne holding you like a man who forgot how it felt to be wanted—and is learning all over again.

He’s still scared. But now he’s not running.

Because you’re here. And this time, he knows where he belongs.

Sylus

Sylus doesn’t do goodbyes.

He leaves like a warning— no softness, no questions. Just an empty apartment, a locked comm, and a single line scribbled in sharp black ink:

don’t follow me.

And so you didn’t.

You wanted to. Every day. But Sylus doesn’t ask for help. He dares people to survive without him.

So you did. Barely.

You stopped looking. Stopped waiting. Stopped hoping.

And then— months later— you wake to a knock on your door.

Slow. Deliberate. Like it’s not just knocking—it’s asking for permission to be real again.

You open it. And there he is.

Sylus. Drenched in rain. Hair darker, expression dull. Wearing black like a shadow that never left.

He looks at you like a man seeing sunlight for the first time in weeks. Then down. Then back up. And says:

“Tell me to go, and I will.”

You don’t. You can’t.

Your throat is too tight. Your heart is too loud. And your hands—already reaching for him—shake with the weight of every word you never got to say.

So he steps inside. And for a minute, neither of you speak.

Just silence. And breathing. And the storm still raging behind him.

He doesn’t explain. Not right away. Not with words.

He takes off his coat. Stares at the wall like it’s safer than looking at you.

And finally— softly— he mutters:

“There were threats. I handled them. But I couldn’t have done it if you were still in the picture.”

You laugh. Bitter. Sharp.

“You mean if I knew what was going on.”

He winces. He deserved that.

“I know,” he says. “I just… I didn’t want to drag you through it. Again.”

You cross your arms. Lean against the counter. Stare at him like you’re trying to figure out if he’s still yours.

He meets your eyes. For once, no deflection. No smirk. Just a question:

“If I said I regret it— every second I was gone— would that change anything?”

You kiss him before he can say another word.

Not because you’ve forgiven him. Not yet. But because the pain means something. Because the ache is real. Because you still love him— and you need him to know it before he fades again.

He kisses you back like he never expected this. Like you’re a miracle he doesn’t know how to hold.

And when you guide him to the bed— there’s no smugness. No clever remarks. Just him, trembling slightly, as he says:

“I kept my hands clean this time.”

“I wanted to be able to touch you without feeling like a liar.”

Your hands cup his face. Thumbs trace the tension there. And you whisper:

“Then prove it. Show me you’re still mine.”

He does.

Gently. Carefully. Like you’re glass he never thought he’d touch again.

And in the quiet after— when your bodies are tangled, your fingers linked— he doesn’t say I’m sorry. He says:

“I won’t disappear again. Not unless you tell me to.”

You pull him closer.

“Then you’re staying.”

Caleb

You’d been holding onto the test for days. Hidden behind the tea tins in the kitchen, tucked into the box of your old journals. Not because you were scared. But because you wanted it to be perfect.

Caleb had been stretched thin lately—Fleet rotations, drills, calls from the UNICORN command deck at ungodly hours. And still, he always smiled at you like you were the only person on the planet who mattered.

You didn’t want to overload him. So instead, you practiced.

Standing in front of the hallway mirror in one of his oversized T-shirts, bare feet on the cold tile, you ran through your lines again.

“So, remember how you said we should wait until we’re more ‘settled’?” “...We’re gonna need to clear a second drawer in the dresser.” “Do you think our kid would have your eyes or mine?”

You pause. Breathe out slowly. Then—

“Hey, Caleb?” you say softly to your reflection. “You’re gonna be a dad.”

You smile shyly at yourself.

Then you hear it.

The sound of something dropping—soft, like a jacket hitting the ground.

You whip around.

He’s there. Standing in the hallway. Still wearing his flight jacket, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. Just... frozen.

“…What did you just say?” His voice is hoarse. Disbelieving.

You go stock-still. “Caleb—wait, I—”

He crosses the space between you in two long strides, cupping your face in his hands like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.

“You’re serious?” he whispers. “You’re really…? You’re actually—?”

You nod.

For one breathless second, he just stares at you—eyes brimming. Then:

“I’m gonna be a dad?” he blurts, like the concept is too big to fit in his chest. “Me? I—we—holy shit—I’m gonna be a dad—”

He laughs through a choked-off sob, pressing frantic kisses to your cheeks, your forehead, your lips.

Then he’s pulling you into his arms so tightly your feet lift off the floor, spinning you in the middle of the hallway as if he has nowhere else to go but here—this moment, this joy, this forever.

When he finally sets you down, he presses his forehead to yours, completely breathless.

“I swear to you,” he says, voice breaking, “I’m gonna be the best dad in the whole goddamn galaxy.”

And then, softer:

“Thank you. For making me the luckiest man alive. Again.”

Xavier

It’s been a rare stretch of stillness. No alarms. No missions. No glowing swords by the front door. Just you, Xavier, and the quiet rhythm of living together.

Tonight, he’s fast asleep on the couch—curled up with a book still resting on his chest, one arm draped lazily where you’d been sitting. He looked too peaceful to wake.

So you tiptoe to the bathroom, holding the little folded note you’d written earlier that day.

You read it softly to your reflection in the mirror—voice barely above a whisper:

“Hey… I know this probably isn’t how you imagined hearing it, but—” “—you’re going to be a father.”

You pause. Swallow. Try again.

“We made a new little light. It’s… real. He or she is already glowing inside me.”

You smile nervously at your own reflection.

“And I can’t wait for them to meet you.”

You freeze when you hear it

A soft knock. Followed by the sound of your name, tentative and low.

You turn slowly—he’s in the doorway, barefoot and wide-eyed, hair still sleep-mussed. He’s holding the edge of the doorframe like it’s the only thing grounding him.

“…Did I just hear you say…?” His voice is hushed. Fragile.

Your breath catches. You nod.

He doesn’t speak. Not for a full ten seconds. Just stares at you—like he’s trying to etch the moment into memory.

Then finally, he crosses the room and sinks to his knees in front of you. Gently, reverently, he presses his forehead to your stomach. His hands tremble slightly where they rest on your thighs.

“This is…” he murmurs, voice catching, “...the kind of miracle I never let myself hope for.”

You thread your fingers through his hair. He looks up at you, and he’s smiling—but his lashes are wet.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispers. “But I want to. With you.”

And when he rises and kisses you—slow, soft, like you’re something sacred—you realize he’s still processing, still stunned.

But beneath that? He’s glowing.

Rafayel

You had waited until he was out back painting on the cliff edge—headphones in, shirtless, covered in streaks of indigo and gold. His art trance could last hours.

So you snuck into his studio.

The sunlight hit the floor like water. The room smelled like sea salt and oil paints. And there you stood in front of the full-length mirror, a folded-up sketchbook page clutched in your hands.

“So…” you said to your reflection, smiling nervously. “I know we said ‘not yet.’ But um… turns out ‘yet’ is now.”

You pause. Swallow.

“You’re going to be a dad.”

You whisper it. Just once. And for a second, it feels real in the best, scariest way.

Then...

“...I’m going to be a what?”

You freeze.

He’s behind you in the doorway—barefoot, still holding a paintbrush, lips parted like he isn’t sure he actually heard you right.

“Say that again,” he says, softly. “Please.”

You whip around. “Raf—wait—I didn’t mean for you to—”

He walks in slowly. The brush falls from his fingers, forgotten. He reaches out, fingertips brushing the paper in your hand like it’s made of glass.

“You’re not joking, are you?” he asks. “You wouldn’t do that to me. You wouldn’t…”

He trails off. Breath caught.

You shake your head. “I’m not joking.”

Silence. One second. Two.

Then he cracks.

The grin splits across his face like a sunrise, wild and stunned and full of something bigger than joy. His hands grab your waist, lift you clean off the floor—and he’s laughing. Gasping.

“I—! Holy shit—I MADE SOMETHING WITH YOU THAT WASN’T A MESS!”

He kisses you like you’re both a sunrise and a masterpiece—soft, shaky, endless. Then, quieter, pressing his forehead to yours:

“I can’t believe I’m going to get to teach someone how to make terrible jokes and beautiful chaos.”

Then he slides to his knees, presses his cheek to your stomach, and whispers in Lemurian:

“I love you already, little fish.”

Zayne

The house is quiet.

Zayne’s been in the study for hours—medical articles spread across the desk, old records murmuring from the speakers like white noise. You’d meant to go in and ask what he wanted for dinner.

Instead… you found yourself in the mirror. Holding a note you’d written for him days ago. You just needed to practice saying it out loud.

“I know we said not until things slow down,” you whisper. “But… maybe life had other plans.”

You pause. Then say it slowly:

“You’re going to be a father.”

The words feel strange and huge. Like trying to name a star.

You don’t notice the soft click of the door behind you.

Zayne’s voice cuts through the stillness. Low. Careful.

“...What did you just say?”

You turn.

He’s standing in the doorway with his wire-frame glasses still on, fingers curled slightly at his sides. There’s something unreadable in his eyes—tension, awe, disbelief all braided together.

“I—” you start, heart thudding. “I didn’t mean for you to hear that. I was just—practicing.”

“So it’s… real?” he asks. Voice barely a whisper.

You shake your head. “It’s real.”

His eyes drop slightly—to your stomach. Then back up to your face.

He doesn’t move for a long, long moment. You see him run the calculations, review the mental charts, search for a breath.

But none of that matters now.

He crosses the room slowly, carefully, and takes both of your hands. His grip is warm, steady—but trembling at the edges.

“I don’t know what to say,” he murmurs. “I’ve held thousands of hearts in my hands. But this…”

His throat tightens. He exhales hard. Then carefully lowers to his knees.

He presses his cheek gently against your belly.

“This is the most terrifying and miraculous thing I’ve ever been trusted with.”

And then, softer:

“You’re not alone in this. Ever.”

You run your fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes, holding your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of your future.

Sylus

You thought he was out late.

Protocore deal. Something classified and criminally vague. You’d texted him goodnight hours ago and assumed he’d stay gone until morning.

So you’re in his hoodie, curled up on the couch, holding a tiny plushie you bought earlier that day on impulse—a blue stuffed crow, with little red eyes.

You glance toward the bedroom mirror and whisper softly, just testing the words

“You’re going to be a dad.”

You hug the crow closer to your chest. Try again.

“I know that probably sounds… impossible. But it’s happening. We’re happening.”

Your voice wavers. You smile to yourself, imagining his face. His reaction.

“I’m scared too,” you admit quietly. “But if anyone can protect this kid—it’s you.”

“...Wow.”

You jolt upright, spinning around.

He’s leaning against the doorframe, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, and his expression is unreadable—like he’s still buffering.

“Sylus—I didn’t—how long have you been—?”

“Long enough,” he murmurs. “Long enough to think you were rehearsing lines for a drama. But now…”

He steps into the room slowly, almost cautiously.

“You’re serious.” “You’re actually…?” “You and me and… a kid?”

You nod. Gulp. “I just—I wanted to tell you right, I didn’t want to drop it on you after work, and—”

He tosses the jacket aside and crosses the room in three fast strides, pulling you into his arms so hard your breath leaves you.

“You are never allowed to tell me something like that while wearing my hoodie and holding a crow plush again,” he mutters into your neck. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Sorry?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just tightens his arms around you.

“...I didn’t think I’d get this,” he whispers.

You blink.

“I knew how to lead, how to protect, how to hurt. But this? Family?” “I didn’t think I was allowed to have something this good.”

Then he pulls back—just far enough to rest a hand over your stomach.

And you swear, even in the low light, he’s shaking.

“No one touches either of you without going through me,” he says, soft and deadly. “Got it?”

“This kid is going to grow up knowing exactly what it means to be loved.”

Caleb

It happens in the bathroom.

You’re standing in front of the mirror in nothing but a pair of pajama shorts and one of Caleb’s old t-shirts. The cotton clings a little more than you’d like, highlighting the soft lines of your stomach.

You pinch at your side, frowning.

“Ugh. Could stand to lose a few.”

It’s quiet. Barely more than a mutter under your breath. The kind of thing you’ve said a hundred times before without thinking.

You don’t realize Caleb’s there until you hear the sharp inhale behind you.

You freeze.

Your eyes meet his in the mirror—and the look on his face guts you. Wide, shocked, almost hurt. Like he just watched you slap yourself across the face.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, voice so soft it nearly breaks.

“Caleb—” you start, cheeks hot, already trying to wave it off.

But he doesn’t let you.

In two strides, he’s right behind you. His hands slide around your waist, big palms splaying over your stomach like he’s trying to shield it from your own words. His chin rests on your shoulder, eyes dark as they meet yours in the glass.

“Don’t do that,” he whispers.

“Do what?”

“Say things like that. Look at yourself like that.” His arms tighten. “Talk about yourself like you’re anything less than the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You swallow hard. “I was just—”

“No.” His voice dips lower, a rough little rasp that turns your legs to water. “You were tearing yourself apart. And I won’t have it.”

His hands slip under your shirt, palms warm and reverent as they stroke over the skin you were just criticizing.

“Do you even know what I see when I look at you?” he murmurs against your neck. “Because it’s sure as hell not flaws. It’s this. All of this.” His hands squeeze, slow and adoring. “Soft and warm and mine.”

Your breath hitches. He catches it with his mouth, pressing a slow, deep kiss to your neck that makes your knees wobble.

“Caleb…”

He turns you gently, until you’re facing him. His eyes are molten—devastated and starving all at once.

“Say something good about yourself,” he whispers.

Your heart twists. “What?”

“Just one thing. For me.”

You hesitate. His thumb strokes your cheek, patient but insistent. So you whisper, “I… like my smile.”

Caleb’s face breaks into this soft, awe-struck grin. Like you just told him you love him for the first time all over again.

“There,” he says, breathless. “That’s the woman I married.”

Then he kisses you—slow at first, then deeper, hungrier, until he’s walking you backward toward the counter. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the cool surface. His mouth never leaves yours, a quiet promise against your lips.

“I’m gonna remind you how perfect you are,” he breathes, hands already pushing your shirt higher. “Until you never doubt it again.”

Xavier

You’re in the bedroom, fussing with the hem of your tank top, trying to decide if it looks too clingy over your stomach.

It’s not like you’re planning to go anywhere—you just caught your reflection in the mirror, and couldn’t stop the little frown that tugged at your lips. The soft exhale that came out more like disappointment.

“Should probably start running again…” you mutter under your breath.

You don’t expect anyone to hear it.

So you jump when a low, quiet voice says behind you:

“…Why would you think that?”

You spin around. Xavier’s standing in the doorway—half-shadowed, hair still slightly damp from the shower. He’s watching you with that usual calm, neutral expression… except his eyes are tight at the edges. Concern. Confusion. Something sharp he doesn’t quite know how to name.

“What?” you try to deflect. “It’s nothing, Xavier.”

But he doesn’t move. Just tilts his head slightly, studying you like he does when reading—like if he stares hard enough, he’ll understand the problem.

“You said you need to run again,” he repeats, voice careful. “Why?”

You shift awkwardly, arms coming up to cross over your stomach. “It’s not a big deal. I just… thought I was getting a little soft, that’s all.”

His brow furrows.

“Soft?” he echoes, like it’s a word he’s never heard before. Then even quieter: “Do you think I would care?”

You blink. “No, I just—I care.”

Another long pause. You can almost see the gears turning. Then he steps closer, hands coming up hesitantly to rest on your sides.

“You think your body is less than it should be,” he says finally. “That it’s wrong somehow.”

It’s not a question. Just this soft, sad realization.

Your throat tightens. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

Xavier’s hands slide up under your arms, slow and warm, until they cradle your face. His thumbs sweep lightly over your cheeks, like he’s trying to memorize every small imperfection you seem to hate.

“I don’t understand,” he admits, voice so quiet it nearly cracks. “When I look at you… all I see is mine. Exactly the way you are. Nothing else even exists.”

Your eyes burn. He dips his forehead to yours, breath stuttering.

“If you ever felt less, it means I’ve failed to show you how I see you,” he whispers. “I won’t let that happen again.”

You start to shake your head, but he stops you with a kiss—soft at first, then deeper, more insistent. His hands slide down to your hips, gripping them gently, pulling you flush against him like he needs to feel every curve.

When he finally pulls back, his mouth brushes your ear.

“Let me prove it,” he breathes. “Let me show you what you do to me.”

And by the time he’s done—lips trailing down your throat, hands learning every inch of you with reverent desperation—there isn’t a single part of you left doubting how wanted you are.

Rafayel

You’re alone in the studio—one of his old, paint-splattered shirts hanging off your shoulders, brushing your bare thighs. You’re not even really trying it on for him. Just grabbed it off a chair because you were chilly.

It doesn’t sit quite right, though. The hem clings a little. Your hips look wider than usual. Your stomach presses soft against the fabric.

You frown at your reflection in the smudged window. Tug at the shirt’s sides, sigh.

“Not exactly a masterpiece, huh?”

You mean it as a joke. An easy, self-deprecating little jab.

Then you hear it.

A sharp intake of breath—like someone punched the air right out of him.

You turn, startled.

Rafayel is standing a few feet away, palette knife still in hand, paint drying on his fingers. His eyes are wide. Bright. Almost glassy.

“What did you just say?” he asks, voice low, careful, but vibrating with something you can’t place.

“Raf, it’s nothing—”

“No, no.” The knife clatters to the floor. He crosses the room in three long strides. “Repeat it. I want to hear it again.”

You flush, heart stuttering. “It was just a joke—”

“Repeat it.”

“Not exactly a masterpiece,” you mutter.

He stares at you for a heartbeat. Two. Then laughs—short, breathless, completely humorless.

“You know what’s tragic, my love?” His hands slide up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek in this devastatingly tender way. “You stand there wrapped in my clothes, in my colors, and you dare insult the only work of art that’s ever mattered?”

Your throat tightens. “Raf—”

“No,” he cuts in. “No more dismissing it. Do you want to know what I see right now?”

He doesn’t wait for your answer. Drops to his knees right there on the paint-splattered floor, palms smoothing over your thighs. Tilts his head back, eyes dark and shining.

“I see curves that haunt my sketches. A mouth I’ve drawn a hundred times and still can’t get right. Skin that makes me want to abandon every canvas and worship only you.”

His hands slide up under the shirt, fingertips ghosting over your hips, your belly, reverent.

“You’re not exactly a masterpiece?” he breathes, voice breaking into a soft laugh. “Darling, you’re the only thing I’ve ever created that matters—and all I did was love you enough to be allowed this close.”

You shiver. One of your hands finds his hair, tangling there.

“Let me prove it,” he murmurs, lips brushing your stomach. “Let me show you what art was supposed to feel like.”

And then he’s pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your skin—slow and adoring, trailing lower until the shirt is bunched around your waist and you’re gasping his name.

By the time he’s finished with you, you’re breathless and wrecked—and there’s no room left in your mind for anything but the way his mouth keeps whispering, “perfect, perfect, perfect.”

Zayne

You’re half-dressed in the bedroom, standing sideways to the mirror—one hand resting on your hip, the other pinching lightly at the curve of your stomach.

You frown. Tug the skin a little. It’s soft. Softer than it used to be.

“God. Look at this—no wonder he doesn’t touch me like he used to.”

It’s barely a mutter. A little jab at yourself, not meant to be heard.

But then there’s a low, flat voice behind you.

“Excuse me?”

You whip around.

Zayne is standing by the door, tie gone, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His eyes are hard, narrowed, dark in a way that’s never been turned on you before.

“What did you just say?”

You flush, wrapping your arms instinctively over your stomach. “It’s nothing. I was joking.”

“Try again.” His voice drops even lower. “Say it exactly the way you did before.”

You swallow. “Zayne—”

“Say it.”

You breathe out, quiet. “I said… no wonder you don’t touch me like you used to.”

For a long moment, he just stares at you. Then something sharp, almost frightening flickers through his eyes—like you’ve insulted him personally.

“You think that’s why?” he asks, stepping closer. Each word slow, deliberate, dangerous. “You think I don’t touch you because of… this?”

His hands catch your wrists, pull them gently but firmly away from your stomach. Then he places them on his chest—over his heart, which is beating hard and fast beneath your palms.

“You are out of your goddamn mind,” he murmurs.

You try to look away. He tips your chin up, forces your gaze back to his.

“Do you know how many times I’ve stood right there,” he nods to the doorway, “watching you get ready, wearing less than this, and had to physically stop myself from bending you over the nearest surface?”

Your breath catches.

His hands slide down to your hips, gripping tight. “How many times I’ve laid next to you in bed and thought I’d give up everything I have just to feel your skin under my mouth again?”

You shiver.

“That softness you hate?” His mouth dips to your ear, voice rough. “It’s what makes you real. It’s what makes you mine. And it’s why I can’t keep my hands off you.”

His teeth scrape your jaw, the tiniest bite, enough to make your knees weak.

“Now,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you—eyes dark, pupils blown. “Say it again. Tell me why I wouldn’t touch you.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. Your throat is too tight.

He smirks. Leans in until his lips just ghost yours.

“That’s what I thought.”

