Persy

One time at a hardware store he started arguing with a cashier over a coupon he didn’t even need.

“You’re telling me it expired yesterday? That’s bullshit.” Sukuna’s voice was sharp, chest puffed, standing way too tall over the poor guy.

The cashier stammered, clutching the receipt. “Uh, sir, I-I’m just following policy—”

“Policy’s for people who don’t have common sense.”

You walked up mid-scene, holding your basket full of cleaning supplies, eyes narrowing.

“Baby.”

Sukuna glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Put the coupon down. You make more in a week than this kid will in a year. We don’t need ten percent off a wrench.”

He clenched his jaw, looked back at the cashier, then back at you.

“Babe, it’s the principle—”

You stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the register.

“Nope. I’m not spending our Saturday watching you terrorise a nineteen-year-old making a minimum wage. Go wait in the car.”

“Wait, are you serious?”

“Dead serious. I’ll finish here. You go cool off.”

His eyes narrowed, lips twitching. “You love bossing me around, huh?”

“Damn right I do.”

He sighed through his nose, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked out without another word. Because yeah, he could ruin someone else’s day, but not yours.

Sometimes sex with him was like a battle. But in a good way.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t romantic candles and moody playlists. It was sweat and grip marks on thighs. It was hair tugging and biting.

One night, you were riding him on the couch, both of you still half-dressed because you couldn’t even make it to the bedroom. Your shorts were somewhere on the floor. His sweatpants were halfway down.

His hands gripped your hips, rough, fingers pressing bruises into your skin.

“Fuck, you’re hot like this,” he rasped, eyes hooded, lips parted. “All bossy. All loud.”

You rolled your eyes, breath hitching when he thrust up into you.

“Maybe if you’d clean the kitchen once in a while, I’d be nicer.”

“Oh yeah?” His hand came down on your ass, sharp. “Say that again.”

You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Sukuna.”

“What?”

“Shut the fuck up and let me focus.”

He laughed, deep, gravelly, smug as hell, but he leaned back and let you take what you wanted. Hands behind his head, tattoos flexing, eyes locked on you like you were the only thing worth watching.

You bit your lip, grinding harder, chasing the friction. His cock hit all the right spots because you knew how to angle it. His eyes stayed locked on yours, gaze half-lidded, lips twitching.

“Look at you,” he whispered, voice low. “Using me like a toy.”

And when you came, shaking, breathless, he let you ride it out before flipping you under him to finish what you started.

After, he cleaned you up with a towel, not because he was sweet, but because he liked being the one to do it.

“Don’t think this means you’re off dish duty tomorrow,” you muttered into his chest.

“Babe,” he smirked, kissing the top of your head, “I’d do your dishes for life if you keep riding me like that.”

Sometimes he’d come home from work all pissed off, shoulders tense, tie loose around his neck, jaw tight.

“What happened now?” you’d ask, already knowing the answer.

“Idiots. That’s what happened.”

“Oh no. People were dumb again? How tragic.”

“Mock me one more time, babe.”

You grinned, holding out his favourite drink. “Come sit down before you throw something.”

He grumbled but took the cup and let you pull him onto the couch. His head dropped into your lap five minutes later.

“Love you,” he muttered against your thigh.

“I know.”

You always teased him for being dramatic, but you were just as bad.

Once, during a stupid argument about groceries, you threw a whole head of lettuce at him.

He dodged it. Barely.

“Really?” he said, staring at the lettuce on the floor. “That’s your move?”

“Stop leaving the milk open.”

“You’re insane.”

“You married me.”

“Don’t remind me.”

You kissed him right after. He kissed you back.

Other nights, things were softer.

He’d pull you into bed after a long day, grip your waist, bury his face in your neck.

“Stay home tomorrow,” he’d whisper.

“I can’t. I have meetings.”

“Quit your job.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ll pay for everything.”

“You already do,” you said, smirking, “but I still like working.”

He sighed into your skin, voice muffled. “You’re too stubborn.”

“Takes one to know one.”

You had your own rituals.

He made you coffee every morning, even though he bitched about how you liked it too sweet.

“Want me to pour a whole bag of sugar in there, babe?” he’d mutter, dumping in two extra scoops anyway.

You packed his lunch every day, even though he acted like he didn’t care.

“People at the office are gonna think I’m soft,” he’d say, opening his bag to find handwritten notes and snacks.

“Good.”

When you fought, it was loud. But when you loved each other, it was louder.

He texted you random shit all day. Memes. Sarcastic comments. “Look at this idiot at the gym” photos.

You sent him screenshots of dumb tweets and called him during meetings just to hear his annoyed “What, babe?” before melting when he realised it was you.

One weekend, you tried building Ikea furniture together.

Worst idea of your life.

“Babe, hand me the wrench.”

“I am the wrench.”

“Sukuna.”

“I’m serious.”

“Shut up and screw the damn leg on.”

“Why don’t you screw it on?”

“Because I’m reading the instructions.”

“I don’t need instructions.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

Three hours later, the coffee table was upside down, and you were both lying on the floor, laughing like idiots.

You also didn’t do anniversaries the normal way.

You booked tattoos. Matching again, this time something dumb, you’re a sad, wilted rose and his a blooming, thriving flower, both symbolising the two of you (guess which’s who)

When the artist finished, Sukuna kissed your hand.

“You’re stuck with me,” he muttered, tracing the ink.

“Good.”

Sometimes you caught him staring at you like he still couldn’t believe you were his.

Like when you were brushing your teeth in the mirror, hair messy, wearing his hoodie.

“What?” you’d ask, mouth full of toothpaste.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“I’m just thinking about how lucky you are to have me.”

You smacked him with a towel.

But later, in bed, he kissed you soft, lips brushing your cheek, voice low.

“I’m serious though.”

“About what?”

“You’re stuck with me.”

“I know.”

And yeah, Sukuna never took shit from anyone else.
But for you?

sometimes he told himself you’d meant it. sometimes he told himself you hadn’t. either way, it stuck like a stone in his chest.

he dated, here and there. quick, easy things that never lasted. he was charming enough to pull people in, but the weight of expectation followed him everywhere, and sooner or later it smothered things. he couldn’t untangle what people wanted from him—from his name, from his future—and what they wanted from him.

you were the last person who’d never made it easy, who’d looked at him and seen something you wanted to tear down rather than use.

and now you were gone.

his friends still teased him sometimes about his “old rival.” most of them didn’t know the full story. they’d joke about how dramatic you two had been, about the way you’d snapped at each other in classes, about how “hot” it had been to watch. he laughed along, shrugged it off, let the image of rivalry stay intact because the truth was heavier, lonelier.

he worked. he climbed. he coasted.

but at night, when the city lights burned through his window and the silence in his apartment pressed in close, he thought about how you hadn’t come to graduation. how you’d chosen absence over seeing him one last time.

time had a way of sanding the edges off things.

after a while, even the sharpness of that night dulled. the sting of your words, the sound of your slap—at first, they’d haunted him like a phantom echo. but years have a way of burying memories under the grind of routine, the steady churn of success, and the endless expectations of adulthood.

gojo moved on.

he built the kind of resume people envied, even if they whispered behind his back that he’d been born with half of it. the family company was always waiting for him, a golden path paved before he was even old enough to spell his own name. and though he used to resent it, though he once wanted to prove himself outside the safety net, he found himself slipping back into it naturally.

his father started involving him more directly, bringing him into meetings not just as a representative but as an heir. the word carried a weight he didn’t want to admit he liked. heir. it meant permanence. inevitability. it meant no one could take this from him, not professors, not peers, not rivals.

and he thrived in it.

the sharpness of his mind hadn’t dulled, even if he didn’t have to fight as hard for recognition anymore. he could see solutions in seconds, read people before they finished their introductions. he was confident in ways he hadn’t been as a student—not the cocky mask of youth, but the polished assurance of a man who had both power and proof.

at some point he dated more seriously, too. women and men alike, partners who looked good on his arm at charity galas or board dinners. there were flings, yes, but also a few long-term things that lasted a year or two. none of them stuck, though. not because he couldn’t commit, but because the weight of who he was and who he’d always be hung between him and everyone else.

he was never just gojo satoru. he was the gojo satoru.

and for the most part, he accepted that. he leaned into it.

the parties got bigger, the stakes higher. he learned how to drink just enough, laugh just enough, speak just enough to charm investors and competitors alike. he was fluent in the language of wealth and power, a world he once mocked but now wore like a second skin.

sometimes, late at night, he would catch himself wondering if this was all too easy, if he’d truly earned any of it, but he buried that thought quickly, the way he buried other things.

like you.

he stopped thinking about you after a few years. not out of malice, not out of choice, but out of the same, familiar inevitability. life crowded out the space you once occupied. the rivalry, the fire, the slap—all of it faded until it was just a faint memory he couldn’t summon unless he tried.

you became a ghost story in his past. a name his old classmates occasionally dropped over drinks, followed by laughter about how dramatic you both were. he didn’t bother to correct them anymore. didn’t feel the ache he once did.

the truth was simple: you weren’t there. you hadn’t been there for years.

and he was busy becoming who he was always meant to be.

by the time gojo hit his early thirties, the unstoppable nature of, of himself, it all had settled like a mantle on his shoulders.

he wasn’t just an heir anymore. he was it.

the board members who used to smirk behind their hands at his youth now leaned toward him in meetings, measuring his words like scripture. his father had begun stepping back, his presence more ceremonial than functional, and everyone knew it was only a matter of time before gojo officially inherited the empire.

and gojo wore it well.

he’d grown into his face, into his height, into his confidence. the boyish arrogance of his student years had refined into something sleeker, more dangerous. charm was no longer a defense mechanism; it was a tool, something he wielded as effortlessly as a pen. he knew how to smile just enough, how to let silence stretch until people gave him what he wanted, how to wrap even his sharpest critiques in silk.

the city knew him. the industry knew him. sometimes it felt like the whole world did. articles were written about him, profiles framed him as a generational prodigy, investors called him visionary.

and for the most part, he believed it.

his days blurred into schedules: early meetings, endless calls, polished dinners. his nights were filled with the kind of parties that only the wealthy could access—lavish, glittering events where his presence was both expected and scrutinized. he danced through it all with ease, the perfect son, the perfect successor.

there were whispers, of course. that he was too young, that his last name carried him farther than his skill. but even those whispers began to fade when quarter after quarter, he delivered results that no one could deny.

he dated occasionally, but the older he got, the less patience he had for it. there were partners who looked good on paper, who fit neatly into the image of what his life should look like. some lasted months, others a year. but nothing stuck. not because he couldn’t commit, but because the role was too heavy for anyone else to bear.

