Just Another Soup Stan Account

In the image and in life, his hair is a mess: points jutting out every imaginable angle. It looks deliberate— fixed with gel, spray, or perhaps a spontaneous desire to be a talking point at breakfast— but his eyes are sharp with curiosity as he pats at his head. Is his hair really—? Yes, he can feel it under his hand.

Now that’s confusion, soft-bellied and exposed. You don’t know when you’ll have this chance again, so you take the shots you can, rapid-fire, no mercy:

“You look like you fell asleep in a washing machine. Like you were practicing alchemy, and it blew up in your face. Ooh, ooh! You look like a toilet brush that’s been used to scrub seven million toilets.”

Sylus hums as he pokes a hair tuft. “How… colourful.”

“Seriously, Sy. I know you’re a deep sleeper, but you’d think something was nesting in there, the way that—”

You gasp.

A little preoccupied, Sylus misses the ember. By the time he gazes up, sensing warmth and danger, it’s too late to stamp on it. He tries, anyway. “No. No. Kitten? No.”

…

“Hold still, Sylus!”

Mephisto wobbles on Sylus’s head, hunkering down for stability with a chirp.

“Take your time, sweetie,” Sylus grimaces, claws in his scalp as you take so many more pictures than necessary.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m almost done… try, uh… try to look really grumpy, yeah? Like you wanna kill me. Can you do that, Sy?”

He can’t, actually. He might be bleeding, ridiculed, but there’s light in his eyes as he watches you laugh and fuss over the composition of his downfall. When you say something about the rule of thirds, you catch his lip quirking; he’s trying not to smile.

You lower your phone, grinning. “Okay. I’ve got it.”

Sylus lifts Mephisto from his head— plonking him down on the kitchen counter, then finally, finally, tending to his hair. He mumbles as he smooths it back down, guiding silver-white curls with his fingers: “The things I do for you, kitten. Just make sure the twins don’t see it, hm? I couldn’t care less what they think, but the headaches, oh, they’d never let me hear the end of—”

Across Onychinus’s base, someone shrieks with laughter. Sylus flinches.  

You glance up from your phone, where your group chat with Luke and Kieran is open. “Hmm? Say that again, Sy, sorry, I missed it.”

You clear your throat as you stand, adjusting your shorts. You scrape the sides of your sneakers on the concrete flooring before smiling up at Sylus.

"All good here! Done with your warm up? I'm ready to get this over with." You roll your wrist, cracking your neck. Sylus chuckles, striding towards the boxing ring in the centre of the room. His fingers run through his sweaty bangs before crouching under the rope. He forces himself through, the rope giving way under his weight. Sylus reaches out a hand,

"Come on now, sweetie. Get a move on." You grab onto his hand, letting him hoist you into the ring. Your fingers linger on his. "If you were any slower, I'd think you're scared you can't beat me." He chuckles, pushing your buttons. He's talented at that, riling you up until you can't think properly. You shoot Sylus a glare, eliciting another laugh from him. It's hearty, a deep rumble in his chest.

Your feet bounce against the flooring, stumbling softly. Sylus snorts, perching his hands on your hips from behind. He dips his head down, hair swaying softly before flashing you a knowing look.

"Careful, there, kitten." Sylus purrs in your ear, lips brushing against the curve of your neck. "We wouldn't want you to injure yourself before we begin, right?" His breath coats your skin, cheeks flushing. His hard chest presses against the back of your head. Your breath hitches in your throat, fingers looped around his wrist. 

You pray he can't hear your accelerating heart rate.

You would love to know what makes Sylus the way he is. How he acquired all the skills he has. For one, you would love to understand why and how he knows how to tie a corset. The look on his face makes your stomach churn. That funky feeling returning, butterflies whirling around. The hot flashes that bounce between your ears and cheeks are terrifying. Despite your jitteriness, Sylus's hands stalk up from behind you. His fingers loop around the strings.

With one hand, you scoop your hair to the side, letting his fingers trail down your waist once more. If he notices the goosebumps his touch leaves in its wake, he doesn't mention it. Sylus twirls the strings between his fingers before leaning down to whisper in your ear,

"You should hold onto the mirror if you need to do so." You shake your head, gulping the saliva that pools under your tongue. Your hands settle at your ribs, thrumming against the brace. Sylus gently tugs on the strings, watching the corset cinch in on your waist. The vinyl Sylus has set in the background for the last hour reaches its crescendo.

Sylus's reflection catches your attention. His glasses perched low on his nose, eyes focused on your waist. His gaze is intense, brows furrowed. His eyes flicker to your reflection, swirling with amusement.

"Something wrong, kitten?" Sylus murmurs, a safety pin caught between his teeth causing his canines to lightly flash you. Your eyes widen slightly, glimmering in the low light. Your hands tremble, feeling too exposed under his gaze. Sure, you're covered, but something about his piercing gaze makes you feel as though you're caught under his thumb. You can't move nor breathe.

You feel as though he wouldn't let you go until he is satiated.

Your voice is caught in your throat when Sylus pulls the strings taunt, glaring at him through the mirror. Sylus chuckles, shaking his head. The butterflies grow more wild, rummaging around your organs. Sylus doesn't press you any further, pulling on the strings more. Unable to take any more of this, you lean forward to hold onto the mirror, nails clutching onto the sides.

You inhale sharply, letting out a soft noise of pain. Sylus halts, but his eyes are on your expression. Lips parted, cheeks flushed. Beautiful, he thinks. Sylus praises you heavily, constantly. Oftentimes, you think he's a suck up, vying for your attention. However, seeing his expression right now as you're bent over, clutching onto the mirror, you think it may be genuine. 

Desire and adoration float around his jewel-like eyes as they narrow, almost salaciously. It's lewd, intimate in the way he gazes down at your body. His glasses glimmer in the low light, eyes darting between your breasts and bent over back. He ties the string, knotting it into a bow. Despite the corset being tied, his hand remains on your waist. Your gaze is glued to his, your cheeks ripe. You stare at one another, a silent battle to see who is willing to break the boundaries of your very, completely platonic relationship. 

He watches arduously. He doesn't miss that way your body trembles under his hands, or how your breath quickens when his hand comes to cup the underside of your corset. He presses it, applying pressure to the area pushing up your breasts. His free hand pushes you upright, pressing your ass into his front. Sylus's hand travels from your chest to your throat, wrapping around such a dangerous place. His thumb finds your pressure point, feeling your pulse ram against it. 

He bunches up the skirt in one hand, slow and deliberate. He gives you every chance to back out, to show even the slightest whisper of hesitation. But there isn't. He tips your head back, your hair brushing against his chest. You part your lips, tuning out the music that fills the rooms. Sylus's thumb brushes against your bottom lip, smearing your lipstick. 