Then he kisses you—hard, deep, his hands already sliding under your thighs to lift you up, carrying you to the bed with single-minded purpose.

And when he finally lays you out beneath him, he doesn’t just prove how wrong you were. He makes sure you never dare to think that way again.

Sylus

You’re in the closet, half-dressed for bed. Just a tank top and your underwear, the overhead light stark and unflattering. You catch a glimpse of your reflection—skin folding a little where you’re bent, faint marks on your hips—and sigh.

Pinch lightly at your side, muttering under your breath:

“Looks worse every year.”

Then you hear it.

A low, dark chuckle from behind you.

Your heart jumps. You spin around—Sylus is leaning in the doorway, shoulder propped against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. Watching you like a cat watching a wounded bird.

“You want to try that again?” he drawls, one brow arching. “Because I must’ve misheard.”

You cross your arms, feeling small under that sharp red gaze. “Forget it. It was just stupid.”

“No,” he says easily, pushing off the door and sauntering toward you, slow and predatory. “Don’t walk it back now. I want to hear it.”

“Sylus—”

“Say it,” he interrupts, voice low and dangerous as he stops right in front of you. “Tell me exactly what you just told your reflection.”

Your throat tightens. You try to look away. He catches your chin between his fingers, forces your eyes to meet his.

“I said…” You swallow. “It looks worse every year.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he laughs. Not warm or amused—dark. Almost cruel.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathes, mouth curling into a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You really don’t have a clue, do you?”

Before you can flinch away, his hands are on your waist—big, hot palms sliding up under your shirt, dragging you closer until your hips bump.

“You think this”—he squeezes lightly, fingers digging into the softness you were just criticizing—“makes you less? You think I look at you and see something aging, something spoiled?”

He ducks his head, lips brushing your ear in a breath that makes you shiver.

“No. I see something I’ve ruined so thoroughly you can’t even recognize your own perfection anymore.”

Your breath hitches. His teeth graze your throat, hands sliding lower to grip your ass, pulling you flush against the hard line of his body.

“Every year, every mark, every soft edge—proof you’re mine. Proof of how many times I’ve had you, bent you over this very dresser, made you scream.”

His mouth trails down your neck, biting softly.

“You think I’d ever want you any other way?”

You manage to shake your head, breathless.

“Good,” he growls.

Then he lifts you effortlessly—like you weigh nothing—sets you down on the dresser, steps between your knees. His hands bracket your thighs, thumbs pressing little bruises into your skin.

“Because I’m about to remind you exactly how beautiful you are,” he murmurs, voice like silk wrapped around steel. “And tomorrow? When you catch yourself in the mirror? You’ll remember who put that glow there.”

Caleb

It’s well past midnight when you finally push the door open.

You’re not trying to be quiet—just tired. The kind of heavy, achy tired that sinks into your bones after a long day out. You didn’t mean to be gone so long. Didn’t think to text after your phone died. Didn’t realize how dark it had gotten.

Until you walk in and see him.

Caleb’s on the couch—still in his jeans and t-shirt from hours ago. Shoes half-kicked off. Hair a mess from running his hands through it. One foot taps the floor in this tense, uneven rhythm that only stops when the door clicks shut behind you.

His head snaps up.

“Where the hell were you?” he blurts.

You blink. “I—babe, I was just at Tara’s. My phone died—”

He exhales like he’s been punched. Closes his eyes. For a second it looks like he might actually get angry—like he’s gearing up for a frustrated rant.

But when he stands, it’s not anger in his face.

It’s relief. Blazing, gut-deep, almost painful relief.

He crosses the room in two strides, grabs your shoulders, and pulls you into him so hard you almost stumble. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other grips your waist like he’s terrified you’ll vanish again.

“You didn’t text. You always text,” he breathes into your hair. “I didn’t know if—what if something happened? What if someone—”

“Caleb—” you start, but he’s already shaking his head.

“You can’t do that to me, sweetheart. Not you. I can’t—I was picturing every damn thing that could’ve gone wrong. And then I kept trying to tell myself I was overreacting, but—”

He pulls back just enough to see your face. His eyes are rimmed red, tired in a way that makes your heart twist.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Yeah, well…” His voice cracks on a laugh that’s way too close to a sob. “You did.”

And then he’s kissing you.

Hard. Messy. Hands on your face, tilting you just so he can deepen it, mouth moving against yours like he needs to memorize every taste. Like he’s trying to remind himself this is real—you’re real, warm and alive and back in his arms.

When he finally pulls away, breath ragged, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You come home late again,” he murmurs, voice low, rough, “I’m not letting you out of this house for a week. I’ll tie you to the bed if I have to.”

You smile, lips ghosting over his. “That a promise or a threat?”

His answering grin is shaky, but it’s there. His hands slip lower, grip tightening.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathes, eyes dark, “with you? It’s always both.”

Xavier

You expect darkness when you step inside.

It’s late. The streets were empty on your drive back. You were already rehearsing your apology for not calling—battery dead, didn’t think it’d get so late, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—when the door shuts behind you and you see it.

The lights are still on.

Soft golden glow spilling from the kitchen, faint shadows dancing in the hallway.

And then there’s him.

Xavier’s standing by the kitchen counter. Perfectly still. One hand resting over his mouth, the other braced against the countertop like he’s been leaning there for a long time.

His eyes snap to you the second you enter.

Not annoyed. Not relieved. Just… intense.

He doesn’t move right away. Just stares at you—like he’s making sure you’re actually real, not some trick of the light.

“Xavier,” you start softly. “I’m—”

Before you can finish, he pushes off the counter and closes the space between you in three long strides.

His hands come up, cup your face so carefully it makes your chest ache. His thumbs sweep over your cheeks, under your eyes, as if he’s checking for damage. As if you might vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.

“You’re late,” he says, voice low. Controlled. But there’s something off in it—something rougher than usual.

“I know. My phone died, and then Tara wanted to—”

“I thought something happened.”

Your heart stutters.

His hands drop from your face only to slip around your waist, pulling you in until your chest is pressed to his. You feel his breath stutter against your temple.

“You’ve been gone for hours. I ran a hundred scenarios,” he admits quietly. “None of them ended well.”

You rest your hands over his chest. Feel the steady pound of his heart, faster than usual.

“Xavier… I’m okay. I promise.”

He nods—once. Short. Like he’s accepting it because he needs to, not because he’s fully convinced.

Then his head dips. His lips brush yours—light, almost cautious. Until your hands slide up into his hair and you kiss him back.

That’s when he breaks.

His arms tighten. The kiss goes from soft to starved in a heartbeat—his mouth moving over yours with a hunger he rarely shows, breath catching on tiny, almost desperate sounds that he swallows down.

When he finally pulls back, there’s the faintest tremor in his hands where they rest on your hips.

“You’ll tell me next time,” he says—not quite a question, not quite a demand.

You smile, breathless. “Of course.”

His eyes flick over your face, lingering on your lips.

“Good,” he murmurs. Then softer—closer to a confession than anything he’s ever said before:

“Because I’m not sure I’d survive it twice.”

Rafayel

You don’t even make it past the front door.

You’re halfway through dropping your keys in the bowl when Rafayel comes barreling out of the hallway—barefoot, hair mussed, paint still drying on the cuff of his sleeve.

He stops dead when he sees you. Stares. And for a terrifying half-second you think he’s angry.

But then his mouth parts on a shaky exhale, and you realize he’s not angry at all.

He’s terrified.

“Where were you?” he breathes. It’s not sharp. It’s hoarse, like it’s been clawing up his throat for hours.

“My phone died,” you start, heart sinking. “I was just at Tara’s—”

“Just at Tara’s,” he repeats, voice rising, hands flying to rake through his hair. “Do you have any idea what my mind does when you’re late? When I call and call and it goes to voicemail? I pictured your car crushed on the highway, I pictured—god, I pictured—”

He cuts himself off, eyes wet, jaw flexing.

“Raf—”

“No, don’t ‘Raf’ me,” he snaps, but it’s weak. His hands drop to his sides, clenching and unclenching like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “I had paintings to finish. Commissions, deadlines—I couldn’t even pick up the brush. I was too busy seeing your face on a morgue slab in my head.”

Your throat goes tight.

You step toward him.

He steps back. Shakes his head, blinking rapidly.

“I’m being dramatic, I know—what else is new—but you don’t get it,” he says, voice breaking. “You don’t get what it’s like to need someone the way I need you. It’s visceral. It’s ugly. It’s—I can’t create if I think you’re gone.”

“Hey,” you whisper, reaching out.

He catches your wrist in both hands—almost too tight. Stares down at where your skin meets his.

And then the dam breaks.

He tugs you into him with a desperate sound, arms locking around your shoulders so hard you’re breathless. His nose buries in your hair, breath shuddering against your ear.

“You’re here,” he whispers. Over and over. “You’re here, you’re here, you’re here—”

Your hands slip under his shirt, feeling the frantic drum of his heartbeat.

“I’m here,” you promise.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are glassy, lashes damp. But there’s a crooked smile curling on his lips.

“Next time you decide to terrify me,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek, “at least let me paint you first. So I’ll have something to haunt me properly.”

You laugh. He kisses you—soft at first, then rougher, hungrier, hands sliding into your hair with a low groan.

And by the time he’s backing you against the nearest wall, muttering “never scare me like that again” against your mouth, you’re pretty sure the painting will have to wait.

Zayne

You don’t even get your shoes off.

The door swings shut behind you, you’re juggling your bag and keys, already rehearsing your apology—when you see him.

Zayne is standing at the end of the hall.

Still in his scrubs. Shoes on. A faint smear of sanitizer on his wrist like he’s been compulsively scrubbing his hands. His glasses are pushed up high on the bridge of his nose, but his eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them.

You open your mouth. He cuts you off.

“Where were you?”

It’s not sharp. It’s worse—it’s flat. Completely stripped of inflection, like he’s trying to keep something dangerous from breaking loose.

“My phone died,” you start, heart sinking. “And Tara needed help with—”

“You were supposed to be home at six.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you.

You try to fill the silence. “I know. I lost track of time, it was stupid, I’m sor—”

“You didn’t call.”

It hits you then—how tightly he’s holding himself. Arms folded. Shoulders locked. Like if he lets go, he might fly apart.

“Zayne, I’m okay,” you say softly.

And that’s when his composure cracks.

He takes one slow step forward, then another. By the time he reaches you, his hands are shaking.

He cups your face like he’s afraid you’ll flinch—thumb brushing your cheekbone, eyes searching yours so intensely it hurts. His breath hitches, chest stuttering against yours.

“You can’t do that,” he murmurs. Voice low. Rough. “You can’t just disappear and expect me to function.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you whisper.

He lets out this soft, unsteady sound—half a laugh, half a breathless sigh. His forehead tips to yours.

“You didn’t just scare me,” he says. “You hollowed me out. I couldn’t focus, I couldn’t think—every worst-case scenario was playing on a loop in my head.”

Your hands slip up to his shoulders. You feel the tremor there, the tight coil of muscle that hasn’t let go since you were late.

“I’m sorry.”

He swallows. Closes his eyes.

Then when he opens them again, there’s something new there—dark, possessive, desperate.

“Don’t ever do it again.”

Before you can answer, he’s kissing you—deep, hungry, nothing like his usual restrained affection. His hands slide into your hair, grip tightening until it almost hurts. His mouth moves over yours like he’s starving, like he needs to memorize you all over again to prove you’re real.

When he finally pulls back, breath ragged, his voice drops to a hoarse whisper.

“Next time you’re late,” he mutters, lips brushing your ear, “I’m putting a tracker under your skin.”

You laugh—shaky, breathless. “Romantic.”

His answering smile is faint. Crooked. But it’s there.

“You think I’m joking.”

And the way his hands roam your hips, tugging you closer, says he absolutely is not.

Sylus

The door barely shuts before you’re pinned.

Not by force—just by presence. Sylus is leaning against the entryway console, arms crossed over his chest, dark eyes tracking your every move like a sniper scope.

“Late night?” he drawls. Voice smooth. Almost lazy. But there’s a razor edge beneath it.

You swallow, forcing a small smile. “Tara's party ran long. My phone died—”

“Convenient.”

You pause halfway out of your coat. “Excuse me?”

He pushes off the console, stalking toward you with that predatory grace that always sets your pulse racing. Except this time, there’s no teasing glint in his eyes. Just something sharp. Barely restrained.

“Sylus, I didn’t mean to worry you—”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he cuts in, stepping close enough that your back hits the wall. “You think I was worried? Please.”

But the way his jaw clenches, the way his hands curl at his sides like he’s stopping himself from grabbing you—says otherwise.

You tilt your head, breath shallow. “Then what’s this? Because you look ready to murder someone.”

He laughs—low, bitter. “Murder’s easy. It’s waiting for you to walk through that door that almost killed me.”

Your heart stutters.

He leans in, one hand braced on the wall beside your head. His breath fans across your cheek, and suddenly it’s hard to think.

“You can disappear for hours without a single damn word, and I’m left here imagining every possibility,” he murmurs, voice rougher now. “You want to scare me? Congratulations. You did.”

“Sylus—”

“Don’t do it again.”

He doesn’t give you time to answer. His mouth crashes to yours—hard, hungry, almost punishing. One hand tangles in your hair, the other grips your waist so tight you whimper against his lips.

He pulls back just enough to rasp, “If something ever happened to you…I wouldn’t just burn down this town. I’d salt the ground so nothing could grow back.”

Your breath hitches. “That’s...dramatically romantic.”

A dark smirk tugs at his mouth. “That’s me. Always sentimental.”

Then his hand slips lower, squeezing your hip, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

“Now get upstairs. I’ve been waiting all night to remind you exactly who you belong to.”

Inside the closet, five grown men in color-coded jumpsuits were squished shoulder-to-shoulder between a jungle of hangers, a deflated inflatable kayak, and at least one pair of ski goggles no one remembered buying.

“So what you’re saying,” Hank 1 said, arms crossed like he was commanding a mission and not wedged between laundry baskets, “is that you made her blush?”

Hank 3 grinned smugly. “She went full pink. Right here.” He pointed at his cheek. “Like a cartoon.”

“You winked at her while holding two bras like you were about to duel with them,” Hank 2 deadpanned. “Pretty sure that was secondhand embarrassment.”

“That’s strategy,” Hank 3 said, flipping his hair like it was a weapon. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand that if you do it again, I’m slamming this closet door on your ankle,” Hank 1 muttered.

“Okay but—” Hank 5 piped up from where he was trying to re-zip his jumpsuit properly, “she really is cute when she blushes.”

The other Hanks turned.

“What? I’m being respectful,” he added, hands raised in surrender.

Hank 4, who’d been silently chewing on a plastic hanger like a thoughtful philosopher, finally spoke.

“Let’s settle this like we always do.”

“With reckless competitive nonsense?” Hank 2 said, already regretting everything.

“Exactly.”

Hank 3 snapped his fingers. “Bet time. No touching. Just charm. Confidence. Pure vibe. First one to make her seriously blush wins.”

“And the loser?” Hank 1 arched a brow.

“Has to do the next training challenge… in nothing but their jumpsuit unzipped all the way and a smile.”

“Are we pretending we haven’t all done that already?” Hank 4 asked.

Still, the terms were set.

“No cheating,” Hank 2 said. “No props. No shirtless push-ups.”

Hank 3 already had his zipper halfway down. “Define cheating.”

In the next room, you were completely unaware. Just folding towels. Totally unprepared for five grown men to emerge from your closet like they were on a mission to win your heart—or at least your blush.

Attempt 1

You didn’t notice the closet door open.

You did, however, notice the soft thud of boots against hardwood behind you—followed by the exaggerated sound of someone clearing their throat like he was preparing to walk a runway.

You turned around just in time to see Hank 3 strut out of your closet like he owned the entire apartment. His jumpsuit was unzipped halfway, clinging to his waist, leaving his chest on full, sweaty, unnecessary display. His sleeves were tied low on his hips. And he was smirking like he’d just won the lottery.

He casually leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed behind his head so every muscle flexed just a little harder.

“Well hey there, sweetheart,” he drawled, voice smooth and dipped in teasing heat. “You miss me?”

You blinked. “You’ve been gone for thirty seconds.”

“Exactly. Felt like an eternity.”

He gave you a once-over. Deliberate. Slow. Stopping at your tank top, lingering at your bare thighs. Then meeting your eyes with that shit-eating grin.

“Need help folding?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t fold. You wad things into a ‘gravity pile.’”

“True,” he admitted, stepping closer. “But I do offer excellent moral support. And eye candy. And—”

He plucked a fresh shirt from your basket and held it up.

“—creative suggestions.”

Before you could ask, he draped the shirt over his shoulder like a towel, hooked a thumb into the waistband of his jumpsuit, and leaned in just enough for you to get a faint whiff of clean soap and ego.

“Try not to stare,” he whispered, “but I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

You were not going to blush.

Except your face felt a little warm. Just a little.

And Hank 3 noticed.

“Ohhhh, no way.” His eyes lit up, full smug grin locked and loaded. “That’s a flush. Right there.”

He pointed at your cheek like a proud idiot. “I win. Game over. Everyone else can go home.”

From the closet came Hank 1’s muffled voice:

“You wish, dumbass!”

Hank 3 winked at you. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll keep it warm for you.”

Attempt 2

You were halfway through sorting socks when Hank 1 strolled out of the closet like he’d just remembered walking was a thing he knew how to do.

“Yo,” he said, stretching his arms above his head until his jumpsuit tightened across his chest. “You good in here? Heard some folding distress.”

You looked up. “You ‘heard’ it?”

He nodded, serious as hell. “Yeah. Like… fabric-related panic. In my soul.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but then he stepped closer—just a little too close for a casual conversation about laundry. He wasn’t even pretending to help. Just standing there, smirking like he definitely didn’t have a plan but was vibing through it anyway.

“Need a hand?” he asked, resting one palm on the washer beside your hip. “Or moral support. Or… snacks. I’m good at snacks.”

“Do you even know how to fold a towel?”

“Physically? Yes. Mentally? Absolutely not.”

He leaned in a fraction, and something about the angle—his grin, the heat in his eyes—made your breath catch without permission.

He caught it, of course.

“Ohhh. Wait. Are you blushing?”

You rolled your eyes. “No.”

He lit up like you’d handed him a medal. “You so are! Your ears are doing the little pink thing. That’s adorable.”

You turned away. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” he said, stepping around to block your view of the laundry basket like a damn labrador trying to play defense. “Because I think you get flustered when I’m in your space. Like, statistically. That’s a pattern.”

“Statistically?” you repeated, incredulous.

“Yeah. I’ve been tracking it.”

He tapped his temple, like there was an actual spreadsheet in there and not a single, echoing thought.

You stared at him. “Are you flirting with me, or just being weird?”

“…Yes.”

He flashed you that big, smug, golden-retriever-smile. “You look cute when you're annoyed, by the way. It’s very, like… intense librarian energy.”

And before you could recover from that, he turned on his heel and headed back toward the closet, still absolutely convinced he’d accomplished something.

“Lemme know if you need help with folding,” he called over his shoulder. “Or, like, emotional support. Or hot people to stand near you. I’m free.”

You didn’t say anything.

Mostly because your face was definitely warm now—and the worst part was, he hadn’t even been trying.

Attempt 3 

You were trying to mind your own business. Truly.

One second you were reaching for the dryer sheet box—

The next, you turned around and walked straight into Hank 5.

Chest.

A very warm, very solid chest.

“Oh—sorry, sorry,” he said quickly, hands raised but not touching you. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

You stared up at him. “Were you standing there the whole time?”

He scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “Kinda. You were humming. It was cute. I didn’t wanna interrupt.”

You blinked. “You could’ve said something.”

“I was enjoying the moment,” he said, with a soft shrug. “Didn’t wanna rush it.”

Okay, that shouldn’t have made your stomach flutter. But then he leaned down just enough for his voice to dip—and for you to get a little whiff of his cologne: warm, cozy, like cedarwood and laundry soap.

“Didn’t know you wore shorts that short when you did laundry,” he murmured, eyes dropping for half a second before flicking back up. “S’gonna be a problem for me.”

Your breath caught.

He smiled—slow and a little too knowing. “Sorry. That was a lot. I’m trying the whole ‘respectful admiration’ thing but, uh… you make that kinda difficult.”

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but he stepped closer again, just barely in your space, voice going low.

“I think about you more than I should,” he said. “Not just the spicy stuff. Though, yeah. That too.”

He watched your face like he was memorizing the way it changed—every flicker of surprise, every little shift.

“You ever think about me?” he asked, softer now. “Like, late at night? When you're trying to fall asleep and everything's quiet except for the part of you that wants something warm. Someone warm.”

Your heart slammed.

He smiled again—gentler this time, like he was trying to walk back the heat without losing the moment.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added, straightening. “I just wanted you to know. I think you’re… a lot to want. And I do.”

And with that, he backed up—calmly, quietly—and returned to the hallway like nothing happened.

You stood frozen in place, completely rattled. Because somehow, somehow, that man had just made wanting you sound like poetry. And also like a promise.

And your face?

Burning.