so he let it go. leaned into work, into success. into the empire he was building with hands that had never known real failure.

sometimes, in rare quiet moments, he would wonder if this was really it. if the rest of his life would be this cycle of deals and dinners, this constant forward motion toward bigger and bigger numbers.

but mostly, he didn’t question it.

because what was there to question? he had everything. the power, the wealth, the recognition.

he had the crown.

and if there were nights where he found himself staring out over the city from his high-rise, glass of whiskey in hand, wondering why the victory felt just a little hollow—he buried it. the way he’d buried everything else.

including you.

and, well, as for you?

graduation came and went without you.

you told yourself you didn’t care. that watching everyone in their robes, watching him in his robe, would’ve been unbearable. it was easier to stay away, to bury yourself in the silence of your room and remind yourself that walking across that stage didn’t change who you were or what you’d done.

but the truth was—it hurt.

after university, the world didn’t open for you the way it did for others. especially not the way it did for gojo. jobs didn’t fall into your lap. you fought tooth and nail for interviews, clutched at internships that barely paid, balanced side jobs to keep afloat. every step forward felt like it took three times the effort anyone else needed.

and every time someone mentioned the word “connections,” you felt that familiar bitterness gnaw at you.

you told yourself you weren’t jealous. that you didn’t want his life anyway, that you’d rather carve something out with your own hands than inherit it, but it was hard, sometimes. hard not to think of him when rejection letters piled up, when bosses overlooked you, when exhaustion settled into your bones.

still, you pushed forward.

you built slowly, piece by piece. small roles that turned into bigger ones, projects that gave you enough credibility to get noticed. nothing glittered, nothing was effortless, but it was yours. the fire you’d carried at university dimmed after a while. not gone—never gone—but quieter, tempered. competition required an opponent, and you no longer had one.

you dated, too, though it always felt complicated. sometimes you worried you were too distracted, too tired, too wrapped up in proving yourself. there were moments of sweetness, of warmth, but nothing lasting.

and through it all, the shadow of him lingered.

not as sharply as before—not the way it had in those first raw years, when the thought of him was like salt in a wound. now, it was more like a ghost. a flicker at the edge of thought when you walked past a glossy skyscraper, when you overheard someone talking about heirs and legacies.

you didn’t look him up. not deliberately.but sometimes his name brushed against yours in articles, in industry chatter, in the mouths of people who liked to gossip about the gilded. gojo satoru, heir to the gojo group… gojo satoru, rising star in business…

and you told yourself it meant nothing, because your life was not his life. you weren’t chasing him anymore, no, you were chasing yourself.

the years stretched, and though it wasn’t easy, though it was a constant uphill climb, filled with long nights and quiet doubts, you built something you could stand on. maybe not an empire, maybe not a crown, but yours.

and if sometimes you wondered what it would feel like to see him again, to look into those eyes after so many years and know whether you still hated him or if the hate had dulled into something else—

well. you pushed that thought away, too.

your first job wasn’t glamorous. it wasn’t even close to what you dreamed of. you started as an assistant in a mid-tier firm, running schedules, making coffee, taking notes no one would ever read again. but you didn’t let it end there. you watched, you learned, you noticed what others missed—the way certain executives negotiated, the subtle cues that decided whether a deal went through or fell apart.

when the chance came to step in, you did. a small presentation here, an unexpected solution there. people started to notice. and once they noticed, you made damn sure they couldn’t forget you.

every opportunity became a foothold. you climbed, slowly at first, then faster, gaining speed and skill as the years went on. what others took for granted, you fought for and because of that, you owned it.

your twenties blurred into a series of long nights, sharp wins, and steady promotions. the climb wasn’t linear— you had setbacks, failures that knocked the wind out of you— but you always rose again. each stumble only sharpened you further.

by the time you hit your late twenties, you weren’t just surviving in the corporate world. you were thriving.

your name started to carry weight in the circles that mattered. not because of family, not because of heritage, but because of results. projects you led began drawing attention, not only inside your company but outside of it. your strategies worked. your leadership inspired. people began to seek you out.

headhunting offers followed. firms whispered promises of higher salaries, bigger teams, more visibility, and though you didn’t always take them, you could. that freedom alone was its own kind of triumph.

your thirties arrived, and with them came the roles you once thought were reserved only for people like him — executive-level positions, international opportunities, invitations to sit at tables you’d only dreamed of.

except you weren’t dreaming anymore. you were there.

and the best part was that every step, every achievement, was yours. not inherited. not handed down. earned. carved out of long hours and sharp choices, sacrifices and resilience.

there were moments you allowed yourself to stop, to look back at how far you’d come, and marvel at it. the younger version of you, the one who’d sat bitterly in her room on graduation day, would’ve never believed it.

but you’d done it. you were no longer chasing anyone. you weren’t trying to outpace a ghost, or prove a point to a boy who once thought you were just a rival in a game.

this was your life and you’d built it from the ground up.

but success didn’t feel the way you thought it would.

when you were younger, it had always been this shining, unreachable thing in your mind. a promise that once you touched it—once you finally made it—everything would make sense. the exhaustion, the endless work, the bitterness of watching people like gojo glide past you as if the world were designed for them. it would all be worth it, you told yourself, if you could just get there.

and in many ways, it was.

there was satisfaction in walking into a boardroom and knowing people listened when you spoke. in seeing your name in industry reports, tied to successes no one could take from you. in receiving invitations you once thought were reserved for the untouchable elite.

there was pride, too. deep, steady pride, like steel in your bones, because every title, every promotion, every recognition — it was yours. no legacy, no surname, no family fortune propping you up. only work, persistence, and the refusal to quit when the world gave you every reason to.

however there were quieter moments when success felt different.

sometimes it felt hollow. like standing at the top of a skyscraper and realizing the air is thinner up here, colder. you looked around and realized how much you’d sacrificed for the climb—relationships that never had the space to grow, friendships that withered because you didn’t have the time to water them, nights where you traded rest for progress.

you weren’t lonely, exactly. you had people, colleagues, even friends who admired and respected you. but there was a kind of solitude in being the one who had clawed her way up the hardest route possible. no one else could fully understand what it cost.

other times, it felt bittersweet. like standing in front of your reflection after a long day, dressed sharply, makeup perfect, another victory under your belt—and thinking, i did it. i actually did it. only for the thought to be followed immediately by: and tomorrow, i’ll have to do it again.

there were nights when you lay awake and asked yourself if this was it. if the endless climb, the constant forward push, was all there was.

but then there were days—glorious days—where success filled you with something radiant. like when a younger colleague told you they looked up to you, that you made them believe they could do it too, or when you closed a deal no one thought possible, or when you realized that you no longer felt small, overlooked, powerless.

because the truth was, no matter the weight, no matter the hollow parts—you’d proven yourself. not to anyone else. to yourself.

and that mattered more than anything.

by the time your early thirties rolled around, you were solidly established. not just climbing anymore, but standing in a place most people never reached.

you were an executive now—regional head at a respected multinational, with a team that actually listened, a budget that meant something, and projects that rippled across industries. the kind of position people fought tooth and nail for, sometimes their entire careers, and you’d landed it before most even hit their stride.

your calendar was packed with meetings, flights, dinners, negotiations. weeks blurred with jet lag and back-to-back calls, but you moved through it with the kind of precision only years of hard practice gave you. people had begun to describe you as sharp, formidable, reliable—words you once dreamed of having attached to your name.

your apartment reflected the life you’d carved. sleek, minimal, expensive without being ostentatious. a view of the city you once thought you’d never have. proof, in concrete and glass, of how far you’d come.

socially, you’d built a circle too. colleagues who turned into friends, friends who turned into anchors when the job threatened to consume you. and though you still sometimes wrestled with the solitude of success, you weren’t alone.

financially, you were stable—no, more than stable. comfortable. secure. you didn’t worry about bills anymore, about whether you’d make it to the next month. your name carried weight now. not the kind of inherited weight gojo once flaunted, but earned. weight people respected.

and for the first time in a long time, you were breathing easier. not coasting, but steady.

you weren’t the girl grinding herself down, desperate to prove she could keep up. you weren’t the “rival” consumed with someone else’s shadow. you were yourself. successful. established. proud.

the fire that drove you was still there, but it burned cleaner now. less frantic, less jagged. you’d learned to harness it, to direct it.

and if sometimes you caught yourself wondering what it might feel like to cross paths with the past—to see his face again, older, sharper, touched by the same years that had shaped you—well, you dismissed it.

because you had no reason to look back.

your life was full, your future brighter than ever.

and then, just when you’d settled into that certainty, life began moving its quiet pieces. the kind you never noticed until you were standing face-to-face with someone you once swore you hated.

—

the ballroom was everything it was supposed to be: glittering chandeliers, champagne flutes clinking in practiced rhythms, a string quartet humming away in the corner while laughter and congratulations swelled and broke like waves.

it was the kind of event gojo had been raised for. the kind where his name opened doors before he even stepped through them, where people hovered just close enough to catch his attention, eager to curry favor.

tonight was no different.

the deal had been massive—his father’s company merging with a foreign powerhouse, a partnership that meant headlines, wealth, security, prestige. he’d led the final negotiations himself, presented the plan, smoothed it all into place. and now, as the ink dried, the celebration was his to own.

he stood at the center of it, as he always did. tall, sharp, dazzling in a suit tailored within an inch of its life. people laughed at his jokes, toasted his brilliance, congratulated him on being the face of a new era.

and he felt nothing.

their praise slid off him like water on glass. every “well done,” every “you’ve made your father proud,” every “you’re the future, gojo-kun”—empty. meaningless.

he smiled, of course. he always smiled. grinned wide enough to blind, tossed his champagne back with the ease of a man who knew he was adored, but beneath it, the emptiness yawned wider.

he’d done everything right. followed the path carved out for him, exceeded every expectation. he was rich, powerful, admired.

so why did it all feel so hollow?

he laughed at another toast, the sound sharp, practiced, echoing a little too loud in his own ears. and then—

a voice. not directed at him, but close enough to cut through the din. clear, professional, carrying the weight of authority. his gaze tracked toward it, half idly, expecting some familiar executive, another gray-suited power broker.

but instead—

it was you.

standing across the room, glass in hand, surrounded by colleagues who looked at you with admiration and respect. older, sharper, polished by years of effort he hadn’t witnessed. no longer the student he’d sparred with in lecture halls, but an executive; someone who belonged in this room — not as a guest, not as a hanger-on, but as an equal.

your name rolled off someone’s tongue in introduction, paired with a title he hadn’t expected: executive director, high enough to make the crowd around you pay attention.

and suddenly, the air in the room shifted. for him, at least.

his pulse kicked hard against his ribs, that practiced emptiness cracking for the first time all evening.

you. here. not a memory, not a ghost, but flesh and blood.

and not just here—you were part of this. one of the executives of the very company he’d just closed the deal with.

his first instinct was disbelief, as if the universe had decided to play a cruel joke. his second was something sharper, messier: a rush of everything he thought he’d buried.

anger. nostalgia. regret.

he laughed again, but this time it was softer, almost breathless. the people around him kept talking, kept praising, but he barely heard them. because across the room, you existed in a way that made the emptiness inside him feel like it had just been waiting for this.

for a heartbeat, he wanted to convince himself he was imagining it. graceful in a silky gown, poised with years of experience, even more beautiful than he remembered—but unmistakably you. there was no mistaking the way you carried yourself, the precision of your movements, the tilt of your chin when you addressed a colleague.

he leaned slightly toward the executive next to him, pretending to inspect a champagne glass, his voice lowered just enough to pass as casual.