The pigment transfers onto his thumb, teasing you. He watches you, allowing his breath to fan over your skin. He lies in wait, observing you. Will you make the first move? Just as you're about to press your lips against his, a sharp knock is heard at the door. Both your heads turn to the large, wooden doors. You separate instantaneously, bodies far apart from one another. 

"Mister Sylus? Is everything alright? Do you need any assistance?" An attending from the other side of the door asks, knuckles loud against the wood. As Sylus crosses the room to open the door, you fumble with your earrings. Your heart almost lurches out your chest cavity, eyes wide with panic. 

What the fuck was that?!

Somewhere along the way, you've understood that Sylus has caught onto your attraction. And perhaps since the very beginning, his attraction for you has been intertwined with every word he speaks.

The feeling is terrifyingly so, mutual.

You cannot ignore it no matter how much you try to run from it, avoid his eyes. You cannot push it deep down inside of you and act as if it does not exist.

Especially not when Sylus continuous to drag the tip of his shoe up the length of your exposed calves, nudging your knees apart under the table. He sits across from you, multiple of your friends and co-workers surrounding the two of you.

In his defense, he tried to sit beside you, make the entire experience less awkward. However, Nero and Andrew were adamant on getting to know Sylus better.

Well— "Skye" better.

The loud music in the club is deafening. You can feel the base in the soles of your heels. So loud in fact, you cannot tune into the conversation the men are having. It unsettles you slightly, being unable to hear Sylus nor touch him despite him being in arm's length.

It feels like you are being subjected to the cruelest form of torture: Being forced to sit and observe quietly.

However, everyone is tipsy by now. Borderline drunk on the expensive champagne Sylus has insisted on ordering for the table. You have not drunken a drop of alcohol, intent of being sober.

You need to keep yourself in check— Keep Sylus in check. You kick under Sylus's shoe, but his foot does not budge from your parted knees. He gives you a stare— One you are all too familiar with.

They're almost a challenge, as if he is beckoning you to do something. He lives on your reactions, constantly poking and prodding to find your weak points so he can exploit them.

You peel your eyes away from him, opting to watch your friends on the dance floor. They're making fools of themselves, yet you don't have to heart to tear them away when they're so obviously having fun. You smile as you sip on your drink.

Eventually, Andrew and Nero leave to go join the girls, leaving only you and Sylus at the table. Sylus takes the initiative to sit beside you in the booth.

The leather-backed seats screech as Sylus slides across them. His shoulders so broad, he blocks the view of your friends. Subsequently, their view of you.

You finally look at the man, his gaze locked onto your face. You're not drunk, nor tipsy in the slightest, yet you feel your body heating up. Sylus inches closer, arm resting on the seat behind you. He does not push, he watches and observes.

That only serves to make you antsy.

Being watched, being observed by Sylus. If you didn't know him any better, you would think he's using that pretty aether core in his eye to pluck out your every desire. But you know Sylus— He wouldn't do such a thing.

Not when you're so vulnerable, melting under his gaze. He values your autonomy, always wanting to see what you will do.

"Kitten." Sylus purrs, his fingers toying with the edges of your skirt. He gently kisses your exposed shoulder. You can audibly hear the contact of his lips to your shoulder— skin on skin. You shiver, a red dust making its way to the tips of your ears. Your nails dig into your palms, making fists on your lap.

Again, Sylus does not push. He only stays consistent with the pressure. He makes his presence known— His desire. Yet, he does not suffocate you with it. You have every chance to push him away, remind him to not touch you so familiarly.

Yet, you don't.

Sylus does not need his aether core to understand that you desire him as deeply he as he does you.

"You look beautiful." He whispers into your ear, watching you curl under his pressure. You're losing your composure, unable to fight against your own desires. Reluctantly, you turn to look at Sylus.

His eyes swirl with a softness that is a completely juxtaposition to his demeanor. A warmth that offers room for you to explore your feelings. You shift your body towards his, letting his arm fall from the seat to coil around your waist.

"Thank you." You say. You let him into your space, shoulder brushing against his button-up shirt. You decide to take the first step this time, tired of cowering around him.

"Should we get out of here?" You try to sound confident, but your voice slightly trembles with unease. Sylus is your rock, taking your hand to kiss your knuckles. A soft reassurance.

"if you wish to." He says so matter of fact you gain some confidence. You nod, letting him guide you out the booth. Sylus waves down Andrew who is helping a drunk Nero back to the table. Andrew replies with a tight smile.

With that, you and Sylus leave hand-in hand.

By the time you arrive to your apartment, you're drunk on the tension. You refuse to hold back any longer. With your legs around his hips, Sylus presses you against the wall. His foot kicks close your door, hands discarding your clothes.

"I want you." You say between breaths. The kiss is sloppy, too eager for his lips against yours. The two of you stumble into the bedroom leaving a trail of clothing. Sylus leaves you in your heels.

He gently twirls you, letting you fall onto your stomach. The mattress bounces with your weight, but soon stops once Sylus presses his knee by your legs. He kisses down your bare spine, using his teeth to unhook your bra.

You let him kiss down your spine, biting the plush of your hips. You kick out at him, but his hand grabs your ankle. You grumble, melting under his lips. He leaves his print on your tailbone, using his teeth to pull of your panties.

They dangle by your knees, letting Sylus stroke your skin. Your ticklish, sensitive under his finger pads. His lips attach to your neck, sucking blotches onto your skin. He enjoys the feeling of your under his palms. Compared to him, you're soft and twitchy.

With his elbow supporting him, Sylus's hand pushes under your body to cup your breast. He uses the sides of his fingers to tweak your nipple, his free hand sliding under your hipbone.

Sylus is intentional with every touch, focused on the little breathes you intakes with your face pressed into the mattress.

"Does this feel good, sweetie? Is this what you wanted from me?" Sylus questions, his lips flush to your ear. You don't have the heart to answer, far too entranced in his touch. It's addictive, leaving sparks all along the expanse of your body.

With him being so attentive and fragile with your feelings, you feel as though you can swim further. Push past the boundaries that the fear of undesirability has constrained you in.

You shuffle, wanting to turn onto your back. Sylus gives you space to shift, but he's quick to slot himself between your thighs. They rest loosely around his hips. He comes down to kiss you.

You show yourself more to him, more honestly. You guide his hands where you want them. One thrillingly pressed against your exposed chest and one at your navel. You let him do the work, entrusting your pleasure with him.

There's no way of escaping his pleasure, his love. Sylus kisses down the column of your throat, between your breasts, before reaching your navel.

He peeks up between his lashes, finding any hesitation. There is none, so he continues his endeavor. His lips kiss down your thighs, finding the warm spot between your legs. You're pulsing with heat and need. Sylus can feel it on his tongue, lapping at your slit.