Attempt 4

You were halfway through untangling a bundle of warm socks when Hank 2 stepped into the laundry room, hands stuffed awkwardly into the pockets of his red-and-lime jumpsuit.

“Hey,” he said, giving a little wave like he wasn’t sure if he was interrupting something sacred.

You looked up. “Hey.”

He stood there for a second. Shifted his weight. Glanced at the dryer. Then back at you.

“I, uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking away. “I was gonna wait ‘til you were done, but then I thought that might be weird? Like I was lurking? So then I came in, but now I feel like I’m just… standing here. Weirdly.”

You tilted your head, already smiling. “You’re fine.”

“Okay. Cool. Just wanted to make sure.”

He took a hesitant step closer, then stopped like he didn’t trust the floor.

“So… I had this whole thing I was gonna say, but I forgot most of it on the way over here.”

You tried not to laugh. “Do you want to start over?”

“Kind of? But now it feels like if I leave and re-enter I’ll just get more nervous and probably knock something over.”

You laughed. “Alright then. Let’s roll with it.”

He exhaled. “Okay. So. Um…”

His gaze dropped to your laundry pile. Your shorts—soft, tiny, folded right on top. His face went a little pink, and he immediately looked away like he hadn’t seen anything.

“Nope,” he muttered. “Not gonna comment. I’m being normal. Totally normal.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Comment on what?”

“Nothing!”

Then:

“I mean—something. But I’m not commenting on it. Because I’m trying this new thing where I don’t say the first thought that hits my brain. Or the second one. Especially not the third one.”

You grinned, taking a step toward him. “And what would the third one be?”

He let out the most distressed little noise in his throat, like his soul had just short-circuited.

“I—I just think you look really good today,” he said, eyes darting anywhere but your face. “Like… unfairly good. Distractingly good. Like...I walked in here and forgot my name for a second, kind of good.”

You blinked.

“Oh god,” he mumbled. “Was that weird? That was too much, right? I can’t tell anymore. Everything sounds flirty when I say it out loud and—”

He finally looked at you.

You were blushing.

He blinked. “Wait… are you—did I actually—?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. The look on your face said enough.

And Hank 2? He lit up.

“No way. I did it. I made you blush. Me. I wasn’t even trying to—well I was, but like, not well—”

“Don’t get cocky,” you said, trying to hide your face behind your sleeve.

“I would never!” he said quickly. Then added under his breath: “Okay maybe a little. But only because this is the best moment of my life.”

He walked out after that, tripping slightly on the doorframe—but managed to play it off with an enthusiastic thumbs-up, like he’d just won the emotional Olympics.

And you?

Still blushing.

Attempt 5

Hank 4 came in like he had been summoned.

The door swung open, and there he stood—backlit by hallway light, shirtless (obviously), a hanger slung dramatically over his shoulder like it was a sword.

You blinked. “You okay?”

“I’m great,” he said, eyes sparkling. “You’re about to be less great though.”

You raised a brow. “Why’s that?”

“Because,” he announced, stepping into the room like it was a stage, “you’re gonna fall in love with me in about fifteen seconds, and I’m not emotionally prepared to deal with the aftermath.”

You laughed. “You’ve got fifteen seconds, huh?”

He nodded seriously. “I timed it.”

Then he stepped in close—closer than expected—and it hit you that yeah, okay, he might be dumb as bricks sometimes, but he was also tall, very shirtless, and his eyes were locked on yours like he was actually going for it this time.

“I’ve been practicing,” he said, like that explained anything.

“Practicing what?”

He took your hand—gently, like it was breakable—and placed it flat against his bare chest.

“Eye contact,” he whispered. “And being devastating.”

Your breath hitched.

He wasn’t smirking like Hank 1. He wasn’t teasing like Hank 3. He was sincere. Soft, wide-eyed, and intense in the way only someone who really believes in his own nonsense can be.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about how you’d look first thing in the morning,” he said, voice lower now. “All sleepy. Wearing my hoodie. Standing in the kitchen. Just…”

He paused, eyes flicking down your face.

“Existing. And messing me up permanently.”

Your heart full-on stumbled.

“Too much?” he asked gently.

You nodded slowly, cheeks burning. “A little.”

He grinned. “Good. I’m keeping score.”

Then—still holding your hand against his chest—he leaned in and pressed the softest, most unfair kiss to your forehead.

Your knees wobbled.

“That’s gotta be worth a solid ten out of ten blush,” he whispered. “Right?”

Then he let go, spun around, and strutted out of the laundry room with the hanger still balanced on his shoulder like a victory flag.

And you just stood there.

Absolutely demolished.

By Hank 4.

Who called eye contact his “finishing move.”

Final Scene – Game Over

You had no idea what was happening in your closet.

But from the sounds of it?

It was war.

“No, I made her blush first—”

“You cheated, you brought up her shorts!”

“I was vulnerable! That should count double—”

“I kissed her forehead, that’s, like, an automatic win—”

“I was gonna do that!!”

You stood just outside the door, blinking at the chaos echoing from inside. Voices overlapping. Something thumped. Someone yelped.

Then—

“I should’ve worn the other jumpsuit. The one that clings to my—”

“NO ONE CARES, HANK 4!”

You kicked the door open.

All five heads whipped toward you.

All five Hanks froze like middle schoolers caught doing something extremely dumb.

You crossed your arms. “Okay. What is going on?”

Silence.

Hank 2 immediately looked like he was about to apologize for existing. Hank 3 bit his lip to hide a grin. Hank 5 winced. Hank 1 looked at the ceiling like it might save him. Hank 4 waved awkwardly with a hanger still in hand.

You stared them down. “You’ve all been acting weird for days. Flirty. Intense. You”—you pointed at Hank 1—“almost growled at me.”

“I did not,” he mumbled.

“And you”—you turned to Hank 3—“told me I should sit on the dryer or your lap.”

“Option B still stands,” he muttered, not even pretending to look ashamed.

Finally, Hank 5 sighed and stepped forward, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Okay. Yeah. We… made a bet.”

You arched a brow.

“Whoever could make you blush the most… wins,” Hank 2 added quietly, like he was confessing to a priest. “It was supposed to be harmless.”

“And respectful!” Hank 5 said quickly. “Mostly!”

“Mostly,” you echoed.

They all looked at you—guilty, hopeful, adorable in the most ridiculous way.

You rolled your eyes.

And then—because you were cruel in all the right ways—you let out a soft laugh.

“You idiots.”

Five shoulders slumped in unison, like the word broke them.

But before they could spiral, you took one slow step into the closet. Then another.

“Y’know…” you said, gaze sweeping over them, voice light, teasing—dangerous.

“If you really want to compete… why stop at blushing?”

They all blinked.

“I mean—” you stepped closer to Hank 1, then slid your gaze toward Hank 3 “—if you’re really sorry…”

You smiled. Slow. Lethal.

“…maybe you should all try to win me over properly.”

You turned around, walking out with the calm grace of a woman who knew she’d just dropped a nuclear bomb.

And over your shoulder, as you reached the hallway:

“Bedroom’s open. I’ll be waiting.”

Crash.

Trip.

“MOVE, HANK 3!”

“SHE LOOKED AT ME FIRST—”

“I’M BRINGING WHIPPED CREAM—”

“WHERE ARE MY SOCKS?!”

You grinned.

Caleb

The kitchen smells like garlic and butter.

The sun’s already gone down, but the lights are still off—just the stove hood casting a soft yellow over the counter, catching on the steam from the pasta pot.

Caleb’s moving like a machine. Quiet. Efficient.

One hand stirs the sauce, the other balances the baby monitor against his shoulder. He hasn’t sat down in hours. The front of his shirt is wrinkled from being used as a napkin. His hair’s a little damp at the edges like he forgot to fully dry it after his three-minute shower.

You’re watching him from the table.

You’re not fighting. There’s no coldness. No tension.

But something’s… distant.

Like you’re living next to each other. Not with each other.

He hums to himself softly—some melody you can’t place. He opens a cabinet with his foot. He says, “You want cheese?” like it’s code for love, but he doesn’t look at you when he asks.

You smile anyway. “Sure.”

He grates it. Sprinkles it. Passes you a bowl.

Then goes right back to moving.

The baby monitor crackles.

A timer goes off.

He starts unloading the dishwasher.

And you just sit there, soup cooling in front of you.

You’re still staring at him when it happens—when the words fall out of your mouth before you can stop them.

Soft. Honest.

Like breathing.

“I miss you.”

He doesn’t turn around right away.

His brain doesn’t process it at first. He’s too busy checking the time on the oven clock, flipping dinner, wondering if the laundry’s dry.

Then the words echo back in his chest.

I miss you.

His hand stills on the spatula.

“You…” He turns. “You what?”

You shrug. A little too fast. “Nothing. I mean—you're here. I know. It’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not.” He sets the pan down—burner still on. Crosses the room in three strides.

“You miss me?” he asks again, slower now. Like he’s scared of the answer.

You nod. “You’re always doing stuff. For the baby. For me. You never sit down anymore.”

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t realize I stopped.”

You smile, just a little. “You didn’t. You just… drifted.”

He sinks to his knees in front of your chair, rests his cheek against your belly like he used to before the baby was born.

“I’ve been right here,” he whispers. “But I’ve been so focused on taking care of everything—I didn’t realize I left the part that mattered.”

Your fingers slide into his hair.

He lets them.

“I miss you too,” he says softly. “So much it hurts.”

You bend down, rest your forehead against his.

And for the first time in weeks?

He breathes.

Really breathes.

Xavier

You don’t even realize how quiet it’s gotten until the microwave beeps.

Xavier is still standing where he’s been for the last five minutes—staring blankly at the digital numbers. Not opening the door. Not speaking. Just… existing.

He’s like that lately.

He’s here, technically. He tucks you in at night. He leaves lights on when you fall asleep on the couch. He still makes tea for you in the morning—even if it’s lukewarm by the time you notice.

But it’s like you’re in the same room, and still a world apart.

You don’t blame him. Not really. He’s always been a little detached, a little distant, like his thoughts are off somewhere else.

But lately?

He doesn’t come back.

Not all the way.

You shift on the couch, blanket pulled up around your knees. “The tea’s cold,” you say, just to say something.

He nods without turning. “I’ll reheat it.”

Silence again.

The microwave keeps beeping.

You don’t mean to say it. You’re not even thinking about saying it.

But then—

“I miss you.”

It comes out soft. Small. A little raw around the edges.

And it lands.

Xavier blinks. Slowly.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just… stands there.

Then the microwave beeps again, louder this time.

He opens the door. Reaches for the mug. Stops halfway.

His hand is shaking.

“I didn’t know,” he says finally. Voice low. Controlled.

You shift on the couch, throat tight. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

“I thought I was being present.”

You shake your head. “You’ve been nearby. That’s not the same.”

He turns, tea still in hand.

When he sees your face—really sees it—something in his own shifts.

He walks to you. Kneels down in front of the couch.

And offers the mug like a peace offering.

You take it. He doesn’t move.

Then he says—soft, barely audible:

“I didn’t realize I was missing you too.”

And for the first time in days?

He lets himself stay.

Rafayel

It starts with him in the kitchen—shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, music playing in the background, something herby and over-complicated simmering on the stove.

He’s singing. Loudly. Off-key.

You watch him from the kitchen table, head resting on your hand, eyes half-lidded. You’ve been watching him for twenty minutes—gliding back and forth across the tile like a tragic chef-prince in exile.

He narrates everything he’s doing. Dramatically.

“The rosemary must be coaxed, not crushed!” “Where is the sea salt?” “Oh, my darling olive oil—don’t burn me now—!”

You should be laughing.

But your smile doesn’t reach your eyes.

Because this is the third night this week he’s filled the space with music and dancing and noise. Third night he’s performed affection like a monologue—but hasn’t touched you once.

It’s not cold. Not cruel. Just… hollow.

Like he’s afraid that if he slows down, he’ll feel something he doesn’t want to.

You look down at the pasta cooling in front of you. Your voice comes out softer than you expect.

“I miss you.”

He stops mid-stir.

Just stops.

Spoon still hovering in the air. Sauce bubbling behind him. Frank Sinatra cut off mid-note.

He turns around slowly. Frowns. “I’m right here.”

“I know.”

“You just watched me kiss a tomato with more passion than most romance leads.”

“I know.”

He stares at you. Blinks once.

And then you see it—the panic. The way his whole body falters. Like he’s realizing something very, very important too late.

“Oh no,” he breathes. “Oh no.”

“Raf—”

He crosses the room in three fast steps, kneels beside you like you’re about to fade.

“You miss me? I’ve been serenading you with pasta and praise! I told the eggplant it was regal! What have I done?”

You reach for his cheek. “You’ve been everywhere but here.”

He leans into your touch like it hurts.

“I thought I was making things brighter,” he murmurs. “Turns out I was just making them louder.”

You smile, a little sad. “I don’t need louder. I just need you.”

He lets out the softest breath. Presses a kiss to your palm.

Then: “I’m going to burn dinner, aren’t I?”

You glance at the stove. “Probably.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. Then let me hold you while it burns.”

And when he pulls you into his arms on the kitchen floor—flour on his sleeve, sauce on his collar, guilt in his throat—you finally feel him come back.

Zayne

It’s 9:07 p.m.

The kitchen is spotless. The baby monitor is on. The dinner plates are in the dishwasher, stacked in perfect symmetry. Zayne’s at the counter writing something down—something for tomorrow. Groceries, probably. He doesn’t say what.

You’re still sitting at the table, legs pulled up under you. Watching him. Quiet.

He’s been like this for weeks now.

Present. Helpful. Perfect, really. Except you can’t feel him anymore.

You speak without looking at him.

“I miss you.”

His pen stops moving.

The silence hits hard. Sharper than you expect.

“…What?” he says. Not defensive—just confused. Like the words didn’t compute.

You repeat it. “I miss you.”

He turns around slowly, brows drawn. “I… don’t understand. I’m here.”

You offer a soft smile. “I know. But you feel far away.”

He frowns—deep. Like the idea physically bothers him.

“I make dinner,” he says. “I do the morning routine. I check in. I—” He stops.

You don’t interrupt.

Zayne runs a hand down his face, dragging it over his mouth like he’s trying to hold in something sharp.

“I thought I was doing everything right.”

“You are,” you say. “You’re doing everything. You’re just not being with me.”

That lands harder than you meant it to.

He grips the counter edge. Shoulders tense. Not angry. Just overwhelmed.

Then, voice quieter:

“I didn’t know how to come back.”

You step up behind him. Wrap your arms around his waist. Feel the tension in his spine.

“You don’t have to fix everything to be enough,” you whisper. “You just have to let me hold you.”

He exhales, shaky. Eyes closed.

“…Okay.”

And for the first time in weeks—he lets go.

Sylus

He’s on the couch with his boots still on.

One arm stretched across the backrest, the other holding a glass of something dark, untouched. He hasn’t said much since dinner—just grunted in response to your “long day?” and slipped into his usual, quiet brooding comfort zone.

You’re curled up on the opposite end of the couch. Close enough to touch him if you reached. But you don’t.

Because lately, it feels like when you do, he flinches—emotionally, if not physically.

You glance at him now, the sharp angle of his jaw softened by the warm lamplight. He’s not tense. He’s not closed off.

He’s just… somewhere else.

You turn your head away before he can catch the way your face folds a little.

And you say it.

“I miss you.”

The words hang there. Casual and devastating.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just blinks. Breathes in slow.

Then, softly:

“…I’m right here.”

You nod. “I know. But it still feels like I haven’t had you in a while.”

He sets his drink down.

Stares at the floor for a moment. Then runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to clear static out of his head.

“You think I’m pulling away.”

You stay quiet.

He glances over—just once—and when he sees your expression, something shifts in him. Less defensive. More wrecked.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, lower now. “I just… get stuck in my head sometimes. And I guess I thought being in the same room counted for something.”

“It does,” you say. “But it’s not the same as being close.”

He leans back, scrubs a hand down his face.

Then mumbles, half to himself:

“God. You’re gonna make me talk about feelings, aren’t you.”

You smile. Barely. “Not if you don’t want to.”

He looks at you again—longer this time. Like he’s really seeing you. And that’s what finally gets him to move.

He scoots closer. Wordless. Slow.

Then pulls you gently into his side, your head tucked against his shoulder. One hand over your thigh, grounding. Solid.

You feel him exhale.

“I do miss you too,” he says eventually. “I just didn’t realize it until you said it first.”

You nod.

You don’t need anything else right now.

Just this.

Caleb

He tries to be calm.

Really, he does.

You’re holding his hand—well, more like crushing it—and Caleb’s doing his best to be composed. He smiles at the nurse. Makes a dumb joke. Rubs your knuckles.

But the moment that grainy little flicker shows up on the screen?

The moment the room fills with the steady, quick-thudding whump-whump-whump of a heartbeat?

He stops breathing.

The grin drops off his face like it was never there.

His fingers go still.

His eyes are locked on the screen, wide and unblinking.

“That’s… that’s ours?” he whispers.

You nod, voice catching in your throat. “Yeah.”

And then he laughs.

A breathy, broken little sound—half-sob, half-hysterical wonder. Like his whole body can’t decide whether to melt or combust. He turns toward you, eyes shimmering.

“I didn’t—I didn’t think I could feel this much.”

His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking just beneath your eye. “You’re growing a whole person. Our person. That’s my kid in there. Our kid. I—”

He can’t finish the sentence.

He buries his face in your shoulder and laughs again, shaking a little.

“I’m gonna be a dad,” he says against your skin. “And they’ve already got my whole heart. I’m so screwed.”

You kiss the side of his head. “You’re not screwed.”

He pulls back, smiling through tears.

“No,” he says, looking at the screen again.

“I’m the luckiest bastard in the galaxy.”

Xavier

He’s quiet when the screen lights up.

Not his usual stillness. This is different.

His posture doesn’t shift. His expression barely changes. But you feel it—the way his hand tightens slightly around yours, the way his breath catches just a second too long.

And then the heartbeat comes through.

Whump-whump-whump.

Quick. Strong. Inarguably alive.

Xavier blinks once. His eyes lock on the grainy blur on the screen like he’s calculating a threat.

But there’s no threat.

Just something small. And safe. And yours.

“That sound…” he murmurs, voice low and careful, “is them?”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

He stares a moment longer, then lowers his gaze to your stomach—like he's only just realizing what’s been there this whole time.

“I thought I understood,” he says softly. “What this would be. I thought I was prepared.”

A pause. He shifts in his seat, fingers grazing the edge of the ultrasound photo the nurse just handed him.

“I wasn’t.”

Another silence.

Then, so softly you almost miss it:

“I’ll protect them. Always.”

He says it like a vow. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just fact.

Like this heartbeat rewired him.

You lean your head against his shoulder.

He doesn't speak again. Doesn’t need to.

He just keeps staring at the screen like he’s watching the future take its first breath.

Rafayel

He's already being too much before the machine even starts.

Kissing your hand like you’re royalty. Calling the OB “a vessel of the divine.” Whispering, “Are you ready, my muse?” in your ear like this is a movie premiere.

You roll your eyes. “Rafayel, it’s an ultrasound.”

He leans closer, eyes glowing with mischief. “And what is an ultrasound… if not the first brushstroke of our greatest masterpiece?”

You don’t have time to reply before the screen flares on—and just like that, he goes silent.

Utterly. Completely.

You turn to look at him.

He's frozen. Wide-eyed. One hand over his mouth like he just saw the face of a god.

The heartbeat kicks in.

Whump-whump-whump.

And he loses it.

“Oh,” he whispers, voice breaking on the single syllable. “Oh—look at them. Look.”

You do.

But Rafayel? He’s already gone.

Tears pool at the edges of his lashes—long and unblinking, like he’s terrified that blinking might erase the moment. One escapes down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it.

He grabs your hand with both of his, reverent. Desperate. “They’re so small,” he breathes. “And they’re ours. You—you made that. In you. I—we—”

He lets out this overwhelmed little laugh-sob that turns into a hiccup halfway through.

Then whispers, “I need to paint this.”

You blink. “Babe. It’s a blur of static and bean-shape.”

“Exactly. It’s pure. Abstract. Untouched by symbolism. It’s raw emotion, darling.”

You stifle a snort. “Are you crying?”

“I am feeling,” he snaps, brushing a tear away dramatically. “Leave me be.”

He presses a kiss to your wrist like he’s grounding himself in reality.

“Promise me something,” he murmurs.

You nod.

“When they’re born... remind me I loved them first. Before I even met them.”

You lean in. Kiss his cheek.

“I think they already know.”

Zayne

Zayne keeps his eyes on the screen the moment it flickers on.

His hand is holding yours, but it’s stiff. Careful. Like he’s trying too hard not to feel anything too early. Trying to stay clinical. Detached. Professional.

Like he’s just here to observe.

Then the sound hits.

Whump-whump-whump.

The heartbeat. Fast. Alive. Steady.

Your baby.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t speak.

You glance over, expecting some sarcastic comment. A critique. Something.

But his jaw is tight.

His eyes—sharp, exact, always calculating—are suddenly unreadable. Blank in the way only Zayne can manage.