“hey,” he murmured, tilting his head subtly toward you, “do you know who that is?”

the executive glanced, smiled politely, and shrugged. “sorry, not sure.”

gojo blinked, internal panic flaring in the quietest, sharpest way. “you… you don’t?” he asked, voice a fraction too low, too forced.

“don’t know?” the other repeated, smiling faintly. “maybe a new director or something? I think they’re from the company you just finalized with. the CEO mentioned her earlier.”

gojo’s heart caught. from the company I just finalized with. the words landed heavy, suffocating.

he followed your movements as you strode with a small group of colleagues, poised and efficient, toward the center of the room. the CEO of the company approached first, polished and confident, extending a hand for congratulations.

then you stepped forward, and for a moment, he could only stare, his hand frozen around his glass.

you extended your hand politely, businesslike.

“congratulations,” you said, your tone measured, professional, completely devoid of the personal history that had once ignited every nerve between you two.

gojo blinked, caught between recognition and protocol. he forced a smile that was all teeth and no warmth, and took your hand firmly, the touch brief. impeccable.

“thank you,” he said, voice steady enough for the room to hear, smooth enough that no one nearby suspected the storm behind his eyes.

the handshake ended, but the electricity lingered between you, quiet but sharp, like a wire stretched tight across the room.

he realised: the girl who had hated him, the one who’d refused him a single inch in university corridors, had become someone he could not simply ignore—not here, not in this room, not under these glaring chandeliers.

the CEO offered a polite comment, nodding between the two of you, but gojo barely registered it. all he could feel was the tight coil of something he thought he’d buried: awareness, recognition, a pulse of unresolved history.

you were here, in his world, in a way he hadn’t anticipated. and despite the applause, the celebration, the success he had spent years building, he felt… hollow.

a pang of something sharp and dangerous slid along his chest. the world around him had grown big, bright, and full of acclaim—but none of it mattered, not really, compared to the impossible fact that you were standing there.

and he had no idea how to navigate it.

he didn’t speak immediately after you were pulled away into a conversation by one of his colleagues. after the formalities of the handshake and the CEO’s polite chatter, he drifted back, letting you move with your colleagues for a moment. he watched from a distance, scanning the crowd, calculating the moment.

and then, when you stepped slightly away from the cluster, checking notes on a tablet or adjusting a folder in your hands(revising even at a formal event, how expected of you), he made his move.

the crowd parted almost politely around him, though no one gave him more than a passing glance. he navigated the throng with practiced ease, smile fixed, eyes locked on you. his pulse thudded quietly beneath the surface—a steady, controlled rhythm—but there was a heat behind it, something old and jagged that had never really left.

“you’re… alone,” he said softly, voice just above the hum of the room, careful to mask the quick edge of something he wasn’t ready to name.

you glanced up, raising an eyebrow, lips pressed in that professional line he remembered so well. “i’m not sure this is a good time for… casual conversation,” you said, your tone measured, too polite and ever so distant. exactly how he expected you would be.

“right,” he said, nodding slowly, letting the politeness act as camouflage. “i get it. work, company, big night. all that.”

you nodded, returning to your notes. the tension between you was almost physical. he could see the subtle shift of your shoulders, the way your fingers lingered over the tablet, the faint tightening of your jaw.

and yet… he had to try.

he stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough for only you to hear. “maybe… just for a moment,” he said, “we could dance?”

you froze, one hand still poised above the tablet, the other tightening around your folder. “excuse me?”

“a dance,” he repeated, with that familiar cocky grin — one he’d wielded for years, though tonight it felt almost raw in its honesty. “music’s playing. everyone’s celebrating. nothing official, nothing serious. just… you and me, for a song.”

you looked up fully this time. eyes meeting his, sharp, calculating, and for the first time since university, he saw the same fire that had once made your rivalry crackle. the look was almost incredulous, like you couldn’t believe he’d just asked. and maybe you couldn’t.

“i… i don’t think so,” you said finally, tone polite but firm, a wall against him.

he stepped slightly closer, just enough that the faint scent of his cologne brushed against you. “please,” he murmured, softer this time, “just one. nothing else. just a dance. for tonight.”

the room continued around you both—champagne, chatter, laughter—but the noise dimmed, the edges of the ballroom fading into the background. it was just you and him, suspended in the heat of recognition, years of history and rivalry tightening the space between you.

and for a moment, you considered it.

the fire flared again—not old rivalry, not resentment, not hate—but something complicated, unpredictable. something that made your chest tighten in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

and gojo, reading the subtle shift, let the grin falter into something quieter, more earnest, just long enough for the question to hang in the air.

you hesitated, hand still on the folder, heart beating a little faster than you wanted to admit. there was something in his eyes—no, everything in him—that made it impossible to say no.

finally, you set the folder aside. “fine,” you said, voice steady, though a hint of something softer slipped through. “one dance.”

he blinked, just for a moment, caught off guard by your acquiescence. then that familiar grin stretched wide, just enough to make your stomach tighten, and he offered his hand.

you took it. slow, careful, measured. the room around you blurred again—the laughter, the music, the glittering chandeliers—but this time it was closer, warmer, more dangerous.

he led you to the center of the ballroom, and for a second, you almost felt like university all over again—the stolen glances, the electric tension, the unspoken challenges lingering between you.

the music shifted, a slow, melodic tune that wove itself around your movements. he guided you gently, his hand firm on your waist, your hand resting on his shoulder. it was intimate without words, familiar without familiarity, a delicate tension that neither of you could — or wanted to —break.

“you’ve changed,” he murmured, almost conversational, though the sound of his voice brushed against your nerves like fire.

“so have you, it seems,” you replied, voice level, though your pulse betrayed you. you weren’t sure if that statement was true, but it seemed like the right thing to say.

he smirked, tilting his head slightly, studying you the way he used to across lecture halls and library tables. “i don’t know if i like it… or if i’m intrigued.”

“maybe both,” you said softly, matching his pace step for step.

the dance moved slowly, rhythmically, but every motion carried weight: every glance, every touch, every millimeter of space between you two. years of history, rivalry, hate, curiosity, unspoken admiration—all packed into this single, tenuous moment.

he leaned just slightly closer, enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath without him speaking. your heart fluttered against your ribs, and you reminded yourself to stay composed, to remember why you hated him, or at least why you used to.

but even as you reminded yourself, you felt it —the strange pull, the tension, the electricity that had never fully left the air between you.

for the first time in years, he didn’t look like a polished, untouchable heir. he looked… human. vulnerable, even, if only for this one dance.

with a dull ache in the back of your mind, you realized that this wasn’t just a dance. it was a test. a measurement of what remained between you.

and neither of you could predict the result.

the music wrapped around you both, slow and melodic, each note dragging out the seconds like syrup. gojo’s hand was firm at your waist, hot even through the fabric, guiding without force, while your own rested lightly on his shoulder, weight measured but precise. every step was careful, deliberate—almost like testing the waters, almost like neither of you wanted to fall too far into the familiarity of this proximity.

and yet, proximity had a way of undoing years of restraint.

“you’ve done… well,” he said, low, almost conversational, letting the words hang between you. the corner of his mouth twitched in a grin, but there was something tentative there, something softer than the arrogance you remembered from university.

“thanks,” you replied, careful. “you too. looks like you’ve… settled in nicely.”

he chuckled softly, a sound that felt both familiar and foreign. “yeah. settled. everything’s in place, smooth… too smooth, maybe.” his gaze flicked away for a moment, scanning the room, then back to you. “i thought it would feel different, though. being here, having all of this. you know… everyone praising you. all this success.”

you didn’t answer immediately. instead, you let the movement of the dance keep you engaged, each step deliberate, each turn measured. your pulse was high, the warmth of his body close enough to make your thoughts tangle. you hoped he wasn’t able to feel it.

“doesn’t feel… fulfilling?” you asked finally, voice soft. not accusatory, just curious.

he blinked, caught off guard by the question.

“sometimes,” he admitted, and it was the first crack in his polished exterior. “i mean… it should. it’s everything i worked for. and yet… sometimes i wonder if i earned it or if i just… inherited the stage.” his laugh was short, almost bitter. “funny, isn’t it? how easy it all looks from the outside.”

you swallowed the lump rising in your throat. “i know what you mean,” you said quietly. “hard work doesn’t always feel like enough, even when it’s… everything you’ve got.”

he turned his gaze fully on you then, searching, studying. “and you?” he asked, softer this time. “i imagine you’ve… done well for yourself too. probably better than anyone could’ve expected back then.”

“i… manage,” you said, shrugging just slightly. “i’ve fought for everything. nothing was handed to me. no one’s waiting to open doors.” your voice hardened for a moment, memories of your fight with gojo flooding your mind unnecessarily quickly. “so when people ask if i’m lucky… well. luck had nothing to do with it.”

he nodded slowly, gaze almost reverent. “you always were relentless,” he murmured. “i should’ve… i should’ve said something back then.”

you frowned, confused by the weight in his voice. “said… what?”

gojo swallowed, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through the polished mask he’d worn for years.

“i should’ve… apologized.” the word came out before he could stop it, rough, unpracticed, raw. “for… everything. for being… me. for making things harder. for… not seeing you, really. i was a jerk. i—”

you froze slightly at the admission, feeling the heat rise in your chest. his gaze was earnest, open, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

“gojo…” you murmured, uncertain what to say. years of anger, injustice, hate—all tangled in a knot inside you. the memory of university, of the slap, of every competition and clash—simmered, alive and sharp.