It's amazing, hands dragging down your body to tug at his strands. You look down at him, finding his jewel eyes staring at you. It gives him a new profound ability to breathe. As if guided by gravity itself, his tongue presses into your entrance, your heels dangling off his shoulders.

He takes you high and low, round and round with only just his tongue. You're overflowing, pressing a palms to the back of his head. You silently instruct him to be more forceful, and he does just that.

His large arms coil around your thighs, his face buried into your sex. His nose bumps at your clit, feeling your grind into his mouth.

It's like he's devouring you from the inside, his tongue curling and prodding at your sweet spot. It blinds you momentarily. The rush of pleasure makes you feel like underwater, drowning in Sylus's touch.

He can hear it too. Your moans grow more free, louder. Your hips move with inhibition, chasing after his touch. As if you want this moment to never end, keep it going until the end of time.

Sylus has no interest in other things, keen on making you feel so good that you will abandon all rational thought.

"Sylus," You call out to him, your back arching into a cruel bow. Your hands claw at the sheets, but Sylus is intent on guiding you through it all.

He's all you can feel, wrapped around you so tightly it almost hurts. The more he drinks you in, the dizzier you feel. From head to toe, it's as if you're paralyzed. All of your senses are frozen on this moment's temperature.

Sylus strings you so high, you fear for the fall. Tears brim at your eyes, you blubber with your fingers wound into his strands. He doesn't deteriorate his momentum. If anything, it grows more intense.

Under his hands and tongue, you tremble delicately. When you reach your peak, you feel so cold for a moment. That only makes it more ecstatic though. Especially when Sylus's tongue guides you through it all, hands grasping your hips to grind your clit onto his nose.

You keep swimming in his pleasure. It's a thrilling tension. One that Sylus is able to ease. Gently, he guides you back to the world, kissing up your body until he reaches your lips.

"Sweetie." He murmurs, watching as you blink back into consciousness. His smiles fondly, hands cupping your face. Your eyes hone in on his expression, fondled with his attention.

You make your move. You push him onto his back, enveloping him. Sylus allows you to explore, letting your palms understand and remember the sensation of his body. The unfamiliarity of his body makes you shake with excitement.

As your hand brushes over his chest, he groans beneath you. Hands clench at your hips, but that only serves to inflame the desire that has yet to be quenched in your core.

"Greedy." Sylus remarks, noticing how intense your gaze is. He allows you to gawk and explore him, hands dragging down his navel. You blink, feeling the sheer weight of him as your palm presses against the tent in his pants.

"I didn't expect that you would like me this much, Sylus." You say, eyes glued to his crotch when you feel his cock throb under your palm. He hisses above you, yet makes no movement to stop you.

"Why wouldn't I? I have always desired you, kitten." He speaks earnestly, his eyes glowing in the darkness of your bedroom. You nod, letting his words envelope you.

"I desire you to an extent that words cannot properly convey it." He stammers, your hand reaching into his pants. Your hand is barely able to circle around his length, mouth watering at the realization.

"I think about you every day. There is no one I am as truly interested in as I am you." Sylus lets a chuckle slip at your expression. His hand cups your cheek, guiding you back to his lips. You happily bend, pressing your lips firmly against his.

His tongue dips between your lips, gliding against yours. Your hand guides his length between your thighs, grinding your sex over his. Sylus moans into your mouth, a free hand kneading your chest. His rough palm against your pebbled nipple, it drives you crazy.

"Come here, baby." Sylus rasps, gently pushing into you. Your thighs are soaked with his saliva and your slick, making it easy for him to press into you. There are no boundaries between your body, Sylus flows into you.

The two of you roll your hips into each other, wanting to take your time. He's gentle with his touches, gingerly pleasuring you from the inside and out.

"So needy, are you? Have you been wanting this for long, sweetie?" You're sure he knows the answer, but you want to confess. It's been weighing on you for so long.

"Yes." You press a hand to your chest, while the other digs crescents into his shoulder. You roll your hips especially strong, breasts softly bouncing near his face. "It feels as though I've wanted this forever." You confess against Sylus's lips.

He happily accepts you, arms winding around your back and hips. He sits up, making it easier to thrust into you. Eagerly, you bounce on him. You want him to feel the emotions that he has invoked in you.

Being with Sylus feels like you're able to breathe, be as greedy as your soul demands. You guide each other up and down, rolling into each other. The entire time, your mouth is pressed against his, tongues dancing freely.

It's overwhelming and that feeling of drowning as slowly returned. Your lungs beg for air, yet you're addicted to the suffocation of Sylus's love.

Your clit grinds into his pelvis, a blossoming pressure builds in your stomach slowly. Eventually, your moans and movement become desperate and sloppy. You need him so bad it hurts.

You let a choked sob slip out, stuffed full of him. Sylus coos, letting you hide into his neck as he takes control. His hands grasp your hips, grinding you on his lap while he meets you with his thrusts.

"I can't—" You let out a breathy moan, groaning at the sheet size of him. Your sex flutters around him, pulsing. Waves of pleasure assault your senses, making it almost impossible to hear.

Your jaw slackens, but you manage to bite down onto Sylus's shoulder. He hisses above you, nails digging into your hips. As if your bodies have become one, you fall together. The knot that builds your stomach and in Sylus's spine explodes, seamlessly flowing in.

A wave of air enters your lungs as you swim with your pleasure for longer. The two of you sit there in the waves of your climaxes, panting and wiping the sweat off your foreheads.

"So beautiful." Sylus presses kisses into your cheeks, lapping away at any stray tears that fall. He flips you onto your back, letting your curl into his mass. His large arms curl around you, tucking you right into his side.

He reaches down to throw your heels off, letting them land somewhere near your dresser. He then pulls the covers over your bodies, feeling you shuffle around to find a comfortable spot. He presses a kiss to your temple, hearing you grimace.

"You're sweaty." You mumble, but there's no bite in his voice. Sylus chuckles, fluffing your hair before letting his own eyes flutter shut.

"You're the one that stares when I sweat, sweetie."

"Shut the fuck up."

you’d booked his appointment at the store nearest to you the very next day. 

“stop being a baby!” you groan. “it’ll literally take ten seconds.”

“i don’t know, sweetie.” planting his heels further into the asphalt, he halfheartedly picks at his nails. “i could get used to the sound of you calling me ‘baby.’”

“what if you get sick because you didn't get the treatment?” you change tactics, putting your hands on your hips. “i’ll be so sad and lonely.”

“you can set up a lawn chair next to my grave. be sure to wear sunscreen.”

your hands leave your sides to fly up in the air. ugh. “you—” ugh. “you…” ugh!!

sylus blinks lazily. “can we go home now?”