He doesn’t blink.

Not even once.

“Zayne?” you whisper.

Nothing.

And then—

Quietly.

Like it slips out without permission.

“…It’s real.”

He exhales hard, like he’d been holding his breath without realizing it.

His fingers tighten around yours. Not painfully—but with intensity. Like if he lets go, it might all disappear.

“I’ve seen thousands of heartbeats,” he murmurs. “Monitors. Flatlines. Fibrillations. But this…”

He swallows. Looks down at your hand in his.

“I didn’t know how different it would feel when it’s… ours.”

There’s something cracked open in him now. Something bare.

You watch his throat move as he swallows again, hard.

Then, softer:

“I didn’t think I’d be scared.”

You squeeze his hand. “You don’t have to be perfect.”

He finally turns to you. His eyes are glassy, but he’s holding it in like always. You can see it—the quiet shaking underneath.

“I’m not scared of messing up,” he says. “I’m scared of how much I already love them.”

You lean in, rest your forehead against his.

“They’re going to be okay.”

He closes his eyes.

And lets himself believe it.

Sylus

Sylus is leaning against the wall like this is a business meeting and not the moment his entire future is about to implode.

Arms crossed. Mouth set. Watching the monitor with laser focus, like the image might suddenly sprout a threat he can neutralize.

Your hand is in his, resting on your belly. The gel’s cold. The nurse is smiling. Everything feels calm.

Until—

Whump-whump-whump.

The first heartbeat kicks in.

Sylus doesn’t move.

Then the nurse tilts her head. Frowns slightly. Adjusts the wand.

“Oh,” she says casually, as if she’s not about to detonate a bomb in the room. “There’s another.”

You blink. “Another what?”

She clicks something.

“There are two heartbeats.”

You stare at her. “As in—?”

“Twins,” she says, cheerfully. “You’re having twins.”

You whip your head toward Sylus.

Still frozen. Still unreadable.

Except for the twitch at the corner of his mouth. The subtle roll of his eyes. The very long blink like he’s internally rebooting.

Then, under his breath—just loud enough for you to hear:

“…I’m f*cking surrounded.”

You choke on a laugh. “Babe.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. Just rubs a hand down his face like the weight of responsibility has suddenly tripled.

Finally: “I agreed to one. One tiny parasite. We had a deal.”

You grin. “Babies don’t do contracts.”

He mutters something about renegotiating with the womb gods before slouching down in the chair beside you, staring at the screen like it personally betrayed him.

The nurse keeps talking—measurements, due dates, baby A and baby B—but he’s not hearing any of it.

He’s calculating. Strategizing. Probably already planning to fortify the nursery.

Then he turns to you. Deadpan. Quiet.

“I’m going to need more weapons.”

You squeeze his hand.

“More diapers, you mean.”

He scowls. You can see the crisis brewing behind his eyes. But he still lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles like it’s instinct.

And then—very softly:

“…They’re gonna be so small.”

You nod. “And they’re yours.”

He leans back. Stares at the ceiling.

“God help me,” he mutters. “I’m gonna love them stupid, aren’t I?”

You smirk. “Already do.”

He groans.

But doesn’t let go of your hand.

Caleb

It starts with the socks.

You and your kid exchange a look over breakfast—just a slight twitch of the eyebrow, a smirk over toast—and Caleb should have known. He should have.

But he’s got stars in his eyes and jam on his fingers, and he’s too busy cutting your kid’s pancakes into perfect little hexagons to notice you’ve already swapped his socks.

They’re pink. With glitter hearts. And the words “#1 Trophy Husband” stitched in sparkly thread.

He puts them on without looking.

And then?

Operation: Bully Dad begins.

—

Phase One: Language Manipulation. You teach your kid to call him “Captain Cranky.”

Every time he sighs? “Okay, Captain Cranky.”

When he says no to dessert? “Ugh, classic Captain Cranky.”

He stares at you like you betrayed him. You just sip your coffee.

“I am not cranky,” he mutters.

From under the table: “You’re literally pouting right now, Cap.”

—

Phase Two: The Snack Swap. He reaches for his favorite protein bar in the pantry.

Finds a note instead.

"Too slow, Captain Cranky. We needed it more. For… missions"

He spins around.

You and your kid are already on the couch. Sharing it. Making dramatic yum noises.

“I swear to god, you two are a menace.”

You both say it at the same time: “A menace to CRANKY.”

—

Phase Three: The Betrayal. He finally gets a break. He’s lying on the floor with your kid on his chest, playing spaceship noises.

It’s quiet. Peaceful.

Then your kid leans down and whispers: “Mommy says you talk in your sleep. About kissing her toes.”

His eyes FLY OPEN.

You’re across the room, hiding a smile behind a throw pillow. “I said what I said.”

He groans and drags both of you onto the floor with him. “Unbelievable. My own family.”

You grin. “You love it.”

He kisses your temple, then your kid’s forehead. “You have no idea.”

Xavier

It starts with a whisper war in the hallway.

You and your kid peek around the corner like spies on a stakeout—clipboard in hand, checklist ready.

Mission Objective: Tease Daddy Until He Short Circuits.

Xavier is at the kitchen counter, pouring cereal into the mug he always insists is “just more ergonomic than a bowl.” He’s wearing socks with swords on them. A gift from you. He takes them very seriously.

You circle “Target Acquired.”

—

Phase One: The Wrong Name Game. Your kid walks in casually.

“Hey, Xylophone.”

Xavier glances up. “Hello.”

No reaction.

Not even confusion.

So your kid tries again, louder. “I said Xylophone.”

Xavier frowns faintly. “Yes. I heard. Are we experimenting with sound-based naming systems today?”

You lose it from the hallway.

—

Phase Two: Sticker Warfare. This one’s your idea.

While Xavier’s reading on the couch, your kid climbs into his lap with all the innocence in the world—and slowly starts covering him in dinosaur stickers.

One on his cheek.

One on his temple.

A brontosaurus on his neck.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

Finally, he blinks over his book. “Is there a… theme?”

“Jurassic Daddy,” you say sweetly, passing by.

He nods thoughtfully. “Very well.”

Doesn’t even take them off.

—

Phase Three: The Hidden Alarm. Your kid sneaks your phone into Xavier’s jacket pocket.

Sets a timer.

In two minutes, it’ll go off. Loud. In the middle of him doing birdwatching on the balcony.

He’s squinting into the trees, focused and serene—until a digital duck quack blares from his coat.

He freezes.

Then calmly pulls out your phone, stares at it like it’s a new lifeform.

“...Is this my punishment for using your mug?”

You and your kid high-five from the doorway.

—

That night, you’re brushing your teeth when you feel arms wrap around your waist from behind.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your hair.

You smile at his reflection. “Even when we bully you?”

He hums. “Especially when you work as a team.”

He’s got a triceratops still stuck to his sleeve.

You leave it.

Rafayel

It starts because Rafayel wouldn’t let your kid put googly eyes on the blender.

A crime, truly.

So now?

You’re at war.

You and your mini-me form an unholy alliance before breakfast. The mission is clear: mess with Rafayel all day. Confuse him. Fluster him. Bring him to his knees (with love, obviously).

—

Phase One: The Sketch Swap He leaves his current canvas in the studio—half-finished, ethereal, probably titled Longing for Lemuria II: A Study in Violet Silence.

You and your kid sneak in.

When he returns, the dreamy mermaid now has a mustache. And laser eyes. And a speech bubble that says “My dad has stinky feet.”

He gasps like you physically struck him.

“You defiled my muse?!”

You shrug. “Consider it a collaboration.”

Your kid adds: “We made it better.”

He puts a hand to his chest. “You’re both going to artist jail.”

—

Phase Two: The Fashion Sabotage He goes to pull on his favorite pants—the flowy, artsy ones with the embroidered moons—and finds they’ve been replaced with hot pink yoga leggings from your drawer.

You: “I think you could rock them.”

Your kid: “Slay, bestie.”

He stares at the pants.

Then stares at you.

Then changes into them like a man on a catwalk.

But he’s muttering the entire time. “This is emotional abuse. I’m filing a glitter-based complaint.”

—

Phase Three: The Cookie Theft He opens the cabinet for his secret stash of lavender shortbread.

Finds an empty tin and a note inside:

“Stolen in the name of justice. Your blender crimes have consequences. —The Chaos Coalition”

He screams. Loudly. Then walks dramatically into the living room and collapses across the couch like a Victorian woman fainting on a chaise.

You toss him a goldfish cracker.

He glares.

Then eats it.

—

That night, he pulls you close in bed, head on your chest.

“I hope you both know,” he whispers, “that I am keeping a list.”

You run your fingers through his hair. “Of what?”

“Every emotional injury I sustained today.”

Your kid peeks in the doorway. “You forgot we replaced your shampoo with whipped cream.”

He gasps.

But honestly?

He’s never felt more loved.

Zayne

It begins when he finds his stethoscope floating in a bowl of cereal.

“Do you have a reason,” Zayne asks slowly, very calmly, “why my hospital equipment is now... infused with oat milk?”

Your child blinks up at him. “It was cold and needed a bath.”

You, from across the kitchen: “Honestly? Sound logic.”

He closes his eyes. Sets the stethoscope on the counter. Says nothing.

That was your warning shot.

—

Phase One: Renaming the Routine

You and your kid refuse to call anything by its normal name.

Zayne walks into the room, setting his laptop down with surgical precision.

You: “Look out. The Ice Cube Cometh.”

Your kid: “All hail Frost Daddy.”

Zayne: “I am literally holding your dental insurance forms.”

You both clap like he told a joke.

He blinks. Once.

“...What’s happening right now?”

—

Phase Two: The Hospital File Swap

He opens his neatly labeled folder before work.

Finds a glittery drawing titled “ME + MOMMY + FROST DAD = BESTIES FOREVER 💖”

Also, you’ve replaced his bio with:

“Zayne: World’s Coldest Softie. Will cry at piano music and is afraid of butterflies.”

He reads it. Stares at the paper.

Puts it back.

And takes it to work anyway.

—

Phase Three: Sticker Surgery

He showers. He gets dressed. He puts on his favorite button-down.

Then glances in the mirror—and freezes.

There’s a little cartoon Band-Aid sticker on his jawline.

Purple. With a smiley face.

You don’t even try to hide your laugh.

His jaw tics.

“I’ve conducted heart transplants with less sabotage than I face in this household.”

You pat his cheek. “And yet, you’re still so lovable.”

“Debatable.”

—

At bedtime, he’s halfway through folding laundry (into immaculate rectangles, obviously), when your kid leans against his side.

“Hey Dad?”

“Yes?”

“We bullied you good today.”

He pauses.

Then quietly nods.

“You did.”

You sit beside him, resting your head on his shoulder.

“But you liked it.”

“…No comment.”

You kiss the spot beneath his ear. “Tomorrow we’re calling you Doctor Cuddles.”

He exhales. Resigned. But soft.

“…Fine. But only inside this house.”

(You do not respect that boundary.)

Sylus

It starts before 9 a.m.

Sylus—warlord, tactician, red-eyed nightmare of the underground—walks into the living room fully dressed for a meeting with a black-market arms dealer.

Hair slicked. Suit sharp. Brooch in place.

You and your kid are waiting for him.

He stops. Narrow eyes. Tilt of the head. Suspicion.

You smile sweetly.

Your kid lunges forward.

And slaps a bright pink unicorn sticker onto his briefcase.

Dead center.

Sylus just… stands there.

“…Is this meant to be intimidation?”

You: “We’re marking our territory.”

Your kid: “Now the bad guys will know you have backup.”

He looks down at the sticker.

Then at you.

And says absolutely nothing.

But he takes the damn briefcase.

—

Phase One: Name Disrespect

He’s mid-hologram conference when your kid walks in, climbs into his lap, and announces to the entire Onychinus leadership:

“This is Mr. Grumpy Fangs. He doesn’t like it when I boop his nose.”

Sylus doesn’t even flinch.

Keeps talking about supply routes like there isn’t a giggling toddler poking his cheek on live cam.

Later?

He finds out you recorded it.

You send him the clip labeled:

“POV: You’re a villain and your child is your boss.”

He replies with one word:

“Traitor.”

Phase Two: Crow Brooch Chaos

You’re in the middle of folding laundry when your kid comes sprinting in, giggling with something clenched in one hand.

Minutes later, you hear Sylus’s voice—flat, deadly.

“Why… are there googly eyes on my crow?”

You don’t even look up. “Balance. Every villain needs a little whimsy.”

He turns to your kid. “Did you do this?”

“Team effort,” they chirp.

Sylus glares at the glittery-eyed brooch sitting on his chest.

Then sighs.

And doesn’t take it off.

Until hours later.

(He leaves it on his desk. Keeps looking at it.)

Phase Three: Tactical Sabotage

He walks into the war room.

Finds the giant wall map—his map—covered in crayon scribbles.

He blinks.

“Did someone… add butterflies to the Northern quadrant?”

Your kid: “It needed joy.”

You: “And balance.”

He stands there in silence.

Then mutters: “You’ve both become a security threat.”

You blow him a kiss.

That night, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, jacket off, tie loose.

You crawl into his lap, wrapping your arms around him. “Did we push you too far today?”

He grumbles something unintelligible.

Then rests his forehead against yours.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

You kiss him slow. “We know.”

He exhales.

“…You’re not going to stop, are you?”

“Nope.”

Your kid shouts from the hallway: “TOMORROW YOU’RE GETTING GLITTER STICKERS!”

He closes his eyes. Bends his head to your shoulder.

And mutters:

“I should’ve stayed in the shadows.”

Caleb

It started off innocent.

A cute note. A smiley face. A “Good luck, lovebug ♡” scribbled in pink gel pen on a sticky note pressed against the inside of his lunch container. Caleb had found it during mission briefing, pulled it out with a big dumb grin on his face, and showed it to everyone like you’d just sent him a medal.

But then?

You escalated.

Monday: a heart-shaped PB&J and a flirty “Don’t forget what’s waiting for you at home 😉” note.

Tuesday: strawberries sliced into flowers and a cartoon doodle of you both in bed—with a lot of hearts and a slightly suspicious lump under the blanket.

Wednesday: spicy noodles and a very detailed message about what else you’d like to be slurped later.

Thursday?

You went nuclear.

Because he opens his lunch in the Farspace mess hall—packed with pilots, staff, and top-level officers—and tucked between his Tupperware and chopsticks is a full polaroid of you wearing nothing but his flight jacket and a suggestive smirk.

The back of the polaroid says:

“If you finish your food like a good boy, you can unwrap dessert at 2100 hours. 🥺💋”

Caleb chokes so hard on his own saliva he nearly knocks over the tray.

The guy across from him glances at the photo. Blinks. Whistles.

“You married a menace, Colonel.”

Caleb doesn’t even argue.

He just clutches the photo to his chest, cheeks flushed, muttering something about how nobody’s allowed to look but him.

Later that night, he storms into the apartment, throws his gear down, and pins you to the wall in one smooth motion.

“You think you’re funny?” he growls, eyes wild with equal parts reverence and desperation.

You blink innocently. “Did you like the picture?”

“I liked it so much I almost got court-martialed.”

You grin. “You finished your food?”

“Oh, I finished everything.” His voice drops, fingers curling around your hips like you’re the only thing tethering him to gravity. “But I’m still hungry, sweetheart. And you’re on the menu.”

And that’s how you end up with noodles on the floor and Caleb showing you exactly what kind of dessert he meant.

Xavier

Xavier isn’t used to packed lunches.

He’s used to mission rations, cold energy bars, and whatever vending machine items don’t scream immediate regret.

So when he opens his gear pack during a routine debrief and finds a neatly packed bento box on top—wrapped in one of your pastel cloth napkins with your handwriting in the corner—he freezes like it’s a bomb.

He unwraps it slowly.

Inside: onigiri shaped like stars, strawberries cut like hearts, even a tiny container of dipping sauce… and a folded note taped to the lid.

He hesitates.

Then opens the note.

“Hope this holds you over, baby. But just so you know… dessert’s waiting in silk and nothing else. 😘”

His ears go pink. Then red.

He sits there, staring at the note like it just physically struck him. His mind has cleared of every tactical detail he learned in training. All he can hear is your voice in his head, teasing and sweet and barely dressed.

He eats one rice ball and immediately chokes.

Back at home that night, you’re reading on the couch when you hear the door open. You don’t even get a hello before a very flushed, very tense Xavier walks in—jacket half-off, eyes wild.

You blink. “You okay?”

He says nothing.

Just crosses the room, crouches in front of you, and holds up the note.

“I couldn’t focus.”

You smile, playful. “That was kind of the point.”

His jaw flexes.

“You said dessert.”

“I did.”

“And… silk.”

“Mhm.”

You lean forward, letting your fingertips graze his cheek. His breath stutters.

“You ready to cash in?” you murmur.

He nods.

Slow. Deliberate.

And then?

Very quietly—almost reverently—he says:

“…Can I unwrap you like you packed me?”

You’ve never seen him lose control faster.

Rafayel

Rafayel doesn’t usually remember to eat. Or sleep. Or hydrate.

So when you start packing him lunch every afternoon before he disappears into the studio, it’s more about survival than romance—at first.

Today, though?

You were feeling bold.

So you packed his usual—veggie wrap, fruit, chocolate—but with a little extra flair: strawberries sliced into hearts, a ribbon tied around the bento box, and a note folded like origami and tucked under the lid.

You don’t hear from him for hours.

And then—

BANG. The studio door slams open like a scene from a telenovela.

“What the hell is this,” Rafayel demands, waving the lunch box like it personally offended him. His hair’s a mess, his shirt is unbuttoned halfway down, and his mouth is stained red.

You raise a brow. “Lunch?”

He storms over and slams the note down onto the table:

“Eat this like you plan to eat me later. Slowly. Messily. No crumbs left behind.”

You barely hold back a grin. “Was it too much?”

“Too much?” he scoffs. “Too much? Baby, I licked the juice off my fingers and got hard in front of a canvas.”

You burst into laughter. He does not.

“I was trying to paint,” he says, voice strained. “And all I could think about was how you’d taste if I laid you out on the palette table.”

You blink.

“…Do you want a different note next time?”

He narrows his eyes. Crosses the room. And cages you against the wall with one palm.

“Next time,” he purrs, “you pack yourself. In the box. Naked. With whipped cream. Deal?”

You open your mouth to respond—

And he kisses you instead.

Hard. Sweet. Just a little messy.

There’s fruit juice on your chin and paint on his fingers and you don’t even care because he’s already lifting you onto the nearest flat surface.

“I’m not leaving crumbs this time,” he murmurs against your neck.

And, well.

He doesn’t.

Zayne

Zayne’s lunch breaks are brief. Efficient. Predictable.

He doesn’t even like eating during the day—it “slows him down.” But ever since you started packing meals for him (“just something light, don’t argue”), he’s been eating more regularly.

Which is great for his health.

Less great when you decide to be cute.

You packed him a neat, nutritious bento. Quinoa salad, steamed chicken, a little mango.

Oh—and a folded note tucked under the lid, sealed with a kiss mark in your favorite lipstick.

You wrote:

“Don’t forget to eat me next. ❤️ P.S. I’m not wearing panties.”

Simple. Sweet. Spicy.

Zayne opens it in the hospital break room. With two other attending surgeons present.

He doesn’t say a word.

Doesn’t even flinch.

Just folds the note back up, very slowly, and tucks it into his coat pocket like it’s a nuclear code.

The other doctors go silent. One chokes on his yogurt.

Zayne clears his throat.

“I’ll be taking my lunch in my office today.”

He storms out.

Not in anger.

In desperation.

You don’t even get a warning text. You just hear the front door slam open two hours later and a very composed, very flushed Zayne drops the lunch box on the counter and says—

“Where are they?”

You blink. “Where are what?”

“The panties,” he growls, already walking toward you. “I checked. You lied.”

You don’t have time to answer.

You’re too busy being lifted onto the counter.

“Next time,” he breathes against your neck, “think very carefully about where I might be when I open something like that.”

You grin, breathless. “You didn’t like it?”

“I’m going to punish you for it.”

And from the way he kisses you—slow, possessive, a little starved—you think maybe lunch just became his favorite meal of the day.

Sylus

To be fair, you weren’t trying to start anything.

You just thought it would be funny.

Sylus doesn’t “do” lunch—but when he left his suit jacket at home this morning (after a particularly enthusiastic goodbye), you took your chance and sent him off with a black-lacquered lunchbox.

He rolled his eyes.

Said nothing.

But you knew he’d open it eventually.

Probably surrounded by his inner circle—Onychinus lieutenants and morally bankrupt geniuses. Maybe even a few government spies pretending not to be impressed by him.

Which is exactly why you slipped in the note. Right beneath the neatly wrapped meal.

In your handwriting:

“Every bite better remind you whose mouth it should be in.

Come home hungry. I’ll be wearing nothing but your ring.”

You didn’t expect a response.

But that afternoon, your phone buzzes.

It’s a photo.

Your note—next to an empty container.

And then a message:

Sylus: “Meeting ended early. Your fault. Open the door or I break it.”