“i know,” he said quickly, as if reading your pause. “you hated me. i get that. and… you had every right.”

the music carried on around you, oblivious to the tension between you. and yet, in that suspended bubble of movement, of brush of skin and warmth of proximity, something had shifted. the apology hung there, raw and unguarded, and for the first time in years, the walls between you felt like they might crack.

your fingers pressed lightly against his shoulder, uncertain, measured, but you didn’t step back. not yet. he assumed that you’ve stopped hating him, which was correct. right?

and gojo, noticing the small pause, leaned just slightly closer, his breath warm near your ear. “i’ve spent years… thinking about how to say it. and now… i guess i don’t care if it’s awkward. i just… needed to.”

you exhaled slowly, the tension in your chest tight and loose all at once. the dance moved on, your steps in rhythm with the music, but the words lingered, charged and impossible to ignore.

for the first time in a long time, the past and present collided, all in the span of one slow, suspended dance.

the music ended, soft notes fading into polite applause and chatter. gojo’s hand lingered at your waist a moment too long, like he couldn’t quite let go, and when he finally released it, the space between you felt heavier than before.

you stepped back, smoothing your dress, forcing your posture upright, but the heat from him clung, like a shadow. your pulse hadn’t settled, and you could tell he was feeling it too—the subtle catch in his breath, the tight line of his jaw, the restless gleam in his eyes.

“thank you… for the dance,” he said, voice low, almost husky, though his usual grin was back, but just barely. it was an attempt at lightness, but it failed. the weight in the air refused to be glossed over.

you gave a polite nod, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “you’re welcome.”

he studied you, just for a beat, his gaze sharp, almost calculating, and then softer, almost vulnerable. “i didn’t know it was you, but i’ve seen your work. you’ve… really built something,” he said quietly, like a statement, not a question. “i mean it. all of it. you didn’t just survive—you dominated.”

you exhaled slowly, because the compliment was dangerous. praise from him had a way of scraping at your defenses, leaving raw patches beneath. “it wasn’t easy,” you said, tone steady, though your chest tightened. “but it was worth it. for me.”

his grin wavered, becoming something close to awe—or maybe envy. “i… never doubted you,” he admitted, “but seeing it—seeing you—it’s… unsettling.”

“good,” you said, sharper than you intended. “maybe it should be.”

the words hit him like a spark. he smirked, a little off-kilter this time, the practiced charm giving way to something more dangerous. “you’ve always had a way of getting under my skin,” he said, voice low, teasing, challenging, but there was an edge to it now, raw and unpredictable.

you straightened, crossing your arms, feeling the familiar fire flicker back. “and don’t think that’s changed,” you shot back, tone clipped, though your pulse betrayed the way it raced.

he stepped just a fraction closer, uninvited but not unwelcome, the tension in the space between you coiling tighter with every heartbeat. “maybe it hasn’t,” he whispered, half a grin, half a dare.

you stepped back and suddenly the room felt louder, harsher, brighter. the applause, the chatter, the clinking of glasses—all of it pressed against your ears like it had been amplified.

your chest was still tight, your pulse quickened in a way that made you uncomfortable. you forced yourself to adjust your posture, straighten your shoulders, smoothed your dress again, anything to remind yourself you were in control.

he still stood there, just a fraction closer than propriety demanded, his eyes fixed on you with that impossible mix of charm and something sharper—something dangerous and familiar. your stomach fluttered against your will, and you hated it.

you hated him.

you repeated the words to yourself like a mantra, grounding yourself. years of competition, of betrayal, of cold, relentless self-assertion had built this wall inside you. you weren’t going to let it crumble now — not over one dance, not over one apology, not even over the way your heart had fluttered in your chest like a traitor.

was it excitement of putting him in his place? or was it just a thought of the slightest possibility of exceeding him even now?

but even as you told yourself this, you couldn’t deny the pull. the memory of university, the long years of competition, the fire of hate mixed with fascination—they all surged to the surface. it was messy. unpredictable. maddening.

“you’ve changed,” you admitted quietly to yourself, recalling his words during the dance. not in a flattering way, but in a way that made your chest tighten. years had polished him, sharpened him, made him… untouchable in a different sense. and yet, in that moment, in that proximity, he was startlingly vulnerable.

and that vulnerability, you realized, was dangerous.

you allowed yourself a small exhale, just enough to remember that you were still standing on your own ground, still built a life of your own, still earned every step forward without his interference or influence. the fire inside you wasn’t extinguished—it had evolved. refined. it wasn’t just hate or old competition anymore, not after this interaction. it was something complex, something sharp-edged that you weren’t ready to name.

you scanned the room, noting the swirl of glittering gowns and polished suits, the way people laughed and clinked glasses, oblivious to the storm that had just passed between you and him. everyone else was distracted. they had no idea.

and maybe that was comforting. maybe that was your armor.

gojo was already pulled into another conversation. you took a slow breath, letting your pulse calm just a little, reminding yourself why you’d come here in the first place — to celebrate the deal your company had just closed, to mark your own success, not to get caught up in the ghosts of the past.

but as you looked over the room, you caught his gaze again, sharp and unreadable, lingering like a shadow that refused to vanish.

gojo raised his glass in your direction, head tilting in a mock-toast, and you grabbed your own from the table to do the same, refusing to succumb under the pressure of his presence.

his blue eyes glimmered with something new.

—

as he gulped down the rest of his drink, eyes never lingering away from yours, for the first time in years, gojo felt a thrill that had nothing to do with power, money, or success. it was about you.

and somehow, terrifyingly, impossibly, that was enough to want more.

He’s been throwing rocks into your room through your window, you don’t realize it until one hits your leg. From there you abruptly get up and walk to the window, looking down on to the quiet side street he probably took when leaving your room all those years ago. 

He’s been drinking, you can tell from the dopey grin on his face and the way he slightly sways. He mentioned he’d be more busy in the coming weeks with work, but that he’d still try to make some time to bother you— so you didn’t forget about him. You’re guessing this is what he meant by that. 

“What are you doing here?” you stifle a laugh.

“Can’t a man stop by to wish you a goodnight?” he says teasingly, throwing another rock up in the air but this time he catches it. 

“Not for free,” you remind him. 

“Whatever,” he says, waving a hand.

There was a chance he’d get caught, he just didn’t care. The worst that could happen was getting yelled at by your mother, maybe get a shoe thrown at him too. You lean over the window sill, resting your head on your palm as you begin to listen to whatever else he had to say.

“You know, in the West, there's a story of a woman named Rapunzel. She lets her hair down, allowing her lover to climb it. I can actually relate to the poor man. He’s just like me, unable to walk up the steps without getting stopped by a wicked old witch.”

“Are you calling my mother a wicked old witch?”

“...Maybe,” he pauses briefly, before continuing to ramble, “anyways— I’d never pull on your hair. Not like that at least.”

That sentence was finished off with a proud smile on his face. You didn't ask him to elaborate, knowing exactly what he meant by that judging by the sick twinkle he had in his eyes when he said it. 

For a man that barely puts any effort into making crude remarks, you’re surprised he hasn’t tried to sleep with you yet. He barely even touches you aside from the little things, like tucking a strand of hair behind your ear or placing a hand on the small of your back when leading him into a private area of the house. It’s as if he were waiting for you to do something about it. 

“But you’d throw rocks through my window?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he clicks his tongue, “they’re pebbles.”

“She’s going to kill you if she catches you throwing pebbles through my window, you know.”

“Who?” his grin grows wider, never passing up the chance to talk shit about, who he considers, the devil. “The wicked old witch?”

“Who are you calling a wicked old witch?” an irritated voice cuts in— the Madame. You nearly freeze at the sound of her voice. He all but suppresses a laugh, never answering her question. His reaction was all she needed to know. She’s just a few feet away from the man, arms folded with the usual scowl on her face. “And what the fuck are you doing here? You already know you’re not allowed to talk to any of my girls without paying.”

“I’m here to say goodnight,” he grimaces, offended at the fact that he’d have to pay for something so simple. “Didn’t realize I’d be charged for being a gentleman.”

“I’d charge you for breathing the same air as her if I could,” she quips, sticking her hand out. “Now pay up.”

“There’s a special place in hell for people like you,” he complains, despite already reaching into his pocket and dropping some silver into her hand. Neither of them even count anymore— they both know he gives more than enough. 

“And I’m sure I’ll have the displeasure of seeing you there too,” she laughs, before scolding him as if he were a child. “Now go home.”

“I already was,” he grumbles bitterly, watching the woman walk off and disappear into the darkness— where she belongs. He eventually looks back up to see you clearly pleased by their exchange. You really do enjoy watching him struggle, but he doesn’t mention it and decides to end the night on a positive note. “Sleep well, princess.”

“You as well, general,” you softly respond. 

The brothel grew livelier as the night went on. Despite taking the night off, you still heard it all— the laughter, the cheering for whoever won a round of shogi, the shamisen playing in the background. It was almost easy for all the girls to forget the sad reality of their lives in an environment like this, especially with the kind of customers the Willow House drew in. All were kind, very respectful, they’d be banned from the brothel if they weren’t. 

There was a downside to that though. A lot of girls fell in love with the customers, especially the ones that were freshly sold off by their parents or caretakers. A lot of the time, they came from rough backgrounds. You couldn’t blame them. Falling in love with the first man to ever treat you with dignity and respect— there was nothing easier.

You’re in the middle of reading a book when your night’s interrupted again, but this time it’s from knocking at your door. It’s your mother, you can already tell it’s her from the two very sharp and impatient knocks. 

You sigh and rest the book down on your lap. “Come in.”

“Toji’s here to see you.” She doesn’t waste any time saying it, half-expecting you to perk up like you usually do when hearing the man’s name.

Except you don’t this time, and that sets off multiple alarms in her head. You never turn him down, she could’ve sworn you genuinely liked him at one point.

“I don’t feel like taking any customers tonight,” you murmur with a pout. It sounds like another childish protest to her and she’s not sure how much of it she can take. This’ll be the third time you’ve turned down a client this week. “Can you tell him I’m not feeling well?” 

She scoffs, “you were feeling just fine when that asshole tried to talk to you through your window.”

“That’s different…” you barely argue, trying to come up with an excuse. “It was brief.” 

“Doesn’t change the fact that you were giggling like a child with him,” she sharply says, fully stepping into the room and closing the door. “Meanwhile you won’t even take your regulars anymore.”

“It’s only been a couple weeks,” you continue to defend yourself, almost pathetically. Proving her wrong was hard, she's always been a sharp woman. “I take breaks all the time.”

“It’s not a break if you’re running down the fucking stairs each and every time that bastard of a general shows up,” she laughs in disbelief, slowly walking closer to you. “You haven’t turned him down once in these last two weeks.”

You don’t even get a chance to defend yourself before she continues, this time holding your jaw with one hand. She’s a little too gentle for someone who's making sure that you hear every single word that comes out of her mouth.

