Bin

you watch yourself in the polished bronze mirror. not a girl anymore, not quite a queen. something in between. something uncertain. how were you feeling? you felt dreadful. to be a pawn was never a good thing. a knock at the door. soft, like you can hear misery through a pounding. then a murmur. “his majesty is waiting.”

your sandals smack softly against the stone as you walk, heart quiet but heavy. the hallway stretch long, filled with mosaics that tell stories of your ancestors—men who conquered, the women who waited. you walk past them like a ghost. your father is standing near the open colonnade, among the atrium, staring out at the city below. his toga catch in the breeze like banners. he does not turn when you enter.

“you sent for me,” you say above a whisper, as the chamber echoed your voice. he nods once. his voice is as it always is— stoic. weathered by experience.

“rome has made an offer. emperor caleb xia would like your hand in marriage”

you say nothing. the wind picks up. it carries the scent of figs and pomegranates— your favorites. you stand, stiffened. is this from the emperor himself, or his senate? 

“you’ve always understood the weight of your position,” he continues, still not looking at you. “this isn’t punishment. it’s legacy.” you wonder if he’s speaking to himself.

“and the emperor?” you ask softly. “do you trust him?” he couldn’t even lie if he tried. your father turns, finally, eyes sharp and tired all at once. “no. but alliances are not built on trust. they are built on necessity.” he steps closer, and for a moment, he is not a king, but your father. his hand rests on your shoulder, not heavy, but firm. “you will do what must be done,” he says. “as we all have.” you nod. because what else is there to say? no? what the hells would even happen if you said that? with an even heavier heart, and a tight lip, you bow slightly, before turning heels and walking back to your chamber. 

later, when you return to your chambers, you unpin your hair with trembling fingers and stare at the mirror again, and when you look up to the mirror, your tears fall. you realize this may be the very last time you could have your peace to yourself— at least for a while. you weren’t a woman basking in the sunlight anymore. laying near the ravine with your closest friends. you were a pawn. 

the air inside the tent tastes of iron and dust.

outside, the murmurs of the camp never sleep—shields being oiled, blades checked again and again, men speaking low in the hush of an almost-won war. the sky beyond the canvas is the color of smoke, the kind that clings to your skin long after the fires are gone.

caleb stands alone over the war table, eyes fixed on the parchment map that bears the scars of too many campaigns. lines drawn and redrawn. cities conquered. rivers crossed. this battle will end tomorrow, and with it, resistance in the east.

he doesn’t smile. he never does. victory is expected of him. and expectations are chains dressed as crowns. a soldier enters, bows low. news of the enemy’s retreat. talk of surrender. a whisper, almost offhanded, like it doesn’t matter:

“a formal alliance is being discussed in the senate—nabira’s hand in marriage. her daughter.”

caleb says nothing at first. he does not lift his head. just another treaty. just another crown to bind with rome. how many women were given to him for this reason? he couldn’t count the amount of attempted alliance and leverage thrown at him. a mere woman’s soul is the price of not being taken and pulled apart? no. no, this would be different.  

“what’s her name?” he asks, not because he cares.. just to know what name history will one day try to stitch beside his.  the soldier hesitates. then: “they don’t speak it aloud, not yet. only that she is.. magical…shadowed... her father guards her like a secret.”

caleb’s gaze lingers on the edge of the map, where nabira is inked in faint gold. a kingdom on the edge of empires. he says nothing else, and neither does the soldier, and after a couple beats skip, the soldier leaves.

caleb stays there a while longer, the quiet pressing in as he glides his fingers across the map, calculating to himself. he knows better than to believe in fate. but still—he wonders what kind of woman is hidden behind a crown, guarded like a blade, spoken of only in quiet corners of powerful rooms. was she formidable? he wonders. his heart races at the slightest at the thought of you. 

and he wonders what kind of man he will need to be to win your loyalty. surely not with war? with silken drapes, and golden gifts. will he need to throw lavish expenses to win such an even more lavish heart? he was thinking too hard— he doesn’t even know a god damn thing, and this was distracting him. 

shahanshah - king of kings / emperor (persian. pronounced sha-han-sha)

the night air in parthia was cool, the scent of myrrh drifting through the royal palace gardens. shahanshah  sylus stood alone beneath the towering date palms, his thoughts far from the usual state matters. the sky stretched dark above him, the stars twinkling like scattered diamonds, but there was little peace in his mind tonight. the soft footsteps of an approaching figure broke the silence. the emissary bowed deeply as he came closer, careful not to disrupt the stillness. “shahanshah,” the emissary spoke, voice low and respectful. “we’ve received word from the princess' brother. the decision has been made.” sylus didn’t turn right away, his gaze fixed on the horizon. his voice, when it came, was quiet but sharp.

“what decision?”

“the marriage… it’s been arranged. the princess of nabira will marry emperor caleb of rome.”

sylus paused, his fingers tightening on the edge of the stone column beside him. he hadn’t expected this development, not so soon. but your father had always been pragmatic, and in these times of shifting alliances, a marriage to rome made sense—at least politically. still, the news stung.  

“and the princess?” sylus asked, his voice colder than it had been moments before. “was she consulted?” it was a quick quiet, the emissary hesitated. “she… was informed. the decision was her father’s. from what i understand, she did not take it well. there were tears, and anger.”

sylus absorbed the information quietly, his gaze never leaving the view before him. he knew this was coming. the union of rome and nabira had been hinted at for months, but hearing it was another matter entirely. he didn’t think that your father really had the balls to actually pull through. 

“her brother– the diplomat, he must have known this was coming,” sylus said, a small frown pulling at his lips. “why send the message to me now?”

the emissary nodded. “her brother… he has long worked with you, shahanshah. he is a trusted ally in trade, and he wanted to ensure you heard it from him directly. he also believes this marriage could open doors for more favorable dealings between parthia and nabira.”

sylus turned now, finally facing the emissary. his red eyes were hard, calculating. unreadable. the emissary shifted his posture.

“so this marriage is as much about trade as it is about politics?” sylus asked, voice laced with an edge. “but what of the princess? does she have no say in the matter?”

“her father has made the decision. the princess is caught in the web of diplomacy. her brother… i believe he tried to shield her from the worst of it, but ultimately, the decision rests with the king.”

sylus’ jaw clenched, and his mind raced. the political situation was delicate, but this… this felt different. he feels as if he’s seeing a life slip from its freedom.

“what does her brother say?” sylus pressed. “is he pleased with this marriage?”

the emissary hesitated again. “he does what is best for nabira. but it is clear he does not want to see her in the hands of rome. he worries for her.”

sylus’ lips tightened in thought. he had always known your brother had his eyes set on securing an advantageous position for nabira, but this marriage would change everything. the alliance with rome would tilt the scales of power in ways that were difficult to predict. an insurmountable amount of money would be handed over to the most powerful empire in the world. the silk road would bloom into something more. 

he straightened, his voice firm as he turned back toward the emissary, “tell her brother that i expect an update—soon. and i will not forget what this means for parthia. if rome wants nabira so badly, they will have to deal with us.”

the emissary nodded and bowed deeply before taking his leave. as sylus watched him depart, his thoughts lingered on you. you were bound by duty, but he knew that the chains of politics could break, and alliances could shift.

“she may not have a say now,” sylus murmured to himself, staring into the night. “but nothing is final until i decide it is. and i will make sure that, in the end, she has her freedom.”

Just—thump. Right there. Legs curled awkwardly, neck broken, but it was still warm.

You stood frozen, eyes flicking from the deer to the dragon-man and back again. He said nothing. Just stared, red eyes unblinking, tail twitching like he was waiting for something.

“…Do you… want me to cook it?” you asked weakly.

He blinked. Once. Then turned and vanished into the trees.

The second time, it was gold.

He didn’t make a sound at dawn. You just stepped out of your cottage one morning and there it was: a heap of raw gold nuggets and coins, like someone robbed an entire mountain.

You stood on the porch with your tea, staring at the glittering pile and blinking hard.

“…Is this a trap? Or maybe—maybe the forest spirits finally accepted my offerings of mushroom stew.”

You knelt down to inspect the coins. They were ancient. Some of them had runes you didn’t recognize. One had a dragon engraved on it. You poked it.

A low growl rumbled behind you.

You jumped, turning to find him again—towering, hulking, silent. Red eyes fixed on you.

“You again?” you whispered. “Okay, this is… this is getting a little weird.”

He stepped closer. You backed up.

“Did you lose this?” you asked, pointing at the gold. You knew how much dragons like treasures or shiny things, and getting barbecued by a dragon was not on your to do list this morning. “I can… help you carry it back?”

He stared. Then, slowly, he said, “Take it.”

You hesitated. “I mean, I guess I could keep a few—”

His wings twitched. “Take it.”

“…Okay.”

You picked up one coin.

He exhaled hard through his nose, clearly unimpressed. With a frustrated snort, he turned and walked off again, stomping like the very earth offended him.

The third time it happened, it was rocks—shiny ones. Polished quartz, opal, raw moonstone, the kind of stones that sparkled like water under moonlight. You found them lined across your windowsill one morning, arranged carefully as if someone had studied where the light hit best.

You sighed, fingers brushing over the smooth surfaces

“This again…”

The forest was silent behind you—but not for long.

A rustle. Then heavy, deliberate footsteps. Heat crawled up your spine before you even turned.

And there he was.

Sylus.

Towering, wings partially unfurled, horns gleaming in the dappled light. White hair tangled from wind and weather. Red eyes, burning like coals, locked on you.

He stood still. Staring.

You stared back, heart stuttering in your chest. “You again…”

He didn’t speak, not at first. He just nodded to the rocks with a barely perceptible tilt of his head.

“You brought these?” you asked, voice unsure.

He exhaled heavily, a deep sound from the pit of his chest. Then, in that low, growling voice, he said,

“Take them.”

You hesitated, brows furrowing. “They’re… beautiful, but why do you keep bringing me things? The deer, the gold, now these—”

“You not… understand?” he asked slowly.

You scratched the back of your head, awkward. “Understand what?”

He stared at you, expression unreadable, and then sighed—deeply. He looked down, broad shoulders slumping just a bit. Like a man who had tried very hard to follow the sacred rites of his kind and was now at the end of his rope.

Was he really this doomed?

“You are human,” he muttered. “But… pretty.”

Your cheeks flushed. “Um… thanks?”

He looked up again, eyes intense. “Good scent. Good eyes. I like your laugh.”

That only made it worse. Your heart kicked up in your chest.

“I brought prey. I brought gold. I brought treasure. I make nest warm. You live in it. You eat. You make funny noises when happy.” He stepped closer, voice rough, sincere. “I protect you. I fly over your roof at night. I scent-mark the trees so no male gets close.”

“You… what?”

He blinked once. “You are my mate.”

You froze.

“M-Mate?”

“Yes.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. A hundred things crashed into each other in your brain. The gifts. The constant watching. The deer. The way he always appeared when you left your cabin too far behind.

“Wait,” you said softly. “The deer was… a courtship gift?”

He nodded.

“And the gold?”

“A dowry.”

“…The rocks?”

“For your nest.”

“…Oh my god,” you whispered. “I’ve been accidentally accepting your… your dragon proposal this whole time.”

His tail flicked. “Yes.”

You groaned, covering your face. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I am dragon,” he said, almost stubborn. “I bring gifts. You are meant to understand.”

You peeked at him between your fingers. “Well, we’re very different, because I just thought I was being haunted by a very generous forest spirit.”

His nostrils flared. “I am not a spirit. I am Sylus. And I chose you.”

Your chest tightened at how… earnest he sounded. There was no guile, no smooth charm. Just raw, beast-like devotion. He’d been courting you the only way he knew how. And you’d been accepting everything without a clue.

“You said I’m your mate,” you said carefully. “But what if I don’t feel… ready for that?”

His eyes flickered. “Then I wait.”

You blinked.

“I do not take,” he said. “I give. Always. Until you give back.”

You stared up at him. “Even if it takes years for me?”

“I live long. I can wait.”

Your heart felt too big for your chest.

Then you reached out—slow, cautious, and brushed your fingers over the back of his hand.

His breath caught.

“…I’m not saying yes,” you whispered. “But I’m not saying no.”

His wings twitched slightly, his tail curling around your porch like a barrier. You half expected him to roar or make some triumphant noise, but instead He lowered his head to your hand, and pressed his warm, scaly forehead to your palm.

A growl, low and soft, rumbled from his throat.

It sounded like a purr.

Weeks later…

You sat on your porch, legs tucked under you, a blanket over your lap. The shiny stones had been arranged into a little circle beside you. A bowl of soup sat nearby.

A shadow passed overhead, followed by a familiar gust of heat and wind.

Sylus landed quietly for someone his size. He approached slowly, claws tapping the wood.

“You are back” you smiled.

You reached into your pocket and pulled out something small—clumsy, handmade. A necklace you’d woven with leather cord, threaded with one of the moonstones he’d brought.

You held it out, and he stared, surprised.

“You said dragons give. But I want to give something too.”

He took it, slowly, like he thought it might disappear. His claw curled around it carefully.

Then, with deep reverence, he tied it around one of his horns.

“I will never remove it,” he said.

You laughed softly and leaned back against his warm side as he sat beside you.

You still weren’t sure where this path would lead.

But he was warm. Loyal. Fierce.

And most of all, he waited for you.

You looked up at the stars and smiled.

Xavier.

You press the device to your chest, as though it can quiet the war inside you, but your heart is already spiraling—spinning in soft blue hues and pale gold strands that feel like sin.

You clutch the hem of your shirt, fists trembling.

“This can’t keep going,” you whisper.

And yet you know it will.

Because you’ve never been strong enough to let him go.

You’re the secret tucked into the folds of his life, the name he doesn’t say when he comes home, the body he returns to in the hours that don’t belong to anyone else.

You’re not his.

You never have been.

Not really.

He belongs to someone else.

Xavier’s marriage is a ring you never dared to touch, a name you can’t bring yourself to ask about.

You pretend it doesn’t exist when his fingers trace your spine, when he presses soft kisses into your shoulder, when he breathes your name like it’s a promise.

But it isn’t. It never has been.

You tell yourself you didn’t choose this. That you were dragged into the wreckage of his affection like a moth to flame.

But the truth is—your heart has always knelt for him.

Even when it shouldn’t have.

You still remember the way he looked that night—the first night. Blue eyes dimmed with regret, lips parting like he wanted to apologize for something he hadn’t even done yet.

And maybe that should’ve been your warning.

Maybe you should’ve run.

But you stayed. You always stay.

Even when it breaks you.

Even when you are nothing more than the pause between his vows.

Even when he’s still hers.

Because somewhere in the quiet, when his head rests against your chest and he whispers half-truths into the dark—you believe he’s yours.

Just for a moment.

And that’s enough to ruin you all over again.

—•

You stand with the door open.

And there he is—Xavier, leaning against the frame like the weight of the world has begun to settle into his bones.

His shoulders are slouched, not from defeat, but from exhaustion. Still, he holds himself with that quiet, princely grace he’s never quite managed to shake. Not even now. Not even here.

Your heart stutters.

A silent betrayal.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice barely more than a breath.

You step aside without a word, letting him in. The door clicks shut behind you, and your hand lingers on the lock longer than it should.

Fingertips pressed against cool metal, head bowed. Like maybe if you stay like that long enough, this won’t be real.

But it is.

It always is.

You feel the weight of his eyes before you hear his steps. The way his gaze crawls up your spine, deliberate and lingering, like it’s memorizing the shape of your silence.

He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.

And still, he comes closer—carefully, almost reverently. As if this isn’t something that should ache.

As if this isn’t betrayal, and you aren’t already hollowing yourself out to make room for a man who was never yours to begin with.

Then his arms slip around your waist.

You flinch, just barely.

But he pulls you in anyway, like muscle memory, like this has always been his place to return to. His chin dips into the crook of your neck, nose buried in your hair as he exhales, deep and shaky.

“I missed you,” he murmurs.

The words are a wound.

You close your eyes. You force your body to soften, to let him hold you—like the curve of your spine hasn’t bent too many times under the weight of this secret.

And he holds you, gently, desperately, as if that could fix it.

As if his arms could stitch together the parts of you that cracked the moment you said yes to being the other woman.

You smile. Or something like it.

A quiet, fractured thing.

Because what else can you do?

Let him pretend. Let yourself pretend.

Just for tonight. Just this once.

As if dignity weren’t already dust at your feet.

He begins to trail kisses along your neck—soft, familiar, undoing you with every press of his lips. Your breath hitches, sharp and involuntary.

You reach for his arm, fingers wrapping around it—not to pull him closer, but to pull away.

“I can’t,” you whisper, voice barely holding together.

He stills.

His arms fall to his sides, hesitant, lingering in the space between wanting and retreating. His eyes find yours, and they’re softer than they have any right to be. “Okay,” he says. But even as the word leaves his mouth, he takes a step forward.

You step back. A reflex.

Desperation tightens in your chest—not for him, but for yourself. For the last fragment of dignity you’ve been guarding like glass in your palms.

It’s slipping. You can feel it.

He moves again.

“Just tell me,” he murmurs, another step.

Your back hits the door.

You press your palm out, a weak barrier between you and him. “Xavier—” your voice cracks.

And he’s there. Inches away.

He doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

But the air shifts. Thickens. His hand reaches up, gently curling around your outstretched one as if to steady it. As if to steady you.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes.

The words unravel in the space between you. A challenge. A plea.

And you want to. God, you want to. You want to tell him to walk away, to go home to the life he built with someone else.

To leave you with at least this much—your silence, your pride, the echo of your better judgment.

But then he looks at you like that.

With that slow, honeyed gaze. With that voice like velvet slipping through your ribs.

And suddenly you’re back there—years ago, heart in hand, loving a man who only saw you when it was convenient. Who only reached for you in shadows.

You don’t tell him to stop.

You never do.

Because part of you still believes that if you let him close enough, maybe this time, he’ll stay.

And when he closes the distance between your lips, the world stills.

You forget how to breathe.

Forget how to think.

So you don’t.

You simply let it happen.

You let him in—again—despite the way your heart claws against your ribs in protest. Despite the ache that never really leaves, only hides beneath moments like this.

His hands find you slowly, reverently. They trace the curve of your waist, glide across the flat of your stomach, brush along your arms—memorizing what he already knows by heart.

And your body, traitorous as ever, moves with him.

Your arms lift, winding around his neck like they always do, like they were made for this fall. And fall you do—headfirst into the familiar ruin of him.

Into love.

Into want.

Into the kind of lust that tastes like guilt but feels like home.

You surrender, again and again, to the abyss that is him.

You lay your head against his chest, the rise and fall of his breath steady beneath your cheek—soothing, dangerous. Your own breathing has only just begun to slow, though your body still trembles faintly from the things he did to you.

Things you can’t say aloud. Things that live only in the quiet hum between stolen moments and regret.

You listen to the rhythm of his heart.

Steady. Unbothered.

Like this was nothing. Like this was everything.

His fingers draw soft, idle circles against your bare skin—slow, hypnotic. You close your eyes, but it doesn’t bring peace. Just more weight.

You don’t look at him.

You can’t.

Not even when he pulls you closer like it means something. Not even when he whispers against your temple,

“So beautiful…”

like he’s speaking a truth, not just rewriting the lie of this affair.

You keep your eyes fixed on the hollow of his collarbone, lips parted in silence.

Because if you look at him now, you might never be able to look away.

But Xavier—always gentle, always cruel in the softest of ways—lifts his hand to your cheek. His palm warm. Reverent. Mocking.

He tilts your face toward his, coaxing your gaze to meet his own. And there it is—that soft smile. The one that disarms you.

The one that pretends this isn’t a slow undoing. As if he isn’t unraveling your dignity thread by thread and calling it love.

As if your self-respect isn’t already splintered across the floor beneath your feet.

As if your mind isn’t screaming kick him out,

while your traitorous heart clings to the fantasy of a man who was never yours to keep.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

And for a moment, you nearly laugh.

Because how do you say everything?

Everything is wrong.

Everything is cruel.

Every kiss he leaves on your skin is a betrayal you’ve learned to crave. Every tender whisper another nail in the coffin you keep burying your better judgment in.

Every night he stays, every breath he takes beside you—it’s all a sin.

An unforgivable, deliberate sin.

But you don’t tell him that.

You smile instead. A hollow thing. A mask you’ve worn too many times.

“Nothing,” you whisper.

Because your heart—faithless and pathetic—wants him to stay.

Wants him, still.

Always.

“I’ll be back soon.”

It sounds like a promise, but you know better than to hold it in your hands. It isn’t a vow—it’s a transaction. A whispered lie dressed in affection.

An illegal exchange between a man who belongs to someone else, and a woman too foolish—too willing—to say no.

You nod anyway. “Okay.”

He smiles. Of course he does.

His fingers thread through your hair, slow and familiar, before trailing down to brush your cheek. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead—gentle, almost reverent. As if that small tenderness can sanctify all the ways he’s ruined you.

And just like that, he’s gone.

He disappears into the dim hallway of your apartment complex, leaving nothing behind but the ghost of his touch and the echo of words that never meant anything.

And you?

You stay.

Still.

Barefoot on cold tile, your body marked by his presence, your pride scattered at your feet.

You watch as he fades into the night, back into the life he never intended to leave. Back into the arms of the woman who gets to love him in daylight. In truth. In full.

While you remain here—unseen, unheard.

Helpless and sinful.

A secret dressed in silence.

You pull the covers to your chest, curling onto your side as if the blankets could shield you from the truth of it all.

Your eyes sting, wet with unshed tears, and your shoulders feel heavy—worn down by the shame and guilt you carry like a suitcase you never set down.

“I need to stop this.”

The words leave your mouth like a prayer. A plea. A lie.

Because who are you kidding?

You won’t.

You can’t.

And worse than that—you don’t even want to.

—•

“The total will be $48.53,” the cashier says brightly, her voice cutting through your haze.

You nod, wordless, handing over a crumpled fifty. The change is pressed into your palm, forgotten almost instantly as you clutch your bag of groceries and offer a polite smile.

You turn toward the exit, steps light, mind elsewhere—somewhere quieter.

But then you stop.

Dead still.

Just beyond the sliding doors—her.

His wife.

The woman he comes home to. The one with his last name, his mornings, his full, unhidden love.

And she’s looking straight at you.

Not past you.

Not through you.

At you.

Your breath catches.

Your pulse roars in your ears, and suddenly the bag in your hands feels too heavy. Like shame has weight. Like guilt has shape.

And for a moment, the world holds its breath with you.

The soft clinking of cutlery and quiet chatter fills the restaurant around you, but it all feels distant—muted, like sound underwater.

Your hands tremble as they wrap around the porcelain cup, drawing what little warmth you can from the tea. You don’t lift it to your lips. You just hold it, as if the motion alone can steady you.

Across from you, she sits. Composed. Calm. A cup of coffee cradled in her hands like it’s second nature.

Neither of you has spoken since sitting down.

The crepe she ordered rests untouched beside her, the whipped cream beginning to melt, pooling slowly at the edges like time running out.

It’s all unraveling—quietly, politely, painfully.

“I’ve known since that night,” she says softly, almost like an afterthought.

She takes a sip of her coffee, and you’re struck—not by the words, but by the calm in her voice. The unbearable stillness. As if she’s practiced this moment a hundred times in the mirror before finally stepping into it.

But you see it.

God, you see it.

The faint redness at the corners of her eyes, the way her lashes look damp. The exhaustion in her spine, just barely noticeable in the way her shoulders droop. And that smile—still there, still perfect—only now it feels like glass. Thin. Breakable. Screaming.

She’s holding herself together so quietly, so painfully.

You bow your head, eyes fixed on the untouched tea in your hands. Shame spreads like a bruise across your chest.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

And it’s not enough.

It never will be.

“Don’t be,” she says gently, picking up her fork. “You and I both know it wouldn’t fix anything.”

You nod—small, ashamed. The gesture feels like penance. Like a child caught doing something they can’t undo, sitting in silence while the consequences settle around them.

She takes a bite, chews slowly, then glances up at you.

“How long?”

The question hangs there, deceptively simple. But something in her tone, in her eyes, tells you she isn’t asking about the affair.

She’s asking about you.

About the feeling. The why beneath the what.

And somehow, that’s worse.

You hesitate, the truth caught like a splinter in your throat. You don’t deserve her grace. You don’t deserve her voice still soft.

But still, you answer.

Quietly.

“Since college.”

And the shame deepens—because even now, after everything, she’s still asking about your heart.

She doesn’t respond right away.

Just lowers her eyes to her plate, the fork paused between her fingers as if the admission settled somewhere deeper than she expected. Or maybe, she always knew.

You wonder if she’s tracing back the years in her head.

Wondering when he started looking at you the way he used to look at her.

If he ever stopped.

The silence stretches between you, thin and fragile. You grip your cup a little tighter, not because the tea has gone cold—but because you have.

She finally exhales, a sound so soft you almost miss it.

“I thought so,” she murmurs. Not bitter. Not angry. Just tired.

You want her to scream.

To curse you.

To ask why.

But instead, she lifts her gaze, and there’s only sorrow there. Not for herself. Not for him.