You barely have time to laugh before you hear boots in the hall.

He’s already there.

Still in all black. Collar undone. Red brooch askew. Energy crackling like he barely made it through the day without devouring something.

He steps inside.

Locks the door behind him.

Then looks you over—slow, dark, dangerous.

“You wanted to be cute,” he says.

You shrug, fake-innocent. “Was I?”

He’s already walking toward you.

“No,” he mutters, pinning you against the wall. “You were reckless.”

“And now I’m—”

His mouth covers yours before you can finish.

Caleb

It’s 3:42 AM.

You’re barely awake—draped in Caleb’s old flight hoodie, fuzzy socks mismatched, hair a mess. Your baby’s been fussing for over an hour, and the soft whines from the bassinet are just starting to edge toward a full-blown meltdown.

You don’t even make it out of bed.

Because Caleb’s already there.

You feel the mattress shift, the soft pad of bare feet, the faint rustle of fabric as he leans over the bassinet. Then—

“Shhh, baby,” he whispers, voice so gentle it cracks your heart open. “C’mon, lovebug. You’ll wake Mama.”

He says it like Mama is royalty.

He scoops up the baby with practiced ease—cradles them against his broad chest, one hand patting their back, the other supporting their head with the kind of reverence people usually reserve for ancient artifacts or handwritten love letters.

You watch, half-lidded, as he starts pacing the room barefoot.

He’s wearing soft cotton sleep pants and nothing else. Dog tags glint faintly under the moonlight seeping through the curtains. His hair is messy. His eyes are tired.

But none of that matters when your baby whimpers and he starts humming.

A melody you don’t recognize—slow, a little sad, sweet in the way old lullabies are. He sways as he walks, murmuring words you can’t quite make out.

You think you hear:

“You’ve got Mama’s nose…”

And:

“You’re already perfect. I’ll protect you forever. No matter what.”

Eventually, the baby settles. Caleb’s still moving—slow, endless loops around the room like he’d walk forever if it meant peace for both of you.

And then?

He comes back.

Leans down to kiss your temple first—soft and lingering—then lays the baby carefully between the two of you in the co-sleeper.

You’re half-asleep when you feel the weight of his arm slide around your waist.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispers against your neck. “I’ve got you both.”

And you believe him.

Because he’s Caleb. And he always does.

Xavier

It’s late.

Too late.

The kind of hour where the world feels paused—still, heavy, suspended in moonlight.

You’re curled up on the couch in the quiet dark, cradling your baby against your chest. The nightlight glows dim in the corner, casting soft shadows across the living room. There’s a blanket draped around your shoulders. You’re swaying gently, murmuring something soft and sleepy.

But your eyes are fluttering shut.

You don’t even hear the door open.

Xavier steps in without a sound.

He’s still in his gear—jacket open, blade strapped to his back, boots silent on the floor. His hair’s a mess from wind and mission grime, and his shoulders are tense from too many hours moving through dangerous spaces.

But the moment he sees you?

Everything stills.

He crosses the room in a few strides. Drops to one knee in front of you—like a knight, like a sinner, like a man who can’t stop needing you close even when he’s exhausted.

You blink awake as his hand brushes over yours.

“You should be sleeping,” he says quietly.

You shake your head. “She wouldn’t settle.”

His eyes drop to the baby nestled in your arms, now sleeping soundly. His jaw clenches—not in frustration. In awe.

He leans forward—careful, deliberate—and presses a kiss to your forehead. Then another, just above your brow.

“Let me,” he murmurs.

You hesitate. He sees it.

“I washed up outside,” he adds, voice barely above a breath. “I’m clean. I promise.”

You nod, and he lifts the baby from your arms with heartbreaking care—like he’s holding something sacred. His hands are calloused. Steady. Gentle. He cradles her close to his chest, one hand splayed protectively over her tiny back.

And then he just… stands there.

In the living room. Rocking back and forth. Saying nothing.

He doesn’t speak much—not about his love, not about the aching protectiveness in his chest—but his actions are poetry.

His eyes stay on her face like he’s memorizing every blink, every breath. When she stirs, his voice breaks the silence, low and soft:

“It’s alright. I’m here.”

You watch as he walks the room in slow loops, quiet and constant.

When he finally comes back, he lays her down in the bassinet and turns to you.

He doesn't ask if you're okay.

He just gathers you into his arms and pulls you into his lap on the couch—your body curled against his chest, your face tucked under his chin.

“Sleep,” he says.

And you do.

Because when Xavier says he’s here—he means it.

Rafayel

It’s nearly 2:30 in the morning.

The studio’s dim, lit only by the soft flicker of string lights and the distant glow of the moon bleeding through the stained-glass window he swears wasn’t always cracked.

You’re half-asleep on the old velvet couch, wearing one of his oversized button-downs and curled under a blanket that still smells like him—smoke, lavender, paint.

Your toddler is curled up on your chest, drooling peacefully, one chubby fist tangled in your hair.

And Rafayel?

He’s sitting on the floor.

Cross-legged. Shirtless. Covered in gold leaf and paint smudges.

Sketching.

You don’t know how long he’s been at it, but there are at least six versions of you sprawled around the floor, each more unhinged than the last—some romantic, some ridiculous. One with you wearing a crown made of snack wrappers. One where the baby is glowing like a celestial being. One where he’s asleep in your lap, drooling.

(“For realism,” he mumbled when you pointed it out.)

He looks up and catches your gaze before you can pretend to be asleep again.

“Caught you,” he says, voice a little too loud for the hour. “Can’t sleep without me anymore, can you?”

You groan softly, not bothering to deny it.

He grins and sets his sketchpad down. Crawls across the floor like a lazy jungle cat and presses a kiss to your bare knee.

Then another.

Then a third, way too high up your thigh.

“Rafayel,” you warn.

He laughs into your skin.

“Okay, okay,” he says, pushing himself up beside you. “You win. For now.”

He curls around you on the couch, nuzzles his nose into your neck, and gently adjusts the blanket so it covers all three of you—his long arm curling around your waist and your baby like you’re both his personal treasures.

You hear his breath catch when the baby sighs in her sleep and curls instinctively closer.

“Do you think she dreams?” he whispers. “Do you think babies dream of past lives?”

You hum. “Probably not.”

“She’s ours,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “So if she does, she’s dreaming of color. Of brushstrokes. Of the way you laugh when I say I’d paint the moon just to match your skin.”

You roll your eyes. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

He grins. “Neither do you. That’s why I love you.”

You fall asleep in his arms to the feeling of his fingers trailing over your hip, sketching shapes into your skin he’ll try to remember later.

When he finally dozes off, he dreams of nothing but you.

Zayne

It’s just past midnight.

The house is silent except for the faint whir of the baby monitor and the occasional rustle of sheets as you shift beside him.

Zayne’s lying flat on his back, arms folded behind his head, eyes wide open—like sleep is something that’s just out of reach. Again.

You roll over, still half-asleep, and reach for him without even opening your eyes.

He exhales softly. That sound that always comes out when he thinks you’ve caught him thinking too much.

“Can’t sleep?” you mumble against his chest.

“I’m fine.”

You don’t believe him for a second.

He never sleeps easily. Not when there are scans to review. Charts to double-check. Or, more often than not, you and your daughter to hover over protectively when you’re both too peaceful to notice.

You shift closer, throwing a leg over his, curling your fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

“You’re doing it again,” you murmur. “Thinking too loud.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His hand just comes up to rest on the small of your back, warm and grounding.

“I keep hearing her cough,” he finally admits. “Twice. It was faint. Could be nothing. Could be—”

“Zayne.”

“I know.”

His fingers tighten slightly against your spine.

“I just… I’ve never had anything like this,” he says. “Not really. A house. A family. Something I could lose.”

You lift your head, blinking at him in the dark. His jaw’s tight. His brows drawn. Even now, he’s holding everything too close to his chest.

You reach up and cup his face.

“You’re not going to lose us,” you say.

“But I don’t know how to stop trying to prevent it. I don’t know how to relax.”

Your daughter lets out a tiny whine over the monitor—just a sleepy noise—but Zayne’s already moving before you can stop him.

You follow him down the hallway.

In the dim nursery, she’s sound asleep again, thumb in her mouth, little fist curled around the corner of her bunny blanket.

Zayne stands there for a long moment, watching her.

And then—surprising even himself—he reaches into the crib and lifts her gently into his arms. Just to feel her close. Just to make sure.

You step up beside him, arms sliding around his waist.

He kisses the top of her head.

Then yours.

When he speaks, it’s barely a whisper:

“She looks like you when she sleeps.”

You smile.

“She snores like you.”

His lip twitches, just barely. “She’s perfect.”

You press your head to his shoulder. “So are you.”

He doesn’t say anything.

But when you’re all curled back in bed—your daughter nestled between you, your leg tangled with his again, his hand wrapped tightly around your fingers—you feel it.

That quiet shift.

Zayne doesn’t sleep much.

But when he does?

It’s only like this.

With you.

Sylus

It’s past 2 a.m.

The house is quiet—but not asleep.

You’re half-asleep on the couch, still in your robe, a half-drunk cup of tea cooling on the side table. The nursery light is off, save for the warm glow of the star projector pulsing gently across the ceiling. Two soft little heartbeats breathe slow and steady in the twin bassinets by the wall.

And Sylus?

He hasn’t moved in over an hour.

Still shirtless, dark sweats low on his hips, he sits in the old armchair by the window—broad shoulders silhouetted in gold, silver hair tied messily back. One twin lies draped against his bare chest, asleep with a hand tangled in the crow pendant Sylus never takes off. The other had fussed, and he calmed her with nothing but his heartbeat and a lullaby you’d never heard him sing before.

He’s holding both of them like the world might try to take them away.

And he’s watching the window like he’d burn that world down first.

You don’t say anything when you approach. You just cross the room quietly and kneel beside him, one hand smoothing along his thigh.

“I thought you’d gone back to bed,” he murmurs without looking.

You shake your head. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He finally turns to you. His expression is unreadable—but you see it in his eyes. The softness. The weight. The disbelief that he has something so precious now.

“She cried,” he adds, glancing down at the baby in his arms. “Then he did. Didn’t want them to wake you.”

“You didn’t have to stay the whole time.”

“I did.”

Simple. Unyielding. Sylus.

You smile and rest your chin on his knee, watching the twins rise and fall with his slow breathing.

He shifts one arm carefully, just enough to curl it around your back and pull you close—right there on the floor. His fingers drift to the nape of your neck. His voice is quieter now.

“You’re not allowed to leave me alone with them like this again,” he whispers. “I’ll get soft.”

You laugh softly, eyes warm. “You already are.”

He hums.

Then, after a pause: “They make me want to be good.”

You look up. “You are good.”

“No. I’m careful. With you. With them.” He looks down at the sleepy weight in his arms. “That’s different.”

You don’t push it. You just nuzzle closer, his warmth sinking into your skin as the stars dance across the nursery walls.

Eventually, the baby in his arms yawns. He watches her like she’s a secret no one else gets to know.

“They’re safe with me,” he says, barely audible.

CALEB — “So you’re telling me… I get to spoil you forever?”

You say it offhandedly.

You’re sitting in his lap, one leg draped lazily over his thigh, sipping tea in your sleep shirt while he’s scrolling through post-mission reports.

You don’t even think he’s really listening when you mumble,

“What if I just quit and stayed home full time? Cooked, cleaned, wore pretty dresses. Full wife mode.”

But Caleb freezes.

Like you slapped him with an engagement ring.

His hands drop to your hips. His head tilts. He stares at you like you just offered him divinity.

“Wait. Say that again.”

You blink. “I said maybe I want to be a stay-at-home—”

“Wife.” “You said wife. Don’t skip the good part.”

You try to laugh it off. “I mean, it’s a dumb idea—”

“No, it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

And he’s already spiraling.

Out loud.

“You’d look so good barefoot in the kitchen. No. Wait. In my t-shirt. Holding a toddler and a spatula. Crying over a baking fail while I kiss it better—Jesus Christ.”

You: “You okay?”

“Absolutely not.”

Five minutes later, he’s dragging out a notepad and scribbling:

“Baby name list, but chaotic: Nova, Toast, Jellybean???”

“Do we buy a second house or just knock out the wall next door?”

“I need to up my life insurance because you’re not lifting anything heavier than a glass of wine ever again.”

You tease him—ask if he’s going to make you do laundry, too.

His response?

“You? Laundry? No. You’ll be too busy getting railed over the dryer while I fold towels with one hand.”

You: “CALEB.”

He grabs your face in both hands, deadly serious.

“I love your independence. Your brilliance. Your strength.”

A pause.

“But if you ever, ever, give me permission to spoil you full-time, to keep you warm and soft and loved and mine all day long?”

“I will become the most insufferable, overprotective, apron-wearing husband in recorded history.”

And the worst part?

He’s dead serious.

There’s already a Pinterest board. And a credit card. And probably a draft resignation email saved to your tablet—you didn’t write it.

But Caleb?

He’s just… ready.

Because to him, you are home. And if you want to stay there forever?

He’ll make it a kingdom.

XAVIER —“If that’s what you want… I’ll take care of the rest.”

It’s quiet.

Late evening, somewhere between mission fatigue and domestic stillness. You’re both curled up on the couch—your legs stretched across his lap, his hand absently resting on your shin.

He’s reading through intel logs. You’re chewing on the corner of a cookie. The room smells like his tea and your lotion and something safe.

And then you say it. Casual. Sleepy. Barely even meaning to.

“I’ve been thinking about quitting fieldwork. Just staying home. Full wife era. Maybe some kids. You’d visit on lunch breaks, and I’d make bad pancakes in your hoodie.”

You don’t even look at him right away. You expect a raised brow. A quiet “You’d get bored in a week.”

But instead?

Silence.

Followed by the soft slide of a datapad being set down.

Then his hand curls around your ankle. Just slightly. Anchoring.

“You’d really want that?”

You glance over.

His face is still neutral—stoic, quiet, unreadable—but his eyes?

Locked on you. Sharp. Focused. Lit with something that looks too much like longing to be casual.

You nod, shy. “Maybe. I don’t know. It just sounds… nice.”

He’s quiet for a second longer.

Then?

“Then we should start planning.”

You blink. “Planning what?”

“Everything.”

And then—without a hint of irony:

“I’ll map out when I can reduce field time. We’ll need a safer neighborhood. Somewhere with open sky. Room for a crib.”

You stare.

“Wait, are you being serious—?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he says simply. “You said kids. You want to stay home. That’s not something I’d let you do alone.”

His fingers trace a line down your calf.

Soft. Possessive.

“You want a family with me.”

You flush. “I said maybe—”

“Maybe is enough.”

He leans in. Presses a kiss to your knee.

“We’d be good at it. You’d be good at it.”

Then, softer—more vulnerable than he usually lets himself sound:

“I think I’ve wanted that longer than I realized.”

You’re too stunned to reply.

So he does what he always does: fills the silence with something that sounds like logic but bleeds affection around the edges.

“We’ll need to track your cycle,” he murmurs. “If we’re going to do this properly.”

You: “XAVIER—”

He shrugs. Calm. Unfazed.

“I’ve already marked probable dates.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or climb into his lap and tell him to start now.

(You do both.)

RAFAYEL — “My muse… in an apron? I need to sit down.”

He’s painting.

Or pretending to.

Really, he’s mostly shirtless, barefoot, standing in the center of his studio surrounded by chaotic swatches of violet and gold while a brush dangles lazily between two fingers.

And you?

You’re curled up on the floor near the open window, sipping tea, flipping through a magazine when you say:

“I kind of want to quit working. Just stay home. Full-time wife. Cook, nap, look hot, raise tiny artistic children who only wear linen and answer to names like Moth and Cypress.”

You mean it jokingly.

Casually.

But the sound of a paintbrush hitting the floor makes your head snap up.

Rafayel’s just staring at you.

Mouth slightly open.

Eyes blown wide.

“You…” he breathes. “You want to be mine?”

You blink. “I— I am yours?”

“No, no. I mean domestically. Biblically. Artistically. Legally.”

And then?

He drops to one knee in the most chaotic half-prayer, half-shock position you’ve ever seen.

“I always knew you were divinely unhinged, but this—this is the final painting. My muse. My wife. My aproned disaster angel. I need a moment.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.”

He lunges for you.

Pulls you into his lap on the floor, paint still wet on his hands, smearing across your shirt like it’s a signature.

“Say it again.”

You: “What?”

“That you want to stay home. That you want to make soup and babies and let me buy you pastel oven mitts.”

You laugh. “I mean, I do like pastel.”

“We’ll get matching ones. For the baby.”

You freeze.

He doesn’t.

“Rafayel—”

“I want them to have your mouth and my hair. Or your hair and my mouth. Either way, they’ll be dramatic and ruinous.”

He starts sketching. On your thigh. With paint-stained fingers.

“Tiny limbs. Stubborn expression. Covered in jam. Perfect.”

You can’t stop laughing now, your face buried in his shoulder.

“You’re not supposed to be more excited about this than me.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he hums, kissing your collarbone. “I’ve been ready to ruin you with love since the moment you snuck into my studio and insulted my color palette.”

You whisper, “So you’d really want that?”

And for once, he goes still.

Serious.

His fingers curl at your waist.

“I’d worship you every day for it.”

“I’d paint your swollen belly and your tired eyes and your messy hair like it’s the only truth I’ve ever known.”

A beat.

“You don’t have to be anything for me. But if you want to just… be loved? Be kept?”

His voice drops.

“I was made for that.”

ZAYNE — “I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

You say it on a Tuesday.

The apartment smells like coffee and something citrusy—probably the linen spray you used on the couch that made him sneeze earlier.

You’re curled into the corner of the sectional, legs tucked under you, still in one of his oversized shirts from last night. Your hair’s a mess. Your heart? Still not at full strength after last month’s mission.

Zayne’s at the kitchen island, scrolling through research on his tablet.

And that’s when you say it:

“I’m thinking of quitting.”

His eyes don’t move at first.

Just a slow blink. Still calm.

“Quitting…?”

You shrug, voice light. “Hunting. The whole thing. Maybe it’s time. I could stay home. Rest. Get spoiled. Be your sexy little housewife or whatever.”

You expect a scoff.

Some half-snide retort.

Instead?

He sets the tablet down.

Quietly.

Then walks over.

You blink up at him. “What?”

He crouches in front of you.

Not joking. Not teasing.

Just… looking.

“Say it again.”

You falter. “That I want to quit?”

He nods once. Slow. Like he’s memorizing every word.

And then?

He exhales. Deep. Controlled.

“Good.”

“Zayne?”

His hand comes up to your chest—right over your heart. Like he’s checking it. Like he always does. Thumb brushing that familiar spot beneath your collarbone.

“Do you know what it’s been like watching you come home hurt?” he says softly. “Waiting to see if you’ll faint halfway through a sentence because your pulse is erratic again?”

You go quiet.

His jaw tightens, but his voice stays gentle.

“You think I didn’t notice how your hands were shaking after that last field run? Or how long you spent in the medbay?”

“I didn’t want you to worry—”

“I do worry.”

A pause.

Then—

“But if you’re really done… if I can finally stop wondering whether your heart will give out before mine ever gets the chance to break…”

He trails off.

Then rests his forehead against your knees.

Breath shaky. But steadying.

“Then I’ll build you the quietest life imaginable.”

“You’ll never have to lift a finger again. Not if I can help it.”

You lean down, fingers threading through his hair.

He presses a kiss to your thigh.

“I’ll take care of everything,” he whispers.

And for the first time in months?

He doesn’t check your pulse again.

Because for once, he can feel it—steady. Safe. Home.

SYLUS — “You want to be mine? Fully? Then say it again.”

It starts as a joke.

Just a passing comment while you’re still half-asleep in his bed, buried in his obscenely expensive sheets.

“I think I wanna be a stay-at-home wife.”

You say it with a yawn. Barely conscious.

But Sylus?

He stills.

Lays back on the pillow and turns his head toward you.

His eyes narrow just slightly. That unreadable look—the one that means he’s calculating something dangerous in the background.

“Say that again.”

You blink up at him, confused. “What?”

“What you just said.”

You hesitate. Then mumble, “I said I wanna be a stay-at-home wife.”

There’s a pause.

Then—

His smirk curves slow and sharp.

He sits up. Drapes one arm across the headboard. The sheets slide down his chest, revealing the fine lines of muscle.

“Finally,” he murmurs.

“Finally what?”

He leans in.

“Finally you’re giving me an excuse to spoil the hell out of you without pretending to feel guilty about it.”

You blink. “Wait, I was joking—”

“No, you weren’t.”

He presses a kiss to your temple.

“I’ve seen the way you melt when I buy you things. The way you light up when I feed you. The way you pout when I’m gone too long.”

He grabs his phone from the nightstand.

You frown. “What are you doing?”

“Canceling every mission you had this week.”

Tap. Tap.

“Calling my architect to add another garden wing to the house.”

Tap.

“And messaging my tailor to start designing custom loungewear.”

“…Sylus.”