“If you don’t want to take other customers anymore, then that's fine. But if that’s the case, I might as well just sell you to him since you’re already acting like you belong to him. Is that what you want?!”  

“No,” you murmur, turning your head away from her and out of her grip. Had any other courtesan in the house done that, she would’ve clobbered them. Guess you are lucky, and she doesn’t fail to remind you of that. 

“I’ll tell Toji you’re not feeling good tonight,” she mutters, walking towards the door. “Don’t make this a habit, I’m starting to run out of patience with you.” 

—

Sukuna lied when he said he’d visit the imperial palace in a few days. It’s already been a few weeks and he’s just now visiting. Not that the emperor planned on mentioning it when his advisor had informed him of Sukuna’s arrival. 

One on one meetings between the emperor and the general are more casual, usually held at one of the many pavilions scattered throughout the palace grounds. It’s honestly more of a quick chat, knowing how impatient he can be. Sukuna barely even bends a knee anymore. 

“I want to ask something of you,” the emperor says, his voice as gentle as always. Sukuna's always wondered who he’d be if he wasn’t forced to take on a throne. He’s seen the man scribble away on a piece of paper once, maybe a poet. 

“Yeah, I figured,” Sukuna grumbles, laying back on the bench, propping an arm over it. After some time of unbearable silence between him and the cowardly ruler in front of him, he raises a brow and pushes him to speak. “Well?”

The emperor clears his throat. “The western kingdom has expressed interest in strengthening its alliance with us… through marriage with one of the king’s daughters.”

The relationship they had with the west has always been a rocky one. They always swore they meant no harm, yet their actions throughout the years have said otherwise. Price gouging when trading. Bloody fights breaking out near the borders. They sent a representative out there once and he has yet to come back. 

It’s been ten years. 

The fact that they’re actually willing to strengthen their alliance through a political marriage was a good thing. Maybe now the price of Sukuna’s favorite liquor will finally go down. 

“So you are to take on another wife?” Sukuna asks, wondering what in the hell that has to do with him. 

“...Not exactly,” the emperor awkwardly purses his lips, unsure how to even go about it. “They’re uh— they’re asking for you.”

Sukuna knows he’s made quite the name for himself, whether it be the nation's savior or the nation’s very own grim reaper, but this was something entirely different. The king’s asking that he marry one of his daughters, after word of him reached the princess’s ears. Though it sounds more like a demand, one that’s covered in a thick coat of sweet honey.

Apparently she’s heard all about his victories and accomplishments, his strongwill, and his… virility. They both know exactly what she was alluding to with that last part, it’s just not a conversation the emperor would like to have with Sukuna. Ever. 

“What?” he asks, completely dumbfounded by the idea in its entirety. She’s never even met him, and now she wants to marry him? She sounds like a spoiled little girl, demanding her father give her a new toy. That's basically what this way for him.

“They’re offering a dowry,” the emperor opens a scroll and slides it towards him. “Land, rare jewels, a castle of your own.”

And so much more. 

Sukuna’s eyes widened at the list, mainly out of surprise that the west’s king was willing to give him all of these things just so he’d say yes to the proposal.

He was a man that was easily swayed by money, he took bribes all the time. Yet when it came to his freedom, there wasn’t a price you could put on it. Marrying a princess from a different nation had risks of its own. It’s not like he’d be marrying a woman from here, he’d probably have to stick to the girl’s customs, the king would have him on a fucking leash. There would be no casting her aside and ignoring her, there would be no taking on other wives or concubines of his own. 

Not like he’d even want to do that in the first place. He already knew what he wanted. The very fact that they thought he’d even entertain the thought was absurd. It was fucking insulting. 

“And if I say no?” Sukuna finally asks. 

“We all may suffer the consequences of that,” the emperor's tone slightly drops, not in a threatening way, but in a hopeless way. Sad almost. Tired too. He was not cut out for this.

But Sukuna was. The west had been pushing their luck with them for years, refusing to marry one of the princesses might give them what they’ve been waiting all these years for. 

An excuse to start a full blown war. 

“I see.” Sukuna laughs, it's light and airy, and deeply unsettling for the man in front of him. “Tell that king, word for word, that I’d rather fucking die than marry his desperate, inbred whore of a daughter.”

notes: sukuna rlly said "dear king, you don't know how hard i've worked, you will NOT fuck this up for me."

You pressed your palm over the name like you could smudge it away.

But red ink never fades. It brands.

It condemns.

A red soulmate mark.

You had seen the pamphlets before—those rare anomalies that happen once in a few hundred thousand people.

The ones born defective, the ones whose soulmates were already claimed by someone else.

Fated to ache. Fated to long. Fated to never be loved back.

You always thought it was tragic in a distant, abstract sort of way.

Until now.

Until it was his name.

Until it was Zayne.

Your Zayne.

Your friend. Your colleague.

The man who offered you coffee the day you transferred, when everyone else couldn’t be bothered to remember your name.

The one who knew when your hands shook after a 12-hour surgery and would silently leave your favorite chocolate mousse in the breakroom fridge.

The one who walked you home after night shifts, even though his apartment was one floor above yours.

The one you tried not to love.

You tried.

God, you tried.

Because his mark had already appeared months ago—in black. Like it was supposed to. Permanent. True. Undeniable.

You remembered how he told you.

How he looked almost dazed, fingers brushing over his skin like he couldn’t believe he was lucky enough to find her.

You had smiled. You had said you were happy for him. You had even helped him pick out a gift for their anniversary.

And maybe you were happy.

A small, pure part of you had been.

But the rest of you was bleeding.

But you didn’t expect this.

You didn’t expect the universe to be so cruel.

Because months later, your body chose him.

As if fate wanted to mock you.

As if it wanted you to watch him belong to someone else, forever just one floor above you, one breath out of reach.

Red meant doomed.

Red meant defect.

Red meant you would love someone who was never yours to begin with.

Your fingers trembled as you traced over the ink again.

You imagined what it would feel like to show him.

To watch his face crumble, or worse—pity you. To be told, gently and with unbearable softness, that he loved someone else.

That his heart already belonged to the woman whose name was etched into his skin in perfect, black permanence.

You would never be that name.

You would never be enough.

So you rolled down your sleeve and turned away from the mirror.

The name still burned beneath the fabric.

And in the quiet of your room, you allowed yourself to break—silently, like you always did.

Because even the stars knew.

You were never meant to be loved.

Only to love.

—•

Day by day, you saw him.

In break rooms and bustling hallways, beside you during rounds, across you during late-night debriefs.

He was always there—smiling softly, offering you coffee in the way only he knew you liked it.

Asking about your day with that quiet warmth that made your chest ache.

He never noticed the way your fingers twitched when you took the cup.

Never saw how you always kept your sleeves pulled just a little too low.

Never questioned the stiffness in your smile.

It had been months.

You had become an expert at hiding the truth—an actress in your own life, wearing ease like armor.

You laughed when he teased you.

Teased him back when he tried to guess your soulmate’s identity.

“He probably doesn’t live around here,” you’d say with a light shrug, the same one you’d perfected in the mirror.

And he’d nod, gentle and non-intrusive, never the type to pry.

And maybe that made it worse.

That he was kind.

That he was always kind.

His soulmate didn’t make things any easier either.

She was bright, and sweet, and unbearably thoughtful. The kind of person you couldn’t bring yourself to hate, even if it would make surviving this easier.

She brought you takeout after long shifts, remembered your favorite boba order, got you a little potted plant for your birthday and left a sticky note on your locker that read, “For when life gets too sterile.”

Just like now.

You sit quietly at your desk, the hospital gone still with night, overhead lights buzzing low.

The sky outside is a deep, velvet black, rain tapping gently against the window.

She hums softly as she unpacks the sushi she brought, setting it out like you were her little sister she needed to fuss over.

“You need to eat properly,” she scolds, her voice warm, mothering.

You smile up at her, gratitude in your eyes.

You mean it. You really do.

Even as your wrist pulses beneath your sleeve—raw, restless, unbearably red.

Even as your soul screams a name it can never say aloud.

You thank her.

You eat.

And you pretend not to feel the burn.

“Any luck yet?” she asks gently, nodding toward your wrist as she takes a sip of water.

You follow her gaze, pulse ticking beneath the fabric, and force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“No,” you say, voice light, practiced. “Maybe I’m just destined to be alone.”

A half-truth.

The kind that slips out easily when the full one is too cruel to name.

Because what could you say?

That the name on your wrist has been there for months?

That it burns with a devotion that will never be returned?

That it’s his name—her soulmate’s name—written in red?

That while she buys you dinner and worries over your health, your heart quietly bleeds for the man who kisses her forehead and saves his smiles for her?

So instead, you say nothing.

You stir the soy sauce into your rice and let the lie settle between you—gentle, unspoken, and unbearable.

She offers you a sympathetic smile, her voice soft with well-meaning hope.

“You’ll meet him someday.”

And there it is.

The ache.

Low and sharp, blooming beneath your ribs like something cruel and familiar.

You nod, because it’s easier than telling the truth.

Because she’s looking at you with such kindness, such sincerity—never realizing that her comfort is the wound.

She doesn’t know.

She can’t.

That you’ve already met him.

That he’s just down the hall, finishing up his reports, waiting to walk her home.

That the universe gave you a name and then watched you unravel.

So you smile again.

The kind that feels more like a wince.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Maybe.”

—•

“I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

She smiles, radiant and unaware, her arm wrapped easily around his as the two of you stand face to face.

Your mark flares beneath your sleeve, a slow, burning throb that pulls your eyes to where her hand rests—light, familiar, right—against his.

And Zayne—

He looks down at her like she hung the stars.

With that quiet kind of fondness that once lived in his gaze for you, before the universe chose to remind you of your place.

Before the mark.

Before everything changed.

He told you once, in passing, how they met.

At a park. A lost puppy.

He’d helped her look for it, stayed with her until it was found. Said it felt ordinary. Nothing sparked then.

Not until a week later, when her name bloomed black on his wrist.

You remember the way his voice softened when he said it.

“Shaiya.”

Like it meant something holy.

Like it made sense.

You had smiled back then too.

And you do it again now, a practiced expression, polished by months of pretending.

“Yeah,” you say, voice steady. “See you.”

She waves, content.

Zayne glances at you, just for a second—just long enough for your heart to betray you.

Then they turn.

And you’re left behind.

As always.

Your mark burns again as you watch them walk away—slow, steady, inseparable.

It always flares like this when you start to ache for him.

When you let yourself want him, even for a moment.

As if fate itself is reprimanding you.

As if the pain is a reminder: You were never meant to be his.