“no.” you breathe slowly through your nose, a slight wheeze blowing through. “you leave me no choice.”

snatching his arm into a crushing bear hug, you feel the familiar rush of resonance flow through your body. once you’ve adopted his evol, red and black ropes coil around his wrists. 

mustering all your energy, you brace yourself and pull with all your might. in slow motion, your boyfriend torpedoes through the pharmacy doors. 

despite his protests, you don't look back until you’ve made it to the reception area. 

“there.” you stop resonating, and the ropes disappear. “now tell them you're here for your appointment.”

sylus only scowls at you, a slight growl rumbling in his throat. 

if you weren’t in public, you’d growl back. instead, you cross your arms. “i can do that part for you, too, if you're feeling shy.”

as seconds pass, his hackles drop, and his figurative ears lay flat on his head. warily, he stalks toward the check-in station. 

──────

the heat ripples off him in waves. 

after fifteen torturous minutes of waiting, the short brunette pharmacist finally calls sylus to the back. when he hears his name, his body tenses. then, slowly, he slinks out of his seat.

“good luck!” you call from the comfort of your chair, flipping absently through a lifestyle magazine.

when you make no move to follow him, he stares at you in unease. “you’re not coming?”

“do i need to?”

his jaw clenches. “it would be nice.”

at that, you suppress a laugh—he doesn't need to be any more agitated right now. shrugging, you flip the magazine closed and follow him to the side door, where the pharmacist ushers you in with a warm smile. at least this way, you can keep an eye on him.

──────

it’s funny how a man with so many battle scars winces at the sting of a tiny needle. he nearly crushes your hand when it pierces his skin, squeezing with the force of an embattled legion. you only reclaim the feeling in your fingers once the needle is removed, and sylus’s deep exhale fills the room. 

“alright, sir, you’re all done!” the pharmacist chirps. “we recommend you hang back here for around twenty minutes so we can monitor potential side effects, but after that, you're free to go.” 

minus his twitching eye, sylus looks like he's frozen in time. ever the caretaker, you step in for him with a smile. “thank you!” 

──────

the next morning, you attempt to roll out of bed and start your day, only to find that you can’t. 

sylus can get touchy in his sleep, but usually not to this extent. this morning, his entire right arm is draped over you, its bulk anchoring you to the bed. 

after several unsuccessful attempts to wriggle free, you trail your eyes up his topless body, all the way to his face. he’s gazing back at you, a slight smirk on his lips. because of course he is. 

“after yesterday, i can barely lift it. so i guess we’re stuck here, just like this. for hours, maybe. who knows?” he yawns exaggeratedly and nuzzles into the crook of your neck, nipping gently at the skin. “these are just the consequences of your actions, i suppose.” 

“oh, yes. it’s my fault for trying to keep you healthy.” grumbling, you try to lift his leaden arm, to no avail. 

with a low, victorious hum, he soothes the sting on your neck with a kiss. 

Caleb stared at it. For a second, his brain, usually so quick to calculate and react, simply stalled.

He had given you that black card four months ago. He remembers the exact look on your face—the stubborn tilt of your chin, the way you tried to hand it right back, insisting you didn't need his charity. He’d had to press it into your palm, wrapping his larger fingers over yours, telling you it wasn't charity, it was security. It was his. And by extension, yours.

Since then? Nothing. Not a coffee, not a grocery run, not a single cent. Until today.

A low coil of heat unraveled in the pit of his stomach, heavy and sudden. He leaned back in his leather chair, the paperwork completely forgotten as he swiped the notification open to look at the details.

L'Étoile. He knew the place. It wasn't just a boutique, it was an exclusive, high end atelier known for custom evening wear. The kind of dresses that clung like a second skin, made of silk that practically begged to be slid off a woman's shoulders.

The timing wasn't a coincidence. The Skyhaven Gala was this weekend, and he had asked you to be his plus one days ago. You hadn't answered, but this... this was the confirmation he was desperate for.

You were actually going. And you were letting him dress you for it.

Caleb ran a thumb over the edge of his jaw, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The thought of you standing in that boutique, picking out something beautiful, and handing over his card to pay for it sent a rush of addictive adrenaline straight through his veins. You were finally letting him take care of you. You were finally accepting the hold he wanted to have on you.

His mind immediately betrayed him, painting entirely inappropriate pictures for a Thursday morning at his desk. He imagined you in the dressing room, the smooth fabric of a formal gown slipping over your hips. He imagined the deep, plunging back of a dress, exposing the soft skin he wanted to press his mouth against. He imagined walking into that Gala with his hand anchored firmly at the small of your back, letting every elite in Skyhaven know exactly who you belonged to.

The heat in his gut tightened, turning into a restless, demanding hunger. Caleb picked up his personal phone, his fingers moving deliberately across the screen. He couldn't just let this pass. He needed you to know that he saw it.

He deleted his first three drafts. They were too forward, too loud about the possessive grip tightening in his chest. He needed to play it cool. He was a patient man, after all. He had waited months for you to use the card, he could wait a little longer for the rest.

​He typed out a short, simple message.

​Caleb: Just saw a notification from L'Étoile. Good choice. I can't wait to see what you picked out.

🍎 🍏 🍎 🍏 🍎 🍏 🍎 🍏 🍎 🍏 🍎 🍏 🍎 🍏 🍎 🍏

You stood in front of the full length mirror in his bedroom, adjusting the drape of the fabric over your hips.

​The dress was breathtaking. It was the kind of luxury you’d never allow yourself to even look at, let alone wear—heavy, liquid silk that pooled around your feet and clung to every curve.

​When you had first seen it at L'Étoile, you’d stood in front of it for ten minutes, paralyzed. You had your hand in your purse, fingers brushing against the black card he had forced into your hands months ago. “For emergencies,” he’d said “Or for anything you want. Just use it.”

​But you hadn't. You couldn't. You had to be careful.

Using his money felt like crossing a line you couldn't uncross. You were already so deeply, desperately in love with him, a secret you guarded with everything you had. Because Caleb was always the perfect gentleman. He was attentive, protective, and constantly there for you—but sometimes, that care felt dangerously close to the way an older brother might protect a younger sibling. He treated you like something fragile, something to be kept safe.

​You had nearly choked when you read the price, but the thought of Caleb seeing you in it—the foolish hope that maybe, just maybe, this dress would finally make him see you as a woman—had won.

​When you’d sent him a picture of the dress on the hanger, your heart had been in your throat. His reply had come a few minutes later:

​Caleb: Beautiful. You’re going to look perfect.

It was a nice text. A good text. But it was exactly the kind of text a supportive friend or family member would send. It didn't have the heat you were craving. It didn't give away a single hint of what he was actually thinking.