For you.

“You loved him first,” she says. Not a question. A realization.

Your throat tightens.

It doesn’t matter who loved him first. It doesn’t matter who loves him now. The truth is, none of you ever really had him—not fully. Not honestly.

“I shouldn’t have,” you manage, voice cracking under the weight of guilt. “But I did.”

And she smiles.

Not kindly. Not cruelly. Just sadly. Like someone who’s been living inside a heartbreak long before you ever stepped into it.

“I think,” she says slowly, “that’s the most honest thing either of us has said all day.”

She sets her fork down, untouched food pushed aside, and looks at you one last time.

“I don’t hate you,” she whispers, and somehow, that’s the cruelest mercy of all.

Because you do.

You hate yourself enough for the both of you.

She lets out a soft chuckle—gentle, unexpected. “Thank you. For being honest.”

And somehow, that hurts more than anything she could’ve screamed.

Your head dips lower, eyes fixed on the table as the guilt claws its way up your throat, thick and burning. It sits there—unspoken, unbearable—just like everything else you never had the courage to say.

Just then, the door swings open—and there he is.

Xavier.

He stands at the entrance of the café like he hadn’t just been the center of a quiet war. As if he hadn’t been split between two women sitting at the same table, breathing the same grief.

His eyes move to you first—always to you first—and then to her.

And the shift is immediate.

The air thickens. The stillness sharpens. Your breath catches somewhere between shame and something dangerously close to longing.

She doesn’t flinch.

She turns her head slowly, meets his gaze with a calm you know she’s had to fight for.

Xavier hesitates. Just for a second.

And in that second, you see it—the flicker of guilt, the fear, the weight of everything unspoken.

Then it’s gone.

He walks over like nothing’s wrong, like he wasn’t the reason everything is.

And you?

You sit there, tea cold, spine stiff, throat lined with remorse.

Because this is the moment you realize—love doesn’t always look like choosing.

Sometimes, it looks like walking in too late.

She clears her throat—light, deliberate. A warning bell in the stillness.

Xavier has just settled into the seat beside her.

Of course, beside her.

Where he belonged.

“I’m not leaving my husband,” she says, voice calm, but resolute—like she’s drawn a line in the sand and dares him to cross it.

Xavier’s head snaps up to her, eyes wide, stunned into silence.

And you… you look at him too.

Even now. Even here, tangled in the wreckage of what should never have been, you search his face like it holds an answer. Like it might offer you something more than borrowed nights and regretful touches.

Maybe, just once—you want him to look at you and choose.

Not in secret.

Not in silence.

But truly.

And still, he says nothing.

You nod—once, faintly.

There’s no fight left in you now. Only resignation, curled deep in your chest like smoke after a fire.

Your chair scrapes softly against the tiled floor as you rise to your feet. The sound feels too loud in the silence the three of you share. You smooth down the front of your clothes, more out of habit than necessity, then lift your gaze—not to him, but to her.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, and this time, your voice doesn’t tremble.

She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t nod. She just watches you—like she understands that this, finally, is the goodbye you both needed.

You don’t look at Xavier.

You can’t.

Because if you do, you’re afraid your resolve will break.

Afraid that some desperate, buried part of you will still beg.

So you keep your eyes on the door.

And when you walk away, you do it with your head high and heart in pieces—leaving behind the man who never chose, and will never choose you.

—•

“Y/N, these just came in for you.”

You glance up from your desk, the numbers on your screen blurring as a bouquet is set gently in front of you—roses, soft and bright.

Your fingers hover before you take them, delicate in your hands like something from another lifetime. A small note peeks from between the stems.

I hope to see you smile more, it reads, scrawled in messy, hopeful handwriting.

You already know who sent them.

Your eyes lift across the room to where he sits—Rafayel. The handsome new hire with warm eyes and a smile too easy for a world like this.

He offers a small wave, a tentative grin.

But your heart doesn’t move.

It doesn’t stir.

It’s silent.

You rise slowly, holding the bouquet like it’s made of glass and ghosts. And then, without a word, you cross the room and place it carefully on his desk.

“Thanks,” you say, softly. “But I’m okay.”

You don’t meet his eyes. You don’t owe him that.

You pick up your files, your steps quiet as you make your way toward the conference room. Back to routine. Back to numb.

Because you’ve loved too deeply once.

And it left you hollow.

You’re done chasing after the shape of something that never stays.

You’re done with love.

And you… you didn’t lean away.

The smirk faltered.

His fingers curled into fists on his lap as he turned back to his friend, expression smooth, voice cool.

“She can do what she wants.”

But the words tasted like ash.

You can most definitely not do what you want.

—•

You barely managed to draw in a breath when your back slammed into a locker, the metal echoing a hollow clang down the hallway.

Blinking, you looked up, only to find the all-too-familiar crimson eyes locked onto yours, strands of white hair falling messily over his brow.

His grip was tight—desperate, even—fingers pressing into your arms like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“Sylus,” you spat his name, your voice shaking more from confusion than fear. “What the hell?”

He didn’t speak at first, jaw clenched. You watched the storm move behind his eyes, red glowing under the flickering hallway lights.

Anger, yes. But beneath it—something else. A tremor.

“Who was he?”

Your brows furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“That guy,” he hissed, his voice low. “Who was he?”

Your eyes narrowed. “None of your damn business.”

You shoved him off, harder than necessary, and he stumbled back a step—not from your strength, but from the surprise of it.

Of you not yielding. Not anymore.

His face twisted with something unreadable before he looked away, his voice brittle as he muttered, “Fine.”

Then he turned, the hallway swallowing him whole as he walked away without looking back.

And you stood there, the ghost of his grip still lingering on your skin. You breathed in, shallow, like it might ease the tightness in your chest. But it didn’t. It never did.

Your heart was a knot of old memories, unraveling too fast to gather.

You remembered a boy who used to knock on your door holding Tupperware full of food, cheeks red from the cold, smile too wide for his face.

“We brought extra,” he’d say, lifting the foil-covered tray. “Mom says you should come over, too.”

You were ten, shy, new in town, and he was the only light you knew in this strange neighborhood. You’d whispered, “Sure,” and he’d grinned like you’d given him the world.

Back then, he’d sit with you for hours building forts out of pillows or sharing snacks during movie nights in your living room. He’d laugh so loudly it made your parents chuckle from the next room.

But then the years passed, and so did something between you.

First, he stopped knocking. Then, he stopped answering your texts. Pretended not to be home when he clearly was—curtains moving, lights flickering, silence too intentional.

Time moved without permission. And now, in your final year of high school, the boy who once brought you dinner and made you laugh until your stomach hurt had become a stranger wearing the same face.

A boy wrapped in the shell of someone you once trusted—louder now, cockier, swarmed by friends and girls and empty laughter.

He had become exactly the kind of boy he once promised he’d never be.

You stared after him for a moment longer, chest aching with something that didn’t have a name.

Then you adjusted your bag on your shoulder, blinked away the burn behind your eyes, and walked toward your next class.

Some things aren’t worth chasing.

Even if they once were everything.

—•

Your pen paused mid-sentence the moment you heard your mother’s voice float gently through the crack of your bedroom door.

“Sylus’ parents are coming over for dinner,” she said, like it was the most casual thing in the world.

You looked up, blinking as the words settled slowly into your chest. They didn’t sting—not right away. They just lingered, like something unfinished. Something forgotten until now.

You turned in your chair to face the door, brows pulling together. “What’s the occasion? It’s been a while.”

She stepped inside, her expression soft with nostalgia, the kind that lived in the corners of her smile. She crossed to your bed and sat down, smoothing out the blanket with idle fingers.

“Well, Sylus’ father was sick for a while,” she said gently. “Now that he’s better, your dad and I thought… maybe we’d invite them over. Just to celebrate. Like old times.”

Old times.

Your eyes dropped back to the open page in front of you, though the words had stopped making sense minutes ago.

You swallowed and gave a quiet nod.

“Okay,” you murmured.

“Just dinner,” she added, as if to soothe something in you she hadn’t realized had been stirred. “A little wine, a little catching up. Don’t spend the whole evening with your nose in a textbook, honey.”

You didn’t answer, not really.

She reached over to ruffle your hair in that familiar way—gentle, affectionate, unchanged—and you let her, even as your body tensed beneath her touch.

You whined softly in protest, and she chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple before rising to leave.

The door clicked shut behind her.

And suddenly, the quiet felt too loud. Too sharp.

You sat still for a long time, the pages of your notebook blurring before your eyes.

Your thoughts drifted—unwelcome—to the boy with silver-white hair and crimson eyes. The one who used to steal olives off your plate.

The one who stopped knocking.

You hadn’t seen him in your house in years.

And now he was coming back, like nothing had changed.

Like your silence hadn’t grown into distance.

Like your memories hadn’t grown heavy with time.

You weren’t sure which version of Sylus would walk through the door tonight—

The boy who once made you laugh until your sides hurt,

Or the stranger who now looked at you like you were just another face in the crowd.

You weren’t sure if you missed the way he used to look at you—or the way you used to look back.

Either way, part of you already knew—

This night wasn’t going to be easy.

Rising from your chair, you walked toward the bathroom, each step echoing more than it should. The hallway stretched before you like a memory you weren’t ready to face.

—•

Your footsteps padded softly down the stairs, the wood cool beneath your soles.

The house was quiet, bathed in the pale gold of a setting sun that streamed through the living room windows.

Your father sat on the couch, glasses perched on his nose, fingers moving steadily across his laptop keyboard.

He glanced up when he heard you, smiling gently as you slumped down beside him with a tired sigh.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, wrapping an arm around your shoulders in that familiar, grounding way. “Aren’t you excited for your final school year?”

You let out a groan, head tipping back against the cushions. “I don’t even know where I’m applying for college yet.”

He chuckled, the sound warm, yet tinged with something else—something you couldn’t quite place.

Then his eyes lit with a hint of mischief as he leaned forward slightly.

“Well,” he said, tapping at his laptop, “I have a surprise for you.”

You blinked, shifting to look at him. “Huh?”

He turned the screen toward you. “We’re moving.”

The words landed before you even registered what was on the screen. Your gaze drifted down to the email displayed there:

We’d be delighted to fund your child’s education at **** College.

You read it again, slower this time. Your heart gave a faint stutter.

“The company’s transferring me,” he explained, voice softer now, more careful. “I tried to decline—told them about your studies, that your friends were here. But…”

He trailed off, watching you.

But. The unspoken things always sat louder in the silence.

You swallowed. The couch felt too solid beneath you now, too familiar for what was being asked.

A new place. A new school. An entirely different life.

And somewhere in that fog of uncertainty… Sylus.

Would he even care if you left?

You nodded absently, eyes still fixed on the glowing screen. “When?”

“End of this term,” he said gently. “Then you’d start freshman year there.”

You tried to smile. Tried to make it seem like you weren’t thinking about the hallway locker, or the way his voice had dropped when he asked who that boy was.

You tried not to think about how long it had been since he looked at you the way he used to—like you were home.

Because maybe…

Maybe this was the universe’s way of saying it was time to let go.

“That’s nice…” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, the weight of it still settling on your shoulders.

Before the quiet could thicken, the doorbell rang—sharp, bright, and far too normal for the way your world had just shifted.

Your mother peeked out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Y/N, honey, could you get that?”

You nodded, already moving toward the door.

You pulled it open with a practiced smile, one you hadn’t worn in years but still remembered how to shape.

“Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Qin,” you greeted softly.

Mrs. Qin’s face lit up the moment she saw you. She stepped forward immediately, arm linked gently through her husband’s as she reached to cup your cheek, just like she used to when you were small.

“Oh, darling,” she beamed. “Look how much you’ve grown.”

You ducked your head slightly, a shy smile tugging at your lips despite the heaviness in your chest. “Yeah… it’s been a while.”

Mr. Qin chuckled beside her. “Practically a grown woman now,” he said warmly, giving your shoulder a light pat. “Tell me—should I start worrying about you stealing hearts yet?”

It was the kind of teasing that might’ve made you blush, once. The kind Sylus would have rolled his eyes at before elbowing his father and dragging you away.

But this time, you noticed it immediately.

The absence.

He wasn’t with them.

No tall frame leaning in the background, no flash of silver hair or tired smirk, no sidelong glance as if he couldn’t decide whether to speak to you or ignore you altogether.

Just the two of them. And silence behind.

You hesitated, your smile flickering at the edges. “Is—”

You caught yourself, the question dying on your tongue.

You didn’t ask. You already knew.

“Come in,” you said instead, stepping aside.

Mrs. Qin walked past you, her perfume still the same—soft, floral, familiar. “It’s so lovely to be here again,” she said, her voice wistful. “Feels like nothing’s changed.”

You didn’t have the heart to tell her how wrong that was.

Mr. Qin followed her in, chuckling. “Well, maybe one thing’s changed. Our boy seems to think he’s too grown up for family dinners these days.”

There was a lightness in his voice, but you heard the note beneath it.

And your heart sank—quietly, invisibly.

You closed the door gently behind them, the evening air fading as it latched shut.

And in that stillness, you felt it again—

The empty space where Sylus should have stood.

Where he used to stand beside you.

But not tonight.

Not anymore.

Everyone had begun to settle into the dining room, familiar laughter echoing against the clink of plates and the scent of warm food curling in the air.

Your parents and the Qins greeted each other with fond smiles and soft embraces, voices threaded with nostalgia.

You lingered near your seat, about to ease into it, when the doorbell rang again—sharp and unexpected.

Your brows furrowed as you glanced toward your parents. “Are we expecting someone else?”

The question hung there for a beat too long.

Your mother paused mid-pour of wine, exchanging a glance with your father. Across the table, Mr. and Mrs. Qin looked just as puzzled. Four heads shook slowly.

“No, we aren’t,” your father said.

You were halfway seated before you stood again, the unease too subtle to name.

“I’ll go check. Probably just the mailman running late.”

You offered it casually, brushing invisible lint from your sleeves as you turned away.

But something tugged in your chest—a quiet pull of instinct or memory, you couldn’t tell.

The hallway stretched ahead, dimmer than before. Your footsteps were soft on the hardwood floor, and for a fleeting second, you felt the weight of time pressing against your back—like the house itself was holding its breath.

You reached for the door, heart ticking just a little faster.

When you swung open the door, the breath caught in your throat before you could even stop it.

Because standing there—leaning against the frame like he hadn’t just slammed you against a locker earlier today, like he hadn’t vanished and left you behind—was Sylus.

His silver-white hair had grown out a little since you last really looked at him, falling in loose strands across his brow. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his jacket, posture easy, casual… cocky.

That same crooked smirk played on his lips, the one he wore now like armor.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, amused—like this was all some inside joke you weren’t in on.

For a moment, all you could do was stare.

Because no matter how much he changed, how much he morphed into this version of himself that you barely recognized, some part of you still saw the boy with the tray of brownies.

The boy who once said he hoped you’d be friends.

You blinked, collecting your breath as if it had betrayed you.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” you managed, tone quieter than you meant it to be.

He shrugged. “Decided last minute.”

Of course he did.

Typical Sylus—always appearing when you’ve just begun to convince yourself you’re fine without him.

You stepped aside, not trusting your voice, not trusting yourself.

He brushed past, the cold air following him like a shadow—like the past you thought you were done mourning.

And as he walked through the doorway like it meant nothing, like he hadn’t once meant everything, you realized—

This night was going to hurt in ways you weren’t prepared for.

“Boy, I thought you said you weren’t joining us,” Mr. Qin said with a laugh as Sylus eased into the empty chair beside him, sliding in like he belonged there.

You sat down across from him, stiffly, your movements careful. Too careful.

Your mother chuckled from the kitchen doorway. “It’s alright. I prepared enough for an extra.” She set down a new plate and cutlery in front of him with the same warmth she always used to.

“I couldn’t miss out on the fun. Sorry,” Sylus said, turning to her.

She waved him off with a grin. “Nonsense. You’re always welcome here—you practically grew up with Y/N.”

Your spoon paused mid-air.

That sentence settled over the table like dust.

Across from you, Sylus tilted his head slightly, eyes catching yours with that same knowing smirk he wore like a second skin.

You forced a smile, brittle at the edges. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

You dropped your gaze to your bowl, the surface of the soup trembling slightly from the tremor in your hand. You tightened your grip around the spoon and took another sip, hoping the warmth would do something—anything—to soften the knot in your chest.

Mrs. Qin’s voice rose, sweet and reminiscing. “They used to be so adorable as children, weren’t they?”

Your father laughed, shaking his head. “I remember having to patch up Sylus’ knees every other week when they’d run around out back. That treehouse incident? God, we thought he broke something.”

The table bloomed with laughter—gentle, nostalgic, painfully sincere.

You couldn’t bring yourself to join in.

Each memory laid out like that, stripped and served like something sacred, made your heart sink further beneath the floorboards. These were the moments you used to cherish.

Now, they felt like ghosts with kind faces and cruel timing.

Sylus didn’t say much. But he didn’t have to.

He just watched you—calm, unreadable, amused by your discomfort. And maybe, beneath that smirk, something else lingered.

Something quieter. Sadder.

But you didn’t look long enough to know for sure.

The conversation rolled on, voices growing louder with warmth and wine. But all you could feel was the silence building inside you, folding in on itself like paper.

The boy from your memories was gone. And yet—he was sitting right across from you, in your home, eating from your mother’s dishes, still chasing laughter from your past like it meant nothing had changed.

But everything had.

You had.

So did he.

As the laughter slowly faded, the clink of cutlery and glasses giving way to a lull in conversation, your father took a quiet sip of wine, then cleared his throat.

“We’re going to be moving soon,” he said.

The words dropped like a stone into still water.

Sylus’s head turned immediately. His easy posture didn’t change—but under the table, his fists clenched, so tight his knuckles paled.

Mr. Qin set his glass down with a soft thud, brows lifting. “Oh? Another company transfer?”

Mrs. Qin leaned toward your mother, her voice tinged with gentle disappointment. “Aw, that’s a pity.”

“We can keep in touch,” your mom said, offering a warm smile as she reached out to squeeze Mrs. Qin’s hand—one of those quiet gestures only old friends shared.

But even through the hum of old laughter and clinking glasses, you felt it—that subtle shift.

The way silence braced itself, waiting for something to fall apart.

Sylus hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t moved.

Then your mother turned to you, smoothing a hand over your hair with pride warming her tone. “Y/N here will be attending school there. Full scholarship.”

You glanced down, suddenly hyperaware of the weight of eyes on you.

“Oh, that’s wonderful news,” Mrs. Qin beamed. Then, turning to her son, “Boy, won’t you congratulate her?”

For a moment, Sylus looked like he hadn’t heard. Like his mind had gone somewhere far away.

Then his gaze lifted, locking with yours across the table.

It was quiet, that look. Quiet and strange and heavy in the worst way.

Your breath hitched.

He blinked once, slowly, and nodded—almost imperceptibly. There was something hollow in the motion. Something tired. As if he was surrendering.

“‘Grats,” he said, voice low. Barely above a whisper.

And for the first time that night, the cockiness faded from his face.

What remained was something else—something like grief.

—•

Your room was quiet—too quiet.

The kind of quiet that pressed into your skin, the kind that made you aware of every small sound.

The steady hum of the air conditioning, the occasional creak of old floorboards, the scratch of your pen dragging across paper as you copied notes you’d already memorized twice over.

Behind you, Sylus sat on the beanbag, his tall frame folded awkwardly as his fingers toyed with the strings of his hoodie.

He hadn’t said a word since you left the table. Just followed you up the stairs like a shadow, heavy and uninvited.

You hadn’t wanted this.

You had told your parents you needed to study—an excuse they accepted without question, though your mother, in all her well-meaning cluelessness, had smiled and said, “Oh, Sylus should join you. We wouldn’t want him bored to death with our adult conversations.”

You’d scowled inwardly, biting back every protest that rose to your tongue.

Instead, you’d smiled. Tightly. “Okay.”

You hadn’t looked at him once.

Your fists had curled at your sides the moment his footsteps followed yours down the hallway.

Now he sat there, breathing the same quiet air, unraveling the tension you’d tried so hard to knot away.

You stared at your notes. The words blurred together.

Then you sighed—a little too loudly.

Behind you, you heard the subtle shift of fabric. Sylus stilled. You could almost feel his eyes on your back.

His mouth opened, then closed.

Like he was about to say something. Like the silence between you was too heavy now to ignore—but he didn’t know how to lift it.

You didn’t turn around.

Because if you did, you weren’t sure what you’d find on his face.

And you weren’t sure what yours would show in return.

Your breath hitched—damn it—when you heard the shift of fabric behind you.

Then footsteps. Quiet, hesitant.

Each one heavier than the last.

You didn’t look up.

Didn’t even blink.

Your eyes stayed glued to your notebook, even though the words on the page had started to blur into nothing.

“So,” he said, voice low—rougher than before. “You’re going away.”

He said it like he was still trying to believe it. Like the words sat heavy on his tongue and tasted like loss.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Yeah,” you murmured, scribbling something down that didn’t mean anything.

The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Stifling. It filled every corner of the room, curling around your lungs.

Then he cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry. About the hallway.”

You raised an eyebrow, your grip tightening around the pen.

Still, you didn’t look at him.

That’s what he was apologizing for?

Out of everything—every unanswered message, every broken promise, every quiet moment where he looked through you like you were just air—that’s what he chose?

“Don’t worry,” you said, the words slipping out too bitter, too raw. “I’m used to it anyway.”

You didn’t mean to sound that hurt. But you did.

And Sylus… Sylus looked like he’d just been punched in the chest.

He exhaled sharply, jaw tight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Your pen stilled mid-stroke.

This time, you turned.

You turned slowly, deliberately, and looked up at him—at the boy who once knew you better than anyone else, now standing there like a stranger wearing pieces of your past.

“It means exactly what I said,” you replied, your voice hard, brittle. Your glare cut through the tension like glass.

Sylus blinked, visibly thrown. As if he hadn’t expected you to fight back. As if he was the one hurting.

The gall of it made you scoff. Loud. Disbelieving.

Of course he looked wounded.

Of course he flinched at the edges of your anger, like you were being cruel for daring to hold him accountable.

And for a split second, you hated how beautiful he still looked even when he was stunned into silence.

You hated that a part of you still hoped he’d give you something real. Something honest.

But Sylus had always been too good at building walls—

And you were always the one left outside them.

You could see it—the slow turn of gears behind his eyes, the struggle to piece together something, anything, that would make this moment easier.

His mouth opened, then closed, words faltering on the edge of his lips before they ever saw the light.

But it was too late for words.

Without warning, you stood. The chair scraped against the floor, sharp in the stillness. You looked him in the eye—really looked—and for a second, neither of you breathed.

And in that breathless space between glances, you searched his face—not for answers anymore, but for closure.

Whatever you were hoping to find… it wasn’t there.

You moved past him without another word and crossed the room. Opened your closet. Your hand found it immediately—the faded hoodie tucked in the back, the one he gave you all those years ago.

“Helps with the nightmares,” he had murmured once, when your voice had trembled over the phone at 2 a.m.

“It smells like you,” you had whispered, holding it tight to your chest.

But now, it was just another ghost in fabric form. A threadbare monument to a friendship that had been slowly unraveling for years.

You tossed it toward him without ceremony.

He caught it clumsily, eyes narrowing in confusion as he looked down at it. Then at you.

His brows drew together. “Why are you—”

“Take it back,” you said, quiet but steady. “I don’t need it anymore.”

There was more beneath those words—so much more.

You didn’t need it.

You didn’t need the comfort it used to bring.

You didn’t need the boy who gave it to you.

You didn’t need him anymore.

But you didn’t say any of that aloud. You didn’t have to.

Because Sylus’s expression faltered the moment he understood. His fingers gripped the fabric tighter, like he wanted to hold on to something—anything—but it was already slipping.

He stood there in your room, hoodie in hand, the silence thick between you.

And for once, he had no smugness to hide behind.

Just the look of someone realising too late what he had lost.

“Thanks for having us. Y/N, lovely to see you again,” Mrs. Qin said warmly, wrapping you in a soft hug that smelled faintly of lavender and memory.

You returned it gently, the smile on your lips practiced, steady.

Behind her, Mr. Qin chuckled, patting your shoulder. “Good luck with your future studies, young lady. Make us proud.”

You murmured your thanks, the words catching faintly in your throat.

Sylus stood a few steps away, quiet and withdrawn, shoulders hunched slightly like the night had grown too heavy for him to carry.

He kept his gaze on the ground, avoiding conversation, avoiding you.

Your parents stood on either side of you, waving as Mrs. Qin offered a cheerful, “We’ll see you soon!” and your mother called after her, “I’ll be sure to call!”

They got into the car, voices muffled behind closed doors, the engine humming softly into the stillness of the night.

Your parents turned to go back inside, chatting quietly between themselves, and you started to follow—until something made you glance over your shoulder.

And there he was.

Through the glass, seated in the back of the car, Sylus was staring at you.

Not smirking.

Not smug.

Just looking—like he was trying to memorize your face, like he already knew he wouldn’t see it like this again.