Just a defect. A flaw in the system.

But you ignore it.

You’ve learned how to live with fire under your skin.

Instead, you cling to the memories—the ones that feel softer in hindsight, even if they hurt now.

“I hope your name appears on my wrist someday,” he’d said once, offhandedly, turning his head to glance at you with a quiet smile.

You had laughed, heart skipping despite yourself.

“If I was your soulmate, you’d probably end up with a headache from dealing with me.”

It was meant as a joke. Lighthearted.

But now—

Now, it tastes like irony.

Because it did appear.

Your name did show up.

Just not where it was supposed to.

Not on him.

—•

You didn’t quite know how you ended up here.

Maybe it was the silence of your apartment. Maybe it was the way your wrist still throbbed beneath your sleeve like a wound that wouldn’t close.

Or maybe—just maybe—you were tired of pretending you were okay.

So you found yourself in a dimly lit pub, the kind where no one asked questions and the music was low enough to disappear into.

You sat near the bar, shoulders hunched in a way you hadn’t noticed until your reflection caught you in the mirror.

One hand wrapped loosely around a glass of whiskey, the other idly pushing ice cubes in lazy circles.

“Here’s to unrequited love,” you mutter to no one, raising your glass like a toast to the cruel stars above.

You take a slow sip. Let the burn settle in your throat. Let yourself feel it—just for tonight.

Then—

A scent. Sharp. Clean.

Masculine and strangely grounding, like rain on stone.

It hits you all at once.

And before you can turn, an arm slides across the bar beside you—unhurried, confident.

He settles into the stool next to yours like it was always meant to be his.

You catch a glimpse.

White—no, silver—hair catches the low light. Almost too perfect. Almost otherworldly.

“Gin. On the rocks,” he says, voice low and smooth, like smoke rolling over velvet.

You glance at him, just for a moment.

And somehow, you felt drawn.

You let your gaze drift to the stranger beside you, curiosity outweighing caution.

He was striking in a way that demanded attention—dangerous, almost.

Red eyes, sharp and unflinching, stared ahead with the kind of focus that made the world seem like background noise to him.

His hair was a mess of white-silver strands, tousled and unruly, falling just above his brows like they had been kissed by moonlight.

And his mouth—curved in an easy, knowing smirk—looked as though it had never forgotten how to charm.

As if he was always just about to say something wicked.

There was an ease in the way he occupied the space, like he wasn’t merely sitting at the bar—but claiming it.

You stared a beat too long.

And then—

A sharp sting.

Your mark flared beneath your sleeve, searing hot.

You flinched, barely, teeth gritting as the pain sliced through the moment like glass.

Of course.

Even now—even with someone like him sitting beside you—the universe couldn’t let you forget.

You were still branded.

Still trapped.

Still hopelessly tethered to someone who would never be yours.

And the burn beneath your skin felt like fate laughing.

You cursed under your breath, the word slipping out low and bitter as the sting pulsed through your wrist like a cruel reminder.

You took another sip, letting the whiskey scorch its way down, hoping it would dull something—anything.

It didn’t.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him shift.

The stranger turned his head slightly, just enough for those crimson eyes to find you.

There was something unreadable in his gaze—sharp, deliberate.

Not surprised. Not amused.

Just… intrigued.

“Rough night?” he asked, voice low and laced with dry amusement.

You didn’t answer right away.

Just stared into your glass, watching the ice crack quietly beneath the amber.

“Something like that,” you muttered, not looking at him.

But he didn’t look away.

And somehow, you felt seen.

Not pitied. Not judged. Just… noticed.

Like maybe, for the first time in a long while, someone wasn’t looking through you.

He chuckles, a low, rough sound that wraps around the edges of your exhaustion like velvet trimmed in iron.

“Same here,” he murmurs, raising his glass in a mock salute before taking a slow sip of his gin.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then—“I’m Sylus,” he says, turning slightly to face you now.

There’s something in the way he says it—easy, but deliberate. Like his name is a secret he only offers to a select few. Like he’s giving you a choice. To take it or don’t.

You glance at him again.

That silver hair, those red eyes. The quiet confidence that radiates off him in waves.

He doesn’t ask for your name.

He just waits.

And for reasons you don’t fully understand, you give it.

“Y/N,” you say quietly, your voice barely above the clink of glass and the murmur of conversations behind you.

Sylus nods, as if the name fits. As if he already knew.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he says, and somehow, it doesn’t feel empty.

Somehow, it feels like the night has started over.

You blink slowly, eyes fixed on the amber swirl in your glass.

“All my nights are rough,” you murmur, your lips curving into a tired, self-deprecating smile. “Not just this one.”

You take another sip, let the warmth settle into your bones like armor.

Beside you, Sylus raises a brow—curious, maybe, but respectful. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t press.

And somehow, that’s more comforting than if he had.

So you both sit there, shoulder to shoulder, in a silence that feels oddly natural.

Not forced. Not heavy.

Just… there.

The sting on your wrist begins to fade, slowly—like a held breath finally exhaled.

Maybe it’s the alcohol.

Maybe it’s his presence.

Maybe it’s just that for once, you don’t feel so unbearably alone.

A sudden courage bubbles up—liquid and reckless.

You keep your eyes forward, voice casual.

“What do you think of people with red marks?”

You feel him glance your way.

There’s a pause. Barely a second. But in it, something passes—something unsaid.

He seems a little surprised by the question, but his expression remains unchanged. Calm. Measured.

“I wouldn’t know,” he says after a sip of his gin. “Mine’s never shown.”

He shrugs like it means nothing. Like fate hasn’t touched him at all.

And somehow, you envy that.

“Good for you,” you say, a little too flat, a little too bitter around the edges.

A beat of silence follows.

Then—a chuckle, low and quiet, rumbles from his chest.

Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just… amused.

Knowing.

“Interesting,” is all he says.

The word lingers between you, heavier than it should be.

Like he’s already pieced something together. Like he sees more than you intended to show.

You don’t look at him, but you feel his presence beside you—steady, unbothered.

As if your pain isn’t a burden here.

As if your broken pieces don’t make you harder to hold, only more worth noticing.

And for the first time in a long time, your chest doesn’t feel so tight.

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small piece of paper and a pen—moves smooth, unhurried.

You watch as he scribbles something down, his handwriting sharp and elegant, like everything about him.

Then he slides it across the bar toward you, the paper curling slightly at the corners as it stops in front of your glass.

He doesn’t look at you right away—just takes another sip of his gin, eyes still trained on the bottles lined across the shelves.

“I am fully aware of stranger danger,” he drawls, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, “but do call if you need… company.”

His voice lingers on the last word, smoky and deliberate.

Not suggestive.

Not empty.

Just a quiet offering from one broken night to another.

You glance down at the number.

It looks oddly out of place between your fingers—this small, absurd lifeline.

But it’s there.

And so is he.

You give a small, tired smile, the kind that doesn’t reach your eyes but feels a little more genuine than the others tonight.

“Maybe I will,” you say, tucking the slip of paper between your fingers like a secret.

He doesn’t respond, but there’s a glint in his crimson eyes as he raises his glass, as if to toast to unspoken things.

To bruised hearts.

To broken fates.

To strangers who feel a little less like strangers.

You both drink in silence after that, letting the night bleed slow and quiet around you.

No questions. No confessions.

Just the comfort of existing beside someone who doesn’t ask you to pretend.

When you finally step back into your apartment, the stillness greets you like an old friend.

Familiar. Too familiar.

You loosen your coat, kick off your shoes, and sit at the edge of your bed, the quiet pressing in.

The mark on your wrist is calm now—dormant, for once.

You pull the slip of paper from your pocket, smoothing the crease with your thumb.

Sylus.

You murmur the name to yourself, letting it linger in the dark.

As if, maybe this time, fate might finally listen.

—•

You sigh, long and weary, as you sink into your desk chair.

Every part of you aches—your back, your hands, your mind.

Eight hours in the operating room, eight hours of focus and tension and the weight of someone else’s life resting in your palms.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the silence wrap around you.

Then—

A knock at the door.

Soft. Familiar.

Before you can even answer, it opens just enough to let him in.

Zayne.

His dark hair falls slightly into his hazel-green eyes, coat still dusted with rain from outside.

He walks in with quiet purpose, holding out a paper cup—your usual coffee order, still warm.

“Long day?” he asks, voice calm and steady, like always.

Your chest tightens.

And then it comes—the burn.

That same, awful heat radiating from your wrist, seeping into your bones.

You clench your jaw, forcing a tired smile as you take the cup from him.

“Thanks,” you murmur, hoping your fingers don’t brush too long against his.

He doesn’t notice the wince you try to hide.

Doesn’t see how tightly you’re holding your sleeve.

Because to him, it’s just kindness.

To you, it’s agony.

You both sit in silence, the kind that would feel companionable if it didn’t ache so much.

The coffee sits warm between your hands, grounding you in the moment—keeping you from unraveling.

Then he speaks.

“I saw you out two nights ago.”

His tone is casual, but there’s something underneath it—curiosity, maybe. Concern, even.

You glance at him.

He doesn’t look at you. Just takes a sip from his own cup, as if the words don’t mean much.

“Were you drinking again?”

You pause, fingers tightening slightly around the paper cup.

The truth sits heavy on your tongue, bitter and unspoken.

You look down at your wrist, still hidden beneath your sleeve, the phantom sting of the mark pulsing like a second heartbeat.

So many things you could say.

Yes. Because pretending I’m fine all the time is exhausting.

Because I watched you walk away with her again and smiled like it didn’t kill me.

Because my mark won’t stop burning, and I don’t know how to live with this kind of love.

But instead, you offer a small shrug.

“Just needed some air,” you say quietly. “That’s all.”

A lie.

But it’s one he won’t press.

Because he trusts you.

Because he doesn’t know.

He gives you that small, familiar smile—the one that always undoes you more than it should.

“Don’t overwork yourself,” he says softly, like it’s second nature to worry about you.

Then he turns, footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving you with the smell of coffee, the echo of his voice, and the quiet devastation he’ll never see.

Your fingers curl around the cup.

Tight. Too tight.

As if holding on to something will keep you from breaking.

But your mark burns hotter now, searing through your skin like punishment.

As if it’s angry.

As if it’s jealous.

And for a moment, you wonder why it hasn’t bled.

Why it doesn’t just split open and spill all this hurt onto the floor where everyone can finally see it.

“Stop being so kind to me,” you whisper into the silence, your voice shaking.

But there’s no one left to hear it.

Only the sterile hum of the lights overhead, and the sound of your heart breaking—quiet and familiar—as tears trace down your cheeks, uninvited and unstoppable.