“You’ll need something to wear while you parade around this apartment doing absolutely nothing except looking pretty.”

You try to sit up, but he throws an arm around your waist and pulls you into his lap instead.

“No more early meetings. No more danger. No more stress.”

His fingers trail down your spine.

“Just this. Me. Spoiling you.”

You blink up at him. “What if I get bored?”

He smiles slowly. Dangerous and amused.

“Then I’ll give you something to do.”

“Like what?”

His voice drops.

“Like carrying my last name.”

“Like letting me put a baby in you.”

You go silent.

Your face heats.

And Sylus?

He just hums against your neck.

“Thought so.”

Xavier

You’d been on edge all week.

First, the joint operation with UNICORN ran two days longer than scheduled. Then came the back-to-back check-ins, debriefs, and weapon calibrations. No sleep. No food you liked. No soft touches. Just hard floors and glowing screens and people who spoke too loud.

And Xavier?

He’d been there. Beside you every step of the way—silent, focused, efficient.

You didn’t blame him.

He wasn’t the problem.

But he also wasn’t the solution.

Not yet.

Not when you needed him to be a little less Hunter and a little more… Xavier. Just Xavier.

The one who wraps you in his coat when the ship gets too cold. The one who lets you hold his hand under the table. The one who doesn't smile often, but always makes it mean something when he does.

You hadn’t touched him once since the mission started. You hadn’t even asked.

You were trying to be strong.

Trying so hard.

And then?

It was something dumb.

You’d finally made it back to your quarters. Kicked your boots off. Flopped on the bed like a body without bones. And when Xavier followed you in—still in uniform, collar slightly wrinkled—he didn’t say anything.

Just stood there.

And blinked.

“Do you want to run diagnostics together?”

You burst into tears.

Real, wet, ugly tears. The kind that crawled up your throat like a betrayal and spilled out without permission.

Your hands curled into the blanket.

Your whole face scrunched.

“No,” you sobbed. “I don’t want to run anything. I want a hug.”

He didn’t move for half a second.

Just stood there with his brow furrowed, processing the unexpected data point that was you, mid-meltdown.

“...You're crying.”

“Obviously,” you sniffled.

“Was it something I did?”

“No!”

“Something I didn’t do?”

“Yes! I mean—no, but also yes—I just—” hiccup “—I’m so tired and I missed you and I didn’t want to distract you and—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

Because Xavier crossed the room in two strides and scooped you into his arms.

Not clumsily.

Not awkwardly.

Like it was second nature.

You buried your face in his chest, sobbing like a storm, and he just held you—arms locked around your waist, one hand smoothing over the back of your head like he’d read a manual for this and memorized every step.

“You were holding it in, weren’t you?” he murmured.

You nodded, hiccuping.

“You don’t have to.”

You blinked up at him, eyes red and puffy. “But I didn’t want to be annoying.”

He tilted his head, completely serious.

“You’re not annoying. You’re soft. Soft is good. Soft means you’re still human.”

That broke you again.

So he sat down on the edge of your bed with you in his lap and let you cry it out. Quiet. Gentle. Unmoving.

And when you finally calmed?

He pressed a kiss to your temple and whispered:

“Next time, don’t wait until it hurts.”

Then he added, awkward but earnest:

“You can crawl into my lap any time. I won’t mind.”

He paused.

“Actually, I might hold you hostage. Just a little.”

Zayne

You hadn’t cried all day. Not during the briefing. Not when you got scolded for missing your last health check. Not even when you dropped your favorite pen down the elevator shaft.

You’d held it together.

Barely.

Zayne had checked in earlier—his usual, low-effort affection. A glance across the hall. A muttered “you look like you forgot to sleep again.” A squeeze to your shoulder as he passed you in the lab.

It was enough to keep you going. For a while.

But then you had your appointment.

Your routine appointment. Just a basic follow-up.

And he walked in with that same unreadable expression, reviewing your chart like your stats were the only thing that mattered.

“BP looks low. Sleep irregular. Protein intake’s—what is this—laughable.”

You smiled, weakly. “Sorry. I’ve been off.”

He didn’t look up.

“You think your body runs on caffeine and stubbornness?”

“…Maybe?”

And then, without warning—

You burst into tears.

Zayne looked up sharply. “What—”

You curled your hands in your lap, sniffling hard. “I’m sorry—I'm not trying to be difficult—I just—”

He dropped the tablet.

Didn’t set it down.

Dropped it.

It hit the floor with a heavy thunk as he stepped forward, hands frozen in the air like he wasn’t sure where he was allowed to touch you.

“What’s wrong? Where does it hurt?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know.”

And that—more than anything—shook him.

Because he couldn’t fix it. Couldn’t bandage it. Couldn’t run a test or prescribe a pill.

He could only watch as your face crumpled, your shoulders hunched, and the tears kept falling.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he asked softly, crouching in front of you now.

You hiccuped. “Because it’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

“You’re busy.”

“I’m not now.”

“I didn’t want to be dramatic.”

“You’re not.”

“I just—” sniff “—wanted a hug.”

And that’s when Zayne—your too-serious, sharp-tongued, emotionally constipated doctor boyfriend—opened his arms.

No hesitation.

Just a breath. A shift of his shoulders.

And then?

You crawled right into his lap.

He let you.

Held you.

Rested his chin on top of your head and finally, finally let his hands move—one at your back, rubbing slow, steady circles; the other covering your knee, grounding you.

“You should’ve said something,” he whispered. “You don’t have to wait until it breaks you.”

You whimpered. “I don’t like being like this.”

“I do.”

You blinked. “What?”

He kissed your temple.

“I like when you let me take care of you.”

And then, after a beat—

“Next time you feel like crying… tell me. I’ll schedule you in for urgent cuddling.”

You hiccuped a laugh against his chest.

“That’s not real.”

“It is now.”

Rafayel

You’d been having a rough afternoon. The kind where nothing major went wrong… but everything felt like too much.

You’d overslept. Missed a call. Lost a drawing you'd been working on for three days. And to top it all off?

The tailor messed up the sleeves on the outfit Rafayel had commissioned for you—and you hated how it fit. You were supposed to wear it to his gallery opening tomorrow.

You didn’t want to seem ungrateful. You didn’t want to ruin his vibe.

So you smiled through it. Even giggled a little.

Until he walked into the room, holding one of your sketchbooks that had fallen behind the shelf.

“This yours?” he asked, flipping it open. “Ooh. A whole page of me with devil horns. How flattering—wait, is that me in a crop top?”

You were already crying.

It happened too fast to stop it. Too sudden to explain.

One second, you were standing there, trying to keep your voice steady.

The next?

Tears.

Big, shimmering, silent tears.

Rafayel blinked. “Wait—wait, are you—are you crying?”

You sniffled. Looked down. Nodded miserably.

He panicked. “Why?! Was it the crop top? I thought it was funny—oh my god, do you hate me—?”

You shook your head.

He dropped the sketchbook like it burned.

“Sweetheart. Babe. My muse. My soul. What happened.”

You mumbled something about the dress and the drawings and the day being stupid and—

“No, no, no. Come here.”

He dragged you into his arms like he was the one falling apart.

You collapsed into him instantly.

“I’m sorry,” you sniffled. “I’m being dramatic—”

“You’re being adorable,” he said into your hair. “Also pathetic. But mostly adorable.”

You laughed through the sob.

“See? You’re already recovering.”

He picked you up. Just—picked you up.

Carried you over to the couch like a precious sobbing sack of flour and sat down with you in his lap.

“You wanna cry on me? Go for it. I’m waterproof.”

“You’re not.”

“Figuratively waterproof.”

He wiped your cheeks with his sleeve. Kissed your forehead. Whispered something about how “your tears taste expensive” and “you’re ruining my aesthetic in the best possible way.”

And when your breathing finally calmed?

He pulled a tiny marker from his pocket, flipped your sketchbook open, and under the drawing of him in a crop top wrote:

“She cried. I panicked. We’re in love.”

Sylus

You were unraveling.

Quietly.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t sob. But everything felt wrong.

Your comms were glitching. A Wanderer nearly caught your blindside. You’d spilled tea on a datapad, misplaced your jacket, and stubbed your toe in front of two UNICORN officers who didn’t even look at you—just kept walking.

It wasn’t the worst day you’d ever had.

But it was the day that tipped the scale.

So when you walked into Sylus’s room—unannounced, barely breathing—you didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

He was already looking up from his desk, one hand stilling over a datapad, eyes narrowing in that clinical, calculating way he always did when things felt off.

“What happened?”

You shook your head.

“Speak.”

You opened your mouth.

And instead—

You crawled into his lap.

No warning. No lead-up. Just walked over, dropped to your knees beside his chair, and climbed into the space between his legs like your whole body belonged there.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t move.

Just watched—intently, almost startled—as you tucked your knees to your chest and folded into him, face against his collarbone, arms around his waist like you were anchoring yourself there.

“You’re crying,” he said, voice lower now.

You sniffled. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

His hand hovered for a second.

Then it landed at the base of your spine. Firm. Warm. A little unsure.

He didn’t say it’s okay. He didn’t ask you to talk.

He just let you sit there.

Wrapped in silence. Wrapped in him.

You felt his thumb move slowly—back and forth. A careful stroke across your lower back. Not to soothe. Not to control. Just to let you know he was still there.

After a few minutes, he finally murmured:

“Is this what you needed?”

You nodded into his chest.

He nodded once, like he understood something unspoken. Then:

“You can stay as long as you want. I’ll work around you.”

And he did.

For the next hour, he kept one arm around you and the other on his datapad, typing one-handed, entirely unfazed.

Until he realized you’d fallen asleep.

Then?

He shut the tablet.

Wrapped both arms around you.

And whispered, “Mine,” like a promise he didn’t know he was allowed to make until now.

Caleb

It was barely a bad day.

You told yourself that over and over.

Nobody yelled. Nothing exploded. You got your tasks done. You smiled at the right people and didn’t flinch when they looked through you.

But it still felt like you were being slowly hollowed out. A thousand tiny paper cuts. No single moment bad enough to cry over. But together? Crushing.

So when you made it back to his place, you didn’t say anything.

You walked straight to where he sat on the couch, black flight jacket half-zipped, sleeves pushed to his elbows, reading reports on his tablet with that low, focused furrow in his brow.

And you dropped your datapad.

And you crawled into his lap.

No words. No warnings.

Just the soft sound of your breath hitching as your knees met the cushion and your arms wrapped around his shoulders. You climbed into his lap like you belonged there. Like you were trying to make yourself smaller. And safer.

And Caleb?

He froze.

Just for a second.

Then the tablet hit the floor.

And his arms wrapped around you so hard you gasped.

“You’re crying.”

He said it like an accusation.

You pressed your face into his neck.

“I didn’t want to. I just—everything felt wrong. And I didn’t know where else to—”

“No.” “No, you don’t get to finish that sentence.”

His voice was low. Shaking. Not with anger.

With fury.

Protective. Obsessive. Feral.

“You come to me. Always. I don’t care if the sky is falling—I don’t care if the world forgets your name—you do not cry alone. Not when I’m yours.”

Your fingers fisted in his shirt. “I didn’t want to bother you—”

“Bother me?” he growled. “Baby, I would stop breathing if it meant you wouldn’t cry again.”

His hand slid up your back. Into your hair. The other arm curled under your thighs—pulling you fully into him, like closer still wasn’t close enough.

He kissed your cheek. Then your jaw. Then your temple. Again. And again. And again.

“Let them look through you. I’ll burn their names off the stars,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours.

“You need comfort? I’m yours. You need worship? You already have it. You want the world to get on its knees for you? Tell me where to start.”

You whimpered.

And that broke him.

He shifted with you still in his lap, pressing you back into the couch—his body over yours, shielding, cradling, reverent.

“Stay here. Right here. Let me hold the weight for a while.”

You nodded.

You didn’t have to ask him not to leave. He’d already sworn it—every kiss, every word, every breath.

Xavier

The mission was brutal, but you handled it.

You came back on your own two feet. Waved off the medic. Said you were fine. Just a little sore. Nothing worth worrying about. You even smiled at Xavier when he walked through the decontamination doors—like nothing happened.

He’d been deployed elsewhere. Separate from you this time. The first words out of his mouth were—

“You’re limping.”

You waved him off with a laugh. “Training injury. Tripped. I’m fine.”

He didn’t argue. Just tilted his head the slightest bit and gave you that look—like he was trying to scan beneath your skin without even touching you.

Then he walked you back to your apartment in silence.

You thought you got away with it.

Until later that night.

You’re halfway through changing when he steps into the room—quiet as always. You pull your shirt down too fast, flinch as the fabric tugs over your side.

“What was that?”

You freeze. “What?”

He doesn’t repeat himself. Just steps forward slowly, like he’s approaching something fragile. Or dangerous.

“Lift your shirt.”

You swallow. “Xavier, it’s not a big—”

“Please.”

It’s the please that undoes you.

You lift the fabric.

He sees the gauze first. Then the bruising around it. The blood that’s bled through—dark red, dry at the edges, still raw in the middle.

You expect him to snap. To question you. To get angry that you lied.

But Xavier just stills.

He looks at the wound like it’s his own.

Like it’s not you bleeding. It’s him.

“You should’ve told me.”

It’s not a question. Not an accusation. Just... a fact. Like gravity. Or regret.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” you whisper.

“That’s not how this works.”

He kneels in front of you. No sound. No hesitation. Just that still, steady presence—like he's grounding you by proximity alone. He lifts the hem of your shirt further with a touch so gentle it’s almost hesitant.

And then?

He begins re-bandaging you.

No theatrics. No commentary. Just focused care. He disinfects the wound with practiced precision, hands steady but slow, constantly glancing at your face for signs of pain.

His fingers brush over your skin with reverence.

Like he's ashamed to be touching something he wasn’t trusted with sooner.

“I would’ve carried you back,” he says softly. “If I knew.”

You blink down at him. “It wasn’t that bad.”

He looks up, and his eyes—

They're not angry.

They’re wounded.

“It was bad enough that you bled alone.”

When he finishes, he presses a clean kiss to your side—just above the gauze. Then pulls your shirt back down and tucks it gently against your skin.

He helps you into bed.

Crawls in beside you.

And he doesn’t let go of your hand.

Not even when you fall asleep.

Zayne

You know how Zayne is.

Everything is precise. Scheduled. Controlled.

So when you limp into Akso Hospital with a wrapped arm and a “no big deal” attitude, you already know you’re playing with fire.

He’s just finishing rounds when he sees you in the waiting area. You smile—too wide—and hold up your arm like a trophy.

“Minor injury. Didn’t even need stitches.”

He doesn’t smile back.

He walks over slowly, calmly, but his eyes scan you like a surgical scan—looking for what you're not saying. What you're hiding.

“Let me see it,” he says.

You laugh it off. “It’s already treated. Really, Zayne, I’m fine—”

“Let me see it.”

You hesitate.

That’s his first confirmation something’s wrong.

When you finally peel back the wrap, he doesn’t flinch—but his whole posture changes. The wound is deeper than you said. Bruised. Swollen. The gauze is already spotting red.

“Did you do this yourself?” he asks, quiet.

You nod.

“Why didn’t you come to me?”

You look down. “I didn’t want to waste your time. You were in surgery, and I didn’t think—”

“Don’t say that again.”

His voice cuts clean through the air—low and sharp. But not angry.

Not yet.

He moves around you, silent, clinical. He doesn’t touch the wound. Not yet. He doesn’t trust himself to.

Instead, he starts gathering supplies: disinfectant, gauze, butterfly closures. Sterile gloves. You notice his hands shaking slightly as he pulls them on.

“Zayne, I’m sorry—”

“You lied.”

He doesn’t look at you as he says it. He’s already working—cleaning, pressing, wrapping. His hands are careful. Expert. But detached.

“You lied. To me.”

That hurts more than the alcohol stinging your skin.

“You’ve seen what I do,” he continues, voice even. “You know what happens when people hide injuries. Delay treatment. Say they’re fine.”

You stay silent.

“And you still did it.”

You swallow. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

He stops.

Just for a second.

Then he tapes the last piece of gauze down and pulls the glove off with a snap.

“You don’t get to decide when I worry about you.”

He still doesn’t raise his voice. But there’s something behind his words now—frustration laced with fear. His brows are drawn, his jaw locked so tight you can see the muscle twitch.

“I hold hearts in my hands every day,” he says, finally looking at you. “And none of them scare me the way yours does.”

You reach for his hand.

He lets you take it.

But he doesn’t say anything else for a long time.

Not until he pulls you into his office, settles you on the couch, and wraps a blanket around you like you might fall apart if he lets go.

“Next time,” he murmurs against your hair, “lie to anyone else. Not me.”

Rafayel

It starts like a normal night.

You’re on the studio couch. One of his paint-stained shirts half-buttoned on your body. He’s working at his easel, barefoot, humming something tuneless as he dips into a mixture of color that glows faintly under the moonlight.

You’d been quiet when you came in—tired, you said. Just a little sore. He didn’t push.

He never does.

But now?

He glances at you over his shoulder. Something about your posture—too rigid, like you're protecting your side—pulls him back to earth.

“Sweetheart,” he says lazily, “you look like you’ve been stabbed. Which would be very rude of you. Since I wasn’t there to see it.”

You snort. “Drama.”

“Always,” he agrees. But he doesn’t laugh.

He walks over. Flops down beside you. Loops an arm around your shoulder. You wince.

Barely. But it’s enough.

His smile falters.

“...What was that?”

You try to brush it off. “Nothing. I’m just sore.”

“That’s not a sore sound. That’s a something’s-wrong-and-I-don’t-want-you-to-know sound.”

“Rafayel—”

He moves fast.

One second, he’s lounging. The next, he’s crouched in front of you, eyes scanning your body like he’s trying to repaint you in real-time.

“Where?”

You hesitate.

“Where?” he repeats, voice sharper now.

You sigh. Lift your shirt just enough to show the gauze.

He stills.

It’s not a dramatic reaction. Not like you expect. He just stares.

And his face—usually bright, expressive, teasing—goes completely blank.

“How long?”

“Since the mission,” you admit softly.

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“It wasn’t a big—”

“Don’t,” he says, voice cracking. “Don’t say that.”

He stands up. Paces. His hands go through his hair, then down his face, smearing faint streaks of dried paint across his cheeks.

“You bled. And I didn’t notice.”

You start to speak. He holds up a hand.

“I don’t care that you’re strong. I know you’re strong. But when you lie about being hurt—you take that choice away from me.”

He sits back down hard. Knees between your legs. Grabs your face between his paint-streaked hands.

“You don’t get to disappear into your pain and leave me out of it.”

He pulls your shirt up again, gently this time. Peels the gauze away with a touch that’s reverent, almost trembling.

“You let me touch you. After this? And didn’t say a word?”

You nod, eyes glassy.

He leans in. Kisses just beside the wound. Then your stomach. Then your jaw.

“Never again,” he murmurs.

And that night?

He doesn’t paint.

He just lies beside you on the couch, head on your stomach, arms around your waist, whispering stories into your skin like they might keep the pain away next time.

Sylus

You’d been gone less than twenty-four hours.

Just a recon mission. Just a few low-level Wanderers. That’s what you told him.

You even smiled when you returned to Onychinus HQ—tossed your coat on the rack like it was just another day, like your side wasn’t burning every time you breathed too deep.

He didn’t question it.

At least, not out loud.

Sylus wasn’t one for dramatics. But when you stayed quiet during debrief—when your posture was just a little too careful—he noticed. Of course he noticed.

He didn’t say anything.

Until now.

You’re sitting in his room, scrolling through data pads on the couch. His shirt hangs off your shoulders. The lighting’s low. Everything’s soft.

Too soft.

Then you move. Shift. Reach a little too far. And bite back a sound you didn’t mean to make.

“What was that?” he asks, tone neutral.

You hesitate. “Pulled something. I’m fine.”

“No. You’re not.”

He’s standing now. Already walking toward you. You try to move away—subtly, casually—but he’s faster. His hand comes to rest beside your thigh, knuckles brushing fabric.

“Lift your shirt.”

“Sylus, I said I’m—”

“Lift it. Or I will.”

You do.

Slowly.

And he sees it: the bandage across your side, just beneath your ribs. Haphazardly wrapped. Already spotted with blood.

You try to speak.

He cuts you off.

“When?”

“Yesterday,” you admit softly. “On the ridge. One of the Wanderers clipped me. It was barely above Class Two, but—”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

You flinch. “It wasn’t fatal. I handled it.”

That’s when he stills.

Completely.

He backs up just a step. Like he’s trying to decide what version of himself he needs to be right now—the man, or the monster.

“You bled. And you didn’t tell me.”

His voice is low. Controlled. Terrifyingly calm.

You try to explain.

“I didn’t want to slow down the team. It was manageable. I’ve had worse—”

“I’m not talking about the injury.”

He turns his back to you. Runs a hand through his hair, jaw clenched so tight it looks painful.

“I’m talking about the fact that you thought I wouldn’t need to know.”

You stay silent.

“That you thought I wouldn’t feel it.”

He faces you again, eyes sharp.