His expression was unreadable. But his eyes… they looked a little too lost for someone who had always pretended to be so sure of himself.

You met his gaze one last time.

There was so much you could have said.

So much he never did.

But instead, you let out a quiet sigh—one that trembled more than you wanted it to. Not for him. Not anymore.

You turned, the weight of his stare clinging to your back like a question that would never be answered.

—•

“Oh, boy—I’m so worried about my results,” your friend groaned beside you, clutching her books like a lifeline.

You chuckled softly, shifting the weight of your own books against your chest. “I’m not. I studied hard for this.”

The hallway buzzed around you, filled with post-exam chatter, slamming lockers, laughter echoing off walls. The air smelled faintly of summer, freedom just at the edge of everyone’s fingertips.

Your friend shot you a playful look. “That’s because you’re a nerd.”

You grinned, but before you could reply, her expression shifted, like something had just clicked into place.

“Oh! Are you still talking to Zayne?”

You froze mid-step.

Zayne.

The name felt like a gentle knock against your heart—familiar, soft, and suddenly distant. You blinked, the hallway noise fading for a second as you pulled out your phone.

One missed call.

“Shit,” you whispered, thumb hovering over the screen. You hadn’t replied. Hadn’t spoken to him since that day on the bleachers. It had completely slipped your mind.

Your friend laughed, nudging your shoulder. “Oh my god, Y/N the heartbreaker.”

You rolled your eyes and swatted at her, quickly typing out a message.

‘Hey, sorry—been busy studying. Let’s meet up after school?’

You barely had time to second-guess it before your screen lit up with a reply.

‘It’s okay. Sure. See you at the café.’

You let out a quiet breath, relief loosening your shoulders.

Your friend glanced at you, teasing glint still in her eyes as you both started walking again.

“Why don’t you just tell him you’re not into him?” she asked as you reached your lockers.

You shrugged, avoiding her gaze as you opened yours. “Because we’re not like that. We just got close after he helped me with econ.”

You began stacking your books away, trying to keep your tone neutral.

She scoffed behind you. “Right. Friends who text good morning, share inside jokes even I don’t understand, and look at each other like you’re the only two people in the room. Sure, Y/N.”

You shot her a glare over your shoulder, but didn’t argue. Because what was there to say?

Zayne was a good friend. He’d never pushed. Never pried. And in a time when you were still quietly mourning a boy who no longer looked at you the same way, Zayne had shown up without asking for anything in return.

You met him sometime after that summer—after you stopped going over to Sylus’s house, after the silence between you and your childhood friend turned permanent. Zayne had sat next to you in calculus when no one else had wanted to partner up.

He never asked about your past. You never asked about his.

Things just… clicked.

And for a while, it was nice. Simple. Easy.

But as you slid your locker shut, you couldn’t ignore the twist of guilt curling beneath your ribs.

Because maybe, somewhere deep down, a part of you had only clung to Zayne to fill the space Sylus had left behind.

And maybe—just maybe—you were still doing it.

Not out of cruelty.

But out of the desperate need to not feel forgotten.

“So, where are you—” your friend’s sentence faltered, her voice trailing off as her eyes fixed on something behind you. Her fingers curled around your shoulder, giving it a gentle shake.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

Then you turned.

And froze.

Sylus was walking down the hallway, weaving through the crowd like it wasn’t even there. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, jaw tense, eyes locked on you—like the rest of the world had fallen away.

He stopped right in front of you. Didn’t glance at your friend. Didn’t say hello.

Just, “Let’s talk.”

Casual.

Like he hadn’t been avoiding you for years.

Like he hadn’t watched you walk away from him without ever calling you back.

You stared at him, jaw clenched. “What is there to talk about?”

His gaze didn’t falter, but his voice grew quieter. “Can you not be difficult right now?”

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “I’m difficult?”

His expression flickered—just for a second. Then he looked to your friend, acknowledging her presence with a brief glance, before turning back to you.

“Fine,” he muttered.

Then he reached forward and grabbed your wrist—not harsh, not painful, but firm. Like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold on.

You barely had time to react before he tugged you with him down the hallway.

Your friend stood there, stunned, watching you disappear into the tide of students.

When you reached the quiet clearing behind the school—the one where no one ever really wandered during breaks—you yanked your hand from his grasp like it burned.

Air rushed into your lungs as if you’d forgotten how to breathe.

“What the hell, Sylus?” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended. Anger laced with something more fragile underneath.

He stopped a few feet away, hands still in his pockets, shoulders rising and falling with the weight of everything unspoken. His expression was unreadable, eyes too still.

“You can’t just—” you started, running a hand through your hair, pacing half a step before turning back to him, heart racing.

“Can’t just what?” he cut in, voice low and tight.

And there it was again.

That edge in his tone. Like he was the one who’d been hurt. Like he couldn’t understand why you were angry—why you’d ever be angry.

You stared at him, stunned for a second.

But the words?

They were already rising in your chest like a storm.

You jabbed a finger into his chest, hard. “Don’t act like you don’t know why.”

Your voice shook, not from fear—but from the weight of every word you’d never been given the chance to say. Your eyes burned, red-hot and unrelenting.

“You don’t get to stand here and play victim,” you hissed. “You don’t get to act like you’re the one who was left behind—when you were the one who walked away.”

For a moment, his expression cracked.

Just a flicker.

The mask slipped, and beneath it—there he was. The boy you used to know. The one who used to sit beside you at lunch and knock on your door with homemade muffins and a lopsided grin.

He looked like he’d just been kicked.

But you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

“Do you even know how long it’s been?” your voice rose, trembling with grief you didn’t know how to hold anymore. “How many years I’ve waited for you to show up again? How many nights I stared at my phone, wondering if you’d just say something—anything?”

He went still.

Silent.

His head lowered, eyes cast to the side, jaw tight like he was trying not to let anything slip through the cracks.

You turned away for a moment, trying to catch your breath, then spun back to face him. The words came tumbling out, bitter and helpless.

“Was I not good enough for you?” Your voice broke. “Not cool enough? Not interesting enough? Was I just some boring neighborhood girl you outgrew once the real world started paying attention to you?”

That’s when his eyes snapped to yours. Something flared behind them.

He stepped forward.

“You’re not them,” he said, barely above a whisper.

It sounded like a confession.

You scoffed, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “Then what am I, Sylus?”

The question hung in the air like smoke.

And he said nothing.

No excuse.

No explanation.

Just silence.

Because even now—especially now—he still didn’t have the words.

You looked at him—really looked at him—and for a moment, the anger unraveled, leaving something raw and helpless in its place.

“Well?” you whispered, voice low and brittle.

One word. That was all you needed.

One answer. One truth.

But he stood there, unmoving, mouth parted like the words were there, caught in the back of his throat—too fragile or too damning to say.

And you realized, with a hollow sort of clarity, that this was always how it went.

You waited.

Waited for him to show up.

Waited for him to speak.

Waited for him to care enough to stay.

And you hated it.

You hated how familiar this ache had become.

How you were always reaching, always hoping, always waiting—for a boy who never knew how to meet you halfway.

“Fine.”

The word slipped out on a breath, quiet and frayed at the edges. You exhaled, blinking fast as the tears threatened to spill.

“I get it,” you said, voice trembling. “I really do.”

You turned to go, the ache pressing against your chest like a closing door. You were done waiting. Done hoping.

“Wait, I—”

His voice caught behind you, reaching—but not quite enough.

But before he could finish, a group of students rounded the corner, their laughter echoing too loudly in the stillness. One of them spotted Sylus, grin spreading like gasoline to flame.

“Yo, Sylus,” the guy called, eyes drifting to you. “Who’s that? Your new girlfriend?”

You turned, slowly.

Looked at Sylus.

Waited.

For a second, he looked back at you. Something uncertain flickering in his gaze.

And then—it was gone.

The smirk returned. That old, familiar armor snapping back into place. The kind of expression that kept people at a distance. The one he wore when he didn’t know how to feel anything real.

“No she’s,” he said, voice light, casual. “Just someone.”

Just someone.

Your breath hitched, and you almost laughed—almost.

Because of course he’d say that.

Of course he’d reduce you to nothing in front of his crowd.

You stared at him for a beat longer, letting the sting settle in your bones.

Then, with a scoff and a bitter smile curling at the corners of your mouth, “Just someone, huh? Well. I hope you enjoy your life, Sylus.”

And you turned, walked away without looking back. Not this time. Not again.

He should’ve stopped you.

Should’ve said something—anything.

But he didn’t.

He stood there, frozen, as his friends clapped him on the back, laughing, teasing.

And still, his eyes followed your retreating figure, even long after you were gone.

—•

“So,” your dad said as he sank into the couch beside you, stretching out with a groan, “what do you wanna do in your last summer here, kiddo?”

You looked up from your sketchbook, pencil paused between shading strokes. The question lingered in the air like dust caught in golden afternoon light. You tilted your head, thoughtful.

“I don’t really know,” you murmured. “Maybe hang out with some friends… Zayne’s been bothering me about going to the movies.”

Your dad chuckled, reaching over to ruffle your hair before standing up again. “Zayne’s a good kid,” he said, already walking toward the hallway. “You should bring him over for dinner sometime.”

Then he winked.

You groaned, wrinkling your nose. “Dad, gross.”

His laugh echoed back to you as he disappeared down the hall.

You turned your attention back to your sketchbook, dragging your pencil gently over the paper, shading the delicate wings of a butterfly. Lines and curves took shape beneath your hand, and you let out a quiet sigh.

It had been nearly two weeks since the clearing.

Since the last words spoken between you and Sylus.

Since just someone.

The days had blurred since then—final exams, end-of-year photos, hallway laughter that didn’t sting anymore.

You’d spent those days with Zayne, sitting on the bleachers and dreaming out loud about the future. College. Change. Anything but the past.

And slowly, Sylus had begun to fade.

A little more each day.

His name didn’t sting as much now.

You had your answer, after all. He gave it to you, plain and cold.

You weren’t as important as you thought.

You were just someone.

Someone he had outgrown.

And maybe that hurt. Maybe it would always hurt, just a little.

But you didn’t care. Not anymore.

You were leaving this town.

You were going to study art history.

You were going to build something new—something that didn’t trace back to him.

Your phone buzzed beside you.

You glanced at the screen.

‘I got us tickets. 7 p.m. Don’t be late.’

You smiled, soft and small. Rolled your eyes.

‘When have I ever been?’

Sliding off the couch, you made your way to the bathroom, the rhythm of familiarity steadying you. The shower was warm, the steam curling like comfort around your shoulders. You dressed, grabbed your bag, and headed toward the door.

“Dad, I’m heading out!” you called into the house, already pulling on your shoes.

A beat later, his voice echoed faintly back, “Okay!”

You smiled as you closed the door behind you.

The porch steps felt lighter beneath your feet.

The summer air smelled like new beginnings.

And you walked toward the theatre—skipping a little as you went.

But then… your footsteps slowed.

As if pulled by muscle memory rather than intent, you found yourself pausing in front of a house that once felt like a second home.

His house.

Sylus’.

Your eyes drifted toward the front yard, overgrown in places now, the grass curling at the edges of the walkway. But you didn’t see weeds or time.

You saw mud.

Splattered shoes. Dirty hands. Giddy chaos.

You saw yourself, younger, wilder, laughing so hard your sides ached.

“I’m the mud monster!” you’d screamed, arms flailing as you lunged toward a smaller Sylus, who let out a dramatic, fake shriek and ran. His laughter had echoed through the summer air, filling every corner of the yard like sunlight.

Your chest tightened.

You shook your head and started walking again, trying to leave it behind.

But then your gaze caught again—on the porch this time.

The swing.

Still there. Still creaking faintly in the breeze, swaying back and forth like someone had just left it.

You stopped again.

You could almost see it—the two of you sitting side by side, pinkies linked like a vow only kids believed in. His shoulder brushing yours as the swing rocked lazily beneath you.

“I promise,” he’d said back then, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We’ll still be friends. I won’t turn into a jock.”

He’d laughed—boyish and unguarded—before nudging you playfully. “If you promise you won’t become a mean girl.”

You’d snorted, flicking his arm. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Me, a mean girl? That’s terrifying.”

You could almost hear it again—the innocence, the hope. The sound of two hearts that thought they’d always beat beside each other.

But that was a long time ago.

The swing creaked.

The porch sat empty.

And the boy who once made you promises now barely remembered how to say your name without making it hurt.

You blinked the memory away, swallowed hard, and turned back toward the road.

The past wasn’t your home anymore.

And it was time to stop standing in its yard.

You were just about to turn the corner onto the main road, heart light with the thought of the evening ahead—when you stopped dead in your tracks.

Because there he was.

Sylus.

The very boy you had promised yourself you were done thinking about.

The ghost of every half-spoken word and every memory you tried to bury now stood, very real, very solid, right in front of you.

He towered above you like he always had, but something was different.

Red eyes met yours—still sharp, but dulled now. Hollowed out by something you didn’t recognize. Or maybe… something you did.

His hair was tousled, styled but undone, like he’d been running. Like this wasn’t where he intended to be—but he ended up here anyway.

You couldn’t speak.

Neither could he.

The silence stretched between you, trembling with everything you hadn’t said.

And then—his voice, quiet. Rough. Almost like he forgot how to use it.

“Hey.”

You blinked, breath catching.

“H-Hey,” you replied, and your voice felt too small, too tight in your throat.

Suddenly, your shoes were fascinating. You stared down, shuffling your feet slightly, hand rising to rub at the back of your neck, anything to ground yourself.

“How long?” he asked, the question breaking through the stillness like a pebble tossed into water.

You looked up, slowly. The question caught you off guard, though you knew exactly what he meant.

“A week,” you answered, soft but honest.

He nodded. Just once. Looking down like he couldn’t quite meet your eyes anymore.

“I see.”

Two words. So simple. So heavy.

The kind of heaviness that comes when it’s already too late.

You glanced down at your phone, checking the time.

Zayne was probably already at the theatre.

You hesitated for a moment, then looked up at Sylus again—at the boy who once felt like your whole world and now stood in front of you like a closed chapter you hadn’t quite finished reading.

“Hey, look, I—” you started, the words catching for a beat before you steadied them with a breath.

Then you offered a small smile, one that didn’t tremble this time.

“I don’t care about all that anymore.”

His head snapped up.

His eyes searched yours, wide, startled. There was something in them—shock, disbelief, and something softer you couldn’t name. Maybe regret. Maybe relief. Maybe it was both.

“I’m moving on,” you said quietly. “A new life and all that.”

You tucked your hands into your pockets, suddenly shy. “I just… I hope you get everything you’re looking for, Sylus.”

For a moment, the world seemed to pause around you.

Then, gently, you raised your hand in a small wave.

And stepped aside.

You didn’t look back this time.

Didn’t wait for a reply.

You just walked forward—toward the future.

Leaving him behind, not out of anger.

Peace has never felt more profound. Wrapped in the quiet hush of evening, the cool hum of the air conditioner, and the soft duvet cocooning your body, the weight of the world loosens its grip. The storm of thoughts, the heaviness pressing against your ribs—it all quiets, dissolving into the stillness.

Only when left alone, surrendered to the depths of sleep, do you finally feel light. Free. At ease.

But of course, peace was never meant to last. Not when you agreed to this trip.

Three knocks at the door. A soft beep of the lock.

“Yn? Are you still sleeping?”

MC’s voice pulls you from the haze of slumber, gentle but insistent. The mattress dips slightly as she steps closer.

You groan, turning away from the sound, but she only huffs.

“It’s already seven. You haven’t eaten anything all day.” Concern laces her words as she reaches out, pressing the back of her hand against your forehead. A soft smile tugs at her lips. “You’re not burning up anymore.”

Blinking against the lingering blur of sleep, you rub your eyes, squinting up at her.

“Mhmm,” you mumble, barely coherent.

The tension in her shoulders eases at your response, the worry fading as a familiar brightness returns to her face.

“Here—eat.” She sets a bowl in your hands, warmth seeping through the ceramic. Steam rises, carrying the scent of something unmistakably familiar.

Dark green seaweed sways in golden broth, delicate strands floating between pieces of soft tofu.

Your brows furrow. “Where did you get this?”

“Caleb made it.” She grins. “He was adamant about you finishing every last drop, so you better eat up.”

The words settle heavily in your chest.

You know this dish.

It’s the same soup you once made for him when he was too sick to get out of bed, voice hoarse, fever clouding his mind. The same one he had groggily murmured was the best thing he had ever tasted.

The warmth of the memory seeps in before you can stop it.

Back then, his voice had been hoarse, barely above a whisper, thick with exhaustion.

“Caleb, you should eat.”

“Mmnh… not hungry…” He mumbled, shifting away from the dish in your hands, cheek pressed against the pillow.

You huffed, exasperated but unwilling to let him get away with it. “I promise it’ll make you feel better. Seaweed soups are the best for colds. Trust me.”

It took a few more tries to convince him. A few more weak protests before you had enough.

“Bzz, the airplane’s coming!” You guided the spoon toward his lips, making an exaggerated motion.

A smile flickered across his face, slow and lazy, before it stretched into something wider. “Pfft—Stop acting like I’m five!”

His laughter was bright, warm. It tugged at your heart in ways you didn’t want to admit.

“You’re acting like one, so I must treat you as one,” you countered, puffing your cheeks. “Now open up!”

His shoulders shook from suppressed giggles, but he relented, raising a mock defensive hand. “Okay, okay! Pfft—”

His laughter was cut off by a fit of coughs, his body curling in on itself slightly. Your expression immediately shifted, a deeper frown settling between your brows.

“Stop playing around. This is my secret recipe. It’ll stop you from starting another pandemic,” you scolded, pushing the spoon toward him again.

He groaned, but finally obeyed, letting the warmth of the soup settle in his mouth.

His eyes widened, lips parting in surprise.

“You weren’t joking,” he muttered, almost in awe. “This is really good.”

Fatigue seemed to lift slightly from his face, a softness settling in its place.

“See?” You huffed, victorious.

But then—his gaze softened in a way that made your heart skip a beat.

“Thank you, shortcake,” he murmured, reaching up with sluggish movements to ruffle your hair. His touch was light, absentminded. Familiar.

Your heart had tugged—just slightly.

Now, staring at the same soup, the warmth of the past curling in your chest like a ghost of something you no longer recognize, you swallow down whatever unspoken feeling rises in your throat.

“Well?” MC grins, nudging you. “Eat up before it gets cold.”

You hesitate, just for a moment, then lift the spoon to your lips.

It tastes the same.

And yet, somehow, it doesn’t.

You take another spoonful, swallowing the warmth down along with the lump in your throat.

MC, oblivious to the thoughts stirring in your head, plops down beside you, stretching her limbs dramatically.

“God, today was exhausting,” she groans, tilting her head back. “I swear, if I have to redo that crying scene one more time, I might actually start sobbing for real.”

You hum absentmindedly, stirring the soup with your spoon.

“And Caleb—ugh, don’t get me started on him. He seemed really out of it today.” she continues, rolling onto her side to face you. “Like, he kept missing his queues, kept dazing in the middle of the shoot. Kept asking me if you ate, made me go shop for the soup’s ingredients with him, double-check the soup, even told me it was your favorite like I didn’t already know that.”

Your hand stills over the bowl.

MC doesn’t notice.

She sighs dramatically, propping her head up with one hand. “He even snapped at me earlier. Like, Caleb snapped at me. Can you believe that?”

You glance at her, arching a brow. “What did he say?”

She huffs. “I was teasing him, you know? Asking if he’s finally realizing he’s in love with you or whatever. And he just looked at me—like, seriously looked at me—and said, ‘She’s sick, Michaela.’ Like, what?”

Something sharp presses against your chest, but you don’t acknowledge it.

MC groans again, stretching her arms before flopping back onto the bed. “I get it, though,” she sighs, rolling onto her side to face you. Then, without warning, she grabs your hand, squeezing it tightly.

“I was worried sick about you too, Yn.” Her voice softens, the teasing gone. “Don’t go fainting like that again, okay? You gotta tell me if you’re too tired. I need you to be okay.”

You stare at her, her fingers warm against yours, grounding you in a way nothing else has. The weight in your chest—the anger, the ache that’s been gnawing at you since this trip began—fades, just a little.

Because this is MC.

Bright, infuriating, golden MC, who always means it when she says she cares.

And you love her for it.

You love her.

You always have.

So despite everything—despite the storm in your chest, despite the way the world has been tilting under your feet—you smile.

“Yeah,” you murmur, squeezing her hand back. “I know.”

Her lips curl into a grin, her eyes gleaming like the sun itself. And just like that, just for a second, the world feels a little lighter.

“Anyways, enough about that. You need to catch up on all the drama you missed today. And—”

She launches into a rant, animated as ever, filling the room with stories of the ‘earth-shattering’ events you somehow survived without.

Somewhere between her exaggerated retellings and her scandalized gasps, you find yourself laughing.

And just like that, the fatigue melts away.

You only realize you’ve finished the soup when MC casually plucks the empty bowl from your hands, setting it on the table without missing a beat.

She keeps talking, her words tumbling out in a steady, animated stream—until they don’t.

You notice it immediately.

The slight stutter. The way her voice falters mid-sentence. The way her fingers suddenly fidget with the loose threads of the blanket. The way a soft, barely-there pink dusts her cheeks.

Your brows furrow slightly. “MC?”

She clears her throat, forcing a casual laugh. “Sorry, I just—uh—” she waves a hand, trying to dismiss whatever just flustered her, but you catch it. You always catch it.

The way her lips press together. The way her eyes flicker away, focusing anywhere but you.

Suspicion creeps in. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“MC.”

She groans dramatically, covering her face with her hands before peeking through her fingers, her voice dropping ever so slightly.

“It’s just—I was practicing lines with Sylus today, and—”

She hesitates, the words caught somewhere between reluctance and amusement.

Your brows lift.

Sylus?

Of course, you know he’s popular. You’ve seen the way girls linger around him, how they find excuses to talk to him. But MC?

Your lips part slightly, but before you can say anything, something else creeps in—unbidden.

The warmth of his body on the tip of your fingers.

The sharp scent of rain clinging to his skin.

The steady grip of his hand, pulling you away from the storm.

The way he leaned against the wall, damp silver strands falling over his eyes, a towel draped over his shoulders, sharp and unbothered.

The quiet turn of a page, his presence steady, grounding, when everything else felt like it was slipping through your fingers.

You swallow.

The memories pass in a flash, leaving behind something you don’t quite understand.

MC doesn’t notice your silence. She groans again, shaking her head.

“Ugh, never mind. It’s not a big deal,” she mutters, but there’s a warmth on her face she can’t quite hide.

Your lips twitch.

“Oh my god,” you gasp dramatically, eyes widening as you lean in closer. “Are you blushing?”

MC swats at you with a pillow, groaning into her hands. “I said never mind!”

That only makes your grin widen.

“No, no, this is important information,” you tease, nudging her shoulder. “MC, do you have a crush on Sylus?”

She groans even louder, flopping onto the bed in defeat.

“Shut up, Yn. My character has a crush on his character. I’m just way too immersed in the acting!”

You laugh, the sound light, genuine.

•

The next few days go by like a blur.

You wake up to MC’s blaring alarm.

You get ready.

You practice your part.

You film.

You watch MC film.

You watch her cheeks flush a little more in scenes she shares with Sylus.

You watch their characters develop.

You eat.

You listen to her rants.

You enjoy the sunset, alone.

You sleep.

Like clockwork, everything plays out like it did yesterday.

And just like everything else, he is on replay, too.

His voice weaves itself into your routine, persistent and unrelenting. A teasing remark over breakfast. A lazy greeting when he passes by. A nudge here, a comment there. Always casual. Always acting as if nothing happened.

“Still mad, shortcake?”

“Damn, I didn’t know you had this much endurance. Impressive.”

“Let me make it up to you.”

You don’t respond.

“Was today tiring?”

You don’t acknowledge him.

“Are you hungry?”

You don’t even look at him.

“Someone’s making a full-time career out of dodging me.”

It’s almost comical, how hard he’s trying to act like things are fine. Like you didn’t stand there, glaring at him with every ounce of anger you could muster just a few nights ago. Like you weren’t left in the rain, stranded in a memory of him choosing her, again.

But that’s Caleb. Always brushing things off, playing it cool, making it seem like nothing ever really matters.

And maybe if you weren’t still seething, it would’ve worked.

And to an extent, maybe it has.

Because the desperation in his eyes seems to seep out a little more with every interaction.

And when he leans a little too close one afternoon, when his fingers brush against your wrist as he tries to catch your attention, your heart still skips. But the scene of that night haunts you. The line cutting, her laughter, his tender eyes looking at her. So you snatch your hand away, sharp and final.

The laughter in his eyes dims, if only for a second.

“Damn. Harsh.” His playful tone faltering a little.

You don’t answer.

And after each of these interactions, your eyes always somehow find its way to the man lingering on the side. And more often than not, you meet his gaze. His ruby eyes pierces through you with a smug smirk plastered on his face.

Oh how much you hate that smug face of his.

It’s a look that says he’s watching. That he’s amused.

Like you’re the most interesting thing in the room. Like he already knows how this game ends.