​A heavy sigh escaped your lips as you touched the delicate strap of the dress. Today was huge for him and because of his tight schedule, he had to get ready at work, leaving you to dress at his place alone.

​The sound of the front door’s electronic lock chiming cut through the silence.

​Your breath hitched. He wasn't supposed to be back. He was supposed to meet you there, or send a car.

​A moment later, heavy, familiar footsteps echoed down the hallway, stopping right outside the cracked bedroom door.

​"Hey," Caleb’s deep voice called out "I changed my mind."

​The door was pushed open.

Caleb stood in the threshold, already dressed in his formal gala uniform. The crisp lines of the dark jacket, the sharp tailoring emphasizing the broad span of his shoulders, and the silver accents made him look entirely commanding. Imposing.

​But the moment his eyes landed on you, all of that military discipline vanished.

​He froze. His hand, which had been reaching up to loosen the high, stiff collar of his shirt, dropped slowly to his side.

​The silence stretched between you, thick and suddenly heavy with suffocating tension. Caleb didn't move. He didn't say 'you look nice.' He didn't smile his usual easy, comforting smile. Instead, his dark eyes darkened further, raking over you from the exposed skin of your collarbones, down the sleek, expensive lines of the silk, all the way to the floor, before snapping back up to lock onto your face.

​There was nothing brotherly about the way he was looking at you right now.

Within seconds, he regained his composure, tightening his jaw as the mask slipped back on. "You look beautiful, as always," he said, eyes lingering just a moment too long. "I'll wait for you in the living room."

​There it went again. That agonizing feeling of being kept at a distance. You swallowed the lump in your throat, finished your makeup, and walked out.

​The ride to the gala was quiet. Caleb kept his eyes on the road, answering your attempts at conversation with polite, clipped murmurs, but the moment you stepped out of his car he anchored you to him.

As you walked through the grand, crystal lit ballroom, you could feel the weight of dozens of eyes on you. Other men noticed you immediately. Lingering glances followed you across the marble floor, and Caleb knew every single one of them. Whenever a younger officer or an elite stepped up to talk to you, Caleb’s hand would find the small of your back, his grip tightening just enough to guide you away, his voice smooth and perfectly diplomatic as he excused the two of you.

​An hour into the night, Caleb was pulled into a conversation with a high ranking officer. Seeing him occupied, you quietly murmured that you were going to grab a drink and slipped away toward the grand ice sculpture bar.

​"I was wondering when he’d let you out of his sight," a smooth, unfamiliar voice said beside you.

​You turned to find a young man in an expensive tailored suit, looking at you with an appreciative smile. "I'm Julian. I couldn't help but notice you the second you walked in. Tell me, are you here with Colonel Xia, or—"

​Before Julian could finish, the air pressure seemed to drop.

​Without a single word of warning, a large, warm hand wrapped firmly around your waist, his fingers pressing deep into the silk of your dress. The sudden heat of Caleb’s chest brushed against your bare shoulder.

​"She's with me," Caleb’s voice cut through the air, laced with a quiet authority that made Julian’s confident smile instantly falter.

​"Colonel," Julian stammered, raising his glass defensively. "Just making conversation."

​"We were just leaving for the floor," Caleb replied, his eyes holding a gaze so unyielding it felt like a physical threat. With a seamless sweep of his arm, Caleb turned you around and guided you directly into the center of the crowded ballroom.

​When he pulled you into his arms it wasn't the gentle, respectful distance he usually kept. He pulled you in tight. His right hand clamped against the small of your back, pulling your hips flush against his. He looked incredibly tense, his shoulders rigid, it looked as if this important day for him was not going his way at all.

​"Caleb," you whispered, looking up at him, your breath hitching at the sheer proximity. "Are you okay? Is the event not going well?"

​He didn't answer right away, guiding you through a flawless turn. His eyes dropped back down to yours, the hard line of his mouth softening just a fraction.

​"I'm fine," he murmured, his voice still carrying a rough edge. He looked at you, really looked at you, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to bleed out into a weary, heavy sigh. "You just... you reminded me of something tonight."

​"What?" you asked, tilting your head.

​A faint, nostalgic shadow of a smile touched his lips. "Do you remember your high school prom?"

​You blinked, surprised. "My prom? Yeah, of course."

​"Do you remember that boutique downtown? The one with the emerald green dress in the window that you used to stare at every day after school?"

​A genuine laugh escaped you, the tension breaking. "Oh my god, yes. I wept over that dress. It was way too expensive, and I knew grandma couldn't afford it. I was devastated." you smiled at the memory. "But then, a week before the dance, it just showed up on our porch. I still don't know how Grandma got the money. She always refused to tell me."

Caleb stopped guiding you for a fraction of a second before he resumed the slow, swaying rhythm.

​"She didn't get the money," Caleb said softly.

​You paused, staring up at him. "What do you mean?"

​"Grandma didn't buy that dress, I did."

​Your steps faltered entirely, and Caleb had to catch your weight, anchoring your body firmly against his so you wouldn't stumble on the dance floor. "You? But... you didn't have that kind of money."

​"I picked up extra shifts at the mechanics. Worked some night gigs," he said, his voice dropping into a whisper. "You wanted it. You cried because you couldn't have it. There was no way in hell I was going to let you go to that dance in anything less than what you wanted."

Your breath trapped itself in your throat. The silk of your current dress suddenly felt hot against your skin. The dots connected in your head—the way he had always taken care of you, the way he had worked himself to the bone just to give you what you wanted.

​You looked up at him, your eyes searching his, desperate for him to finally bridge the gap, to say the words you had been dying to hear. The tension between you was vibrating, so thick it felt like the entire ballroom had vanished around you. His thumb traced a deliberate line across your hip, his eyes burning into yours.

​But Caleb just swallowed hard and didn't say another word about how he felt. He just held you, turning you back into the rhythm of the dance, leaving you completely breathless and suspended in the space between what you were and what you desperately wanted to be.

🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏🍎🍏

The front door of his home clicked shut, sealing out the noise of Skyhaven and leaving you both wrapped in a ringing silence. It was late. The adrenaline of the gala was fading, replaced by a heavy exhaustion that only made the unspoken tension between you feel twice as loud.

Caleb slipped off his shoes first, his movements practiced and calm. The moment you leaned down to fumble with the delicate buckle of your own heel, he was already moving.

Before you could even protest, Caleb was down on one knee in front of you.

He didn't say a word. He just tapped his thigh, a commanding gesture for you to rest your foot there so he could help. He had done this a bunch of times over the years but tonight the intimacy of it felt completely different. When his warm fingers brushed against your ankle, carefully working the strap free, your heart hammered violently against your ribs.

The moment the second shoe slipped off, you muttered a breathless thank you, peeled off your coat, and practically fled down the hallway toward the kitchen.