Somehow, without really thinking, you found yourself at his doorstep.

The city was quiet, the air cool against your cheeks, your coat clutched tight around you like it could hold the pieces of you together.

Your wrist still ached beneath your sleeve, raw and restless, but you had long since stopped trying to soothe it.

Sylus had texted you the address after your call—short, clipped, and straightforward, like him.

And now you’re here, standing in front of a door you never expected to seek out, uncertain of what you’re hoping to find on the other side.

Healing?

Distraction?

A place where your mark doesn’t matter?

You raise your hand to knock, hesitating for a moment as your breath fogs in the cold.

Then, before you can lose the nerve, your knuckles meet wood.

One. Two. Three quiet raps.

A pause.

Then the door clicks open.

And there he is—Sylus.

Silver hair a little messier than usual, a glass still in his hand, red eyes sharp but softer than you’ve ever seen them.

No questions. No judgment.

—•

He didn’t say a word.

Just nodded once, slow and understanding, and led you inside.

Now, the two of you sit on opposite ends of his worn leather couch, a respectful distance apart, the fire crackling gently between you like a heartbeat neither of you wants to claim.

The room is dim, shadows dancing along the walls, the only light coming from the flicker of flames and the occasional glint in Sylus’s eyes when he turns his head slightly to look at you—then away again.

You’re still.

Tired.

The kind of tired that no sleep could ever fix.

The tears have long since dried, leaving behind the familiar hollow ache in your chest, like grief carved a space in your ribs and decided to stay.

And your mark—

Still there.

Still burning beneath your skin.

You stare into the fire, your hands loosely clasped in your lap, and for the first time in days, you breathe—slow, deep, and unguarded.

Sylus doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t pry.

He just sits there, presence steady, like a wall you can finally lean against without fear of collapsing.

And in that silence, something shifts.

Not healed. Not whole.

But a little less alone.

You turn your head slightly, eyes drifting from the fire to him. His profile is lit in warm gold—sharp, unreadable, but not unkind.

“Sorry,” you say softly, the word catching at the edges of your throat.

For what exactly, you’re not sure.

For showing up. For falling apart.

For being the kind of person who calls a near-stranger because no one else feels safe anymore.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t turn to look at you.

Just gives a small shrug and takes a slow sip from his glass.

“It’s good company,” he replies, casual, like it’s nothing.

Like you aren’t a burden.

Like this—the silence, the ache, the weight of everything you can’t say—is somehow welcome.

You exhale quietly, some small part of your heart unclenching.

Maybe that’s what you needed.

Not comfort. Not words.

Just someone who doesn’t mind the quiet, even when it’s heavy.

“I can understand.”

His voice breaks the stillness, low and quiet—almost like an afterthought, but it sinks deep.

Your eyes dart to him.

Sylus is still facing the fire, his expression unreadable, the flames dancing across the sharp lines of his face.

“I love someone,” he says, slowly, deliberately. “But her name isn’t on my wrist.”

He takes a sip of his drink, his fingers steady around the glass.

“There’s another name on hers.”

The words hang in the air like smoke—soft, but heavy with weight.

And suddenly, you understand why his silence felt so familiar. Why he never asked questions. Why he didn’t flinch at your pain.

Because he knows.

He knows what it’s like to love without being chosen.

To look at someone and see a future they’ll never see with you.

To exist in the quiet spaces between their laughter—wanted, but not meant.

You swallow hard, the ache in your chest mirroring his.

Your voice is barely a whisper.

“Does she know?”

A pause.

“No,” he murmurs. “And I’m not sure I want her to.”

And for a moment, you’re not two strangers on a couch.

You’re two people clinging to the same kind of hurt.

And somehow, that makes it just a little easier to breathe.

“How does it work?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

Your eyes stay fixed on the fire, but your voice trembles with something deeper—something raw.

“Love. How does it work?”

There’s a pause.

Sylus doesn’t answer right away. He sets his glass down on the table, the faint clink of glass on wood echoing in the quiet.

You finally glance at him.

He’s staring into the flames, brows drawn slightly, as if the question has rooted itself somewhere inside him.

“I don’t think it does,” he says at last, voice low and unfiltered. “Not the way we’re told it should.”

His gaze flicks to you, slow and steady.

“Everyone talks about fate. About destiny. About names on skin and inevitability.”

He leans back, resting an arm on the back of the couch, red eyes glinting.

“But love—it’s messy. It’s inconvenient. It doesn’t follow rules or timing or marks.”

You swallow, something stirring painfully in your chest.

“Then why does it still hurt this much?” you whisper.

He looks at you for a long moment. Not with pity, but with understanding so deep it feels like a balm.

“Because you love honestly,” he says. “And honest love never goes unpunished.”

“I just want it to stop burning,” you whisper, the words escaping before you can take them back.

You’re not looking at him—your gaze stays fixed on the fire, on the flicker and hiss of flame. It’s easier than meeting his eyes.

“It’s not the unrequited part,” you continue, voice low and frayed at the edges. “I always knew it would be like this. I never expected anything more from him.”

You inhale shakily, pressing your hands tighter around your knees as if that could steady the tremble in your chest.

“But the mark—it burns every time I think of him. Every time I miss him, want him, remember him.”

The heat isn’t just under your skin. It’s inside your lungs, your throat, your heart.

A fire that reminds you with every spark that your love is a mistake written in red.

“I just want it to stop hurting every time I feel something.”

A quiet hush follows, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

Then, Sylus speaks. His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“Love shouldn’t feel like a wound,” he says.

You glance at him. And for once, there’s no teasing in his expression. No smirk, no defense. Just something quiet. Something honest.

“And yet,” you murmur, “it always does.”

He doesn’t offer easy comfort. Doesn’t pretend to have answers.

Instead, he leans back, watching the flames for a moment.

“Maybe,” he says slowly, “the pain won’t go away completely. But it can dull. If you let someone help carry it.”

Your chest tightens, but this time, it’s not from the burn.

It’s from the way he says it. Like he means it.

Like he would.

He steps toward you—unhurried, deliberate. The firelight flickers across his face, catching the sharp lines of his jaw, the glint in his crimson eyes.

“I may not know you,” he says slowly, voice low and steady, “but I know your pain.”

His words settle over you like a weighted blanket—not too heavy, not too light. Just enough to be felt.

Then—

He extends a hand.

Open.

Unassuming.

Offered without expectation.

Not to fix you.

Not to save you.

Just to stand with you in the wreckage.

You stare at it for a moment, your breath caught between resistance and the aching need for something—someone—to anchor you.

And somehow, in the quiet of that moment, it doesn’t matter that he’s a stranger.

Because pain recognizes pain.

And for the first time in a long while… you don’t feel alone in it.

You hesitate—just for a breath—then slip your hand into his.

His grip is firm, warm, steady.

He pulls you gently to your feet, the motion smooth, careful, as though you might break if he moved too fast.

And then—

The mark flares.

A sharp, scalding pain radiates up your arm, and you flinch, breath hitching as the heat sinks into your bones like fire licking at old wounds.

But before you can pull away, his arms are around you. Solid. Certain. Anchoring.

“Let it burn for a bit,” he murmurs, voice close, low, and rough with something almost tender.

Then he guides your head to his chest, where his heartbeat drums slow and steady beneath your ear.

No rush. No pressure. Just presence.

And in that quiet, flickering room—with the fire crackling, your heart aching, and his arms holding you like a promise—

you let it burn.

—•

“Y/N? Are you listening?”

The sharp snap of fingers in front of your face jolts you back to the present.

You blink, startled, eyes locking onto Shaiya’s concerned expression across the table. Her brows are slightly furrowed, lips tugged into a gentle frown.

You’d drifted again.

Your thoughts had wandered—slipped away from her words, from the crowded café, from the clatter of cups and the warmth of the sun spilling through the window.

You were thinking about him.

About Sylus.

About how his arms had felt around you.

How steady his heartbeat was.

How you let yourself lean in, even when the mark warmed beneath your skin like a quiet warning.

“Sorry,” you murmur, straightening in your seat. “I was… thinking.”

Shaiya softens, letting out a small sigh as she reaches for her drink.

“You’ve been spacing out a lot lately,” she says gently, not accusing—just noticing.

You force a small smile, fingers curling around your mug to hide the slight tremble.

If only she knew who you were thinking of.

And how much it wasn’t her soulmate.

“Just… soulmate,” you blurt, the word tumbling out before you can catch it.

Your heart stutters in your chest the moment you say it, the regret immediate and sharp.

Shaiya’s face lights up, eyes wide with surprise and sudden excitement.

Her hands nearly drop her fork, and she leans in, voice hushed but eager.

“Did you find him?” she asks, a hopeful smile blooming across her face.

You freeze.

There’s a second—a split, breathless second—where the truth rises in your throat like a wave.

That yes, you found him.

That it’s not a matter of who, but how painful it’s been.

That his name is carved in red into your skin.

And that her name is written on his.

But you don’t say any of that.

You just force a smile, one you hope doesn’t look too broken at the edges.

“Not exactly,” you say softly. “It’s complicated.”

How do you explain being loved—held—by someone who might be more than a stranger… but isn’t quite fate?

Suddenly, an arm wraps around your shoulders—casual, confident—and your breath catches in your throat.

The scent hits you first. That same sharp, clean cologne.

Then the warmth.

Then the voice.

“Why don’t you just tell her you did?” he drawls, low and unbothered, his tone laced with a kind of amused defiance that only he could make sound like an invitation.

Your heart stumbles.

You turn your head slowly and catch the now-familiar glint of white hair falling just over crimson eyes that look too pleased with themselves for someone who walked into your unraveling.

Sylus.

Of course it’s him.

You’re frozen, stunned, as your mark flares beneath your sleeve—burning a little brighter, a little wilder, as if it recognizes the chaos he’s just dropped into.

Shaiya’s eyes widen as she looks between the two of you.

“Oh,” she breathes, lips parting in surprise. “Is this…?”

And still, Sylus doesn’t move his arm.

He just smirks.

And you—

You can’t decide if you want to run, scream, or lean into him and let the world burn.

Sylus doesn’t miss a beat.

He gives a small, deliberate nod, his expression unreadable but his voice smooth as silk.

“Yes,” he says calmly. “I’m Y/N’s soulmate.”

The words land like a strike of lightning.

Shaiya freezes, her eyes wide, mouth parting in shock as she looks at him—then to you—then back again, like her mind is trying to catch up with the reality laid out in front of her.

You feel the burn instantly—sharp, searing, a violent protest beneath your skin.

Your mark is screaming.

But you smile anyway.

You lie through the pain like you’ve always done.