You tear your gaze away, but it’s too late. That smirk is already burned into your mind, curling at the edges of your thoughts, creeping under your skin.

Sylus never says much. He lingers—always just far enough to be uninvolved, yet close enough to witness everything.

Though every single time, he holds your gaze just long enough to let you know that he sees you.

And maybe that should feel comforting.

Maybe it should make you feel like you’re finally being seen.

But with him—with the way his eyes glint like he’s one step ahead, like he’s entertained by something you don’t even understand yet—

it doesn’t feel like comfort.

It feels like a warning.

•

“Hey! Can someone grab more drinks?”

“On it!” you shout.

Being done with all of your scenes, you try to help out around the set where you can. You walk away from the beach and to the parking lot where the tents and coolers are set under the trees’ shades. The bickers and chatters fade into the heat as you approach the swaying canopy. The air is heavier here—thicker, still carrying the scent of salt and sunscreen but now mixed with the plasticky cool of stored ice.

You crouch by one of the coolers, popping the lid open, letting a gust of chilled air wash over your arms.

The silence here is different.

Less alive, less buzzing.

You should be relieved.

But instead, all you can hear is the echo of their voices.

“She’s pretty good at acting,” someone says.

“She does her job well,” another agrees.

“We should’ve given her another role. She could’ve pulled off a character with more significance.”

“Nah, I don’t think so. She acts well, but she doesn’t shine. Not like her.”

You exhale, pressing your lips together.

Something inside you tenses.

The other laughs in response. “Of course, I wasn’t comparing her to Machela. Their auras are very different. One’s the main character, the other’s a decent supporting. You can’t compare them.”

Your brows knit together.

You keep your hands still, your breath steady. You don’t react, don’t turn, don’t acknowledge the way the words settle against your skin like grains of sand—light and fleeting, but impossible to shake off

It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.

They’re just opinions, just talk.

You don’t care. You’ve never cared.

You know your role. You know your place.

And yet—your gaze betrays you.

Before you can stop yourself, your eyes flicker to the beach, to her.

MC stands effortlessly at the center of it all, bathed in the golden afternoon light, surrounded by the main characters, the ones who make the scene come alive.

Even among them, she stands out.

She doesn’t try to shine, she doesn’t try to call for attention—she just does.

And then there’s you, just there.

Blending so well into the background that no one even notices you listening.

You swallow, pushing away the uncomfortable weight creeping up your throat.

A breeze stirs the trees, making the tents flutter. You reach into the ice, grabbing a handful of cans, the cold biting against your fingertips.

You exhale, force your shoulders to relax, and do what you always do.

You shake it off. You move.

You quickly grab as many drinks as you can hold and hurry back to the set.

“Who wants water?” Your voice bright, easy.

You step back onto the sand, the heat pressing down on your skin, the voices of the crew and cast swelling around you once more. The coolness of the shade lingers faintly on your fingertips, already fading as you carry the drinks back.

But the words silently follow your trails.

“Oh my god, you’re a life saver!”

MC’s voice snaps you out of it as she practically lunges for one of the cans in your hands, tearing it open like she’s been stranded on this beach for days. She presses it to her cheek, sighing dramatically.

“I’m dying,” she groans, tipping her head back for a long gulp. “Why did I agree to film on a beach? Who thought this was a good idea?”

Before you can answer, another shadow falls over you.

A shift in the air. A presence that arrives so smoothly, so effortlessly, that you don’t even notice until he’s already there.

Sylus.

He reaches out and plucks a drink from your hand, slow and deliberate, fingers brushing the condensation-slick surface.

Then—he opens it.

The sound is sharp against the hazy heat, a crisp hiss that barely lingers before he tips the can back.

And you watch.

The way his throat moves as he drinks, slow and deep, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. The way a bead of sweat drips from his temple, trailing down the sharp line of his jaw, catching in the dip of his collarbone before disappearing beneath his shirt.

For a second, the world feels too slow.

When he lowers the can, he’s already looking at you.

“What?” he says, voice smooth, amused, a smirk tugging lazily at his lips. “Not for me?”

Your face immediately scrunches up.

Not a word leaves your mouth, but the reaction is enough.

Sylus chuckles, taking another sip like he’s entertained by something only he understands.

Then, just as effortlessly as he arrived, he turns and walks off, the warm breeze ruffling through his hair, leaving behind nothing but the faintest trace of cool metal and salt air.

Silence settles between you and MC.

It takes you a second to notice it—the fact that she hasn’t moved, hasn’t said a word.

You glance at her. The red dusting her face. The way she presses her lips together, eyes darting everywhere but where Sylus just stood.

Something tugs at your chest.

A feeling—small, unclear, curling at the edges of your ribs like an itch you can’t quite scratch.

You don’t exactly understand it, nor do you want to.

So you push it down, bury it deep, shove it away before it can take shape.

“Oh,” you hum, forcing a smirk on your lips.

MC immediately stiffens. “No.”

“Ohhh.”

“No, no, no!” She flails her hands in front of her face like she can physically push the accusation away.

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not!”

“You totally are.”

She lets out a strangled noise, shaking her head so fast her hair whips around her shoulders. “I—I’m not crushing!” she wails, throwing her hands up. “I’m just—ugh, it’s the next scene, okay?!”

You pause.

The next scene.

The kiss scene.

With Sylus.

You blink, then grin. “That’s what you’re nervous about?”

MC groans, dragging a hand down her face. “He’s so annoying,” she grumbles. “How am I supposed to do this with someone who just—oozes arrogance?” She gulps down the drink in her hands, turning away.

“Try not to melt, yeah? Would be real awkward if the crew had to scrape you off the floor after this.” A playful voice interrupts your conversation.

Caleb.

He strides toward the two of you, effortless as always, plucking a can from your hands and popping it open with a crisp hiss. His smirk is there—light, teasing, the same one he always wears when he’s messing around.

But it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

His gaze flicks to the spot where Sylus had just been.

Something in his jaw tightens.

Others might have missed it, but you know him too well. You’re well too accustomed to watching him, seeing all his micro movements when he interacts with MC.

His fingers curl just a little too tightly around the can, knuckles faintly stiff.

Still, he plays it off.

“So,” he drawls, turning back to MC, forcing that smirk back into place. “How long are you gonna make us suffer through this? You practicing, or are we just skipping to the part where you swoon?”

MC snaps to attention, the red still fresh on her face. “I don’t—shut up.”

Caleb clicks his tongue, mockingly thoughtful. “Huh. So defensive. Makes you wonder.”

“You wonder too much,” she fires back, narrowing her eyes.

“Nah,” he grins, taking a slow sip of his drink. “I just have an eye for lost causes.”

And then, before she can dodge, he presses the cold can against her cheek.

MC yelps, jerking away. “Caleb—what the hell!”

“Thought you were overheating,” he muses, completely unbothered. “Wouldn’t want you fainting before the big scene.”

MC glares, rubbing at her cheek like he’s personally offended her. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Still a better option than him.”

MC groans. “Are you seriously insulting Sylus right now?”

“I’m just saying,” Caleb shrugs, casual. “The guy looks like he bites.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re gonna let him lick your face in front of all of us.”

“It’s a kiss, you idiot—”

“Same difference.”

Before MC can strangle him, the director’s voice cuts through the chatter.

“Alright, places, everyone! Let’s run the scene.”

MC freezes.

The teasing dies.

Caleb hums. “Uh-oh. That’s your cue.”

She exhales sharply, smoothing down her clothes like that’ll somehow fix her nerves.

“Don’t overthink it,” he says lightly, taking another sip. “It’s just a scene, right?”

MC glares at him, muttering something under her breath before stomping toward the set.

His eyes follow her form, watching her go.

Caleb’s smirk lingers, but it’s hollow now—more muscle memory than anything else.

Then, without a word, he crushes the empty can in his fist.

You don’t say anything.

You just stand there, staring at the crumpled metal in his hand, feeling the weight of everything he isn’t saying.

The sharp crunch of aluminum still lingers in the air when you finally take a step back, about to turn away—

But before you can, his hand grabs your wrist.

Firm. Unrelenting.

Your breath catches.

“Come here,” he mutters, low, rough, before pulling you with him.

You barely have time to react before you’re being led away from the crowd, past the chatter, past the cameras and the blinding sun.

He doesn’t stop until you’re tucked into the shadows of a secluded corner, hidden behind a wall where no one can see.

Only then does he let go.

Only then does he turn to you, dark eyes burning with something too raw, too intense.

“How long are you going to keep this up?” he asks.

The words hit the air, heavier than they should be.

You blink. “What—”

“I’m sorry, okay?” His voice is frustrated, breath uneven. “I know I messed up. I should’ve paid more attention. I should’ve—”

He stops himself, exhaling sharply, dragging a hand through his hair like he’s barely holding something together.

Then, before you can move—

His hands press against the wall, caging you in.

Not touching you. But close.

Too close.

His scent fills your senses—something warm, sharp, unmistakably him.

“You can’t convince yourself to hate me with every fiber of your being, wouldn’t you agree?” he murmurs, voice quieter now, but no less desperate. “I’ll eventually find a way to make things right. As long as…” he pauses. His breaths are shuddering.

Your heart stutters.

“You’re by my side,” he whispers.

His eyes flicker over your face, searching, waiting—

And then, softer, rougher—

“Please.”

A breath.

“I need you now more than ever.”

The words sink into your skin, settle into your chest, and God—

It hurts.

Because you know.

You know this isn’t about you.

Not really.

Not in the way you want it to be.

He’s frustrated. He’s angry. Not at you—but at something else, at someone else, at the way things are slipping through his fingers.

And here you are.

Pulled into the scene like always.

Here to fill in the gaps.

Here to be the character he needs in this moment.

Your throat tightens.

Your fingers curl into fists.

You don’t shove him away.

You don’t give in, either.

You just look at him.

At the tension in his jaw. At the way his chest rises and falls just a little too fast.

“Action!”

The director’s voice rings out.

Like a snapped thread, Caleb pulls away.

Your attention shifts

And you see it.

The perfect scene unfolding before you.

The setting sun drenches the world in gold, soft and warm, casting a glow over the sand, the ocean, the two figures at the center of it all.

MC and Sylus.

MC in the center, like always.

Sylus’s hands rest on her waist, firm but careful. His fingers trace along the curve of her back, pulling her closer, into him, into his world. His head tilts, his smirk faint, unreadable—like he’s in control of every beat of this moment.

MC leans in.

Slow, hesitant, shy.

Like a girl falling into the gravity of a man she can’t escape.

The light catches the soft parting of her lips, the uncertainty, the delicate trust in her expression.

Sylus’s fingers tighten, and he closes the distance.

Their lips brush—light at first—before she melts into him, hands lifting to his chest.

It’s effortless.

Beautiful.

The kind of moment people will remember.

The picture-perfect romance.

A story falling into place.

Your stomach twists.

It’s not the kiss itself that gets to you. It’s the way the scene feels like fate, the way it’s framed, the way the world seems to bend itself around her like she was always meant to be at the center.

Like everything happens for her.

And, as if to prove your point—you gaze shifts.

And you see Caleb.

He’s watching the scene.

Watching her.

His breaths are coming even more uneven than before.

Not obvious, not noticeable to most.

But, caged between his arms, you see it.

The way his chest rises just a little too fast, the way his fingers flex and release at his sides, the way his jaw locks so tightly you swear he might break something.

And your chest burns more than ever.

You hate it. You hate everything about this.

You hate how, no matter what happens—this world, this story, this entire thing, bends itself around her.

That all of you—you, Caleb, and even Sylus— are just pieces in the grand design of her narrative.

That no matter where you stand, no matter what you do—

MC is the one the light falls on.

She is the one everything happens for.

She is the one whose all her wishes come true.

You hate it. You hate how you’re just here.

Always here.

Always playing a role in someone else’s story.

And you hate it most that your eyes are turning green looking at her.

That the jealousy creeping up your throat, curling tight in your chest, isn’t just about the scene or the way Sylus or Caleb seem to orbit around her.

It’s about the way the world chooses her, time and time again.

And the fact that you’re bitter about it—

That you feel this way at all—

God, you hate it.

“You don’t need me, Caleb.” your voice much weaker than you want it to be.

You push him out, and quickly turn away, walking off, leaving the beach, the golden sunset, the picture-perfect scene.

And if Caleb calls after you—you don’t hear it.

You don’t want to.

•

The night air presses against your skin, cool but not enough. Not enough to wash away the tension in your chest, not enough to erase the way your own voice had echoed back at you—

The long walk you took should’ve made you feel lighter.

You should feel relieved.

But you don’t.

Instead, the weight follows you, pressing against your ribs with every step, every breath, every slow drag of the tide pulling at the shore. The muffled sounds of the set fade behind you, swallowed by the darkness of the beach.

Only when you get closer to the resort do you start hearing the music.

It starts as a distant thrum, pulsing faintly through the heavy night air. A low bassline reverberating from somewhere ahead, blending with the sound of crashing waves. It takes a second to register, for your feet to slow, for the familiar heat of it to sink in.

The afterparty.

It’s inside the main house, a sprawling beachfront villa that serves as the cast and crew’s retreat after long filming days. The windows glow golden and inviting, the silhouette of moving bodies visible through the sheer curtains.

You hover near the doorway.

Inside, the world is warmer, hazier, looser.

The weight of the evening still sits heavy on your shoulders, but no one else seems to notice. No one else cares.

People are sprawled across couches, tucked into booths, pressed against walls, drinks in hand, faces flushed from alcohol and laughter. The lighting is low, a mixture of dim lamps and fairy lights strung along the ceiling, flickering against the glass like trapped fireflies. The scent of spilled liquor, cheap cologne, and the lingering trace of bonfire smoke fills the air.

MC is somewhere in the center of it all.

You see her immediately.

Perched on the arm of a couch, grinning, draped in warmth and attention, her head tilting back in laughter as someone hands her another drink. She looks effortless, as if the day never happened, as if the weight of the scene she filmed with Sylus didn’t still cling to her like it does to you.

She glows.

Like she always does.

And for the first time, you don’t want to be anywhere near her.

Not tonight.

You turn away, slipping past the clusters of people, past the thrumming energy, and find a quiet corner.

A small table sits against the wall, lined with bottles, a stack of plastic cups haphazardly placed beside them.

You grab one.

Then a bottle.

The first drink goes down too fast. The second burns, but you barely react. The third is easier, a slow warmth spreading through your limbs, seeping into your fingers, dulling the sharp edges of your thoughts.

You lean back against the wall, fingers wrapped loosely around the cup, and watch as the night moves on without you.

MC is spinning, giggling, spilling half her drink as she sways to the music. Someone reaches for her waist, catching her just before she loses her balance. Caleb.

He’s there, as always.

Steadying her, teasing her, watching her.

You tip your cup back, draining the rest of your drink.

The music swells, the bass thrumming against your skin. The alcohol curls deeper into your system, warm and heady, numbing the part of you that still feels too present, too aware.

You don’t want to be aware.

You just want to sit here in this corner, where no one is watching, where no one is expecting anything from you.

And for a while, you do.

Drink after drink, until the night feels softer at the edges, until the sound of laughter no longer feels like it belongs to a world you can’t touch.

But then, a loud clap pierces through the room and the music lowers.

The music lowers.

“Alright, listen up! It’s time to bring some romance to life!”

The energy shifts.

People perk up, some groaning, some cheering, all of them gravitating toward the center of the room.

You barely react, swirling the last bit of alcohol in your cup.

But then, you hear it.

“Seven minutes in heaven, baby! Who’s in?”

Your fingers tighten around your drink.

MC perks up immediately, eyes gleaming with the kind of reckless excitement that only comes with being several drinks in.

Caleb groans, rolling his eyes, but he’s grinning.

Meanwhile, you simply sigh as your gaze falls back to the cup in your hand.

Because of course it’s this.

Of course this night, like everything else, will find a way to make her the center of it.

“We’re going to spice things up a little bit,” someone announces over the music, their voice dripping with amusement. A cup filled with rolled-up pieces of paper rattles in their hands as they shake it for emphasis.

“Instead of randomly drawing two names, only one name will be called.”

A pause. Anticipation thickens the air, curious murmurs rippling through the crowd.

The person smirks. “Once that name is called, you’ll be given ten seconds to either volunteer yourself or—” they tilt the cup teasingly, “your friend to be their partner.”

A wave of excitement rolls through the room. Some people cheer, some groan, some exchange knowing glances. A few shove their friends forward, already laughing at the thought of throwing them into the game.

The first name is drawn.

Someone calls it out, and there’s a brief, charged pause before someone steps forward, dramatically throwing their hands up. The crowd erupts as they disappear behind the door, laughter and wolf whistles chasing after them.

Then another name.

And another.

Each round follows the same pattern—a pause, then cheering, then the shuffle of two people slipping into the closet.

Some stumble back out minutes later, flushed and breathless, met with hollers and teasing. Others laugh it off, shaking their heads, grinning like they’ve just escaped something ridiculous.

The alcohol, the music, the flickering lights—everything feels looser, bolder, dipping further into recklessness with each passing round.

People egg each other on, nudging shoulders, calling out names before they’re even drawn, spurring the night forward like a challenge.

And then—

Another name is pulled.

The voice rings loud over the noise.

And your heart stops.

“Yn!”

Heads turn. Conversations pause. A slow wave of curiosity and anticipation ripples through the crowd as people glance around, searching for you.

“There she is!”

A pair of hands grab your wrist before you can even think about running.

Laughter spills around you as you’re dragged through the throng of people, the heat of bodies pressing in from all sides. Your pulse spikes, the alcohol in your system making everything feel sluggish yet sharp all at once—like you’re wading through a dream you can’t control.

They stop right in front of the closet.

Someone swings an arm over your shoulders, grinning.

“Sooo,” they drawl, their voice dripping with mischief, “who’d like to partner up with her?”

A beat of silence follows.

A moment—thick, expectant.

And then—

The crowd parts.

The shift is subtle at first, a presence cutting through the sea of bodies, slow, unhurried, inevitable.

Then you see him.

He steps forward with the kind of effortless confidence that demands attention—shoulders relaxed, hands tucked into the pockets of his fitted black slacks, the faintest smirk curling at his lips.

The room reacts before you do.

A low hum of interest, a few knowing whistles, someone muttering “Oh, shit.”

And God, does he know what he’s doing.

His stride is measured, each step slow and deliberate, the kind that makes you feel like he’s taking his time just to make a statement. The dim lighting casts sharp shadows along his jawline, highlighting the sculpted edges of his face—the messily tousled silver hair, the piercing crimson eyes that lock onto yours like a brand.

He doesn’t blink.

Doesn’t waver.

Just watches you as he approaches, like he’s already decided—like this was never even up for discussion.

Then, finally—

He stops right in front of you.

Too close.

The warmth of him seeps into the space between you, a contrast to the cool scent of his cologne—something crisp, dark, dangerous in a way that makes your stomach twist.

He tilts his head, the movement slow, teasing.

“What?” his voice is smooth, low enough that only you can hear. “Not for me?”

The words slam into you like a punch to the gut—because he knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s enjoying every second of it.

The room erupts around you, people whooping, clapping, some downright losing their minds over the fact that Sylus fucking Qin just stepped forward for this game.

You swallow.

Your fingers twitch at your sides. Your pulse spikes, heat curling at the edges of your skin—not just from the alcohol, not just from the intensity of his gaze, but from the sheer presence of him.

Your eyes flicker around the room, anxious of all the cheering going on. Though, it lands on her. On MC.

Your breath catches.

She is staring. Not laughing. Not cheering like the others.

And for the first time tonight, she looks shocked.

Like this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Like this wasn’t part of the story she had in her head.

Your stomach twists, heat creeping up your spine.

However, you were quickly pulled out of your daze when someone claps you on the back, pushing you forward.

The crowd cheers louder and the closet door swings open.

Darkness yawns before you.

Sylus steps forward first, his hand brushing against your lower back as he guides you inside. Casual. Effortless. Like he’s done this before. Like he’s leading you somewhere only he understands.

The door clicks shut.

And the world is swallowed whole.

The music, the voices, the party—it all fades, muffled by the thick wooden walls, leaving only this.

Only him.

Your breath comes uneven, your pulse a heavy drumbeat in your ears, because suddenly, the space around you feels too small. The darkness presses in from all sides, thick and stifling, and the only thing clouding your senses—

Is him.

Sylus leans back against the door, his presence unshakable, his scent thick in the air.

Woody. Dark. A hint of spice laced with something richer, smokier.

Cigar musk and worn leather. Something dangerously smooth, something that lingers.

You can’t see him, but you feel him.

Feel the warmth of his body just inches away. Feel the gravity of him, the way he takes up space without even trying.

The realization of your positions slams into you, sharp and sudden, sending heat curling through your stomach.

You take a step back, but there’s nowhere to go—the closet is too small, too tight, too suffocatingly intimate.

A chuckle. Low, amused, sinful.

“Already nervous?” His voice is pure velvet, thick with the kind of arrogance that makes your stomach tighten.

You swallow, your fingers twitching at your sides.

“I’m not nervous.”

“Mm.” He hums, unconvinced.

The air between you is loaded, heavy, charged with something you don’t know how to name.

And then—

A shift.

A quiet creak of leather. A faint rustle of fabric.

He moves.

Closer.

You don’t even hear him step forward, don’t see him in the thick darkness—but you feel it. The way the space tightens. The way his heat licks at your skin, close enough to touch.

Close enough that if you just reached out—

A warm breath skims along your jaw.

You freeze.

Not touching. Not yet. But so close it doesn’t even matter.

Your own breath hitches, and that’s when you feel it—

His smirk.

You can’t see it. But you can feel it.

The way the air shifts between you, the way the silence stretches, the way his head tilts just slightly, like he’s waiting.

Like he’s playing with his food.

The muscles in your stomach tighten.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, voice dipping even lower, more intimate, like a secret meant only for you. “Not used to being this close to me?”

Your fingers curl into fists, nails biting into your palms.

And God, you hate him for this.

For the way he gets under your skin without even trying.

For the way he makes you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something dangerous, something uncontrollable, something that might swallow you whole if you let it.

The air between you is charged, electric, the kind of tension that makes your skin feel too hot, too tight.

A low chuckle erupts from his chest, its vibrations reaching yours. He leans down towards your ear, his breath tickling your skin.

“Use me.”

The words hit the air like a match against gasoline.

Your breath catches.

A smirk curves against the dark. He knows.

Of course he knows.

“Use me to make him jealous.”

Your stomach tightens, heat spreading through your limbs like liquid fire.

You swallow. “That’s—”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” His voice dips lower, a soft, taunting hum, stepping closer, just enough that you catch the faintest trace of clean linen and something sharp beneath it.

You hate that your pulse spikes.

You hate that he’s right.

You hate how easily he gets under your skin, how effortlessly he peels you open without even touching you.

You part your lips to deny it, but—

“Or,” he muses, tilting his head slightly, voice edged with something wicked, something dangerous, something that makes your knees feel weak—

“If you’d rather make it more interesting…”

A pause. A shift. A fraction of movement, barely there—

But you feel it.

The brush of his breath against your skin, the slow, unbearable closeness.

“…Use me to make her jealous.”

Your breath stutters.

He sees it.

He feels it.

And the slow, lazy smirk that tugs at his lips—it’s lethal.

Like he’s already won.

Like he knows exactly what buttons he’s pushing.

Like he’s daring you to say yes.

Your fingers curl into fists. Heat rolls beneath your skin, something dangerous, something reckless.

You should tell him to fuck off.

You should shove him away.

You should—

But you don’t.

Because in this moment, in this dark, stifling space—

You don’t know what you want more.

To prove him wrong.

Or to let him be right.

Perhaps it’s the pain you’ve been swallowing for months, the way it’s settled deep in your ribs, pressing against your lungs like a bruise that refuses to fade.

Perhaps it’s the alcohol, heavy in your bloodstream, loosening your grip on restraint, making you weak to the things you never let yourself touch.

Or maybe—maybe—it’s the way your stomach twists at the memory of her face.

MC’s wide, stunned eyes. The sharp sting of betrayal flashing across her features.

And as much as you hate it, as much as that look should send you crumbling—

Some twisted part of you puffs.

Some part of you, buried beneath layers of resentment, self-doubt, and the endless role of being cast in the background, thrives on it.

Because for once—for once—she is not the one standing in the center of the world.

For once, you have something she doesn’t.

And maybe it’s wrong. Maybe you’ll hate yourself for this later.

But right now—right now—

The weight of Sylus’s heat against you, the scent of smoke and clean linen and something sharp curling into your senses, pressing into the empty spaces inside you—

It’s stopping you from thinking straight.

And when his lips part, when his breath brushes over your skin, when the last thread of tension pulls taut between you—

You stop thinking altogether.

Because before you can second-guess yourself—

You grab him.

Fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, yanking him down, crashing into him like you’ve lost control of gravity itself.

Heat.

Pressure.

It is all you can feel.

His lips crash against yours, and everything ignites.

Your lips slowly move, and his follow suit. You can feel the smirk on his lips.

That damned smirk.