You needed a barrier. You needed a distraction. You grabbed a glass, filled it from the tap, and drank it slowly, staring into the dark marble of the countertop. Your hands were shaking so badly the water rippled. You didn't know what to do with yourself, especially because you could hear his slow, deliberate footsteps following you.

He didn't stay at the doorway. He walked right into the kitchen until he was standing directly behind you.

He didn't say anything at first. He just stood there, watching the tight line of your shoulders, the way your fingers white knuckled the glass, and, most damning of all, the frantic, tiny pulse fluttering under the delicate skin of your neck. It completely betrayed you.

The moment he stepped a fraction closer, he saw your breathing stutter, then change completely, turning shallow and fast.

He could see the effort it was taking for you to pretend to be calm, how your eyes stared straight ahead as if you could somehow ignore him. He noticed the way you pressed your lips together, trying to stay completely silent because you knew—you knew—that a single word, a single sigh broken by his name, would completely ruin this whole innocent act you'd been playing all night.

But you had no idea. You didn't know that was exactly what he liked the most.

The act.

Caleb loved your pretty, stubborn control. He loved your careful face, the way you fought so hard to keep the boundaries up between you, thinking you were hiding it from him. You thought he was blind to it. You thought he didn't notice the way you looked at him when he turned away, or the way you flushed whenever he touched you.

He noticed everything. He had been noticing for years, cataloging every micro expression, every nervous breath, waiting with disciplined patience for the day you would finally break.

"Still thirsty?" Caleb spoke so close to your ear that the warmth of his breath sent a violent shiver straight down your spine. He didn't reach out to touch you yet, but the gravity of his weight behind you felt like a physical hold. "Or are you just hiding from me?"

You had a chance to step away. The kitchen was wide enough. The hallway was right there. You could have turned around, made a joke, laughed it off like you always did to keep the peace.

​But you didn't move an inch.

​And that was your first confession. Not with words, but with silence.

​This was the part that made you dangerous. You liked being read by him. You liked the thrill of him stripping away all your defenses without you having to say a single word. You liked the way his attention felt like a physical hand on you—heavy, warm, and demanding—long before he even actually touched you. And Caleb? He liked watching you try to hold onto the last frayed threads of your innocence while your body practically begged him to tear them down.

His control was the dirtiest part of all.

​It wasn't the hunger. Any man could hunger for you, any man could look at you in that expensive silk dress and want to rip it off your body. But Caleb’s control was entirely different. It was a weapon. Because here he was—a man standing too close, a man fully capable of ruining you right here against the kitchen counter—and he chose patience.

​He was a man who knew exactly how to make you tremble, who knew he had won the moment you refused to step away, but decided to make you wait for it first.

​He let out a slow, quiet breath that hit your neck like gasoline on a fire.

The heavy glide of his palm against your waist was almost a relief, but it brought no release. He wasn't trapping you. He wasn't pinning you against the cold marble of the counter. His hand was just holding the moment still. Holding it exactly where it was, long enough for you to fully understand what you were choosing.

​Because Caleb didn't want fear. He didn't want confusion, or the blurry edge of an impulse you'd regret tomorrow. He didn't want a single thing your body didn't willingly surrender to him. He wanted the absolute truth.

​"Say yes."

​The command is barely a whisper against your ear, but it carries the weight of an ultimatum. He wants to hear it from your mouth. Honest, and stripped of all the careful facades you’d both been hiding behind for years.

​You swallow, your throat dry, your chest heaving against the suffocating weight of his presence. You turn your head just enough, eyes meeting his.

​"Yes," you breathe.

The word had barely left your lips—soft and entirely undone—when the entire room changed. The air got hotter. Hesitation gone. The safe, comfortable boundaries turned to ashes. Now, neither one of you had to pretend you didn't want the fire.

​Slowly he lets his mouth hover just a fraction of an inch away from the sensitive skin of your neck. There is no kiss yet. No pressure of his lips, no sharp nip of his teeth. Just the heat of his breath ghosting over your collarbone.

​It's an agonizing little space—the gap between what you were begging for and what he hadn't given you yet. He is letting your own filthy imagination do the work. He is letting your body ache for the contact, letting your mind picture exactly how his mouth would feel against your skin, forcing you to crave.

When his lips finally touch your skin, it's right against your pulse, making your eyes flutter closed without your permission. It was the kind of kiss that made your entire body said 'Finally' when your mouth was still far too terrified to utter the word.

​Caleb feels the sharp, ragged breath you lose against his cheek, the stiff posture of your back instantly softening against his chest, and the way your fingers leave the marble counter to look for something—for him—to hold onto.

​"There she is," he whispers against your skin.

​This is the version of you he has been starving for. Not the careful woman who smiles politely in public and hides her filthiest cravings behind a quiet face. He wants the one underneath her. He wants the raw, undone version of you that burns just as hot as he does. The one who wants tenderness, but wants it with teeth.

He turns you around slowly until you are forced to face him completely. The front of your silk dress brushes against the crisp fabric of his shirt, making your nipples pebble. He slides his thumb under your jaw, lifting your chin until you can feel the ghost of his breath against your lips.

"Tell me what you want, pretty."

You kind of hate him for asking you that because silence is safer. But Caleb waits. He just watches you, his eyes fixed on your mouth, completely unbothered by the quiet. He can wait. He has been waiting for years, a few more seconds of you squirming under his gaze is nothing to him.

"I want more..." you whisper, the confession torn from your throat.

The way his lips finally meet yours feels like restraint died proud.

It isn't a frantic, clumsy collision. It's slow, deep and enough to make you lean forward, chasing his mouth when he pulls back just a fraction.

Caleb steps into your space, his body pushing yours back until the edge of the marble counter presses into your lower back, making you feel the hard reality of what you do to him. Until you finally understand. His control was never the absence of desire. It was a warning. It was the very last polite thing about him.

And now, it’s gone.

Once his control starts slipping, you feel it everywhere. It’s in the possessive grip of his hands gathering the fabric of your dress, it’s in the demanding rhythm of your shared breath. An intoxicating heat coils deep in your stomach and climbs up your neck, making you feel as if your entire body is blushing from the inside out. He devours your mouth, his tongue tangling with yours with an unchecked hunger that tells you there is no going back.

Every touch feels like a slow burning sin you are committing together, but it's too good to be wrong.

​Because there was no zipper to quickly pull down, your dress had to be worshiped off your body, and the patience required only made his intent feel more dangerous. His hands slid over the expensive silk, tracing the exact lines of your hips, gathering the fabric up with a slow friction that made your skin flush everywhere his hands touched.

​"Look at me"

​You force your eyelids open, vision blurred by the weight of your arousal.