“You think I’m upset because you were attacked?”

He kneels.

His hand comes up, rests just beside the wound—not on it. Not yet. His fingers are shaking now.

“I’m upset,” he says slowly, “because I wasn’t there. Because you bled alone. Because I didn’t even know to check.”

You try to take his hand.

He doesn’t let you—not yet.

Instead, he reaches for the same violet glass jar he keeps locked in his desk. His personal blend. Jasmine. Mint. Smoke. Burnt silver. You don’t even know what’s in it. But it always works.

He warms a bit between his fingers. And finally, finally, he touches your skin.

He spreads the balm along the edge of the wound. Then around it. Never over it—just close enough to help. His touch is reverent. Slow.

“You bruise like paper,” he mutters, almost too softly. “And you act like it doesn’t matter.”

You whisper, “I didn’t want to worry you.”

His eyes lift to yours.

“Worry me next time.”

When he finishes, he covers the bandage with a fresh wrap. Then pulls your shirt back down with careful hands.

“Next time a Wanderer lays a hand on you, I want to smell it on their corpse before you come home.”

He pulls you into bed after that. Doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t ask for anything.

But he stays behind you all night—arm around your waist, hand over your stomach, guarding what he almost didn’t notice in time.

Caleb

You’re limping when you come through the dock.

Barely. A hitch in your step, subtle enough that anyone else would miss it.

But Caleb?

Caleb sees it before you’ve even stepped out of the landing bay.

He jogs up to you with that usual sunshine smile, flight jacket half-zipped and eyes warm—until they land on the way you’re walking.

“You good?” he asks. “Bit of a wobble there.”

You wave him off. “Sprained something. I’m fine.”

He stops smiling.

“From what?”

“A Wanderer. Got too close. Nothing serious.”

He doesn’t answer. Not out loud.

But you see it happen—his expression goes blank. His entire body goes still in that terrifying, quiet way that only ever happens when he’s about to lose it behind his teeth.

“Did you report it?”

“No.”

“Did you go to medical?”

You shrug. “Didn’t seem necessary.”

He laughs.

It’s not a happy sound.

“So you got hurt. On a mission. And you didn’t report it. Didn’t get treated. Didn’t tell me.”

“Caleb, seriously. I’m fine. I’ve had worse—”

“Stop saying that.”

He says it so calmly it shuts you up.

“You think I care how bad it was? You bled. And you didn’t let me know.”

His eyes are still wide—but not with fear. With disbelief.

“I was twenty feet away. I was on the same comm line. And you just… handled it?”

You start to apologize.

But Caleb’s already moving.

He takes your bag out of your hands. Tosses it to the side. Then he’s walking—fast, firm, not yanking but definitely dragging you back toward his quarters.

You protest. You try to explain. But it doesn’t matter.

He’s already kicked the door open. Already sat you down. Already kneeling in front of you with his jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscles twitch.

“Shirt off. Now.”

You hesitate.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He just looks up at you with those wrecked eyes and says—

“Please don’t make me ask again.”

You lift your shirt.

He sees the makeshift bandage.

He goes still.

“You did this yourself?”

You nod.

He presses his hands to his knees like he’s trying not to shatter.

“You could’ve passed out. You could’ve gotten infected. You could’ve—”

He cuts himself off.

“I’m supposed to be the one who keeps you safe.”

You reach for him.

This time, he lets you.

But only after he breathes through the quake in his chest.

Then he gets to work.

Warm cloth. Real salve. Clean gauze. Every movement precise but desperately careful—like you’re breakable, and he already hates himself for letting you think you had to fix it alone.

“Next time,” he mutters, taping the bandage down, “you tell me.”

“I didn’t want to make a big deal—”

“I will always want to know.”

He sits back, breathing hard.

Then leans in and presses a kiss to your temple. Your shoulder. The spot just above the bandage.

“If you lie to me about being hurt again,” he says, brushing his nose against yours, voice low, “I swear I’ll lock you in my damn quarters and have security run your missions for you.”

You try to laugh.

He doesn’t.

“I mean it.”

And when he climbs into bed with you later—pulling you against his chest, curling around you like armor—he whispers:

“I’ll protect you. From everything. Just don’t shut me out again. Please.”

And you promise.

Xavier

You're still trembling.

The high has passed—slowly, sweetly—but the aftershocks linger. Your legs are weak. Your breath shallow. Your skin flushed and hypersensitive, the weight of everything that just happened settling into your bones.

And Xavier?

He hasn’t let go of you.

Not once.

You’re curled into his chest now, body pressed against his bare skin. His arms are wrapped around your waist. One hand moves slowly, deliberately, up and down the curve of your spine.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “Still with me.”

He says it like a ritual.

Like he needs to remind himself just as much as you.

His voice is lower than usual. Hoarse. Almost tender. And his heartbeat is so loud beneath your cheek.

“I didn’t hurt you?” he asks softly.

You shake your head. Whisper something—no, never, or maybe just Xavier.

He nods against your temple. His breath fans over your forehead.

“Good.”

Then silence. Not awkward. Just full.

His hand finds yours under the blanket, fingers interlacing. His thumb brushes slowly over your knuckles like he’s trying to memorize each one by feel.

Eventually, he moves. Just enough to reach down and grab a small towel from the edge of the bed. He handles you like you’re something precious, cleaning you up with gentle, careful movements. Not rushed. Not awkward. Just focused—completely present in you and this and now.

“You’re always so warm after,” he says, more to himself than to you. There’s a quiet awe in his voice. “I like it.”

You hum, eyes half-closed.

And when he finally lays back down, pulling you against his chest again, it’s with this quiet, reverent stillness. Like the world has gone silent around you.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers.

You don’t need anything else.

Not when he’s holding you like this.

Zayne

It’s quiet.

Your breathing is uneven. Muscles soft. Spent. The sheets are tangled around your thighs. One of your knees is still trembling against his hip.

Zayne is still above you, propped on one elbow, chest bare and heaving—but his eyes?

They’re already back to watching.

Calculating.

Not cold. Not detached. Just… Zayne.

His fingers trace a line along your collarbone, down your sternum, then rest just under your ribs—where your pulse is strongest. You feel it. That quiet scan of his. The way he’s reading your body like a chart.

He doesn’t ask, “Are you okay?” He doesn’t have to.

“Your heart’s still racing,” he murmurs, more to himself than you.

You blink up at him, dazed.

“Kind of hard not to.”

His mouth twitches—half amusement, half restraint. But he doesn’t smile. Not really.

He shifts away without a word, and for a moment, you think he’s retreating.

Then you hear the faucet.

He returns with a warm cloth, one hand sliding under your thigh, lifting, cleaning—efficient, but not rushed. Every movement controlled. Every touch intentional.

“Too much?” he asks, once your skin is warm and clean again.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Next time, you’ll tell me if it is.”

Not a question.

A command.

He tosses the towel aside and climbs back into bed beside you. The moment you reach for him, he exhales—just barely. Like he’d been holding something in until you did.

And then?

His arm slides around your waist. He pulls you in. Not gently—but firmly. Grounded. Certain.

You rest your head against his chest. He doesn’t say anything at first.

Then:

“You’re the only thing I lose control with,” he murmurs. “I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

You thread your fingers through his.

“It is.”

He squeezes once.

“Then don’t let me forget it.”

Rafayel

You're sprawled across the tangled mess of sheets and paint-stained blankets, your legs still shaking, skin flushed from everything. From the way he took you apart. From the things he said. From the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he’s ever wanted to destroy gently.

And Rafayel?

He’s draped over you like a second skin.

Naked. Barely breathing. Still pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder, your spine, your jaw.

“You should’ve seen yourself,” he murmurs. His voice is low. Still wrecked. “Like something pulled from the sea. All glowing and broken and mine.”

You barely manage a hum. Your body is jelly. Your heart? Worse.

He rolls to the side just long enough to look at you, one hand cupping your jaw, thumb stroking lazily across your cheek.

“Did I go too far?” he asks suddenly, the words fast—almost sharp. “Tell me now. I need to know.”

You shake your head, whispering his name.

His face softens. But it doesn’t settle.

He’s still looking at you like you might vanish.

“Good,” he says. “Because I’d paint this moment in gold if I thought it’d keep you still long enough to stay.”

You laugh. Or try to.

He kisses the sound off your lips.

And then he’s up—tangled hair, flushed skin, digging through a drawer for one of his soft old shirts. He wets a cloth with warm water from the studio sink and pads back over like a man on a mission.

He doesn’t just clean you up.

He lingers.

He whispers to your skin as he moves. Little things. Unfinished thoughts. Sentences like brushstrokes.

“Didn’t know someone could be so warm here…” “Still glowing. Look at you…” “I’m going to ruin every canvas after this. Nothing will be enough.”

Once he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside with a sigh like he’s exhausted from feeling too much.

And then?

He climbs back into bed with a grunt and immediately pulls you onto him—your cheek against his chest, his arms locked tight around your waist.

“I don’t want you on the other side of the bed,” he mutters. “That’s too far.”

You don’t argue.

His fingers find your hair again. Always moving. Always touching.

Sylus

The room is thick with the kind of silence that only follows something undeniable—something that left you breathless and broken open.

Your body still pulses with it.

Limbs heavy. Skin warm. Breaths shallow and slow. Your nerves hum with aftershock, frayed like silk threads stretched too far.

And Sylus?

He hasn’t moved from the edge of the bed.

Not since it ended.

He sits there shirtless, his back to you—broad, sculpted, still damp with sweat. One hand is buried in his tangled silver hair, the other braced against his knee like he’s holding himself upright through sheer force of will.

He’s silent. Controlled.

But you can feel it—something coiling beneath the surface.

You don’t speak. You don’t reach for him.

You wait.

And eventually, his voice cuts through the quiet—low, unreadable:

“Don’t move.”

You obey.

He rises without urgency, barefoot and fluid, vanishing into the shadows of the room. You hear the soft click of a drawer. The clink of glass. A faint hiss as something is unsealed.

When he returns, he’s holding two things:

A folded towel.

And a small violet glass jar—rounded and weighty, its lid a cool burnished steel, unmarked and elegant. Private. Like everything with Sylus.

He sets them down beside you with a reverent kind of care.

No ceremony. Just precision.

He unscrews the lid in one smooth motion.

The scent rises immediately—deep and layered. Cool jasmine laced with crushed mint, cedar smoke, and something darker. Sharp. Familiar. You know without asking: he made this. Not for anyone else.

For you.

Inside, the balm gleams like molten pearl. Soft. Dense. Almost glowing in the low light. When he dips his fingers into it, it melts instantly—silken, rich, like oil warmed over skin.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, voice lower now.

You do.

And then his fingers find your throat.

Not rough. Not hesitant. Just… deliberate.

He spreads the balm over the edge of a mark near your jaw—a bite, still faintly red, the imprint of his teeth curved like a memory only you two are allowed to hold.

The balm sinks into your skin like heat and silk. Cooling first, then warm. Sensual.

His fingers follow the path of every bruise.

Along your collarbone. Down your sternum. Across your waist and over the ghost of his grip on your hip—where his hand had been too hard, too desperate.

But now?

He touches you like you’re something worth preserving.

“You bruise too easily,” he mutters, half to himself.

There’s no apology in it.

Only awe.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t joke. But his eyes track every mark he made like he’s memorizing them.

“If I’m going to leave something behind,” he murmurs, leaning closer, his breath grazing your skin, “I’ll make sure it’s taken care of.”

His hand doesn’t leave your body—not when he finishes. Not even when he sets the jar aside and wipes his fingers clean. He stays close. Hands on your skin. Claiming. Comforting. Quiet.

And then, only when you’re fully wrapped in the sheets, your body soft and still beneath him, does he curl beside you and finally—finally—pull you in.

Not possessive.

Not demanding.

Just close. Solid. Yours.

“You let me mark you,” he whispers against your temple, voice like smoke. “That means you’re mine. And I don’t leave what’s mine untreated.”

When he finishes, he wipes his fingers clean, recaps the jar, and finally, finally, slips beneath the covers beside you.

This time, he doesn’t hesitate.

His arm curls around your waist, pulling you in until your cheek rests against his bare chest. His other hand finds the back of your head and stays there, palm warm, thumb stroking mindlessly over your scalp.

“Sleep.”

You barely whisper his name in response.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says—soft, final. “You’ll wake up right here. Still mine.”

Caleb

You don’t remember falling back.

One second you were tangled beneath him—his mouth on your skin, your name broken in his throat, the burn of gravity replaced by the heat of his body—and the next?

You’re both collapsed in the mess of sheets and uneven breath, your body still pulsing with the echoes of everything.

And Caleb?

He’s already moving.

Not away.

Around.

You feel him before you see him—hands smoothing along your thighs, thumbs brushing gently where your knees are still trembling.

“Hey,” he whispers, soft and a little hoarse. “Still with me, sweetheart?”

You nod, slow. Your voice is somewhere beneath the haze.

“Mmhmm.”

“Good,” he breathes, relief warm against your temple. “So good for me. So damn perfect.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek. Another to your shoulder. Then your wrist. Then your collarbone. He doesn’t stop.

Like he’s trying to seal you shut after unraveling you so completely.

Then he disappears for a second, murmuring, “Be right back,” before padding out of the room barefoot, his flight jacket still slung halfway off his shoulders.

You hear the sink. A cabinet. The rattle of something soft.

And then?

He’s back.

He sets a warm cloth beside you, a water bottle, and a tin—lavender balm, subtle and sweet.

“I don’t know if it’ll help,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But you always use it after long showers, so I thought…”

He trails off.

You don’t answer with words.

You just reach for him.

He melts instantly.

Climbs back into bed like his body only makes sense beside yours.

He starts wiping you down carefully—tender, reverent, like you’re made of stardust and silk. Kisses every mark he left. Apologizes for the ones that look too red. Tells you, over and over:

“You were everything.” “You’re okay, right? You’re good? God, you were so good for me.” “I love you. You know that? I love you more than anything.”

You nod against his chest, your breathing starting to settle. Your limbs softening under his touch.

And that’s when he holds you.

Not loosely.

Not protectively.

Just completely.

His arms wrap around you like he’s keeping every piece of you from drifting out of orbit.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers into your hair. “Even if the sky opens up and swallows the whole damn world—I’m staying right here.”

You feel his lips against your forehead, his heart thudding wildly beneath your cheek.

“You’re it for me,” he says, quieter now. “You’ve always been it.”

And he doesn’t stop holding you. Not when your eyes close. Not even after you fall asleep.

He just stays.

Intro:

You’d seen it online first—a dumb little video trend. “Pretend you don’t recognize your partner and see how they react.”

Seemed harmless enough, right?

So you thought: why not?

It would be funny. They’d pout. Maybe tease you back. At worst, you'd get a dramatic “Oh no, baby, let me jog your memory” kind of moment and melt into a kiss.

Simple.

Except… it’s them.

Xavier

You heard the lock click before you saw him.

Soft metal, smooth movement—he always overrides it quietly, never knocks.

He stepped into your apartment without a word, the door sliding shut behind him with a low hiss.

His coat was soaked from the rain, stuck to his frame. His boots were muddy. His sword still hung on his back, sheathed and humming faintly with residual energy.

But his shoulders—

His shoulders were low. Drooped. Tired.

He didn't look at you right away.

Just slipped his weapon off and leaned it against the wall like always, then tugged the collar of his sweater over his head, silver hair clinging to his skin from the damp.

You were on the couch waiting—exactly where he expected you to be. It was routine now, post-mission. You’d exchange barely a few words, then sit close enough for his fingers to brush yours. Sometimes you'd kiss. Sometimes you'd just… exist together. Quiet, familiar. Safe.

So when he finally looked at you, expression soft, like he was relieved to be here—

You tilted your head. Blinked. And said:

“Sorry… do I know you?”

He stilled.

Totally.

Utterly.

The tension in the room dropped like a snapped wire.

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t flinch.

His hands hovered mid-motion, halfway to setting his gloves on the table.

“You’re serious?”

You tried to keep your face neutral. A little smirk tugged at the edge of your mouth—but you didn’t answer yet.

Just watched.

That was your second mistake.

The first was underestimating what that line would mean to him.

He blinked once. Then again.

His lips parted like he was going to say something. Maybe your name.

Instead, he stepped back.

“No.” His voice cracked on the word. “No, not again.”

That’s when you panicked.

“Wait—Xavier, no, it’s a prank—! I’m messing with you—”

But he was already halfway to the door console, wrist device glowing faintly with activation glyphs. His movements were precise, mechanical. Like muscle memory.

“Your Evol signature is still stable. No external injuries. But the memory drop… it’s identical.”

“Xavier, stop—please, I was just joking—!”

You rushed to grab his arm, and the second your fingers touched his skin—he froze.

Fully, completely still.

Like a statue trying not to break.

“You forgot me once,” he said, voice quiet. Too quiet. “I lived lifetimes waiting for you to remember. And now you say it again. Even just to tease…”

His throat bobbed with the effort to swallow.

“I can’t do that twice.”

You let go of him like your hands were on fire.

“I didn’t think—I swear, I didn’t mean it to hurt you—”

He sat down on the edge of the couch, breathing uneven.

“I used to dream of your face,” he whispered. “For years. Before I found you again. And when you looked at me like I was no one…” A pause. “That silence was louder than any battlefield.”

You sat beside him. Tangled your fingers in his.

He didn’t speak again.

Just turned his head and rested it against yours, eyes closed, like he was trying to hold the moment still—just in case.

“Please,” he murmured. “Don’t forget me. Not again.”

Zayne

Your check-up was scheduled for 3:45 PM.

Zayne was never late.

You arrived at Akso Hospital right on time, signed in at the front desk, and were quickly ushered back into one of the private exam rooms he preferred—top floor, quiet hallway, walls soundproofed. He didn’t like interruptions.

Everything was the same as usual: cool air, soft lighting, faint scent of antiseptic and citrus tea.

You took a seat on the padded bench and waited.

You could already picture the scene in your head. He’d walk in with his coat still on, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning your chart like it was the only thing that mattered—until he looked up and saw you.

And then—just the smallest shift. The barest softening at the corners of his mouth. His version of a smile.

Exactly eight minutes later, the door opened.

And there he was.

Same calm posture. Same white coat, sleeves rolled once. Silver-framed glasses perched on his nose, dark hair perfectly combed back despite the long day. A pen tucked behind one ear. He glanced at the datapad in his hand.

“Vitals from last week look good. Still sleeping poorly?”

He didn’t look up as he said it—yet.

You bit back a grin.

“Thank you, Doctor.”

That got him.

His gaze flicked to yours, confused. Curious.

But not alarmed.

Yet.

He set the pad down on the counter and turned to face you fully, slipping on a pair of gloves.

“Alright. We’ll run a basic scan. Tell me if anything feels unusual. Pressure. Sharpness. Burning.”

He stepped in close. Not in a clinical way. In a Zayne way. Familiar. Controlled. His fingers brushed your temple as he adjusted the scanner.

“Breathe.”

You did.

And then, as he leaned back and began to unfasten the scanner, you tilted your head and said:

“Sorry... do I know you?”

He paused mid-motion.

Then very slowly—very carefully—removed the scanner from your head and set it aside.

You could almost hear the shift.

His expression didn’t change much. Still calm. Still neutral.

But his eyes were sharper now.

“What did you say?”

You kept your tone light.

“I just… I don’t think we’ve met before. You said you were my doctor?”

A long silence.

He reached up, pulled off one glove. Then the other.

Folded them with quiet precision.

“I see.”

He turned away from you—walked to the sink—and began washing his hands.

Twice.

His back was to you the entire time.

“Did someone put you up to this?”

His voice was flat.

“Is this some kind of memory therapy exercise?”

You shifted uncomfortably.

“No, I—”

“Because if you’re serious…” He turned back around slowly, his gaze unreadable now. “Then we have a very serious problem.”

You panicked.

“Zayne—wait—no, it was a prank—! Just a joke, I—”

His jaw tightened.

He didn’t interrupt.

He let you talk—ramble, stammer, apologize.

When you finally ran out of words, he exhaled slowly and leaned back against the counter, bracing his hands on the edge.

“Do you know what it felt like the first time you stopped seeing me the way I saw you?”

Your throat caught.

He wasn’t yelling.

He didn’t need to.

“Like watching someone walk away with my heart still in their hands—and not even realizing they were holding it.”

You stared at him, mouth open, helpless.

“I was a kid,” he said quietly. “You didn’t remember the little things. The snow seal. The jokes. The look on your face when I gave you my last drink packet and pretended I hated it anyway.” A beat. “You forgot all of it. And I told myself that was fine.”

His jaw clenched.

“But now—now—you joke about not knowing me at all. Like it’s light. Like it’s nothing. When you’re the only person I’ve ever let close enough to see what any of this costs me.”

You stepped forward, guilt rising sharp and thick.

“Zayne, I didn’t mean—”

He reached out—just enough to stop you. Fingers around your wrist. Not tight. Just… holding.

“Don’t ever do that again.”

Then—slowly, like it hurt him to move—he raised a hand to your cheek. His thumb brushed under your eye. He wasn’t blinking.