But your mind is wiped clean as soon as he tilts his head, the kiss turning hungrier. The tension builds, unraveling into something desperate, something heavy, something neither of you have the willpower to stop anymore.

Sylus lets out a low, dark chuckle against your mouth, but you swallow it whole.

He recovers quickly—of course he does—because the moment you give in, he’s already taking.

His hands slam against the wall behind you, pinning you between him and nothing else, his body pressing in, heat bleeding through his clothes and onto your skin.

The kiss is rough, deliberate, his lips moving against yours with slow precision, dragging, teasing, tasting.

Like he’s memorizing you.

Like he’s proving a point.

Your breath shudders when he bites, just enough to sting, just enough to make your knees buckle.

You hate that he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Hate that he’s making you melt so easily.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, gripping him tight, using it as leverage when you press your body flush against his.

A sharp inhale from him.

A brief pause.

His fingers dive into your hair, twisting, tugging, tilting your head back as his mouth slants over yours, harder this time.

Deeper.

His other hand slides down, skimming over your ribs, tracing heat into your skin through your clothes before settling at your waist.

Firm. Possessive.

You don’t even realize you’ve been backing up until your back hits the closet wall and he presses in, caging you there, forcing you to feel every inch of him.

Your head spins.

The alcohol, the heat, the weight of him—it’s too much. But not enough.

A low groan rumbles deep in his chest when you tug at his hair, nails raking lightly against his scalp.

And then, his lips break away from yours—just barely, just enough to breathe against your mouth, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his swollen lips.

“Didn’t know you had it in you,” he murmurs, voice thick, husky, laced with something dangerous.

You exhale, your own lips tingling, your chest rising and falling too fast.

“Shut up.”

His teeth flash in the dimness, his breath hot against your lips.

Your grip tightens on his shirt, but it does nothing to steady you.

Sylus moves slowly—deliberate, like he’s savoring this moment, like he has all the time in the world to watch you unravel.

His hands dip beneath your shirt, fingers curling against your waist, his touch cool against the heat of your skin.

You shudder, a sharp inhale betraying you as his fingers start to move—slow, teasing strokes, tracing along the sensitive dip of your spine, mapping you out like he’s memorizing you by touch alone.

His mouth hovers just over yours, his breath fanning against your lips, his smirk felt more than seen in the heavy darkness.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice a low hum of amusement, his fingers pressing just slightly harder into your waist.

You bite your lip, hating the way your body responds to him, the way his touch burns through the fabric of your self-control.

“I’m not shaking.”

Sylus laughs, a deep, satisfied sound, his grip flexing slightly—his thumbs skimming just beneath the curve of your ribs, fingertips lingering dangerously close to places they shouldn’t be.

“Sure,” he muses, tilting his head. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Then—he shifts.

A slow, taunting drag of his mouth, skimming along the curve of your jaw, down to the edge of your throat.

You swallow hard, your pulse thundering beneath his lips.

“You still thinking about them?” he murmurs, voice dropping into something dark, coaxing, his fingers spreading wider, pressing into the dip of your lower back, pulling you flush against him.

The sharp heat of his body bleeds through your clothes, overwhelming, intoxicating, making it impossible to focus on anything other than him.

His mouth brushes against your neck—just barely, just enough—and a low, approving hum vibrates from his chest when he feels your breath catch.

“Good,” he whispers, voice dark with satisfaction.

His hands trail higher, warmer, slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt, his touch searing against your bare skin.

His fingers splay over the curve of your spine, pressing in just enough to make you arch, just enough to remind you that he has full control of this moment.

“You know,” he murmurs, lips grazing against your throat, voice thick with amusement, “when I said to use me…”

His hands continue their slow ascent, fingertips tracing along the delicate line of your ribs, slipping under the thin strap of your bra, his knuckles brushing dangerously close to places that would mean no turning back.

“I was talking about simply making it seem like we did something.”

He pauses.

A teasing smirk curls against your skin.

“Didn’t think you’d take it so literally.”

Your breath stutters.

A sharp mix of heat and indignation surges through you, twisting deep in your stomach, because he’s playing with you.

Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you—and he loves every second of it.

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tighter, a silent warning, a desperate attempt to keep yourself together.

He just chuckles—low, dark, sinful.

“Getting shy now?” His voice is all arrogance, his hands still skimming, still testing, still pushing you to the edge of losing control completely.

You hate him.

God, you hate him.

But you hate yourself more for the way your body leans into him, for the way your breath hitches when his teeth graze your pulse, for the way his heat drowns you whole.

And the worst part?

He knows.

He always knows.

His lips ghost over your skin, the smirk never leaving.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice velvet-smooth, “if I slipped my hands a little lower, would you stop me?”

Your stomach flips.

Your grip tightens.

But you don’t answer.

And that silence is exactly what he needs.

Sylus hums, a low, knowing sound, his fingers tightening against your spine, dragging heat along your skin as they trail downward again—slow, teasing, excruciating.

And then, his lips move, lower—tracing just barely along the column of your throat, hovering, not quite touching, not quite giving in.

“No protest?” His voice is mocking, rich with amusement and something darker, something heavier.

His fingers skim along the waistband of your jeans, just a whisper of pressure, enough to send a jolt through your system, enough to make your nails bite into his shirt, into his skin beneath it.

Your pulse hammers, every muscle in your body coiled so tightly you swear you might snap.

His breath brushes against your ear, soft, deliberate, taunting.

“Still not stopping me?”

You should.

You should.

But your body betrays you, tilting into his touch, into his heat, into the danger of him.

Sylus hums, a deep, satisfied sound, his fingers hooking onto the waistband of your jeans—

A knock shatters the daze you were in.

Loud. Sharp.

The closet door rattles slightly.

“Time’s up, lovebirds!” someone calls, muffled through the wood.

Everything freezes.

Your breath catches.

Sylus doesn’t move, not immediately.

For a long, tense second, his fingers linger—just barely pressing into your skin, his body still flush against yours, his lips hovering just over your jaw.

Though slowly, deliberately, devastatingly—he pulls back.

Just enough for you to breathe again.

Just enough to make you ache from the loss.

Sylus stretches, rolling his shoulders lazily before throwing you a look that’s pure, wicked satisfaction. He runs his thumb across his lower lip, like he’s still tasting you there.

The door finally swings open, and light floods in.

His voice is low, smooth as silk, but dripping with mocking amusement, he whispers before he steps out of the closet—

~~~

He doesn’t really care much for birthdays. 

But his family does. Many find it funny how such a stoic kid can belong to outgoing and extroverted parents. He wonders the same. 

The party is in their backyard, his parents wanted something extravagant but his wishes won in the end. It was easy to pull the ‘it’s my birthday’ card, he doesn’t ask for much often so he gets what he wants on the rare occasions he does.

Banners are strung up everywhere. His mother’s work. She’s also put balloons everywhere and decorated everything. Despite his wishes she had gotten a bouncy castle. He felt he was too old for it but his classmates seemed to enjoy it. He wasn’t close with the people in his year level, he didn’t know how to be friends with them and they saw him as cold. 

He doesn’t have to be a genius - though he is - to see that none of them want to be here. They give him strained smiles while their parents stand behind them, the reason as to why his classmates have been forced to attend. He almost feels bad for them.

They all disperse into their own groups after telling him a half-assed ‘Happy birthday’ and thrusting their gifts into his hand. He tosses the gifts to the pile, not interested in the contents. He’s more than happy to stay at the side, book in hand. It’s on the reading list for an upcoming subject and he likes to be prepared.

Besides, the actual people he wanted couldn’t make it. Caleb had a school trip and Mara was down with food poisoning. She had called him in tears, letting him know she couldn’t make it this morning with promises to make it up to him. Though a little disappointed, he wished her a well recovery and told her not to worry. That just left-

“Happy birthday, zayniee.” 

You. 

It left you.

You’re wearing a cute jumper, blue ombre in colour. He remembers when you had started knitting it. You’ve paired it with a black skirt and black tights. You’re wearing earrings in the shape of blue ribbons. You look cute. You’re smiling at him softly and there’s a rectangle box in your hands. It’s wrapped in brown paper with an ice blue ribbon and a card on the box. He’s intrigued. 

You hand him the box and he takes it. Instead of tossing it like the rest, he keeps it on his lap. 

You take the seat next to him, your legs don’t reach the floor so you settle for swinging them. “I’m sorry the others couldn’t make it. They felt bad.” He can’t imagine Caleb feeling sad for missing his birthday. He has no idea why the rascal didn’t like him. “It’s fine. It can’t be helped.” You just give another soft smile.

The two of you sit in comfortable silence as he continues reading his book.

“Oh, is that Monomania?”

He glances at you. “You’ve read it?”

“Yeah, I got bored one day. I liked it, the author did well balancing the themes of obsession and going too far but it also fell flat in many areas.”

He hums, an invitation to continue. “You want a small spoiler about the ending?” you ask. He turns to you and contemplates for a second before agreeing. 

“You won’t like it.”

“Like what?”

“The ending.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s more of a fairytale ending than the one even I anticipated.” 

“Is that what you think of me? Cold?”

“Not at all. But even you can’t deny that you can be a little…logical.”

“Hmm.” 

Of course you end up being right when he finishes the book the next day, a happy ending was not needed for a book like this. It ruined his morning a little. His parents didn’t notice the subtle pout on his face.

His mother calls everyone over to cut the cake. It’s ice-themed. He doesn’t like it. He feels you lean in towards him, touching each other’s shoulders. “At least it’s not a carrot cake,” you comfort him. 

At least it’s not a carrot cake, he repeats in his head. It’s weird how you always seemed to know the right thing to say. You seem to understand him a lot. He doesn’t know how to feel about it.

The both of you enjoy the cake together. Your love for sweets was the biggest thing you had in common.

After, it’s time to unwrap the gifts. He doesn’t mean to be unappreciative but it's clear his classmates don’t know him all too well. He’s left with unimaginative gifts like socks or simple clothing. He’ll just donate them.

A familiar brown wrapped box sits in front of him. He unconsciously saved it for last. He’s careful with unwrapping it, you’re watching him with anticipation and the last thing needed is for him to disappoint you with his reaction. The card on the box doesn’t say the stereotypical ‘Happy Birthday Zayne’ like the rest had. 

You’ve given him a coupon instead. ‘Ask [Name] to make you whatever sweet you desire’ is on it. Towards the bottom are five punch holes. He’ll have to be careful with his decisions. Your sweets are on a whole other world on their own, he’ll have to savour them. 

He removes the wrapping, it’s a vintage record player still in mint condition. You beam at the awed look in his eyes. There’s two vinyl records underneath. “They work, don’t worry. I wasn’t sure about your music taste so I picked at random. The shop I found had many more, I’ll take you there.” 

He flashes you a small smile. “Thank you,” he says softly. He’s never mentioned liking music around you or even talked about record players but the gift screams him in a shocking way.

You stare at him frozen for a second. He doesn’t realise you’re flustered when you avoid eye contact.

Maybe birthdays aren’t so bad. 

~~~

“I’m surprised [Name] isn’t with you. The two of you are always attached at the hip.” When leaving for the new cafe that had opened up, the last thing he expected to happen was meeting his childhood friend again. 

Mara was taller now. A hunter, he thinks feeling annoyed. She has a heart condition and chose one of the most extraneous jobs. It’s just like her. He remembers how [Name] had supported her in this endeavor. Zayne had missed you all these years. To everyone’s surprise, the two of you had become fast friends. He doesn’t understand how a warm person like you sought friendship in him but he’s glad you did. He regrets not keeping in touch.

He’s taken aback at the tears that gather in Mara’s dark brown eyes at his question. She’s grown to be a beautiful woman but his heart remains unaffected. He tries to imagine what you look like now.

Did they fight? He brushes the thought off. There’s no way the two of you would end up not friends. No the only reason he can come with for a separation is-

His eyes widened. 

No. No. No. 

“She’s dead.”

Mara had shown him where your grave was, right next to your parents. She’s waiting in the car while he visits you.

In his mind you had achieved your dream of being a bakery owner and were happy. It’s what you deserved.

He’s disgusted in himself. He’d run away like a coward in his childhood. He missed the extra years with you the others got. While he was busy with med school and then becoming a doctor, you were dead. You’d been dead this whole time and he had no idea.

He’ll spend the next few years just thinking. Thinking of you, of everything about you he can commit to memory. The only place you exist is in the minds of those you’ve left behind. He’ll think of missed chances and regrets. Sometimes he allows himself to fall into the what ifs, imagining a future with you that would never come to pass. These moments were rare, he only indulged in them at his weakest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to your grave.

It’s all he can say.

~~~

You had decided it would be best to keep your wishes to disappear to yourself. The twins would never break their allegiance to Sylus, not that you ever wanted them to. No, in the N109 zone, the only person you can fully trust is you. 

You had stayed up that night and came up with a mental checklist for escape. 

1. Find your own place. Not in the N109 zone. 

“No,” Sylus tells you. You’re standing before him in his office. He’s not even looking at you, too busy with the paperwork in front of him. His words bring a pout to your face.

[Why not?] 

“Because I said so. You’re not getting your own place. You have everything you need right here. You’re not leaving.” You glare at him and a hint of amusement flickers in his eyes. You hate that he never takes you seriously. “End of discussion.”

Taking in a deep breath - to calm the need to strangle him, it doesn’t work - you reluctantly relent. Instead you ask for something else. 

[Can I go visit my brother?]

It bruises your ego to ask for permission to do anything. You’re not a child, you’re nearly the age you were when you died the first time. But the N109 zone isn’t one you can just enter and leave when you want, unless you’re someone like Sylus. 

Your words stop him, he pushes away from the work on his desk. His attention is now fixed on you, his gaze leaves you on edge. Nearly two years have been spent with him and you still have no idea how to read him. It's frustrating, being able to read people has always been your strong suit, it helped with the constant manipulation you would pull. You had been happy to do his bidding without question before and now you regret the amount of control he has on you. 

“Why would I do that?” he crosses his arms. 

[Because it’s my brother…?]

He narrows his eyes at you.

“Why would I do that?” he repeats. 

[Because I just found out he’s alive and I want to see him. Not to meet him, I’ll watch from a distance. I just have to see him with my own eyes.] You give him a pleading look. He sighs and looks away, taking a few seconds to agree before looking at you again.

“Fine,” he reluctantly agrees. “But you know the ordeal by now. Do something for me in return.”

Ugh everything is always a business deal with him. 

“Sit,” he commands, gesturing at the chairs in front of him. You do.

He takes the glasses off his face. A shame. He looked very sophisticated in them. “That doctor you mentioned, there’s still nothing on her,” every month the two of you would meet and he’d relay the information he had found out and in the last year, not even a sentence could be written down. It left the both of you frustrated.

[Do you think..]

“That we have a traitor amongst us? Yes I’m sure of it now,” he finishes the thought for you. There’s a tick in his jaw. You don’t blame him, moles are annoying to deal with normally. But here in the N109 zone finding one is like finding a needle in a haystack. Everyone is a mole here. Finding the right one will be hard.

“Don’t worry, I already have a trap settled for our little rat. We’ll find them.”

His words don’t comfort you. They meant he’d known about the mole for a while, at least long enough to come up with a plan. Before your mind can go on a tirade at your developing distaste for your boss, he interrupts you. 

“Moving on, I’m sending you on your first mission.” You keep his stare. “After you come back from seeing your brother. Make sure to have no contact with anyone. No one can know you’re alive. Also remember to take your phone this time. Got it?”

Ah right. The phone he’d given you was rarely used. There was no point, all the people you communicated with lived under one roof and you all used Meph as a phone anyways. 

You nod. 

[Cross my heart and hope to die.]

He glares at you, not impressed.

~~~

That’s how you find yourself, staring at the mirror in your bathroom. 

Sylus had given you three days to visit Ei.

The weather in Linkon will be cold so you make sure to dress up in a nice wool coat. You have a small bag with you, there’s a few outfits in there and way too many pairs of undergarments. You’re not taking any chances. There’s a key to the hotel room Sylus had booked for you in there. The problem is the very large and very visible scar across your throat. You lift your head up a little to check it out. It’s still bright red. Your finger’s trail over it. The scar doesn’t feel as thick as it used to be but it’ll draw attention. You decide to take a scarf with you. 

You still haven’t decided on how to feel about it. On one hand, it’s frustrating not being able to talk. It gets in the way of your everyday life. Even if you can sign now, many people don’t understand it so you have to carry a tablet around. Your torturers/killers had taken so much from you that it doesn’t hurt emotionally that they’ve taken your ability to talk as well. On the other hand, you’ve gotten used to not speaking. No longer do you remember what you sound like.

Ah, well. No point dwelling on it.

Sylus will show you how to leave the N109 zone. The way he does. 

~~~

You feel like an imposter being back.

You had once built a life here but that’s been gone for a long time. You no longer have a place here.

First order of business is to visit the library, after you check into your hotel of course. The looks you receive all go ignored. You’re not humble about them, you’re aware of your beauty. 

You peruse the selection of books but none of them interest you. Sylus already had a vast collection and you weren’t interested to add to them. You weren’t here for the books either. No, you were here for the computers. 

You walk over to one and set your bag on the table. Sitting down, you turn it on. A book and a pen are retrieved from the bag. The purpose of your visit is to look for places available. A simple one bed will do. Hell, you’ll even take - you shudder at the thought - a studio. You browse through all the available properties, noting their addresses down.

Maybe if Sylus hadn’t proven time and time again he can’t be trusted then you would have accepted his ‘no’ without fighting. But, you have to look after yourself first. Besides, the small act of rebellion soothes you, you had grown a bit too complacent. He’ll find out, Sylus has too many ways of tracking you. The very phone he had given you which was currently in your bag for one. Mephisto for another, the city was loud and filled with people, everything is noisy so you have to really concentrate to hear the bird. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to be following you. 

Second order of business is the graveyard, flagging down a taxi, you show the driver the address written on your book.

You walk by your own gravestone and you try your best not to register your parents’. You’re not ready. You stand before the gravestone you’re here for.

Caleb Xia.

He really died. 

You hadn’t been there.

He was dead.

And you weren’t there. 

Some friend you were. Your mind remains oddly blank as you stand in front of him. It’s not like you can even say anything to him. Not even the lies that easily roll off your tongue. You turn to leave.

Third order of business.

Akso Hospital. 

~~~

Zayne doesn’t believe in ghosts.

Not when his coworkers tell each other stories of those that took their last breath in the hospital, now doomed to forever roam the grounds. Not when Mara would tell him “spooky” stories to try and freak him out (it never works, he has no idea why she hasn’t given up). 

So then, why is there a ghost standing in front of him? 

The woman standing before him looks just like you - a grown up version of you. The rational part of him tries to answer, it’s just a coincidence that they look similar. It’s just a coincidence that the lady is standing right in front of the hospital room where your brother currently resides.

Just a coincidence. 

There’s no way you’re alive. There’s no way its you wearing that long black winter coat with the black scarf around your neck. The coat practically swallows the woman up, nothing about her body can be seen. It’s not you because you hated keeping your hair long. It’s not you because you'd never sport that dead emotionless look on your eyes. It’s not you because you loved sleeping and you would never have eye bags that huge.

It can’t be you.

As a doctor, he’s treated a variety of people, especially those who have experienced trauma. But his mind (heart) can’t accept the way you look. He never thought he would see you so broken. Just what have you gone through all these years?

The doctor in him is screaming. Yelling to stop standing there and fix you. 

He watches silently, frozen, as you contemplate entering the room. Your hand remains on the door handle, the window in it showing you the view of your brother inside. Eiden hasn’t noticed you, he’s fast asleep. The image of his rest calms you down. It’s a good thing he can still sleep peacefully. 

The ghost looks painfully human as she steps away from the door. You still haven’t made a single sound, even your steps are quiet. He sees you close your eyes for a few seconds, your hands come up to rub your arms, an effort to ground or comfort yourself. When they reopen you look more focused. You’ve made up your mind on something when you sharply turn and end up looking right at him.

He sees your eyes widen in shock. In realisation. He can no longer convince himself you’re a ghost or another woman, there’s no denying it. It’s you. 

The two of you remain frozen where you stand. Neither party makes a move. Neither of you speak either.

You break the moment by running away.

He watches as you leave him again. 

~~~

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Zayne wasn’t supposed to be working but when is a doctor’s schedule reliable? You saw him listed as Eiden’s doctor and you weren’t even surprised. No matter how hard you try to stay away from the main cast, your fate seems to be thread right through theirs. Fuck. You should’ve made a plan just in case. When has anything in this horrible world gone right for you???

You try to look for a taxi. Hell you’ll even break into a car if you have to. Anything to get out of here.

Your mind is unreliable in moments of panic. Every thought is dramatised and the actions you end up taking go too far. You’ll come up with a simpler solution later but by then the damage will often be done leaving you with regrets.

Oh my god, I should just kill myself. Yup, that’ll fix it.

The last thing you wanted was to see Zayne again. He’ll tell everyone, you can’t have that.

I should just kill him then! 

Before you can enact terrible crimes, your psychotic thoughts are thankfully halted at the hand on your shoulder.

You shove your shoulder away, stepping back until there’s a good distance between you. Zayne sees the fear in your eyes and his movements stop. 

“It’s you,” he finally says in awe.

You can’t look him in the eyes, there’s too many things in there for you to decipher. 

“[Name],” he calls out again. That gets your attention. It’s been so long since you’ve heard another say your name. Even after Sylus found out your real identity, he never acknowledged the name. As far as the world knows, [Name] is dead. 

He tries to take a step towards you but your eyes are trained on him, when he notices the dread on your face, he stays in place.

“Please…just don’t leave,” he begs. It’s so uncharacteristic of him but you’ve always been weak to a pretty man begging.

“Just wait,” he checks his watch, “for thirty minutes. I get off work and we can talk. That’s it. I only want to talk.” The desperation in his voice freezes any hesitation in your mind. Memories rush in your head, the two of you had been so close once. He’d never done you wrong.

[Only if you promise you won’t tell anyone.] It’s a gamble whenever you sign, fifty percent in your favour, either the person knows the language or they don’t. But if there’s one person you’d think did know, it would be Zayne. Besides, your hands are far too shaky to write.

As expected he looks surprised at the movement of your hands. “Why are you…” he notices the ‘don’t ask’ expression on your face. “Fine. I won’t tell anyone if you wait,” he clears his throat and gathers himself. His voice is clearer when he speaks again. “There’s a cafe down the street, wait for me there. It’s going to rain soon,” he hands you his credit card. His eyes show relief when you take it. His phone beeps and when he checks it you know he’s needed. You won’t let him choose between his responsibilities and you so you relent.

[I’ll be waiting.]

He gives you a small smile, there’s a thousand questions on his face that he doesn’t ask.

~~~

Zayne watches you through the glass of the cafe. 

You’re sitting at a two-person table. There’s an empty coffee cup in front of you, its warmth long gone. You haven’t ordered any food which worries him. He’d never known you to give up free food.

All his previous attempts of envisioning you grown up fall spectacularly against the real deal. The lashes on your eyes that he wants to count individually. The blemishes on your face have him wanting to know how they got there. The long nails you have that seem almost inhuman have him intrigued. Every part of you tells a story he desperately wants to know but it’s a tale you’re not ready to divulge. 

Maybe you’d rather have Mara around. Zayne isn’t the type of person people go to for comfort. He understands that. He can’t give you what you need.

But, fuck, he’s going to try. For you.

You take notice of him when he enters the cafe. Instead of going straight to you, he walks over to the counter. You watch him confused at the action until he returns with two plates. One has a strawberry shortcake and the other is a chocolate cherry tart. Your eyes lit up at the sweets and he suppressed the laugh bubbling in his throat. He notices your focus on the shortcake and places it in front of you.

None of you say anything, simply picking up your spoons and digging in. Then, like it's second nature, you pick your plate up and Zayne does the same, you put the shortcake in front of him and he gives you the tart. Neither of you can help the wide grins you bear when you realise what you both have done. An old memory resurfaces in your mind.

The five of you are currently on your way to the park, walking through the town. It’s a nice sunny day and none of you had anything going on so why not enjoy each other’s company? 

Calen, Mara and Eiden are at the front, talking animatedly with each other. You and Zayne are walking behind silent. 

“What do you think [Na-” Mara cuts her own words off when she looks back to you and realises that neither you or Zayne are there. The three of them retrace their steps and find the both of you by the bakery, your faces nearly pressed up against the glass.

“They’re at it again,” Caleb says, annoyed. “Why were we even surprised,” Eiden comments. Mara can’t help but watch on in jealousy. You were her friend, it’s her you should be doing stuff like this with.

“Those weren’t there last week,” you let Zayne know, two pairs of eyes trained at the batch of desserts displayed through the glass. “You’re right.” The two of you waste no time entering.

“C’mon,” Caleb grabs the wrists of the two people by his side, leading them away. “We’ll come back for them, they’re in their own world now.” At least he won’t have to share Mara with you today.

Zayne and you have developed a ritual of sorts. Since you’re both just children, you can’t buy all the sweets you’d like to. Each of you only carries enough money for a singular sweet on your person. So, you each order a different one and share. You order a sachertorte while he gets the mille-feuille. 