​"You're shaking, baby," he murmurs, his hands sliding to your waist, the bunched fabric resting there as his thumbs move across your ribs "Is it too much?"

​"No," you gasp, pulling him closer. You didn't want him to stop. You needed the friction, needed the weight of him to ground you because your mind was spinning entirely out of control. "Caleb, please..."

​A deeply satisfied smile tugged at his lips at the sound of his name breaking on your tongue. "Please what? Tell me."

​He was doing it again.

​But you couldn't wait anymore. The slow agony of his control was driving you out of your mind. You hooked your arms around his neck, pulling him down into a kiss, your hips tilting forward against his, begging for the relief he was withholding.

In one swift motion, his hands grab the silk at your waist and guide it up and completely over your head. The expensive dress pools onto the floor, leaving you entirely bare under his gaze.

He lifts you effortlessly. Your feet leave the floor as he sets you onto the edge of the marble counter, parting your thighs with his hips.

His mouth comes back down on yours, a demanding possession that tastes like a lifetime of starved patience. He reaches down, shifting the fabric of his trousers out of the way, his breath turning heavy and ragged against your lips.

Then, his hands grip your hips, lifting you slightly to line his hard lenght against your entrance. Your fingers dig frantically into the fabric of his shirt as your whole world narrows down to the heat of him filling the space between you.

He takes you right there on the kitchen counter, his rhythm deep, heavy, and slow. The friction of his trousers against your bare thighs a dizzying reminder of how undone you are compared to him. You can hear the uneven sound of his breathing, the low, masculine groans he can't catch in his throat.

His fingers dig into your hips to tilt you up, forcing you to take every inch of him. A tight, sweet ache coils so deeply in your stomach that it makes your head tilt back, your throat baring to the ceiling as a breathless, fractured sob escapes your lips.

Caleb immediately buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing the skin right over your racing pulse as he drives into you harder.

The rhythm he sets is relentless, leaving no room for your mind to catch up with what your body is feeling.

His hands move from your hips, sliding up your ribs to cup your soft breasts. His face is entirely tight, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles jump under his skin.

"I want you looking at me when you break."

Your thighs clamp tightly around his waist, your toes curling in the empty air as you try to pull him even deeper, consumed by the need to reach the edge.

"Cay, baby, ple-ase..."

"I've got you, give it to me."

The coil inside you snaps, a blinding wave of heat crashing over you, making your entire body lock tight. A broken cry leaves your throat as the world spins completely out of focus, leaving you floating in nothing but pure pleasure.

Feeling the pulsing tremors of your release wrapping around him, Caleb loses the very last of his restraint.

His hands lock onto your hips with a bruising grip, lifting you up and driving himself into you one last time as his own body shudders violently against yours.

sylus was so incredibly frustrating. 

why was it so hard to fluster him? 

he always had the upper-hand. he never reacted the way you wanted him to. 

a normal person? they would have folded by now. you were very direct. 

but this ridiculously suave, refined hunk of muscle would not bend. no matter how hard you tried. 

but you were determined to break him. 

today… on this conveniently boring, stormy weekend that had you both trapped indoors. 

“let me spit on it?”

you leaned entirely against him, eyelashes fluttering and eyes shining with false innocence. 

“be my guest.”

the bastard didn’t even look up, scrolling through another business-looking email on his phone. 

your face fell in annoyance before you cleared your throat and kept trying. 

“can I bite it?” 

“if you’d like.”

“twist it?”

he actually snickered that time. 

“feeling violent today, sweetie?”

“it doesn’t seem to bother you…”

“my life is filled with violence.”

you huffed, snaking both of your arms around one of his and draping a leg across his lap. then you pitched your voice lower. 

“I’m not wearing any underwear right now…”

“I know,” he hummed.

“what do you mean you know?” you shot back, suddenly indignant. 

“kitten, you’re practically on top of me in that excuse of a dress…” his red eyes flicked over you before meeting yours with a wink. 

“… there’s hardly a need for imagination.”

your lips pursed as you glared, but you pressed on. 

“how pretty do you think I’d look if I let you finish all over my back?”

he laughed. 

“who would have guessed such an adorable kitten could also be so vulgar,” he responded, clearly amused by your antics. 

“you still didn’t answer the question.”

he turned slightly, subtle heat simmering in his eyes as he leaned in. 

“beautiful, obviously,” he breathed before leaning close enough for your lips to brush and pulling back with a smug smile. 

and damnit… you were the one flustered again. 

you shook your head to break the spell, taking a deep breath before leaning in with your final attempt for the day. 

“can I peg you?” you whispered, blowing gently against the shell of his ear before pulling back. 

it was almost imperceptible… but he stilled. his thumb stopped scrolling. his head slowly turned toward you, a single eyebrow quirked. 

“huh…” you tilted your head in fascination, “that’s what gets your attention?” 

you felt his muscles tense slightly under your fingers as your scrutinizing gaze swept over him to ensure this was a genuine reaction. 

“are you being serious, kitten?” he finally asked, tone perfectly even, if not sounding vaguely interested. 

your eyes narrowed. 

“are YOU?”

he blinked once. twice. then his gaze shifted away. 

you could have sworn the slightest trace of color surfaced on his cheeks. but when he looked back at you, he appeared undeterred, the corner of his lips twitching into a ghost of a smirk.

but he didn’t answer. 

your eyes widened as your nails dug into his bicep. 

“oh my god…”

and then you jumped to your feet, yanking him unceremoniously off the couch. 

“… this is the best day of my life!” you exclaimed while tugging him toward the bedroom.

when you looked back, he was definitely blushing.

but he didn’t fight you. 

dividers by @uzmacchiato

Caleb feels his stomach hit his knees, soft cotton burning in his hands. He can’t help but brush his thumb over it, close his eyes to the image of you promising your life to someone; your body warm and welcoming, the smile so wide he has trouble looking at it directly without feeling blinded.

It haunts him all night, that notion; it rolls around in his mind, keeps him awake and staring at the shape of you under the covers across the apartment. There’s nothing about a marriage in your files, the official record of your life lists you as pretty much the same as he left you, but he can see changes every day. They’re in the way you carry yourself around him, in how you look at him. So it doesn’t soothe his heart that you’re still legally single.

He searches online for the shop, phone brightness at minimum to not disturb your sleep. And he wishes he could be ashamed of the excuse he gives you in the morning, he just has to find out, though. He even selects the photos of you he can show them, different angles so he’ll know for sure if they’ve seen you, arranged a marriage for you.

Turns out it’s unnecessary, in the end.

Caleb walks up the crowded little stairs, dead in the middle of an unassuming street, only to be greeted by a shattering cup. An older woman stands there frozen, looking at him like she’s seen a ghost; shaken enough to start and stop her sentence three times before Caleb attempts to soothe. He keeps his arms up and palms forward the way he used to for Josephine, when she’d look at him like a dog that might bite.