With practiced ease, you reach for Sylus’s arm, pulling him down to sit beside you.

His body is warm beside yours, grounding and steady in a way that only makes the burn worse.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice soft, your lips curled into a sheepish smile. “We’ve been… keeping it quiet.”

Shaiya blinks, still stunned, still searching your face for some confirmation that she hasn’t stepped into a dream.

You glance at Sylus, who is already watching you with something unreadable in his gaze.

And all you can do is smile.

Even as your wrist burns like a brand.

Even as your heart threatens to give out beneath the weight of the lie.

Because in this moment—right here, right now—you just wanted to be chosen, even if it was a lie.

“Oh, that’s great! How did you guys meet?” Shaiya beams, already clutching your hands in excitement.

You glance toward Sylus, your heart a tangled mess of gratitude and quiet devastation.

He smirks faintly, unbothered.

“At a bar,” he says smoothly. “She toasted to unrequited love.”

You laugh softly, a breath too close to breaking.

“Yeah,” you say, eyes on him. “And he didn’t walk away.”

Shaiya claps her hands, practically glowing.

“Oh, I have to tell Zayne!” she exclaims, already pulling out her phone.

Your breath catches.

You stare at her, helpless, your pulse thudding in your ears.

There’s a flicker of panic—of heartbreak—just beneath the surface.

And then you feel it.

Sylus’s hand, warm and steady, closing over yours.

Silent. Certain. There.

You glance at him, and he doesn’t say anything—just holds your gaze, letting you borrow his strength.

So you smile.

Small. Fragile.

But real.

Even as the pain coils in your chest and your mark burns beneath your sleeve like a wound that won’t heal.

After the café, Shaiya darted off, excitement practically radiating from her as she called over her shoulder about celebrating soon.

You could only wave, sheepishly, watching her disappear into the crowd.

Beside you, Sylus chuckled, that familiar, low sound that always managed to cut through your thoughts.

You turned to him, brows furrowed, voice soft.

“Why?”

He glanced down at you, completely unfazed, and shrugged.

“Would you rather people think you were lonely for the rest of your life?” he asked, smirking. “Because you were giving off tragic energy.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the small, reluctant smile tugging at your lips.

—•

A week passed.

And somehow, Sylus was everywhere.

In the hospital lobby, leaning against walls like he belonged there.

In the café line beside you, pretending it was coincidence.

On your lunch break, slipping you your favorite pastry like it was nothing.

You didn’t complain.

Even when your mark burned with every glance, every word, every moment spent too close.

Because his presence—while painful—was constant. Steady. Like a shield between you and everything else you couldn’t bear to face alone.

Now, you were in your office, signing off reports, when the door creaked open.

Zayne.

You looked up, startled, your eyes meeting his. His expression was unreadable, but there was something there—something frayed at the edges.

Conflicted.

Still, for the first time in what felt like forever, you smiled at him.

Your mark responded immediately, pulsing beneath your sleeve.

“I heard from Shaiya,” he said, voice calm, measured. “You finally found him?”

You nodded, sheepish. “Yeah.”

He opens his mouth—stops. Looks at you.

“That’s… good,” he finishes, but it lands flat. Like he meant something else. Like he almost said it.

You ask, carefully, “Is everything okay?”

He nods. Smiles. Too polite.

“Yes. I’m just… glad.”

And as he turns to leave, your mark pulses—not from yearning this time, but from something worse, realization.

You’re left in the quiet hum of your office, with the sting of your mark flaring and a new ache settling deep in your chest.

Because this time, it wasn’t just unrequited.

It was almost.

Sylus enters not long after, silent as ever.

The room doesn’t announce him—he simply is, like a shadow slipping into light.

His eyes find you instantly.

You expect the usual smirk, the dry remark perched on his lips.

But instead—

He just looks at you.

And something in his expression softens.

Like all the sharp edges of him have momentarily dulled.

Like seeing you—tired, unraveling, still trying to hold it together—matters.

He doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t need to.

“Why was he looking at me like that?” you ask, your voice cracking under the weight of it.

The question isn’t really for Sylus, but he hears it anyway.

It slips out before you can stop it—raw, unguarded, aching.

You’re not sure what hurts more.

The look in Zayne’s eyes, or the fact that it came too late.

Too late, when you’d already chosen to pretend.

Too late, when someone else had stepped in to hold you through the burn.

Sylus doesn’t answer right away.

He just steps closer, his gaze steady—never pitying.

“Because,” he says softly, “he’s starting to see what he never let himself feel.”

And the worst part is… you’re not sure that changes anything.

“That’s worse,” you whisper, the words breaking as they leave you. “That means he knew.”

The realization crashes over you like a wave—sharp, cold, merciless.

All this time.

All those quiet moments.

All the silence between your smiles.

He knew—and still chose someone else.

The first tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it, then another, and suddenly you’re unraveling—slow, quiet, but completely.

And without a second’s hesitation, Sylus is beside you.

No questions. No hesitation.

Just arms around you, solid and warm, pulling you into him like he’s done this before—like he knows this pain.

You bury your face in his chest as the sobs come, muffled and broken, and he holds you tighter.

One hand in your hair, the other against your back, grounding you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

And for once, you believe it.

You look up at him, eyes glassy, voice trembling.

“That means he had a choice,” you whisper. “That the soulmate mark… meant nothing.”

The words feel heavy in your mouth, bitter and raw.

Because if Zayne knew—if he saw your love and still turned away—then the mark wasn’t fate.

It was just a cruel joke.

Something to cling to while he chose someone else.

Sylus holds your gaze, his own expression unreadable for a moment—quiet, intense.

Then he speaks, voice low and steady.

“It means the mark doesn’t make the choice. We do.”

He brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb, gentle in a way that undoes you.

“And he didn’t choose you,” he adds, soft but honest.

“But I would.”

You choke on a breath, barely able to speak past the lump in your throat.

“But you… you don’t have a mark. Not yet.”

Your voice wavers, caught between disbelief and something dangerously close to hope.

Sylus doesn’t flinch.

Instead, a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips—wry, almost sad.

“I had mine removed,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t once cost him something.

“Years ago.”

You blink, stunned. “Why?”

His gaze lingers on you, softer now.

“Because I didn’t want fate to decide who I could love.”

Then, quieter—just for you:

“I wanted the choice to be mine.”

“Then… the girl,” you murmur, barely above a breath. “The one you loved…”

Your voice falters, unsure if you want to know the rest. But the question hangs there between you, fragile and trembling.

Sylus’s eyes dim slightly, the usual spark giving way to something quieter—something older.

“She never chose me,” he says, his voice low, steady. “Even before the mark showed up, I think I knew.”

He exhales through his nose, gaze drifting somewhere distant.

“And when it finally appeared,” he continues, “I already made a choice.”

The silence that follows is heavy, but not suffocating.

You feel it—the familiar sting of being almost enough.

And as he looks back at you, something in your chest eases.

Not because the pain is gone.

But because he understands.

You wanted to feel happy.

Wanted to let Sylus’s words wrap around you, ease the ache, soften the hollow in your chest.

But the mark burned—sharp and relentless—like it knew you were trying to let go.

Like it refused to be ignored.

A cruel reminder that no matter how gently Sylus held you, no matter how steady his presence or how kind his eyes—

your heart still belonged somewhere else.

To someone who never asked for it.

And never wanted it.

And that was the worst part.

Because for once, someone was choosing you.

And still, some part of you couldn’t stop choosing him.

Sylus watched you quietly, his gaze lingering not on your tears, not on your mark, but on you—the part of you that still hadn’t healed.

He saw the way your fingers twitched, the way your eyes dropped to the floor like you were ashamed of your own heart.

And then, softly—gently—he spoke.

“I know,” he said. “You don’t have to choose me now.”

No pressure. No expectation.

Just understanding.

Because he knew what it was like to love someone who couldn’t let go of someone else.

And still, he stayed.

Not to replace. Not to compete.

But simply to be there.

You didn’t say anything.

You just leaned into him.

And Sylus opened his arms without a word, holding you like he’d been waiting—like he knew you would break again, and he’d already decided he’d be the one to catch you.

You let yourself cry.

Not the quiet, hidden kind, but the raw, aching sobs that shook your shoulders and spilled everything you’d been trying to bury.

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t pull away.

He just held you.

Steady. Solid. Safe.

And in his arms, for the first time in a long while, you let yourself feel it all.

—•

You stared up at the white ceiling, its endless blankness strangely comforting.

Sterile. Still. Silent.

The soft, steady beep of the machine beside you was the only sound in the room, each pulse reminding you that time was still moving forward, even if part of you hadn’t caught up yet.

It had been three months.

Three months since you stood in front of Zayne and smiled through your breaking heart.

Three months since Sylus stepped into your life with his sharp words and soft hands and gave you something you didn’t know you needed—space to fall apart.

Three months since everything changed.

And Sylus never left.

Not once.

He stayed through the confusion, through the aching nights when you couldn’t sleep and the mornings when the mark burned so violently you thought it might consume you.

He was there when you made the decision—tired, trembling—to pack your things and leave it all behind.

Zayne.

The hospital that held too many memories.

The city that never stopped reminding you of what you couldn’t have.

You moved somewhere quieter.

Somewhere you could breathe.

And now you were here—lying on a padded bed in a clean, white room, moments away from erasing the mark that had defined you for far too long.

You weren’t doing it to forget him.

You weren’t doing it out of spite.

You were doing it to reclaim your skin.

To stop punishing yourself for loving too much.

To stop letting fate write a story you never agreed to.

There was fear, yes—lingering at the edges of your thoughts like a shadow.

But there was peace, too.

Because this time, the choice was yours.

And just beyond the clinic door, waiting in the hallway like he always did, was Sylus.

Waiting—not to save you.

Just to be there when you returned. Whole. Scarred. Free.

The procedure wasn’t just to erase ink from your skin.

It was to quiet the fire.

To silence the part of you that still, after everything, ached for Zayne.

The part that stirred when you heard his voice in a memory, that still wondered what if, even when you knew the answer.

At first, you were afraid.

Afraid of what you’d lose.

Afraid that without the burn, without the mark, you might feel nothing—or worse, that the emptiness would linger.

But then you thought of him.

Of Sylus.

Of how he stayed when he had every reason not to.

Of the way he never asked you to love him, only to let him stand beside you.

And somehow, that gave you strength.

You closed your eyes, letting out a slow, shaking breath as the doctors moved around you.

The bed shifted beneath you as they began to wheel you away, the lights overhead passing in soft, distant flickers.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t look back.

But just before you crossed into the next room, you whispered it—soft, steady, final.

“Goodbye, Zayne.”

And this time, you meant it.