“You don’t remember everything. That’s okay.” His voice cracked. “But don’t pretend like I mean nothing to you. Because I’ve spent my whole life trying to mean something.”

Rafayel

You caught him right after a late afternoon storm, golden hour bleeding through the windows of Mo Art Studio.

He was barefoot, as usual. Smudged with blues and ochre. Shirt open. The scent of saltwater and paint hanging off him like it was part of his skin.

You were curled up in his reading chair, watching him rinse his brushes in lazy circles, humming under his breath.

He looked peaceful.

So naturally, you chose violence.

“Hey… sorry. Um. Do I know you?”

You saw it happen in real time.

His spine stiffened. The brush slipped from his fingers and clattered into the jar.

He turned around slowly, mouth open—like he was mid-sentence in a conversation you had just ended without warning.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice uneven. “Don’t.”

You blinked up at him innocently.

“I’m serious. You—uh—you live here?”

Silence.

He just stared at you. The red in his eyes catching like firelight. His chest rose once. Fell.

Then he smiled.

But it was wrong.

Too sharp. Too still.

“You forgot me again.”

“Rafayel—”

“Again.”

He laughed.

And it was awful.

“You know what’s funny?” he said, stepping toward you, slow. “I tried everything. Painting your name. Singing those stupid songs. Leaving colors only you would recognize. But nothing worked. You still forgot me. Lifetime after lifetime after lifetime—”

He stopped right in front of you, gripping the armrest of the chair like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“So forgive me if I’m not laughing now.”

Your throat was dry. “It was just a joke—”

“No,” he cut in, voice low. “It wasn’t.”

His hand found your cheek before you could breathe.

Not rough. Just desperate.

He tilted your chin up so you couldn’t look away. His eyes searched yours like he was looking for a crack—anything to prove you knew him. That you remembered something.

“You looked me in the eye once and told me I felt like home.” His voice shook. “Do you know what it did to me when you lost that? When I found you again and you just—blinked?”

You grabbed his wrist. “Rafayel. I remember you now.”

“But you didn’t,” he whispered. “Not when it mattered.”

You leaned up, cupped his face in both hands.

“I do now. I know you. I love you. And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have joked.”

He closed his eyes. Exhaled slowly.

And then he collapsed into you, like all the air had gone out of him. Kneeling at your feet. Head buried in your lap.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he mumbled, voice muffled against your thigh. “Don’t even pretend. My heart can’t survive a second time.”

Sylus

You planned it carefully.

Sylus had just returned from a multi-day operation in the N109 zone—your comms silent the entire time. No trace. No updates. He walked in like always: calm, collected, draped in his black blazer like a living shadow, gloves tugged loose at the wrist.

You were waiting in your apartment, arms crossed, sitting on the edge of the counter—exactly where he liked to find you.

He didn’t smile when he saw you.

He rarely did.

But something in his shoulders eased. A softness, subtle but real.

“Missed me?” he asked, voice low, familiar.

And you said it.

Just to mess with him. Just to see.

“Sorry… have we met?”

It was instant.

Like someone flipped a switch.

His body didn’t move. Not a blink. Not a twitch.

Just pure, dangerous stillness.

“Say that again,” he said.

Your heart skipped—but you kept your voice playful.

“I don’t know who you are.”

Another pause.

Then he set his gloves down.

Neatly. Precisely.

“Interesting.”

You suddenly weren’t sure why you thought this would be fun.

He stepped closer. Slow. Measured.

“You know, I’ve killed men for less,” he said quietly. “But I spared you. Again and again. Lifetime after lifetime, I let you go because I thought—maybe next time, you’ll remember.”

You felt cold all over.

“Sylus—wait, I—”

“No,” he said. “You don’t get to say my name like it means something.”

He was standing right in front of you now, red eyes unreadable.

“Do you know what it’s like to watch someone forget you on purpose? Because that’s what this is. A choice. You looked at me and chose to erase me.”

You slid off the counter, stepping closer.

“It was a prank. I didn’t mean it—”

“Don’t lie,” he growled. “Not to me. You remember just enough to know exactly where to stab.”

Your throat tightened.

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, and for one terrifying second—you thought he might turn and walk away.

But then—

His hand curled around your jaw. Firm. Possessive. His thumb pressed against your lower lip.

“You don’t get to forget me,” he whispered. “Not after everything. Not again.”

His touch gentled—just slightly—as he leaned in.

“Next time you want to play games,” he murmured, “choose one that doesn’t end in heartbreak. I’ve lived through enough of those.”

And then—without warning—he kissed your temple.

Not tender. Not soft.

Final.

Caleb

He showed up late.

Golden hour kissed the floor of your apartment. You’d just sat down with a cup of tea when your door creaked open without warning.

“Hey,” he called gently. “It’s just me.”

No knocking. No announcement.

He never knocked. Never had to. Caleb always just… let himself in.

Still in uniform. Boots heavy. Flight jacket half unzipped. Purple eyes glowing faint in the soft light.

He dropped his keys into the dish by your door, like he always did.

“Sorry I’m late,” he added. “Briefing ran long. I got you that lemon bread you like—they only had one left so I had to—”

You looked up at him.

Tilted your head.

And with a soft smile, said:

“Um… sorry. Do I know you?”

His voice died in his throat.

You watched his posture change instantly.

Like someone flipped a switch and turned off the sun inside him.

“What?”

You set your cup down gently, keeping your tone light.

“I think you might have the wrong apartment.”

He blinked. Visibly confused.

His lips parted. He took a step closer.

“Wait… you’re serious?”

You nodded slowly.

And then, for a second, he really believed you.

“You don’t… you don’t know who I am?”

His voice cracked on the last word.

He stepped fully into the room and let the door close behind him, but his hands stayed awkward—like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like they weren’t welcome here anymore.

“I’m Caleb,” he said, carefully. “I—I used to cook for you. And we used to count stars. And you called me—”

He trailed off.

“You called me yours.”

You swallowed hard. Your chest ached.

It wasn’t funny anymore.

“Caleb—”

“I died,” he whispered. “And you mourned me. I came back and you still chose me. So don’t—don’t do this to me.”

You stood up fast, crossing the room.

“It was a joke,” you said, breathless. “Just a prank. I didn’t mean to hurt you—I thought you’d laugh—”

He pulled away before you could touch him.

Not violently. Just… instinctively.

Like you’d burned him.

“You don’t understand,” he said, voice shaking. “I dreamed of you forgetting me. In that pod, when I thought I wouldn’t make it—I saw your face. I saw you move on. I saw you smile at someone else and pretend I never existed.”

“I would never—”

“But you did,” he snapped—then flinched, like he hated himself for it. “Even for a second. And that second… felt like dying all over again.”

You reached out again, slower this time.

And when he finally let you touch him—when your arms wrapped around his neck—his breath caught.

He clung to you like gravity itself might disappear.

“I’m here,” you whispered.

XAVIER – The Gentle Rage

It started right after the mission.

Xavier had taken the hit. Again.

You were seconds away from closing the gap on the Wanderer when he stepped between you and its claws—no warning, just his body blocking yours, blade flashing, light Evol bursting like a flare.

The fight ended fast. He was bleeding. You were shaking.

And when you got back to base, you snapped.

“You can’t keep doing this!”

You shoved his chest, hard. He didn’t budge.

“Do you think I’m weak? That I can’t handle it? I had it under control, Xavier—”

“You would’ve gotten hurt.”

His voice was calm. Flat. That same infuriating stillness he always wore like armor.

“And what about you?” You were yelling now, pacing. “You nearly passed out from blood loss last time! You don’t get to decide what I can handle. You don’t get to throw yourself in front of me like—like you don’t matter!”

He didn’t look angry. Just tired.

“I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“No, you’re trying to die for me.”

Silence.

It hung between you like smoke, suffocating and thick.

You left before you started crying.

You didn’t mean to go far—just needed air. Noise. Distance. But the longer you walked, the more everything blurred. Your head was spinning, vision tight at the edges. The adrenaline crash hit hard, and with it came the flood of everything you’d been holding back for weeks: exhaustion, fear, and the growing ache in your chest you didn’t know how to name.

You ended up at your apartment, barely able to breathe.

And then—

The door opened.

No knock. No warning. Just the low creak of your lock and the soft sound of rain behind him.

Xavier stood in the doorway, silver hair soaked, sweater clinging to his frame.

“You didn’t answer your comm.”

His voice was quiet. Almost gentle. But his jaw was clenched, his eyes too sharp.

You didn’t speak. Just stared at him, sitting there with your knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped tight like you were trying to keep yourself from falling apart.

“Why’d you run?”

You laughed, bitter. “Because you don’t listen. Because you’re always so damn calm. Because I hate how you—”

Your voice cracked. You turned away.

He walked to you without a word, kneeling beside the couch, close but not touching.

“You were scared,” he said softly. “So was I.”

That made your throat close.

“You don’t act like it,” you whispered.

“Because I can’t. If I let myself feel it, I won’t be able to fight.”

Finally—finally—his voice broke.

“But you don’t see how scared I am when you go quiet. When you bleed. When you don’t get up.”

You looked at him—and his expression wasn’t neutral now.

It was wrecked.

“Let me take care of you,” he said. “Not as a soldier. Not as a shield. Just… me.”

He reached for you slowly, like you might vanish.

And when your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him down, he let you.

He kissed you like he didn’t think he deserved to. Like he needed you to say it without saying it. His hands stayed careful on your hips, his lips moving over yours in soft, aching pulses.

“I’m here,” he murmured, forehead resting against yours. “Even if you don’t want me to be… I’m here.”

ZAYNE – The Controlled Burn

It happened after another long shift.

You’d waited for him—again.

Sat in the hospital café for nearly four hours while he scrubbed in for a surprise emergency surgery. He didn’t text. Didn’t call. And when he finally walked in, late and exhausted, the first thing he did was ask if you’d eaten without him.

Like nothing was wrong.

“You said you’d be done by eight.”

“The patient was hemorrhaging. I stayed.”

“You always stay.”

He didn’t answer. Just started pulling off his gloves, tossing them into the bin like this was just another routine.

“Zayne. I waited for you.”

“You didn’t have to.”

That broke something in you.

“I’m not one of your interns. You don’t get to dismiss me when I inconvenience you.”

His expression didn’t change.

“You’re being dramatic.”

You stared at him like he’d slapped you.

“I’m being dramatic?” you echoed, voice shaking. “You stood me up. Again. You shut me out. Again. You act like I don’t matter unless I’m bleeding in front of you.”

He finally looked up then—really looked.

But he didn’t apologize.

“I can’t afford to get distracted.”

“I’m not a distraction, Zayne. I’m—”

“You’re what makes it harder to breathe when I already spend my days holding hearts in my hands.”

It came out before he could stop it.

And you… couldn’t stay.

You turned and walked out—jaw clenched, heart pounding, trying not to cry in the middle of a sterile white hallway.

You didn’t answer your phone.

Didn’t text him back.

Just went home, climbed into bed, and stared at the ceiling for hours.

The fight played on a loop in your head.

Not because of what he said—but because of what he meant. Because maybe you really were too much for him. Maybe loving you was one complication he didn’t want on his operating table.

Your body ached. Your throat burned.

So when your door clicked open around 2:00 AM—your lock overridden, silently—you already knew who it was.

You didn’t move.

Zayne stood in the doorway in scrubs, coat still on, blood on the collar from a patient—not his.

He set something on your nightstand. It was a paper bag. Warm.

Your favorite soup.

“I should’ve called,” he said quietly.

You said nothing.

“I get scared,” he continued. “Not of failure. Not of surgery. But of you walking away from me and never looking back.”

You finally turned your head. His eyes were unreadable, but his hands were shaking.

“You treat me like I’m a scalpel,” you said. “Precise. Replaceable.”

“That’s not what you are,” he replied instantly. “You’re the reason my hands shake when you’re not around. And I don’t know how to handle that.”

He stepped closer.

“Let me fix this.”

“You can’t stitch this shut like one of your patients.”

“No,” he said. “But I can hold you until it stops hurting.”

And he did.

His hands were cold. His movements were careful. He didn’t kiss you right away. Just slid into bed behind you, pulled you against his chest, and held you like a man trying not to break apart.

RAFAYEL – The Meltdown in Paint and Flesh

It started in his studio.

He'd gone quiet for two days.

Paints left open. Brushes stiff. The canvas untouched since the last time you sat for him—when he told you to hold still and you laughed, and then kissed him with pigment on your fingers.

But this time, when you asked what was wrong, he wouldn’t look at you.

“Nothing, sweetheart. Go home. I’m busy.”

You didn't go home.

You followed him outside, to the dock near Whitesand Bay where the sky was bleeding into dusk, and you asked him again.

“Rafayel. Just tell me what’s going on.”

He exhaled a laugh. But it wasn’t funny. It was bitter.

“You want the truth? The truth is I can’t paint without you. I can't sleep without you. I can’t even fucking think unless I know you're coming back.”

That should’ve felt like a confession.

It felt like a blame.

You stepped back.

“I'm not your cure, Rafayel.”

“No,” he snapped. “You're the thing making me sick.”

You flinched.

“Then I guess I’ll give you some space.”

And you left.

You didn’t get far.

The second the door to your apartment shut behind you, it all started to unravel—anger giving way to something worse: the ache that bloomed beneath your ribs, tight and restless, like your body hadn’t caught up to the fact that you were alone now.

You tried to ignore it.

Changed your clothes. Splashed cold water on your face. Lit a candle, even though you never do.

But Rafayel was everywhere.

In the scent of ocean salt that clung to your jacket. In the flecks of dried paint on your wrist. In the echo of his voice still lodged in your skull, saying things he didn’t mean—saying them like they were the only way he knew how to bleed.

You curled up on the couch, arms around your knees, telling yourself he wouldn’t come after you.

He never chased.

Until—

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Your front door shook with the force of it.

You opened it mid-breath.

And there he was.

Wind-tossed, soaked from the sea air, shirt unbuttoned like he’d torn it open on the run. His hair was wild, his pupils blown wide, and his chest was rising too fast—like he hadn’t stopped running since you left.

“You left me,” he said, voice low and shredded.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Every nerve in your body was on fire.

He stepped forward. No hesitation. Just heat and momentum and desperation.

“I know what I said,” he murmured. “I know how I said it. But I didn’t mean a single fucking word, and I can’t fix it if you’re not here—”

He stopped.

Hands reached for your face like a starving man reaching for light.

“You think I know how to be gentle with love? I don’t. I only know how to need.”

Your throat clenched. Your hands curled into his shirt without thinking.

“Then say it,” you whispered.

“You’re the only thing I’ve ever made that mattered,” he breathed. “The only color I ever see anymore. If you leave—I’ll forget how to breathe, not just paint.”

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft.

It was teeth. Tongue. Desperation.

His fingers dug into your waist, like he needed to feel you to know you were real. You gasped into his mouth, and he chased the sound—growled into it, even—like it cracked something loose inside him.

You weren’t thinking anymore.

You were burning.

And he was already unmaking you with every second you let him touch you.

SYLUS – The Controlled Collapse

The fight didn’t explode.

It simmered.

You’d been watching him for weeks—staying out late, coming back with blood on his cuffs, whispering orders into encrypted comms like you wouldn’t hear.

You knew what Onychinus did. What he did.

You just didn’t think he’d start shutting you out.

“You told me there were no more secrets,” you said, arms crossed. Voice low. Calm. Deadly.

He didn’t look up from the data pad.

“I said no more secrets that would hurt you.”

“You don’t get to decide what hurts me, Sylus.”

That got his attention.

His red eyes lifted, slow. Calculating. Cold.

“You’re angry.”

“I’m furious.”

“Good,” he murmured, setting the pad down. “I’d rather have your fury than your silence.”

You stepped back. He took a step forward. You held your ground.

“You can’t keep shutting me out.”

“And you can’t keep pretending you’re untouched by the world I built.”

That stung more than it should have.

“So that’s what I am to you now?” you whispered. “A liability? An attachment?”

He said nothing.

Which was worse.

So you left. Jaw clenched. Hands shaking. You didn’t slam the door, didn’t scream—because you knew that silence would drive him mad.

You thought he wouldn’t follow.

He always acted like he didn’t need to.

But two hours later, you’re pacing in your apartment, heart hammering, brain spiraling. You can still feel the heat of his gaze, still hear the unspoken stay beneath the silence.

And then—

The lights go out.

Power. Gone.

You freeze.

A soft knock echoes from the door.

Not pounding. Not frantic.

A warning.

And then his voice. Calm. Dangerous.

“Unlock the door.”

Your fingers hesitate.

“Sylus—”

“Now.”

You obey.

When the door opens, he’s there. Shirt half undone. Rain clinging to him. Eyes glowing.

“You walked out,” he says.

“Because you didn’t stop me.”

“No,” he corrects. “Because I needed you to walk. So you’d understand what it feels like when someone takes control away from you.”

He steps inside, shuts the door behind him.

“You want honesty? Here it is.”

He gets closer. You don’t step back.

“I’ve killed for less than what you make me feel.”

Your breath catches.

“So if you’re going to leave,” he whispers, “do it now. Before I ruin you for anyone else.”

You don’t move.

And that’s all he needs.

His mouth crashes into yours—bruising, possessive, hot. One hand in your hair, the other grabbing your waist like he owns every part of you.

Because he does.

Because he always has.

CALEB – The Soft Obsession Cracks

You didn’t mean to fight.

It started with a joke.

One too many playful jabs about how distant he’d been—how the mission came first, how he always walked out before sunrise now, like he didn’t want to be there when you woke up.

You didn’t expect his expression to drop like that.

Didn’t expect him to say:

“You don’t know what I’m dealing with. What I’ve done.”

“Then let me in,” you said, softer now. “Caleb, you don’t have to keep carrying it alone—”

“I do.”

He backed away from you like he was afraid of what would happen if he stayed close.

“I lost you once,” he said. “And I came back wrong. I don’t get to want things anymore.”

That’s what undid you.

Because how could he stand there, staring at you like you were already gone?

“You’re not broken,” you said, barely holding it together. “But if you keep pushing me away like this—I will leave. And not because I want to. Because you’re forcing me to.”

You waited.

He didn’t move.

So you left.

The silence in your apartment was unbearable.

Too quiet. Too heavy.

Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, the tears hit harder than expected, and no matter how many times you told yourself you did the right thing, all you could think about was the way he looked at you. Like he already thought he’d lost you. Like this was inevitable.

You’d just started to calm down when the knock came.

Not pounding. Not rushed.

Just... deliberate.

You opened the door.

And Caleb was standing there, drenched from the rain, still wearing his Farspace coat, soaked through at the collar, eyes wild—like he’d run the whole way.

“Don’t do that,” he said. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“I needed space.”

“No, you needed me.” He stepped inside without asking, voice ragged. “I felt it. That spiral. The second you left, it was like someone tore the gravity out of me.”

You shook your head. “You said you didn’t get to want things anymore.”

“I lied.”

He was in front of you before you could breathe—hands on your face, trembling.

“I want you,” he whispered. “Every damn version of you. Even when you’re mad. Even when you hate me. Even when you run.”

“Then prove it.”

And he did.

You should’ve known better.

The second you wrapped your legs around his waist in that narrow, lamplit hallway outside the bedroom—still half-dressed, lips swollen, gasping his name between kisses—you knew how it would end.

But you didn’t know it would end like this.

Zayne has you bent over the mattress.

Not flat. Not on your back.

Bent.

Elbows down. Back arched. Hips up.

Your panties are already somewhere on the floor. His fingers are still wet from opening you up.

But when you glance back over your shoulder—when you catch a glimpse of him—

You freeze.

“Problem?” he asks, voice flat.

You swallow. Hard.

“You’re just…”

He raises an eyebrow.

Steps closer.

Lets the head of his cock brush your entrance—hot, heavy, thick.

Your breath stutters.

“Say it,” he murmurs, low and sharp. “You think I’m too big?”

You whimper.

He hums like that amuses him.

Not smug. Just observant.

Like a surgeon noting your vitals.

“You always get like this,” he says, dragging the head through your folds again. “Shaky. Quiet. Needy.”

You moan softly.

“You say you want it raw,” he adds, voice lowering as his hand slides up your spine, “but then you look back like you’re scared of it.”

“I’m not,” you whisper.

“No?”

He leans forward. Presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“Then take a deep breath.”

He pushes in.

Slow. Measured. Devastating.

You feel every inch—every stretch, every press, every second he lets you adjust before giving you more.

Your body clamps tight. Your hands fist the sheets.

“Too much?” he asks, not stopping. “Or just enough?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He slides deeper.

One hand wraps around your waist. The other grips your hip—steadying you, anchoring you.

His cock is thick, long, filling you in a way that steals the air from your lungs.

“You always take me,” he whispers against your neck. “Even when you cry. Even when you shake.”

You sob. Soft and overwhelmed.

“There it is,” he breathes. “There’s my good girl.”

And then he starts to move.

Not fast. But deep.

Precise. Punishing. Perfect.

You can feel how careful he’s being.

But that doesn’t make it easier.