The both of you sit down and only take two bites. The first to taste the desert and the second to confirm if it is actually good. You groan at the thick chocolate and moisture of the cake, “It’s really good.” Zayne has to be careful with his, it’s made of puff pastry and can easily crack. “The custard in this is perfect,” he lets you know. You swap your plates around and try the second one.

The lecture you’ll end up getting from your parents about having too many sweets is worth it.

The smiles don’t wear off as you reminisce. 

There’s the smile he looked for in each passing person.

The both of you just stare into each other’s eyes, the words of the others in the shop blur out. The comfortable silence you often shared with him in your childhood returns, two pairs of eyes do all the talking. You break the contact by blinking and that breaks him out of his stupor. 

“I..” his words trail off as he overthinks what he’s going to say. You try to give him a comforting smile.

“I won’t ask about what happened. I won’t ask about why you’re not speaking either just…” your breath hitches at the look he gives you, mixed with desperation and yearning. “Let me examine you. Then I’ll be at ease.” 

Your gaze falls over the empty coffee cup as you consider his words. [I don’t do well with hospitals…or doctors really.] 

“That’s fine. We can go to my place,” he negotiates.

You should say no. You should walk out of here and never come back to him, your mind screams at you.

But it’s Zayne. The same Zayne who had left when he hurt the girl he cared about, Mara, not able to deal causing pain to someone he loved. The same Zayne who became a cardiologist to try and make it up to her. 

At your discomfort, a smile adorns his face. “I’m glad to see at least something hasn’t changed,” he muses.

You shoot him a confused look. He pauses, a look of contemplation in his eyes, wondering if he should continue his thought. He does.

“When we were kids you hated being taken care of, even by your family. Almost like you didn’t believe you deserved it,” he explained. “It didn’t stop you from caring for everyone else though.”

You didn’t think anyone noticed your guilt.

There’s a gentle flick to your forehead, snapping you out of your thoughts. You look up at him in awe. “Many are not fortunate to have those who cherish them, so stop running,” his voice is in a whisper, soothing as always.

Ironically, he speaks nearly the same words you had to Caleb. You were always the biggest hypocrite you’ve met.