And he gets most of an I’m sorry for startling you out, when the woman stumbles through his name. Then yours, softly, as if she has to be gentle with it.

“You’re her Caleb.”

Oh. Now it’s his turn to stop in his tracks. And he’s so fucking sick with what he feels for you, cause past the immediate alarm, the weighing of the danger this woman could potentially pose, he’s struck by being recognized as yours. A word that carves open his chest, shoves hope into a heart that should know better.

“What do you mean? Why do you know her?”

He ruins the approachable vibe he’s going for by instinctively resorting to his colonel voice, which is probably not the best move, the thought hits belatedly.

The tone sends her retreating further, scurrying behind the desk and clattering around in a drawer for something that ends up being a photo album, not the weapon Caleb expected. She leafs through it in a panic and refuses to look directly at him until she finds the page she wants.

It’s you, there, in a simple red dress. The most beautiful, saddest thing he’s ever seen. The dark circles under your eyes look like bruises, you can’t even muster the pretense of a smile.

And the groom? Caleb sees it first as a blur of color in the background, as a stiff figure in a corner when he flips to the next photo. It hovers, half visible, till the last couple pictures show the incomprehensible reality of a doll with his face stuck over its own, like a veil of printer paper.

"What's this?"

"Your wedding. A ghost wedding.”

Time stutters, slows to a crawl for the second Caleb wonders whether the woman can tell how this half melts him into a puddle, and his hand moves before he can really think about it, to brush a fingertip over your face in the picture.

“She looks so sad.” Tears sting in his eyes, he can’t stop staring at the tenderness of your hands offering tea to the wooden approximation of him. 

A significant part of the first few months after the explosion have the uncertain quality of a fever dream for Caleb, long stretches of time where consciousness felt slippery at best. A haze of pain and fear; for himself, but more sharply, for you. He doesn’t know for sure how long it was before he knew you were alive, mostly unharmed, from bits and pieces of news coverage that filtered in through the quiet of the lab. At least you weren’t there with him, not again.

He could try and shut out what they were doing to him by thinking of you out there in the world, healthy, happy, having new experiences without the shadow of EVER darkening your doorstep. Since the very beginning, from the first lick of fire on his skin, he’s never let himself fully imagine what it would be like for you to stop existing for good. His only point of reference is a fragmented memory of childhood, your body impossibly tiny on a metal table, cold and unmoving. The way his chest felt empty of anything except rage hot enough to compress surrounding equipment into literal dust. And then the next night when Josephine slipped into his isolation room past lights out, her clammy hand around his, guiding him through the pitch dark to what used to be your room. Still is, your room, turns out. Your hand reached for him and he’s never cried the way he did that day, sobbing with you, faces tucked into the crook of the other’s neck like bonded cats.

To this day, Caleb thinks a part of him never left the terror of that night; so he can guess, with sharp clarity, what was going on behind your expression in these photos. The thing he hadn’t allowed himself to imagine, the notion that could break him if it wasn’t true, if it wasn’t confirmed in glossy paper, in red sheets meant for him. That you love him in the way he loves you.

“She missed you,” it’s an accusation, coming from this woman that doesn’t know you or Caleb beyond the worst moment of your life. “Does she know? That you’re alive?”

And Caleb can’t even be offended, because you wouldn’t know if you hadn’t dragged his soul home one inch at the time. Instead, he offers up his wallet and the honest pain in his eyes.

“Could you do me a favor?”

…

At least, by the time he shows back to your apartment to pick you up for the movie you’ve planned to see, Caleb’s managed to stop the minute trembling of his hands. He can sit in the dark next to you and chuckle under his breath when you keep jumping halfway into his seat at the horror movie you picked yourself. He can buy you ice cream and hold your hand through the walk back without tossing you over his shoulder and running back to the setting the matchmaker confirmed as completed an hour into the date.

He can use a big hand on the small of your back to steady you when you open your door to dimmed lights and the same red bedding, perfectly set out over your bed. And he doesn’t know what he expected, maybe for you to walk out, maybe for you to jump into his arms. Just not the quiet tears that immediately fill your eyes.

“Caleb,” you say it like a question, lilting up and cracking into a sob at the end, “you’re being mean.”

“No,” his voice follows yours, matches the cadence and tone without any conscious effort, “I’m not— I’m not trying to. I found the sheets, found the matchmaker, the pictures. I just want to give you the wedding you deserve.”

You’re still crying, but your hands slide against his waist and you crush yourself to his chest like you want to melt into his skin. Caleb clings back, soothes a palm down your back, regretting every decision that landed him here with your heart beating double time, scared to even step more than a few meters into your own space.

“I didn’t want to lose you, I’m sorry. It’s not legal, there wasn’t a marriage license but I couldn’t— I missed you.”

Caleb’s heart splits clean in two, down the same crack as it did in the interrogation room of the Fleet. He keeps hurting you and you keep apologizing to him like he could ever fault you for loving him.

“I would’ve done the same,” he confesses, brushing his lips against your temple, nuzzling your hair so he can never forget the scent of your shampoo, ”I’d like to do it for real, at some point, if you’ll have me.”

It only makes you cry harder, so much that he has to pull you away just to check that you’re getting enough oxygen, attempting to swipe tears that come too fast. So he kisses the tracks down your cheeks, kisses your nose and the corner of your mouth until you giggle through the sobs. He presses these chaste little things until you’re kissing back with the firm grip on his neck you favor from time to time, the one that makes his blood reroute dangerously quick.

As your crying stops, Caleb chooses to ignore the twill cakes and tea for tonight. He lets you lead him to the bedroom with no other motive than to curl around you under covers that feel meaningful in a quiet way. Not just because they’re meant for a marriage, but because you wanted this, you want him. Tied to your soul forever.

You have other ideas though, climbing into his lap as soon as he tries to settle. His name tumbles out of you hushed, brushing against the hollow of his throat. Tempting and warm and close, delicate as your fingers sneaking under his shirt, undoing his buttons from the bottom up.

“Please—“ you say, and it overlaps with his weak attempt to tell you to wait, his good intentions of making sure this is really what you want right now. “Last time I used this bedding I only had myself, I want a better memory of it.”

And it’s not that Caleb wants to cry too, he doesn’t want you to worry or pause and cup his face in your hands. It’s just settling in, the whole production; the thought that you're putting your heart in his scarred, calloused, mismatched palms. So the tears come without him being able to fight or hide them. He’s not strong enough to protect you, not yet, but he’s trying.

“Caleb—”

“I’m fine, it’s just, you’re my wife.”

“Technically, I’ve been your wife for a while, now”