[Okay.]

~~~

The ride to his place is silent.

True to his word, it starts to pour heavily. You worry for Mara when you can hear thunder. Is she still afraid of it? Your gaze is out the window, committing each image to memory. Fauna and flora were scarce in the N109 zone but they flourish here in Linkon city. It’s nice to see. Linkon city looks so alive compared to what you’ve become used to.

Zayne opens the door for you as you get out of the car. His house is just what one would expect of him. White and black are the primary colours. Everything is placed neatly and organised in a fitting manner. It still feels like a home, you can tell the place is cherished. 

“Come to my office,” he leads you into a room. He gestures for you to sit at the chair by his desk and you do. 

His hand reaches for your scarf. “I’m going to take this off now. Is that okay?” You nod and wait with bated breath as he works on removing it, gently pulling out any hair tangled in it. His gaze is like steel when he sees the scar. You stop breathing all together when his fingers trace over it before removing them completely, his hand clenched into a ball by his side. Even his anger is silent. 

[It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt at all. I’ll speak again, don’t worry.] You don’t like seeing him like that. His eyes soften at your words. Only you would try and comfort him about your injury. He kneels before you, hands reaching your left one. He looks over the injury he had caused. He doesn’t have to speak for you to hear his thoughts. You pull your hand out of his.

[Not your fault.]

“How did you stop me that day?”

When you don’t make a move to sign, he sighs. Another secret…

“Neverm-”

[If I knew I would tell you. Truth is my body moved on its own that day. I haven’t done it since then.]

“Ah.” 

You can’t help the giddiness as you look over the boy you used to know. He’s become a man now, he’s become the Zayne you used to squeal over. Part of you misses the chubbiness he had in his face but the other part appreciated the sharp look he has now. He’s grown even more taller, and his clothes do a bad job of hiding the muscles underneath. And - oh wow- his eyes are so beautiful. You could look at them all day and never be bored.

Due to his stoicism, many like to paint him as a cold and indifferent person. You yourself thought he’d be like that with you, that his kindness was only reserved for the MC. You had been proven wrong every step of the way. You know better now.

That unlike his evol, Zayne is warm. Not in the way of body temperature or even his outward personality. He was warm in the way he adores animals. In the unique way he shows his care. In his touch. In the way he’d always been careful to never hurt your feelings growing up. You could go on about him all day. None of these things were noticeable at a first meeting with him, maybe even the second but you’re glad he let you in so you could learn them.

You have no doubt that he’s an amazing doctor. His patients must feel so lucky knowing that their physician will advocate for them and has their back. There are only four people that restore your faith in humanity and he’s one of them.

Without thinking, your hand reaches out and cradles his face. He lets out a gasp at the contact before engulfing your hand with his and leaning his face into your hand further. His eyes close and the peaceful expression on his face does not help the erratic beating of your heart.  

“I’ll make some tea. Would you like that?” He’s staring at you so earnestly as he kneels, your hands still touching. You lick your suddenly dry lips, all too aware of how his eyes follow the muscle. You nod. This was getting too intimate. He lets go of your hand and stands up. “I’ll be back,” he says.

You decide to survey his office while you wait. The chair you’re sitting on is comfortable. What catches your attention is the bookshelf mounted on the wall. You stand up and walk over to it. Your fingers trace over the spines.The books on it are mostly medical journals and none of them interest you. You stop before an item, one very familiar to you.

A record player.

You remember how frantically you had gone into every shop you came across, looking for a fitting gift. To your luck, you came across a shop with vintage goods. There had been many, in various colours but you thought Zayne would appreciate the dark wood one. The record player was small enough to carry in one’s arms. You picked out two music tracks to go with it. To your utter relief he had loved the gift. 

The shop had become a regular place to go with Zayne. It had a variety of vinyl records as well but they were expensive. The two of you would save up for them one by one. You helped him amass quite a collection. 

“You noticed it,” his words don’t surprise you. His steps in the kitchen and the noises of him preparing the tea were all clear to you, so was him making his way back. He’s holding a tray with two steaming cups on it. He sets it down on the desk and walks towards you.

[I can’t believe you still have it.] He shoots you an incredulous look. “Of course I did. I make sure to keep it in good condition as well.” He goes over to his desk, pulling out a drawer. The record in his hands is one you know very well. All the artists on these records were unknown to you and this record is no exception. Except for the fact that you ended up becoming a huge fan of the artist. It’s a classical melody. The notes are simple but are so hauntingly beautiful. It’s engraved into your heart.

[It’s our song.]

“Yes it is.”

He places the record onto the player. Familiar music begins playing. You close your eyes to take it in, your head bopping to the tune. Zayne watches as you do the same notion you had when he first played the record. It’s soothing that some old parts of you still remain.

When your eyes open, you stare in shock at his outstretched hand. His cheeks glow with a red hue.

“Indulge me.”

Please. 

You stare at his palm.

What are you thinking, Zayne? She’s not ready for something like-

You place your hand in his. 

He stares in awe at the flustered look you have. It’s him that’ll need a heart transplant if you keep this up.

Your fingers lace together and he uses the momentum to gently pull you closer. His other hand goes on your lower back while you keep yours on his upper arm. You push your face into his chest as you sway together, you can’t handle looking into his eyes. You dance for a while completely unaware of the turmoil in his mind.

You feel his face move closer to your head. He places a tender kiss to the side of your head. Everything you’ve been holding in seems to break. He holds you tighter when he feels you shake, the wet of your tears decorate his neck. His hand caresses your head over and over again. It’s comfort at its best.

“I’m here,” he whispers against your head. “Let it all out.” It kills him inside how much you seem to need this. How he can’t even hear your cries. It’s fine, he’ll take whatever you give him.

Later, Zayne carries you to his bed. You had cried in his arms for nearly an hour until you passed out from the exhaustion. He lowers you onto the bed, making sure to take the coat off. Pulling the duvet over you, he sits down by your side and examines your face. Your eyes were puffy from the tears but it looked like you really needed this.

As much as he doesn’t want to, he gets up to leave. His movement is stopped by a hand on his wrist. ‘Stay,’ you mouth at him. You push yourself to the other side of the bed, patting the spot you were previously on. He gets on and settles in. You give him a sleepy smile and doze off.

He doesn’t sleep.

Watching you is enough.

You should’ve left. You should’ve gotten into a car and drove off. You should not have stayed. Because you’ve given a very desperate man a taste of you and he’s not letting you go now.

Yan!Sylus who convinces himself that he has to keep you here. What if his enemies got a hold of you and got valued information his weaknesses? And you knew about his sorceress; he could learn more about her from you.

Yan!Sylus who takes into account your strenghts and weaknesses and decided to give you a small administrative job in Onychinus. Who's vaguely surprised by your dedication and efficiency. Who starts gaining some respect for you despite how weak and average you are.

Yan!Sylus who grows more... dissatisfied the more he learns about his sorceress from you. She reincarnates forever yet doesn't retain any memories of her past lives? She's had several lovers who's also chased her across lifetimes? In this life (the main game), her interest in him revolves around learning about the Aether Core in her body? How... displeasing.

Yan!Sylus who sends Mephisto earlier than normal to look after MC now that he can identify her. Who sees her with the other love interests and interrogates you about them. Who, after learning that they are the other lovers she's had over time, can't help but feel a bit of despair - what was his one life with her versus these other men who know her so intimately?

Yan!Sylus who watches you integrate into his inner circle. You enjoy Luke and Kieran's company, even when their pranks and personalities can be a bit much for you. And you adore Mephisto, giving him treats and trinkets while petting his plating and feathers.

Yan!Sylus who grows a bit frustrated when you are much more reluctant to grow closer to him. He's seen your desires, he knows you care for him want him, why do you push him away?

Yan!Sylus who through subtle maniputation coaxing manages to get you to open up a bit more. Who learns the little things that you like and what makes you who you are. Who finds that rather than making you more boring, seems to add to your charm.

Yan!Sylus who comes home after having a rough day with annoying people. Who is surprised when you see him in such a state and don't rush off to give him space like you normally do. Who is shocked when you offer to help him.

Yan!Sylus who finds his chin on your shoulder, his head cradled in your arms, and your fingers running through his scalp. Who finds your words of reassurance and comfort sooths a part of his soul he didn't know needed it. When has anyone ever held him so tenderly?

Yan!Sylus who finds himself craving that warmth, that unconditional love. Who finds himself seeking you out and opening up to you in hopes that you would show that side of you to him again. Who hopes that he can become that person to you.

Yan!Sylus who finds this opportunity when he finds you crying to yourself. Who holds you as you confess that you miss your old life, that you feel like you're betraying them by enjoying your life now. Who caresses your head as you share that you fear waking up and finding this to be an absurd coma dream... or not waking up at all.

Yan!Sylus who tries to ignore the pang he feels at your words as he comforts you. You shouldn't feel guilty about being happy here you shouldn't want to leave. You're only hurting yourself by wanting something you have no way of knowing how to achieve it you can't go back, he couldn't stand it.

Yan!Sylus who becomes your source of comfort when you feel homesick, when you have nightmares of waking up dead. Who feels a small thrill of having you so vulnerable to him.

And yet... you still keep your distance. Refuse to get close to him the closeness he wants. Why?

Yan!Sylus who finally finds MC in the N109 Zone, just as you said he would. Who notices that once he tells you this, you begin to withdraw again, to become distant why why why. When questioned, you tell him you don't want to disrupt the story if only you knew how much you already had.

Yan!Sylus who doesn't listen to your advice about being gentler or friendlier with MC. Who treats her like he does in the normal game maybe a bit harsher. Who tries whatever he can think of to force the memories back, frustrated with the situation between her and you.

Yan!Sylus who thinks about his love with Miss Hunter. It’s always surrounded with violence and selfishness. But with you… you’re gentle and giving. Even knowing everything he is, you accept him and treat him with a kindness he’s never known. Perhaps…

Yan!Sylus who finally manages to have her in his home, only to find you can be found nowhere. It's like you're avoiding him when he needs your comfort the most. Who feels like he's going insane.

Yan!Sylus who finally confronts you about your distance. Who is shocked (though he shouldn't be) to find out that you're avoiding him because you don't want to complicate things between him and Miss Hunter. You reason that trying to insert yourself in a love story you don't belong in isn't fair to anyone including yourself.

Yan!Sylus who demands to know what you want. Who uses his Aether Core again to see what you truly desire. Who sees that you want him, but you want him to be happy. That you think he's happiest with Miss Hunter. That you see yourself as less than her and undeserving of him.

Yan!Sylus who insists that you’re wrong, that you’re absolutely incredible in your own way that you make him happy. You smile and accept his words, but it’s clear you don’t believe him. Well, he’ll make you believe him…

Yan!Sylus who kills MC. Who takes back his soul. I suppose the dragon’s curse ended up coming to pass, didn’t it? Who makes her death look like an accident - innocent crossfire in the N109 Zone.

Yan!Sylus who knows you know what must have happened. After all, Miss Hunter is the main character of this story. She’s not supposed to die yet. And his mourning period was far too short for his beloved.

Yan!Sylus who knows he doesn’t have to worry about you running. The N109 Zone is a death wish without his protection. And the rest of the world won’t be accepting of someone with no records, no history, nothing. Whether you like it or not, you’re stuck with him.

Yan!Sylus who is unafraid of the consequences of his actions. He’ll regain your affection eventually. And he doesn’t fear what could happen if the Hunter’s Association, the Farspace Fleet, or her myriad of mythical lovers find out about the truth of Miss Hunter’s death. He’ll take them on and burn them to the ground. He’d pay the price over and over again to have you.

Yan!Sylus who doesn’t need his sorceress because he found his treasure.

The choir of rain showering down envelops your whole world. Holding yourself close, you hug yourself away from the constant roar of the thunders.

You did not notice the man watching— his gaze lingering on the drenched rag of a person curled up on the roadside.

Another roar tears through the sky, clawing at your chest, sending tremors down your spine. With each shallow breath, you silently pray for the nightmare to be over, to wake up under warm covers in the safety of your own room.

He probably saw the state you’re in—the haziness in your unfocused eyes and the way you blink, once, twice, sluggish and distant. A sigh leaves his lips as he kneels down to your level. With one gloved hand holding his helmet, the other lightly flicks your forehead.

The flick is light—too light for the weight crushing your chest, yet enough to tether you back to reality and bring some focus back into your gaze.

You slowly raise your gaze, meeting his crimson orbs. Unwavering. Sharp. Studying.

His lips twitch—not quite a smirk, not quite concern.

“You look like hell,” he states as he tilts his head, studying you like you’re an amusing puzzle.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your lips tremble, but no words form.

Sylus exhales, slow and deliberate—not quite a sigh, but something close.

“Can you get up?”

Silence. Only the sound of the rain, the low hum of the storm, and the quiver of your breath fill the air.

He clicks his tongue, running a hand through his drenched silver locks before shaking off the excess water. Then, without a word, he drops his helmet onto your head, fingers swift and practiced as he secures the strap beneath you chin

The sudden weight startles you. But before you can react, you’re lifted.

A sharp gasp catches in your throat as his arms hook effortlessly around you, pulling you up from the cold ground and onto the sleek leather seat.

He swings his leg over the bike, boots steady against the pavement. The engine purrs beneath you, low and commanding.

“Hold tight.”

The words are simple. A command. A warning.

Your hands instinctively clutch his waist, gripping the fabric of his jacket. The sudden yank pushes you flush against him.

But through the turmoil of it all—through the howling wind, the biting cold, the chaos swallowing the whole world as you ride through the roads a little too fast—beneath your fingers, beneath the soaked fabric,

he’s warm.

The contrast is sharp. The world untamed, screaming, tearing everything apart. The situation rushes past you, too quick, too unreal.

Through it all, you—fractured, weightless, drowning— hold onto him— steady, unshaken—like he’s the only rope tying you to reality.

•

“What’s your room number?” he asks as the bike comes to a stop and the deep rumble of the engine fades.

By the time you’ve returned to the resort, the campfire is long gone—reduced to nothing but damp coals and the ghost of laughter lingering in the air.

People scattered, rushed towards shelter, their hurried footsteps splashed against puddles. The storm has chased everyone indoors.

Except for you and him.

You’re still clutching onto him, fingers curled around the fabric of his jacket. The lingering warmth of his body beneath your touch feels foreign.

“Well?” Sylus’s voice cuts through the silence.

You blink, realizing you haven’t answered.

Your lips part, allowing a light whisper to leave your lips.

“409.”

Without a word, he starts walking.

Perhaps it’s because you did not want to be left alone in the darkness of the night again, or perhaps it was because the sudden loss of warmth prompted your body to move on its own.

You trail behind him through the dimly lit halls, the faint hum of electricity buzzing through the silence. Water drips from your clothes, leaving a trail behind as you shiver against the cold air-conditioned corridor.

You steal a glance at him. Sylus walks ahead, hands shoved into his pockets, completely unfazed. As if he didn’t just find you curled up on the side of the road, as if you’re not drenched and shaking beside him.

The two of you stop in front of your door.

You fumble for the key card, fingers trembling slightly, though you’re not sure if it’s from the cold or from everything that’s happened tonight.

“Shh, don’t be scared.”

Soft coos seep through the door.

“I’m here, pipsqueak. I’m here.”

Soft giggles follow the gentle whispers.

“You’ve always stayed with me on days like these, holding me just like this whenever there were thunders.” Her voice is small and fragile—like something meant to be cherished, protected.

Your fingers hover the doorknob, frozen in place.

The storm rages on, harmonizing with the soft giggles on the other side of the door.

You stood there paralyzed, your mind too tired to register whatever it is that your heart is going through.

Sylus leans against the doorframe, watching you hesitate. Waiting.

“So? You gonna go in, or are we just standing here all night?” He finally asks, voice low and edged with amusement.

Your lack of response earns slow exhale from him.

Before you can fall any deeper, before you can drown in the ache clawing at your chest—he moves.

His hand wraps around your wrist, firm and unyielding.

You flinch, eyes finally snapping to him.

He doesn’t say anything—just turns, walking, dragging you with him.

Away from the door. Away from them.

“Sylus—“ Your voice is barely above a whisper, but he doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t loosen his grip.

And deep down, you were glad he didn’t.

You let the warmth of his hand anchor you, let the storm swallow everything else, and let the laughter behind the doorframe fade into nothing.

•

Sylus doesn’t stop walking until you’re deep inside the quiet halls of the resort, the sound of rain and thunder fading into the background.

His grip finally loosens as he stops in front of a door.

Without looking at you, he pulls out his key card and swipes it. The lock clicks open.

“Get in.” His voice is flat, low—an order, not a request.

You linger by the doorway, water pooling beneath your feet.

Sylus exhales sharply for the nth time that night, raking a hand through damp silver strands, sending droplets scattering to the floor. Then, without warning, he grabs a towel from the bed and throws it at you.

It smacks against your chest, snapping you out of your daze.

“Shower.”

You blink up at him. His crimson eyes don’t waver.

His jaw ticks. Another sigh, this one slower, controlled.

More is tossed at you.

A shirt. A pair of sweatpants. His clothes.

They land in your arms, warm, freshly laundered, carrying the faintest trace of him—clean, sharp, and something unplaceable.

Your fingers tighten around the fabric.

“You’re soaked. You’ll get sick.”

It’s not concern. It’s a fact. A simple statement.

When you still don’t move, he clicks his tongue, tone dipping into something dangerously close to impatience.

“Either you go shower, or I’ll throw you in there myself.”

That finally makes your feet move.

You clutch the clothes tighter against your chest and step past him, disappearing into the bathroom.

The door clicks shut behind you.

And only then do you finally exhale.

The warmth of the shower does little to soothe the tightness in your chest, but at the very least, it washes away the lingering cold from the rain, the exhaustion clinging to your skin like a second layer.

When you finally step out, damp hair sticking to your neck, Sylus is exactly where you left him—leaning against the dresser, one knee bent, a towel draped over his head. His silver hair peeks through, darkened by water, stray strands clinging to his forehead. He’s slow with his movements, lazy almost, dragging the towel through his hair before ruffling it out with one hand.

For the first time, you actually look at him. Not just a passing glance, not a flicker of acknowledgement,—but really look.

At the way the dim light carves shadows along his jawline—the cut of his jawline, the slight furrow in his brow, the way droplets trail down his collarbone before vanishing beneath the black tank clinging to his build—damp and unforgiving, outlining lean muscle and sharp edges.

There’s something effortlessly sharp about him, something dangerous in the way he simply carries his frame.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as his gaze flickers up, sweeping over you. Unbothered. Knowing. Like he’s caught you staring.

“Like what you see?” his voice drips with lazy amusement.

You blink, heat creeping up your neck before you compose your features.

“What is there to like?”

His smirk deepens, crimson eyes flickering with something teasing.

“You really are a shortcake.” He smugs as his gaze roams your body. “Looks like my clothes are trying to swallow you whole.”

You glance down. The oversized shirt hangs loosely off your shoulders, the hem brushing against your knees. The sweatpants are cinched at the waist, tied hastily to keep them from slipping.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “It’s not my fault you’re built like a damn tree.”

Sylus snorts, shaking his head as he runs the towel over his hair one last time before tossing it onto the chair. “Move.”

He brushes past you, the scent of clean linen and faint sandalwood trailing behind him. The door clicks shut a second later, leaving you alone in the room.

For a moment, you simply stand there, staring at the empty space he left behind.

Then, with a slow, heavy breath, you make your way to the bed. The mattress dips beneath your weight, soft and warm—a stark contrast to the cold pavement you were curled up on just hours ago.

You sink into it, pulling the blankets over yourself, letting your body finally rest.

But sleep never comes.

Even as exhaustion tugs at your limbs, your mind refuses to quiet.

The storm still lingers beyond the windows, faint rumbles reverberating through the walls. Every moment from tonight replays, over and over again—

The laughter at the campfire.

Caleb’s dismissive jokes.

Caleb’s warmth, his head rested on your lap as the sun sets.

His voice, gentle, whispered—“I’m here, pipsqueak. I’m here.”

And the way the line cut before you could even finish your cry for help.

Your grip on the blanket tightens.

It’s pathetic. How much this hurts. How much he still has a hold on you, even when you know better.

You force yourself to listen to the sound of the shower running in the bathroom, gripping into your own palm like doing so could lull you to sleep.

The blanket feels too heavy. The air, too thick.

You shift onto your side, curling in on yourself, trying to focus on something—anything—other than the ache sitting heavy in your chest.

The shower stops, and a moment later, the bathroom door opens.

Sylus steps out, towel draped around his neck, silver hair still damp, a few strands clinging to his skin. The scent of clean linen and something sharp, something distinctly him, fills the space.

He says nothing, nor does he acknowledge you.

Instead, he crosses the room in that effortless, unhurried way of his, tossing the towel onto a nearby chair before grabbing something from his bag.

You watch from the corner of your eye as he settles into the chair beside the bed, flipping the book open like he’s done this a thousand times before.

Like you’re not lying there, curled up in his clothes, drowning in the silence between you.

Like this is just another one of his quiet nights.

The pages turn, slow and steady, the faint rustle of paper weaving into the distant cries of thunder.

Still, the way the thunder rumbles through the sky, rolling and crackling so close, makes your body tense on instinct. You will your breathing to steady, to calm. But your hands won’t stop trembling.

It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid.

The sudden change from the steady rhythm of pages turning to the faint tap of his fingers against his phone screen causes your brows to furrow in curiosity. You crack an eye open just enough to see him searching something up. His expression remains as impassive as ever, his crimson gaze flicking across the screen, scanning whatever article he’s pulled up.

Then—without warning—he gets up, grabs your blanket, and yanks it off you.

“H-Hey—!” You barely have time to react before he moves, fast and measured, rolling you over onto the bedspread like you weigh nothing.

“What the hell are you—“

He ignores you. Ignores your flailing arms, ignores your indignant protests, and swiftly tugs the blanket around you, tucking you in so tight you can barely move.

You blink, completely stunned. You stare up at him, utterly dumbfounded, as he looks down at you with a face that is, somehow, completely unbothered.

“What the fuck is this?”

Sylus simply plops back down into his chair, cool as ever.

“It’s what they say helps cats with anxiety attacks.” He gestures vaguely towards his phone. “Something about mimicking the feeling of safety.”

Silence. You blink at him.

Once.

Twice.

His lips twitch—just slightly. “You’re welcome.”

You stare at him in disbelief.

“What kind of dumb—this isn’t even—“ You wiggle, struggling against the tight wrap of the blanket. “Sylus, let me out.”

“No.

“Sylus.”

“They say chin scratches can also help calm cats down,” he smirks. “Would you want that too, kitten?”

You open your mouth to retort, but another loud crack of thunder cuts through the room. Your breath hitches before you can stop it.

Silence engulfs the room once more.

He flips to another page in his book.

“Do you hate it that much?” his eyes never leaving the words in front of him. “The thunders.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, hating the way your hands still tremble against the blanket.

“No.”

Sylus hums, the sound low, almost skeptical. He flips another page.

“Convincing. Really.”

You would never admit it, but the tight wrap of blanket around you created a protective barrier between you and the world.

Or perhaps it is the steady rhythm of his breathing. The calm, unshaken presence beside you.

Your eyelids grow heavier.

The storm still lingers outside.

But here, in this quiet space, it’s bearable.

And before you realize it—the world turns dark.

•

Your eyes shoot open.

The room is steeped in deep blue, the quiet hum of dawn settling over the world. The storm has long passed, leaving behind only the faint scent of rain lingering in the air.

You instinctively look around, your pulse quickening as the memories of last night rush in like a relentless wave.

The chair beside the bed is empty. The book he was reading is gone.

He isn’t here.

A strange feeling settles in your chest—one you don’t have the energy to name.

You push yourself up, the oversized fabric of his clothes slipping loosely around your frame.

Right. You need to go.

Sliding off the bed, you grab your things, moving as quietly as possible. The last thing you need is anyone seeing you sneaking out of a room that isn’t yours.

The hallways are eerily silent, save for the distant rustle of the ocean breeze slipping through an open window. You slip into your own room unnoticed, the door clicking shut behind you.

MC is still asleep, curled beneath the blankets, her breathing slow and steady.

You exhale, body weighed down with exhaustion as you strip out of Sylus’s clothes, replacing them with your own. The fabric is warm, familiar.

Sliding your phone onto the charger, you finally crawl into bed, slipping under the covers beside MC.

She stirs slightly, shifting at the dip in the mattress, but doesn’t wake.

The silence stretches, the soft rhythm of her breathing lulling you into something close to peace.

You close your eyes.

•

You’re jolted awake by MC’s sudden exclaim.

“Oh my god, Yn!”

Your eyes snap open, the soft haze of sleep vanishing in an instant. MC is hovering over you, her phone clutched tightly in one hand, her brows furrowed in concern.

“Where the hell were you last night?!” she demands, voice a mix of worry and exasperation. “I called you like, a million times! I was this close to going out and looking for you—” She pauses, eyes narrowing slightly. “But, you know… how I am with thunders.”

You blink, mind sluggish, body too drained to react.

MC huffs, shoving her phone in your face. “Seriously, Yn. I was worried sick!”

You squint at the screen, barely making out the endless stream of missed calls and texts before you sigh, rubbing a hand down your face.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “I—”

What are you even supposed to say?

That you got caught in the rain? That you collapsed on the side of the road? That Sylus found you?

That you spent the night in his room?

Your throat tightens.

MC sighs, finally pulling back. “I swear, you’re gonna give me a heart attack one day.” Her expression softens, the frustration fading into something quieter. “You okay?”

The concern in her voice makes your chest ache.

You force a small smile. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

MC watches you for a moment before nodding. “Alright. But don’t ever do that again, okay? If something’s wrong, you tell me.”

You nod, though you don’t say anything.

She plops back onto the bed, stretching her arms over her head. “Anyway, we have a long-ass day ahead of us. Let’s get moving before they start filming without us.”

You hum in agreement, pushing yourself up despite the weight still clinging to your limbs.

The moment your feet touch the floor, a faint dizziness creeps in, but you shake it off.

Today is going to be long. You just have to get through it.

MC chatters away as she gets ready, pulling out outfits and rummaging through her bag. She seems to have let go of last night’s worries, and for that, you’re grateful. You don’t have the energy to explain anything right now.

By the time you both leave the room, the sun has fully risen, painting the sky in warm golds and soft blues. The air is fresh, carrying the lingering scent of rain, but the storm from last night feels like a distant memory—like something only you remember.

When you arrive at the set, the atmosphere is already buzzing with energy. Crew members are setting up, actors are going over their lines, and the director is barking out instructions.

MC quickly joins the main cast, slipping into her role with ease, leaving you to find your own place among the side characters.

“Action!”

The day begins.

It’s hectic—far more chaotic than yesterday. Since most of the key scenes are scheduled to be filmed today, there’s barely a moment to breathe between takes.

You go through your role automatically, delivering lines, hitting your marks, going where you’re needed.

And yet, through the commotion, you can feel him.

“Action!”

You can see him in the crowd, practicing and discussing his lines.

You can see him placing his hand on MC’s head, telling her it’s okay she messed up her part.

“Action!”

Every now and then, between takes, you can see the way his eyes land on you, a certain look that you can’t quite place your finger on.

And every now and then, during any short break he can muster, you can see the way he tries to approach you.

But the simple thought of him makes you sick to your stomach.

“Yn—”

You slip away.

“Where were y—”

Someone calls you over before he can finish.

“Why didn’t you pick—”

Another take is called, forcing him back into position.

Every conversation dies before it can even begin, and you make no effort to change that.

You don’t want to face him yet.

You can’t.

“Action!”

Fortunately, the day is kind enough to be relentless, dragging you from scene to scene, making it easier to ignore the weight of his gaze, the questions lingering between you.

But as the hours pass, the sun burns hotter, the air grows heavier, and a dull ache creeps into your skull.

It’s subtle at first, just a faint throbbing behind your eyes.

“Action!”

Your limbs feel heavier, your head foggy, the world tilting ever so slightly.

You swallow, forcing yourself to focus.

It’s nothing. Just exhaustion. Just the heat. Just the fact that you spent last night soaking wet in the cold for hours.

“Action!”

You push through.

A hand reaches for yours.

“Hey—are you oka—“

“I’m fine, Caleb.” You snap, finally turning to face him, snatching your touch away from his.

You look over his shoulder to find MC waving for him.

“MC’s looking for you,” you state, turning away just as quickly.

“You don’t look—“

The set sweeps him away once more.

The heat is unbearable. It sticks to your skin, clings to your lungs, burrows into your skull with a relentless pulse. Every sound around you—voices, instructions, the scuffling of feet on set—blurs into a distant hum.

“Action!”

You should sit down. You should stop.

But you don’t.

You push through, following the motions, forcing your body to move despite the dull, throbbing ache radiating from your temple.

The sun beats down harder.

Your limbs feel heavy. Your vision swims.

Something is wrong.

“Act—“

A sudden shift—the ground tilts beneath you.

The world spirals. Your stomach churns—everything is slipping too fast.

And then—a firm grip catches your wrist.

Through the haze, crimson eyes lock onto yours, sharp and assessing.

You don’t understand how, don’t understand why— but subtly, nearly imperceptibly—the sharpness in his eyes narrows, just slightly.

His grip tightens.

“It’s not called a dance if there’s no one to catch you when you dip,” a teasing smirk crawls up his face.

You narrow your eyes, a frown following closely.

“Let me go,” you demand, pulling your hand from his. To your dismay, he does not budge.

Sylus hums, tilting his head slightly, his crimson eyes flickering with amusement.

“Let you go?” He scoffs lightly. “Sweetheart, you nearly face-planted in front of half the set. If it weren’t for me, you’d be eating sand right now.”

A flush of heat creeps up your neck—whether from frustration or fever, you don’t know.

“But it did look like you were throwing yourself into my arms just now…”

Your jaw tightens. “I wasn’t—“

“You were.” He grins, lazy and insufferable, before tapping his temple. “Don’t worry, I’ll be generous and let you blame it on heat exhaustion. But next time, try asking before you faint dramatically into my arms, yeah?”

A scoff pushes past your lips, hot and irritated. “I didn’t—“

He cuts you off again, eyes narrowing in mock thought. “Actually, should I be offended? You didn’t even call my name. Isn’t that what damsels in distress do?”

He shifts his grip to hook an arm securely around your waist, pulling you closer as your knees wobble.

You slap at his arm. “I can stand just fine.“

“Sure.” He drawls the word out, clearly not convinced. “If by ‘just fine’ you mean ‘barely upright and just one second away from proving me right.’”

Your glare sharpens, pushing his body away from you. However, your body betrays you as your knees struggle to find balance, causing you to lean just slightly into his hold.

Sylus smirks.

“You love proving me right, don’t you?”

You groan. “Just let me go, Sylus.”

Before he can answer, another presence looms in.

“Yn.“

The teasing weight of Sylus’s words vanishes in an instant.

You tense.

The air shifts—sharp, tight, suffocating.

Sylus’s smirk doesn’t falter, but the amusement in his eyes dims, replaced with something much more calculating.

“I’ll take it from here.”

Caleb takes a step forward, his expression unreadable—but his tone isn’t.

“Let go.”

A muscle in Sylus’s jaw twitches as his gaze sweeps over Caleb, the amusement curling at his lips deepening.

“That’s funny,” he muses, low and almost thoughtful.

Caleb’s eyes darken. “I said, let go.”

Sylus tilts his head slightly, gaze dipping back to you.

“Mm.” His voice drops lower, amusement flickering at the edges. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

The tension snaps tight between them—like a drawn blade, waiting to be swung.

You exhale sharply, yanking your wrist away from Sylus. Caleb’s presence itself is enough to push you off the edge, adding the tension between the two and your head splitting in half definitely does not help.

“I’m fine. I can walk. You two have scenes to film—go do that instead of hovering over me,” you mutter, your glare shifting between them.

Neither of them move.

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “Seriously. I just need some rest. Go.”

Sylus studies you for a beat longer, then— with an infuriating smirk, he raises both his hands in a mock display of surrender.

“Whatever you say, kitten.”

He steps back, turning without another word. But, even if you’ve just known him for a few days, you’re well too accustomed to that glint in his eyes. He’s entertained—like he just witnessed something far more amusing than it should be.

You roll your eyes, turning to leave—only to find Caleb following closely behind.

You stop in your tracks.

“Caleb.”

“You’re sick,” he states simply, as if that explains everything.

You let out an exhausted sigh. “I just need a nap. The sun’s too hot. You have a job to do. Go.”

“I’ll take you to your room.”

You groan. “I don’t need you to—“

“Yn.”

Something in the way he says your name—low, quiet, edged with something almost like a puppy left alone—makes your breath hitch.

You swallow, annoyance and fatigue surfacing your expression.

“Fine. Do whatever you want.”

You start walking. Caleb falls into step beside you, silent. The set bustles behind you, voices and movement filling the space. But between you and Caleb, the silence is louder.

The walk back is slow. The ground beneath you feels unsteady, your legs sluggish with exhaustion. The day had been merciless—your body drained from the heat, the lingering weight of last night clawing at your bones.

“I didn’t,” you murmur.

“You almost did.”

You finally reach your door, the cool AC left running inside brushes away a part of your exhaustion.

The door clicks shut behind you. You turn to face him, arms crossed.

“Alright. You walked me back. You can go now.”

Caleb doesn’t move. Instead, he leans against the doorframe, hands shoved into his pockets. “Kicking me out already?” he says with his usual playful tone, a grin plastered on his face.

“Out.”

Caleb sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I just—why didn’t you say anything? You looked like you were about to collapse back there.” He slowly approaches you, placing one hand on your forehead and another on his. “You’re burning up.”

A deep frown crawls up your face, annoyance filling your senses. You swat his hand away, taking an unsteady step backwards.

“Get out, Caleb, I want to be alone.”

His eyes widen ever so slightly, taken aback by your response. A soft chuckle slips past his lips—one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Okay, okay, I’ll leave. Right after I tuck you in.”

You let out a sharp breath, exasperated, but too drained to argue. Caleb takes a step closer, reaching for the blanket, but you snatch it before he can.

“Caleb—“

“You didn’t answer my calls.” The shift is almost imperceptible. His voice is steady, but there is an edge to it—like he is holding something back. His jaw is tense, something unreadable flashing behind his violet eyes.

Your breath catches for half a second and you grip on the blanket tightens, but you school your expression. “My phone was dead.”

“Where were you last night?” His voice is still too calm. Too measured.

You exhale, pinching the bridge of your nose, exhaustion pressing into your skull. “Caleb—“

“Do you know how long I spent looking for you?” his tone is lighter than it should be, laced with something almost amused—but his eyes, his stance, the slight clench of jaw betray him. “I ran through the rain like a desperate idiot, calling for your name like a lunatic, only for you to act like I don’t exist the next day?”

His voice isn’t desperate. It’s frustrated.

You don’t know what to say to that. Instead, you let out a dry laugh, shaking your head.

“Yeah? That worried? Sure, Caleb. Sure,” you pause. “Do you expect me to be grateful?” sarcasm drips from your words.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” his eyes narrow.

“No? Then what are you saying?” You cross your arms, a bitter laugh slipping past your lips. “Because I remember calling you. I remember my hands shaking so bad I almost dropped my phone. I remember hearing your voice and thinking, ‘finally.’” Your throat tightens. “And then I remember you cutting the line.”

Caleb stares at you, his expression unreadable.

“I was in the middle of god knows where, drenched like a drowning dog, kneeled down on the road next to some fucking dumpster,” you continue, voice shaking despite yourself. “But it wasn’t a great time. You were busy.” A humorless laugh leaves your quivering lips.

His jaws ticks.

“You know how MC is with thunders,” he says, voice quieter now. Almost defensive. “But as soon as she fell asleep— I didn’t think—“

“Exactly.” Your words are barely above a whisper. “You didn’t think. Had you paid a little more attention, you would’ve known I hated the thunder too.”

Something in his face shifts. His breath catches. For the first time since you met him, he looks like he miscalculated.

The silence is thick, suffocating. His gaze lock onto yours, searching—for what you weren’t sure.

Finally, he exhales through his nose, looking away. His hand grips the doorknob, knuckles paling slightly.

His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “I didn’t know.”

A bitter smile tugs at your lips. “Yeah. You didn’t.”

He remains there for a second longer, a shadow of something you can’t quite place flickering behind his eyes. You inhale sharply, steadying yourself, pressing a hand against your temple as a dull ache throbs inside your head.

“I’m very—very—tired,” you continue, voice barely above a breath. “So just… let me rest, Caleb.”

His jaws tightens. He shifts his weight, like he wants to say something—like there’s something sitting heavy on his tongue—but in the end, he exhales through his nose, slow and steady,

His voice, when he finally speaks, is quiet. Strained.

“…Get some rest, then.”

His fingers twitch at his sides. He slowly place his hand on your head, ruffling it softly—the way that has always brought butterflies to your stomach. His violet eyes flicker, scanning you—your unsteady stance, the way you press against your temple, the exhaustion settling deep in your features. Something flashes behind his gaze. But just as quickly, it’s gone.

He takes a step back. Then another.

He tilts his head slightly, studying you one last time—not with amusement, not with his usual lazy charm or playfulness, but with something much quieter. Much heavier.

“Try not to sleep through dinner, shortcake.” His usual grin flickers at the edges, forced, strained, before turning his heel.

The world above was long dead. Ruins of cities stood as monuments to a past civilization, swallowed by the aftermath of World War VI. Beneath the surface, buried in a labyrinth of steel and stone, was where the remaining humanity clung to survival. Here, Colonel Caleb was both a savior and a nightmare—a man whose presence alone sent shivers down the spines of even the most battle-hardened soldiers.

But he was not just any soldier—he was the fleet’s best fighter pilot, a legend in the skies before the war even forced them underground. Even now, when the remnants of humanity relied on aerial supremacy to hold off their enemies, Caleb was the one they turned to. The one who led the most dangerous missions, who never failed, who returned even when others didn’t. 

You have loved him for as long as you could remember.

You were a humble nurse, stitching together broken bodies, whispering soft reassurances to the wounded. Your duty was simple yet relentless, saving as many lives as you could with the limited resources and skill at your disposal. You weren’t the best, nor did you claim to be, but you were one of the few who refused to surrender to despair, even as the war bled your world dry. While others faltered under the gravity of endless suffering, you endured. And after a year of tending to fallen soldiers and civilians, you remained steadfast. You were the only one among your female colleagues who hadn’t lost herself to the horrors of war.

That was how you met him. 

Caleb was the fleet’s toughest and most formidable leader. He was unyielding and merciless to those who dared cross him. Even with his own people, he remained strict, and his resolve never wavered even in the face of devastating losses. But the night he staggered into the private ward, wounded and bleeding out, you were the first to reach him. You ensured he was cared for, your hands steady as you fought to keep him alive. 

“You’ll make it through the night, sir.” You could still remember the desperation in your voice as you tightened the tourniquet around his broken arm, fighting to stop the bleeding. “I’ll make sure of it.”

He lay there, teeth clenched, body tense with pain, every breath labored. “If I die, I die.” 

“No!” you shot back, your grip firm with determination. “Not tonight. You will live. We’re rooting for you, sir. The people need you.”

They said falling in love during wartime was a surefire path to heartbreak. Yet, meeting Caleb, seeing beyond his striking exterior, and loving him despite the battles—both on the field and within—was a fight you willingly embraced. You surrendered yourself to him without hesitation, and in return, the hardened soldier who was weary from war found solace in you. He called you the prettiest nurse in the ward, but to him, you were far more than that. You were the one thing he never saw coming. 

You were the apple of his eyes. 

But, of course, the other nurses didn’t take kindly to that. They resented how you had unknowingly ruined their chances with him, and even more so, how an undeniable favoritism began to surface. While they were left to sleep in rusty bunk beds, you were the one Caleb brought to his private quarters, where the sheets were soft, the air was warm, and food was abundant.

It was easy for them to judge. After all, rumors spread like wildfire about the nurse who shared the colonel’s bed. The gossip wasn’t confined to just the nurses; it reached the soldiers who eyed you whenever you passed, their gazes lingering with knowing smirks as if fantasizing what their colonel saw at night. Even the older civilians bore disapproving glances whenever they saw you. Their silent verdict was clear as day. You were seen as a woman who had traded her virtue for privilege. A harlot draped in a white uniform. A disgrace hiding behind the pretense of care.

You weren’t sure if Caleb knew about it, but it was impossible not to. He simply didn’t care because he had an entire nation to think about. Clearing your name was the least of his concerns. And you knew it. After two years of serving as a war nurse, when night fell, you were simply the woman Caleb claimed as his. A common-law partner, nothing more. He never made promises, never told you that you were the only one in his heart. Because you weren’t. That space belonged to another—the woman he had truly loved. The woman he had lost to war.

His wife.

You tried. You tried to live with the ghost between you, tried to endure the way his fingers sometimes trembled against your skin, as if remembering someone else. You tried to pretend that when he held you, it was because he wanted you, not because he needed something to numb the ache inside him.

But love, when unreciprocated, was a slow and agonizing death. 

And all you could do was live with it for as long as you were with him.

Because one day, you knew he could love you the same. And one day, when the war ends, you would be in his arms, building your life together with your kids playing freely and no longer living in fear. 

For now, you had to endure what came your way. There are no saints in war times, and patience was a virtue at times like these. 

The sharp scent of antiseptic filled your nose as you moved swiftly through the underground ward, checking pulses, changing dressings, and murmuring reassurances to the wounded who groaned in pain one after another. It was just another day in the relentless cycle of war, patching up soldiers only to send them back out to die.

Then you heard him.

Colonel Caleb’s commanding voice felt like an alarm to everyone in the ward as he strode down the hall, flanked by his army of men. You weren’t even looking, but you could picture the way they walked, with Caleb at the front, exuding effortless authority, and the others keeping pace just slightly behind him.

“The turbine failed mid-air,” one of his officers reported. “Preliminary analysis suggests a mechanical fault. Possibly a lubrication issue in the main rotor bearings.”

“Or sabotage,” another interjected grimly.

Caleb didn’t slow his steps. “Has the wreckage been recovered?”

“Scouts are en route, sir. We should have an assessment within the hour.”

“Too late,” Caleb muttered. “If they hit us now, we’ll have one less bird in the sky. Reassign Squadron Echo to cover the eastern perimeter. Deploy anti-air artillery in sector four, and keep the missile launchers primed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Just then, a distant explosion rumbled aboveground, rattling the dim lights overhead. You even had to hold onto one of the cabinet doors to steady yourself. A fighter jet had gone down.

“Damn it.” One of the officers pulled out a small tablet, scanning over the mission logs. “Pilot’s confirmed dead. They’re already moving in on the wreckage. We need reinforcements at the north trench.”

Caleb barely hesitated. “Send Private Halloway to the front lines.”

“Roger that.”

His words were sharp and clinical. No emotion. Just another name spoken into a void, another body to be thrown into the fray. 

Your hands stilled over a soldier’s bandages. Halloway. You recognized that name.

The same Halloway who had leaned a little too close when you handed him his rations. The one who had brushed a stray lock of hair from your face and smirked, murmuring something about how the battlefield could use more beauty like yours. The kind of beauty that he fantasized at night. 

And now he was being sent to die.

A strange thrill coiled in your stomach. Caleb had heard about it. Or he might even have seen. It was a foolish and delusional thought, dangerous even, but you clung to the fact that this was surely his way of claiming you.

As his group passed, your pulse quickened. You turned slightly, letting your gaze linger on him. Tall. Unshaken. Unreachable. This was your man. He was yours and you were his. 

You smiled as soon as he saw you, just a little, as if sharing a secret only the two of you understood.

But Caleb didn’t stop. He simply looked away. His eyes remained fixed ahead, his expression unreadable, and in a matter of seconds, he was gone. Nothing more than the cold air that he often carried. 

~~

Steam curled in the dimly lit room as you stepped out of the shower, water forming in rivulets against your skin. The underground base was always cold, but in Caleb’s quarters, the warmth always stayed. Not just because he had his own luxury of a fireplace, but because the warmth also included faint traces of him in the air, in the sheets, and in the ghost of his presence.

Not that it mattered. You were just emotional because he hadn’t been here in three days.

Sighing, you wrapped a towel around yourself, already resigning to another night alone. But just as you reached for your comb, the door swung open with a slow and deliberate creak.

You froze.

Caleb stood in the doorway, his uniform dusted with dirt and gunpowder. His sleeves were rolled up, veins prominent on his forearms and tension coiling in his stance. His gaze flicked over your damp skin, bare shoulders, the towel barely clinging to your body.

You let a small smile play on your lips. “You finally remembered where your bed is?” you teased, stepping closer. “I was starting to think you found another.”

He didn’t respond. Just shut the door behind him with a quiet click.

And the thick, suffocating silence stretched as he began removing his shoes. You took this moment to clear your throat. “I heard about Halloway,” you murmured, tilting your head. “People are saying you sent him to a death sentence.” A pause, then a knowing smile. “Did you do that for me?”

The shift was instant. And it wasn’t what you pictured in your head. 

Before you could react, Caleb was in front of you, his body pressing you back until your spine hit the cold wall. His hand gripped your jaw firmly, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his eyes. They were dark, smoldering, and unreadable. This was the version of Caleb that everyone was afraid of. 

“You worried ‘bout him?” His voice had a dangerous edge lacing each word.

While you, your breath hitched, fingers curling into the towel. “N-No.” 

“You think I didn’t hear?” His grip on your jaw tightened just enough to make you gasp. “The way he talked to you? The way you smiled at him? Handsome guy, isn’t he?”

You denied everything he was saying. You knew one of his officers had been feeding him information, but they seemed twisted to make you out as someone you weren’t. Were they trying to turn him against you? “No, darling. That’s not true. In fact, I can’t even stand him.” 

His lips curled, but there was no humor in it. “I have eyes and ears everywhere, Y/N.” He leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek. “And if I catch you entertaining anyone else again, I won’t just send them to die.”

A shiver ran down your spine—fear, thrill, or perhaps something darker twisting deep inside you. His warning did what it was supposed to do: to scare the hell out of you. But the most dangerous part was how much you enjoyed it all. 

And then, before you could even form a response, he pushed you towards the bed. 

By the time you looked back at him in surprise, he was already unbuttoning his shirt, looking at you merely as an object of his desire. “Strip off,” he growled, face rigid as ever. “The past few days were damn stressful. Been thinkin’ of you naked all day.” 

And so, your nightly duties began. Caleb demanded his reward, and you were too foolishly in love that you surrendered to him without hesitation. 

Because as unhinged as his obsession seemed, it ignited something deep within you. The thought of Caleb claiming you as his prize, something he craved at the end of each brutal day, sent the most passionate fire through your veins. That the same man who barely spared you a glance in daylight was the one who burned with desperation to have you all to himself at nighttime.

“I missed you,” you whispered as you slowly unraveled your bare body in front of him, dropping the damp towel on the floor. Not once did you break eye contact, and it was the sexiest thing you had ever experienced in your life.

As for him, he had already rid himself of his clothes. They were a pile on the floor, discarded lazily as he pinned you down. First, he went for your lips. Completely devouring, savoring your taste, and dominating every inch of your mouth. The moment his tongue connected with yours, he deepened the kiss—a little too rough, too desperate that you could barely breathe. 

“M-My love,” you gasped, the only time he allowed you to catch your breath was when he was positioning himself between your legs. And then he crashed his lips onto yours once more, enjoying how you moaned against his lips, exchanging warm breaths as he explored your mouth. The kiss was so intense that you barely noticed the feeling of his hardened member pressing against your leg. It felt huge and hard as a rock, a clear sign that he had been wanting a good release for the past few days. And you? You were crazy about it. You had seen his member plenty of times before, but nothing excited you more than feeling it inside. 

That wasn’t his agenda for now, though. He took his sweet time trailing kisses along your collarbone, leaving purple marks around your neck, before he feasted on the same breast he had been kneading for more than a minute. You could feel your back arching as your body naturally responded to his touch, with your own hand guiding him to massage your other mound. He nibbled on the nipple, sucking and licking around the nub, then moving to give the other the same amount of attention. 

He was like a hungry beast that hadn’t eaten for weeks. With the way he squeezed your tits together and running his tongue along the cleavage, you could already feel yourself dripping down there. 

“C-Caleb.”

“Hm?” He didn’t pull away. Instead, he crawled down, spreading your legs apart, and eyeing the swollen lips that he was about to demolish. “Wet already?” 

You nodded, looking down at him and watching as he pressed his fingers along the slit, sliding and circling his digits on your entrance. “Mmh—that’s…” 

“Be patient now,” he mocked, “Aren’t you so needy?” 

That was true, but how could you help it? How could you not want him inside if you could see him stroking his pulsing cock while he was using his other hand to play with your clit? Just when you thought you couldn’t go crazier, he eventually sucked his digits to taste your slick, then he returned them back to your entrance, only this time, entering without warning. 

“A-Aah!”

His fingers alone could make your legs shake, and whatever he was reaching for inside you was making you weaker by the second. You were a moaning mess under him, hands clenching on his sheets for dear life as he fingered your cunt like there was no tomorrow. It was only a matter of seconds until you disintegrated in front of him—your legs trembling as your fluid released itself in a series of squirts. 

Embarrassed as you may be, it was what Caleb wanted to see. 

And he didn’t let you rest before he was already positioning his crotch on your face, his hand holding his cock in place as he slapped his swollen tip against your lips. “My turn,” he spoke in a low voice, smirking as you wrapped your shaky hand around his shaft and let your tongue swirl around his bulging pink head. You could taste the precum on his tip, licking every corner and every ridge under, from his balls back to his tip before you swallowed him entirely. 

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, pulling your hair as you bobbed your head on his cock, enveloping the warm walls of your mouth around his member as if you were milking him of his cum. Your eyes welled with tears as you fought the urge to gag despite feeling the tip of his cock repeatedly hitting your throat. Each and every moan he released made you more determined to please him, to be called a good girl, to be wanted. 

You could feel it. With how his cock was twitching inside your mouth, he was about to explode. But he didn’t let it happen. Everything happened in a span of a second when he pulled his member from your mouth before opening your core and slamming his cock into your pussy. 

His thick, hard cock stretched you open without mercy. And he didn’t slow down or savor the time. He was ramming into you, hands holding your hips in place while your tits bounced wildly. Caleb’s sweat was starting to trickle along his toned upper body, his abs now glistening as he continued to pound into you endlessly. 

“I’d fuck you everyday like this if I can,” he grunted, each word came out raspy. “You like that?” 

“Y-Yes! A-Aaah!” You struggled to form coherent words as he hit your sweetest spot at each hard thrust. “C-Caleb.” 

The walls were thin. But surely, the colonel’s private quarters would have some sort of soundproofing, otherwise it would be embarrassing how loud the skin-slapping and squelching noises you two were making. It didn’t help that you were practically screaming as Caleb started increasing his speed as he chased his climax. Your walls were clenching around his girth, milking him of his load that he soon spurted inside of you. 

You were in a battle of catching each other’s breaths as he pulled out, watching his cum seep out of your cunt before he plopped on the bed next to you. 

“Take the pill as soon as you wake up,” he ordered, laying on his back as he closed his eyes. His chest rose up and down as he eventually caught his breath. 

But you remained a ragdoll beside him, your lower body still twitching from the intense orgasm and muscle memory. “O-Okay.” 

The night was supposed to end romantically. It was supposed to be you and him cuddling and declaring your love for each other, but the thought of him only using your body to relieve himself was torture to your mind. You convinced yourself it meant something more, something deeper. 

But the hard truth was, you were only there to fill the silence.

You traced lazy circles over his bare chest, your voice soft yet full of devotion. “I’m all yours, Caleb. Only yours.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I know.”

~~

The next morning, the bed beside you was cold.

You reached out instinctively, your fingers brushing against the empty sheets where Caleb should have been. But there was nothing—no warmth, no lingering presence, just the stark reality that he hadn’t even stayed.

But you told yourself you just had to get used to it and that Caleb would come wanting you again at night. Like he always did. And so, biting back the hollow ache in your chest, you forced yourself up, got dressed, and headed to the mess hall for breakfast. 

The moment you stepped in, you felt it.

Eyes. Watching. Judging.

The low murmurs didn’t stop as you walked past the rows of civilians, soldiers, and nurses, pretending not to notice the whispers that followed you. You kept your chin up and sat down with your tray, forcing yourself to eat the stale bread despite the tightness in your throat.

You had no illusions about what they were saying. They all thought they knew what you were or what you did. Caleb’s woman. His plaything. And after last night, they had even more reason to talk.

But you had work to do.

By midday, you were back in the ward, slipping into your role as if nothing had changed. Patients needed tending to, and you weren’t about to let their petty gossip stop you.

At least there was something to occupy yourself with. They brought in a new soldier to the base, barely back from the front lines if you could add. His face was gaunt, sunken with pain, sweat beading on his forehead as he lay on the cot. His leg was in ruins—shattered bones, torn muscle, the kind of injury that didn’t fully heal in wartime. 

You approached him carefully, offering a calm, practiced smile. “I’m here to help—”

His reaction was instant. It was as though you were the trigger to a ticking time bomb. His eyes, bloodshot and wild, snapped to you, and before you could blink, his hands already shot out, grabbing at you with a strength you didn’t expect.

“You—!” he snarled, his fingers digging into your arms, nails raking against your skin as he yanked you forward. “You whore—you whore!”

You gasped, struggling against his grip, but he was fueled by pain and rage, his voice hoarse with accusation. “Ow! P-Please!” 

“You ruin men like us! You—you—get innocent soldiers sent to die!” His nails scratched at your cheek, his grip tightening as he shook you. “You’re the reason Halloway’s gone—!”

The words hit like a slap, but before he could do more, hands were on him. And on you. Other soldiers rushed in, prying him off you, restraining him as he thrashed against the cot. 

“Stand down, soldier!” one barked.

You stumbled back, breath coming fast, your skin stinging where he had just scratched you.

But the worst part wasn’t the pain.

It was the way the nurses across the ward just watched. Their gazes were cold, as if saying you deserved it. Not a single one had moved to help.

You couldn’t understand the hostility. Couldn’t fathom why people looked at you with such disdain. If it had been another woman in your place, would they have treated her the same? All you had done was love a man—nothing more, nothing less. You weren’t trying to hurt anyone. You simply fell in love.

But as you locked yourself in the bathroom, staring at your reflection while washing the bloody scratches from your cheek, that was when the realization struck.

They didn’t respect you because Caleb never had.

Not once had he claimed you in public, never shown his affection where others could see. He had never treated you like someone worth honoring, never given you the respect you deserved. And if the leader of this war-torn world didn’t respect you—why would anyone else?

The thought alone made your eyes well with tears, but you quickly washed them away. No. You refused to doubt. He loves me. He’d even kill for me.

A sudden knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. You opened it hesitantly, only to find Simone standing there. The only female soldier with a rank high enough to command real respect. At first, you assumed she was just waiting for the restroom, but the way she looked at you said otherwise.

“You got a minute?” she asked, her tone cool and unreadable.

You hesitated before nodding. “Yeah… sure.”

~~

The storage room was cold and dimly lit by the single flickering bulb overhead. Dust clung to the forgotten crates, and the faint scent of metal and oil lingered in the air. Hardly anyone came here as it was a place for old supplies and broken equipment, not whispered conversations.

And yet, here you were, in the only room without surveillance. 

Simone leaned against one of the crates, arms crossed as he narrowed her eyes at you. “You need to end things with Caleb.”

You stiffened instantly. “Excuse me?” 

She sighed, rubbing her temples as if she had already anticipated your reaction. “This thing between you and him, you know it isn’t healthy. Not for you. Not for him.”

You scoffed. Who does she think she is? “You don’t know anything about us.”

“I know more than you think,” she shot back. “I know what kind of man Caleb is. What he’s become.”

You folded your arms, defensive. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. All I know is that he cares about me.”

“Cares about you?” Simone let out a humorless chuckle. “Do you even know what he’s done? How many men he’s killed just for looking at you?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

“Five soldiers. And counting,” she continued coldly. “Some he sent straight to the gas chambers. Others? He had them tortured in ways I wouldn’t even wish on our enemies. And all because they made the mistake of mentioning how beautiful you are.”

You felt the blood drain from your face. “B-But that’s because he wants to protect me. That’s just how he loves.”

Simone watched you carefully before she sighed again, her voice softening this time. “This isn’t love, Y/N. You don’t know Caleb… I don’t even know if he’s capable of loving again.”

What does she mean?

“He wasn’t always like this,” she continued, almost nostalgic as if he had seen another version of Caleb that you hadn’t. “Before the war. Before his wife died. He was kind. Gentle. A man who knew the difference between power and cruelty.” She hesitated, then admitted, “She was my colleague. And my friend. Caleb’s childhood sweetheart, his true love, and his whole life. He loved her sincerely, so much so that he was fighting to make the world better for her. Not destroy it. But seeing him right now, she would’ve hated what he’s become.”

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. Everything she had just mentioned shot a bullet straight to your heart, but you refused to let it kill you. You refused, denied. No! 

“You can’t replace her,” Simone added, her words cutting through you like a knife. “No matter how much you try. So I suggest you leave him before it destroys you.”

~~

The door to Caleb’s private quarters slammed open as you stormed inside, your blood boiling, your mind a haze of rage and betrayal. You couldn’t stop Simone’s words from echoing in your head even if you tried hard enough. You can’t replace her. She’s his true love. His whole life. 

“No.” Adamantly did you shake your head. “Stop.” 

He loved her sincerely. And still does. 

Your breath came in ragged gasps as you yanked at the blankets, overturned chairs, kicked over the table. The frustration inside you was begging to be released, and destruction was the only thing that made sense. How could you get extremely jealous over a dead person? You laughed in your head. She was dead. She was gone. Good for her. But despite the constant reminder to yourself that the woman you were jealous of didn’t exist anymore, you knew that you could never erase the fact that you would still never amount to her. And you hated it. You hated her! 

In your rage, you didn’t even realize you had grabbed one of his jackets from the pile of discarded uniforms until something tumbled out of the pocket.

A necklace.

It landed with a soft metallic clink against the floor. It was a simple chain, worn with age, with two wedding bands strung together. Your stomach twisted as you picked it up, seeing the engraving was delicate but unmistakable. It had Caleb’s name and hers.

Your hands trembled.

She was still here. She had never left. Not in his heart, not in his mind. He carried her with him, even now, even after all the ways he had made you believe you were his.

Something inside you snapped, as though you were a madwoman who had finally lost her sanity. Like Caleb always said, that ‘there are no saints in wartimes’. So, what was stopping you from going all out? She needed to be destroyed. She needed to be forgotten. In your desperation to search for more pieces of her, you lurched toward his drawers, pulling them open and shoving things aside. Your promise to never touch his things? Forgotten.

That was when you saw a wooden box, hidden beneath neatly folded uniforms.

You yanked it out, prying it open with shaking hands—only to find it stuffed with letters. Some yellowed with time, others crisp as if he had reread them over and over. Her handwriting. Her words. Her love, immortalized in ink.

My Dearest Caleb, If I close my eyes, I can still see you standing on the shoreline, hands in your pockets, pretending you’re not waiting for me. But I always knew. You were never good at hiding how much you loved me. Are you eating well? Have you been sleeping? I know you’ll lie if I ask you in person, but in a letter, you can’t hide from me. And I worry, darling. I always do. I miss the way you hold me before you leave. I miss the way you kiss my hair, thinking I don’t notice how long you linger there. I miss the way you look at me like I’m the only thing in this world worth coming back to. Sometimes I wonder… do you know how much I love you? Do you feel it, even when we’re apart? I hope you do. I hope it’s enough to keep you warm when the nights are cold, to keep you safe when danger is near. Come back to me soon, my love. The house is too quiet without you. And when you do, I’ll be right here, waiting. Just like always. Forever yours, Your wife

A strangled sob tore from your throat.

You didn’t think. You couldn’t. You just couldn’t. 

Through hot tears and reckless fury, you grabbed the box and flung it into the fireplace without regard. All her letters spilled out, each and every one of them catching flame within seconds. And you didn’t hesitate to throw the necklace soon after, letting it vanish into the fire with a dull shimmer.

You stood there, watching the flames devour every trace of her. Of them.

“You’re gone,” you let out a mirthless laugh, wiping the tears that followed after. “You’re gone! Leave him alone!” 

Your entire body trembled at the thought, your chest undulating in heavy breaths. Then, as if realizing what you had done, you collapsed onto the floor, staring blankly at the fire.

The anger was gone.

Replaced by the terrifying thought of what Caleb would do when he came home. 

~~

The FY-26 cut through the sky like a phantom with its sleek titanium frame reflecting the nautical glow of the setting sun. It was the most powerful fighter jet in the fleet; faster, deadlier, a mechanical beast designed for war. And only one person from the DAA was given the honor to pilot it. 

Caleb gripped the throttle, voice steady as he spoke into his comms. “Specter-01 to Specter-02, enemy reconnaissance spotted at 2 o’clock, altitude 15,000 feet. Adjust trajectory and prepare for engagement.”

“Copy that, Specter-01,” came the reply of his fellow fighter pilot. “Visual confirmed. Awaiting further orders.”

Caleb’s gaze flicked to the horizon, where a lone aircraft hovered in the distance. He could hear the chatter of enemy comms scrambling to react, but for a moment, his focus drifted.

Below him, a small, crescent-shaped island came into view. His grip on the controls instantly tightened.

He knew this place.

The memory surfaced like a ghost from another life—of a time when war wasn’t all he knew. When he had taken her here, flying low so she could see the crystalline waves shimmering under the sun. He had told her to look down, to read the words he had carved into the sand earlier in the day.

"Will you marry me?"

He could still hear her laughter, the way it had crackled through the radio before she screamed yes over the comms, her excitement drowning out all other noise. His adorable pipsqueak. Her beautiful smile, her sparkling eyes… 

Caleb exhaled sharply, forcing himself back into the present. “I miss you, my love.”

That was a lifetime ago. She was a lifetime ago.

His eyes darkened as he thought of his new reality—you. You weren’t her. Not in the way you spoke, the way you carried yourself, the way you looked at him with that foolish devotion. But maybe… maybe he should stop pretending that it mattered.

Maybe he should just settle with what he had left.

You were still there waiting for him. A woman who, despite all odds, loved him with reckless abandon. The same woman who cried on the night he was on his deathbed, doing everything in her might to make sure he lived. And though he could never give you what he once gave another, he knew you’d still smile, even just from the smallest things.

A glance. A touch. A mere kiss from him, and your entire world lit up.

His hands flexed against the controls.

“Specter-02, engage the target. I’m circling back to base.”

Because tonight, maybe he’d give you something to smile about.

~~

The moment Caleb stepped into his quarters, he could tell something was wrong.

The air alone was thick with the acrid scent of smoke, an unusual warmth persisting as dying embers crackled weakly in the fireplace. His gaze swept over the room—furniture askew, drawers flung open, papers and personal belongings scattered across the floor. His gut twisted. It was like a crime scene. Like something vital had been gutted from this space.

Then, his eyes landed on you.

Curled up on the floor, body trembling, and your arms wrapped around yourself like a feeble shield. Your shoulders shook through stifled sobs, but the moment your tear-streaked face lifted to meet his gaze, everything inside him snapped.

His heart slammed against his ribs, a foreign pressure crushing his chest as his vision tunneled straight to the fireplace.

No. No, no, no, no!

It was as if his vision blurred, as if there was a deafening ringing overtaking his ears as he stormed forward, shoving past the mess to get to the source of his rage. The flames had long since died, leaving behind nothing but fragile wisps of ash. But even in its destruction, he recognized what it used to be.

Burned letters.

A melted necklace, the twisted remains of two rings fused together.

The last pieces of her.

His wife.

His breath left him in a sharp, ragged exhale, his lungs refusing to pull in air as scorching rage flooded every nerve in his body.

“You,” he seethed. Your name didn’t even make it past his lips. The word was a knife, laced with something lethal, something beyond fury. His boots pounded against the wooden floor as he closed the distance between you, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white. “I’d fucking kill you! What the fuck have you done?!”

You flinched, your body recoiling as if his voice had physically struck you. “Caleb—”

“Shut up!” His hand shot out, gripping your arm down to the bone, yanking you up with enough force that your legs nearly gave out beneath you. “Do you have any fucking idea what you just did?” 

“I—I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t thinking straight—” you choked out, shaking your head frantically, eyes wide with panic.

“Didn’t mean to?” He let out a sharp, humorless laugh, the sound so devoid of warmth it sent chills down your spine. Before you could react, he was already shoving you back against the nearest wall, his arms caging you in, his breath hot with rage as it fanned against your skin. His eyes were cold, piercing, murderous, menacing.

“You burned her letters, our rings,” he said, each syllable aiming to intimidate you. “Destroyed the only damn thing I had left of her! And for what?!”

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you tried to shake your head, tried to explain, but your throat was too tight, your breath too uneven. Caleb’s gaze alone was enough to make your entire body tremble. But you had to try. “I was hurt, Caleb,” you finally sobbed, the words tumbling out like a plea. “I—I just wanted you to forget her. I wanted you to see me!” 

“Forget her?” His jaw clenched. His grip tightened on your wrist, the pressure just shy of bruising. “You think you could ever replace her? You think you have any fuckin’ right to want anything from me? That you could be anything more than a pathetic substitute?”

The words sliced through you like a blade, carving through every delusion you had ever let yourself believe.

Yet… you had nothing left to lose.

“I love you,” you whispered, broken, desperate. “Caleb, I love you… Please. I’ll be everything you need. I’ll offer everything I have and more. Just… just forget about her.”

For a terrifying second, you thought he might actually hit you.

But then, just as fast as it came, he wrenched himself away from you, staggering back as though you were the thing poisoning him. It hurt. It hurt like hell to see the way he rid himself of you as he ran a hand through his hair, his fingers itching to wreck you. 

“...Caleb.” 

“...I’m sorry, Caleb.” 

“...I love you, Caleb.”

No matter how desperately you fought to win his heart, his voice remained eerily calm when he finally spoke.

“Get the hell out of my sight.”

You stood frozen, barely able to process the words. “B-But—”

“I said GET THE FUCK OUT!” His roar thundered through the room, rattling your entire being like an insect in a heavy storm. 

You swallowed down the sob threatening to rise up your throat, willing yourself to move—to breathe—as you staggered toward the door. Your fingers curled around the handle, and for a split second, you let yourself hope for him to stop you. To say something. Anything.

But all he did was stare at you with a gaze so cold, so hollow, it made your heart cave in on itself.

And then, his final words were more merciless than you thought. 

“You wanna play with fire?” he muttered. “Fine. I’ll throw you out into the front lines soon enough. See how much you really want to be a soldier’s whore.”

A strangled gasp left your lips, your vision blurring with fresh tears.

You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t think.

And for the first time since you met him, you realized that no matter how much love you poured into him, Caleb had none left to give.

~~

He stayed true to his words. 

The front lines were nothing short of hell. Explosions tore through the sky, painting it in hues of orange and black. The ground trembled beneath relentless bombardments, screams of the wounded and dying mixing with the fusillade of gunfire. It was chaos. It was pure, unfiltered war.

And you were in the heart of it.

Thrown into the battlefield as nothing more than a discarded afterthought, yet you worked tirelessly, tending to the broken, the dying, the ones who begged for mercy even when there was nothing left to give. Blood soaked your uniform, stained your hands, and for the first time since you had arrived at this forsaken place, you realized Caleb was never coming to rescue you. That this wasn’t as simple as temporary punishment where he could rescue you back to the base the moment he saw that you had already paid for your sins. 

You had been foolish to think otherwise. Because the punishment was greater than the crime. 

Day after day, you watched the planes soar overhead, wondering if one of them carried him. If maybe, just maybe, he’d glance down and remember you. That he’d order someone to retrieve you, to take you home.

But no one came.

Not even him.

And just when you thought it couldn’t get worse—the enemy arrived.

You barely had time to react before the camp was raided, soldiers storming in with brutal efficiency. Screams filled the air—nurses, wounded soldiers, no one was spared. You tried to run, but hands—so many hands—gripped you, dragging you with them.

“No, please!” you sobbed, thrashing, digging your heels into the dirt. “Someone, help me!”

But the only response was the harsh, guttural laughter of the men dragging you away. You didn’t understand their language, but you understood them. The way their dark, hungry eyes lusted over your trembling form. The mocking smiles curling their lips. The way they spoke to each other, like you weren’t even human.

Like you were property.

One of them cupped your chin, tilting your face up with a sickening grin. “She’ll do nicely,” he murmured in a thick accent. 

Another joined in on the amusement. “A fitting pastime for the long nights ahead.”

A fresh wave of panic crashed over you, bile rising in your throat as you began to foresee your fate in their hands. Your fate as the enemy’s new plaything. 

“No—NO!” you shrieked, thrashing harder, your nails clawing at their arms. “Caleb! S-Someone, please!”

But no one came.

No one ever came.

That was when your real nightmare began.

They dragged you to their camp, a place so desolate, so devoid of mercy, that it made your previous suffering look like a fleeting dream. There was no hope here. No salvation.

Just pain.

The foreign army passed you from one to the next like you were nothing more than a worn-out relic of war. Their touch was greedy, using your body at their convenience, their grip bruising as they took what they wanted. They stripped you off everything; clothes, dignity, sanity. Sanity. Where is God in all of this?

Your mind drifted, escaping to anywhere else but there. You imagined a different life, a different fate. But the pain kept pulling you back. The jeers, the mocking laughter, the cruel hands that touched every inch of your skin reminding you over and over again that there was no escaping this. You felt dirty, felt disgusted of your own flesh, felt sick that you had to wake up each day living for only one and one purpose alone. 

You stopped counting the days.

Stopped screaming when they came for you.

You had nothing left.

Their cruelty settled deep within your bones, your spirit breaking piece by piece until all that remained was a hollow shell of who you used to be.

And the worst part?

He never came.

Caleb, the man who once whispered possessive threats in your ear, who swore no one else could have you, who claimed you as his prize—had abandoned you to this.

It was almost laughable. Truly spectacular. 

As you lay on the cold, your body too battered to move, you allowed yourself to accept the truth.

He never loved you.

He never would.

~~

Before you were a war nurse, you once interned as a nurse at Akso Hospital. Life was peaceful then. Even as whispers of an impending world war grew louder, there was an unshaken belief that your nation was too powerful to fall. No one dared to wage war on the strongest nation in the world. 

That was the world you knew—quiet, bathed in golden light. You stood in the familiar white halls of the medical facility, the place where it all began. Where you trained. Where you dreamed of making a difference.

Dr. Zayne stood before you, his crisp uniform as pristine as ever, his silver-rimmed glasses reflecting the medical abstract he had on hand. He had always been composed and steady. A true professional that you looked up to. He was the best cardiac surgeon there was, and everyone in the same field dreamed of working with him. Of becoming like him.

“You're ready for this,” he said, adjusting his gloves. “The war will test you, but your hands—” he reached out, taking yours in his own, running his thumb across your palm—“were meant to heal.”

You gripped his hands a little tighter. “What if I can’t save everyone?”

He thought for a moment before letting out a quiet sigh. “You won’t,” he agreed. “But you will save someone. And that will always matter.”

You felt your chest tighten. “Thank you for being a good mentor, Dr. Zayne. I hope to see you again someday.” 

The golden light around him began to fade, his figure growing distant, hazy, slipping through your fingers.

“Good luck, Y/N.”

It was the chilling air that woke you up from your dream. The icy breeze seeped into your bones, deeper than any wound, any bruise, any violation. Every inch of you ached, skin marred with purple and black, lips split and dry. Your body was no longer your own. It was something broken, something discarded.

You barely had the strength to keep your eyes open and every breath was a struggle as your ribs protested with each inhale. The faint scent of blood and sweat lingered around you, suffocating you. Killing you.

Somewhere in the distance, you heard voices—a noise.

A sharp crack split through the air, followed by a scream—short, cut off, wet. Then another. And another.

Gunfire.

Shouting.

The heavy thud of bodies hitting the ground.

You tried to move, but your limbs wouldn’t obey. The exhaustion of everything they had done to you pinned you down. Your pulse was sluggish, your vision swimming, but you could hear it—him. And the distinct roar of his rage. Perhaps it was your hallucination. After all, you had already lost your mind from this war. 

But one of the soldiers outside, his voice barely rising before it was cut off—a sickening gurgle of a sound, as if something sharp had torn straight through his throat. Gunfire erupted in rapid succession, followed by panicked shouts, orders barked in a language you barely understood, only for them to be silenced just as quickly. A storm was tearing through the camp. A massacre.

Then, the door was kicked open. A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the moonlight.

You held your breath. 

The familiar combat boots. The bloodied gloves. The cold, murderous gleam of his eyes.

Caleb.